err...drabble SPN coda
So more and more complications seem to be arising that may prevent successful retrieval of files on my harddrive, from my dead computer. UGH! jkflajfdajiejjfke!!!!! BLAH.
Also,
In the morning, when Dean slowly peels his eyes open to blink against the blue-gray light of dawn slipping through the cracks between plastic blinds, in the early morning when the birds outside, somewhere close but not too close, chirp happily, perched on rooftops and branches and telephone wire, Dean wakes up and his head feels like it's been swathed in cotton. The motel bed is lumpy beneath his aching body, but he feels light, like he's swimming. He drifts there for a moment, watching the light seep in, one hand curled loosely on his stomach.
He takes a breath, deep draw of air, and sits up. The bed is silent beneath him despite the many bodies it must've cradled before him. The birds are singing steadily, bright, sharp sounds that cut through muffled silence. And that's it - it's too silent, here.
A slow grief begins in the pit of his stomach and travels upward and outward, worming its way to the tips of his toes, the back of his throat. He swallows, throat dry, eyes unblinking. His heart beats steady but he doesn't feel steady.
From the corner of his eye, Dean can see the other bed to the right of his own, the edges of the bedspread smooth and straight and undisturbed. Dean is afraid to look - he knows what he'll see, he knows and he doesn't want to know, wants to un-know, everything - but he does because if he doesn't, he just might not get up ever again, he just might not move from here at all.
The bed is empty, mattress untouched. Sam is gone.
Dean blinks back the rage that builds hot and prickling behind his eyes.
Sam is dead.
Suddenly, there isn't enough room in the air. Suddenly the world comes crashing down in the stark silence. Sam is not here, and he'll never be here again to wake up next to Dean and see another morning, brighter and clearer than the last.
...Yeah. I felt this intense sorrow this morning because my first thought was about Dean and Sam. And yeah....
Also,
In the morning, when Dean slowly peels his eyes open to blink against the blue-gray light of dawn slipping through the cracks between plastic blinds, in the early morning when the birds outside, somewhere close but not too close, chirp happily, perched on rooftops and branches and telephone wire, Dean wakes up and his head feels like it's been swathed in cotton. The motel bed is lumpy beneath his aching body, but he feels light, like he's swimming. He drifts there for a moment, watching the light seep in, one hand curled loosely on his stomach.
He takes a breath, deep draw of air, and sits up. The bed is silent beneath him despite the many bodies it must've cradled before him. The birds are singing steadily, bright, sharp sounds that cut through muffled silence. And that's it - it's too silent, here.
A slow grief begins in the pit of his stomach and travels upward and outward, worming its way to the tips of his toes, the back of his throat. He swallows, throat dry, eyes unblinking. His heart beats steady but he doesn't feel steady.
From the corner of his eye, Dean can see the other bed to the right of his own, the edges of the bedspread smooth and straight and undisturbed. Dean is afraid to look - he knows what he'll see, he knows and he doesn't want to know, wants to un-know, everything - but he does because if he doesn't, he just might not get up ever again, he just might not move from here at all.
The bed is empty, mattress untouched. Sam is gone.
Dean blinks back the rage that builds hot and prickling behind his eyes.
Sam is dead.
Suddenly, there isn't enough room in the air. Suddenly the world comes crashing down in the stark silence. Sam is not here, and he'll never be here again to wake up next to Dean and see another morning, brighter and clearer than the last.
...Yeah. I felt this intense sorrow this morning because my first thought was about Dean and Sam. And yeah....