Before I start
WANTED: Alive preferably - 1 Beta writer for a long haul El / Sands Roadtrip NC-17 Slash. First Time w Ambigious consent and lots of naughty words!
Blood and Dust
Fandom: Once upon a time in Mexico
Pairing: Sands / El
Rating: Anywhere between pg to NC-17 for M/M Slash and Sands' Potty-Mouth
Disclaimer: I don't own it and I have no money.
Beta: Couldja help a girl out?
Summary: A road trip of sorts.
Notes: If you wish to archive please contact firstname.lastname@example.org.
El sighed, the deep and cleansing sigh of man who has let go of everything behind him. A a great and emptying breath that leaves a great hollow behind as all the shattered loves and lives filter away like so much sand...
A hand full of sand in the air…
Sands - he sits in the back of the car stretched out on the cracking upholstery moaning in agony as the painkillers start to wear off. The true pain of three bullet wounds and two gaping holes where his eyes should be are rendered into focus.
Blood starts to weep more freely from his eyeholes as Sands gurgles and chokes.
Franticly El turns the stolen car into a screeching halt in the middle of the empty road by the hills leaving Culican. A few blooming explosions above the roofs and the peppering of bullets echoing into the coming dusk as El jumped out of the car and went to Sands’ aid.
He pulled the dying American up to sit and forced him to breathe, a kiss of life, a mouthful of blood greeted El nearly making him gag but willed the life back into Sands. Tearing most of his own white shirt to bandage the damaged eyeholes and using Sands' own belt with it's gaudy resin Marijuana leaf buckle as a tourniquet around the most sever of his leg wounds. He forced the barley conscious man to put pressure on the bullet wound in his arm and hold tight until they got to someone who could help in these types of situations. El knew of only one man...
For once the smart-arsed American said nothing as some of the blood began to clot and a little relief was gained. He saw that El Mariachi was driving and the pain should be over soon as his head lolled to the side and he passed out but did not fall out of complete consciousness. El cleaned off the blood on his lips on the back of his hand but stopped to let the heady metallic taste roll in his mouth without spitting it out. Blood is the beginning and blood is the end.
* * *
Five hours driving El is still running on adrenaline and the fuel is dangerously low as he and Sands speed through miles of nothing but desert. Sand’ breathing comes in gasps but is regular and his bleeding has stopped though what's left of El's shirt is soaked nearly black with blood.
The desert rolled as far as human imagination in pitch black with nothing but a flickering of failing headlights and the pinpricks of stars. The moon obscured by the earths' shadow barley a slither accompanied by the low shhh of static on the radio. El kept it on long after transmissions failed to reach them to keep him awake as Sands every now and then moaned out softly. He couldn't tell if he was a sleep and dreaming at least he was still alive...
Eyes of a wild dog flash from the roadside illuminated by the headlights like the fiendish chupacabra of legend. El wondered why as focus dawned over the fading high of adrenalin - why - was he driving into the night to save this mad man from death. Sands were a man he owed no loyalties to he was just another bad man who hired him to kill another bad man. Was it just pity?
Looking back again at the bandaged face in the rear view he saw Sands asleep slumped against the window with a little bit of blood blurring the glass. Skin silvery from blood loss though he was light he looked nearly dead now with fingers of dirty black hair dangling from behind the sodden bandages and odd clumps sticking up wildly gelled up with dried up blood cells.
His lips were parted slightly, as full as a woman's pout it drooped limply in sleep with trickles of blood and spit streaming down the sides. Sands looked like some perverse sort of B-grade horror movie victim thrown into the backdrop of one of Picasso’s blue period landscapes of stark sorrow.
The day Marquez took away his family and tried to kill him he felt as though his very heart had been ripped out of his chest and thrown on to the ground. Sands' eyes had been ripped out of his head - El chewed on his bottom lip and looked at himself in the mirror, filthy with dirt and blood stained, shirtless and sun burnt but altogether in one piece. Not really as there still was a piece missing as he listened to Sands breathing into the cool night air.
He would help the mad gringo because he was just like him. Gun slingers, avengers, dead men moving as empty husks in dry air over the barren womb of Mexico.