So You Make Sam Winchester Drink Demon Blood. But Where's The Brotherly Parallel? Where's The Goodie

genuinely so enraged we didn’t get to see dean flirt with cas and be like “did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” and cas deadass looks dean in the eyes and is like “yes, dean, it did,” and dean flounders and is like “wait that wasn’t what I- I meant- you’re as beautiful as an angel” and cas goes “I am an angel, dean” and dean just thunks his head on a table and yells “I’m trying to flirt with you” and cas gets that confused scrunched up face before he’s like “oh”

Glossary of Quotes, References, and Allusions in 'And This, Your Living Kiss'

INTRODUCTION

I’ve put together this official glossary for my fic due to multiple requests. Please read the whole introduction before you explore it.

First and foremost, I am a lover of literature and music but I’m not an expert. Dates are mostly taken from Wikipedia; definitions are in my own words but whenever I doubted myself I confirmed and/or adjusted using The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, fourth edition.

What this glossary is:

A list, in order of appearance, of any reference I/the characters have made with links and receipts when necessary EXCEPT for Supernatural references. There are very many of those and are meant for fans of the show to enjoy. A handful of extremely obvious references (e.g. Moana) have also been skipped.

What this glossary is not:

—Me explaining why I/the character chose to make that reference

—Me either endorsing or condemning any of these works and/or their creators

However, in order for people to make informed decisions, I have added a few Caveat lector warnings (reader beware) wherever I am aware of egregious negative themes. Use your own discretion from there. Please also understand I may be ignorant of some things myself in which case no warning will appear.

I’ve tried to keep the editorializing to a minimum. That said, if you have questions or want me to expand on anything contained herein, drop an ask and I’ll do my best to answer.

To navigate:

Each entry begins with phrases copied as written from the fic in order of their appearance. Therefore this will probably be the most helpful to read if you have both fic and glossary open on your screen; otherwise use your browser’s “find” function for keywords. People/works that are mentioned more than once only appear in the glossary the first time. Likewise, if it is defined in the fic itself I generally did not add it here, so double-check if you think something was missed.

Lastly, please enjoy!

opal <3

TITLE

“And This, Your Living Kiss”: a line from the poem “If I Was Dead” by Carol Ann Duffy (Scottish, b. 1955) and included in her collection Rapture(2005). You can read the poem in full here at the Scottish Poetry Library.

CHAPTER ONE: ARISE

He didn’t care where, just far. : A riff off a line from the song “Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)” by Deftones, off the album Around the Fur (1997). [youtube link]

The cheap perfume of the girls as they walk by, all dressed in their summer clothes… : A riff off a lyric from “Paint It, Black” by The Rolling Stones, off the album Aftermath (1966). [youtube link]

the usual oversold things like Patterson and Cussler : Bestselling American writers James Patterson (b. 1947) and Clive Cussler (1931-2020).

Dean scanned past Emerson and Erdrich, Ferlinghetti and García Lorca, until he paused on Allen Ginsberg. : Ralph Waldo Emerson, American writer (1803-1882); Louise Erdrich, Ojibwe/American novelist and poet (b. 1954); Lawrence Ferlinghetti, American beat poet and cofounder of City Lights, a San Francisco bookstore and publishing company referenced throughout this fic (1919-2021); Federico García Lorca, Spanish poet and playwright (1898-1936); Allen Ginsberg, American beat poet (1926-1997).

a book that just said Howl : Poem written by Allen Ginsberg and published in the collection Howl and Other Poems by City Lights in 1956. It’s made of four parts (three sections plus a footnote). Read it here, and don’t forget to click to the footnote at the bottom.

and it wasn’t the tiny black and white City Lights paperback : City Lights has a “Pocket Poets Series” whose design is pretty iconic. Read about it and see an example here.

HOWL, it read, Original draft facsimile…Facsimile? What did that even mean? : In the world of poetry a facsimile usually refers to a reproduction of a poem with all its extant drafts, including any markings made on them. They’re incredibly helpful in studying the craft/process of poets.

He wasn’t some elite sitting in his little Robert Frost cabin in the woods : Robert Frost, American poet (1974-1963).

discussion of the obscenity trial that nearly stopped it from being printed : Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Shig Murao were put on trial for publishing and disseminating Howl and Other Poems on the charge of the material being obscene. Obviously, they won the case.

Am I mad that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? / I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. : A couplet from the long poem “Locksley Hall” (1835) by English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892). Caveat lector: If you intend to read it, be warned it is an excellent example of his complicated legacy. That is, he has written some of the best verse to grace the English language, influencing it in many ways (“better to have loved and lost,” most famously), and yet he was a hella British imperialist with all the attendant racist and colonialist views. Arguably queer and proto-feminist, still some of the POVs he writes from, like the narrator of this poem, are very sexist and patriarchal.

Do I dare? : A famous quote from the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1915) by T.S. Eliot (American-British poet, 1888-1965). Caveat lector: This poem is a fantastic read, but be aware that if you venture into his other poetry his anti-Semitism does make appearances.

was like a waking limb, pins and needles? : Another lyric riff, this time from “Nice to Know You” by Incubus, off the album Morning View (2001). [youtube link]

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. : Another Tennyson quote, this time from his epic poem Maud: a monodrama (1855). Read it here. Click “next” at the bottom of the page for the rest of the poem.

CHAPTER TWO: JUVENILIA

Juvenilia : Term used to refer to the early works of a writer, generally unpublished until they’ve become established and there’s an interest/demand. From the Latin “of youth.”

Anne Bradstreet and Nathaniel Hawthorne and fucking Puritans : Discussion of American literature in classrooms usually starts with the Puritans. Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672), though born in England, lived most of her life in Massachusetts and is considered by some to be the first great American poet. Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) was not a Puritan, but he was a direct descendant of prominent Puritan figures and his most famous book, The Scarlet Letter, takes place in those times/that culture.

discussions of The Scarlet Letter and Moby-Dick: For Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter (1850) see above. Moby-Dick (1851) was written by Herman Melville (1819-1891) and is another staple of early American lit.

