Every Man is Calvary (SPN 5.22 coda)
I can't believe I'm adding to the coda glut. I've read so many great ones, and I wasn't going to do anything, but then this happened. At least it's short….Am posting it before I second guess. .I really am going to write meta too, I promise!
Title: Every Man is Calvary
Rating: Gen
Spoilers: FOR 5.22
Word Count: ~500
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit
Summary: Just for a minute, sixty seconds max, he was happy.
a/n: title from this song by Levon Helm.
Every Man is Calvary
He didn't get out of bed for three days. And Lisa, who turned out to be way more saintly than any angel he had ever met, let him, kept the lights in the bedroom off, told Ben he was sick, no, he didn't need a doctor, just some rest.
Then he stayed drunk for a week. And Lisa let him do that too, sent Ben off to stay with his friends a couple of nights, kept quiet watch through the crying and the puking. It wasn't until day eight that she silently gathered all the bottles in the house and poured what little remained down the sink, sober up or get out clear in her clenched jaw, her streaming eyes.
And then things got really bad.
And some days, most days, it was only the memory of Ben's face going wide-eyed at the blood on Dean's knuckles, the shattered glass of the hall mirror on the floor, that kept him on the straight and narrow. He recognized that face-had seen it on Sam, heck, had probably worn it himself, watching their Dad take out his nameless fury on some innocent piece of motel furniture.
And if he knew one thing in this life, it was that he never wanted to be the one to put that look on another kid's face.
So he gave it his best shot. Used Bobby's parting gift of a set of pristine new IDs, ones with an actual history attached, to enroll in some classes at the community college-classes that might lead to being a firefighter, or a paramedic, someday. Though it could be that he was getting a little old for that kind of thing, truth be told.
He did some shade-tree fix-it work to pull his weight on grocery bills, put something towards the mortgage, got pick up work at the local garage, dusted off his cooking skills, helped out with Ben when Lisa let him. And they rubbed along okay.
Except for how things were maybe worse now. Because he tried to hang onto his grief, his anger. He really did. For Sam. And most of the time he was pretty good at it.
But sometimes, he'd find himself watching Lisa, the pure, fierce concentration on her face as she nailed a crazy arm balance in the tiny space she'd fixed up in the back of the house, under the smiling statue of the elephant god he didn't have the heart to tell her was dead.
Or hear Ben whoop, as he whipped around the corner on his bike, too-long hair flying, every limb taut with joy.
Or just feel the crazy, undiminished strength of his own body, flowing through his shoulder, his arm, his hand, as he pitched a perfect ball to Ben in the back yard.
And it was as if someone had ripped the veil off the beauty of the world, the beautiful, fucking world.
And, just for a minute, sixty seconds max, he was happy.
Title: Every Man is Calvary
Rating: Gen
Spoilers: FOR 5.22
Word Count: ~500
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit
Summary: Just for a minute, sixty seconds max, he was happy.
a/n: title from this song by Levon Helm.
Every Man is Calvary
He didn't get out of bed for three days. And Lisa, who turned out to be way more saintly than any angel he had ever met, let him, kept the lights in the bedroom off, told Ben he was sick, no, he didn't need a doctor, just some rest.
Then he stayed drunk for a week. And Lisa let him do that too, sent Ben off to stay with his friends a couple of nights, kept quiet watch through the crying and the puking. It wasn't until day eight that she silently gathered all the bottles in the house and poured what little remained down the sink, sober up or get out clear in her clenched jaw, her streaming eyes.
And then things got really bad.
And some days, most days, it was only the memory of Ben's face going wide-eyed at the blood on Dean's knuckles, the shattered glass of the hall mirror on the floor, that kept him on the straight and narrow. He recognized that face-had seen it on Sam, heck, had probably worn it himself, watching their Dad take out his nameless fury on some innocent piece of motel furniture.
And if he knew one thing in this life, it was that he never wanted to be the one to put that look on another kid's face.
So he gave it his best shot. Used Bobby's parting gift of a set of pristine new IDs, ones with an actual history attached, to enroll in some classes at the community college-classes that might lead to being a firefighter, or a paramedic, someday. Though it could be that he was getting a little old for that kind of thing, truth be told.
He did some shade-tree fix-it work to pull his weight on grocery bills, put something towards the mortgage, got pick up work at the local garage, dusted off his cooking skills, helped out with Ben when Lisa let him. And they rubbed along okay.
Except for how things were maybe worse now. Because he tried to hang onto his grief, his anger. He really did. For Sam. And most of the time he was pretty good at it.
But sometimes, he'd find himself watching Lisa, the pure, fierce concentration on her face as she nailed a crazy arm balance in the tiny space she'd fixed up in the back of the house, under the smiling statue of the elephant god he didn't have the heart to tell her was dead.
Or hear Ben whoop, as he whipped around the corner on his bike, too-long hair flying, every limb taut with joy.
Or just feel the crazy, undiminished strength of his own body, flowing through his shoulder, his arm, his hand, as he pitched a perfect ball to Ben in the back yard.
And it was as if someone had ripped the veil off the beauty of the world, the beautiful, fucking world.
And, just for a minute, sixty seconds max, he was happy.