Pacing the Cage
Paring: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Death
Word Count: 673
Dean never thought he'd live past thirty, much less to be sixty-seven. He's older than his father was when he died, older than his grandfather when he died (the first time around), and certainly much older than the age most of his fellow hunters were when they kicked the bucket. He's got gray hair and wrinkles, age spots to go with his freckles, and has to walk with a cane most of the time because of his bum right hip.
Every morning he wakes up with the sun, his bladder full and heavy, and his body protesting at being in one position for too long. It takes him awhile to get out of bed, a lot of shuffling and groaning, his hands fumbling blindly for his cane as he keeps his eyes half-closed, hoping maybe he'll fall back asleep. But his body doesn't seem to need the sleep anymore; he only gets about five hours a night. Going through his morning routine takes even longer. His hands shake a bit as he shaves and while he has to piss a lot more often, it takes a while for his body to get with the program and let go.
In the kitchen he makes coffee and toast, lathering on butter and jelly like it's his last meal. Dean figures after all he's been through, high cholesterol is the least of his problems. He grabs the paper off the front porch while he's waiting for the coffee to finish up, digging through to get to the obituaries. Old habits die hard. He doesn't sit down to eat, instead sipping coffee and munching on toast at the counter, eyes skimming the paper but not really reading anything.
When he's done, he rinses his dishes, leaves the paper on the counter, and then grabs his jacket and cane before heading out the door. He likes taking a walk this early, before the rest of the town comes alive. Even after being settled in the same place for twenty years, he still isn't used to this so-called normal life and all the trappings that come with it. Never mind that he didn't pass his last driver's test and the state took his license away. Sure, he probably could've worked up a fake ID, but it seems like a waste of time; everyone knows him here, knows he shouldn't be driving.
At the edge of his destination, there's a fence and Dean stops to lean against it, catch his breath a bit. It's getting harder and harder to make this walk, but he does it every day without fail, rain or shine. Even in the winter when the sidewalks aren't plowed.
Taking a deep breath, Dean shuffles inside, taking care on the gravel path. It's not long before he reaches his destination. His family lined up in a row, together like they should've been, always. Mary, John, and Sam, headstones lined up one after the other even though only one grave has a body inside. Dean touches each one reverently, but lingers at Sam's. His brother didn't make it to fifty; passed away in his sleep not long after they settled here, back in their hometown.
Dean remembers Sam's body getting weaker and weaker, his strong muscles atrophying as the cancer ravaged his body. How they celebrated his remission by making love, Dean spooned behind Sam, holding him close, his hand over his heart. And then how they cried when they got the news that the cancer was back, this time in his brain and much worse than before. Sam had refused to go through chemo again, begged Dean to let him die at home. Dean never could say no to Sam. So Sam died in his arms, while they both slept.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Dean promises hoarsely. He kisses the top of the stone and then turns away, walking back the way he came, but his steps are a bit lighter, his heart a bit less heavy, like Sam is right there beside him, guiding him along.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Death
Word Count: 673
Dean never thought he'd live past thirty, much less to be sixty-seven. He's older than his father was when he died, older than his grandfather when he died (the first time around), and certainly much older than the age most of his fellow hunters were when they kicked the bucket. He's got gray hair and wrinkles, age spots to go with his freckles, and has to walk with a cane most of the time because of his bum right hip.
Every morning he wakes up with the sun, his bladder full and heavy, and his body protesting at being in one position for too long. It takes him awhile to get out of bed, a lot of shuffling and groaning, his hands fumbling blindly for his cane as he keeps his eyes half-closed, hoping maybe he'll fall back asleep. But his body doesn't seem to need the sleep anymore; he only gets about five hours a night. Going through his morning routine takes even longer. His hands shake a bit as he shaves and while he has to piss a lot more often, it takes a while for his body to get with the program and let go.
In the kitchen he makes coffee and toast, lathering on butter and jelly like it's his last meal. Dean figures after all he's been through, high cholesterol is the least of his problems. He grabs the paper off the front porch while he's waiting for the coffee to finish up, digging through to get to the obituaries. Old habits die hard. He doesn't sit down to eat, instead sipping coffee and munching on toast at the counter, eyes skimming the paper but not really reading anything.
When he's done, he rinses his dishes, leaves the paper on the counter, and then grabs his jacket and cane before heading out the door. He likes taking a walk this early, before the rest of the town comes alive. Even after being settled in the same place for twenty years, he still isn't used to this so-called normal life and all the trappings that come with it. Never mind that he didn't pass his last driver's test and the state took his license away. Sure, he probably could've worked up a fake ID, but it seems like a waste of time; everyone knows him here, knows he shouldn't be driving.
At the edge of his destination, there's a fence and Dean stops to lean against it, catch his breath a bit. It's getting harder and harder to make this walk, but he does it every day without fail, rain or shine. Even in the winter when the sidewalks aren't plowed.
Taking a deep breath, Dean shuffles inside, taking care on the gravel path. It's not long before he reaches his destination. His family lined up in a row, together like they should've been, always. Mary, John, and Sam, headstones lined up one after the other even though only one grave has a body inside. Dean touches each one reverently, but lingers at Sam's. His brother didn't make it to fifty; passed away in his sleep not long after they settled here, back in their hometown.
Dean remembers Sam's body getting weaker and weaker, his strong muscles atrophying as the cancer ravaged his body. How they celebrated his remission by making love, Dean spooned behind Sam, holding him close, his hand over his heart. And then how they cried when they got the news that the cancer was back, this time in his brain and much worse than before. Sam had refused to go through chemo again, begged Dean to let him die at home. Dean never could say no to Sam. So Sam died in his arms, while they both slept.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Dean promises hoarsely. He kisses the top of the stone and then turns away, walking back the way he came, but his steps are a bit lighter, his heart a bit less heavy, like Sam is right there beside him, guiding him along.