Somehow, which is likely a coincidence
but feels like history,
if not repeating, rhyming,
at the end of a devilishly difficult month
they end up stuck in LA,
or the outskirts thereof,
at ten thirty-two am beside
an empty beach,
which has been cordoned off
with hazard tape
for reasons unknown,
because it looks pristine,
a glossy magazine spread,
and there's no EPA suits
or wildlife-wellfare reps in sight
Dean's bopping in and out
from under the hood,
sweat trickling down the back of his neck,
reddened skin of his nape glistening.
He poured the last bottle of cold water
onto the radiator over
Sam's strenuous objection.
Sam said it was long past time
to call for a tow.
Dean said there were some things
they could still do for themselves.
A choice of words that made this
so much bigger than it had to be.
Too much at stake now, nailing their feet
to Dean's chosen course of action,
the mechanics of which escape Sam,
aside from the sacrifice of water.
Parked in a dirt lot, shrugged off
the shoulder of the PCF.
Baking in sun,
brain broiling in the heat
bubbling up thoughts
that turn his eyes heavenward -
Sam asks himself
in both the immediate
and the existential sense
where this is going.
If there will ever be an end to this.
Lately, he's been imagining futures,
which is a dangerous thing,
on a scale comparable
to visions and holy missions,
whispers of the spirit,
an elusive glance of light.
A burning bush, a cage.
But he is thinking coldly now,
in body counts piling up and up and
weapons of mass destruction
and the latest truth is
that these are the most
concrete things he knows,
aside from the man and car to his back.
Flesh and bones, asphalt,
steel, and hot hard sun.