(On a scrap of paper tucked into the pocket where Dean keeps his car keys. He found the note - but not the keys - when he headed out to take a hunt solo while Sam was injured.)
Quizzing each other over dinner or In the back seat. Chem tests, Latin, baseball Scores. Geekboy, you'd say, but you reeled off names Of movie stars, and never flunked a test.
Sixteen ways to break a bone: you taught me That. Sparring round the room, flushed triumphant. Till that time I learned the lesson a little Too well: broke your wrist. You winced and swore, proud.
Stock, forearm, pistol grip. Your hands pick out Each piece by name, unerring. You taught me To break down and rebuild; clean, grease, reload But I could never learn this peace in motion.
I trace slow paths across your skin. Count each Mark anew, learn and relearn every scar. Not mapping but knowing, you said, but I Travel into unknown territory.
I don't know the story behind every scar You got those four years. Each day I find new Ways to touch your skin. I'm still learning, Dean: No amount of time could ever be enough.