A Quiet Place to Rest for maerhys
Title: A Quiet Place to Rest
Author: carryokee
Recipient: maerhys
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I had originally started writing another one of maerhys's prompts, but it just wouldn't cooperate in the end. So I seized onto this one instead. I gave it my best shot. I hope she likes it.
Summary: The Winchesters may be retired, but they're still in the fight.
Some things change. They live in one place now, a two-story cabin halfway up a mountain in North Carolina, where they share a room and watch the hummingbirds flit just beyond the deck in the summer. The Impala’s gone - a regrettable sacrifice, but it was either them or the car, and even then they’d had to think about it - but she’s not forgotten. Her steering wheel is mounted on the wall over their fireplace the way some people mount animal heads or giant fish. It’s a place of honor. Sam teases Dean about it, calls it his personal shrine to Chevy, but he can’t fool Dean. Sam misses her too.
Some things stay the same. Dean sleeps late most days, Sam’s an early riser. Sam always makes his bed, Dean leaves his a mess. (His philosophy is that he’s just going to end up back in it at the end of the day, so why bother.) And Sam once filled Dean’s Frosted Flakes box with unsweetened bran flakes, so Dean switched the sugar with the salt, watched Sam dump three spoonfuls into his coffee, and laughed and laughed and laughed at the look on Sam’s face when he took that first sip.
It gets cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and the leaves change color in the fall like clockwork, each cycle another year gone. They’ve watched the leaves change five times now.
:::
The bell jingles brightly when Dean pushes open the door. He loves that damn bell, the way the sound of it makes him smile a little, how it makes him think of angels’ wings (the Clarence kind, that is, not the real thing) and peace and new beginnings.
Holy hell, if Sam only knew how sappy Dean’s gotten in his old age, he’d never let it go.
Like Sam is one to talk, anyway. Forty-two years old and his favorite movie is Brian’s Song, the big girl. He still gets teary when James Caan dies.
Betsy looks up from whatever she’s writing and grins, a delayed reaction that breaks across her face slowly. The expression erases years from her eyes in an instant. “Well, well, well,” she says. “He lives.” It’s been nearly a month since Dean’s driven down the mountain into town. His last trip ended with a fight. He doesn’t do much of that anymore, but sometimes it feels good to know he can still throw a decent punch. And take one.
Dean winks at her. “Only for you,” he says. He walks up to the counter and slides his elbows across its pockmarked surface, leaning his weight against them. The movement draws a thread of pain through his hip and he grinds his teeth against it.
The expression isn’t lost on Betsy. Her gray-brown eyes narrow to criticizing slits. “You’re hurting,” she says.
Always, he thinks. Too many years being some monster’s chew toy have taken their toll, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. “I’m fine.” It’s his standard response to most questions about his well-being, physical or otherwise.
She doesn’t believe him, of course, her mouth twisting into an exasperated smirk. She comes around the counter and he turns around to face her, the edge of the worn wood pressing into his back as she gives him a slow once over. “You are such a liar,” she says, crossing her arms as she meets his eyes.
Dean smiles. “Maybe you should do a thorough examination,” he says, “if you don’t believe me.”
A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, her eyes scanning Dean’s face. When she turns to press her shoulder against the door and slides the deadbolt home, the bell jingles brightly.
:::
The pickup’s tires chew up the gravel when Dean pulls into their driveway just before dark. The house is nearly dark, too, except for a square of yellow light on the second floor. Dean shakes his head in weary affection. Sam’s still exactly where he was when Dean left.
He grabs the grocery bags from the back of the truck, tucking the parcel under his arm (he knows it’s another book for Sam’s collection), and heads towards the house, his boots making a hollow sound on the creaky wooden steps as he climbs. The third one from the top groans ominously under his weight; it’s nearly rotted through. He’s been meaning to fix it for weeks now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.
He pushes open the front door and shuts it behind him with his foot. When he flips on the kitchen light, something scurries from view. A mouse, most likely. The house was crawling with them when they first moved in and a few still linger here and there, darting in and out through cracks in the walls, impervious to the runes and sigils carved into the wood beneath the paint as protection from more dangerous things.
