RE: FILLED: Santa Lucias 2/2crowroad3May 4 2016, 03:13:08 UTC
*
When you're this rough-cut no road-fever, no haunt, can break you, but this.
Just talk to me, Sammy. Just--
Sam comes through the car like sodiumlight; Sam sits in shotgun like old times that never were; Sam inclines in light towards his brother. The car smells of graveyard and childhood and California: this.
Oh, Sam. If a ghost could --
the sight of him, all these years gone. All light and psi, weather, but still, something unsinkable: Sam.
Dean.
What do you wanna do, little brother. I--
Dean.
His name, veil-filtered, first sound, maybe, in a long time, that's come out of Sam's ghost, and here's the road, and here they are.
What do you want to do.
Sam's ether is still Sam, isn't 'venged out in the greenness of an eye. Sam-hands rest on his on the wheel while the road goes still beneath. (Dean hears music, indie-douchey-unknown, then his old familiars, then some other soundtrack, to a life: a child, lop-haired, wailing, a voice rough from sleep, Jess-ica, some orange-blossom-scent but mostly, mostly brother and brother
( ... )
Warning: implied suicide
The break still hurts, the way an old greenstick hurts, the way a hunt hurts, and aches in certain weathers, or aches all the time.
The surf hurts, salt on the five-o-clock, a certain scent that's far from home, from any home at all.
*
Here: Big Sur, salt, no-chain hotel, redwood and summer fog.
A grave that might have read:
~Sam Winchester
Beloved Husband~
but doesn't.
The old obit, which reads, patchwork--
Jessica (Moore) Winchester
auto accident, 1, semi--
D. Winchester, 7.
--instantly.
Dean blinks bits, words of it, out, stops reading.
Covers his eyes up.
*
Sam was driving, Santa Lucias rising from the coast. Bohemians, cults, poets, fauna and old trees. Driving,well-heeled, down from the Bay--
Crashed, burned.
Lived.
Afterwards, couldn't.
Not so different, little brother, the lives we got, is what Dean thinks--
all that aftermath: too much.
*Sam,18, left home in a fire, of drink on Dad's ( ... )
Reply
When you're this rough-cut no road-fever, no haunt, can break you, but this.
Just talk to me, Sammy. Just--
Sam comes through the car like sodiumlight; Sam sits in shotgun like old times that never were; Sam inclines in light towards his brother. The car smells of graveyard and childhood and California: this.
Oh, Sam. If a ghost could --
the sight of him, all these years gone. All light and psi, weather, but still, something unsinkable: Sam.
Dean.
What do you wanna do, little brother. I--
Dean.
His name, veil-filtered, first sound, maybe, in a long time, that's come out of Sam's ghost, and here's the road, and here they are.
What do you want to do.
Sam's ether is still Sam, isn't 'venged out in the greenness of an eye. Sam-hands rest on his on the wheel while the road goes still beneath. (Dean hears music, indie-douchey-unknown, then his old familiars, then some other soundtrack, to a life: a child, lop-haired, wailing, a voice rough from sleep, Jess-ica, some orange-blossom-scent but mostly, mostly brother and brother ( ... )
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