Prompt: “…a penknife, some dental floss, a sewing needle, and a fifth of whiskey.”--Changing Channels
Genre: injured prose?, h/c
Spoilers,Warnings: Heart, 11x17 Red Meat; bullet wounds & other injuries; Wincesty
Summary: what a wound looks like
Written for the spnapo "We've Got Words to Do" Challenge.
I shot her, Sam mutters, delirious, all those years ago.
She asked me to. She was a wolf.
This is what a wound looks like: bullet, claw, spellwork, tooth. Things that tear at the body, at what’s beneath. Sammy: gut-shot. Dean: consumed. Swallowed and thrown up again on the road-tides of the world.
The road smells like fern, the cabin like and . Sam goes down and there’s memory.
How psychic wounds are the worst, the inward fry, possession; the dentin-crackle, grace.
How this, pit unstitched, is death.
You kneel. You dig. You work with what you have.
(That patch-up, pink-flowered, bandana; sutures waxed true with peppermint; duct tape, pin, hairpin, all that holds you, ripped, in stitchworked bits, unwhole.)
Gut-shot hurts, Lucifer’s liquor poured through scorched ribs, where once--
Gently excised: one spirit, one will to live.
Dean: fresh from death. Sam: same.
After, they slept in the same nest, flesh to fleshwork, meat & soul, where once, Dean says,
Heal this, with just your hands.