It wasn’t until Dr. Moseley assigned Jack Kerouac’s On the Road that he paid a little more attention in class. : Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) was a major figure of the Beat Generation, writing both books and poetry. His most famous novel was a piece of autobiographical fiction called On the Road, published in 1957. Caveat lector: In the novel you’ll find general sexism throughout and a couple passages of ignorant (as opposed to malicious) racism.

“The Hobbit, that was written by the same guy as Lord of the Rings, right?” “J.R.R. Tolkien,” she answered brightly. : J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973) English philologist and writer. He’s most widely known for his book The Hobbit (1937) and its sequel, his masterpiece The Lord of the Rings (1954-1955).

“I keep meaning to because Led Zeppelin references it a lot.” : Two songs that immediately come to mind are “Ramble On” (1969) and “The Battle of Evermore” (1971). Youtube links here and here.

“Those were the days, man,” he said. “When a guy could just hop in a car and do whatever he wanted. A car, a destination, and a girl, in that order.” : A quote from On the Road: “It was remarkable how Dean could go mad and then suddenly continue with his soul—which I think is wrapped up in a fast car, a coast to reach, and a woman at the end of the road.”

“You named yourself after Ray Bradbury, of course I like you for you.” : Ray Bradbury (1920-2012), American writer, best known for Fahrenheit 451.

She was reading a slim volume called Wit : The play Wit or W;t premiered in 1995 and was written by Margaret Edson (American, b. 1961). It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1999. There was a movie made of it a while back starring Emma Thompson as Vivian Bearing, but definitely go see it in person at a theatre if you get the chance.

Shakespeare. Death of a Salesman. Pretty sure I’ve read The Crucible three times in three different states. : The plays Death of a Salesman (1949) and The Crucible (1953) were both written by American playwright Arthur Miller (1915-2005). Plenty of adaptations have been made of Miller’s work if you don’t get a chance to see them at a theatre; Dustin Hoffman is in a movie version of Salesman which I can knowingly recommend as quality.

a college professor specializing in metaphysical poetry : Basically you’re looking at a loosely defined English poetical movement in the 1600s. John Donne is by far the most famous of these poets.

“John Donne was the most famous practitioner…Hm, let’s see. You know the Metallica song, ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’?” “Sure, based on a Hemingway book.” : John Donne, English poet and priest (1572-1631). “For Whom the Bell Tolls” is a song by Metallica off the album Ride the Lightning (1984) [youtube link]. Ernest Hemingway, American writer and journalist (1899-1961). For Whom the Bell Tolls is among his most famous works. The quote is from “Meditation XVII” found in Donne’s Devotions upon Emergent Occasions (1623), which you can read here. The relevant and extremely famous part is “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

The centerpiece is a poem by John Donne, ‘Death Be Not Proud.’ : Sonnet written in 1609.

Dr. Seuss. Shel Silverstein. Chicka chicka boom boom. : Dr. Seuss, American writer and illustrator (1904-1991); Shel Silverstein, American writer (1930-1999); Chicka Chicka Boom Boom (1989) is an American picturebook written by Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault, illustrated by Lois Ehlert.

if it was good enough for Plant and Bowie and Queen : Robert Plant is of course the lead singer of Led Zeppelin; Bowie is of course David Bowie.

Pulling them up from their dying bed : Here Dean is referencing Led Zeppelin’s version of “In My Time of Dying” (1975).

Just wipes us off his shoulder, dust to dust. : Naturally a reference to the famous line from many a Christian burial service, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

You told us that Kerouac wrote On the Road in one sitting. : A bit of an exaggeration; Kerouac reportedly typed up his “original scroll” in an intense drug-fueled haze in a relatively short period of time. This was eventually published long after the fact, so you can buy a copy if you’re interested.

What we read for class was highly edited : For coherency and subject matter and yes, changing the names of the real people involved. And it’s a lot shorter.

Well he and his friends were part of the Beat Generation. : Mid-century American art and counterculture movement.

One was titled Howl and the other, Kaddish. : Missouri is giving Dean the City Lights publications of Howl and Other Poems (1956) and Kaddish and Other Poems (1961), both by Allen Ginsberg. Kaddish is also considered one of Ginsberg’s masterpieces, written after the death of his mother.

If you like it, after we read Ralph Ellison I might squeeze in some poetry : Ralph Ellison, American writer and critic (1913-1994). Best known for Invisible Man (1952).

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness : This marks the first few lines of the poem Howl.

The Footnote with its orgasmic, nirvanic litany holy, holy, holy : The Footnote to Howl begins with fifteen repetitions of “Holy!” and contains many more iterations of the word thereafter.

Holy the cocks of the grandfathers of Kansas! : As written in the middle of the Footnote to Howl.

Eagerly Dean devoured the rest of the collection: “A Strange New Cottage in Berkeley,” “Sunflower Sutra,” and then, in the pinking dusky sky, “Many Loves,” : Indeed these are all pieces found in Ginsberg’s collection Howl and Other Poems. The italics in the paragraphs following this line are all lifted from “Many Loves” and not coincidentally, the phrases are in the order they appear in the poem, so even though you’re missing most of it, you are discovering those lines at the same time Dean is.

Oh god, they were together on a small cot. : Oh my god, there was only one bed! ^_^ Ginsberg and Cassady lived out the trope, y’all!! Icons!

Rufus Turner and his wife Gwen : Gwen is the only name in the fic not lifted from Supernatural, as no one in Rufus’s family is named in the show. Therefore I chose to name Rufus’s wife after celebrated American poet Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000).

you’ve never heard of Langston Hughes, one of the greatest poets this country ever produced? Harlem Renaissance? Nothing? : Langston Hughes (American, 1901-1967). The Harlem Renaissance was an African-American cultural movement (of which Hughes was a major figure) whose epicenter was in Harlem, New York City. It reverberated across the country and the world during the early 20th century. Hughes and jazz and all sorts of art from the Harlem Renaissance were big influences on Allen Ginsberg (and the Beats in general).

Eastern poetics had a big influence on Ginsberg. : Just like what was showing up in music by The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, Eastern art, culture, and religion were popular in a big way in Western literature during the mid-century. The Beat Generation was well involved. Ginsberg talks about haiku a lot when discussing his craft.

