you have taught me how it is to be a body
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Jess wrote her first poem when she was nine years old, staring out of the window of a car listlessly, her trophy bumping against her knees and tearing up her stockings. Her mom had been chattering on and on about another pageant somewhere in Boston and another in Reno and another in Kansas City and another and-- and the clouds were pretty. They looked like they had faces, and Jess, who had already learned how to be tired and sad but not angry, not yet, wrote them a story in her head made up of seven rhyming couplets. She liked it, liked the rhythm of it, liked the way she could make the clouds say things she wasn’t allowed to think. She wrote it down when they got back to the hotel in careful cursive to show Sophie.
Jess doesn’t have that poem anymore. Her mom threw it away and had screamed in Jess’s face when she’d tried to fish it out of the trash. She doesn’t have any of her poems from the last three and a half years either, only the knowledge that they saved her, that an angel saw something in them (in her) that didn’t deserve to burn.
(In which Jess is a poet, Castiel loves poetry almost as much as he loves deviating from The Plan, Dean thinks that his brother might be haunted, and Sam knows he is.)
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he was named for a rifle. there's a metaphor in there somewhere. by JewFlexive for mslilylashes
Fandoms: Supernatural
09 Jun 2021
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how can you shoot so well with such shaky hands?
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