in the room the women come and go

It is the nature of the circus to be transitional, a fleeting dream set up and gone again in a day. After so long living like a gypsy, being stationary fit like a bad coat. And as familiar and comfortable as Carver’s winter quarters were, Dean always felt better when he was on the road. He’d spent the beginning of his life in a boxcar, the clickety clack of the railway and his mother’s lilting voice the only lullabies he knew.

With the advent of the highway it was certainly easier to pack everything and go, big trucks and silver bullet campers taking the place of rail cars and steam. Traveling shows like theirs could hit more small towns this way; branching away from the mother roads onto any pavement Bobby was willing to risk the big rigs. Sometimes, when Dean was having trouble sleeping at night, he’d toss the keys to Sam and lean his head against the metal door of their Ford RV and conjure up those train sounds, letting the sway of the road drift him away.

Dean always slept better when they were traveling.

He doesn’t think Sam remembers the trains, and that makes him sad. He knows he doesn’t remember their mother.