Abandon WIP!
SO. Way back when Michael Phelps took over my FList I did part of an Olympic!J2 AU. But then it came out in words and it was more Jared/Jensen/Tom/Mike in my head and IDK. Then another person I used to be friends with was gonna write one so I stopped and, yeah. I don't utterly hate it, but there's a 99% chance it will never go further than this.
Jared led, then Tom, then Mike, with Jensen anchoring. And Jared and Tom were doing good but Mike caught a lungful of water somewhere or something and lost a lot of their lead so Jensen had to go twice as hard as he thought he could for them to get that gold.
His lungs are on fucking fire when he finishes and he's gulping in air so fast and so hard that it's making him nauseous, stomach rolling with endorphins and chlorinated water. He has no idea if they've even won or not because he's fucking dizzy with adrenaline and he won't wear his contacts when he swims so he's all fuzzy from that anyway.
And then there are hands pulling at him, short nails digging into his arms and at his chest and he's being hauled out of the pool and into his team. Jared's got him pulled tight against him, one hand shoving his goggles and swim cap off and scrubing through his hair roughly. Tom and Mikey are hugging him too, but it's not as intense, not as "right there" as Jared is.
"Holy shit, Jensen," and he's out of breath like he's the one who just had to hold it underwater for a month. "So fucking proud of you, man. You did it, you fucking broke the record, that was all you." Jared's got his forehead against Jensen's, his damp hair not quite slicked back, tickling at the corners of Jensen's eyes.
Everything's spinning, swooping, because, holy shit, he has a record. He has--They have a world record. He needs to sit; doesn't trust his feet or lungs or head or anything right now, and they guide him like helper dogs, three big, chilly hands on his back and Jared's on his stomach as they make their way to the bench.
They should be doing an interview right now but he still can't breathe; shock and giddiness coursing through his veins, so he bends, head between his legs like after the 200m, but different this time because it's the joy and disbelief instead of shame and throbbing pain from slamming his head like some fucking novice.
Deep breathes and tears and, "God, that really feels good." Jared's arm is still around his shoulder and he tugs him close, tucks him into his side and mumbles sappy declarations into the space near Jensen's ear as he hands him his glasses. "Hate these things," he says, sliding them on, rubbing at his eyes underneath.
Jared led, then Tom, then Mike, with Jensen anchoring. And Jared and Tom were doing good but Mike caught a lungful of water somewhere or something and lost a lot of their lead so Jensen had to go twice as hard as he thought he could for them to get that gold.
His lungs are on fucking fire when he finishes and he's gulping in air so fast and so hard that it's making him nauseous, stomach rolling with endorphins and chlorinated water. He has no idea if they've even won or not because he's fucking dizzy with adrenaline and he won't wear his contacts when he swims so he's all fuzzy from that anyway.
And then there are hands pulling at him, short nails digging into his arms and at his chest and he's being hauled out of the pool and into his team. Jared's got him pulled tight against him, one hand shoving his goggles and swim cap off and scrubing through his hair roughly. Tom and Mikey are hugging him too, but it's not as intense, not as "right there" as Jared is.
"Holy shit, Jensen," and he's out of breath like he's the one who just had to hold it underwater for a month. "So fucking proud of you, man. You did it, you fucking broke the record, that was all you." Jared's got his forehead against Jensen's, his damp hair not quite slicked back, tickling at the corners of Jensen's eyes.
Everything's spinning, swooping, because, holy shit, he has a record. He has--They have a world record. He needs to sit; doesn't trust his feet or lungs or head or anything right now, and they guide him like helper dogs, three big, chilly hands on his back and Jared's on his stomach as they make their way to the bench.
They should be doing an interview right now but he still can't breathe; shock and giddiness coursing through his veins, so he bends, head between his legs like after the 200m, but different this time because it's the joy and disbelief instead of shame and throbbing pain from slamming his head like some fucking novice.
Deep breathes and tears and, "God, that really feels good." Jared's arm is still around his shoulder and he tugs him close, tucks him into his side and mumbles sappy declarations into the space near Jensen's ear as he hands him his glasses. "Hate these things," he says, sliding them on, rubbing at his eyes underneath.