An end
(or maybe just another beginning)
"I think Dad's depressed."
"That's wonderful, Sammy. Hurry it up." was Dean's nonchalant response.
Sam glared and took the putty knife from Dean's outstretched hands, and slapped the gunky black substance onto the rooftop. He handed it back to Dean who dipped it in the gallon bucket and scooped more out.
"You're nuts, you know." Sam gave him a confused look, taking the knife back. " Only you would decide to patch the roof in the rain."
"The weather didn't look much better for the rest of the week," Sam explained, applying the last of the shingle glue to the roof. He stood up, tossing the putty knife and the empty bucket off the roof, and looked over to Dean who was sitting next to the gutters, head thrown back to let the rain hit his face. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to get that shit out of my hair."
Sam sighed and walked over to Dean to get a closer look. The longer hairs in the front were coated in the tarrish material and were stuck to Dean's forehead. Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing.
" It's not going to come off with water. You need paint thinner."
Dean growled in annoyance and followed Sam down the ladder and into the house.
"Stay put and don't touch anything. I'm going to try to find some," Sam told him the minute they got inside, chucked off his boots, and went towards the bathroom. Dean chuckled at the trail of water his brother made from his dripping mop of hair and he sighed, leaning against the door. He was finding it difficult to not touch anything. The warm air of the house was drying his wet clothes making his body cold. It didn't help that his wet shirt was attached to him like a second skin and it made him really want to itch or just pull the fabric away. But he took Sam's advice, taking a glance every once in awhile at his blackened hands to remind him to obey his brother.
"I found something," yelled Sam from somewhere in the house, Dean's suspicion being the garage. " Come here."
Dean straightened up and took the walk down the hallway to the garage, turning the doorknob with his elbow and kicking the bottom of the door to keep it open long for him to get in. Sam was standing in the corner, swinging a can back and forth.
"No. You're not using gasoline to take it off," Dean protested as Sam unscrewed the lid.
"We don't have paint thinner or bug repellant," Sam commented, pouring a bit into the curve of his hand. The strong scent hit Dean's nostrils and he coughed. "I thought you liked the smell of it."
"I do. Just…"
"Just what?" Sam rubbed the gasoline into his forearms with an old shirt.
Dean mumbled something under his breath.
Sam rolled his eyes. " What is it, Dean?"
"I already smell like asphalt." Dean crossed his arms. " I don't want to smell even more like a scumbag."
"How does smelling like gasoline and asphalt make you a scumbag?" Sam questioned.
"It just does," was his indigent response. Sam made the motion of tipping the bottle and with a groan, Dean held out his hands and Sam poured the gasoline over them.
"Couldn't you just take a shower?"
Dean finished rubbing his hands together. " Can't."
"Why not?" Sam poured some of the gasoline in his hand and grabbed the blackened chunks of Dean's hair, running his hand through it to loosen up the dried cement.
"Dad forgot to pay the water bill."
Sam's hand stopped moving and it dropped to his side. " You're joking."
"Sorry I'm not."
"Fuck!"
"Sammy, it's not nice to swear," Dean mock-scolded. Sam scowled at him, screwing the top back onto the gasoline. "Anyway, it's not a big deal."
"Why?"
Dean motioned with his head to the window, where the rain was streaking down it. " We can just clean off out there."
"And we'll wash our clothes out there and every time you want a drink of water, you'll get outside and stick out your tongue. Real smart, Dean."
Dean shrugged. " We could boil the water."
"The water and electricity are on the same bill."
It was one of those moments where Dean couldn't decide if it was pride he felt at his brother's intellect or aggravation that his brother was right again, thus one upping him.
Dean raised his hands above his head and pulled off his wet t-shirt. " So why are the lights still on, then?"
As if tempting fate, the light flickered out. He could see his brother smirking and he growled, unzipping his pants, and let them fall the ground so he could step out of them.
"I'm going to leave them here to dry," he explained, setting them on the hood of the Impala. Self-consciously hoisting his boxers further up on his hips, he walked out of the garage, shutting the door behind him, and walked to his bedroom to get some dry clothes.
He passed the knife he had thrown into the wall the previous night and he pulled it out, depositing it on the top of his dresser. He grabbed the t-shirt that was sticking out of one of the closed drawers and one of the seemingly clean pairs of jeans that littered his floor, and threw them on. He slipped his sneakers on, and looked for his bottle of cologne. It was lying conveniently on the dresser and he sprayed himself down to masquerade how bad he smelled.