Japanese masters, like Matsuo Bashō : A Japanese poet (1644-1694) very famous for haiku. His Frog Haiku has been rendered in many ways, but of course Ginsberg’s is included here. For comparison, an older contemporary of the Beats named Kenneth Rexroth, who translated a lot of foreign-language poetry into English (thank you for your service, good sir!), fashioned it thus: An old pond— / The sound / Of a diving frog.

CHAPTER THREE: DR. NOVAK

The expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face—You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side— : Both lines are lifted from the second stanza of the second part of Walt Whitman’s (American, 1819-1892) poem “I Sing the Body Electric,” first published in 1855, but revised over the years. Read it here. Caveat lector: Slavery and auction block references.

Styles, forms. Sonnet, sestina, terza rima? : Style can refer to the common definition, but also specific characteristics that define an individual’s writing, or a poetic/literary movement. Its definition can change depending on type of criticism. The study of styles is called stylistics. Form refers to the structure by which a poem is composed or, more broadly, how lines are broken up in free verse, etc. Forms invented and/or made famous by a certain poet automatically invoke that poet when choosing to write within it. The following three terms are traditional poetic forms. A sonnet is traditionally a 14-line poem that often follows a certain scheme based on three different poets who perfected them: the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet, associated with Petrarch (Francesco Petrarca, Aretine, 1304-1374); the Spenserian, associated with Edmund Spenser (English, 1552/3-1599); and the English or Shakespearean associated, of course, with William Shakespeare (1564-1616). Originally a Sicilian invention from the 1200s. A sestina is a difficult form comprised of six stanzas with six lines apiece. Each line of the poem ends with one of six words, alternating by pattern. It ends with a final three-line stanza using all six words, three in the middle and three at the end. If this sounds confusing, read Elizabeth Bishop’s famous “A Miracle for Breakfast” (1937) to see the sestina in action. An Occitan invention of the 1100s, likely by Arnaut Daniel. Terza rima consists of tercets (three-line stanzas) interlocked by the rhyme scheme aba bcb cdc and so on. Developed by Dante Alighieri (Florentine, 1265-1321) for his masterwork la Commedia, best known as The Divine Comedy.

How about poetic elements? Chiasmus, anaphora? : Chiasmus is also a type of repetition. It can occur on the level of sound, word, phrase, idea, or structure, by reversing or crossing over two of these things. Example: “A and B; B and A.”

Dean was hardly going to tell him that his last collection had been shortlisted for the National Book Award. : A longstanding and important book award given annually in the United States. In addition to Poetry there are currently categories for Fiction, Nonfiction, Translated Literature, and Young People’s Literature. If you’re looking for poetry recs Wikipedia has a list of the winners and finalists here.

and popped Zepp’s Physical Graffiti into the player. : Led Zeppelin released their sixth album Physical Graffiti in 1975. [youtube link]

Honestly Dean wouldn’t be surprised if one of them had declared their love for Cas on their eyelids, Indiana Jones style. : See this short clip from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) if you’re unfamiliar with Dean’s reference.

Paradise Lost : This epic poem was written by John Milton (English, 1608-1674) in 1667.

The Bible : Oldest extant written text from around a couple hundred years BCE, but presumed to have first been put together centuries prior via linguistics and historical considerations, etc. About a third of the Hebrew Bible is poetry.

The Iliad : Epic poem of Ancient Greece concerning the Trojan War first written down, and possibly composed, in the 8th century BCE. Popularly attributed to Homer.

Beowulf : Written down around the turn of the 11th century CE, but possibly from up to a couple centuries earlier, this epic poem was composed in Old English aka Anglo-Saxon.

Gilgamesh : Some of the earliest surviving literature of the world full stop! Poems about the Ancient Mesopotamian figure first showed up written in Sumerian (possibly as early as the mid-2000s BCE???), but this student likely means the Epic of Gilgamesh, composed in Akkadian and written up to a millennium or so later.

They come from the oral tradition. : Billie and Cas remind us that just because a written piece of work is very old, it in no way means the culture it comes from is superior to others. All cultures had and have rich, beautiful, ancient storytelling traditions whether they’ve been written down or not.

driving in a car singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with our friends : “Bohemian Rhapsody” is a song written by Queen off the album A Night at the Opera (1975). [youtube link] Though I can guarantee you that the comment brings to Dean’s mind the famous opening of the movie Wayne’s World (1992). [youtube link]

the next person, who had chosen some Sylvia Plath : Sylvia Plath, American, 1932-1963. Caveat lector: If you explore her more famous poems you will find vivid Holocaust references that, though used as metaphor, are very arguably anti-Semitic. Also consider caution if you struggle with depression.

Yone Noguchi : Whether Noguchi can be considered American depends on who you ask, as he was born in Japan and returned there later in life, but he lived in the United States a good long while and wrote a lot of English-language poetry. Dean makes an erroneous assumption here without having read the full bio; Noguchi certainly wrote a lot in Japanese as well, but that’s outside the purview of Castiel’s class.

“Uh, Imagism?” “You know, early shit from Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot and whatever.” : Imagism was more or less the precursor to Modernism in English-language poetry and was, as you may guess, heavy on imagery. Ezra Pound (American, 1885-1972) was a huge proponent of Imagism and an important writer, critic, and editor such that he basically is the foundation of 20th century English-language lit. For all that, another Caveat lector: he was an anti-Semite and such a devoted fascist that he literally moved to Italy for love of Mussolini and was later tried by the States for treason (got out of it on the grounds of mental health). I don’t know how much of such views appear in his poetry because I’ve read little of it. However, for a small but famous example of his work that also demonstrates the influence of Eastern poetics, here’s “In a Station of the Metro” (1913): The apparition of these faces in the crowd: / Petals on a wet, black bough.

That attitude’s just a holdover from when Harold Bloom was talking about the ‘Anxiety of Influence’ that poets suffer : Harold Bloom (American, 1930-2019), influential critic, published his book The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry in 1973.

Jonathan Lethem, though? Him you should look up. : Jonathan Lethem (American writer, b. 1964) wrote an essay called “The Ecstasy of Influence,” published in Harper’s Magazine in 2007. Read it in full here.

There were some poets he vaguely remembered from high school, like Wilfred Owen : English poet, 1893-1918. Considered one of the great WWI poets, he was killed in action while in France, age 25.

