(No ownage. No money made. No insult intended. Title and lyrics shamelessly stolen...ehrm...borrowed...from the amazing mr Tom Waits. Enjoy.)
Dean is a wreck.
It's so hard, so hard to be the only one trying, and watching everything slipping through his fingers like salt no matter how he tries to keep it together. Sometimes (most times) he feels like the one you're supposed to laugh at in cartoons, the stupid guy, the one who gets blown up and whacked with anvils and baseball bats and bowling balls and pianos, the one stuck in the little red rowing boat, frantically plugging leaks and bailing water, and you know all along it's no use at all because new holes appear as soon as the old ones are covered and it's going down down down no matter what, but still the sucker keeps trying (stupid, so stupid!) until there are only bubbles on the surface and a tiny little life raft with a smug and smirking woodworm sailing off into the sunset.
Dean doesn't think cartoons are funny anymore.
He gets tension headaches these days; they start in his shoulders and throb in red and white on the edges of his vision. He's losing weight because the cold, sick feeling in his stomach is ruining his appetite. He can't sleep, because the ship is sinking and his world is falling apart piece by piece – too many holes and he's so damn tired.
And they see none of this, Dad and Sam, too busy shouting, fighting, too preoccupied to notice the damage they're doing (or maybe they just don't care), using him as a weapon in their guerilla war of words - as an accusation, as a justification, without ever looking at him even though he's right there between them.
And soon Sam will wash his hands of them and jump into his lifeboat and leave (yes, Dean knows about the college applications and the scholarships, and he wonders if Sam will even bother to tell him before he goes) onwards and upwards chasing normal, and Dean has no idea why his supposedly genius brother is too dumb to see that there's no such thing.
Dean should brush up on his swimming. But he's not sure he wants to.
i want that beggar's eyes
a winning horse
a tidy mexican divorce
St Mary's prayers
and a barman who always
well all of your letters
burned up in the fire
time is just memory
mixed with desire
that's not the road it is
only the map...i say
gone just like matches
from a closed down cabaret