crowroad3 (crowroad3) wrote,
crowroad3
crowroad3

Fic: Shine

Genre: gen, dreams n visions
Characters: Sam, Dean,Baby,other voices
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: S11, 11x4, “Baby”

Word Count: ~400
Summary: Sam’s wearing  a t-shirt that says ,“fallen angels do it in riddles.”
Dreams. She can take them there.


You burn hot in the presence of God.

I can take you there.

*
Sam’s wearing a t-shirt, gray, little snag in the crew, that says “fallen angels do it in riddles,” sweat-stain, crimson lettering. Sluicing over his brother’s darling in his summer clothes. It might be 1995, but it isn’t; time’s slipped them again, must have. It smells like summer in Iowa,  not quite, somewhere dexter and north of home.

She’s shining in the sun. She’s shining.

You, Samuel, are my darling, someone says, lifts shades up over a strong septum, promises alchemy.

*
Sam’s wearing  Dean’s jacket, leather; hanging at the clavicle something very old.

There’s a road through the corn that his brother comes walking up, scythe-swinging.  Chain-swung sign on the mailbox that sings Winchesters! in sunstruck weatherproof.

Nothing is weatherproof, Sammy, is what he hears, you never could  fool yourself.

This voice is fond. Hair-ruffling. Kind he shouldn’t be hearing alone. Woodshed-cool.

There’s a  storm cellar, wind-banged door, oil and paint; panic-waft of a new trap.

He used to shine like that; used to shine right through his own dark,  through whole cities of exhaust.

Sammy, Dean says, cuts a corn-swath and comes to him, wheel-hands empty and out.

*
You burn hot in the presence of  God.

I burn cold.

*
Sam’s in flannel, rolling up a ribbon of moon.

It’s a dream, kind you get with aftermath, with a low fever, with, Dean says, the sweet strain of  stowed secrets.

I’m not in your blood, I promise, say the leftovers, the vestiges, last contrail in the corpuscle.

There’s a crossroads. There’s canyon cut in her hood.

I can fix that, he says, I’m sorry, baby.

Hmm, Dean says, she’s coming for us all.

*
Oh my boy, someone says, hair like that corn, eye like that sky.

His brother hands him a sandwich, tips him a drink, gives his darling some fire and a hands-on.

Do you remember it, the road. Will you remember it always, is what she says.

It’s a dream, and all dreams are mothers.

Of monsters or gods.

*
Sam’s wearing himself, only that, shotgun up the rainy road.

What’s my name, the driver says, say it.

My father who art in heaven, he whispers, my father who art in--

Doesn’t blink yet. Restful, her leathers. Dawn and diner-sign gutter. Doves.

“Hey,” Dean says. Morning-breath seat-leaning soft, and the radio.

It’s light, she says, I can take you there.

“Hey,” says his brother, “you were praying in your sleep.”

On AO3
Tags: maybe a story
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