He sets the bags down on the table and reaches inside one of them for a couple of beers. They’re still fairly cold, the brown bottles cool and slick beneath his fingers as he cuts through the living room towards the stairs, the parcel still under his arm. He takes the steps two at a time just to prove to himself he still can, the pain in his hip gone for now. Betsy has magic fingers. Among other things.
He’s barely through the doorway to what he secretly calls the Bobby Singer Memorial Library for the Fucked Up but True when Sam says, “You realize booty calls are usually at night.” His lips curl up in a slight smile even as his fingers move smoothly across the keys, not even casting a glance at Dean. The screen reflects dully on the lenses of his reading glasses.
Sam’s reading glasses. They’re an endless source of amusement for Dean, whose eyesight is still perfect, thank you very much. In fact, Sam still holds a grudge about the time Dean told everyone in town that Sam was turning forty and no one seemed to question it. Jessie even baked Sam a cake that said “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 40” and presented it to him while everyone in the diner sing “Happy Birthday”.
Sam was only 38 at the time. But the look on his face was priceless.
“Only for amateurs,” Dean says, walking over and setting one of the beers and the parcel on the desk beside Sam, peering over Sam’s shoulder at the screen. He’s on the R’s now - revenant, to be exact. It’s Sam’s pet project: cataloguing every known supernatural creature in oral or written history in one online place where hunters everywhere can go to find information and even add and edit the details when necessary. It’s cross-referenced and everything.
To put it bluntly, it’s Wikipedia on demon blood.
Sam doesn’t appreciate the nuances of that joke.
Sinking into the sofa, Dean twists the cap off his beer and shoots it between his finger and thumb across the room where it bounces off a row of impressively old-looking books and falls soundlessly to the rug. Sam gives him a look, then turns his eyes back to the screen. Dean watches him work for a while, nursing his beer. He likes this more than he’ll ever admit out loud, watching Sam do what he’s good at. The quiet confidence in Sam’s hands and the relaxed calm in his shoulders. The way Sam holds his pen between his teeth when he’s typing and the way he sometimes moves his lips when he reads. Mostly, though, he likes the peace he sees in Sam’s eyes.
For that alone, it was all worth it. Every last damn thing.
:::
Sam’s asleep under his new book and Dean’s becoming one with the sofa, the TV turned way down low, when the third step from the top creaks outside the door. In an instant, they’re both awake and alert, their hands curling around weapons without even looking.
Old habits die hard. And some are worth keeping.
Dean flips off the TV and stands, his bare feet pressing silently against the smooth wood floor as he walks to the front door. Standing with his shoulder against the wall next to the doorframe, he watches Sam take his place across from him, his stance a mirror image of Dean’s, their eyes meeting in the darkness. Unspoken words pass between them.
Hollow footsteps sound along the length of the porch, then stop in front of the door. Dean flips on the porch light - a collection of four 100 watt floodlights strategically placed for maximum glare - and opens the door, his gun pointed directly at the intruder’s face. Sam does the same beside him.
Standing in the over bright light, blinking furiously as he tries to shield his eyes with one hand, is a scrawny blond kid wearing beat-up Doc Martens, a tragically hip leather jacket, and about a thousand extra miles on his skin. His other hand’s halfway to the grip of the gun sticking out of his waistband, fingers trembling slightly.
He’s a hunter. Or a wannabe, at any rate.
Dean decides to fuck with him, just because he can. “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” he asks in his best low growl. He tosses a wink at Sam, who rolls his eyes but cracks a smile anyway, shaking his head. The strands of gray in Sam’s hair glint silver in the light.
“Huh?” the kid asks, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically. He inches his hand towards his gun, fingertips twitching.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Dean says, and the boy stops, swallows hard. His blue eyes flick back and forth between Dean and Sam and back again.
“Wha-”
“You’ve got to ask yourself one question,” Dean says, cutting him off. “Do I feel lucky?” He cocks his gun. “Well, do ya, punk?”
The kid swallows again then takes a step back, his hands out in front of him in a defensive gesture. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, dude.”
Dean follows him, taking a step forward, grip steady and firm on his gun. The kid’s eyes go even wider. He takes another step back. Dean follows again.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is calm, but there’s a thread of warning underneath. Yeah, sometimes Dean gets carried away. But he can’t help himself. Sometimes you gotta make your own fun.