Typographical, sonic, sensory, ideational, and—putting them all together—fusional. : Adapted and in widespread use based on books by Lewis Turco (American, b. 1934). Some basic definitions follow. Typographical: How the poem appears on the page. Sonic: Anything sound-related, from repeated letters (assonance, consonance) to rhyme, rhythm, meter, pauses, etc. Sensory: Things that evoke both physical senses (taste, touch, etc.) and emotions. Ideational: Thoughts and ideas; themes, morals, arguments, opinions, etc. Fusional: How and whether the other levels fit into a cohesive whole; is the poem more than the sum of its parts?

Maybe Dean was a little Hot for Teacher : “Hot for Teacher” is a song by Van Halen from the album 1984 (indeed, released in 1984). [youtube link]

singing the praises of poems that required fluency in five languages {…} “What, he can quote half an Eastern religion but he’s not quoting Tennyson?” : In T.S. Eliot’s long poem The Waste Land (1922) a few different languages make an appearance, including Sanskrit, as he pulls from Hindu scripture. Dean points out that one of the poem’s most famous lines, “I will show you fear in a handful of dust” owes something to a less famous line of Tennyson’s, also appearing in the aforementioned Maud, “And my heart is a handful of dust.”

CHAPTER FOUR: DINNER AT MISSOURI’S

and coax out her thoughts about Vonnegut’s short stories : Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007), American writer best known for his novel Slaughterhouse-Five.

You also might want to brush up on your MLA. : The Modern Language Association, an American organization that publishes the style and citation guide favored by literary scholars; in this context used as shorthand for how to cite references within a paper.

“Who hasn’t heard of Caddyshack?!” : A 1980 comedy starring Chevy Chase and Bill Murray.

“Exactly,” said Sam, laughing. “And he really loved Ayn Rand.” : Russian-American writer (1905-1982) best known for her novels The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.

CHAPTER FIVE: JOHN WINCHESTER’S WALTZ

Beat Generation, Formalism, Surrealism, Confessional, Deep Image poetry, and many more : Formalism in this case refers to a resurgence of poetic forms and use of more stringent elements such as rhyme or meter after the recent dominance of free verse. Surrealism had of course been around for decades but saw new life through exchange of international styles and translations, and experimentation pushing boundaries of the traditional and the rational. Confessional poetry is taking the autobiographical style of poetry to the extreme. Very personal and subjective writing about oneself, especially illness and trauma, etc. Deep Image poetry is an American style influenced by the ideas of Carl Jung and especially Latin American surrealism, putting emphasis on archetypal and natural imagery to evoke thought, emotion, and connection.

‘My Papa’s Waltz’ written by Theodore Roethke : American poet, 1908-1963. He was born and grew up in Saginaw.

This next one was written in 1966 by Robert Hayden: 'Those Winter Sundays.' : American poet, 1913-1980. He was born and grew up in Detroit.

And they drank to all the man was, and all he could have been. : In retrospect, almost certainly inspired by lyrics from “The Great Below” by Nine Inch Nails, off the album The Fragile (1999). [youtube link]

So. : An echo of Seamus Heaney’s (Irish poet, 1939-2013) famous and highly lauded translation of Beowulf, specifically his interpretation of the first word “Hwæt” as “So.”

CHAPTER SIX: THE RETURN OF THE QUEEN

The Return of the Queen : Referencing the third part of The Lord of the Rings containing books five and six, The Return of the King.

My candle burns at both ends, the loopy part of his brain chanted over and over, like having a song stuck in the head. It gives a lovely light! : Lines from the short poem “First Fig” (1920) by American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950). In full it reads, My candle burns at both ends; / It will not last the night; / But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— / It gives a lovely light!

In the end he had to take notes from his man Harrison Ford and pull an Indiana Jones exchange with his wallet. : Another reference to Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark. If you’re unfamiliar or need a refresher, here’s a clip of the scene on youtube. Relevant part about a minute in.

Dean had spent too long guarding him like Smaug and his golden hoard : Another Tolkien reference; Smaug is an infamous dragon from the book The Hobbit.

There’s a Whitesnake quote? From their song ‘Here I Go Again.’ : Originally off the album Saints & Sinners (1982), but the more widely known version is the later cut from 1987. [youtube link]

“I love you.” / “I know.” : Infamous lines from Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back (1980) [youtube link].

Elizabeth Bishop : American poet, (1911-1979).

Emily Dickinson : American poet, (1830-1886).

Oscar Wilde : Irish writer, (1854-1900).

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE BRIDGE

and then Billie had mentioned that if Robert Hayden grew up in Detroit couldn’t “blueblack” also be a reference to the local music scene in his childhood?: This wonderful observation is cribbed from the Poetry in America series, as described by poet Elizabeth Alexander (American, b. 1962) in the episode for Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays.” Watch it here.

And wasn’t there a Muddy Waters song : Muddy Waters, American musician 1913-1983. One of the greatest bluesmen to ever live, and a huge influence on rock’n’roll.

while everyone else was bringing in Frost and Dickinson and Keats : John Keats, English poet, 1795-1821.

or ones who drank themselves into the grave like Dylan Thomas, or were going crazy all the time like Lowell : Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet, 1914-1953. Robert Lowell, American poet, 1917-1977.

These poets for social justice, like Dennis Brutus. : Dennis Brutus, South African poet, 1924-2009.

“Warmgold folds,” he said. “Silkchill skeins. That sunlit sensuous voluptuousness / of luxurious indulgence in lush-ripe flesh.” : Phrases from an untitled poem [“The sand wet and cool”] written by Brutus in 1970.

“Milkblue.” : The beginning of another untitled poem by Brutus written in 1970 [“Milkblue—tender the moonlit midnight sky”].

Like Byron did both, right : George, Lord Byron, English poet 1788-1824.

“He said, if he had spent more time on poetry, he would have been a better poet. But working to end apartheid and other injustices in the world was more important work. And that is how he chose to spend his time.” : “And it seems to me that if I ever made such a commitment—to be a craftsman in poetry—inevitably, the other things I’m doing would suffer {…} In order for me to make a total commitment to poetry, I would have to remake myself. This is not impossible, in the sense that I could wholly shut out, say, my political activity, my organizing work, my sports, the kind of chores which I do from day to day with this and that committee, and so on. I think it would not be impossible, but I think it would be immoral. This is what really stops me: that a total commitment to the craft of poetry, with the kind of integrity which that implies, would do damage to what I now regard as essential to integrity for me. Which means social concern.” Dennis Brutus, as quoted in Poetry & Protest: A Dennis Brutus Reader (2006) pg 177.

