DRABBLE: 21 Minutes (SPN, Gen, Rated PG)
May. 28th, 2008 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mrwubblesTitle: Saved
Category: Gen
Summary: Who's really been saved?
Word Count: 573 words, complete
Note: Just a drabble. Exercising the muses. Un-beta-ed. Just trying to sort out scenes, which to expand and empty out after Mediawest. Random sections that might never come to be. -snickers-
He could see him; a shadow writhing in the deep, limbs stilling that only sped up his own. The red filmed his eyes; wispy streams of pain that rose up in place of bubbles to separate them.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't because giving in to his anguish would doom them both. Instead, he kicked harder, slipping hands under flaccid arms, and reached for the light above promising relief. They broke surface but only one gasp was heard as water shed from their bodies when he propels them to shore.
He kicked aside scattered spent guns, a dying fire, until he could lay him flat on the ground. Tilt head back, pray, take a breath and breathe for him like he did for them both after they had to watch the one person he always thought would be forever burn in a warrior's pyre. Lips were gray; the lake ran down like tears, skimming a face thinned by pain, too many hunts and a burden of a destiny they both want to deny. But nothing else moved and destiny be damned because if he doesn't feel him inhale soon there's no reason to remain and fear a future when he's not around to share the dark burden. He refuses to see another body burn, watch white salt mingle with ash, turning as black as his despair. He'll only want to see the fire while he embraces the only reason he has left to keep breathing, and feel the fire very appropriately take them both because it would be less painful than to watch alone.
Gasping became sobbing because it was taking too long. God damn you, breathe. And the lips were still gray and he now looked like he stopped crying when he wasn't even crying in the first place. Why should he when he refuses to accept the air he’s giving him? And he looked so peaceful like he wanted to say it didn't hurt anymore to live; he just wanted to stop and pull the body to his chest and wait for them burn. Because it hurts for him to live if he’s the last man—god damn you, breathe—but he won't stop under the body’s warm and then. Even after that if he cared to think of what he would be willing to do; it would probably shock his brother, but at least he would be alive to hate him.
A jerk and the body shudders under desperate hands over the chest. Shivering, shaking, coughing and viable proof that it did hurt to live sometimes but thankyouthankyou, he's breathing.
He knew he should say "you're okay, you're okay" but all he could do was sob out "thank god, thank god" because he couldn't take in another breath to form anything else. He felt water dampening both their shirts like blood and he didn't care if it was the lake or tears because he's breathing, he's breathing and nothing else matters anymore. He knows he's babbling to the head resting on his shoulder, body wracking with the need to breathe; his arms around the trembling body was the only thing keeping them both up. Rocking, whispering gratitude to someone he's not sure would hear him, listening to the gut wrenching coughing like it was the sweetest music he ever heard until he hears the coughing quieting and a sandpapery voice fills his ears.
"Dude, get a breath mint."
The End
Author's Note: as you see, the pov was your choosing, but that meant the grammar was sketchy. Please feel free to use a red pen. Only way I'll learn...
Category: Gen
Summary: Who's really been saved?
Word Count: 573 words, complete
Note: Just a drabble. Exercising the muses. Un-beta-ed. Just trying to sort out scenes, which to expand and empty out after Mediawest. Random sections that might never come to be. -snickers-
He could see him; a shadow writhing in the deep, limbs stilling that only sped up his own. The red filmed his eyes; wispy streams of pain that rose up in place of bubbles to separate them.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn't because giving in to his anguish would doom them both. Instead, he kicked harder, slipping hands under flaccid arms, and reached for the light above promising relief. They broke surface but only one gasp was heard as water shed from their bodies when he propels them to shore.
He kicked aside scattered spent guns, a dying fire, until he could lay him flat on the ground. Tilt head back, pray, take a breath and breathe for him like he did for them both after they had to watch the one person he always thought would be forever burn in a warrior's pyre. Lips were gray; the lake ran down like tears, skimming a face thinned by pain, too many hunts and a burden of a destiny they both want to deny. But nothing else moved and destiny be damned because if he doesn't feel him inhale soon there's no reason to remain and fear a future when he's not around to share the dark burden. He refuses to see another body burn, watch white salt mingle with ash, turning as black as his despair. He'll only want to see the fire while he embraces the only reason he has left to keep breathing, and feel the fire very appropriately take them both because it would be less painful than to watch alone.
Gasping became sobbing because it was taking too long. God damn you, breathe. And the lips were still gray and he now looked like he stopped crying when he wasn't even crying in the first place. Why should he when he refuses to accept the air he’s giving him? And he looked so peaceful like he wanted to say it didn't hurt anymore to live; he just wanted to stop and pull the body to his chest and wait for them burn. Because it hurts for him to live if he’s the last man—god damn you, breathe—but he won't stop under the body’s warm and then. Even after that if he cared to think of what he would be willing to do; it would probably shock his brother, but at least he would be alive to hate him.
A jerk and the body shudders under desperate hands over the chest. Shivering, shaking, coughing and viable proof that it did hurt to live sometimes but thankyouthankyou, he's breathing.
He knew he should say "you're okay, you're okay" but all he could do was sob out "thank god, thank god" because he couldn't take in another breath to form anything else. He felt water dampening both their shirts like blood and he didn't care if it was the lake or tears because he's breathing, he's breathing and nothing else matters anymore. He knows he's babbling to the head resting on his shoulder, body wracking with the need to breathe; his arms around the trembling body was the only thing keeping them both up. Rocking, whispering gratitude to someone he's not sure would hear him, listening to the gut wrenching coughing like it was the sweetest music he ever heard until he hears the coughing quieting and a sandpapery voice fills his ears.
"Dude, get a breath mint."
The End
Author's Note: as you see, the pov was your choosing, but that meant the grammar was sketchy. Please feel free to use a red pen. Only way I'll learn...
