Laughter Lines- Part 2
Title: Laughter Lines
Author: skyseeker77
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Claim: Sam/Dean
Theme: 6: 365
Prompt(s): 2- Morning
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me. They belong to the CW and its creators; however, this peice of writing is my own original content.
Summary: It's mid-morning when you wake up and realize he's gone.
Warnings/Author Notes: Swearing and drinking. General Winchester angst.
It's been a literal year since I've updated this story, but here's to new beginnings! :D
02- morning
January 15th
Inhale, exhale.
Your cold, bare feet smacking the pavement, heels aching, toes blistering, legs numb.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Running, sprinting, going as fast as you possibly can, cold wind stinging the bare skin on your shoulders.
Inhale, exhale. Breathe.
Scorching lungs, pounding headache, raw throat; swollen eyes and wet cheeks.
Gasp- breathe in- breathe out.
You will your legs to move faster, just a bit faster, farther away.
“I-I can’t stay here.” He said, tears streaming down his face.
Throbbing, longing heart, pounding so hard you think it might burst from your chest.
“Please…please, don’t go, Sam.” You begged.
Gone. He’s gone.
...
You’d woken with a start, shivering, lying facedown on the cold linoleum floor of the kitchen. Soaked in sweat and liquor, your body ached with every slight movement.
Forcing yourself upright, you groan in agony. Your head pounded, a surge of pain so intense you nearly blacked out. Fuck. This was gonna be a bitch of a hangover.
Looking around, the floor was littered by crushed cans of beer, glass fragments of a broken whiskey bottle like an exclamation mark.
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t do this to me. Please.”
You were on your feet in an instant. Something- something was wrong. Trembling from a cause other than the cold, you shook yourself from your daze when, suddenly, the pieces fell together.
The door was hanging wide open.
Sam’s gone.
...
Without a second thought of your shoes or coat, you burst through the unlatched door and run. If only...you could reach him...he’s somewhere out there. You’ve got to get him home.
...
Sam.
Your cold, bare feet smacking the pavement, heels aching, toes blistering, legs lumb.
Sammy.
Running, sprinting, going as fast as you possibly can, cold wind stinging the bare skin on your shoulders.
Sam, Sam, Sam...
Scorching lungs, pounding headache, raw throat; swollen eyes and wet cheeks.
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe...
You double over, knees buckling, falling to the dirt next to the road.
It all comes rushing back to you and you’re on the ground, heaving and sobbing. The memories and liquor and regrets come rising up your throat and out your mouth, what you could’ve said but didn’t, leaves you feeling emptier than ever.
He isn’t coming home.
...
Breathe, Dean.
You pull yourself out of the dirt and make your way back home.
Inhale.
The morning comes to an end with you downing shot after shot ‘till you forget who you are.
Exhale.