This idea that poets and other artists should self-destruct for our amusement is a rotten romanticism. : Credit for calling this oft-criticized phenomenon ‘rotten romanticism’ must go to Elizabeth Bishop, as written in a personal letter to a friend. From Megan Marshall’s biography Elizabeth Bishop: A Miracle for Breakfast (2017) pg 130: “Elizabeth had been distressed, she told a friend, by the way so many in [Robert Lowell’s] inner circle, like [Dylan Thomas’s], seemed to “really just love the spectacle of the poet destroying himself and they’re filled with rotten romanticism about it.””

Dean took it hesitantly. “A River Dies of Thirst,” he read. “What is this?” “Mahmoud Darwish. Read ‘The essence of the poem.’ Near the end. Okay?” : Mahmoud Darwish, Palestinian poet, 1941-2008. His collection A River Dies of Thirst was published in Arabic in 2008; the English language edition was translated by Catherine Cobham and published in 2009. Find “The essence of the poem” pgs 119-120.

Dean didn’t hear him. After Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou, there he was: Jack Allen. : Mary Oliver, American poet, 1935-2019. Maya Angelou, American writer, (1928-2014).

and unforgiving lights all / Left up bright, : This line owes something to a lyric from “The Last Time I Saw Richard” off the album Blue (1971) by Joni Mitchell. [youtube link]

Is there life? / Is there life on Mars? : From the song “Life on Mars?” by David Bowie, off the album Hunky Dory (1971). [youtube link]

Getting crushed by a unicorn, hello Freud! : Sigmund Freud, father of psychoanalysis (Austrian, 1856-1939).

Please. That’s exactly the kind of plain guy name a girl would use for a pseudonym. George Eliot-style. : Mary Ann Evans, English writer, better known by her nom de plume George Eliot (1819-1880).

Dean bit his lip, fighting not to snap out that he quoted David Bowie because sometimes it’s kinda funny, you know, what you think when you’re doing things like that : This line riffs off of lyrics from the song “Me and a Gun” by Tori Amos, off the album Little Earthquakes (1992). [youtube link, but trigger warning for rape]

and sometimes a song was just a damn song. : Dean recycling a quote popularly attributed to Freud, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” (sometimes there is no symbolic meaning).

“Nights in Pink Satin”: A Reference Playlist

“Nights in White Satin” by The Moody Blues, from Days of Future Passed (1967)

“Lola” by The Kinks, from Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part One (1970)

“Hoochie Coochie Man” by Muddy Waters (1954)

“I’m a Man” by Bo Diddley (1955)

“Mannish Boy” by Muddy Waters (1955)

“I’m Eighteen” by Alice Cooper, from Love It to Death (1971)

“Don’t Let Me Down” by The Beatles (1969)

Referenced in spirit:

“18 and Life” by Skid Row, from Skid Row (1989)

“Pink” by Aerosmith, from Nine Lives (1997)

Accidentally referenced: “In My Time of Dying” by Led Zeppelin.

Nonmusical reference: Allen Ginsberg’s Footnote to Howl.

“If he’s so uncomfortable, I would very much like to read out Sharon Olds’s ‘The Connoisseuse of Slugs’.” : Sharon Olds, American poet (b. 1942). Find “The Connoisseuse of Slugs” in her collection The Dead and the Living (1984), or read it here.

As it should be, padawan : A Jedi apprentice from Star Wars.

The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,— : From the third sonnet in Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s (English poet, 1806-1861) masterwork Sonnets from the Portuguese (1850). Read it here, though I have used the adjusted punctuation by EBB from later publications.

He showed me how to live. : “Show Me How to Live” by Audioslave, off the album Audioslave (2002). [youtube link]

Lazarus Rising : Just a quick note to say the poem is simply using a terza rima rhyme scheme, since I’ve come across people wondering what form it is.

I hope this glossary was both helpful and interesting! Feel free to drop an ask if you’d like.

I've said this before but the thing about how destiel played out is that pre- and during 15x18 you can buy that Dean believes that him and Cas are best friends, that he just wants to be platonic best-friends-forever with this guy, and spend all sorts of time together and share all his favourite things with him and know that Cas is never very far away. As friends do.

But after 15x18. Dean processes what Cas said to him. That Cas loves him. Is in love with him. And he makes that part of who he is. He decides to be the man that Cas was in love with. That's what his parting line to Chuck was all about. And maybe he still doesn't think in terms of romance, because why would he, why would he torture himself with hypotheticals, Cas died and Cas loved him. And Dean can be that guy. He holds on to Cas' love. It's his. He makes it part of himself.

So then when he sees Cas again. And he’s confronted with what Cas loving him and wanting him means practically. What can he do? What else can he do besides love Cas back? When Cas' love is already part of him? How could he be anything else but in love with the guy?

soldier castiel

Destiel dynamics in four pics

obsessed with the fact that Dean and Cas could break heavens mind control with their love and John and Mary couldn’t even break a ghost possession

We all remember this post:

Well I wrote a fic inspired by it, and it's finished now and the reviews are good!

You can read it here

holy fuck LOOK AT THIS MAN OHMYGOD

Okay besties, today I’m giving you the run down of Buckys finances and networth. Because as I’ve said multiple times, he’s obscenely wealthy despite the fact you’d never know by looking at him.

Now first off, MatPat (my fav YouTuber who I’m so sad is retiring, literally adore him) did a mini theory a few years ago, calculating Bucky’s compound interest in previously earned money from WWII in his frozen bank account while he was presumed dead. It totaled out to $51,143. This is just the money that he earned in the 30s/40s and has grown interest on. This is assuming the money wasn’t given to his family and for the purpose of this post, we’ll go with that it wasn’t. However, MatPat didn’t account back pay, for disability pay, and other military pay/benefits.

