Fill: Through the Years
anonymous
May 2 2016, 22:28:19 UTC
Two years old. Baby teeth, sweaty jacket, itching car seat straps, Dean’s solemn green eyes, hushing in dark backseats, stifling whimpers with M&Ms and desperate promises.
Monsters are real, Sammy.
The world is too big, and too small, shrunk down to sticky leather and nose-smudged windows.
Don’t be scared, Sammy.
--
Six years old. Angry school yard, too-small shoes, crayons and glue and peanut-butter-banana sandwiches, Dean’s smile beaming across the playground as he sails out of the big kid swings.
Dude, you were flying!
The world is bright and beautiful, yellow and sunshiney and sparkling, innocent gap-toothed smiles until a shadow blocks the sun overhead.
Get in the car, Sammy.
--
Twelve years old. Baggy sweatshirts, algebra finals, Megan Parker’s sticky cherry lip gloss behind the library door, Dean’s fistbump in the hallway after soccer, unashamed.
What the hell are you listening to, Sammy?
The world is spinning, tumbling and unpredictable, jazz music playing through a third-hand Walkman.
What d’you mean, stop calling you Sammy?
--
Sixteen years old. Hiding internet searches, biting nails, encouraging teachers, Dean’s frown as he checks out books on writing college application essays.
Have you ever looked into treatment for your anxiety, Sam?
The world is closing in, stifling and hot, dark spots in front of his eyes and dark circles under them.
Anxiety, my ass. That’s all in your head, son.
--
Eighteen years old. Sprawling campus, $9.99 sheets, textbooks and smuggled beer on Friday nights, Dean’s text messages and a fifty-dollar bill inside a reused Hallmark card.
Why so serious, Sam?
The world stops, pauses to stare, blue eyes and long blond hair, flashing smiles across freshman orientation.
Let me introduce you - this is Jessica, Sam.
--
Twenty-three years old. Charred photographs, smoke inhalation, yellow eyes and blood, Dean’s worried hovering across the bench seat of an unfamiliar familiar car.
What can I do, Sammy?
The world has gone gray, color bled away on a night wind, salted and burned in tears and fire.
We’ve got work to do, Sam.
--
Twenty-five years old. Black eyes, stale motel room, secrets and lies of commission and omission, Dean’s screams echoing in his nightmares, broken by the howl of hellhounds.
You know you want it, Sammy.
The world drips red, scarlet with anger and blood, white-hot burning need for revenge and desire.
You don’t get to call me Sammy.
--
One hundred thirty years old. Arctic chill, steel chains, burning agony and barely-remembered visions of sunlight, Dean’s smile at Lisa, barbeques and garage sales.
Ah ah ah, eyes on me, Sam I am.
The world exists - or does it - over them, not around them, buried alive in the heart of the earth, the furthest terrible reaches of Hell.
Let’s see, how can we amuse ourselves today, Sammy?
--
Twenty-seven years old. Black ooze, broken legs, broken head, Baby hidden safely away, Dean’s worried clench on unfamiliar steering wheel.
You boardin’ the crazy train again, Sam?
The world is a flimsy façade, Wonderland upside down, Satan in his head and drugs beckoning enticingly.
Try to sleep, please, Sammy.
--
Twenty-nine years old. Enochian syllables, Biblical open sesame, betrayal and lies and hope, Dean’s blankets and soup and midnight hair-stroking when no one’s looking.
You sure you can do this, Sam?
The world will be a better place, no Sam Winchester, no demons, no demon blood, sealed shut for eternity, life moves on.
Nothing, past or present, that I would put in front of you, Sam.
--
Thirty years old. Over the hill, careening into Hell or worse, broken promises and fractured trust, Dean’s suicide mission born of desperation and heartbreak.
It’s not your fight. Sorry, Sammy.
The world crashes and burns, let it burn, collapses into blood and tears and despair, deathly stillness except for a breaking heart.
RE: Fill: Through the Years 2/2
anonymous
May 2 2016, 22:29:40 UTC
--
Thirty-one years old. Black to green, snarls to smiles, broken woodwork and devil’s traps, Dean’s throwing away every hammer in the entire Bunker.
Time for a vacation, Sam?
The world slows, spins lazily by, beer and sunglasses and sparkling water on a random lake, whispering promises of the future.
Crybaby pie on the side, Sammy?
--
Thirty-two years old. Death and more death, deception and lies, magic spells and dangerous games, Dean’s spiralling far away, oblivious and obvious.
That should be you up there, Sam.
The world will burn one day, because of them, burn and burn and burn, like everyone they’ve ever loved.
Forgive me, Sammy.
--
Thirty-three years old. Frightened monsters and spreading darkness, fear and death and an absent deity, Dean’s valiant fighting - for once, not against him.
Welcome back to the Cage, Sam.
The world disappears in iron bars and trauma, smirking witch and scheming demon, furious big brother.
Hold on, Sammy.
--
Thirty-four years old. Darkness and death, held at bay by a miracle, stillness and surprise, Dean’s taking advantage of the new world by celebrating as only he can.
C’mon, live a little, Sam!
The world has lived and died around him already, decades upon centuries, memories overlaying others, confusing and exhausting.
You look exhausted, Sam.
--
Thirty-five years old. Quiet solitude, simple pleasures, hopeful tomorrows and vanishing yesterdays, Dean sitting quietly beside him as he remembers, mourns.
For once, everything’s good - what’s wrong, Sam?
The world calls it depression, black clouds lurking overhead, sadness beyond expression, grieving what once was, what could have been, pain in peace.
Hey, hey. I’m here, Sammy.
--
Thirty-six years old. Familiar feelings, dark silence, closed doors and sad music, Dean knows by now that words won’t chase away the clouds.
Dinner, Sam!
The world of aching sadness lit by a candle, stuck awkwardly into a key lime pie, melting wax dripping in pink rivers onto sticky foam, cheesy smiles and god-awful singing.
RE: Fill: Through the Years 2/2madebyme_xMay 5 2016, 10:42:08 UTC
This is beautifully sad and melancholic. I loved the format, and the poetry of your words and how they flowed. Wonderfully written - thank you so much for sharing :)
Monsters are real, Sammy.
The world is too big, and too small, shrunk down to sticky leather and nose-smudged windows.
Don’t be scared, Sammy.
--
Six years old. Angry school yard, too-small shoes, crayons and glue and peanut-butter-banana sandwiches, Dean’s smile beaming across the playground as he sails out of the big kid swings.
Dude, you were flying!
The world is bright and beautiful, yellow and sunshiney and sparkling, innocent gap-toothed smiles until a shadow blocks the sun overhead.
Get in the car, Sammy.
--
Twelve years old. Baggy sweatshirts, algebra finals, Megan Parker’s sticky cherry lip gloss behind the library door, Dean’s fistbump in the hallway after soccer, unashamed.
What the hell are you listening to, Sammy?
The world is spinning, tumbling and unpredictable, jazz music playing through a third-hand Walkman.
What d’you mean, stop calling you Sammy?
--
Sixteen years old. Hiding internet searches, biting nails, encouraging teachers, Dean’s frown as he checks out books on writing college application essays.
Have you ever looked into treatment for your anxiety, Sam?
The world is closing in, stifling and hot, dark spots in front of his eyes and dark circles under them.
Anxiety, my ass. That’s all in your head, son.
--
Eighteen years old. Sprawling campus, $9.99 sheets, textbooks and smuggled beer on Friday nights, Dean’s text messages and a fifty-dollar bill inside a reused Hallmark card.
Why so serious, Sam?
The world stops, pauses to stare, blue eyes and long blond hair, flashing smiles across freshman orientation.
Let me introduce you - this is Jessica, Sam.
--
Twenty-three years old. Charred photographs, smoke inhalation, yellow eyes and blood, Dean’s worried hovering across the bench seat of an unfamiliar familiar car.
