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*
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
- from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams
*
1
The first thing you're aware of is something touching you. Holding you. Gripping more like; hands. Tiny hands. That's the first sensation.
There are more sensations, then, things you come to know as colour and shape all wrapped up in sight, but at this point it's all warm and blurred. Smell; sweet with an edge of acidity. Sound.
Dad, he's stickin' it in his mouth! Sammy, no!
Dean, just let him. That's what babies do. They test things with their mouth. They're just getting to know each other.
Damp.
Tell you what though, Dean. I bet he needs a name. Can you help your brother pick a name?
Buh! Louder, all round you, sticky and sinking into every gnawed fibre.
Bun, Dad, he said Bun! Mister Bun.
*
5
You don't feel pain, but you feel absence, loss.
Sammy holds you with his hand wrapped 'round your ears, a familiar grip that doesn't hinder sound so much as convey it physically.
De-an!
Swinging, more than slightly, the blur of grass and dirt below, Sammy's scuffed, too-big sneakered feet increasing their pace.
Go back!
No! Sammy stumbling, only briefly, picking up pace. You're swinging more wildly, feeling the pound of his pulse through the tight-clenched fingers, sky-trees-grass-dirt-feet-dirt-grass-trees-sky with a flicker of Dean mid-way, pedaling hard, glancing back over his shoulder. The occasional glimpse of Sammy's determined face if you swing far enough. I want a turn!
A step-too-quick and a branch flicking-up and you're both falling, breath huffing out of Sammy with a wordless oomph as he hits the ground. Sammy’s grip no longer around you, all sounds crisp and arrhythmic instead of the muffled thrum-thrum.
The wheel of Dean’s bike, skidding in the loose dirt. You can’t see much; winding, spiked branches obscure your line of sight.
Dammit Sammy, I told you…
You’re not allowed to cuss, Sammy’s voice is still a little breathless, trembling watery edge to it that you recognise the smell of, faint salt and damp-pressed against you. I’m telling Dad.
Dean sighs heavily, you can see his skin through the torn knees of his jeans where he’s crouching. I’ll wheel you back if promise you won’t.
Sammy sniffs hugely, and you watch his feet shift and dig in for purchase as he stands. I get to steer, okay?
Okay, okay… man, Sammy, did that hurt at all?
Their voices fade with the slow crackle of bike wheels against dead grass and small stones.
The sky gets darker.
When the individual shadows of the branches have been swallowed up by the greater darkness there’s the sound of footsteps, heavy and measured, no scuffing, steady stomp, stomp.
Bright light flickers above you, then over you. Then again. The branches shift a little, move you slightly. Aw, Jeez-- a sharp movement as the hand reaching for you catches on a thorn, draws back. Reaches in more carefully.
Dad never holds you by the ears, always around the middle, hand wide and fingers long enough to wrap right ’round, loosely or firmly. The beam of the torch is bright for a moment as he stares down at you.
His voice is soft, rough-edged and aimless like it always is when he’s not talking to anyone but himself. Hey, Mister Bun.
His pocket smells like gunpowder.
Sammy’s hands don’t hurt when he clutches you, tight enough to shift stuffing, press fabric from front to back together. Your fur catches on something stuck to his hand; he peels it off, presses it to you more firmly.
Sammy! Don’t--
Sammy holds you closer against him. Dean’s sitting on the edge of the bed in front of you, frowning, clutching the TV remote.
He fell down too! Sam says, and the texture’s different where your fur brushes more tender parts on the heel of his palm.
Dean huffs, turns back around. Sam lifts you up. It’s okay, Mister Bun, he whispers, so only you can hear him. I’m not really hurt.
*
11
It’s never really silent, unless Sammy’s not with you.
He doesn’t really speak to you any more, not directly; maybe the occasional humming mutter when he pulls you out of his duffel and you see a new motel room, bright after the muffled darkness amongst crumpled clothes and book-corners.
You don’t get to see outside the rooms any more, but it’s not so bad. You can hear it, now. The duffel’s open, crinkle-mouthed gap of bright and you can see the stained ceiling of the motel room, hear the creak of Sammy’s chair.
He’s sitting by the window. The shade of the ceiling changes with the sound of cars wheel-crunching ’round in the parking lot outside. Sometimes there’re footsteps, and the creaking of Sammy’s chair ceases momentarily.
After the sound of a turning page comes for the last time, Sammy sighs. Come on, he says, not easy and eager like you’ve heard it before. Nervous-edged. His hand drops down to your field of vision, fiddles with a drawstring on the duffel. Then his face, tense-jawed frown and hair hanging down as he peers in.
