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Nothing Else Matters

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Nothing Else Matters

By Waywardgirl222 



So close, no matter how far

Couldn't be much more from the heart

Forever trusting who we are

And nothing else matters



It’s the summer of 1990 and twelve year old Dean Winchester is sporting his newest facial accessory, a bloody split lip. He walks along the squalid, dingy hallway of his tenement apartment building. He decides to sit in his favorite place at the banister of the second floor. He likes to put his legs through the rails and watch the tenants come through the front door. He wonders about who they are and what their life is like. Maybe their lives are different from his. Eh, who’s he kidding? If they’re lucky enough to live in this dump, their lives suck. He sighs as he lights up his cigarette using a new green Bic lighter he acquired via his five-finger-discount. He hisses as he puts the cigarette up to his mouth and takes the first drag. His lower lip is angry, red, and swollen—-but it doesn’t make a difference. Nothing makes a difference in his young life. The old lady in 201 opens her door. She stares at him as she takes out her trash. Dean notices how she always manages to stare at him. 


“What you looking at.” He gripes. 


The old lady just shakes her head. “You’re too young to be smoking. You’re parents are going to be furious.”


Dean scoffs. “You must have me mistaken for some other kid who’s parents actually give a crap.” He takes another drag. 


She shakes her head and continues walking. 


Dean continues smoking. He can hear his parents arguing in their apartment that’s three doors down. The walls are paper-thin. His parents were always arguing about one thing or another. His father, John was ex-military. He had been a Marine at one point in his life. He had been a handsome man standing six foot two with dark hair and dark eyes. After retirement, he had been a mechanic before he spiraled into booze and gambling. His mother, Mary had been a seamstress at the local denim factory. She was beautiful with blonde hair and blue eyes. Now, she’s just a shadow of her former self. She had complications after giving birth to Dean’s baby brother, Sammy. She was never the same after that. Sammy’s a bright kid. He’s eight, inquisitive and a bundle of energy. Dean just thinks the kid’s awesome. Dean adores his little brother. Dean actually takes care of him now that Mary isn’t herself anymore. 


Dean continues watching tenants from his perch. His interest peaks when he watches the strange man walk through the front door of the tenement building. He stands about five eleven. He’s got wavy brown hair and electric blue eyes. He’s proportionately built. It’s hard to tell how much. The man always wears his black trench coat. The man is carrying two plastic bags with groceries, always the same things in the bags—-milk and honey. Dean wonders why the mysterious man always buys the same thing each time. The man heads upstairs and walks past him. He lives in the apartment furthest from Dean’s. The man is about to reach the threshold of his door when he turns around to look at Dean. He stares just like the old lady in 201. Dean feels small. 


“Smoking is bad for you.” The man says. 


Dean’s shoulders rise up to his neck. He looks at the man in the dark trench coat. “I know. I…I’m just trying to blow off a little steam is all.”  


There’s the sound of dishes being thrown against a wall and breaking coming from Dean’s apartment accompanied by more screaming. Dean sighs as the man hears the sounds. Nothing new, he’s heard them countless times before. The walls are paper-thin. He looks at the young boy dressed in a torn faded black t-shirt and equally torn and faded blue jeans with sneakers. He spots the boy’s swollen lower lip. He doesn’t say anything.


“Look, Mister, just don’t tell my dad. Ok? He’ll have a cow and I don’t think I can take another beating…not today anyway.” Dean puts out the cigarette and flings it off the balcony. 


The mysterious man grunts and leaves. Dean pops a sucker into his mouth. It’s a green Jolly Rancher, Dean’s favorite. He prays the apple flavor will disguise any evidence of his bad vice. He’s gotta return to his shit hole apartment . He gets up and starts walking. 


He enters his apartment. Things have changed and yet, they haven’t. John’s sitting on his ratty recliner in the living room drinking his rot-gut whiskey. Mary’s attempting to cook her ‘Winchester Surprise’ in the kitchen while crying. Sammy’s in the kitchen trying to help her. Dean walks past his father. 


“You’ve been smoking again, Dean? I’m gonna tan your hide when I catch you. It’s only a matter of time. Now, get in the kitchen and help your mother and Sammy you worthless excuse for a son!”


Dean flinches. The words aren’t new, but they still sting. “Yes, sir.”


Dean goes into the kitchen and hugs his mom. He doesn’t really say anything anymore. There aren’t words for these types of situations. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t quite help when this happens everyday. He just stands beside his little brother and picks up a knife—-starts chopping the carrots for the meatless stew. 


“No Fritos or cheese?” Dean asks. 


Mary sighs. “No Fritos, no cheese, Dean. I’m afraid it’s carrots and beef bouillon, a little celery.”


Dean frowns. It sucks big time. It’s the ‘Winchester Surprise’ alright. Surprise! No nothing. 


After their meager dinner, Dean plays with Sammy quietly in the room they share. John isn’t one for noise, so Dean and Sammy play with their little green plastic army soldiers. Sometimes they play Yahtzee, but they lost the dice. John’s outside the apartment talking with his business associates. It’s Crowley and his minions again. Dean can’t stand Crowley. He’s a short man with beady dark menacing eyes. He always wears black tailored clothing. Dean thinks Crowley looks like a demon. The man has a British accent. Dean doesn’t really know what it is that John does, but it can’t be anything good. Crowley’s always coming around griping about something or other. This time it’s money. 


“Winchester, where’s the money? You’re late. I’ve already given you another week and still—-you haven’t paid the bloody money!” The vein in Crowley’s head is popping out. 


John stutters. “I, I haven’t got it. Just, just give me one more day. I, I promise I’ll have it by tomorrow.”


Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. “You better have it by tomorrow or else you pay Winchester, you’ll pay dearly.” Crowley gives John a push and walks away. 


John slams the door and starts drinking again. Mary starts complaining—-something about gambling too much. The argument starts up again and continues way past midnight. 


“Come on, Sammy. Time for bed.” Dean tells Sammy to put on his pajamas and get into the full-size mattress they share. There’s no bed frame. It lies on the bare floor. Dean bends down and kneels to tuck Sammy in. 


“Why they gotta fight, Dee?” Sammy asks. 


Dean bites his lower lip, forgets it’s still swollen. Dammit it hurts. “Sometimes parents just don’t get along. Daddy drinks too much and mommy’s tired of it. S’all. Now go to sleep.” Dean grabs Sammy’s old dingy stuffed rabbit. The kid’s probably getting too old for it, but he still latches to it during times like this. 


Dean doesn’t bother get undressed. What’s the point when your old pajamas now belong to your baby brother and your parents haven’t bother to get you any the last couple of years. Dean just sleeps in his street clothes now. He lowers himself onto the mattress and spoons his little brother into his arms. 


“It’s ok, Sammy. I’ve got you.”  The argument continues. Both brothers let the darkness overtake them and lull them into the abyss of sleep. 



Never opened myself this way

Life is ours, we live it our way

All these words, I don't just say

And nothing else matters