Disclaimer: All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This fanfic is my original work of fiction based on those characters/that universe. No Beta's were harmed during the writing of this fic.

A/N: Tag to "Damaged Goods" (Season 14, Episode 11); though no spoilers. Thank you to all readers/reviewers.

The Old Man on the Boat

The cold, the damp, it's no good for his bones.

As if that would ever stop him.

There's a million reasons and then some, why he should stop doing this.

But he just can't. He won't. If there's any people left who care enough to have tried once, they stopped trying years ago.

It's a small sail boat, one that seems scarily ill equipped to deal with the high rising oceanic tides it faces down. On a moonlit night, if you knew where to look, you'd see it, lurching in the endless darkness of the ocean, rising and falling, moored by some seemingly impossible force out there in the middle of nowhere. On stormier nights it looks as though it will upturn and crash into those dark depth itself.

But it never does. It never will.

There's angels watching over that ship. Over the man sat on the boat, whose bones protest the cold and the damp. And he'd stay there forever despite it all, if he could. But of course he can't; he's still alive, or so they keep telling him.

He's still alive, even if he knows his heart died decades ago.

Without angelic help, he'd never really be able to find the exact location. It shifts every now and then. Things buried that deep ride on currents unseen, and it would be impossible to track otherwise. But he has an angel and a Nephilim and perhaps even Death no less to help, and they do it without being asked; lead his boat to whichever spot it is every time.

He can't live there of course, even he realised that eventually. Even if he could have, it just wasn't in his nature to abandon his friends, his responsibilities. At least, not again. Never again.

So he used to still hunt, while he had strength. And by some cruel fate, he seemed to survive those hunts time and time again, till he got too old to do it.

Now they just come to pick his brains. Younger hunters, older hunters. He's become somewhat of a legend, an oracle, and they come to him for advice or research or answers. And he does it all, whatever they ask, he tells them all. It seems so easy, the knowledge all stored away, the experience all accumulated, chiselled into that labyrinthian brain.

He's hunted everything, probably, at one time or another. He can recall what the blades need to be dipped in, or whether silver works. Or if you need to chop the head off. Or which concoction of herbs and roots to burn. Or which pagan deity to hunt.

Oh, he's done it all. And he does it still, passes on the wisdom, not because he wants to. Not even because he cares, because he doesn't. That stopped decades ago too.

He does it for Dean. To give that sacrifice meaning.

To not save the world, to let it end, to stop hunting, to stop helping, to stop saving, that would be a disrespect to Dean. It would insult Dean.

It would hurt Dean.

So he helps.

While he's on terra firma, that is, he helps with what he can.

But when he's out here, in the darkness, in the sun, in the storms, when he's out here, he simply doesn't care. If the world burnt away, he simply doesn't care anymore.

He used to talk. No. Actually, at first, those first few times, the words, they just wouldn't come, and he'd leave, turn the ship around and leave, thinking he wouldn't be able to ever come back. Thinking there was no point.

But he kept coming back.

Then when he started talking, he couldn't stop. He talked, sometimes for hours. He'd bring beer. Crack one open, crack another and pour it over the side, sometimes throw pie overboard for good measure too, and just talk about everything and nothing.

It was a while before he realised he was going through some type of traumatic response.

Sometimes he hurled abuse, all the pent up anger that he'd never been able to express to Dean's face, all overflowing in a tirade of self-loathing and resentment and drowning self-pity. Screaming at the empty sky. Hoping somehow, absurdly, that the force of all his pain would grant him a miracle in response and that Dean would come back.

He bawled his eyes out, once. Just once. Got out there and found he couldn't stop crying.

But now? Now there was nothing.

But he can feel him down there. He can't explain it to anyone, and there's no one who can understand. But he knows what he can feel. It's the only thing he can feel anymore.

There's a calm he's come to realise he feels now when he's out here on his own. Everywhere else, when he's back on dry land, he's itching, as if his skin isn't his own. He's restless, on edge.

Transient and homeless.

It's only now he realises that he's constantly waiting till he can come back.

It's only now that he realises something he should have known all along; this is the closest he'll ever come to being home anymore.

It shouldn't surprise anyone; home is where the heart is.

And whatever heart is left, it's here.

It's whiskey and scotch, not beer anymore.

He still brings pie sometimes.

He's too tired for anger. Too deadened for self-pity. Too wise to hope.

Oddly, the night is calm. That's a rarity in these waters. And the moon is out and the stars are out, and probably if he wanted to waste his breath on wishes, there'd be meteorites streaming overhead now and then, falsely promising to grant them.

But he knows better than to wish. Just like he's learnt better than to hope.

This time he's not talking anymore. The words have run out, or the thoughts have. Or perhaps there's just nothing left to say; it's all been said after all.

And there's nothing left, really.

He takes a shot. Pours one over the side. Waits for the burning to wane. Tells himself it's the quality of the alcohol that's making his eyes water.

Throws another one back. Another goes over the edge. The hours pass. The silence stays.

He'll fall asleep sooner or later, and they'll guide his ship back when he does, and he'll be restless and aimless till he can come back again.

It's no good for his bones, this cold and this damp.

But he'd stay there forever if he could. He'd stay there forever if they'd let him.

Someday, he will.

The whiskey's all gone.

His shot glass falls and rolls from his fingers, and his eyes are already closing, but the words are on his lips even then, all slurred together and unheard, the only thing he feels anymore.

And it doesn't need to be said because, God knows, what difference does anything even make anymore? But still, he can't help it as his eyes slowly slide shut, the words slipping out, like secrets spilling out onto the steps of the gallows.

"I miss you, Dean." He whispers, and the ocean seems to sigh in response, even if he doesn't notice. "Man. I really miss you."

The End.

Thank you for reading.

AN: My Beta suggested I name this one 'Super Marine Brothers'….. I think I made the right decision.