He heard a knock on his door and without receiving an answer, Sam walked into his room, taking a seat on the bed.
"You like to preen a lot," Sam commented as Dean moved on to brushing his hair, trying to find something he could do with the limp greasy strands in the front, which were just flopping around.
"Some of us don't look good doing the lost puppy look," Dean shot back, finally settling on combing all his hair straight back to disguise the strands. He turned away from the mirror and towards Sam. " What do you want?"
"Dad isn't going to be going back to work anytime soon, Dean. We're the ones who are going to have to pay the bills."
Dean looked at his brother warily. " Dad is fine to work. We'll just tell him to get off the couch and go find a job. There's always openings at that shoe factory I've heard."
"You're not listening to me, Dean. Dad's…"
"Depressed?" Dean interrupted. " Why do you think that? He looks healthy to me."
Sam sighed. " Depression isn't about being unhealthy physically. It's about always being sad."
"I knew that," Dean interjected quickly, giving Sam the impression that Dean was feeling stupid for not knowing what depression was. " What does it have to do with him not being able to work?"
"He can still work, I never said he couldn't, but trying to get him to do anything is nearly impossible. He sits around all day, moping about. He doesn't eat, rarely sleeps, and…I…uh… found him crying last night."
Dean raised an eyebrow. " Why would he do that?"
"I think he misses mom."
Dean sat down on the bed next to Sam. " We all do but why would now be any different then last year, or the year before that? He should be happy now. The demon's dead, no one else is going to die from her, and dad can go back to his normal pre-hunting days."
"That's his problem. He doesn't remember what those days were like. He feels like that since the journey is done, he's lost his purpose for living."
"What are you, a psychologist now? Do you know anything actually about that crap?" Dean tried to keep the anger out of his voice, but as always, it was pointless. It was too ingrained into him to defend his father's name and he was not capable of changing that even for Sam.
Sam's voice quieted. " …I took some classes in college."
"And that makes you Dr. Phil?" Dean yelled aggravated.
"No, it doesn't."
The passivity of Sam's answer made his anger disappear and was replaced with guilt. " I'm..."
"You don't need to apologize," Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "It's not wrong to question him."
"I know, but it feels too much I am insulting him."
"You're not. It's caring about him."
A comfortable silence filled the room as both boys ruminated over their conversion.
"So we get jobs?" Dean asked.
"Yeah. Also talk to Dad. He'll listen to you."
"Couldn't we just pay the bills with the credit cards again?"
"It's illegal."
"So? Never stopped us before," Dean stretched out his hand to grab his wallet out from under the corner of his mattress. He flipped the wallet open and pulled out the wad of credit cards stored in one of its many pockets. He shuffled through them, pulling out a shiny red one, with a huge cursive letter in the center. " We haven't used this one in awhile. I think it's under Haakan Lyckberg."
"What metal band is that from?"
"Some Japanese group. Saw the name, liked it. So what do you say? Can we just pay it off with this credit card?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It would look strange to see someone else paying with their credit card for our utility bills. They would start digging into our history and it is almost guaranteed that they will find about all the times we or dad have broken out of jail, or been accused of killing someone which I'd like to add that you, Dean, are legally dead in the state of Missouri and god knows, what other states, or the hundreds of times we have impersonated government officials which is now a federal crime. And…the card is tied to a postbox in New York City that doesn't exist. If it doesn't exist, we will have a problem and we can't just move out of the house and move to the next state like we always do now that Dad actually bought a house."
Dean stared at his brother blankly. " Alright…no credit cards. How is Dad paying for the mortgage without them?"
"He isn't. It's due sometime next week. We lose the house if it's not paid."
"That's great," Dean grumbled. " At least this house isn't much to lose."
"It's the house our mother grew up in."
"Seriously?"
Sam nodded.
Dean stood up. "Where's the newspaper?"
"We don't get one. Go down the street to the convenience store. There's a stand out there. Fifty cents."
"Be right back." Dean grabbed a ball-cap as he left the bedroom, placing it over his greasy hair.
