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What were the cassette tapes and rock CDs for now, other than filling and weighing boxes? “Old” age got to a point where the pain in his back was making him regret owning two copies of all Metallica discography. But not even a single Beatles record would be left behind; call it accumulation, or even emotional attachment, the reality is that not everything that makes you suffer — “damn, my hip!” — should be left behind.
“Queen, man! This one is for the trip.”
Clothes filled more baggage. The weapons would stay, decorating the wall of a now vacant room. Miracle from now on would be responsibility of whoever decided to stay in the bunker — hope they treat her well.
Oh, the bunker? It would just be history.
The thin layer of dust accumulated, the old system creaked enough to hint the possibility of another nymph's presence, the stains of the fight against Death remained, but the damage to the material would never hurt as much as the memories, as the invisible mark ruining every inch of the walls.
Epicurus said that when we allow ourselves the pleasures and joys of life, the fall will inevitably come, but if this is true, how could everything be so bad? How is there this anguish, if since the fire in 83 there has not been a single moment of joy? Is it possible, Epicurus, such a constant fall?
Maybe he was wrong, like many other ancients, and his success in perfectly breaking the code of God's existence in its paradox was just beginner's luck, a blind shot that fate allowed him to hit the target with inhuman precision — oh, that motherfucker was really onto something. Perhaps, more than even he could think. Cursed, blessed.
What Dean lost can't be recovered, what he's leaving behind is permanent, but not to him. It's a legacy for others, a voice that no longer fits him, that echos but doesn't sound like his, but that he's not quite ready to abandon.
“Are you sure?” Worried, Sam asked him one last time, when they were already saying bye in the garage.
“Yeah.” The eldest forced a smile. “It's what I need to do…” — but not what I want.
And when the car was away from Lebanon, the city became just another place on the map to avoid, as Lawrence has long been. Counterintuitively, the '67 Impala and the bond with his brother would be the only things from his past to keep. Probably things would not be better from then on, nor even worse, but keeping the same cycle no longer felt like the right thing to do; each day felt wrong, misplaced. Without Castiel and without Jack, Sam and Dean were an incomplete family, wandering around the bunker, avoiding the subject — except for a half dozen words that usually ended with "that's not what Cas would want for us" or "Jack is fine , he is God now.” Pathetic. Where is He then? Just not showing up? Do they mean so little to Him now?
Sam at least had Eileen as a hope for a future, but that was a luxury that Dean lost since he decided to use the key to that damn library, and dared not come out victorious (as if the result could be different, stupid). If time travel was a viable resource right now — let's face it, it never actually was, not even with angels on your side —, or if the force of regret had any power over the strings of the universe, some change would have already taken place. Now, his last resource is trying a brand new life in a small, empty apartment in a hell hole town where not even the most talented witches could find him. Dean didn't know what to think, how to proceed, if he would stay there for a few torturous months, or if he would hit the road again; and it is very likely that he would never reach the conclusion of what he feels beyond the emptiness of loss that he tried so hard to not think about. As empty as the bedroom with just a bed and a chiffonier, the living room with only an old sofa and a coffee table too low to be of any use, and the kitchen that didn’t have the decency of having a fucking toaster.
The melancholic beige walls reminded him of the countless cheap motels he grew up in, with no specific image coming to mind; there were so many that their characteristics merged inside his subconscious, they became one, a mix of everything and nothing, struggling to represent the nomadic home he hadn't had for years. He usually succeeded in not thinking about the incident, but facing the new environment, it was inevitable. He wondered if Castiel would like the place, if it would be a decent place for them to raise Jack together. He smiled, then; with no meaning, no reason, empty, trying hard not to focus on the fact that they were now just unreal lapses of a past good enough to turn into a bad memory.
It's disconcerting, none of his father's lessons could have trained him for this liminality.
Dean no longer felt anything.