You're in a car with a beautiful boy.
They call you Sam and you fall in love with your brother. He
calls you Sammy and it's more about restraining yourself than it is about that
certain feeling in your soul.
You know to do nothing about it because you know all about consequences and how they'll swallow up your life and spit you out onto hot roads with nothing but a bunch of old t-shirts and handed down jeans to your name. He calls you Sammy and you know that it's all about how you pretend the feelings aren't really real and it's all just exhaustion and desperation congealing together over too many years of sharing the same motel bed.
But then one day you remember that time Dad wasn't there and Dean was young and fun and handsome. It was a weekday and it had been raining, you can remember the damp smell of concrete outside and the blanket of humidity that made your neck itch. You remember the moth bitten v-neck that Dean wore because it was too loose around his shoulders. Then you remember that it was Dad's shirt because Dean gave you his last clean one.
He'd said you'd shot up like a sunflower over the summer, called you a girl and grinned. You remember the grin the most though; it's brighter in your head than it was that day, because all you kept thinking was how can he be smiling when Dad's been gone for so long? And something along the lines of, he shouldn't light me up light this.
That was the one day where you had managed to successfully muffle the extra skip in your heart when you saw how your hands could fit against his chest. But then, for some reason, the confession was pulled out of you like a loose thread after Dean got restless, said he could do a hunt on his own, found a car and got you both lost. It was dark and the car was mounted on some grassy mound out of the way of everything and everyone and you were three towns away from wherever it was you were supposed to be.
You don’t remember falling asleep but you remember waking up to the white peel of sunlight staining the rain spattered glass and the soft nub of his ribcage under your cheek. You remember seeing nothing in particular but the catch of morning light in the fine hairs on his arms because it made him glow. There is that feeling, the same one that peeks up in the pit of your belly through the undertow of ancient memory, that brings you right back to the moment you crawled up his chest and he met you there. Like an old instinct, too subconscious to decipher but strong enough to make it right, you met his lips and his limbs with your own. And to this day the earthy wet smell of evergreen reminds you of that one, wordless morning in the middle of nowhere.
The car was so small, but your bodies had been so tightly crushed that in memory it seemed bloated and too big. It’s not the point though, because your memory is so stained and blotted with useless nightmares that you try to cling onto the facts rather than the delicate details: You and your brother started something in a stolen car with fabric seats, and it never bloomed from the mewls and tender nibbles in 1999.
He’d taught you everything, but he never taught you how to handle that. So you let it pass over like a fresh breeze, because you were too young to learn what fighting for what you wanted really meant.
He’s older now; the cut of his jaw is sharper and he has these wrinkles marking his eyes that weren’t there when you left. You remember the tidal in your stomach when you saw him - wanted to ask him where those wrinkles came from and measure his hands beside your own. But it was all so sweeping and fast and suddenly Jess had been long dead and you were both in the impala and he was being happy whilst you thought of that morning years ago. You see that it’s raining and you can smell the evergreen and suddenly your saying,
“Pull over, just- can you pull over for a second?”
It comes out like you’ve asked him if he heard a weird sound, so he’s peering over the wheel and giving the car a once over before you hold him still with a fact that comes out more like a question, “I want to kiss you.”
And just like that the rain seems louder and Deans hands fall on his lap. So you push a little bit more, “Can I kiss you?” For a moment - you know it exists because you can feel it shift the atmosphere - there is a softness in his expression that reminds you of a soldier coming home.
But watching him you can see it crawl away. You feel the wag of your heart droop and his eyes grow chilled. You almost feel the prickle of Dad in him as he clenched his fists and tugs the car forward, “You’re so fucking stupid, Sam.”
You turn away and think about fighting for this one; but you, of all people, know that stomping your feet only chases people away. You, of all people, know how Dean works. So you sit and lull your head against the window pane until the grey smears into deep blue and the flickering neon drags the Impala to another make shift home.
It’s been a wordless day in a car, but not the type you’d prefer and the full extent of the damage you have inflicted on Dean becomes clear when the engine stops and he doesn’t get out. It sparks in you, quick like the snip of a flint when you turn to see him with his head hung low - because he’s waiting. Waiting for it to crash down, he’s surrendering, and it’s sad but you don’t care because he’s silently surrendering to /you./ It’s an effortless shift; you don’t remember unbuckling your seat belt because now your hand is wide and so large over his worn jaw and you don’t remember turning his face because he’s meeting you there. Meeting you there with his lips and his limbs; sitting in a car park coming home.
You can feel the rooted weight in him, so your fingers curl into the thick collar of his jacket as you lurch closer. One of his hands paw at your chest and he’s looking at your mouth with half lidded eyes. Your foreheads bump smoothly, and the words begin, “Sam, Dad-” But you’re there. Old enough to understand this time, so you press in harder. Your knee juts into his thigh and you’re sucking up his words with the cup of your lips against his own. He’s leaning gruffly into the push and pull of your palm and his eyes close when your throat growls,
“Dad’s not here, he’s not - it’s okay, he’s gone.”
