Dust Mites
He's been alone now for 8 months. No snoring filling up the room he sleeps in. No arguing filling up the car he lives in. No sulfur, salt or fire filling up the air he breathes. No idea where his father and brother are spending the night. Just stretches of silence, pages of notes and hours of serenity alone with his thoughts and his books.
His books. Contrary to popular belief the early spring air in northern California can slice right through a person's clothes, even in the sunshine. Like Dean slicing through a ghoulie-ghosty-long-legged-beastie with a smile on his face. So he picks up his pace and takes the steps two by two, the way his long legs were built to take him, to the library, where his long legs were meant to take him. Finals are over, which means all the books will be back on their shelves and he can gorge himself like a glutton. Till he pukes IQ points, like Dean says.
He's nineteen today. It's the first birthday he won't spend with Dean or Dad or Dean and Dad. It'll be the first birthday he'll spend with friends and cake in a proper restaurant with linen and cutlery instead of a cheap walk up or crummy motel. The first birthday without a poorly wrapped, but well thought out gift and punch in the arm. It aches a little.
But by the time the ache hits his throat he steps through the front door and it disappears. Smothered, soothed, washed away by a deep tidal breath through his nose.
The air smells like dusty old books.