cathybites (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cathybites) wrote2007-02-27 07:45 pm
cathybites) wrote2007-02-27 07:45 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
lower the curtain down all right
[cw rps, jared/jensen, pg, 1000 words]
for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
picfor1000, inspired by this picture. title from "Under the Milky Way" by The Church. much love to my darling ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cosmic for her beta fu. and much much love to slodwick for running this challenge.
So. This is how it goes.
You're young, you're hot, you're the star of a hit TV show. You've got a smoking little minx of a girlfriend, and when she's not around, you get to fuck your equally hot co-star. The money's rolling in, word's being spread around that you're 'one to watch', and the other week your dad called to say he was proud of you.
All in all, life is good.
Then all these people start getting sick. They get sick and they die, one right after another, falling down like dominoes. The health department goes nuts trying to pinpoint the source, and in the meantime, the bodies pile up, so many of them that the government has to come in and truck them out, dump them at some quarantined site out in the wilderness.
It happens BAM BAM BAM, two days and it's done. You reassure your parents that you're fine, you're healthy, no one you know died. Which isn't completely true, but your mom doesn't need to know about the PA or the lighting guy you hardly ever saw. It's nothing you worry about, not when they cancel shooting for the week and you spend it in bed with that hot co-star of yours.
You don't tell her about that, either, or the rumors that some of those people, those dead sick people with the skin falling off them, aren't completely dead, and that some of them crawled out of that mass grave up in the mountains. You don't tell her because you're not concerned about it, not at all, not with Jensen to distract you from the cold fear gnawing at your brain.
Three days into your unexpected vacation and you're sitting on your bed, hollering for Jensen to hurry up with the beer. Movie's in the player, ready to go, and he comes into your room, no beer in sight, and tells you to turn on the news.
Bullshit. That's the first thought clanging like a bell in your head, with oh god hot on its tail.
Then one moment you're watching the world fall to pieces, the next your dogs are howling their heads off, and you hear something coming up the stairs.
Fast.
Your heart seizes up in your chest, and you choke out their names, running to the door, and Jensen shoves you out of the way, slamming the door shut just as something hits it from the other side. He's hollering at you - block the door, something to block the door! - but all you can think about is your dogs, the way Sadie flopped across your feet, the way Harley slobbered all over you. Your mind stutters on the picture of them in your head and you can't think of anything else. Not your friends, not your family, not that hot girlfriend of yours. Just the dogs.
Jensen's still screaming your name and you finally snap into action. Maybe you're nothing but a pretty-boy actor on a joke of a network, but all the running and training you have to do for the show serves some purpose. Adrenaline courses like whitewater through your veins and you push and shove your dresser into place. Slump against it and breathe in the moment's peace and quiet.
The second the pounding starts, though, you're about ready to piss yourself. You and Jensen stare at one another, then scramble looking for a weapon. He finds a baseball bat, and you're stuck with a two-hundred-dollar nine-iron that you've used maybe once. You take one look at the two of you, and the sound that comes out is less laughter and more the stark black realization that you're fucked.
The door starts to splinter and you can't remember who moves first, but you and Jensen push each other towards the balcony, and how the both of you manage to jump off without breaking anything, you'll never understand, but it doesn't matter because you hit the ground, you get up, and you run. You run and thank whatever deity hasn't abandoned you that your keys are in your pocket as you and Jen get in your truck.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see bright scarlet splashed on the wall of your neighbor's house.
When you pull out of the driveway, your dogs come bounding out and you nearly burst into tears, right then and there, male pride be damned. You want to stop, you want to get out and gather them up, but Jensen tells you to keep driving, that they'll be fine, just go go go! And you do because you can see something coming out of the door of your place, and something coming around the corner of the building across the street. They shuffle past your dogs, uninterested, heading for your truck, and you pray that Sadie and Harley understand as you floor it.
The streets are chaos, broken bodies and burning cars scattered across the pavement, and you don't even think, just keep driving and driving until the ocean stretches before you. You entertain the thought of finding a boat and getting away, but the air surrounding the docks are thick with smoke and screams, flashes of fire and gunshots flickering through the haze, and so you keep going, straight up the coast.
When the deep blue-black of night finally comes crashing down, you pull over. The radio's been playing nothing but static for hours; up and down the coast, you see fires still blazing in the dark, people scrambling for safety, people fighting, living, dying.
Jensen stirs next to you, fingers drumming against the dash. The memory of those fingers from a day before assaults you, pounds into your head until you're laughing, great long gasps of hysteria that shudder to a standstill when Jensen pulls you to him, low and whispered promises that you're fine, you're okay, everything will be fine, and you think, you laugh and sob and hope to God that he's right.
thank you for reading!
