This is a poem I wrote while thinking about how Sam has a home in his brother Dean.
Highway Lullaby
I don't have a house,
not like others.
No stationary walls,
bright kitchens
and dens where
fathers read the news.
But this road,
this passenger seat,
is my home
sweet home.
Your arms
are where I nestle
after a long day
of battling the demons
within me.
Your tears
are my holy water
that wipe my sins clean.
Your wounds
fill up with my blood
and I bandage them
with my shaky hands.
After a long day on the road
where my soul
sometimes does not survive
I cannot go to a place
where my mother awaits
to kiss it better,
where my girlfriend laughs,
and I forget
all this darkness.
But then there you are,
sitting on that twin sized mattress,
in our motel room,
and my muscles relax.
My mind stops wandering
to hell and back
because you're smiling,
fingering a picture of us
fresh faced, innocent,
a snapshot of lifetimes ago.
The highway raised me,
these yellow dashed lines
were my bedtime stories
and lullabies,
And you were my St. Christopher,
watching over me
in my journey.
Your eyes were my living room windows,
your off-tuned melodies and cassette tapes
Mmy bedside prayers.
In your bruised and beaten arms
I'd lay myself to sleep,
the ghosts and goblins in my memory
now just a child's dream,
the stars above my blanket,
and then you'd whisper to me
"It will be okay, all of this,
you're safe now, you're home
as long as you're with me,
I'll guard you with my life,
a promise I intend to keep."
With that you'd lean your head
against the driver's side door,
the window pane would fog up
with your breath,
and I'd watch for awhile
to make sure you went on breathing
so I could rest easy,
knowing
come sunrise
I'd be back home
in the green tint
of your tired eyes.