The rain is steady, unceasing, rhythmic and tireless and impassionate.
The tears roll down the windows, as if they weep for the sins of the world, the grief of mankind. They splatter on the ground, shatter on the pavement and chase each other down the curb.
His tears are silent. No thunder roars an accompaniment, no lightning illuminates the wet streams and lights them silver and gold.
His sobs are silent, gentle. His shoulders rock back and forth, back and forth, as though they are imaging rocking he who will never be held by those arms again.
And still the rain pours.
The car is strangely empty now-the driver is useless without the spark to make the engine burn, and the spark is cold and dark now.
The bench in the diner is a mockery, as is the too-small bill, for only one requires food now. Only one is here to eat, to sleep, to dream, to fight. To live? Who knows, for he does not; he knows not how to live when the other's place is empty.
And still the rain pours.
Riding shotgun, they called it. But who rides shotgun now? Only one is left, and if he rides shotgun then who will drive? No one drives now, for the driver needs a partner and the partner is no longer here.
I've got your back, they said. But who has his back now? He has his own back now, but the problem is he can't reach it, can't see what's behind him, can't see what lurks in the dark. It doesn't matter-he'll let the demons come now, the monsters under the bed and the shadows behind the blinds, for the blinds are pulled aside now, and the fear is creeping in. No one has his back, not now, and the fear is creeping in. The fear is creeping in.
And still the rain pours.
His tears are dry, now, but for how long? It's ok, they said. It's ok. But it's not ok, it never will be ok, not anymore. Nothing is ok, for the world is hostile, now, and angry. It's lonely, calling out in despair for the one who will never return.
Sometimes the tears are hot, burning fire-hot across his skin, branding him with eternal sadness. Sometimes they're icy, freezing his skin until he hopes he'll never feel again. But the heat returns, thaws his heart and numbs his nerves and the pain flows back in.
And still the rain pours.
Heads are bowed, faces nameless, shoulders shadowed by umbrellas that block out the storm. He can't block out the storm, not now, not ever. The lines are blurred, lightning-quick flashes of clarity are few and far between.
Eternity has somehow grown unimaginably long, longer than ever before, longer than it ever will be, as though it can't bear to face the facts and simply runs from its own destiny in the hopes that destiny will never come. He wishes he could run, but he can't. He always used to run with him by his side, but not anymore. He runs alone, now.
And still the rain pours.
The rain pours and the sun doesn't come out, hasn't come out, never will come out. That's ok. It's ok, now, he doesn't want the sun to come out, perhaps never wanted it to come out. For the sun is empty, lack-luster and cold without him.
The gun is chilled, heavy in his hands as though his strength has left him. Of course his strength has left him, it left him on that day and never came back. The pen runs out of ink, runs dry before he finishes the words, but it doesn't matter. There are no words to say, no words to write. The letters are scrambled and illegible now, for the researcher is gone. The one who could make sense of such things is gone, and he can't make sense of anything, no, not anymore.
And still the rain pours.
Sounds still as he raises the gun. The lightning seems to hesitate, as if unsure whether or not to reveal this last sin, the raising of the last burden. The last? Has eternity finally reached an end? Perhaps it has. Perhaps the end of the road really is here now, the final, utter, total end of the road.
He thinks he reached the end of the road months ago. He knows the day, but can't measure how much time has passed, for time is warped now, foreign and nonsensical.
The rain stills, finally, and for a moment he thinks a hint of clear sky is emerging from the clouds, but when he lowers the gun, it disappears, and he can't be sure. Can't be sure of anything now, except this. He raises the gun, presses it to his temple, and turns to face the door. Turns to face the door, open for the first time in forever. The door is open now, open and he's finally ready to walk through the door, ready to cross the threshhold.
It's no longer frightening, just peaceful. All is calm and serene. The pounding in his head subsides-or was it the pounding outside? Too hard to tell. Paradoxical that the pounding in his head should subside now, before the biggest pound, the biggest push, the biggest crack of all. The door is open now, open and he's reaching for the knob, fingers tightening on the trigger as they grasp the knob, tensing as he flings the door aside.
Dean is ready now. For Sam is on the other side.