So. This isn't a happy story. But like...I don't know what you expect from me at this point. Also, I decided to post it separately because it doesn't seem to really fit with the whole "Mighty Winchesters" theme. Anyway, here it is.
Tag/SPOILERS to 5x04 "The End" (probably one of the best episodes in my opinion). Rated mostly for one bad word.
The Little Things
They say it's the little things. The rare moments between gunshots and carnage and blood and bodies that land in the mud like cannon fire. They say you're supposed to stop for a second, drink in those small reminders of what happiness is. Or what it used to be. You have to remember what laughter sounds like when it spills almost guiltily into the vacant air, cheapened by the copious amount of liquor needed to conjure it. You're supposed to join in, open your mouth wide and let the noise tumble out so that you remember the way it feels to crack your lips with a smile.
But you look around at the faces of those who sit at this broken table, and there is only one that you truly know. The rest are strangers, thrown together in the saddest of circumstances; the most pathetic of armies that you are now expected to lead. And even the one you know is not the face you long to see. That face is long gone, buried so deep in memories that you cannot risk the taste of. So you ignore them completely, shove the tattered remains of your heart into the acidic pool of your stomach until it has been devoured, until it can no longer beat inside your chest.
This is not what anyone had in mind, but then, no one really knows what an ending looks like until they're staring at it from the other side. And there's no coming back from that side, so this is all that's left and it's so far from not enough that you wonder how the people you sit beside have the energy to lift another glass to their lips. But if they can do it, so can you. And so you just keep drinking until the sun catches in your eyes and you wonder why it even bothers to rise anymore. It is a lot like you in that way, but the sun's purpose is more concrete, better understood than the empty mission you command. At least it brings light.
You've tried watching these aimless sunrises because they say it's the little things that are the best and an orange sky is better than the usual gray, but there is no joy or relief in the heat that begins another day. You'd rather get lost in the heat of this unending battle instead, let yourself fall into the simple pattern of 'swing left' and 'flank right' and 'fire fire fire' because it all seems easier than this. You don't want to remember what beauty looks like and you don't want to remember how it feels to feel because you've already lost too much, and it's not worth trying to gain anything back because it will all end again. Has already ended. You were just too stupid to let go before it did, so now you're trapped in an endless limbo of wishing and not hoping and dying a little more every time you open your eyes.
And when you do open your eyes and finally stumble from your torn and twisted sheets, you find that there is no direction to walk in because the roads have all eroded beneath you and the ocean refuses to swallow you whole. So you just choose a way, and you go. Except now there are other people, and they are following you, sprinting to catch up with your unhinged stride and your pointless crusade. And you take them along because that's always been the job, and you can't go thinking that this time is any different because that would mean you've already lost. Which you have. But the people who rely on you cannot know that.
They still enjoy the little things.
You watch them rejoice at the extra toothbrushes that came with a successful raid and you listen to the retelling of memories of lives that ended and worlds that no longer exist and you wish you could give in to that kind of luxury. But the world has never been kind to you and this is certainly not the exception, so instead you make plans and you sketch out strategy and you arrange formations. You don't think about the mud-stained Chevy that sits outside in the growing weeds and you don't listen to the familiar chords of old rock bands when someone brings out what could possibly be the last guitar on earth and starts strumming. Because with all that comes the memories of the one who used to sit beside you on those long and winding roads; the one whose laughter ate up the miles between where you were and where you were going until the pieces fit and the job was done and the stars were yours to watch. That was the best part. Just watching and not talking and not knowing what lay ahead or beyond or just over the next hillside. Some of those miles were already behind you but most of them were still ahead of you, and the only real thing that mattered was sitting there beside you with a beer in his hand.
And whoever said it's the little things that matter had it so fucking wrong. Because that right there?
That was everything.
I started watching Walking Dead recently and that's most likely where this came from. Yes, another heartbreaking show to add to my resume. Anyways, I hope that despite the somber mood of this story, you all have a lovely day/night/whatever. Thank you so much for reading/leaving a review if you so choose!