crowroad3 (crowroad3) wrote,
crowroad3
crowroad3

Drabble for 11 x17: Switchback

Genre: gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warnings/Spoilers: 11 x 17!
Summary: below the cut


Summary: musical deaths


Sam’s rib is the blade, the first one, honed by the path of a bullet. It can be traced, incisor; go heartwise, lungwise, sidewise into the dark, an eternal forest of Sam.

And full of wauls, eyes. Or that’s what Dean dreams first, spit-choked, a-courting—for reapers, for souls.

Hello, Billie says (her eyes, exfinite; cosmos- inverse-empty.)

Sam’s hair is a pool of warmth, Dean remembers; stirs in it, stirs--

coughs up what’s left of death.

*
Meat suit: God, you stagger to, is what Sam thinks, you stagger back in-body knowing every trade ever made. You were dead, or have been; death is a cabin is the woods, oak and sky; an old friend.

Your brother tells you to fight, calls faint over an old channel.

Pain is the sweetest hollow in a sea of fells.

There’s no reception here; this rib, this body.

You kill because you have to. And you drive.

*
Road. Dean’s hand on the wheel; Sam adrift, shotgun. Soft rock.

Feverish air. Faint were-spit. Waft of the old-school.

Body of Baby. Body of brother, warm.

The universe hand-to-hand; heck in a handbasket.

Forest, bullet; blade. Two dying breaths sucked one into the other.

Dean puts Sam to bed. Sam puts Dean to bed.

Neither puts anything away.

One is a bullet-hole, the other a memory.
Tags: maybe a story, poem-things
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