He had never been the observant type, always focusing more on the larger picture then the tiny details that made it up. That was why he and Sam always made such a good team when they hunted. Sam noticed everything, fueling it into the ability to know who was genuine and who wasn't. It was Sam who avoided the slammer if they got caught and Sam who ended up coming up with the escape plans. But it was he, Dean, who did the dirty work that came with the job, killing the demons and rescuing Sam when his faith in the goodness of people overcame his reasoning. Because the truth was that all things were good and bad. Dean only saw one of the two.
So when Sam finally told him about the inevitable foreclosure of the house, it hadn't really surprised him. If they didn't have enough money for water and electricity, the house was sure to go next. He personally didn't see why losing the house was a big deal. He knew it probably held some sentimental value to his father but it wasn't like they hadn't packed up and lived somewhere else. He remembered as a child moving about once a year to a new town and when he reached 15, living out of a suitcase at whatever motel they landed in for the night. That was probably why the news didn't bother him. He never got used to staying in one place for long. However if Sam wanted to keep the house, Dean would go out and earn some money. Sam, even for all his brains, wasn't going to make enough money in a week to pay the mortgage and a few back bills.
The convenience store was closed, but there were still papers in the bin, and he paid for it and stuck it under his t-shirt to keep it dry, though every part of him was soaking wet. He took off his baseball cap, seeing that there was no traffic and thus no passer-bys to laugh at his horrific looking hair, and let the water hit it, hoping it would get rid of the god-forsaken grease. He didn't know why it irritated him so much. Maybe he just liked to look like he had preened, as Sam put it.
There was a note on the yellow legal pad from Sam on the kitchen table when Dean got home, saying that he had went to the store to buy food that was already cooked and didn't need to be refrigerated. Dean interpreted that as meaning there would be a lot of beer, chips, and cookies. He could hardly wait.
After changing out of his wet clothes and setting them on the hood of the Impala because it was as good as any place for his clothes to dry, he laid out the newspaper on the table and began to search through the classifieds for the list of job openings.
The first job in the column was for a mechanic. Dean smiled. He had been fixing the Impala for years and knew he could fix about anything else. He read further and saw that they needed a CDL Class A license, whatever that was. Discouraged, he moved down to the next job. It was an account clerk and he skipped over it; it required a college degree. Another account clerk job and then a job for a taxi-driver; he thought it would be perfect until he saw he needed a clean license. His license or licenses, better put, were either fake, out-of-date, or loaded with fines from parking on city streets in the winter season.
He kept scanning through the columns and eventually found three jobs he could actually do. The only problem was that he rather die then perform them. They were all jobs at the factories in the surrounding area. They required no education, no licenses, and no background checks but Dean refused to do monotonous work. He lived to do work that involved doing, where every second of the day was different and fresh and exciting. He liked performing jobs that despite being dangerous, helped people.
He crumbled up the newspaper into a ball, and tossed it across the room into the garbage can. It didn't even hit the rim. He entertained his fantasy momentarily of being a basketball star.
The door slammed shut and Dean looked up from the garbage can. Sam was waddling in, carrying five or six plastic bags stuffed with groceries, and Dean reluctantly got up to help him lug in the bags. He unpacked the ones he carried in, piling the boxes of energy bars and the enormous bags of tortilla chips in the cabinet, and kept the bakery cupcakes out of the counter so he could later eat one.
"Did you go through the newspaper yet?" Sam asked, stuffing all the excess plastic bags into one.
"Yeah, wasn't qualified for any of them."
Sam chuckled and set the plastic bags on the counter. " I got a job."
"What! When did you have time to do that?"
"I was walking out of the grocery store and I heard these guys talking about the manager of the store quitting. So I approached them and asked them for the job. They said yes."
"You're too fucking lucky," Dean lamented. " Are you even know what it entails?"
"Nope."
"Do you even know anything about running a business?"
"No."
"Then how the fuck did you get the job?"
"I told them I went to Stanford."
Dean wanted to bang his head against the table in frustration. " So because you went to an Ivy League school, you can do anything."
"Stanford isn't technically the Ivy league."
"Close enough," Dean growled. He stood up and opened the plastic tin, pulling out a pink frosted cupcake. He peeled off its wrapper and bit into it. He closed his eyes as he chewed, using the sugary substance to ground him and help it to calm down. "Do you know anywhere else that is hiring?"
"The factories are always hiring. So are the fast-food places."
"I don't want a demeaning job."
