FILLED [where are you?] (1/5)
anonymous
November 2 2018, 21:37:11 UTC
WARNING: slight gore/violence nothing too major. Still don't know how to do this...
Awareness came to him slowly, the feeling of grogginess clinging onto him despite his bodies protests. Sam groaned, trying to lift his heavy limbs to scratch at an itch on his nose. He was unsuccessful...stupid arm. He decided to take it one step at a time and try to peel open his eyes instead. Taking a shaky breath he focused all his energy on being able to see again, eyelids fluttering. It took a couple of minutes but he eventually got them open, panting in relief, but nearly squeezed them shut again as sudden light pierced through his defences. Even though the room he was in was dimly lit the light still hurt.
"Deee?" He rasped, his voice scratchy as he convulsively swallowed against his sudden nausea. "Deeeean?" Sam called again, voice slightly stronger; worried. No answer. He swore under his breath, looking around the room as he tried to gather the strength to get up. This was NOT good. Not good at all...
The room was fairly bare. A few wooden crates lay scattered around; haphazard and slightly decayed, industrial looking beams hung from the ceiling; paint peeling from where it had not so generously smothered, and posters littered the walls; diagrams too small to make out and seemingly stained by what looked like coffee, but was probably just time. That was it though. Nothing else appeared to be filling the room up. Sam looked closer, trying to make out any smaller details that may be important, causing his vision to swim with the concentration. He didn't feel too good. He needed to get out of here now. After a thorough investigation (or as thorough as he could whilst still lying on the floor) he had not only realised he had no idea where he was (surprise?) but he had also worked out that if he could make his way across the dank floorboards, that were covered in a weird plant he assumed was moss, and get to the key he could just make out on the other side of the floor, then he could probably get out of the door trapping him in here; one bolt at a time. After that, who knew? Plan C?
Sam glared at the key. He didn't know if he was trying to get it to come to him, or his body to come to it, but either way he wasn't even trying to move. Which didn't help. Sighing, he realised he really should get up; but he didn't feel good, and he reasoned that lying down never hurt nobody. Then the image of his brother all alone and in trouble, possibly even dying, sprung to mind, and he couldn't believe he had been so selfish: Dean needed him. So with a strangled gasp he forced himself upright, sweat beading on his forehead.
When he got himself to the point where he could stand up without falling flat on his face, he lifted the remains of his shirt and pressed a hand to the main source of his pain, trying to assess some of the damage before moving to pick up the key. "Gaaaargh. Aargh!" It hurt so fucking bad. "Dean." The broken plea slipped past his lips, refusing to be held in. His brother always made everything better, and right now that was exactly what he needed: a long gash trailed from the start of his ribs to his belly button, some of it not even covered by his hand, and it looked deep. He could make out the tip of bone poking through torn muscle, the site of the wound puffy and red around the edges, oozing slick blood everywhere. He didn't know how he'd missed it, but now he was aware of it, it seemed to hurt even more. It wasn't very wide but he knew it was serious, and the fact that it wasn't bleeding all that much was a worry, but he couldn't dawdle any longer. He had to find Dean.
Getting the key and then using it to open the door was a hindrance in his current state, but it was done soon enough. Sam stumbled out into what looked like a large hallway (again; completely desolate) and gripped the wall as he went, blood smearing against it, but he was so tired he couldn't find it in him to care.
Still don't know how to do this...
Awareness came to him slowly, the feeling of grogginess clinging onto him despite his bodies protests. Sam groaned, trying to lift his heavy limbs to scratch at an itch on his nose. He was unsuccessful...stupid arm. He decided to take it one step at a time and try to peel open his eyes instead. Taking a shaky breath he focused all his energy on being able to see again, eyelids fluttering. It took a couple of minutes but he eventually got them open, panting in relief, but nearly squeezed them shut again as sudden light pierced through his defences. Even though the room he was in was dimly lit the light still hurt.
"Deee?" He rasped, his voice scratchy as he convulsively swallowed against his sudden nausea. "Deeeean?" Sam called again, voice slightly stronger; worried. No answer. He swore under his breath, looking around the room as he tried to gather the strength to get up. This was NOT good. Not good at all...
The room was fairly bare. A few wooden crates lay scattered around; haphazard and slightly decayed, industrial looking beams hung from the ceiling; paint peeling from where it had not so generously smothered, and posters littered the walls; diagrams too small to make out and seemingly stained by what looked like coffee, but was probably just time. That was it though. Nothing else appeared to be filling the room up. Sam looked closer, trying to make out any smaller details that may be important, causing his vision to swim with the concentration. He didn't feel too good. He needed to get out of here now. After a thorough investigation (or as thorough as he could whilst still lying on the floor) he had not only realised he had no idea where he was (surprise?) but he had also worked out that if he could make his way across the dank floorboards, that were covered in a weird plant he assumed was moss, and get to the key he could just make out on the other side of the floor, then he could probably get out of the door trapping him in here; one bolt at a time. After that, who knew? Plan C?
Sam glared at the key. He didn't know if he was trying to get it to come to him, or his body to come to it, but either way he wasn't even trying to move. Which didn't help. Sighing, he realised he really should get up; but he didn't feel good, and he reasoned that lying down never hurt nobody. Then the image of his brother all alone and in trouble, possibly even dying, sprung to mind, and he couldn't believe he had been so selfish: Dean needed him. So with a strangled gasp he forced himself upright, sweat beading on his forehead.
When he got himself to the point where he could stand up without falling flat on his face, he lifted the remains of his shirt and pressed a hand to the main source of his pain, trying to assess some of the damage before moving to pick up the key. "Gaaaargh. Aargh!" It hurt so fucking bad. "Dean." The broken plea slipped past his lips, refusing to be held in. His brother always made everything better, and right now that was exactly what he needed: a long gash trailed from the start of his ribs to his belly button, some of it not even covered by his hand, and it looked deep. He could make out the tip of bone poking through torn muscle, the site of the wound puffy and red around the edges, oozing slick blood everywhere. He didn't know how he'd missed it, but now he was aware of it, it seemed to hurt even more. It wasn't very wide but he knew it was serious, and the fact that it wasn't bleeding all that much was a worry, but he couldn't dawdle any longer. He had to find Dean.
Getting the key and then using it to open the door was a hindrance in his current state, but it was done soon enough. Sam stumbled out into what looked like a large hallway (again; completely desolate) and gripped the wall as he went, blood smearing against it, but he was so tired he couldn't find it in him to care.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment