Fic: Hello, Operator
Title: Hello, Operator
Characters: Sam/Dean
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 619
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: It might not look it, but every word, punctuation, and indent actually serves a purpose in this (the formatting took longer than the actual writing, I swear :P). Tip #1: Remember the Miss Susie rhyme? This works kinda like that, the lines hooking onto each other to make one big tapestry. Tip #2: Read it aloud and take your time. Might have to read it a couple times. If you guys can actually stay with me on this, I'll love you forever :D More notes at the end. Feedback = ♥.
Summary: Miss Susie (and her steamboat) approves of Wincest.
Evening.
Some day, the weekend.
Sam and Dean sit on Missouri’s porch, drinking lemonade.
It’s hot outside-Sam takes a long drink as Dean watches, sips at his own, until
Morning,
Another day, another state.
Bright knots of tight muscle that Dean rubs at, incessant. Waves Sam off but this
Samuel, he’s persistent. Kneads it out when his brother’s too tired
(to argue) and battles the
Coiled sinews beneath his hands. Sam understands,
the language they speak-this contraction here, when Dean fired too soon,
or this snarl there, when Sam left after noon
(for coffee)
Two sugars in Dean’s with a little cream
and cinnamon. Licks his lips again,
Speckled dots of spice to entice
(Sam) while outside, the passersby multiply
Into rush hour crowds
Sam avows
to stay
In
Dean’s hands
is a little, grey kitty
Scars and stripes, antiquity
In the blues of its eyes.
Dean speaks of demise, when he holds the kit near
and Sam finally agrees
to keep
under wraps
the thoughts
in his head.
In their stead,
the TRUTH of it is-they’re brothers
(not lovers.)
Sam knows dearly
this tyranny.
Dad deals it to Dean, he says it’s for Sam,
But John never knew (the extent of Sam’s DESTINY)
how inclusive of
Dean,
Sam whispers
deep into the night.
Dean
(comes into Sam’s bed
on little cats feet)
Brandishing broken bones, and with it goes the troves of Sam’s (awkward)
Limbs in repose.
The color of rose collects in between the
crevices of
Dean’s fingers, that linger,
in the space of
Sam’s stomach in
Sam’s throat.
Sam’s guilt from
Mom’s quilt that she made, back in ’78-for lovers
(not brothers.)
Dean deals it again, he says it’s for John,
But Sam never knew (the extent of Dean’s NORMALCY) ‘cause
it sounds like bullshit to him, sounds like
Bullshit to him,
you bullshit to Dean.
(Touch Sam, you touch Dean.)
Sam touches himself, wants to
Touch Dean,
and you won’t live to see the
Day,
Some town, yet another state.
A werewolf who won’t know any other fate
Silver through throat, the blade serrate-it’s
GORY, you see, it’s ALL OVER the place
Sam knows that the Blood
will NEVER ABATE and Dean?
His brother, Dean?
(Just touch me, Sam)
Dean, his brother Dean.
His
(brother)
Dean.
(Like that, Dean?)
His brother-in-arms,
Soldiered in the sense of the harms they both shoulder-
to-shoulder, sleeping ‘till late
Afternoon,
Name your City and State.
Here’s your platoon, now eat up your steak.
Dean says to him, avoiding Sam’s gaze
On his skin, at the base of his neck,
is a hickey.
Red.
Bred to be seen, two inches above collar because Sam,
Sam’s always been a possessive little fucker.
Dean’s always been an
Evasive
(Fucker, Sam cries)
Everything dies
They see everything die, behind barrels of guns, sometimes
Under the sun,
they lay out a blanket.
And Sam sleeps
Dreams
Of a different plane where
Dean sings a different refrain, and it
sounds like brothers
(and lovers.)
Sam doesn’t wake.
“Sam!”
doesn't wake.
(Play the tape: A pause. A promise. A pact.
Aren’t we all PLEASED at the fact?)
That Sam, he wakes,
His Dean, he shakes
(shook hands
for his soul.)
Sun down,
Sam shivering from cold
So. He starts a fire.
(Hell, he is the fire)
Dean’s just the light and so
Sam’s gonna fight
(and win.)
--draw the curtain--
Behind them
they leave the mileage of Gods
Criss-crossing through highways (and those below and above)
In the car
Sam looks askance
and Dean looks back
(and smiles).
In Awhile…
It’s evening.
One far-off day, some inevitable place.
Sam and Dean sit on their porch, drinking lemonade.
It’s warm outside.
.
.
.
-----
A/N (cont.): You made it to the end! *hands you a bouquet*
The goal of this story was to physically control the way it reads, done through extremely anal-retentive, strict shackles of words. It looks pretentious with all its odd spacing, parenthesis, and italics, but they're all there to try and shove the reader into this narrow box (car) that keeps going, like its on rails. I did this to try and evoke, through words, the atmosphere of nomadism (the rhythmic pace) and inevitability (the way the whole thing strings together) in Sam and Dean's lives. I want this piece read aloud, I want the reader to hear his/her voice ebb and flow, like highway scenery, start to finish.
