Re: FILLED: zero integrity (part 2/3)stella_downOctober 9 2011, 13:44:20 UTC
* * *
Something’s shaking him.
Dim sensation of his face scraping against hardwood.
Someone’s saying words but they're buried under a layer of white noise, distorted, almost like being underwater. It’s fucking annoying. He wants to make it shut up but he can't get his arm to move.
"Dean," says the alien echo, reverberating, hurting his ears. "Dean, can you hear me?"
"No," he tries to say, indignant.
"I need you to listen to me, okay? How many--"
* * *
"I don't know. I don't - what's he been taking? How strong is it? I mean, is it - is he --"
"First aid kit in the van. Glove compartment.”
“Bobby -- “
“Don’t have all night, Sam.”
Door slamming.
“Goddamn it, boy. You die on me and I swear -“
* * *
His eyes open, sudden rush of daylight stinging his pupils, and Sam is leaning over him. He blinks. Sam’s face is all twisted up and his eyes are red and swollen.
"Dude," Dean rasps. His mouth tastes like a fucking wet cigarette. "What's wrong?"
Sam makes this sound halfway between a disbelieving laugh and a sob.
"You don't even remember?"
Dean tries to sit up on his elbows, and when the nausea hits, he can barely breathe through the stifling garrote around his lungs. The force of it drops him back down onto the couch. He sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out through his nose. Inhale, exhale.
"Get me some water?" he asks, voice cracking, and Sam’s mouth goes tight like he’s just said the wrong thing.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, Dean.”
And he’s gone, just like that.
Dean stares at the ceiling, holding his stomach contents at bay through sheer willpower. He’s done something wrong. Sam’s seen him hungover a thousand times and he’s never made that face. That’s his messed-up, emo, werewolf-shooting face, and it’s because of something he did. It’s just that there are so goddamn many things Dean’s already screwed up, fouled up beyond all repair, and they don’t talk about them very much these days, Sam and Dean, and if he lies here and goes over each and every word he wishes he could forget, every stupid thing he’d sell his soul to fix, he’d never get up off of this couch.
“The tap water sucks in Montana,” Sam is saying somewhere off to the left.
He hauls himself into a sitting position, and Sam hands him a porcelain mug with a Star of David on it, then a lemon-lime Gatorade and a pink tablet shaped like a bear. Dean eyes them warily.
“Electrolytes and B vitamins,” Sam explains, his voice strained.
Dean opens his mouth, and Sam immediately cuts him off.
“Don’t argue. Seriously.”
He nods, feeling too disgusting to put up a fight, and chases the bear vitamin down with the mug of water. It swirls up horribly in his mouth, this taste like coal briquettes and rotten meat, and he claps his hands over his face, willing himself to swallow the whole thing. When it’s empty, Sam takes the cup back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.
Dean clears his throat. “Feel like shit.”
“You know -“ Sam breaks off, an expression on his face like this conversation is physically painful. “You almost died last night, Dean.”
Re: FILLED: zero integrity (part 3/3)stella_downOctober 9 2011, 13:47:48 UTC
It’s starting to make sense. Vague memories of the kitchen floor, throwing up all over himself, Bobby funneling some shit down his throat. His skin goes cold with shame. Like always, it doesn’t show on his face.
“Yeah, well.” Dean can’t come up with anything else to say. He stares at the floor hard enough to burn a hole. “Go ahead. Get angry. Deck me one. I deserve it.”
He can feel the couch dip when Sam sits down next to him.
“I’m not mad at you, Dean.”
“Well, that’s just awesome."
Sam’s arm settles around his shoulder, fingers brushing his neck. It’s such an unexpected gesture that Dean startles, almost dropping the Gatorade, and when he glances over, wondering what the fuck, Sam's just got this earnest, worried look on his face, that's all.
It hits him then, how Sam is trying so fucking hard to hold it together even though he’s two suits short of a deck, and the guilt wells up inside him like a living thing.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Sam,” he confesses, looking away, anywhere but at his brother. “Feels like, like we’ve been running in circles for so long, you know?”
His throat goes tight. He'd probably cry if he had the energy.
“I’m just so goddamn tired. Tired of all this.”
Sam doesn’t say anything for a little while. Then he slips his arm away and stands up awkwardly, his posture wavering, and Dean can tell from the way his eyes go vacant that he’s off in crazy town again.
“Yeah,” Dean whispers. He watches Sam’s face, unmoving, then slips a hand under the couch cushion for the bottle of Norco, swallows one dry. “Guess you are, too.”