His hands are cooler than they once were, fingers more slender even as the roundness still clings to his face despite the deep-set frown. He sets you on his up-bent knees, feet braced on the windowsill, and stares. You stare back.
He rubs your eartip between thumb and finger and the fabric is little more than bare-net structure, worn by the ever-repeated gesture. Grip firm around both ears, then, and sound is muffled but the thrum-thrum of his blood remains. Come on, he says again, and his belly just below his ribcage lifts and falls with his breath, soft-tense and shaking a little where you’re pressed. Where are you.
He hauls the chair back away from the window before he turns off the light, climbs into bed. Against his chest under the covers the pounding of his heart’s louder, not easing a whit. It’s so warm, Sammy’s knees curled up, his breath loud, and in the dark his fingers roll one of your eyes between them, idly. His breathing doesn’t slow. You don’t even realise what’s happened at first, even after he makes a soft noise, like it’s involuntary, and then his fingers are stroking over the bare fur where your eye’s been pulled away.
It doesn’t hurt. But the room is darker when he lifts you up, only the faint gleam of his own gaze visible to you.
Sammy’s not asleep when they get back; as soon as there’s the slick snick of key sliding into lock he’s shoving you under the pillow, bed rocking and shifting as he sits up.
Dean? he says.
Sammy, Dad’s voice. Wake up, son. Get the first-aid.
*
14
Damp, sticky-wet and rich smell, and Here, Dad’s shoving you into Sammy’s hands and his grip is alternating fierce and feeble. You're used to the blurred mix of your own vision by now, and through it Sammy's face is above you, pale, dark hollows for eyes, smudge of hair and red smears, all red. Dad's hand is red, too, pressing against Sammy's chest, pressing him back.
I'm sorry, Dean's saying, somewhere, you can't tell where because Sammy's hand's wrapped round your ears again, thrum. thrum., and there're lots of noises in the sudden-bright room you were alone in only moments before. Oh God, I thought he was right behind me, I thought--
Can it, Dean. Make yourself useful.
Sammy's breath is shaky and the grip on you tightens and loosens again, then Dad's hand, loose round your middle picking you back up off the floor, half-tucking you under Sammy's side. Sammy's hand reaches for you again, skitters over his father's, blood-slick.
Hang in there, Sammy, Dad says, voice rough-edged. This is gonna hurt a bit, okay?
Mister Bun too, Sammy says, and his tone is one you're familiar with, one you used to hear with more frequency, pressed against Sammy's chest or mouth, his breath hot and nervous and whispering comforts to you while Dean slept silently, an arm's reach too far away. Fix him, too.
Dean. Do it.
What? Sammy--
Sammy lifts you up, holds you out and from this vantage point you can see the bare skin of Sammy's belly, broken open. Curved needle and dark thread in Dad's steady hands. Dean takes hold of you, the view shifts. Dean's always held you with both hands, gentle. But what am I--?
There's a needle and thread in the sewing kit. Just use a goddamn button!
Dean's hands aren't as steady but they're not harsh, rubbing briefly over the place where your eye used to be, then the brief scissor snip in time with Sammy's sudden gasp and Dean's face above you, gradually clearer as the needle dips in and out of your fur, and then.
You can see the shape of Dean's mouth again, not just the colour of it. The tension around his eyes that builds to fierce blinking. Red-plaid shirt, missing button.
Sam, Dean says. Here. And Sammy's staring down at you again and you can see him now, and he's older. Older than you remember, more angles than roundness, dark than fair. He touches a fingertip to your new button-eye, his hand gentle and steady.
There was a button in the kit, Dad's voice is gruff.
Couldn't find it, Dean says. No time.
*
17
You're used to it. The dampening heat of Sammy's open mouth against your fur, faint-salt-wet-smell of tears soaked into you. For a long time it's what you were for.
Not this time. He's alone again, just you and him in the motel room with the open door and his breath is hard, hitching; he grips you 'round the middle and shoves you into the duffel, then more books and clothes on top of you.
When he slings the bag onto his back the heat of his skin soaks through the canvas, and the movement-bounce counterpoints the pounding of his heart, steadiness of his footsteps.
On pavement. Grass. Gravel.
The rush-roar of cars passing, Sammy's breathing breaking again, movement of the bag stilling then jerking as he readjusts his hold on it.
Crunch of gravel, low purr you're familiar with. Need a ride?
Only the vibration of the car beneath you, then, no speaking you can hear, crammed beneath many layers.