So as a starter point, we’ll use $51,143. Next, I’m going to calculate his back pay from being MIA/POW because he would have been considered active duty. A MIA/POW is given back pay of 50% of the average per diem rate, for each day held in captivity. The 2023 rate is $157 per day, and I assume that would be similar for him because TFATWS takes place in early 2024. So that means Bucky would get $78.50 per day. There is no time limit on how far back pay can date to, so the entire span of Bucky’s capture is accounted for. As per the Smithsonian memorial in CA:TWS, Bucky was captured in 1944, making it exactly 70 years of capture. So, the back pay for those 70 years, is $2,005,675.

Next, we’ll look at the different forms of disability pay he would receive. I’m only going to look at canonical, confirmed disabilities for this. Bucky would be classified under SMC-N 1/2, where one arm was amputated above the elbow and/or was amputated so close to the shoulder that a prosthetic cannot be worn. Now obviously, Bucky does have a prosthetic but it is implanted into his body, as a majority of his left shoulder seems to have been amputated. Since he is single and has no dependents, aka has no children and is not taking care of any family, and he is still able to work, he would be receiving $6,182 a month.

He also has PTSD, which he would most likely get a 70% percent disability rating for, as 100% is very rare to receive for mental and is considered to be extreme impairment in daily functioning. (He could recieve 80 or 90% but I’m being generous here and trying to give the most realistic assessment). All this means, his mental illness pay for PTSD would be $1716 a month.

It’s also canonical that he has brain damage via The Wakanda Files book. We know in that book, he’s described to have pretty severe TBI. However, we don’t know anything of his symptoms and the book only describes of the brain scan looks bad and that the serum is keeping him from being more impaired. The VA uses 10 areas of impairment as criteria to rate the severity of TBI disability. The only canonically confirmed area that we know Bucky deals with is memory. Since we know no other symptoms and we know he’s not extremely impaired, I’m going to estimate he’d be rated at 50%. Which would give him a compensation of $1075 a month.

Now, we can assume Bucky is retired from the military. From being a retired sergeant, we can assume his monthly pension is around $5,482.

Reminder, all VA pay is untaxed. All of these together, his monthly salary is $14,455. However, this is not including disability back pay. The VA sometimes will pay a lump sum from back from when the diagnosis was made. Assuming the Wakandans were involved in Bucky’s trial and pardon, I’d assume some of his medical records were brought in as well. Back dating to when he was being treated in Wakanda, that’s 7 years, however we don’t know if the blip would count so for that reason, I’ll say 2 years. So, his lump sum would be around $215,352.

Now, endgame was in October, six months before TFATWS, meaning it took place around March/April. Within, the span of October to March, Bucky woulda have accumulated $86,730. Because even if his pardon wasn’t official yet in October, he would still receive payment for that month.

Finally, in grand total, all of this is $2,358,900. His networth would be in a similar, slightly lower range. Meaning: yes, Bucky Barnes is a millionaire and nobody would ever guess.

Discordant

Summary: When you risk your own life to save Matt's, he gets (very) angry with you. 

Pairing: Matt x fem!reader

Warnings: Sex trafficking, use of swearing, violence, misogyny, descriptions of blood

The sheets were abnormally cold. 

Half-asleep, you stretched your legs out, searching for the warmth that was Matt. Sometimes he rolled over away from you in his sleep, and then you'd have to shift yourself and your pillow closer to him unless you wanted to shiver all night. But he wasn't there. Blearily you checked your phone and squinted as you turned the brightness down as far as it could go.

It was almost three in the morning, and while Matt was nearly always home at this time, it wasn't impossible for him to still be out. What jarred you was the text notification that you had from him:

On my way back now.

It was his way of giving you peace of mind; you insisted that he always text you when he was on his way home so that you'd know something was wrong if he was out late and there was no text. 

But the text you had received tonight was sent an hour ago, and Matt should have returned long before now. Still, this didn't lead to a nefarious conclusion for certain, because if he couldn't sleep you'd find him reading over a case in the living room sometimes, the lighting nonexistent save for the neon swirls emanating from the billboard. Or, other times, he'd be on the roof, wearing a sweatshirt and just listening to the city. 

Sleepily you climbed out of bed and pulled on your flannel pajama bottoms. You were wearing Matt's tee shirt and it smelled like clean laundry detergent. You almost hoped he was on the roof tonight; you wouldn't mind sitting up there with him and looking out over the city. When you came into the living room to find it empty, you made your way up to the roof, slowly waking up as you ascended the stairs. 

But the roof was empty, and only then did your stomach plummet. He wasn't back. He never made it back, even though he'd said he was on his way. Dread twisted inside of you; even if something innocent had delayed him, he would have texted you a second update, letting you know that he wasn't actually going to be back soon. You tried calling but it went straight to voicemail. Calling the police was out of the question; Matt would never forgive you if his identity was compromised. 

Not that his identity would matter much if he was dead.

Where had he gone tonight? He'd mentioned to you over dinner that he was going to be investigating a sex trafficking circle... but where? DeWitt Park? But that felt wrong to you — no, that was where he had been the night before. It might have been the water. That sounded familiar. 

42nd Street, Matt had mentioned. Or had it been 52nd? Or it was 46th. Each number sounded equally likely. But there was no time to waste, so you landed on 42nd just because that was the first address you had thought of and it was closer to Matt's apartment. You slipped on your sneakers and a light jacket, and then slipped out the door into the night. 

It was much colder out than you were expecting. How on earth did Matt come out here, all year, wearing nothing but a hard suit? You scrunched your arms around yourself as you hurried down the sidewalk, praying that none of the criminals Matt took down regularly saw you, alone, in the street. The only saving grace was that you were still wearing the baggy flannel pajama bottoms and Matt's tee, so you weren't exactly dressed as though you were going to a gala; still, you found yourself glancing over your shoulder every minute or so. A siren shrieked in the distance, and you flinched as the echo of a man shouting in the alleyway resounded next to you, hurrying past as quickly as you could. 

Out of desperation, you pulled out your phone and tried calling Matt's burner again, but to your shock, there was a fuzzy sound on the other end as the call was picked up. 

"Hello?" you demanded. "Where are you?"

"I think a more appropriate question would be who are you?"

The voice on the other end was not Matt's, and you froze in your tracks. "Why do you have this phone?" you asked, choosing your words carefully for fear of giving away Matt's identity. Had you said his name when the call first went through? You already couldn't remember. 

