So whooooo likes ragged/confused/jumbled prose? RAISE HANDS.
Otherwise known as fuckawhat, self, but okay. Here goes. Warnings for mentions of suicide, fake-out character death, and, uh. Yeah. :D? Also language and shit.
Everything Flows, Nothing Remains
At first, Sam didn’t even understand.
“What?” he said, because he’d heard that wrong, surely he’d heard that wrong, it was just his fucked up brain - things like this happened all the time, and he knew they weren’t real, knew it because he would blink and look to the left and sometimes check pulse and breathing just in case but only when Dean was sleeping because he’d freak out otherwise-
He looked to his left. The chair was empty.
“It would have been almost instant,” the man was saying, dry, almost mechanical, with an attempt at sympathy sprinkled on top. “There would likely have been no pain.” Sam dug his fingernails into the scar, into his wrist when that didn’t work, scrabbling for purchase, for pain. The man stayed.
“We need you to ID the body,” the man said. The body.
( ... )
** The motel room was a mess. Sam couldn’t remember doing it, but he might have. Everything was a little vague. A little hazy. The mess bothered him.
Sam started picking it up. He stopped, put everything back where it was. He was here, wasn’t he? Yes, sitting there, by that broken glass. When they called. When they called male gunshot wound to the head, phone in his pocket listed you as his ICE.
Sir?
Sir?Oh god, Sam thought he said then. And then nothing. Because this didn’t happen. Not like this
( ... )
** It was dark out. Still cold. He’d forgotten to put on a jacket. It didn’t seem to matter. His hand felt wet. And it hurt.
He walked. Somewhere out here was the man who’d shot his brother. Somewhere out here. Somewhere. (You’re a hunter. You’ll find him.)
And then what, Sam?
And then what? Dean thought he was strong. Dean didn’t know how wrong he was. Dean-
Dean-
“Fucking shit,” Someone said, right in front of him. “Are you high, man?” Sam bared his teeth at them, and they skittered out of the way. Blood slid across his knuckles. It felt cold.
Maybe he wouldn’t even kill the guy. He just wanted to know why. Why killing Dean was so necessary. So important. Why everyone thought they needed to (had the right to) take him away. Maybe that was all he needed to know. Maybe then he would get it. Make sense of this. Of everything.
Someone slammed him into a wall. “Sam, stop,” someone was saying, “Jesus, hold on, didn’t you hear me, where the fuck do you think you’re-”
“No,” Sam mumbled. “That’s not. You can’t. We need you to
( ... )
“I’m glad you’re alive,” Sam said, because their rules didn’t let him say the world doesn’t make sense when you’re not there anymore. The rules were important, though. They were what let them keep going and going and going.
Energizer Winchesters.
Sam choked on a laugh.
Dean’s eyes softened, worry clear when he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too, Sammy. And I’m not going anywhere, all right?” Sam nodded. Dean’s pat on his leg was solid, like the ground. “Let’s call this one a day,” Dean said, finally, wearily. “You look beat. I’m beat.”
There was probably a rule against it, Sam thought, rocking back onto the bed and then forward. But he couldn’t remember it right now. He shifted to wrap his arms around Dean and hug him tightly enough that he could feel the thud-thud-thud of Dean’s heartbeat, or imagined he could. Dean patted his back awkwardly
( ... )
Oh, good, I'm glad it worked. It has been a long time, possibly ever, since I wrote anything this disjointed, but it was what wanted to happen for this particular prompt. >>
It’s weird then, that it doesn’t seem that disjointed? That it pretty much makes perfect sense. lol Oh dear, not a good sign for me. :) Great work. This was so great.
Oh wait, no, sorry! It was all a terrible misunderstanding. Everything's fine, Sam.
...Sam?
(So callous and inappropriate, I know. S7, gen.)
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This one's going in my list.
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Otherwise known as fuckawhat, self, but okay. Here goes. Warnings for mentions of suicide, fake-out character death, and, uh. Yeah. :D? Also language and shit.
Everything Flows, Nothing Remains
At first, Sam didn’t even understand.
“What?” he said, because he’d heard that wrong, surely he’d heard that wrong, it was just his fucked up brain - things like this happened all the time, and he knew they weren’t real, knew it because he would blink and look to the left and sometimes check pulse and breathing just in case but only when Dean was sleeping because he’d freak out otherwise-
He looked to his left. The chair was empty.
“It would have been almost instant,” the man was saying, dry, almost mechanical, with an attempt at sympathy sprinkled on top. “There would likely have been no pain.” Sam dug his fingernails into the scar, into his wrist when that didn’t work, scrabbling for purchase, for pain. The man stayed.
“We need you to ID the body,” the man said. The body. ( ... )
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**
The motel room was a mess. Sam couldn’t remember doing it, but he might have. Everything was a little vague. A little hazy. The mess bothered him.
Sam started picking it up. He stopped, put everything back where it was. He was here, wasn’t he? Yes, sitting there, by that broken glass. When they called. When they called male gunshot wound to the head, phone in his pocket listed you as his ICE.
Sir?
Sir?Oh god, Sam thought he said then. And then nothing. Because this didn’t happen. Not like this ( ... )
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It was dark out. Still cold. He’d forgotten to put on a jacket. It didn’t seem to matter. His hand felt wet. And it hurt.
He walked. Somewhere out here was the man who’d shot his brother. Somewhere out here. Somewhere. (You’re a hunter. You’ll find him.)
And then what, Sam?
And then what? Dean thought he was strong. Dean didn’t know how wrong he was. Dean-
Dean-
“Fucking shit,” Someone said, right in front of him. “Are you high, man?” Sam bared his teeth at them, and they skittered out of the way. Blood slid across his knuckles. It felt cold.
Maybe he wouldn’t even kill the guy. He just wanted to know why. Why killing Dean was so necessary. So important. Why everyone thought they needed to (had the right to) take him away. Maybe that was all he needed to know. Maybe then he would get it. Make sense of this. Of everything.
Someone slammed him into a wall. “Sam, stop,” someone was saying, “Jesus, hold on, didn’t you hear me, where the fuck do you think you’re-”
“No,” Sam mumbled. “That’s not. You can’t. We need you to ( ... )
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“I’m glad you’re alive,” Sam said, because their rules didn’t let him say the world doesn’t make sense when you’re not there anymore. The rules were important, though. They were what let them keep going and going and going.
Energizer Winchesters.
Sam choked on a laugh.
Dean’s eyes softened, worry clear when he glanced up. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too, Sammy. And I’m not going anywhere, all right?” Sam nodded. Dean’s pat on his leg was solid, like the ground. “Let’s call this one a day,” Dean said, finally, wearily. “You look beat. I’m beat.”
There was probably a rule against it, Sam thought, rocking back onto the bed and then forward. But he couldn’t remember it right now. He shifted to wrap his arms around Dean and hug him tightly enough that he could feel the thud-thud-thud of Dean’s heartbeat, or imagined he could. Dean patted his back awkwardly ( ... )
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poor boys!
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Awesome fill!
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Thank you!
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