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.
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carisma_sensei
Fill: Through the Years
Date: 2016-05-02 10:28 pm (UTC)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.