The Grave
This was written for the Bi-Bro Challenge over at 
spn_bunker, promoting harmony and understanding between SamGirls and DeanGirls during the difficult events of S9. Beta'd by the wonderful fannishliss.
More info on my journal post
The Grave
They need to remember: remember words spoken
before the grave, once heartfelt, now forgotten . . .
~•~
He was raised twice.
But not all the way.
Once by fire: waking in the dark, running fast,
the gift in his arms, soul heavy, restless, relentless;
heavier now, he carries it in his heart.
Still no direction, just - “run! as fast as you can!” -
So he does, blindly, content with it, welcoming
the dark redemption of the infinite road in front of him.
The second time: waking in the dark, scrabbling,
he raises himself through the loam and detritus
toward the light which burns him. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more,
and all for the other that struck, spat, sliced him.
And embraced him, the love somehow sharper then.
But buried in the ground once more, he is consumed,
bones and blood vessels twisted, unrecognizable.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
He needs to take his brother outside and run -
raise them both from this place of grave men and run -
and maybe they’ll find each other again.
~•~
He was buried twice.
But not all the way.
Once by love and care and fear: his keeper swaddling his body,
cloying like a shroud, clogging his throat, aspirating lore and law.
It embalms him, innocence syphoned, displaced by knowledge:
suffocating until he makes the choice to end that life.
The second time, love and care and fear: the morning star burns
bright, keeping him from dark oblivion. Not long enough,
arms raised in a vee, his brother’s blood on his fists,
the grace inside him screaming and clawing, his own grace evident,
serene, when he makes the choice, falls and keeps falling, content with it,
welcoming the dark redemption of the infinite time in front of him . . .
until he is dragged back. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more.
Now buried in the ground, his keeper shackled to him,
force-fed like a starving man, tube in his throat, hand on his heart.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
To remember what Dad taught him: that they are family.
Leave this life, get out, get free and clear and go
and maybe they’ll find each other again . . .
~•~
On the road, they were moving, dark steel encasing them,
hard black beetle shell protecting the delicate flesh within,
black blinkers on a war horse, kept them focused, fearless,
as good as four walls to house them, boxing them up,
stored like precious objects or dangerous things, an archive, an arsenal
wrapped in tissue-thin membranes of love too delicate to acknowledge.
But the boys are dead and buried: fingertips pressed bloodless,
one to another’s, as the last thread between them frays,
barely touching, barely hanging on, barely there. But there.
They are floundering: the membrane ripped and bleeding
reveals the oubliette behind the velvet lining. Too many doors and walls
and unspeakable things separate them. They just need to see:
they need to look and see and leave the stifling trench,
asphyxiating the glow that lights them - it is being extinguished -
Earth has made them forget, like corpses long dead. They
are long dead, but still breathing, still burning. The ember gutters.
They need air. Away from the bone dust and lime:
oxygenate - run - heal the broken synapse. Remember.
Remember: what they are, who they are - and be brothers.
spn_bunker, promoting harmony and understanding between SamGirls and DeanGirls during the difficult events of S9. Beta'd by the wonderful fannishliss.
More info on my journal post
The Grave
They need to remember: remember words spoken
before the grave, once heartfelt, now forgotten . . .
~•~
He was raised twice.
But not all the way.
Once by fire: waking in the dark, running fast,
the gift in his arms, soul heavy, restless, relentless;
heavier now, he carries it in his heart.
Still no direction, just - “run! as fast as you can!” -
So he does, blindly, content with it, welcoming
the dark redemption of the infinite road in front of him.
The second time: waking in the dark, scrabbling,
he raises himself through the loam and detritus
toward the light which burns him. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more,
and all for the other that struck, spat, sliced him.
And embraced him, the love somehow sharper then.
But buried in the ground once more, he is consumed,
bones and blood vessels twisted, unrecognizable.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
He needs to take his brother outside and run -
raise them both from this place of grave men and run -
and maybe they’ll find each other again.
~•~
He was buried twice.
But not all the way.
Once by love and care and fear: his keeper swaddling his body,
cloying like a shroud, clogging his throat, aspirating lore and law.
It embalms him, innocence syphoned, displaced by knowledge:
suffocating until he makes the choice to end that life.
The second time, love and care and fear: the morning star burns
bright, keeping him from dark oblivion. Not long enough,
arms raised in a vee, his brother’s blood on his fists,
the grace inside him screaming and clawing, his own grace evident,
serene, when he makes the choice, falls and keeps falling, content with it,
welcoming the dark redemption of the infinite time in front of him . . .
until he is dragged back. Half buried,
half born, half hoping that there would be no more.
Now buried in the ground, his keeper shackled to him,
force-fed like a starving man, tube in his throat, hand on his heart.
He needs to remember The Word: the only thing that matters.
To remember what Dad taught him: that they are family.
Leave this life, get out, get free and clear and go
and maybe they’ll find each other again . . .
~•~
On the road, they were moving, dark steel encasing them,
hard black beetle shell protecting the delicate flesh within,
black blinkers on a war horse, kept them focused, fearless,
as good as four walls to house them, boxing them up,
stored like precious objects or dangerous things, an archive, an arsenal
wrapped in tissue-thin membranes of love too delicate to acknowledge.
But the boys are dead and buried: fingertips pressed bloodless,
one to another’s, as the last thread between them frays,
barely touching, barely hanging on, barely there. But there.
They are floundering: the membrane ripped and bleeding
reveals the oubliette behind the velvet lining. Too many doors and walls
and unspeakable things separate them. They just need to see:
they need to look and see and leave the stifling trench,
asphyxiating the glow that lights them - it is being extinguished -
Earth has made them forget, like corpses long dead. They
are long dead, but still breathing, still burning. The ember gutters.
They need air. Away from the bone dust and lime:
oxygenate - run - heal the broken synapse. Remember.
Remember: what they are, who they are - and be brothers.