I shot her, Sam mutters, delirious, all those years ago.
She asked me to. She was a wolf.
This is what a wound looks like: bullet, claw, spellwork, tooth. Things that tear at the body, at what’s beneath. Sammy: gut-shot. Dean: consumed. Swallowed and thrown up again on the road-tides of the world.
The road smells like fern, the cabin like were and reap. Sam goes down and there’s memory.
How psychic wounds are the worst, the inward fry, possession; the dentin-crackle, grace.
How this, pit unstitched, is death.
You kneel. You dig. You work with what you have.
(That patch-up, pink-flowered, bandana; sutures waxed true with peppermint; duct tape, pin, hairpin, all that holds you, ripped, in stitchworked bits, unwhole.)
Gut-shot hurts, Lucifer’s liquor poured through scorched ribs, where once--
Gently excised: one spirit, one will to live.
Dean: fresh from death. Sam: same.
After, they slept in the same nest, flesh to fleshwork, meat & soul, where once, Dean says, you mined for bullet in a trickster’s game, and played
savior with your doctor’s hands, Sam, your gut-shot soul.
Heal this, with just your hands.