Of course, I also don't want this story to sound as pretentious as it is, so let's just dub this as PRETTY-SOUNDING!POEM and leave it at that, yeah? xoxo
Characters: Sam/Dean
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Word Count: 619
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Notes: It might not look it, but every word, punctuation, and indent actually serves a purpose in this (the formatting took longer than the actual writing, I swear :P). Tip #1: Remember the Miss Susie rhyme? This works kinda like that, the lines hooking onto each other to make one big tapestry. Tip #2: Read it aloud and take your time. Might have to read it a couple times. If you guys can actually stay with me on this, I'll love you forever :D More notes at the end. Feedback = ♥.
Summary: Miss Susie (and her steamboat) approves of Wincest.
Evening.
Some day, the weekend.
Sam and Dean sit on Missouri’s porch, drinking lemonade.
It’s hot outside-Sam takes a long drink as Dean watches, sips at his own, until
Morning,
Another day, another state.
Bright knots of tight muscle that Dean rubs at, incessant. Waves Sam off but this
Samuel, he’s persistent. Kneads it out when his brother’s too tired
(to argue) and battles the
Coiled sinews beneath his hands. Sam understands,
the language they speak-this contraction here, when Dean fired too soon,
or this snarl there, when Sam left after noon
(for coffee)
Two sugars in Dean’s with a little cream
and cinnamon. Licks his lips again,
Speckled dots of spice to entice
(Sam) while outside, the passersby multiply
Into rush hour crowds
Sam avows
to stay
In
Dean’s hands
is a little, grey kitty
Scars and stripes, antiquity
In the blues of its eyes.
Dean speaks of demise, when he holds the kit near
and Sam finally agrees
to keep
under wraps
the thoughts
in his head.
In their stead,
the TRUTH of it is-they’re brothers
(not lovers.)
Sam knows dearly
this tyranny.
Dad deals it to Dean, he says it’s for Sam,
But John never knew (the extent of Sam’s DESTINY)
how inclusive of
Dean,
Sam whispers
deep into the night.
Dean
(comes into Sam’s bed
on little cats feet)
Brandishing broken bones, and with it goes the troves of Sam’s (awkward)
Limbs in repose.
The color of rose collects in between the
crevices of
Dean’s fingers, that linger,
in the space of
Sam’s stomach in
Sam’s throat.
Sam’s guilt from
Mom’s quilt that she made, back in ’78-for lovers
(not brothers.)
Dean deals it again, he says it’s for John,
But Sam never knew (the extent of Dean’s NORMALCY) ‘cause
it sounds like bullshit to him, sounds like
Bullshit to him,
you bullshit to Dean.
(Touch Sam, you touch Dean.)
Sam touches himself, wants to
Touch Dean,
and you won’t live to see the
Day,
Some town, yet another state.
A werewolf who won’t know any other fate
Silver through throat, the blade serrate-it’s
GORY, you see, it’s ALL OVER the place
Sam knows that the Blood
will NEVER ABATE and Dean?
His brother, Dean?
(Just touch me, Sam)
Dean, his brother Dean.
His
(brother)
Dean.
(Like that, Dean?)
His brother-in-arms,
Soldiered in the sense of the harms they both shoulder-
to-shoulder, sleeping ‘till late
Afternoon,
Name your City and State.
Here’s your platoon, now eat up your steak.
Dean says to him, avoiding Sam’s gaze
On his skin, at the base of his neck,
is a hickey.
Red.
Bred to be seen, two inches above collar because Sam,
Sam’s always been a possessive little fucker.
Dean’s always been an
Evasive
(Fucker, Sam cries)
Everything dies
They see everything die, behind barrels of guns, sometimes
Under the sun,
they lay out a blanket.
And Sam sleeps
Dreams
Of a different plane where
Dean sings a different refrain, and it
sounds like brothers
(and lovers.)
Sam doesn’t wake.
“Sam!”
doesn't wake.
(Play the tape: A pause. A promise. A pact.
Aren’t we all PLEASED at the fact?)
That Sam, he wakes,
His Dean, he shakes
(shook hands
for his soul.)
Sun down,
Sam shivering from cold
So. He starts a fire.
(Hell, he is the fire)
Dean’s just the light and so
Sam’s gonna fight
(and win.)
--draw the curtain--
Behind them
they leave the mileage of Gods
Criss-crossing through highways (and those below and above)
In the car
Sam looks askance
and Dean looks back
(and smiles).
In Awhile…
It’s evening.
One far-off day, some inevitable place.
Sam and Dean sit on their porch, drinking lemonade.
It’s warm outside.
.
.
.
-----
A/N (cont.): You made it to the end! *hands you a bouquet*
The goal of this story was to physically control the way it reads, done through extremely anal-retentive, strict shackles of words. It looks pretentious with all its odd spacing, parenthesis, and italics, but they're all there to try and shove the reader into this narrow box (car) that keeps going, like its on rails. I did this to try and evoke, through words, the atmosphere of nomadism (the rhythmic pace) and inevitability (the way the whole thing strings together) in Sam and Dean's lives. I want this piece read aloud, I want the reader to hear his/her voice ebb and flow, like highway scenery, start to finish.
Of course, I also don't want this story to sound as pretentious as it is, so let's just dub this as PRETTY-SOUNDING!POEM and leave it at that, yeah? xoxo