(no subject)

[weary_head]

He can't remember how he got here.

He'd been walking from the clinic for home. He'd been alone, and then Thrace was there, yelling at him and then grabbing him by the shoulders to push him down. He can still feel her fingers on the back of his sweaty neck, shoving until his head was between his knees. Even now, the simple missive to just breathe is ringing in his ears, but who needs to be told that?

Then he'd been here in Neil's new kitchen, three sets of wide blue eyes on him until they'd been ushered away, and now there's only silence.

The house is empty, Dean realizes. It's been empty for a while now, and there's a bottle in his hands that he thinks that someone gave him, but he can't remember when.

He'd just been walking.

He'd just been walking, and thinking that there was plenty of time. Thirty four weeks of time, two hundred and thirty eight days. It's practically an eternity. He could do anything in that time, make anything, anything could - anything could happen.

Dean doesn't hear his breaths go shallow, nor the wheeze they make on the way back out. He doesn't hear the door open, but it must, because suddenly the air feels a little less close, but it doesn't help. The brown walls are going gray and closing in, and Dean can't even find his feet to stop them.

Comments

[little_moons]

My heart's been hammering in my chest since she found me on the beach. I don't even know how I get here so fast, not pausing to let her explain what's going on. All I know is that Dean's at the house, and I need to get there as fast as I can.

"Jesus," I say, hurrying forward, and I have just enough time to get to him before he collapses. I just barely manage to catch him, nearly buckling under the weight of him myself.

"Fuck, Dean. What the hell's goin' on?"