Another step back by the kid. Another step forward by Dean.
“Dean.”
“Sammy, don’t worry. I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” He keeps up the act for a few more seconds, watching the boy’s eyes look pleadingly towards Sam before finally relenting. He lowers his gun, uncocking it easily with his thumb, and grins. The kid lets out his breath in an audible rush.
“I’m just messing with you, kid,” Dean says, giving the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Lighten up.” He slides his gun into the back of his jeans. “Besides, I don’t shoot hunters. Usually.”
Sam’s beside him then, his big hand resting on Dean’s shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse my brother,” he says. The words have the too-familiar ring of those uttered a million times before. “It’s all this mountain air. It makes him…stupid.”
Dean elbows Sam in the ribs. “Did you see what I did there, Sammy? Three different quotes from three different movies.” He grins again. “Three.” He holds up the last three fingers of his right hand, showing them to Sam and the kid. “That’s why I’m the king of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” He points to himself, meeting the kid’s eyes. The king, he mouths, nodding.
“We’re both very impressed, Dean,” Sam says. “Really. But if you don’t mind…” He nods towards the kid, who’s been watching their exchange with the morbid curiosity of rubberneckers at a crime scene.
“Oh,” Dean says. “Yeah.” He looks at the boy, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. “How the hell have you managed to stay alive this long?” he asks him abruptly. “Seriously.”
:::
The kid’s name is Dillon. D-I-L-L-O-N. As in Marshal. His father was a huge fan of Gunsmoke.
“He used to watch the reruns on TV,” Dillon says. “Had ’em all on DVD.”
Dean fishes his keys from his pocket, finds the one to the basement by feel and slides it into the lock. It opens with well-oiled ease and when he pushes open the door and flips on the light, he hears Dillon gasp softly behind him.
He smiles. Sam may know his lore, but Dean knows his weapons. He used to say Sam was the brains and he was the brawn (so what if Sam’s bigger), but more and more, only half that statement is true. He’s only 46, but sometimes he feels more like 80. And sometimes, like now, with the awe of a noob feeding his ego, he feels closer to 20.
Everything in the room is organized by type and material: guns and knives, liquids and powders, copper and iron and silver. There’s a refrigerator for blood - dead man’s, lamb’s, virgin’s (don’t ask) - and a special cabinet for the really weird stuff. Locked with a spell, only Dean and Sam can open it. If anyone else tries, it will turn to ash in seconds.
It’s all catalogued and accounted for down to the last rosary bead. He knows where everything comes from and where everything goes. It’s a hunter’s wet dream. And as far as Dean knows, there isn’t anything else like it anywhere. Which is one reason why they tend to get random visitors in the middle of the night with really strange requests.
Tonight, though, the request is simple: a brass knife. And a sandwich.
Sam makes him two, and Dillon eats them both like he’s starving. And maybe he is, a little. The lean, hungry life of a hunter.
Dean feels a sudden surge of bitterness burning the back of his throat as he watches the boy from across the table. Bitterness at a world that still requires the services of young men like Dillon, eager and angry and stupidly brave, like him and Sam a long time ago. Bitterness at himself, even now, for not being able, in the end, to make any fucking difference at all.
He wants to tell the kid it only gets worse, but he doesn’t have the heart to say the words.
:::
Dillon leaves before dawn in a car that’s held together with scotch tape and willpower. Dean can list five things that are wrong with it just by listening to the engine. The kid’s young enough to be Dean’s son. Dean doesn’t remember when he started thinking of them in those terms, but he does now. They’re all young, it seems. Old hunters are an endangered species. Him and Sam are damn near museum specimens.
He stares out into the trees. Even the insects are quiet now. When they first moved here, it took him a month to get used to the noises. The goddamn cicadas kept him up at night, or so he told himself. Now, he misses them when they’re gone.
He used to think that when it was over for him - over for good, that is, with no return engagement - he’d go out swinging. Scratching and clawing until his last breath, the taste of his own blood on the back of his tongue. He used to think that was what he wanted, back when he still thought he could change the world for the better.
But now. Now all he wants is a chair and a beer and his brother beside him. And a nice quiet place to rest.