What can I do, Sammy?
The world has gone gray, color bled away on a night wind, salted and burned in tears and fire.
We’ve got work to do, Sam.
--
Twenty-five years old. Black eyes, stale motel room, secrets and lies of commission and omission, Dean’s screams echoing in his nightmares, broken by the howl of hellhounds.
You know you want it, Sammy.
The world drips red, scarlet with anger and blood, white-hot burning need for revenge and desire.
You don’t get to call me Sammy.
--
One hundred thirty years old. Arctic chill, steel chains, burning agony and barely-remembered visions of sunlight, Dean’s smile at Lisa, barbeques and garage sales.
Ah ah ah, eyes on me, Sam I am.
The world exists - or does it - over them, not around them, buried alive in the heart of the earth, the furthest terrible reaches of Hell.
Let’s see, how can we amuse ourselves today, Sammy?
--
Twenty-seven years old. Black ooze, broken legs, broken head, Baby hidden safely away, Dean’s worried clench on unfamiliar steering wheel.
You boardin’ the crazy train again, Sam?
The world is a flimsy façade, Wonderland upside down, Satan in his head and drugs beckoning enticingly.
Try to sleep, please, Sammy.
--
Twenty-nine years old. Enochian syllables, Biblical open sesame, betrayal and lies and hope, Dean’s blankets and soup and midnight hair-stroking when no one’s looking.
You sure you can do this, Sam?
The world will be a better place, no Sam Winchester, no demons, no demon blood, sealed shut for eternity, life moves on.
Nothing, past or present, that I would put in front of you, Sam.
--
Thirty years old. Over the hill, careening into Hell or worse, broken promises and fractured trust, Dean’s suicide mission born of desperation and heartbreak.
It’s not your fight. Sorry, Sammy.
The world crashes and burns, let it burn, collapses into blood and tears and despair, deathly stillness except for a breaking heart.
I’m proud of us, Sam.
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Thirty-one years old. Black to green, snarls to smiles, broken woodwork and devil’s traps, Dean’s throwing away every hammer in the entire Bunker.
Time for a vacation, Sam?
The world slows, spins lazily by, beer and sunglasses and sparkling water on a random lake, whispering promises of the future.
Crybaby pie on the side, Sammy?
--
Thirty-two years old. Death and more death, deception and lies, magic spells and dangerous games, Dean’s spiralling far away, oblivious and obvious.
That should be you up there, Sam.
The world will burn one day, because of them, burn and burn and burn, like everyone they’ve ever loved.
Forgive me, Sammy.
--
Thirty-three years old. Frightened monsters and spreading darkness, fear and death and an absent deity, Dean’s valiant fighting - for once, not against him.
Welcome back to the Cage, Sam.
The world disappears in iron bars and trauma, smirking witch and scheming demon, furious big brother.
Hold on, Sammy.
--
Thirty-four years old. Darkness and death, held at bay by a miracle, stillness and surprise, Dean’s taking advantage of the new world by celebrating as only he can.
C’mon, live a little, Sam!
The world has lived and died around him already, decades upon centuries, memories overlaying others, confusing and exhausting.
You look exhausted, Sam.
--
Thirty-five years old. Quiet solitude, simple pleasures, hopeful tomorrows and vanishing yesterdays, Dean sitting quietly beside him as he remembers, mourns.
For once, everything’s good - what’s wrong, Sam?
The world calls it depression, black clouds lurking overhead, sadness beyond expression, grieving what once was, what could have been, pain in peace.
Hey, hey. I’m here, Sammy.
--
Thirty-six years old. Familiar feelings, dark silence, closed doors and sad music, Dean knows by now that words won’t chase away the clouds.
Dinner, Sam!
The world of aching sadness lit by a candle, stuck awkwardly into a key lime pie, melting wax dripping in pink rivers onto sticky foam, cheesy smiles and god-awful singing.
No words, but that’s okay.
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