jarpadandjensens reblogged
Winding backroads and arrow-straight highways,
all part of the map of veins and arteries that overlap and connect across the body of the continent they call their home
All they’ve ever known is the hum of the asphalt numbing their bones
and the fiery burn of 80’s hard rock chasing down the backs of their throats,
pooling deep in their bodies to become as much a part of them as
the hairs on their head and the green of their eyes
No one else can understand the significance of maps folded over so many times they tear at the seams,
or why the rush of wind through a cracked window while speeding down the road with the needle at seventy is a lullaby that never fails to soothe their souls
Dad hammered these nails into his boys,
built them up frame by frame into who they are;
brothers who were made for finding their names in passing license plates
and who found solace in curling into one another on the backseat when Dad couldn’t lift his foot off the pedal
Every town, every city, chipped away at their bones,
honing them, making them leaner and urging them taller,
leaving their stamp, their brand, in the curve of the boys’ eyes.
They always were the ones to leave,
to watch those places fade into the horizon behind them
Reality is escapable when all they can see is the headbeams of their car illuminate the road like twin moons.
It’s almost easy to forget the reason why their roots have spread from their feet to curl down and around the lines and pipes that Dean knows as well as the places in Sam’s cheeks where his dimples appear when he smiles
Landscapes and hills,
valleys and fields,
all rolling into one huge blur that washes the walls of their minds
Under that roof and inside those four doors is their home,
the only one they’ve ever known besides those matching places in their brother’s heart
Stars overhead, cast by a million hands to land on the black canvas drawn across the sky,
and Dean pulls them into a field.
It’s never easy to leave the driver’s seat, to unhook himself from the place he knew he was meant to be since the age of twelve,
never easy to take his foot off the gas when his blood is singing that same song on loop,
the one telling him about roads less travelled and streets so well-used that the two solid lines in the middle have all but faded away.
But for Sam, he does it,
because just like he has his own melody coursing through his veins, he knows that Sam’s plays to a different tune,
one that hums at a frequency Dean’s never been able to hear.
This self-induced wanderlust is a disease,
one that tastes of exhaust, fast food bags and the laughter of their brother in the air along the dashboard.
It’s something that has been melted into the marrow of their skeletons and crafted into the muscles hugging their bones.
It started out as duty, as a war torn path of vengeance by two boys huddled together as a man with too many lines on his face flies them through the night on the back of a black eagle.
Now it is their life, those two boys grown into men with their own burdens weighing down their souls.
Thank God they can find some age-old peace in the hum of the tires below their feet.
The only things that have remained constant in all these years is that long stretch of highway beneath them and the presence of that kindred soul beside them on the leather that long ago molded to fit to their bodies.
They could go anywhere as long as they had each other.
we were made for this
for the Sam & Dean Poetry Challenge prompt: wanderlust
(via samsbangs)
