"Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida." —Pablo
Neruda
Carry on my wayward son...
It was a cold night, colder than any in recent memory. The local weather stations were baffled at the frigid temperatures and scrambling to come up with a logical reason that anyone from Minnesota would need to turn on their heat in the middle of July. More than a few of the hillybilly variety were wandering around in nothing but cut-offs and ripped flannel, and a couple drunk idiots had already been admitted to the hospital for exposure.
In Minnesota.
No one had an explanation and hoped the weather would go back to normal soon, but in the meantime, many people stocked up on boxed goods and cans to avoid leaving the house more than absolutely necessary. No one was on the street and not a soul was to be seen if it wasn't in a grocery store.
That suited the man standing in the middle of Red Wing, Minnesota's graveyard just fine. He barely noticed the biting cold, and simply drew the long tan trench coat he was wearing closer to himself before hunching down into the collar. He didn't want to be seen and he definitely didn't want to be pestered—and God knew those times were few and far between.
He needed this, he needed this closure like he needed air to breathe or bullets to survive. Whether or not he'd be able to finally put his demons to rest, well... that was still to be seen.
"I saw Mrs. Tate," the man blurted out. His features twitched in confusion as if he didn't quite understand where that came from, but quickly smoothed back out. "You probably don't remember her but—." He bit his lip.
Silence once again descended on the headstones as the man that remained on the side of the living tugged at the collar of his trench coat once again. Otherwise, he stayed unnaturally still, like he'd rather join the rows of headstones than muster up the strength to move. His shallow breathing rattled like a marble in a Mason jar, but he didn't seem to notice nor take particular interest in his own well-being. His fingers were slightly blue, but he didn't bother with gloves.
All at once, the man sank to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut.
...there'll be peace when you are done…
"Why?" he screamed, pounding his fist into the dirt. "Why you? I don't care about the world, I care about you!" Fat, ugly tears poured down his face, the kind that choke and clog and suffocate—
"You fucking bastard!" he screeched as his half-frozen hands clawed and his fingernails cracked on the rocky base of a headstone. He could feel the blood drip down his hands, but didn't acknowledge it. His breathing came out harsh and hitched and his voice grated like sandpaper against his throat.
"Y-you can't be gone," he whispered brokenly, his voice sounding like the whine of a punctured balloon as it slowly deflated until there was nothing left. He pressed his face into the dirt. "You can't."
And it was like a switch had been flipped then, as if the man could no longer hold in his anger or hurt or pain, as if he'd reached the end of his rope and couldn't hold on for the life of him.
"Fuck you!" he screamed, climbing to his feet. "I raised you! I saved your ass more times than I can count and never once in my fucking life gave up on you! How could you go and get your stupid ass killed? How could you be so fucking selfless! Why can't you be as selfish as I always said you were? I can't forgive you for this you bastard!"
...lay your weary head to rest...
And he realized that he would never hear anyone call him a jerk again. He shivered violently, but only hunched further into the collar of his trench coat. He inhaled the lingering scent of his old friend as if it could bring back another of the precious many he'd lost, but the ache he could feel down to the marrow of his bones reminded him of his countless failures and countless regrets. Fallen for sure, but never forgotten.
This man was empty, and had been running on empty for a long time, but now it seemed a miracle of God himself if he could walk away from this graveyard alive. He simply stared at the simple epitaph as if it held all the answers. Bitch.
But he still had one more thing to do.
The dumbass in the ground had taken care of almost everything, and the man couldn't even bury him next to his girlfriend or his parents or anyone else who cared. He didn't have time to move the body, thus the impromptu headstone in the tiny town in Minnesota full of people he didn't know and never cared to. Not his home, not next to his girlfriend, not anywhere but a forgotten plot with only the single man to mourn him.
And not for long, if what the man was about to do was any indication."Goodnight, Sammy," Dean Winchester said into the cold, dead Minnesota wind as he turned away with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his beloved tan trench coat. As if in response, a light breeze swirled through the graveyard as a black Impala pulled away from the curb.
There wasn't anything left of Dean for anyone to find later, but written in Sharpie on Sam Winchester's hasty headstone was all that needed to be said. Jerk.
To this day, no one knows who wrote it.
...don't you cry no more.