So i read this poem called "The Dislocated Room" by Richard Siken and it reminded me of Supernatural so much, i had to do something with it. I took each piece and wrote it out to make a story. Hope it helps you see the story i think the poem could be telling about Supernatural.

Disclaimer: the pieces of the poem "The Dislocated Room" aren't mine. They're Richard Siken's.

The Dislocated Room

Part 1

It was night for many miles and then the real stars in the purple sky,
like little boats rowed out too far,
begin to disappear.
And there, in the distance, not the promised land,
but a Holiday Inn,
with bougainvillea growing through the chain link by the pool.
The door swung wide: twin beds, twin lamps, twin plastic cups
wrapped up in cellophane.

A little after midnight. Empty road. Except for one car. Its sleek black color almost blends in with the surrounding darkness, except for the shine of the moon on its hood. The perfect rumbling of its engine sounds loud in the quiet night, letting anything in a few block's radius know of its frantic race. It moves quickly through the dark roads, fast and determined towards the lights of the city in front of it.

Its driver's hands grip the wheel, knuckles white, eyes intent on the lights ahead. They're dark in the almost nonexistent light, his eyes, searching though too far away yet to see what he needs. A pitiful sound from the backseat makes his hands grip the wheel tighter and push the gas pedal down more, if possible.

"Hold on, man. We're almost there. Just hold on." His voice is forced. But the feeling is there. Just for his brother to hear. Otherwise, he'd be too numb to feel anything. "We're almost there."

Getting into the city, the light of the stars fade to nothing compared to the street lamps. The car is more noticeable. It slows down a fraction, not wanting to draw attention. No time for a speeding ticket tonight. But with a still frantic pace, it heads down the main road of the new town. Searching. Within a minute, it finds what it's looking for. It pulls into the parking lot with a small screech.

Jumping out of the car, the driver heaves a slight sigh. Glad at the quick find, he runs to the back of the car to open the trunk. He changes out of his bloody shirt. No time tonight to deal with a call to the cops for his suspicious attire. His brother needs him. Now. An hour ago. Still pulling his shirt down, he runs into the lobby of the Holiday Inn.

A little better than their usual bunking choices, it's the first place he saw and cares nothing about how much it costs. He gets a room, running back out to the car a minute later, key in hand. A key to heaven when a hospital is too far away. Twenty minutes at the least. His brother doesn't have time for that. He's already driven for ten minutes to get here.

He drives to the door down the parking lot, glad it's on the first floor. Though at this point, he could care less if he had to carry his not-so-light brother up a flight of stairs. He'd do it. He needs the room. The car is no place for him to work tonight. The damage is too great. So it's with adrenaline-powered strength that he reaches into the back seat and, as gently as possible, he pulls out his brother. He winces at the groan he causes.

"Sorry. Sorry, bro. I gotchya. It'll be okay. You'll be okay."

God, but his brother is heavy. He walks with small steps and shallow breaths, struggling with the weight but unwilling to change his brother's position from horizontal. There's so much blood. Getting all over his new shirt. Soaking it. Turning his brother vertical would only allow more blood to spill out. He forces himself forward, the hand under the legs of the man in his arms uncurling to push the key into the lock, his shoulder leaning against the door frame for support.

Kicking the door open, he goes inside as it swings wide and stays there. He can't turn on the light yet, barely keeping from dropping his brother on the closest bed. Instead, he drops to his knees, the man in his arms landing perfectly flat on the bed with only the slightest jar. He groans anyway, eyes opening for the first time since the incident.

Wincing, the brother gently pulls his arms out from under him. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He stands. "I'll be right back." And he is within ten seconds, bag in hand, door clicking shut behind him as he goes to his brother.

And he says No Henry, let's not do this.
Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?
Here is the sink to wash away the blood,
here's the whiskey, the ripped-up shirt, the tile of the bathroom floor,
the disk of the drain
punched through with holes.
Here's the boy like a sack of meat, here are the engines, the little room
that is not a room.

"Sam." His brother speaks his name as a breath.

He bites his lip as he cuts away the already destroyed shirt, heart and stomach both lurching at the blood and tearing on his older brother's chest. "It's okay, Dean. I'm here. It'll be okay." But he's not sure it will. Instead of thinking, he gets the emergency bottle of pain pills, getting water from the sink in a plastic cup from the table to get his almost unresponsive brother to swallow them.

The shirt drops to the ground as he gets the offending material out of his way when he finally gets the pills to go down. He runs to the sink, wetting a towel before returning to his brother with two, using the dry one to soak up as much of the blood as possible before using the wet one to wash away the rest so he can see what all happened. What's killing his older brother.


