[possibly maybe, probably love]
Title: «possibly.maybe»
Series: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen, Angst
Notes: Written awhile ago. Part of a two-shot.
«possibly.maybe»
She’s in a yellow sundress, all smile and sunshine. He knows she’s got a sandwich, bad for his health, but tastes like heaven in the basket beside her. She wears no cross, bears no scars.
She flickers as he takes her hand.
-
“Daddy!”
He grunts awake as a little boy and a smaller girl bound on his bed. Their both giggling, and he plays along, pretending to still be asleep, even as a tiny finger pulls up his eyelid.
“Daddy? Da-ddy!”
She lets his eyelid drop before he pounces, kids squealing.
He scoops them up, laughing, and feels a pinprick at the back of his neck, as if someone is standing in the corner behind him, but when he turns, no one’s there but his dusty family album, reverent, old, forgotten.
-
“Can you honestly take this away from him?”
-
He breaths in her peach-flavored shampoo, holds her closer in their bed. Dimly, he hears the TV. downstairs, white noise barely audible, remembers that they’re probably exhausted, asleep.
He detangles himself from her, stumbles downstairs.
A smile comes to him, one sandy-haired girl asleep on the couch with her dark-haired brother.
He pulls the blanket on them as faint whisper breaks and falls from the white noise, but he never hears.
-
He calls his brother once a week. Wednesday. They talk for three hours, maybe more.
He never remembers the conversations, but always the conflicting feelings of happiness and dread afterwards.
-
He swallows, brushes the dirt from his face.
“No.”
-
He opens the photo album as she showers, gets ready.
First, best picture is their wedding picture. Her dress is beautiful, simple, and his tuxedo? He snorts. He looked ridiculous. Sort of like…
«…seventh grader at a dance.»
«don’t objectify me.»
It tumbles from his fingers,
and his eyes open to see bloody, bruised, battered Sam,
blinks
and then she’s holding his face, worried, concerned, confused.
-
“I can’t.”
(he condemns him to a peaceful, half-awake, blissful hell instead of a cruel bloody one.)
(it’s hard to say which is worse.)
Series: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen, Angst
Notes: Written awhile ago. Part of a two-shot.
«possibly.maybe»
She’s in a yellow sundress, all smile and sunshine. He knows she’s got a sandwich, bad for his health, but tastes like heaven in the basket beside her. She wears no cross, bears no scars.
She flickers as he takes her hand.
-
“Daddy!”
He grunts awake as a little boy and a smaller girl bound on his bed. Their both giggling, and he plays along, pretending to still be asleep, even as a tiny finger pulls up his eyelid.
“Daddy? Da-ddy!”
She lets his eyelid drop before he pounces, kids squealing.
He scoops them up, laughing, and feels a pinprick at the back of his neck, as if someone is standing in the corner behind him, but when he turns, no one’s there but his dusty family album, reverent, old, forgotten.
-
“Can you honestly take this away from him?”
-
He breaths in her peach-flavored shampoo, holds her closer in their bed. Dimly, he hears the TV. downstairs, white noise barely audible, remembers that they’re probably exhausted, asleep.
He detangles himself from her, stumbles downstairs.
A smile comes to him, one sandy-haired girl asleep on the couch with her dark-haired brother.
He pulls the blanket on them as faint whisper breaks and falls from the white noise, but he never hears.
-
He calls his brother once a week. Wednesday. They talk for three hours, maybe more.
He never remembers the conversations, but always the conflicting feelings of happiness and dread afterwards.
-
He swallows, brushes the dirt from his face.
“No.”
-
He opens the photo album as she showers, gets ready.
First, best picture is their wedding picture. Her dress is beautiful, simple, and his tuxedo? He snorts. He looked ridiculous. Sort of like…
«…seventh grader at a dance.»
«don’t objectify me.»
It tumbles from his fingers,
and his eyes open to see bloody, bruised, battered Sam,
blinks
and then she’s holding his face, worried, concerned, confused.
-
“I can’t.”
(he condemns him to a peaceful, half-awake, blissful hell instead of a cruel bloody one.)
(it’s hard to say which is worse.)