Famous Last Words
Title: Famous Last Words
Fandom/ Pairing The Losers (comic 'verse), eventual Jensen/Cougar
Rating: PG for now, will go up in coming chapters.
A/N: Credit where credit is due: katrinbisiani's Healing Takes Time series gave me the idea to fix that which needed fixing.
Summary: Cougar was bleeding all over the bomb in his lap, the last time Jensen saw him. But that was then.
Realization comes slowly, over the course of minutes, maybe years. He doesn't know how long he's been here. Or where here actually is. It doesn't even feel like a place. There's no up, no down, no boundaries. No ground beneath his feet, either, but to be honest, he's not sure he has feet, anymore.
He's insubstantial, weightless. It feels like he's nothing more than a trick of the light, but there's no light, here, to confirm. But he's aware, so apparently he actually exists. And really? that is what's sending him reeling.
Because for all he knows, it's all in his mind. He can't feel his body. Has the sense of hands and face and chest, but they're just notions, now. Not solid, not real. He has to concentrate to feel anything at all, and when he does, there's no promise that it's unimagined contact.
It's no more convincing that the suspicion that he's recently blown himself away into nothing, that at one point, there'd been enough of him to die, but he can't remember, not for sure. There was pain and blinding light and darkness and nothing at all.
His other memories are likewise hazy, incomplete, but he has the suspicion that at some point, back when it had mattered, he'd learned to admit when he'd lost a fight. It's that knowledge that rings most true, here.
Movement, not entirely his own, carries him on currents that he can't predict. Sometimes he can feel the current washing straight through him. He's dimly aware that it's cold, up here, he knows it without feeling it, somehow, just like he's dimly aware that there's not any air.
Doesn't matter, though, not really. He already knows this is death, and breathing, it turns out, is only as habitual as not breathing, and he can't focus his thoughts enough to panic.
There's no telling which way is up, or down, but the currents push him onward, and flying feels almost like swimming. He drifts along for a while, familiarizing himself with the sensations of his existence.
There's no way to tell how long he's been here, and he still hasn't convinced himself that time has any sway here. Eternity's stretching out around him, and there's nothing at all in it, not even himself, not really.
But he'd thought hell would've hurt more.
---
Another minute goes by, and another thousand years.
He thinks he's imagining the wavering light up ahead, but as it grows stronger it begins to sort itself into something resembling a sunrise, wide and wavering, and maybe- he can't be certain, but maybe there's an answer for him there.
The currents, though, they're shifting again, away from the light, and he's moving with them.
Irritation, it seems, is a sensation he's still able to experience. I
He tries to remember how this goes, what it feels like to exert some form of will, like it's something he's forgotten, something he has to think about now. He concentrates, though, for a while, but if the vestigial remains of his limbs begin to move with him, it's just another memory, another habitual impulse that doesn't mean anything any more.
Or maybe not.
There. A movement of the legs, and finally there's more current washing against him than through him. He's found friction, now. That? He can use.
He swings his arms, carefully, pushing the nothing back as he moves. It almost feels like walking against a strong wind, only no wind has ever cut through him so literally, or slowed him down so little.
He casts his attention out ahead, and loses the rhythm he'd very nearly managed when he sees the light grow brighter. He has to redouble his efforts. And again, and again.
Irritation finally gives way to frustration, to anger, and that's what finally pushes him through the forever, fighting every step and then he's there, he can see now, it's closer. A horizon, an edge, a bright shining surface, and warmth beyond it?
A few more swimming steps, and he's through, and he's not ready for the shock of it.
---
The ice only cuts through him for a moment, but it's the choking that he realizes first, that sends him scattering into nothing all over again, and there's too much that he knows now. He needs a moment to take it all in.
First, he hasn't breached the surface, not completely. He's still swaying on the horizon, now, letting the waves on the surface push him where they will. And the waves? They're familiar.
He's in the water. Ocean. He almost tasted it, for a moment there, felt the sting in eyes he hadn't been sure were real, before the shock ghosted him back into nothing. There'd been pain, and cold, and half of a gasp for air pulled into screaming lungs.
He can't feel any of it any more, not in his present state. But he knows, now, that he can, if he tries, if he gathers his molecules in. He could very nearly have a body.
He tries for what feels like hours, though, with no real success. It takes too much concentration to pull himself together, and the moment he gets close, he once again has to start breathing, start holding his weight above the water. And when he manages even that much, the cold air cuts against his face sharply enough to shock him back into pieces. His body, when it exists, feels weaker with every attempt, and it feels safer to stay like this, dispersed and vague. Easier to think, to take it all in. To admit that in all likelihood, he's a ghost.
The realization is unsettling, even more than the knowledge that he was dead. He's pretty sure he's never believed in ghosts, for all the nights spent haunted by dreams that were close enough.
He doesn't know how he knows they were dreams, not with the jumble of memories that are tumbling out so messily now that he's trying to remember, and he doesn't know why the dreams occur to him first, even before his own name. But that comes easily enough, now, anyhow.
His name is Carlos Alvarez, or maybe it's Cougar. And if he has a name, it's because there'd been someone, somewhere, who'd needed something to call him. And even if he isn't actually, technically, alive any more, he exists.
And maybe, just maybe, he's not the only one.