[cw rps, jared/jensen, pg, 1000 words]
for
picfor1000, inspired by this picture. title from "Under the Milky Way" by The Church. much love to my darling cosmic for her beta fu. and much much love to slodwick for running this challenge.So. This is how it goes.
You're young, you're hot, you're the star of a hit TV show. You've got a smoking little minx of a girlfriend, and when she's not around, you get to fuck your equally hot co-star. The money's rolling in, word's being spread around that you're 'one to watch', and the other week your dad called to say he was proud of you.
All in all, life is good.
Then all these people start getting sick. They get sick and they die, one right after another, falling down like dominoes. The health department goes nuts trying to pinpoint the source, and in the meantime, the bodies pile up, so many of them that the government has to come in and truck them out, dump them at some quarantined site out in the wilderness.
It happens BAM BAM BAM, two days and it's done. You reassure your parents that you're fine, you're healthy, no one you know died. Which isn't completely true, but your mom doesn't need to know about the PA or the lighting guy you hardly ever saw. It's nothing you worry about, not when they cancel shooting for the week and you spend it in bed with that hot co-star of yours.
You don't tell her about that, either, or the rumors that some of those people, those dead sick people with the skin falling off them, aren't completely dead, and that some of them crawled out of that mass grave up in the mountains. You don't tell her because you're not concerned about it, not at all, not with Jensen to distract you from the cold fear gnawing at your brain.
Three days into your unexpected vacation and you're sitting on your bed, hollering for Jensen to hurry up with the beer. Movie's in the player, ready to go, and he comes into your room, no beer in sight, and tells you to turn on the news.
Bullshit. That's the first thought clanging like a bell in your head, with oh god hot on its tail.
Then one moment you're watching the world fall to pieces, the next your dogs are howling their heads off, and you hear something coming up the stairs.
Fast.
Your heart seizes up in your chest, and you choke out their names, running to the door, and Jensen shoves you out of the way, slamming the door shut just as something hits it from the other side. He's hollering at you - block the door, something to block the door! - but all you can think about is your dogs, the way Sadie flopped across your feet, the way Harley slobbered all over you. Your mind stutters on the picture of them in your head and you can't think of anything else. Not your friends, not your family, not that hot girlfriend of yours. Just the dogs.
Jensen's still screaming your name and you finally snap into action. Maybe you're nothing but a pretty-boy actor on a joke of a network, but all the running and training you have to do for the show serves some purpose. Adrenaline courses like whitewater through your veins and you push and shove your dresser into place. Slump against it and breathe in the moment's peace and quiet.
The second the pounding starts, though, you're about ready to piss yourself. You and Jensen stare at one another, then scramble looking for a weapon. He finds a baseball bat, and you're stuck with a two-hundred-dollar nine-iron that you've used maybe once. You take one look at the two of you, and the sound that comes out is less laughter and more the stark black realization that you're fucked.
The door starts to splinter and you can't remember who moves first, but you and Jensen push each other towards the balcony, and how the both of you manage to jump off without breaking anything, you'll never understand, but it doesn't matter because you hit the ground, you get up, and you run. You run and thank whatever deity hasn't abandoned you that your keys are in your pocket as you and Jen get in your truck.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see bright scarlet splashed on the wall of your neighbor's house.
When you pull out of the driveway, your dogs come bounding out and you nearly burst into tears, right then and there, male pride be damned. You want to stop, you want to get out and gather them up, but Jensen tells you to keep driving, that they'll be fine, just go go go! And you do because you can see something coming out of the door of your place, and something coming around the corner of the building across the street. They shuffle past your dogs, uninterested, heading for your truck, and you pray that Sadie and Harley understand as you floor it.
The streets are chaos, broken bodies and burning cars scattered across the pavement, and you don't even think, just keep driving and driving until the ocean stretches before you. You entertain the thought of finding a boat and getting away, but the air surrounding the docks are thick with smoke and screams, flashes of fire and gunshots flickering through the haze, and so you keep going, straight up the coast.
When the deep blue-black of night finally comes crashing down, you pull over. The radio's been playing nothing but static for hours; up and down the coast, you see fires still blazing in the dark, people scrambling for safety, people fighting, living, dying.
Jensen stirs next to you, fingers drumming against the dash. The memory of those fingers from a day before assaults you, pounds into your head until you're laughing, great long gasps of hysteria that shudder to a standstill when Jensen pulls you to him, low and whispered promises that you're fine, you're okay, everything will be fine, and you think, you laugh and sob and hope to God that he's right.
thank you for reading!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 1 of 2