Re: FILLED: zero integrity (part 3/3)sinnerforhireOctober 10 2011, 13:42:55 UTC
Oh, I loved it! (Unfortunately, I could really identify with Dean here--activated charcoal is some nasty-ass shit. D:) You did a fabulous job with this prompt, I couldn't have asked for a better fill!
(Oh, and the icon is my default--I post from my iPhone/iPad mostly, and the LJ app won't let me post anything else. I'm glad you like it though!)
Something’s shaking him.
Dim sensation of his face scraping against hardwood.
Someone’s saying words but they're buried under a layer of white noise, distorted, almost like being underwater. It’s fucking annoying. He wants to make it shut up but he can't get his arm to move.
"Dean," says the alien echo, reverberating, hurting his ears. "Dean, can you hear me?"
"No," he tries to say, indignant.
"I need you to listen to me, okay? How many--"
* * *
"I don't know. I don't - what's he been taking? How strong is it? I mean, is it - is he --"
"First aid kit in the van. Glove compartment.”
“Bobby -- “
“Don’t have all night, Sam.”
Door slamming.
“Goddamn it, boy. You die on me and I swear -“
* * *
His eyes open, sudden rush of daylight stinging his pupils, and Sam is leaning over him. He blinks. Sam’s face is all twisted up and his eyes are red and swollen.
"Dude," Dean rasps. His mouth tastes like a fucking wet cigarette. "What's wrong?"
Sam makes this sound halfway between a disbelieving laugh and a sob.
"You don't even remember?"
Dean tries to sit up on his elbows, and when the nausea hits, he can barely breathe through the stifling garrote around his lungs. The force of it drops him back down onto the couch. He sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out through his nose. Inhale, exhale.
"Get me some water?" he asks, voice cracking, and Sam’s mouth goes tight like he’s just said the wrong thing.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, Dean.”
And he’s gone, just like that.
Dean stares at the ceiling, holding his stomach contents at bay through sheer willpower. He’s done something wrong. Sam’s seen him hungover a thousand times and he’s never made that face. That’s his messed-up, emo, werewolf-shooting face, and it’s because of something he did. It’s just that there are so goddamn many things Dean’s already screwed up, fouled up beyond all repair, and they don’t talk about them very much these days, Sam and Dean, and if he lies here and goes over each and every word he wishes he could forget, every stupid thing he’d sell his soul to fix, he’d never get up off of this couch.
“The tap water sucks in Montana,” Sam is saying somewhere off to the left.
He hauls himself into a sitting position, and Sam hands him a porcelain mug with a Star of David on it, then a lemon-lime Gatorade and a pink tablet shaped like a bear. Dean eyes them warily.
“Electrolytes and B vitamins,” Sam explains, his voice strained.
Dean opens his mouth, and Sam immediately cuts him off.
“Don’t argue. Seriously.”
He nods, feeling too disgusting to put up a fight, and chases the bear vitamin down with the mug of water. It swirls up horribly in his mouth, this taste like coal briquettes and rotten meat, and he claps his hands over his face, willing himself to swallow the whole thing. When it’s empty, Sam takes the cup back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.
Dean clears his throat. “Feel like shit.”
“You know -“ Sam breaks off, an expression on his face like this conversation is physically painful. “You almost died last night, Dean.”
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“Yeah, well.” Dean can’t come up with anything else to say. He stares at the floor hard enough to burn a hole. “Go ahead. Get angry. Deck me one. I deserve it.”
He can feel the couch dip when Sam sits down next to him.
“I’m not mad at you, Dean.”
“Well, that’s just awesome."
Sam’s arm settles around his shoulder, fingers brushing his neck. It’s such an unexpected gesture that Dean startles, almost dropping the Gatorade, and when he glances over, wondering what the fuck, Sam's just got this earnest, worried look on his face, that's all.
It hits him then, how Sam is trying so fucking hard to hold it together even though he’s two suits short of a deck, and the guilt wells up inside him like a living thing.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Sam,” he confesses, looking away, anywhere but at his brother. “Feels like, like we’ve been running in circles for so long, you know?”
His throat goes tight. He'd probably cry if he had the energy.
“I’m just so goddamn tired. Tired of all this.”
Sam doesn’t say anything for a little while. Then he slips his arm away and stands up awkwardly, his posture wavering, and Dean can tell from the way his eyes go vacant that he’s off in crazy town again.
“Yeah,” Dean whispers. He watches Sam’s face, unmoving, then slips a hand under the couch cushion for the bottle of Norco, swallows one dry. “Guess you are, too.”
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*cuddles them all*
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(Oh, and the icon is my default--I post from my iPhone/iPad mostly, and the LJ app won't let me post anything else. I'm glad you like it though!)
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Also, I really felt like I was there in that cabin. Such rich details!
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