I hope you don't mind that I moved this a bit down from Palo Alto. ( : 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 tongue, and his own bones, alight with himself, with some vain hope; westward.
Dean couldn't hold him, tried, pressed for a second-hand his brother's heart; felt the wildness. Forest-fire, torching and crowning, ignition that was Sam.
Everything they might have brought down.
The very last time, their two breaths.
*
He's been angry, drinking.
The ghost on this highway is more than a story.
Is his story, which is not one he meant to find.
Like John, on his pyre, year ago now, and the way Dean smelled cedar and thought--
wish you were here, Sammy, westward into the void.
(And Dad: your brother, wherever he is, with that blood of his, you might find him still, Dean, might still have to...)
His last girlfriend, of the plaits, the good hands; the little house where he never lives; and always, the road.
Memories of the brother who--
Who still is.
* Woman in white:
not a woman.
Just a road, haunted.
He keens round a curve, coast to the left, Baby coasting to--
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carisma_sensei
FILLED: Santa Lucias 1/2
Date: 2016-05-04 03:12 am (UTC)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 tongue, and his own bones, alight with himself, with some vain hope; westward.
Dean couldn't hold him, tried, pressed for a second-hand his brother's heart; felt the wildness. Forest-fire, torching and crowning, ignition that was Sam.
Everything they might have brought down.
The very last time, their two breaths.
*
He's been angry, drinking.
The ghost on this highway is more than a story.
Is his story, which is not one he meant to find.
Like John, on his pyre, year ago now, and the way Dean smelled cedar and thought--
wish you were here, Sammy, westward into the void.
(And Dad: your brother, wherever he is, with that blood of his, you might find him still, Dean, might still have to...)
His last girlfriend, of the plaits, the good hands; the little house where he never lives; and always, the road.
Memories of the brother who--
Who still is.
*
Woman in white:
not a woman.
Just a road, haunted.
He keens round a curve, coast to the left, Baby coasting to--
to his brother's shine. If that's a face.