while you slept
So, this still doesn't count.
Inspiration from this (secret I made myself). It's rather craptastic, so enjoy.
while you slept
supernatural gen | pg
-
One second - the time it takes to breathe, the time it takes to blink, the time it takes for your heart to beat - and it could all be over. One second. Like life. Like death.
One second.
The metal slips in his hands and he barely catches it. One second, he holds his breath in, lungs filling to burst and waits.
Just one.
The chamber is full, bursting like the fireworks in his eyes. He can see the flashes everywhere, filling up the grey room and making it hard to see. He doesn’t rub away the lines of never-ending color.
He could do it. One second. Just one fucking second and maybe he could breathe again. Move on, drive down the highway and breathe.
Not live. No, he wouldn’t be able to live. Not with himself, not after knowing what he had done - but he has to do it. Promise, order - please and do it all sound the same.
He catches the clock changing, bright red flashing two in the morning and he’s been standing here for hours, legs locked into a fighting stance, barrel of his gun pressed lightly against his brother’s temple. He doesn’t stop to think if he can feel it.
Fingers drum against the warm, sweat-slick metal. He shuffles his feet; just like every other god damn demon out there and he can end it. Just like every other time before. One second. Just give me a second; just one.
He just has to find that one second where he can pull the trigger.
He already sees fire, he already sees eternal damnation and Hell and black eyes around every corner. He sees himself hunting his brother like he’s a fucking thing and every time, it’s like someone’s reached into his chest and slams his heart against his chest until he really can’t breathe. He’s more ready to find an end before it ever begins than to think.
There’s a sick sense of savior-complex in knowing he could easily just stop it; a deranged feeling of making a difference, of helping his brother, of keeping his brother safe from something he can’t control.
Of taking the easy, the selfish and the fucking worst way out.
And how many seconds have passed and his finger rests on the trigger, pulling it back enough to hear it scrape against the metal - how long and he hasn’t done it? Too many. All these seconds and there’s not one. Not one that feels right, feels like now. It just feels like time.
He wants to press the bullet like beauty, like grace, through his brothers’ temple, so there’s no marks, no signs that he was ever there - it would never have to end like how his nightmares told him. Just the bullet, the end and dirty sheets wrapped tightly around him. Like - like nothing. He wants nothing in everything. And he’ll run. Run for miles until, when he looks back, there’s nothing.
There’s noises - whirring lights from the vacancy sign, someone next door suffering from insomnia… his brother, moving, shifting on the bed sheets and head turning to face him. Eyes fluttered closed, lips parted and he’ll never know that there’s been a gun held to his head every night for the last three weeks.
Waiting… waiting for that second where everything fits, pieces to the puzzle, stars aligned and he can finally let go. Breathe.
Just one second.
There’s darkness in the salvation and he tries to find it; tries to find in all the light, in all the color. Sorts through it with every bullet in the chamber, through every second that passes like death and promises; outlines his brother’s jaw with the barrel of the gun, like fingers made of ice. Knows how easy it could be.
And he thinks. He thinks for fucking days and he tries to find another way, but there are bullets and there are silent nights and empty meadows and stretches of highway that only they can find and the willingness to just let it be over. Laid out, before him, on a silver platter and all he has to do is take it. One second.
Like breathing.
But the gun falls, just like every other night and he crawls back into bed before dawn breaks through the curtains. It always feels so empty when he pulls the blankets around him, when his brother wakes and tells him stop leaving your shit everywhere, dean - it feels like he’s giving up.
It’s coming quickly to an end and there will be no fire, there will be no cracks opening in the earth; no apocalypse or dying angels or anything. Just an empty meadow, the world at his back and playing God in his hands. Because he can give up when he’s not looking. He’s been walking blindly for so many years; he doesn’t see the difference.
Not really.
Inspiration from this (secret I made myself). It's rather craptastic, so enjoy.
while you slept
supernatural gen | pg
-
One second - the time it takes to breathe, the time it takes to blink, the time it takes for your heart to beat - and it could all be over. One second. Like life. Like death.
One second.
The metal slips in his hands and he barely catches it. One second, he holds his breath in, lungs filling to burst and waits.
Just one.
The chamber is full, bursting like the fireworks in his eyes. He can see the flashes everywhere, filling up the grey room and making it hard to see. He doesn’t rub away the lines of never-ending color.
He could do it. One second. Just one fucking second and maybe he could breathe again. Move on, drive down the highway and breathe.
Not live. No, he wouldn’t be able to live. Not with himself, not after knowing what he had done - but he has to do it. Promise, order - please and do it all sound the same.
He catches the clock changing, bright red flashing two in the morning and he’s been standing here for hours, legs locked into a fighting stance, barrel of his gun pressed lightly against his brother’s temple. He doesn’t stop to think if he can feel it.
Fingers drum against the warm, sweat-slick metal. He shuffles his feet; just like every other god damn demon out there and he can end it. Just like every other time before. One second. Just give me a second; just one.
He just has to find that one second where he can pull the trigger.
He already sees fire, he already sees eternal damnation and Hell and black eyes around every corner. He sees himself hunting his brother like he’s a fucking thing and every time, it’s like someone’s reached into his chest and slams his heart against his chest until he really can’t breathe. He’s more ready to find an end before it ever begins than to think.
There’s a sick sense of savior-complex in knowing he could easily just stop it; a deranged feeling of making a difference, of helping his brother, of keeping his brother safe from something he can’t control.
Of taking the easy, the selfish and the fucking worst way out.
And how many seconds have passed and his finger rests on the trigger, pulling it back enough to hear it scrape against the metal - how long and he hasn’t done it? Too many. All these seconds and there’s not one. Not one that feels right, feels like now. It just feels like time.
He wants to press the bullet like beauty, like grace, through his brothers’ temple, so there’s no marks, no signs that he was ever there - it would never have to end like how his nightmares told him. Just the bullet, the end and dirty sheets wrapped tightly around him. Like - like nothing. He wants nothing in everything. And he’ll run. Run for miles until, when he looks back, there’s nothing.
There’s noises - whirring lights from the vacancy sign, someone next door suffering from insomnia… his brother, moving, shifting on the bed sheets and head turning to face him. Eyes fluttered closed, lips parted and he’ll never know that there’s been a gun held to his head every night for the last three weeks.
Waiting… waiting for that second where everything fits, pieces to the puzzle, stars aligned and he can finally let go. Breathe.
Just one second.
There’s darkness in the salvation and he tries to find it; tries to find in all the light, in all the color. Sorts through it with every bullet in the chamber, through every second that passes like death and promises; outlines his brother’s jaw with the barrel of the gun, like fingers made of ice. Knows how easy it could be.
And he thinks. He thinks for fucking days and he tries to find another way, but there are bullets and there are silent nights and empty meadows and stretches of highway that only they can find and the willingness to just let it be over. Laid out, before him, on a silver platter and all he has to do is take it. One second.
Like breathing.
But the gun falls, just like every other night and he crawls back into bed before dawn breaks through the curtains. It always feels so empty when he pulls the blankets around him, when his brother wakes and tells him stop leaving your shit everywhere, dean - it feels like he’s giving up.
It’s coming quickly to an end and there will be no fire, there will be no cracks opening in the earth; no apocalypse or dying angels or anything. Just an empty meadow, the world at his back and playing God in his hands. Because he can give up when he’s not looking. He’s been walking blindly for so many years; he doesn’t see the difference.
Not really.