[they will danse] 944.
They say you can see Hell on All Hallow's Eve. Look down--there's a crack
in the sidewalk.
Do you see?
Dean doesn't look, and he doesn't see. He crosses the parking lot like it's not a sea of thick black tar. Limpet mines in the clouds and mist making the dirt streak down his face. He wipes his chin with his sleeve and feels emptiness in his pocket.
The other one. Keys are in the other one. He collapses inside.
The Impala's insides are slick and damp: windows cracked, letting the storm breathe in. Sam's not back yet.
A boy, they say. Hair the color of buckwheat, though colors turn in memories the way leaves turn in autumn. He's lost in the dark one night, and he has a plan. On this night, a boy takes turnips and fire and he makes it right, and he finds his way home.
Marlboros in the glove compartment. Half a pack they never threw away (they're shit about that; they always have been. Or he has). These fucking things--been in there since he doesn't know when.
And yeah, that's fucking bull. He knows. Of course he does.
Duluth: Sam and Meg and Jo and Sam and Sam and Sam. Sam, he was supposed to kill. Sam he was supposed to save. Sam, Boy King. Sam, collateral. (Heavy in your arms; you'll never forget he was heavy in your arms. Squirming baby in your arms as you watch the flames go up and up. Cold linoleum when he pins you to the ground in California; you can feel his fear spreading out, out. And then rain--down, down--as he ends in Cold Oak, South Dakota.)
There's a dance, they say. The macabre fuck the living, and the living fuck right back. Souls on twine strings and ragged streamers on wire hangers, jerking and flopping. If you follow the strings, where
will you go?
Dean knows this. Stiff fingers and damp cigs. Halloween night, 1993. Sam dresses in cream motel sheets with unspeakable things crusted in the middle. (Dean dresses in black.) They visit their neighbor, who's a big man with a bigger beard, and lives in a Ford Shasta; this is what they get. Dean remembers the smell.
Sam's nostrils flare. Faintly nauseated, he closes the glove compartment. Says nothing. He remembers the smell, too.
And Dean remembers the taste.
There's music, you know. With the dancing. You can hear it whistle through the cracks, long before your eyes catch up. The soul has more windows than you think. Listen closely. They will never speak your name, but you can imagine
the only thing you'll hear.
Dean coughs, wet and full. Sam opens his mouth, but his words disappear in a cloud of smoke.
Dean drags deep the next time, doesn't let it worry in his throat. It burns more than he remembers.
Remember the crack. It's not like what you think. Flames, or pain, or death. Just dancing and music; it's not so bad. That's all you need remember. It's just a danse macabre. If you don't believe me, you can see if for yourself. You should. Go ahead; you should. You can see it
in October.
"We still have six months."
And two days, Dean says. Six months and two days, Dean says. Not like he's counting. But Sam doesn't respond, so maybe he didn't.
And what of May?
The man--in 1993, in Bakersfield, in the Ford Shasta--could make rings. Dean can't. But for the first time in the Impala's history, a cigarette gets ground out on her center console. It's a start.
Sam's hair is limp and stringy. Too long again. Dean should tease him about it, he should, but there's no room in here for words. Here is slick and damp and silence. Sam has his hands shoved in his pockets and his lips sewn shut. He'll have to breathe eventually.
(You made sure of that. You made sure. Sam's gonna breathe. Sam's gonna keep breathing for a long damn while yet.)
For the first time in the Impala's history, pudgy fingers scrawl HAP PY HOLLOW E N !! ! on the windshield and no one moves. Between the smoke and the window-fog, Dean doesn't see the culprit.
Sam doesn't, either. Sam's eyes are closed, forehead pressed to the window. He leaves a wide streak in the condensation, like a body dragged through hoarfrost. Dean doesn't think Sam would appreciate the comparison.
"Did you burn the body?" The entire sentence tastes like smoke. Dean taps the box of Marlboros against his thigh.
Sam shrugs. Dean packs another cigarette, flicks his lighter (short bursts; you remember how Ford Shasta did it. He showed you, that one time. You remember).
"Too wet."
Smoke sleeping under his tongue, lurking between his teeth, roaring through his sinuses. "So what do we do now?"
Sam shrugs. A flicker in his chest. See; he's breathing. "You can't always finish the job."
Another drag. Sam's eyes water.
And you know what?
Fuck that. You can't always finish the job--fuck that.
Cigarette between his teeth, hands still cold and stiff, Dean swings the door wide and lets the crisp thin air clear his sudden lightheadedness. Two feet firmly on the ground. Sam doesn't follow suit, but Dean hears him take a deep, if shaky, breath. Then Dean slams the door. Out across the black of the parking lot again.
He wonders where Sam stashed the body.
There's a crack, on All Hallow's Eve. You can see straight into Hell. It's arrogant to believe it's following
you
but there it is. There it is.
