Fic: It Goes On
Title: It Goes On
Author: apreludetoanend
Recipient: kiscinca
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on." -Robert Frost
Summary: You know the drive to Palo Alto by heart. You’ve done it from everywhere.
It Goes On
There's a woman in Minnesota who says she's got something of yours, and you know even before she tells you.
Adam, she says. It's an invitation.
*
The engine’s idling too high. Your hands itch to get under the hood, but it’s a rental, can’t bring it back better than you found it.
You work on fixing your watch instead, the one Mary gave you. You run your thumb over the back of it. Dates etched in silver, 1-24-79 and 5-2-83, edges worn smooth from two decades against your skin. You’d know the shape of those lines and curves anywhere, the Braille of fatherhood carved into the passing of time.
When you pull, the back of the watch pops off a little too easily. You’ve kept it going all these years, or maybe it’s kept you going. Maybe a little bit of both. The stem got stuck two or three weeks back, and you’ve been falling behind a few seconds at a time, no way to catch up.
Your vision blurs; the guts of the watch turn soft and unfocused. You’ve been parked across the street from Sam’s building for a few hours now. A few hours and a few seconds.
*
Some nights, the taste of Mary’s death is still fresh in your mouth, and you burn it away with whiskey.
Some nights you ride out the worst of it with nothing but the ripped up passenger seat for a pillow. So you don’t have to see Dean’s face, or so he doesn’t have to see yours, you’re not sure. Not sure it even matters.
Some nights, the room is so empty with just the two of you filling the space.
Some nights, you leave the second key on the nightstand and sneak out the door, chase your mistakes halfway across the country because Dean’s your boy, but Sammy’s your baby, and you let him go.
*
You remember her. Not her name, not ’til she tells you, but you remember her blue eyes, her blonde hair. You remember how it feels to break a promise to yourself. To your dead wife.
Adam, she says. You wonder if he looks like Mary.
*
You know the drive to Palo Alto by heart. You’ve done it from everywhere.
When Dean calls, you’ll tell him Jim Murphy needs you, or Caleb got you a deal. Only guys Caleb knows are crazy motherfuckers, always telling you to come alone and unarmed. You’ll tell him there’s something more important you need him to do, and you’ll never hear the hurt in his voice because he won’t talk back.
He’s your boy.
*
You know even before she tells you. After she says her name, before she says his. You just know.
Mary used to joke that you were a little bit psychic. She used to say, close your eyes and concentrate real hard and tell me what I’m thinking. And you’d say anything, astronauts or cheddar cheese or fuel injection, and she’d laugh and say yes because you were always right.
You knew Sammy was coming before she did, though. You never told him that, and maybe it’s too late now.
When your phone rings, you recognize the Minnesota area code, but not the number.
Adam, she says, and it’s an invitation. The lights in Sam’s apartment go out before you even get to see his shadow.
You don't climb his stairs or knock on his door. You haven’t been invited.
*
You used to watch them sleep. A decade ago, curled up in the back seat; two years ago, stretched across identical queen beds.
You used to patch skinned knees back when their legs were smaller than the palm of your hand, but then skinned knees turned into claw marks and band-aids turned into stitches and kisses turned into PT, sentiment exchanged for protection.
You wonder what Mary would say if she saw your hands, battle scarred and bloodied, hands that have pushed her sons into danger and then stitched them back together again on the other side.
Over and over and over again. You wonder what she’d say.
*
You switch the truck for a rental, switch the day for night. You get a good spot right across the street.
This is what you do. You wait, you watch. You don’t pretend you’re here to unsay all the things you never should have let him believe. Someday, maybe.
Right now, you just need to know he’s safe.
She goes in and out and back in, blonde and blue-eyed like Mary, and you wonder if she’s good for him. If she loves him, if she makes him happy. You wonder if this is the life he always wanted.
You try not to think about whether you could have given it to him, whether Mary could have. Whether the two of you together could have given him all this and more.
*
Maybe Mary would call you a coward.
Maybe she’d say it should have been you. It should’ve been you, John, your body burning, your life crumbling to ash, the taste of your searing flesh flavoring the air.
You’ve seen her mouth forming the words in so many dreams, but you can never hear her voice, not until she says it. He’s your baby. He’s your baby, and you let him go, and you told him not to come back.
Of course it should’ve been you.
*
You couldn’t get farther from Minnesota if you tried. Stanford or South Beach, Mount St. Helens or Mount Katahdin. From any corner of the country, it’s a day and change. More if you want to sleep along the way, but you don’t.
Dean will call, when you don’t call him first. You love him for that. He’s your boy.
*
She’s nervous, you can tell. You can hear it in her words, in her pauses.
She should be. Not for any reason she’d understand, but for all the ones she wouldn’t.
Adam, she says. It’s an invitation, and she doesn’t have a clue what she’s offering. You know that. You know that, and you accept anyway, because Dean’s your boy and Sam’s your baby, and Adam.