It’s tight and intimate and you’re breathing his air and he’s stealing yours, and despite the years it feels like you have both been hiding here all along.
Part two.
You know to do nothing about it because you know all about consequences and how they'll swallow up your life and spit you out onto hot roads with nothing but a bunch of old t-shirts and handed down jeans to your name. He calls you Sammy and you know that it's all about how you pretend the feelings aren't really real and it's all just exhaustion and desperation congealing together over too many years of sharing the same motel bed.
But then one day you remember that time Dad wasn't there and Dean was young and fun and handsome. It was a weekday and it had been raining, you can remember the damp smell of concrete outside and the blanket of humidity that made your neck itch. You remember the moth bitten v-neck that Dean wore because it was too loose around his shoulders. Then you remember that it was Dad's shirt because Dean gave you his last clean one.
He'd said you'd shot up like a sunflower over the summer, called you a girl and grinned. You remember the grin the most though; it's brighter in your head than it was that day, because all you kept thinking was how can he be smiling when Dad's been gone for so long? And something along the lines of, he shouldn't light me up light this.
That was the one day where you had managed to successfully muffle the extra skip in your heart when you saw how your hands could fit against his chest. But then, for some reason, the confession was pulled out of you like a loose thread after Dean got restless, said he could do a hunt on his own, found a car and got you both lost. It was dark and the car was mounted on some grassy mound out of the way of everything and everyone and you were three towns away from wherever it was you were supposed to be.
You don’t remember falling asleep but you remember waking up to the white peel of sunlight staining the rain spattered glass and the soft nub of his ribcage under your cheek. You remember seeing nothing in particular but the catch of morning light in the fine hairs on his arms because it made him glow. There is that feeling, the same one that peeks up in the pit of your belly through the undertow of ancient memory, that brings you right back to the moment you crawled up his chest and he met you there. Like an old instinct, too subconscious to decipher but strong enough to make it right, you met his lips and his limbs with your own. And to this day the earthy wet smell of evergreen reminds you of that one, wordless morning in the middle of nowhere.
The car was so small, but your bodies had been so tightly crushed that in memory it seemed bloated and too big. It’s not the point though, because your memory is so stained and blotted with useless nightmares that you try to cling onto the facts rather than the delicate details: You and your brother started something in a stolen car with fabric seats, and it never bloomed from the mewls and tender nibbles in 1999.
He’d taught you everything, but he never taught you how to handle that. So you let it pass over like a fresh breeze, because you were too young to learn what fighting for what you wanted really meant.
He’s older now; the cut of his jaw is sharper and he has these wrinkles marking his eyes that weren’t there when you left. You remember the tidal in your stomach when you saw him - wanted to ask him where those wrinkles came from and measure his hands beside your own. But it was all so sweeping and fast and suddenly Jess had been long dead and you were both in the impala and he was being happy whilst you thought of that morning years ago. You see that it’s raining and you can smell the evergreen and suddenly your saying,
“Pull over, just- can you pull over for a second?”
It comes out like you’ve asked him if he heard a weird sound, so he’s peering over the wheel and giving the car a once over before you hold him still with a fact that comes out more like a question, “I want to kiss you.”
And just like that the rain seems louder and Deans hands fall on his lap. So you push a little bit more, “Can I kiss you?” For a moment - you know it exists because you can feel it shift the atmosphere - there is a softness in his expression that reminds you of a soldier coming home.
But watching him you can see it crawl away. You feel the wag of your heart droop and his eyes grow chilled. You almost feel the prickle of Dad in him as he clenched his fists and tugs the car forward, “You’re so fucking stupid, Sam.”
You turn away and think about fighting for this one; but you, of all people, know that stomping your feet only chases people away. You, of all people, know how Dean works. So you sit and lull your head against the window pane until the grey smears into deep blue and the flickering neon drags the Impala to another make shift home.
It’s been a wordless day in a car, but not the type you’d prefer and the full extent of the damage you have inflicted on Dean becomes clear when the engine stops and he doesn’t get out. It sparks in you, quick like the snip of a flint when you turn to see him with his head hung low - because he’s waiting. Waiting for it to crash down, he’s surrendering, and it’s sad but you don’t care because he’s silently surrendering to /you./ It’s an effortless shift; you don’t remember unbuckling your seat belt because now your hand is wide and so large over his worn jaw and you don’t remember turning his face because he’s meeting you there. Meeting you there with his lips and his limbs; sitting in a car park coming home.
You can feel the rooted weight in him, so your fingers curl into the thick collar of his jacket as you lurch closer. One of his hands paw at your chest and he’s looking at your mouth with half lidded eyes. Your foreheads bump smoothly, and the words begin, “Sam, Dad-” But you’re there. Old enough to understand this time, so you press in harder. Your knee juts into his thigh and you’re sucking up his words with the cup of your lips against his own. He’s leaning gruffly into the push and pull of your palm and his eyes close when your throat growls,
“Dad’s not here, he’s not - it’s okay, he’s gone.”
It’s tight and intimate and you’re breathing his air and he’s stealing yours, and despite the years it feels like you have both been hiding here all along.
Part two.