The End
Author: carryokee
Recipient: maerhys
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I had originally started writing another one of maerhys's prompts, but it just wouldn't cooperate in the end. So I seized onto this one instead. I gave it my best shot. I hope she likes it.
Summary: The Winchesters may be retired, but they're still in the fight.
Some things change. They live in one place now, a two-story cabin halfway up a mountain in North Carolina, where they share a room and watch the hummingbirds flit just beyond the deck in the summer. The Impala’s gone - a regrettable sacrifice, but it was either them or the car, and even then they’d had to think about it - but she’s not forgotten. Her steering wheel is mounted on the wall over their fireplace the way some people mount animal heads or giant fish. It’s a place of honor. Sam teases Dean about it, calls it his personal shrine to Chevy, but he can’t fool Dean. Sam misses her too.
Some things stay the same. Dean sleeps late most days, Sam’s an early riser. Sam always makes his bed, Dean leaves his a mess. (His philosophy is that he’s just going to end up back in it at the end of the day, so why bother.) And Sam once filled Dean’s Frosted Flakes box with unsweetened bran flakes, so Dean switched the sugar with the salt, watched Sam dump three spoonfuls into his coffee, and laughed and laughed and laughed at the look on Sam’s face when he took that first sip.
It gets cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and the leaves change color in the fall like clockwork, each cycle another year gone. They’ve watched the leaves change five times now.
:::
The bell jingles brightly when Dean pushes open the door. He loves that damn bell, the way the sound of it makes him smile a little, how it makes him think of angels’ wings (the Clarence kind, that is, not the real thing) and peace and new beginnings.
Holy hell, if Sam only knew how sappy Dean’s gotten in his old age, he’d never let it go.
Like Sam is one to talk, anyway. Forty-two years old and his favorite movie is Brian’s Song, the big girl. He still gets teary when James Caan dies.
Betsy looks up from whatever she’s writing and grins, a delayed reaction that breaks across her face slowly. The expression erases years from her eyes in an instant. “Well, well, well,” she says. “He lives.” It’s been nearly a month since Dean’s driven down the mountain into town. His last trip ended with a fight. He doesn’t do much of that anymore, but sometimes it feels good to know he can still throw a decent punch. And take one.
Dean winks at her. “Only for you,” he says. He walks up to the counter and slides his elbows across its pockmarked surface, leaning his weight against them. The movement draws a thread of pain through his hip and he grinds his teeth against it.
The expression isn’t lost on Betsy. Her gray-brown eyes narrow to criticizing slits. “You’re hurting,” she says.
Always, he thinks. Too many years being some monster’s chew toy have taken their toll, not that he’d ever admit it out loud. “I’m fine.” It’s his standard response to most questions about his well-being, physical or otherwise.
She doesn’t believe him, of course, her mouth twisting into an exasperated smirk. She comes around the counter and he turns around to face her, the edge of the worn wood pressing into his back as she gives him a slow once over. “You are such a liar,” she says, crossing her arms as she meets his eyes.
Dean smiles. “Maybe you should do a thorough examination,” he says, “if you don’t believe me.”
A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, her eyes scanning Dean’s face. When she turns to press her shoulder against the door and slides the deadbolt home, the bell jingles brightly.
:::
The pickup’s tires chew up the gravel when Dean pulls into their driveway just before dark. The house is nearly dark, too, except for a square of yellow light on the second floor. Dean shakes his head in weary affection. Sam’s still exactly where he was when Dean left.
He grabs the grocery bags from the back of the truck, tucking the parcel under his arm (he knows it’s another book for Sam’s collection), and heads towards the house, his boots making a hollow sound on the creaky wooden steps as he climbs. The third one from the top groans ominously under his weight; it’s nearly rotted through. He’s been meaning to fix it for weeks now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.
He pushes open the front door and shuts it behind him with his foot. When he flips on the kitchen light, something scurries from view. A mouse, most likely. The house was crawling with them when they first moved in and a few still linger here and there, darting in and out through cracks in the walls, impervious to the runes and sigils carved into the wood beneath the paint as protection from more dangerous things.