Sam's eyes lit up. " You could work for me. We are in a need for cashiers and baggers."
"And one that is not masochistic."
Sam shrugged. " Then I don't know. You're going to find it hard to get a job without a college education or a high school diploma."
He knew that Sam didn't mean to do it but it felt like someone had shot him with rock salt, ironically something that Sam had done once. He felt the rage boil inside of him and bile rise in his throat. He felt the desire to hurt something and without replying, he left the room, jogging to the front door. As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he began running.
Sure, he wasn't super-educated like Sam but his brother didn't have to rub it in. It wasn't like he hadn't graduated high school. He had his GED. He knew about subjects that Sam would never know about i.e. business. Sam and his father weren't the ones who made sure there was enough money for Sam to go to college and that there was enough money for motel fees, gas for the car, and every broken bone and x-ray. It wasn't either of them who hacked up the schemes to get free money because no matter how many hours Dean put into the various jobs, it wasn't enough to pay for it all. He had skills. They were just more practical then academic.
He listened to the sound of his feet hitting the wet pavement, imaging it was something else that was getting beaten, and felt the water splash on his legs. The sky had cleared up and it was a hazy gray. All those element calmed him down as he rounded the curb to reach the end of the block where his house sat. He jogged up the front steps and let himself in.
"Do you feel better?" Sam asked from his perch on the armrest of the couch when Dean passed the living room to go to his own room.
"I do." He kept walking.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. It's just one of those harsh facts of life." Dean didn't look back to see his brother's response but he knew it would be a look of pity. No one was allowed to pity him. He shut the bedroom door behind him.
While Sam went to his job as manger at the local Price Chopper, Dean slunk around the house, putting new panes of glass in the broken windows and cleaned every thing he could find that was dirty such as the brown streaks in the bathtub from rust, with bottled water, vinegar, baking soda, and rolls of paper towels. And although it made him feel very Susie Homemakerish, he viewed the now polished house with pride.
He wasn't sure why he did it. He woke up the morning Sam went off for his first day on the job with a feeling of unworthiness, and he decided that to make himself feel better, he needed to throw himself into a project. Cleaning was the only thing he could think of.
It gave him time to observe his father. Although he wasn't some expert at psychology, like Sam pretended to be, he knew something was eating his father. His stare was glassy when Dean would bring him his lunch because John wouldn't eat otherwise. It was similar to right after their mother died. John had just sat there in the folding chair, gazing at the empty casket, while people conversed around him, the funeral done and everyone was allowed to be happy and merry again. Dean remembered he had gone up to his father and had tugged at his father's hand to get his attention. His father finally looked up at him and it was as if his dead eyes had been reborn, lit by a fire. He remembered his father saying, "We'll get her back." Dean knew at that moment that his father was again capable of taking care of him and Sam. He knew for certain that their lives had changed.
Dean tried to stay close to his father in case he wanted to talk. He would purposely save things to do in each room so he could go in when his father was in there. His father would always ignore him and when Dean tried to engage him in conversation, John would use the fewest words he could, sticking to monosyllable answers. It pissed Dean off but he knew it was his own fault that his father could just keep remaining silent. He was too scared to just come out and ask his father what was wrong or even talk to him about anything that didn't involve hustling, hunting, or other quasi-legal stunts.
Despite it being near the end of summer, John was pale and sickly looking, not helped by a lack of rest and nourishment, so Dean decided it would be a good idea to get his father outside. He wasn't sure which of the sixty odd reasons he gave to John to leave the house convinced him, but Dean drove him to the local park. He thought it would be scenic enough that his father could just sit on the park bench and do whatever he did when he stared into space, and Dean could sit next to him and be jealous of all the little kids swinging, pushed by their mothers.
He really did spent a lot of time being jealous, he realized, as he closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his eyelids. It was something he needed to work on now that there was nothing holding him back from having the things he wanted in life. Maybe he'd go to college and get so drunk at frat parties that he couldn't remember his own name. Maybe he would find a nice girl that he could settle down with, not someone who was whore pretty or someone he only was interested in because they knew something he wanted to know. And then he would have kids, a little girl and a little boy. He wanted a boy so he could teach him football and how rewarding it felt to create something with your bare hands and a little girl so he would always have someone who thought he was Superman and could do no wrong.
"That brat over there looked just like you did when you were his age."