Dean speaks again, grabbing his attention as he cleans. Carefully but quickly, he uncovers Dean's destroyed torso. His stomach churns at everything revealed. It reminds him of the way the Hellhounds ripped him apart. "No, Dean. Sam. Not Henry."

"Don't, Henry. Hurts."

And it's that voice. The voice Dean reverts to whenever he's scared. Like when he had ghost sickness. That voice that tells Sam something isn't right. Though he knows it already tonight. Nothing is right tonight. He thinks hard about the name as he rustles through his bag, pulling out his stitching materials. And the whiskey. "Don't worry, Dean. It won't hurt for long."

The Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread,
hovering over the hollow boy passed out
on the universal bedspread.
Here he is again, being sewn up.
So now we have come to a great battlefield, the warmth of the fire,
the fire still burning,
the heat escaping like a broken promise, the horizon widened like an open road.

He gets to work, hoping the pain pills are working. The already sure-to-be-tender skin would hurt a million times more when the needle goes through if they aren't. His brother twitches slightly when the needle enters the skin, showing the pills are only just starting to take effect. "I'm sorry, Dean," he says again as he starts, one tear making it's way down his face when he tries to blink them away. He feels young again. So unsure about what he's doing.

He's sewing his brother up again. On a greater scale than ever before. And as he sews, the name brings back a story. One Dean told him of when he was three years old when Sam was hurt and needed Dean to talk as a distraction. How a friend of dad's, Henry, had been babysitting Dean while their parents were out. Before Sam was born. They had went to the park. And Dean had fallen from the jungle jim, breaking his leg.

Henry had helped him. Took him to the hospital, comforting him the whole way. And he had been there the whole time they put the bone back into place and put the cast on. It was Dean's first major injury. Before their dad had taught them to be strong. It was the scariest time in his life he can remember before his mom dying. And Henry had meant a lot to Dean before their dad took them away after their mom was killed.

Sam smiles through his burning eyes. He hasn't let any more tears escape. He's Dean's Henry right now. In his brother's hallucinating state, he's his first hero. Before Dad… before anyone. Someone he counted on the most as a child,the mindset he reverts to whenever something isn't right with him.

With one lamp on, he sews. One arm resting gently on the towel to put pressure over the areas of his brother's chest he isn't working on to stop the bleeding. It only half works. But he doesn't dwell on that. Stitching is more important. It will stop the bleeding. He doesn't rush though. He can't. The criss-crossing of the slashes across Dean's chest are a complicated puzzle. He refuses the need to empty his stomach that keeps returning.

He knows his brother is fighting a battle with his failing body. The blood loss is taking its toll. "Stay with me, Dean. Don't give in." His voice shakes. His hands are steady. He sews. For a long time. "Don't you dare take the easy way out, man. Don't you dare leave me. I know it'll be tempting. To take the painless road. But I need you, man. Stay with me."

Dean's eyes flicker. "Sam."

Henry's putting his hands all over him to keep him in the room,
but the words keep rolling over the sleeper's lips:
He won't kiss me. He won't kiss me.
But talking about God now, not boys.

He feels the weight on his chest. Keeps him grounded. Keeps him in his immediate surroundings. In the room. In the dim light. The pain. And then no pain. Just a sensation. Pulling. And the weight. Always the weight. And Sam. Sam is the weight. A pleasant weight. Telling him he's home. Wherever he is. He's with Sam. That's all that matters. The weight reminds him he's with Sam. His awareness fades.

Then there is no room. There is Henry. Telling him to stay put. Not leave. Stay in the room. To not follow the open road. He instructs him like he did before. When his leg was broke. Tells him to push through the pain. Because when the pain leaves, he'll be better. God will kiss the pain away. Henry believed in God. He always told him he did. Said it was the only way he could explain healing. And life. Said his wife told him God kissed away the pain. Made it go away. Even when sometimes it took longer than we'd like. God kisses it away.

Then he hears his brother. Hears his shaking voice through the haze. "Don't you dare take the easy way out, man. Don't you dare leave me. I know it'll be tempting. To take the painless road. But I need you, man. Stay with me."

So he tries. Really hard. Because Sam is telling him to stay in the room too. His weight is grounding him. Tells him to not follow the open road he can see. He sees it's painless, like Sam said, but he doesn't take it. Because his little brother needs him. Though not so little anymore, he manages to think. He wants him to stay. So instead of following the road, he gives in to the darkness pulling him into a welcoming embrace. Staying put like Sam said.

"He won't kiss me," he says to himself aloud as the darkness takes him.

He doesn't know who he's talking about.

This is the part where, this is the part where, this is the part where you
wake up in your clothes again,
this is the part where you're trying to stay inside the building.
Stay in the room for now, he says. Stay in the room for now.
This is the place, you say to yourself,
this is the place where everything starts to begin,
the wounds reveal a thicker skin and suddenly there is no floor.