"Well, we're not going to get anywhere just asking questions, are we?" the voice responded. "I'm Hugh, by the way. And you are...?"

"Coming to bust whatever operation you have going on," you said, trying to channel that cool confidence that you'd seen the Avengers use in clips online you'd watched of them (in your defense, who didn't watch recordings of the Avengers in action and wonder what they would do in their position?). "So I'd recommend listening carefully. That phone doesn't belong to you. Unless you release its owner now, you will seriously regret it. I mean it, dude." You were shaking as you spoke, not from anger but from fear, and felt immensely lucky that this wasn't a face-to-face conversation you were having. 

The voice on the other end tutted. "You're out of your mind if you think you have any chance of even getting in here, girl. Now stop calling this number and let me and my men get on with our business."

"Wrong answer. See, I'm an Avenger." You created the fabrication as you spoke, saying whatever popped into your head first. "They call me Thorn. Ever heard of me?"

"There's no fucking Avenger called Thorn."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You haven't heard of me because anyone that's ever encountered me hasn't lived to tell the tale. There's a reason they call me Thorn, Hugh."

In the background you could faintly hear a familiar voice, and your heart jumped into your throat as you realized it was Matt. You couldn't hear what he was saying, but he sounded pissed. 

And if you could slightly hear him, then there was no doubt that he could hear you. 

"Listen up, douchebag dude. Yeah, I'm talking to you, dumb donkey," you said, a bit more loudly, desperately hoping that Matt would understand you were directing your words to him. Double D, Matt, get it? "I'll be there in — uh — eighteen hours, so this is your warning. Shout if you want me to call the cops, and we'll make this nice and easy. Right now. Shout if you want me to call the cops and I'll be dialing 911 as soon as you want."

There was a pause on the other end as Hugh likely interpreted the campiness of your threat. More important was the dead silence in the background; Matt had stopped speaking entirely. 

Damn it. You'd been hoping that he'd let you call the cops; it would have made things easier. "Alrighty, then. Feel my wrath in... awhile."

In reality you were only one minute out from the wharf, but the last thing you wanted was for them to jack up their security right before you got there. 

There was a warehouse right next to the wharf, by a rundown parking lot where three black cars were parked. Though its windows were broken and the exterior decrepit, you could see a few lights on inside the warehouse. Two tall men stood inside, next to a small door on the wall adjacent to the entrance, as though guarding it. Bingo. 

The next step was actually getting in. It was unnerving that Matt did this sort of thing every single night because you didn't even know where to start, except for sneak in find Matt save Matt run. Only then did you realize you'd only brought your phone and nothing else, not even the butter knife that had been right out on the counter next to you when you'd left the apartment. You cursed your own stupidity and searched yourself for anything that you could use as a weapon, but unless the men in there were scared of pajamas, you were going in empty-handed. 

Your identity would be an issue, too. Fortunately, you found an old crumpled face mask in your pajama pocket; it would have to do. 

"Um, okay," you whispered, pulling the face mask up to your nose. "Matt, not sure if you're within range to hear me right now, but I'm outside the warehouse. And I'm going to make a diversion, uh... somehow." You looked around you for inspiration and your eyes landed on a fist-sized rock sitting in the crumbling pavement of the lot. Rudimentary, but effective. It only took a massive hoist that nearly pulled a muscle in your arm to sling the rock through the window of the black car nearest to you — hopefully that's one of theirs and not someone else's — and gape, open-mouthed, as the window shattered like an eggshell. Immediately the car alarm began to wail, and you dashed off in the other direction, your sneakers slapping the pavement of the lot. 

The sound of the warehouse door opening and closing as the men exited to investigate nearly gave you a heart attack and you rounded the corner of the warehouse just in time. You didn't dare use the front entrance, for fear that they would see you, let alone hear the sound of the door, so you vaulted through the broken window and only sustained a small cut to the side of your arm and the bottom of your palm. 

If Matt wasn't in this small room, then you didn't know what your next move would be, but you just about passed out with relief when you flung open the door and saw Matt, still in his suit and chained up to a post in the room. All of the adrenaline felt as though it were rushing to your head and you had to restrain every fiber in your being from simply running to him and hugging him. 

"We probably only have a minute or so," you reported. Your eyes fell on a desk that was unnecessarily large, but would be a good block for the door, at least until Matt could be freed. "Well — two minutes if I could just move this stupid desk in front of the door—" You gritted your teeth and shoved the offending furniture as hard as you could. It budged only slightly, and scraped loudly as it slowly shifted to block the entrance. "Nice. Maybe three minutes." You turned to Matt, hands on hips. "How'd I do?"

It wasn't as though you were expecting him to be smiling or anything — obviously you'd be in a bad mood if you'd been kidnapped, too. But the look on the lower half of his jaw was so tense that you didn't even want to know what the upper half looked like. "Key is on the wall," he said shortly. "Hurry, they're already coming back."

"Hurry is my middle name. Actually, it's Lightning McQueen," you told him, grabbing the keys and kneeling to unlock the chains. Matt's body was warm and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of him through the suit. You fought another irrational urge to just grab his hand and squeeze it, and focused on grappling with the lock. It was one of those keychains that had five or six keys on it, and if not for the dire situation, you would have laughed at how comically cliched this was. 

Already the men were pounding at the door. You looked up nervously, seeing it shake and shift forward a centimeter. 

"Y/N, you have to move fast," Matt said, his voice somehow even more firm, and it was the startling note of austerity that you never usually received from him that cleared the trembling in your hands. Blood was streaking down your arm, you noticed, and you wiped it away, uncomfortably aware that Matt probably could smell it the moment you got cut.

There was another bang and this time, the door slid open six more inches.

"Shit!" you yelped, digging the fifth key into the lock. It still wasn't a fit, and it didn't help that there was now a face sticking through the crack, red and bellowing. 

"You bitch!" he yelled. "When we get in here, I'm gonna tear you apart!"

Focus, focus, focus. You squeezed the last key in, but didn't have time to turn it; the man in the front finally kicked his way in. Like a flash he was on top of you, shoving your back into the wall. "Hey, bitch. Thought you could sneak in here like this?"