Then the vibration lowering a notch, momentum stilling. Just need to fill up on gas.
Sure. I'll wait here. Creak-slam-shake.
The duffel shifts, drawstring whining friction against the canvas, and Sammy's hand closes around your ears, draws you out. He holds you on his knees, looks at you. His eyes are red-rimmed, mouth open to draw breath, then firm and closed.
You always saw red clearer, with your button-eye.
He thumbs it briefly, rubs your eartip between his fingertips; then glances up and away suddenly.
Bye, he says when he looks back down on you, and shoves you -- not back into the duffel, but into the glove compartment, hurried and without a second glance, light closing off as he clicks it shut.
Got you some snacks for the ride. Dean's voice is muffled, but still audible.
Thanks, Sammy says.
*
20
Dean doesn't take you out of his duffel as much as Sammy did, even when no one else is around. You get used to the warm dark, the movement when he carries you, the smoky sweat-blood-sleep-Dean smell, the shifting flashes of light when he re-packs or rearranges.
One time he upends the bag and the sight of him is sudden, shocking; face filth-smeared and angular, just as surprised to see you.
He's always held you with both hands, and gently. His mouth is trembling a little when he presses you to his face, breathes in deeply.
Dad's not around. Dean keeps you in the trunk, there's a loose leather band on the underside of the lid that fits 'round your middle. Mostly you're left in the dark with the slick smell of gun oil, warm metal. Gasoline. Dried herbs. When Dean opens it you swing upwards, sometimes into sunlight, most times just to the light of Dean's face, frowning and picking amongst the weapons, sometimes teeth bared with fierce eagerness. Sometimes he touches you. Most times he just looks.
One time the trunk creaks open and the shotgun isn't the first thing propping it up, it just stays held open, stocky figure silhouetted with the faint dawn light behind it.
Well I'll be. The backs of Dad's knuckles stroke over your soft belly briefly, finger tracing the line of an ear up before it flops back down.
*
23
You can’t measure your own age, only chart the differences of Sammy’s expressions, the gentleness of his touch. Things that don’t change much, really. You see him the next time Dean draws you from his duffel, both hands to walk from the bag across the room, then one hand to toss you to his brother.
Sammy catches you easily where he’s reclining on the bed, hand round your middle. You rest on his bare chest and he stares at you. You move with his steady, deep breaths and his hair is tousled, flush smeared below his eyes. You always saw red clearer with your button-eye.
Dude, he says, and rubs the tips of your ears between finger and thumb. You kept this?
Hell, yeah. Dean settles by Sammy, his hair brushing against Sammy's bare shoulder, looking at you down the length of his nose, down Sammy's body. He reaches out, touches your button-eye with a fingertip. It's Mister Bun, dude, like I'm going to toss him.
Sammy laughs. It hasn't changed much, really. Mister Bun, he says.
You know you named him yourself.
Sammy pauses. Dad always told me you named him.
Well, you and I. You said 'Bun' all by yourself. I'll take credit for the 'Mister'.
You're willingly taking credit for the lamest part?
Hey, Dean's hand smacks Sammy's chest; it's shaking with his laughter. You get the unimaginative part.
Sammy's hands shift, his fingers press into the fur of your face, re-shaping and twisting it, making Dean laugh. Dude, quit it.
Quit what?
Givin' him expressions.
Dean, Sammy's tone is solemn. He's always had expressions. His grip eases, he strokes your fur back into shape. Didn't you ever get the impression he was watching you?
Dean smirks. With eyes like that, Sammy, I don't know how you can think he's looking at anything.
Dean's hand's gentle 'round your middle as he lifts you from Sammy's grasp, turns you upside-down. Their breathing is loud in the room, air thick and close-sticky-sweet smell. Dean moves you slowly, gently, your ears brushing along the line of the scar on Sammy's hitching belly.
Dude, Sammy says, voice a low rumble, like Dad's used to be, when he was talking to no one but himself. Stop that. That's my childhood toy you're sullying there.
No sullying going on here, Dean says, though he shifts you again, slides you belly-down up Sammy's breastbone, then to his own face. He breathes in deeply. Smells like Sammy, he says.
Are you saying I smell like a mangy old rabbit toy?
No, that it smells like you. See? You're pressed gently to Sammy's mouth, the familiar easy warm-damp as he breathes in, out.
Smells like Mister Bun.
Dean sighs. Fine, he says, and leans over, sits you on the bedside table. He can just have expressions at you from over there, then.
Sammy laughs, then reaches up past you to turn out the light.