Eyes open. Close. Open again. Look around as he pulls out of sleep. He's aware again. Knows where he is. In a hotel. Sam. Where's Sam? The need to find Sam overwhelms him. He tries to sit up, but a fire spreads through him. Makes his breath whoosh out with it. A grunt escapes. He struggles to keep consciousness. He takes inventory on all the sensations. Clean pants. No shirt. He has an idea why. The fire in his chest tells him why.

The door clicks open as he's trying to sit up again, doing his best to ignore the pain. He can't.

"Hey, hey, hey. Dean."

Sam is there. It's okay now. He lets himself drop. "Sam."

"I'm here, Dean. It's okay. Just stay there. Don't try to move. Just stay there."

Sam is telling him to stay again. So he does. He doesn't move. But then he's dizzy. His focus leaves. He tries to stay. Tries to stay awake. He feels Sam's hand on his arm, a fire burning at its place. A good fire this time. He hears his voice. He tries to pay attention to the words. Uses his remaining strength to do so.

"You gotta lay still, man. There's still a bullet in your shoulder. It can't move. We have to get to Bobby's. He'll get it out for us. I can't do it. And the police from that town are keeping their eye on the surrounding hospitals for someone with your injuries. They saw us kill it." Sam's voice shakes. "Can you make it, Dean? Can you hold on?"

He blinks, crawling out of the blackness surrounding him. Wants to answer Sam. "Yeah, Sammy." His voice is slurred. He tries to concentrate harder. "I'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

Sorry? Why is he sorry? His hand searches out Sam's. Finds it. Feels his brother's heat. Pulls strength from it. "No need… to be sorry, Sammy," he gets out with some work.

Feels Sam squeeze his hand. "I'll save you, Dean. I promise. You'll be okay. I won't let you die."

He keeps Sam's hand gripped in his. Doesn't want to let go. "Won't leave. Can't." He believes that. With the heat of his brother's hand in his, he knows there's nowhere he'd rather be. And something is different. Even death won't keep him away. He feels it. Knows something changed. Right now. It's the beginning of something.

Then he's falling. The bed is gone. The floor is gone. The blackness under and around him takes him. He lets it.

there is something underneath the building that is trying very hard
to get your attention.
Let's say you're dreaming about a devil with red skin and black horns,
a man with almond eyes and a zipper that runs the length
of his spine.
A standard devil.
The one from the Underwood Ham label.
A man who is standing, cloven-hoofed, in the middle of a Howard
Johnson's, pointing at you with a glass of milk,
saying Drink this,
before I break your bones.

He's not falling anymore. Is he under the hotel? No. He didn't really fall. He let the blackness take him. There's a voice. It knows his name. The voice makes him shiver. It's familiar. It's Alistair. But it's not Alistair. Because the owner of the voice comes into view. It's a devil. Like a cartoon devil. And it grins at him. With Alistair's grin. But it's not Alistair.

He stands over him, looking down with that Alistair grin. "Hello, Dean. Nice to see you again."

And he's burning. Feels heat move over his skin. Extreme heat. But he can still concentrate on the Alistair that's not, recognizing the voice that followed him through all of his different bodies. "Go… to Hell," he manages to spit.

Alistair laughs. "I wouldn't talk like that if I were you, Dean. You won't be able to get anywhere fast." He leans over him. "You're mine now," he almost sings.

He wants to cry out to Sam. But won't. Not with Alistair right there. But then there's a searing pain, tears welling in his eyes at the fire that courses through his chest. He groans, his voice almost lodged in his throat. He allows a breath through the pain. "Sam."

Alistair stands above him, knife handle in his hand as he grins. "Not so tough now, are you Dean?" He pulls the knife from Dean's chest.

Dean grunts, on the verge of crying out. He grits his teeth against the pain. But then there's one more wave of fire over him and he wants out. This Alistair isn't real. He knows it. He's dreaming.

You pinch yourself but you're still sleeping. You pinch yourself but
you're still sleeping,
pinch yourself, you pinch yourself, you pinch . . .
but the man says take one, take it, here
is the first escape: pills, valves, a new velocity, and the voices
are getting louder.
You can see the grill, the pots and pans,
the apple pies with their big sliced grins,
and you can see the shadow that the man is throwing across the linoleum,
how it resembles a boat, how it crosses the tiles just so,
the masts of his arms rasping against the windows.

He tries to wake up. Tries to force himself to wake up. He tries everything as Alistair just stands over him, grinning. Laughing. He digs his nails into his palms. Moves in ways that will hurt his chest. He doesn't wake up. He's not waking up. With one more stab from Alistair, his eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a choked sound.