I did sneak in here like this. You forewent the comeback, feeling that it wouldn't be very tactful. "I — I just—"

The other man entered. Immediately you knew that he was Hugh; his disposition was that of a leader and he was much calmer than the red-faced man. "She'll do well, actually," he observed. "I know of a few people who would pay for her."

You swallowed hard, averting your eyes. "I'm warning you again. Unless you... unless you want to die by a thousand thorns poking through your eyeballs and throat, then you'd be wise to not provoke me—"

"Thorn," Hugh snorted. "Can't believe I trusted you for a minute, there." His eyes trailed down your tee shirt and pajama bottoms. "I'll call the boss. He'll know what—"

Thwack. There was a sickening crack as Matt kicked Hugh in the head with an admiral flip through the air, and within a matter of seconds the man pinning you to the wall dropped too. Sagging with relief, you nearly fell into Matt's arms, letting his strength absorb the fear that you hadn't even realized was electric in every single one of your nerves, holding at him like he was a lifeline—

"We need to go, now."

"But... they're knocked out, right?"

Matt's mouth twisted. "There's more of them. They'll be showing up in a truck within a couple minutes. That's how I got taken down — there were too many of them." He grabbed your arm and hurried you forward, running at a speed that you could hardly keep up with if he hadn' t been half-dragging you. Together, you left the warehouse and continued down the street, staying at the same pace with Matt staying utterly silent the whole way. By the time he finally slowed — apparently judging the area to be safe — you were so out of breath that it was embarrassing, and you tried to stifle the air that you were gasping for to no avail. Certain that he'd make fun of you, or at least thank you for going into that stupid warehouse, you didn't speak either, but still he didn't engage in any conversation. Never had you felt so uncomfortable next to him as you did during the entire walk back to the apartment. 

The sun was beginning to rise when you entered the apartment. Exhaustion tugged at your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay as awake as you could. Matt peeled off his helmet, and his hair stuck up at every angle as he paced into the kitchen, still wearing the rest of his suit. 

"So," you said finally, trying to smile at him. "How'd you like my alias? Thorn is kind of cool, right? Maybe I'll even sketch out a costume—"

"Y/N. Not now."

You wet your lips as Matt leaned forward onto the counter, his head hanging towards the floor. "I don't understand. Why are you mad at me?"

"Why am I mad at you?" His head lifted, and for the first time since the evening before you got a full look at his face, incredulous and perturbed. "You risked your life tonight, wearing nothing but pajamas and a tee shirt."

"Well, next time I'll be sure to change into my strapless dress first," you deadpanned. "Look. I panicked, I tried my best. And we're both here and okay, right?"

"It was dumb luck, Y/N. Dumb luck that I was able to twist the key and dumb luck that you didn't get sex trafficked or shot right where you stood. Never again will you ever do that, do you hear me?" he said, lifting a finger and pointing it at you, and it was that motion alone that put you over the edge. 

"Don't act as though you can tell me what to do," you said, stung. "It was my choice and I chose to save you. I knew the risks, I—"

"You knew the risks? That's why you came prepared with something for self defense, right?" His tone switched to that of mockery. 

"Maybe if you let me come with you more often, then I'd've been prepared, and I would've brought a knife with me."

"Let you come with me? Do you not understand the danger out there, on the street? It's not a game, Y/N. I don't go out there for fun at night. If you think that it would be okay for me to just take you out there, where you could get injured or worse—"

"That's not fair, Matt."

"It wouldn't be very fair if tonight you died because of me. How do you think I would feel if something had happened to you?"

"And what if something happened to you?" you shouted. "You think I'd live merrily here, knowing that you got hurt and I didn't do anything to try to save you? Of course I had to do something."

"I never said that you had to just sit here! Come on, Y/N, you had a hundred other options to choose from, and all you could think of was calling the police? My phone was here — you could have called Luke, or Danny, or Jessica — hell, even Frank would've picked up the phone and helped out, but—"

"Oh, so it's okay for Jessica to help you, but not me," you said, seething. "You'd be fine if it was her running in there to save you, but you don't trust me enough to—"

"It has nothing to do with trust, don't be ridiculous. Jessica's got powers, you don't. Don't make this into something else."

"I'm not! I'm just saying, if you're going to bring up a whole laundry list of other people you'd rather have seen than me, then you might as well just go hang out with them and not me — sorry I don't have super strength, super hearing, or a glowing fist, or — I don't know, an unbridled yearning to kill people—"

"You're missing the point!" Matt's voice had risen to a shout as well, and it was alarming as it was infuriating. He stepped forward, hands clenched in the gloves of the suit. You could see traces of blood on the outside and hoped it wasn't his. "Everything you did was reckless and there was nothing I could do to stop you. That's why I'm pissed, Y/N, because you made poor decision after poor decision, and I couldn't be there to stop you!"

"Don't you dare call it a poor decision."

In response, Matt slapped the top of the table and spun around, spine rigid and back tense. 

You ran your hands through your hair. Tears were welling, unbidden, in the corners of your eyes, and you wiped aggressively at them. "I don't even know what to say to you right now, Matt. I wish you could see things my way. I wish you could acknowledge that I tried, and thank me, and not make me feel like shit for doing what I thought was right."

He didn't answer. You ignored the headache that was beginning to drum in the back of your head and went into the bathroom. Angrily you turned on the hot water and lathered soap in your hands, entirely forgetting about the massive cut on your palm — it was buried in enough sticky, dark blood clots that you couldn't even see it — and cried out when the water rushed into the open cut. It stung red-hot, burning enough that the tears came back into your eyes and you didn't even notice Matt was at your side until his hand rested gently on your forearm. 

"Can I help?" he asked, and you nodded, the tears spilling uncontrollably now. Gently he cleaned out the cut on both your palm and arm, and bandaged them up with dextrous fingers well-practiced in first aid. After he finished, he wordlessly left the bathroom, either to give you space or because he needed space himself. You didn't say anything either and opted to get into the shower, unable to bear the taut air between you.

You'd make up. You knew you would. Because that was the source of the argument, wasn't it — that you cared about one another too much? But for now, with Matt's stoic silence, you had never felt colder inside, and you let the tears fall in the shower as they mingled with residual blood from your hands.