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If you strip it down to its bones, you’ve gotten everything you’d ever wished for. You had Cas; you weren’t hunting, and neither was Sam; you had a permanent place to call home.
But, as it turns out, wishes come with a price. Cas was high most of the time, and you were never really sure if he remembered you or not. You weren’t hunting because there were no more monsters, not in the sense you’d grown up knowing about – there were only Croatoans, only people. Sammy wasn’t hunting because he said ‘yes’ to the devil. And the place you called home was a cabin in the center of a compound full of the last humans.
There were mornings that let you forget that everything was fucked and none of you would make it through this fight. There were mornings when the soft light of the sun, breaching through the cold air outside and your dirty windows, fell on his back and made him look human. Soft and touchable; nothing like what he was when the sun rose higher and he opened his eyes. Later in the day, you wouldn’t let your fingers trail down his spine, leaving goosebumps in your wake. But for now…. For now, it was okay. You could touch, and you could pretend.
These were the mornings when you loved him; when you could pretend that he loved you.
More often, you got nights like this.
The moon was nowhere to be found in the sky, refusing to sit witness to the apocalypse, and the only light there was came from an old candlestick on the nightstand. It cast a soft glow over both you, illuminating sweat on skin, making it seem innocent – loving, even.
On these nights, the bedframe would gain a few new cracks. The floorboards would scratch up a little more, a few scrapes added to the hundreds of thousands that already took up home there; the walls would shiver and shake, and so would you; the room would smell like sex and cigarettes, acrid and intoxicating.
Against all nights, those were the nights you said it. Three words that used to mean so much, but their meaning has been lost over time. They mean ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I wish you hadn’t changed’ and ‘I wish we could have had this’. “I love you.” Your voice is hollow.
You don’t know what goes spinning through his head when you say those words; don’t know what his logic is in repeating them. They’re a lie, a shame, a desperate clinging to something old and forgotten. But he says them back, not like a plea or a prayer or a promise – not like how he used to. He says them like they’re a weight tied to his ankles, dragging him under the sea; he says them like a lifeline. “I love you, too.” His eyes are empty.