Then his eyes open. Things are different. He's not in the dark Hell with the not Alistair. He's back on a bed. The room has low light. But it's a different room. There are different sounds. Different smells. But one is familiar. It makes him realize he's wearing a hoodie that isn't his. Sam's. But this makes him feel safe. He takes a deep breath with his nose buried in his shoulder.

The breath makes his chest hurt. It gets caught in his throat as he groans from the pain. He hears a sound. Sheets rustling. Then his brother's voice.

"Dean?" Sleep evident in his deep tone. Gravely after just waking up. "You okay man?"

His brother's voice gives him something it always gives him when he's weak. Comfort. And something else he doesn't have the awareness to place. "Hurts," he manages to breathe.

"We still have pain pills. You can take one." There's rustling. Then he's standing next to the bed. Freakin' tall guy. "Here. Take it."

He opens his mouth, letting Sam baby him for once and give it too him. Too weak to lift his arm.

Sam props his head up, holding it while touching a cup to his lips. "Here. Get a drink. There ya go."

He does, loving his brother more than anything in the world while the cool liquid moves down his throat. When Sam sets his head back down, he sighs. "Thanks, Sammy." His eyes fall closed again.

Now he's somewhere else again. Outside. Next to the impala. Hears the radio. Wipes dirt off the front grill. The radio gets louder. Then he's in a kitchen. Bobby's kitchen. Making Sam breakfast at the age of twelve.

His surroundings change. He's in a hotel again. With Sam. At fifteen, sharing one of their apple pies. But then the pies are grinning at him. Talking to him. The voices… no… the radio gets louder. He tries to shut them out.

The sound stops. He opens his eyes. It's dark again. A man is standing over him. His shadow moves across the floor and up the wall like it's alive. Like it's just floating over the ground. Up to the windows where the wind is still heard.

The bell rings, the dog growls,
and then the wind picking up, and the light falling, and his mouth
flickering, and the dog
howling, and the window closing tight against the dirty rain.
And he's pointing at you with a glass of milk
as if he's trying to tell you that there is
some sort of shining star now buried deep inside you and he has to
dig it out with a knife.

A sound pulls his attention. A car alarm. A bell. A ringing cell phone maybe? A dog growls nearby. It sends shivers down his spine. The wind is getting louder. The light goes away. The sun going down. Falling. Sam is standing over him. He's talking but he can't understand him. Can't wake up enough. Just hears the smooth bass of his voice, continuous sound.

The dog howls outside. He closes his eyes, trying not to shudder at the sound. Hellhounds. That's what it reminds him of.

"Don't worry, Dean. Dog, not hellhound."

He said that out loud?

Sam closes the window. "Bobby called. He's ready for us."

It's raining. "Ready for us?" His consciousness fades around the edges.

"I had to stop here and take care of your fever. It's not going down, Dean. We have to travel with it."

He frowns. Sam's voice is shaking again. Sam's upset. Sam shouldn't be upset. "Fever?"

"…bullet… shoulder… damage… digging… with a knife… usual."

He's losing consciousness fast. Gathers something about a bullet in his shoulder. Digging it out with a knife. He winces internally. He hates doing that.

Here is the hallway and here are the doors and here is the fear of the
other thing, the relentless thing,
your body drowning in gravity, but you are fighting it,
and you want some help, and then the help arrives but
it isn't helpful at all.

He's in Bobby's house now. The upstairs hallway. He looks down the line of doors. Goes to the extra bedroom Sam always shared with him when they were little. But he stops without opening the door. A sudden fear grips him. Making no sense. An unexplainable, ridiculous fear. But then he opens the door anyway, Dean Winchester never being one to run away.

He sees Sam on the bed. Sleeping. Looking like he always does when he's asleep. Like a child. None of the daily weight on his shoulders. Beautiful. And then he's drowning, emotions and thoughts overwhelming him in his startled moment by the word. That one word bringing a wave of panic. A word he's thought about his brother a few times. But never like this.

He tries to hold himself up. But he's falling. Can't stand. Legs giving out. And he's muttering a string of curses. His eyes lock back on his brother. He's drowning. Can't breathe. Needs help.

As if he suddenly knows Dean is suffering, Sam wakes up. He looks over to his brother, eyebrows drawing in with worry. "Dean? What's wrong?"

His eyes lock onto Sam's panicking. What if Sam can tell? What if Sam hates him for it?

"Hey. Dean." Sam kneels next to him. Tries to calm him down. Tries to help. "What's wrong, Dean? It's okay. It's okay, Dean. Breathe."

Sam's hands are on him. One on his chest, the other on his back. He's so close. Breathing down his neck as he tries to calm him. Makes him shiver. Makes him panic. Makes him wonder what's wrong with him.

He's not helpful at all.