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Not Really Worth the Wait, But Here 'Tis
Dec. 14th, 2005 06:32 pmIn which it has been three weeks without a new Supernatural and things get crappy.
We are lost my brother and I. Geographically, we know exactly where we are, but there are no maps to grief, loss, and pain. There is no compass that will aid our navigation when the sea of despair meets the rocky shores of death. Her touch lingers in my mind. The wind caresses my face through the open window of my brother's car, and I imagine it's her. Her hands, her voice, her face, they all haunt me. I wake up from deadly nightmares to sweat-soaked sheets and emptiness. Her warm body does not fill the space in the bed next to me. It is vacant, like the room before we occupied it, like my soul without her.
. . .
Dean sits on the bed for better leverage as he shoves his foot into its boot. He sees a crumpled-up piece of paper next to the wastebasket. He is picking it up to throw it away when he notices Sam's handwriting adorning the hotel stationary. He glances up at the still-closed door of the bathroom and carefully smoothes out the wrinkled sheet.
Dean has just finished reading the short paragraph when Sam exits the bathroom and stops short. The color drains from his face and then comes back full force.
"Didn't I throw that away?" he manages.
"You missed," Dean says dryly, "So are you practicing to write crappy romance novels, or what?"
"Uh," Sam seizes on the only thing he can think of to get out of this conversation: a distraction, "How would you know what a crappy romance novel is like?"
Dean shrugs, "Margie liked to read them."
"Margie? As in your first kiss Margie?"
"Margie wasn't my first kiss," Dean scoffs.
"She wasn't?"
"No way man, I got my first kiss from that chick we saved from that ghost in Houston. With the exploding toilets? She shoved her tongue down my throat and everything."
Sam gapes at his brother, "You were eleven!"
"So?"
"She was nineteen!"
"So?"
"That's... that's... statutory kissing!" Sam finally manages to sputter.
We are lost my brother and I. Geographically, we know exactly where we are, but there are no maps to grief, loss, and pain. There is no compass that will aid our navigation when the sea of despair meets the rocky shores of death. Her touch lingers in my mind. The wind caresses my face through the open window of my brother's car, and I imagine it's her. Her hands, her voice, her face, they all haunt me. I wake up from deadly nightmares to sweat-soaked sheets and emptiness. Her warm body does not fill the space in the bed next to me. It is vacant, like the room before we occupied it, like my soul without her.
Dean sits on the bed for better leverage as he shoves his foot into its boot. He sees a crumpled-up piece of paper next to the wastebasket. He is picking it up to throw it away when he notices Sam's handwriting adorning the hotel stationary. He glances up at the still-closed door of the bathroom and carefully smoothes out the wrinkled sheet.
Dean has just finished reading the short paragraph when Sam exits the bathroom and stops short. The color drains from his face and then comes back full force.
"Didn't I throw that away?" he manages.
"You missed," Dean says dryly, "So are you practicing to write crappy romance novels, or what?"
"Uh," Sam seizes on the only thing he can think of to get out of this conversation: a distraction, "How would you know what a crappy romance novel is like?"
Dean shrugs, "Margie liked to read them."
"Margie? As in your first kiss Margie?"
"Margie wasn't my first kiss," Dean scoffs.
"She wasn't?"
"No way man, I got my first kiss from that chick we saved from that ghost in Houston. With the exploding toilets? She shoved her tongue down my throat and everything."
Sam gapes at his brother, "You were eleven!"
"So?"
"She was nineteen!"
"So?"
"That's... that's... statutory kissing!" Sam finally manages to sputter.