Dean's eyes shot open and he followed his father's pointed finger. A kid was trying to move the merry go-around by himself, trying to get it to spin around faster, but it would only go as fast as he could run. His mouth was in a determined frown as his pudgy legs kept running around in the circle, trying to get it moving faster. He was no older then six or seven and Dean looked closer at the merry-go-round to see what he was pushing. There was a toddler sitting in the center, mouth open, cheering as he was spun around. Dean smiled.
"The babe looks like Sammy," he added.
John nodded. "You've taken real good care of him."
Dean didn't know if he should thank his father for the compliment. So he didn't.
"Sometimes…I wish I was a better father to you and Sam, Sam especially. Sam isn't as strong as you are. He was never able to understand why I had to do the things I had to do."
"You did the best you could," Dean reassured him.
"Did I? I abandoned both of you. I left you to care for him for weeks on end. You don't do that to a seven year old. I'm...I was…"
Dean knew where the sentence was going and he interrupted him before he could finish it. " You're not a bad father."
"But I was. Sam…Sam hates me. I look at him and he looks at me with such loathing. Oh god…" his father's voice broke and for a second, Dean didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to deal with a crying dad.
"He doesn't hate you. He loves you so much. He's so worried about you right now like I am," Dean said quietly.
John nodded, inhaling and exhaling slowly, trying to regain his composure. "I'm sorry I worry you both."
"It's okay. We understand you have shit to work through. It's fine."
"No, it's not. I should be providing for you. I shouldn't be making Sam go out and get a job because I can't pay the bills." Dean wanted to say that was always what his father made him do, but he knew it wasn't time to bring up his issues with his father. He took a deep breath. " Dad, we're old enough to help you out. Get yourself back to normal and then you can worry about doing your fatherly duties then."
The sun moved behind one of the clouds and Dean mourned the loss of the sun on his face. From the looks of it, his father was missing it too. The sky was getting cloudy and the air seemed heavy with the scent of rain. " Do you want to get going?"
John nodded and he climbed lethargically to his feet, knees not bending and straightening up as quickly as they used to, Dean noticed. Their father was getting older. It was the first time he had ever noticed that.
"Sometimes I wonder…"
Dean waited for the end of the sentence but it never came. His father walked past him and up the hill to the parking lot. Dean followed like he always did.
The first week of Sam's new job rolled to a close and Sam was never so relieved. It wasn't that the job was hard or that he didn't know how to run a business; to his relief, all the classes he took to get his bachelors in pre-law had adequately prepared him for business law and everything else was common sense. His problem with the job that it was boring and he didn't feel like he deserved the amount of money he was earning. He got $25 an hour just to supervise the workers and answer complaints. There was the occasional signings of papers and negotiations with different companies to find the best deal on the transport of food to their store but overall it was too easy. He would peer out the window that sat in the corner of his office that overlooked the cashier lines and he'd see men and women frantically bagging groceries and scanning purchases, all with a forced smile, as they dealt with crying babies and people who only wrote checks to pay for their purchases. They deserved to earn the money that he did for doing nothing. So after his first day there, and after having a sufficient guilt trip, he raised all the worker's paycheck by a dollar. He became very popular after that.
The front door was open, waving in the wind, when he returned home at ten. He had to run to the local college library so he could send out a fax to his boss, the regional supervisor for the chain of grocery stores, which detailed the financial happenings of the store. He didn't think anything of the door. It always had to be slammed fairly hard for it to stick and most likely, it had just remained open since the last time Dean left the house.
He shut the door behind him, and groped blindly around in the dark until he found the flashlight that was stashed on the floor. He flicked it on and wandered down the hall to his bedroom. The air was sticky and the room felt like a sauna despite all the windows being cracked open to get the air circulating. He couldn't wait until tomorrow when the banks would open and he could cash his first check, and finally get the electricity back on so the fans would work. He stripped down to his boxers and lay atop of the sheets, giving into his exhaustion.
Dark sky.
No stars or moon.
All light passing by far away, like from the headlights of a car.
Down a hill,
Freshly mowed lawn in rows, dots separating them,
Dots become gravestones.
Man kneels next to one, bent over.
Pieces of amber glass next to him, paper attached to bigger pieces, strewn around the limp body.