He sets the bags down on the table and reaches inside one of them for a couple of beers. They’re still fairly cold, the brown bottles cool and slick beneath his fingers as he cuts through the living room towards the stairs, the parcel still under his arm. He takes the steps two at a time just to prove to himself he still can, the pain in his hip gone for now. Betsy has magic fingers. Among other things.
He’s barely through the doorway to what he secretly calls the Bobby Singer Memorial Library for the Fucked Up but True when Sam says, “You realize booty calls are usually at night.” His lips curl up in a slight smile even as his fingers move smoothly across the keys, not even casting a glance at Dean. The screen reflects dully on the lenses of his reading glasses.
Sam’s reading glasses. They’re an endless source of amusement for Dean, whose eyesight is still perfect, thank you very much. In fact, Sam still holds a grudge about the time Dean told everyone in town that Sam was turning forty and no one seemed to question it. Jessie even baked Sam a cake that said “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 40” and presented it to him while everyone in the diner sing “Happy Birthday”.
Sam was only 38 at the time. But the look on his face was priceless.
“Only for amateurs,” Dean says, walking over and setting one of the beers and the parcel on the desk beside Sam, peering over Sam’s shoulder at the screen. He’s on the R’s now - revenant, to be exact. It’s Sam’s pet project: cataloguing every known supernatural creature in oral or written history in one online place where hunters everywhere can go to find information and even add and edit the details when necessary. It’s cross-referenced and everything.
To put it bluntly, it’s Wikipedia on demon blood.
Sam doesn’t appreciate the nuances of that joke.
Sinking into the sofa, Dean twists the cap off his beer and shoots it between his finger and thumb across the room where it bounces off a row of impressively old-looking books and falls soundlessly to the rug. Sam gives him a look, then turns his eyes back to the screen. Dean watches him work for a while, nursing his beer. He likes this more than he’ll ever admit out loud, watching Sam do what he’s good at. The quiet confidence in Sam’s hands and the relaxed calm in his shoulders. The way Sam holds his pen between his teeth when he’s typing and the way he sometimes moves his lips when he reads. Mostly, though, he likes the peace he sees in Sam’s eyes.
For that alone, it was all worth it. Every last damn thing.
:::
Sam’s asleep under his new book and Dean’s becoming one with the sofa, the TV turned way down low, when the third step from the top creaks outside the door. In an instant, they’re both awake and alert, their hands curling around weapons without even looking.
Old habits die hard. And some are worth keeping.
Dean flips off the TV and stands, his bare feet pressing silently against the smooth wood floor as he walks to the front door. Standing with his shoulder against the wall next to the doorframe, he watches Sam take his place across from him, his stance a mirror image of Dean’s, their eyes meeting in the darkness. Unspoken words pass between them.
Hollow footsteps sound along the length of the porch, then stop in front of the door. Dean flips on the porch light - a collection of four 100 watt floodlights strategically placed for maximum glare - and opens the door, his gun pointed directly at the intruder’s face. Sam does the same beside him.
Standing in the over bright light, blinking furiously as he tries to shield his eyes with one hand, is a scrawny blond kid wearing beat-up Doc Martens, a tragically hip leather jacket, and about a thousand extra miles on his skin. His other hand’s halfway to the grip of the gun sticking out of his waistband, fingers trembling slightly.
He’s a hunter. Or a wannabe, at any rate.
Dean decides to fuck with him, just because he can. “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” he asks in his best low growl. He tosses a wink at Sam, who rolls his eyes but cracks a smile anyway, shaking his head. The strands of gray in Sam’s hair glint silver in the light.
“Huh?” the kid asks, his Adam’s apple bobbing erratically. He inches his hand towards his gun, fingertips twitching.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Dean says, and the boy stops, swallows hard. His blue eyes flick back and forth between Dean and Sam and back again.
“Wha-”
“You’ve got to ask yourself one question,” Dean says, cutting him off. “Do I feel lucky?” He cocks his gun. “Well, do ya, punk?”
The kid swallows again then takes a step back, his hands out in front of him in a defensive gesture. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, dude.”
Dean follows him, taking a step forward, grip steady and firm on his gun. The kid’s eyes go even wider. He takes another step back. Dean follows again.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is calm, but there’s a thread of warning underneath. Yeah, sometimes Dean gets carried away. But he can’t help himself. Sometimes you gotta make your own fun.
