My parents live about 4 hours away from me, and to get to them, to the town I grew up in, I tend to take the backroads, that kind wind through a handful of counties that are littered with little towns, places with not much more than a stoplight. Driving back to my house last Thanksgiving, key pieces of what would become this story came to me in chunks: the opening lines, for instance; then passing by a tractor dealership strung up in Christmas lights; then seeing a little cafe tucked in at a railroad crossing.
A long way of saying: sometimes, stories sneak up on you. And then take months and months to make any damn sense.
Objectively, he can see that his brother isn’t beautiful. Not like this, stretched out like some humanoid starfish, his hair in his eyes and his mouth a drawbridge open to sleep. No, Sam looks like a naked frat boy who passed out in his little brother’s bed, legs knotted in Spiderman sheets and feet almost touching the floor. He looks oversized, too big for the everyday world they’ve wound up in; but then, he’s always been too much for Dean.