---
Chapter 1
Fandom/ Pairing The Losers (comic 'verse), eventual Jensen/Cougar
Rating: PG for now, will go up in coming chapters.
A/N: Credit where credit is due: katrinbisiani's Healing Takes Time series gave me the idea to fix that which needed fixing.
Summary: Cougar was bleeding all over the bomb in his lap, the last time Jensen saw him. But that was then.
Realization comes slowly, over the course of minutes, maybe years. He doesn't know how long he's been here. Or where here actually is. It doesn't even feel like a place. There's no up, no down, no boundaries. No ground beneath his feet, either, but to be honest, he's not sure he has feet, anymore.
He's insubstantial, weightless. It feels like he's nothing more than a trick of the light, but there's no light, here, to confirm. But he's aware, so apparently he actually exists. And really? that is what's sending him reeling.
Because for all he knows, it's all in his mind. He can't feel his body. Has the sense of hands and face and chest, but they're just notions, now. Not solid, not real. He has to concentrate to feel anything at all, and when he does, there's no promise that it's unimagined contact.
It's no more convincing that the suspicion that he's recently blown himself away into nothing, that at one point, there'd been enough of him to die, but he can't remember, not for sure. There was pain and blinding light and darkness and nothing at all.
His other memories are likewise hazy, incomplete, but he has the suspicion that at some point, back when it had mattered, he'd learned to admit when he'd lost a fight. It's that knowledge that rings most true, here.
Movement, not entirely his own, carries him on currents that he can't predict. Sometimes he can feel the current washing straight through him. He's dimly aware that it's cold, up here, he knows it without feeling it, somehow, just like he's dimly aware that there's not any air.
Doesn't matter, though, not really. He already knows this is death, and breathing, it turns out, is only as habitual as not breathing, and he can't focus his thoughts enough to panic.
There's no telling which way is up, or down, but the currents push him onward, and flying feels almost like swimming. He drifts along for a while, familiarizing himself with the sensations of his existence.
There's no way to tell how long he's been here, and he still hasn't convinced himself that time has any sway here. Eternity's stretching out around him, and there's nothing at all in it, not even himself, not really.
But he'd thought hell would've hurt more.
---
Another minute goes by, and another thousand years.
He thinks he's imagining the wavering light up ahead, but as it grows stronger it begins to sort itself into something resembling a sunrise, wide and wavering, and maybe- he can't be certain, but maybe there's an answer for him there.
The currents, though, they're shifting again, away from the light, and he's moving with them.
Irritation, it seems, is a sensation he's still able to experience. I
He tries to remember how this goes, what it feels like to exert some form of will, like it's something he's forgotten, something he has to think about now. He concentrates, though, for a while, but if the vestigial remains of his limbs begin to move with him, it's just another memory, another habitual impulse that doesn't mean anything any more.
Or maybe not.
There. A movement of the legs, and finally there's more current washing against him than through him. He's found friction, now. That? He can use.
He swings his arms, carefully, pushing the nothing back as he moves. It almost feels like walking against a strong wind, only no wind has ever cut through him so literally, or slowed him down so little.
He casts his attention out ahead, and loses the rhythm he'd very nearly managed when he sees the light grow brighter. He has to redouble his efforts. And again, and again.
Irritation finally gives way to frustration, to anger, and that's what finally pushes him through the forever, fighting every step and then he's there, he can see now, it's closer. A horizon, an edge, a bright shining surface, and warmth beyond it?
A few more swimming steps, and he's through, and he's not ready for the shock of it.
---
The ice only cuts through him for a moment, but it's the choking that he realizes first, that sends him scattering into nothing all over again, and there's too much that he knows now. He needs a moment to take it all in.
First, he hasn't breached the surface, not completely. He's still swaying on the horizon, now, letting the waves on the surface push him where they will. And the waves? They're familiar.
He's in the water. Ocean. He almost tasted it, for a moment there, felt the sting in eyes he hadn't been sure were real, before the shock ghosted him back into nothing. There'd been pain, and cold, and half of a gasp for air pulled into screaming lungs.
He can't feel any of it any more, not in his present state. But he knows, now, that he can, if he tries, if he gathers his molecules in. He could very nearly have a body.
He tries for what feels like hours, though, with no real success. It takes too much concentration to pull himself together, and the moment he gets close, he once again has to start breathing, start holding his weight above the water. And when he manages even that much, the cold air cuts against his face sharply enough to shock him back into pieces. His body, when it exists, feels weaker with every attempt, and it feels safer to stay like this, dispersed and vague. Easier to think, to take it all in. To admit that in all likelihood, he's a ghost.
The realization is unsettling, even more than the knowledge that he was dead. He's pretty sure he's never believed in ghosts, for all the nights spent haunted by dreams that were close enough.
He doesn't know how he knows they were dreams, not with the jumble of memories that are tumbling out so messily now that he's trying to remember, and he doesn't know why the dreams occur to him first, even before his own name. But that comes easily enough, now, anyhow.
His name is Carlos Alvarez, or maybe it's Cougar. And if he has a name, it's because there'd been someone, somewhere, who'd needed something to call him. And even if he isn't actually, technically, alive any more, he exists.
And maybe, just maybe, he's not the only one.
---
Chapter 1