You have to wonder.
in the sidewalk.
Do you see?
Dean doesn't look, and he doesn't see. He crosses the parking lot like it's not a sea of thick black tar. Limpet mines in the clouds and mist making the dirt streak down his face. He wipes his chin with his sleeve and feels emptiness in his pocket.
The other one. Keys are in the other one. He collapses inside.
The Impala's insides are slick and damp: windows cracked, letting the storm breathe in. Sam's not back yet.
A boy, they say. Hair the color of buckwheat, though colors turn in memories the way leaves turn in autumn. He's lost in the dark one night, and he has a plan. On this night, a boy takes turnips and fire and he makes it right, and he finds his way home.
Marlboros in the glove compartment. Half a pack they never threw away (they're shit about that; they always have been. Or he has). These fucking things--been in there since he doesn't know when.
And yeah, that's fucking bull. He knows. Of course he does.
Duluth: Sam and Meg and Jo and Sam and Sam and Sam. Sam, he was supposed to kill. Sam he was supposed to save. Sam, Boy King. Sam, collateral. (Heavy in your arms; you'll never forget he was heavy in your arms. Squirming baby in your arms as you watch the flames go up and up. Cold linoleum when he pins you to the ground in California; you can feel his fear spreading out, out. And then rain--down, down--as he ends in Cold Oak, South Dakota.)
There's a dance, they say. The macabre fuck the living, and the living fuck right back. Souls on twine strings and ragged streamers on wire hangers, jerking and flopping. If you follow the strings, where
will you go?
Dean knows this. Stiff fingers and damp cigs. Halloween night, 1993. Sam dresses in cream motel sheets with unspeakable things crusted in the middle. (Dean dresses in black.) They visit their neighbor, who's a big man with a bigger beard, and lives in a Ford Shasta; this is what they get. Dean remembers the smell.
Sam's nostrils flare. Faintly nauseated, he closes the glove compartment. Says nothing. He remembers the smell, too.
And Dean remembers the taste.
There's music, you know. With the dancing. You can hear it whistle through the cracks, long before your eyes catch up. The soul has more windows than you think. Listen closely. They will never speak your name, but you can imagine
the only thing you'll hear.
Dean coughs, wet and full. Sam opens his mouth, but his words disappear in a cloud of smoke.
Dean drags deep the next time, doesn't let it worry in his throat. It burns more than he remembers.
Remember the crack. It's not like what you think. Flames, or pain, or death. Just dancing and music; it's not so bad. That's all you need remember. It's just a danse macabre. If you don't believe me, you can see if for yourself. You should. Go ahead; you should. You can see it
in October.
"We still have six months."
And two days, Dean says. Six months and two days, Dean says. Not like he's counting. But Sam doesn't respond, so maybe he didn't.
And what of May?
The man--in 1993, in Bakersfield, in the Ford Shasta--could make rings. Dean can't. But for the first time in the Impala's history, a cigarette gets ground out on her center console. It's a start.
Sam's hair is limp and stringy. Too long again. Dean should tease him about it, he should, but there's no room in here for words. Here is slick and damp and silence. Sam has his hands shoved in his pockets and his lips sewn shut. He'll have to breathe eventually.
(You made sure of that. You made sure. Sam's gonna breathe. Sam's gonna keep breathing for a long damn while yet.)
For the first time in the Impala's history, pudgy fingers scrawl HAP PY HOLLOW E N !! ! on the windshield and no one moves. Between the smoke and the window-fog, Dean doesn't see the culprit.
Sam doesn't, either. Sam's eyes are closed, forehead pressed to the window. He leaves a wide streak in the condensation, like a body dragged through hoarfrost. Dean doesn't think Sam would appreciate the comparison.
"Did you burn the body?" The entire sentence tastes like smoke. Dean taps the box of Marlboros against his thigh.
Sam shrugs. Dean packs another cigarette, flicks his lighter (short bursts; you remember how Ford Shasta did it. He showed you, that one time. You remember).
"Too wet."
Smoke sleeping under his tongue, lurking between his teeth, roaring through his sinuses. "So what do we do now?"
Sam shrugs. A flicker in his chest. See; he's breathing. "You can't always finish the job."
Another drag. Sam's eyes water.
And you know what?
Fuck that. You can't always finish the job--fuck that.
Cigarette between his teeth, hands still cold and stiff, Dean swings the door wide and lets the crisp thin air clear his sudden lightheadedness. Two feet firmly on the ground. Sam doesn't follow suit, but Dean hears him take a deep, if shaky, breath. Then Dean slams the door. Out across the black of the parking lot again.
He wonders where Sam stashed the body.
There's a crack, on All Hallow's Eve. You can see straight into Hell. It's arrogant to believe it's following
you
but there it is. There it is.
You have to wonder.