Adam’s your second chance.
Author: apreludetoanend
Recipient: kiscinca
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on." -Robert Frost
Summary: You know the drive to Palo Alto by heart. You’ve done it from everywhere.
It Goes On
There's a woman in Minnesota who says she's got something of yours, and you know even before she tells you.
Adam, she says. It's an invitation.
*
The engine’s idling too high. Your hands itch to get under the hood, but it’s a rental, can’t bring it back better than you found it.
You work on fixing your watch instead, the one Mary gave you. You run your thumb over the back of it. Dates etched in silver, 1-24-79 and 5-2-83, edges worn smooth from two decades against your skin. You’d know the shape of those lines and curves anywhere, the Braille of fatherhood carved into the passing of time.
When you pull, the back of the watch pops off a little too easily. You’ve kept it going all these years, or maybe it’s kept you going. Maybe a little bit of both. The stem got stuck two or three weeks back, and you’ve been falling behind a few seconds at a time, no way to catch up.
Your vision blurs; the guts of the watch turn soft and unfocused. You’ve been parked across the street from Sam’s building for a few hours now. A few hours and a few seconds.
*
Some nights, the taste of Mary’s death is still fresh in your mouth, and you burn it away with whiskey.
Some nights you ride out the worst of it with nothing but the ripped up passenger seat for a pillow. So you don’t have to see Dean’s face, or so he doesn’t have to see yours, you’re not sure. Not sure it even matters.
Some nights, the room is so empty with just the two of you filling the space.
Some nights, you leave the second key on the nightstand and sneak out the door, chase your mistakes halfway across the country because Dean’s your boy, but Sammy’s your baby, and you let him go.
*
You remember her. Not her name, not ’til she tells you, but you remember her blue eyes, her blonde hair. You remember how it feels to break a promise to yourself. To your dead wife.
Adam, she says. You wonder if he looks like Mary.
*
You know the drive to Palo Alto by heart. You’ve done it from everywhere.
When Dean calls, you’ll tell him Jim Murphy needs you, or Caleb got you a deal. Only guys Caleb knows are crazy motherfuckers, always telling you to come alone and unarmed. You’ll tell him there’s something more important you need him to do, and you’ll never hear the hurt in his voice because he won’t talk back.
He’s your boy.
*
You know even before she tells you. After she says her name, before she says his. You just know.
Mary used to joke that you were a little bit psychic. She used to say, close your eyes and concentrate real hard and tell me what I’m thinking. And you’d say anything, astronauts or cheddar cheese or fuel injection, and she’d laugh and say yes because you were always right.
You knew Sammy was coming before she did, though. You never told him that, and maybe it’s too late now.
When your phone rings, you recognize the Minnesota area code, but not the number.
Adam, she says, and it’s an invitation. The lights in Sam’s apartment go out before you even get to see his shadow.
You don't climb his stairs or knock on his door. You haven’t been invited.
*
You used to watch them sleep. A decade ago, curled up in the back seat; two years ago, stretched across identical queen beds.
You used to patch skinned knees back when their legs were smaller than the palm of your hand, but then skinned knees turned into claw marks and band-aids turned into stitches and kisses turned into PT, sentiment exchanged for protection.
You wonder what Mary would say if she saw your hands, battle scarred and bloodied, hands that have pushed her sons into danger and then stitched them back together again on the other side.
Over and over and over again. You wonder what she’d say.
*
You switch the truck for a rental, switch the day for night. You get a good spot right across the street.
This is what you do. You wait, you watch. You don’t pretend you’re here to unsay all the things you never should have let him believe. Someday, maybe.
Right now, you just need to know he’s safe.
She goes in and out and back in, blonde and blue-eyed like Mary, and you wonder if she’s good for him. If she loves him, if she makes him happy. You wonder if this is the life he always wanted.
You try not to think about whether you could have given it to him, whether Mary could have. Whether the two of you together could have given him all this and more.
*
Maybe Mary would call you a coward.
Maybe she’d say it should have been you. It should’ve been you, John, your body burning, your life crumbling to ash, the taste of your searing flesh flavoring the air.
You’ve seen her mouth forming the words in so many dreams, but you can never hear her voice, not until she says it. He’s your baby. He’s your baby, and you let him go, and you told him not to come back.
Of course it should’ve been you.
*
You couldn’t get farther from Minnesota if you tried. Stanford or South Beach, Mount St. Helens or Mount Katahdin. From any corner of the country, it’s a day and change. More if you want to sleep along the way, but you don’t.
Dean will call, when you don’t call him first. You love him for that. He’s your boy.
*
She’s nervous, you can tell. You can hear it in her words, in her pauses.
She should be. Not for any reason she’d understand, but for all the ones she wouldn’t.
Adam, she says. It’s an invitation, and she doesn’t have a clue what she’s offering. You know that. You know that, and you accept anyway, because Dean’s your boy and Sam’s your baby, and Adam.
Adam’s your second chance.