Spoilers: 12 x 06!
Warnings: maybe Wincesty
You were just a boy. Named for something swift. Sure-footed, clever; tree-musk and knee-skin, supper-hungry and home, nearly--
when something picked up your trail.
Boys, Mary said, will be--
Boys, John said, warm and rare; he said it in heaven, youngest nocked like an arrow in his arm, eldest calf-clutched, clinging.
They laughed together, series of celestial
Polaroids. Halo-focus, sent to earth.
She saved you from the wolf, your blade-angel, your red-ride.
You wrote her letters.
You kept her under your mattress--
and grew up, and died.
Sam meant to scratch out—
I’m just a kid. But no.
Sam was drinking soda in Arizona, golden snout-on-knee, hunger and liberty, roadstop-postcard-highway, faint trace
through desert to door:
I want you here.
You scratched out aphorism, exorcism, vulpine
on the backs of cards
and dreamed of her, who saved you:
Hunters have only the one, really,
no matter how many times they come back.
Life, that is. Adjuramus
Sam has his hands on Dean before they ditch town, before the pyre is out of their hair.
Thinks about mother, lover, glove and cord, snap and map, heaps
of old pornography. These are the tokens for the wolf.
This is where you hide the things that save you.
This is your box, your dead.
There’s one under every bed.