Red everywhere,
Life leaking out of him…
Sam woke to hear himself screaming and frantic knocking on his door. He rolled out of bed and unlocked his door, and jumped out of the way when Dean barreled in, pointing the gun in every direction.
"Where's the demon?"
"No demon. Just a bad dream…I think." Sam grabbed the closest item of clothing on the floor and used it to wipe the sweat off him.
"Have you been having visions lately?" Dean asked, taking a seat on the bed.
"Not recently but…"
"You think it was a vision," Dean finished. "What happened in it?"
"It's probably not a big deal. It looked like some drunk guy killed himself."
"Then why would you have it if it wasn't important?"
Sam pondered that. " Do you want to check it out?"
"Sure. Give me a minute to get some clothes on and get some caffeine." Dean left the room and Sam got dressed. He didn't even look to see what he was putting on. He just felt this urgency, like something really bad was happening. Grabbing his flashlight and turning it on, he ran down the hall and into the garage where Dean was already in the car, chugging cola. He opened the garage door and got into the car, where Dean promptly floored the gas, and they drove into town.
"We're looking for a graveyard," he told Dean, flipping through the maps they had of the town. " It looked like it is near somewhere that had a steady amount of traffic."
"Point me."
"Go left on Seneca and drive up the hill. You want the 3rd right."
They rolled in the graveyard three minutes later and they drove through the rows, looking for activity. It was dead.
"You sure this wasn't just a dream?" Dean asked as they pulled back onto the road.
"Yeah. Sure. Get back onto Main Street and go to the end of it where it runs into River. There's a small plot of land there with grave stones."
"Yes, sir."
The small plot turned out to be a field of gravestones of Civil War veterans behind a deserted office building and it was the only other graveyard in the town. Sam didn't want to give up the search but there was nowhere else to look and Dean's eyelids were slowly drooping as he drove them back home. He probably could have just made him and Dean switch seats, but he was tired as well. He chalked up the vision as a nightmare and they pulled the car into the garage.
He heard honking from down the street as he was pulling down the door to the garage and he looked up. Their street wasn't busy but the one next to them had cars whizzing through with no regard for the stop sign that stood there. Something clicked in his mind and he remembered the open door when he got home. He rushed up the stairs and opened the front door.
"Dean, is Dad in the house?" he yelled.
"Why wouldn't he be?" was the yelled answer.
"Can you check?"
He heard noises of someone stumbling around and then silence.
"Dean?"
"He's not here."
Sam swore under his breath and began running to the back of the house where the woods were.
"Where you going?" Dean yelled from somewhere behind him
Sam continued running blindly through the woods.
"Sam, stop. What's going on?"
Sam didn't stop running. " This house is our mother's childhood home. Maybe the graveyard I saw was like the family plot or where they burrowed the dead animals."
Sam felt prickers lodging themselves into his jeans and his feet stumbled over the branches, but still he didn't go for the flashlight that was in his back pocket. He didn't have time. He broke through the woods and saw the road, cars whizzing by. It looked exactly like his vision.
"There's…nothing…here," Dean panted. " Why would a pet cemetery be right by the road?"
"Maybe there were trees here when mom was a child," Sam answered, jogging alongside the road. He pinpointed the hill he saw and he ran down it, stopping at the bent barbed wire that divided it in half. He looked back up at the road, and seeing that the cars were going too fast to be able to identify him properly, he stepped over it.
He heard Dean cussing behind him as he jogged down the hill. He could see the brief outline of gravestones but little else.
"Dean, shine the flashlight down here," Sam yelled.
The light flashed on and though the beam was weak spread out over the large distance, it provided enough light for him to see the dark figure huddled against a grave near the front.
He approached the figure with increasing dread, noting the dark hair and the bulky frame. He kneeled down by the man and slowly set his fingers under his chin, lifting it up so he could see the face.
"Sam."
Sam didn't answer so Dean walked rest of the way down the hill to Sam's side.
"Sam, is it Dad?"
Sam didn't answer. He just tilted the head towards Dean.
It was.
End Chapter 2
How long have I been in this storm?
So overwhelmed by the oceans shapeless form.
The water's getting harder to tread
with these waves crashing over my head.
I know you didn't bring me out here to drown,
so why am I ten feet under and upside down.
Barely surviving has become my purpose
'cause I'm so used to living underneath the surface.
If I could just see you, everything would be alright.