Another step back by the kid. Another step forward by Dean.
“Dean.”
“Sammy, don’t worry. I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” He keeps up the act for a few more seconds, watching the boy’s eyes look pleadingly towards Sam before finally relenting. He lowers his gun, uncocking it easily with his thumb, and grins. The kid lets out his breath in an audible rush.
“I’m just messing with you, kid,” Dean says, giving the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Lighten up.” He slides his gun into the back of his jeans. “Besides, I don’t shoot hunters. Usually.”
Sam’s beside him then, his big hand resting on Dean’s shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse my brother,” he says. The words have the too-familiar ring of those uttered a million times before. “It’s all this mountain air. It makes him…stupid.”
Dean elbows Sam in the ribs. “Did you see what I did there, Sammy? Three different quotes from three different movies.” He grins again. “Three.” He holds up the last three fingers of his right hand, showing them to Sam and the kid. “That’s why I’m the king of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” He points to himself, meeting the kid’s eyes. The king, he mouths, nodding.
“We’re both very impressed, Dean,” Sam says. “Really. But if you don’t mind…” He nods towards the kid, who’s been watching their exchange with the morbid curiosity of rubberneckers at a crime scene.
“Oh,” Dean says. “Yeah.” He looks at the boy, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. “How the hell have you managed to stay alive this long?” he asks him abruptly. “Seriously.”
:::
The kid’s name is Dillon. D-I-L-L-O-N. As in Marshal. His father was a huge fan of Gunsmoke.
“He used to watch the reruns on TV,” Dillon says. “Had ’em all on DVD.”
Dean fishes his keys from his pocket, finds the one to the basement by feel and slides it into the lock. It opens with well-oiled ease and when he pushes open the door and flips on the light, he hears Dillon gasp softly behind him.
He smiles. Sam may know his lore, but Dean knows his weapons. He used to say Sam was the brains and he was the brawn (so what if Sam’s bigger), but more and more, only half that statement is true. He’s only 46, but sometimes he feels more like 80. And sometimes, like now, with the awe of a noob feeding his ego, he feels closer to 20.
Everything in the room is organized by type and material: guns and knives, liquids and powders, copper and iron and silver. There’s a refrigerator for blood - dead man’s, lamb’s, virgin’s (don’t ask) - and a special cabinet for the really weird stuff. Locked with a spell, only Dean and Sam can open it. If anyone else tries, it will turn to ash in seconds.
It’s all catalogued and accounted for down to the last rosary bead. He knows where everything comes from and where everything goes. It’s a hunter’s wet dream. And as far as Dean knows, there isn’t anything else like it anywhere. Which is one reason why they tend to get random visitors in the middle of the night with really strange requests.
Tonight, though, the request is simple: a brass knife. And a sandwich.
Sam makes him two, and Dillon eats them both like he’s starving. And maybe he is, a little. The lean, hungry life of a hunter.
Dean feels a sudden surge of bitterness burning the back of his throat as he watches the boy from across the table. Bitterness at a world that still requires the services of young men like Dillon, eager and angry and stupidly brave, like him and Sam a long time ago. Bitterness at himself, even now, for not being able, in the end, to make any fucking difference at all.
He wants to tell the kid it only gets worse, but he doesn’t have the heart to say the words.
:::
Dillon leaves before dawn in a car that’s held together with scotch tape and willpower. Dean can list five things that are wrong with it just by listening to the engine. The kid’s young enough to be Dean’s son. Dean doesn’t remember when he started thinking of them in those terms, but he does now. They’re all young, it seems. Old hunters are an endangered species. Him and Sam are damn near museum specimens.
He stares out into the trees. Even the insects are quiet now. When they first moved here, it took him a month to get used to the noises. The goddamn cicadas kept him up at night, or so he told himself. Now, he misses them when they’re gone.
He used to think that when it was over for him - over for good, that is, with no return engagement - he’d go out swinging. Scratching and clawing until his last breath, the taste of his own blood on the back of his tongue. He used to think that was what he wanted, back when he still thought he could change the world for the better.
But now. Now all he wants is a chair and a beer and his brother beside him. And a nice quiet place to rest.
The End