Something Like Longing
Title: Something Like Longing (1/???)
Author: pleadyourcase
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.
Characters: Ruby/Dean, Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. ;__; Especially not Supernatural or Sylvia Plath.
Summary: Fingers gripping the back of her head, he gently guided her face closer to his, lips brushing against her ear. “I could feel you in my dreams.” Emotion flickered across her face and she pulled away, astonished. Things weren’t supposed to go this far.
"I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
- Slyvia Plath
The years were long, but their twig-like fingers could not touch her. She fought limb for limb as hell tore her apart, ripping away her skin, burning her eyes. The idea that it was her own fault was ground into her mind, branded deep, attached to her every thought like a tiny, silver keychain. Digging her heals into the ground, jaw clenched, breathing labored - how was it that such an innocence could blossom into a self-destructive swirl of smoke and greed?
She always tailed closely behind the Winchesters, the rumble of the Impala resonating in her head deep into the night. Like an apple tree in a barren orchard, she blossomed. It had been too long since the tingle of concern had tugged at the corner of her heart. She worried about those boys. Her own selfish reasons drove her, but her love for them put the gas in the tank.
She envied Dean and the way his selflessness consumed him. He could have runaway from his father - he could have protected himself. He could have had a normal life, plagued by loneliness, but distracted by the trivial aspects of the stereotypical schedules of a young man. It pained her greatly to see the flickering vacancy light of their newest motel cast across his face, illuminating the pain that was etched deep into his skin. She could almost feel the ache with every smile he cast. But, was it more selfless than selfish of him to leave his brother all alone like that?
She watched them sleep. Broken figures covered in cheap comforters that stunk of musk and mildew, their chests rising and falling in sync with each other. “Such beautiful disasters,” she breathed as she nuzzled her face into the crook of Dean’s neck. She took a deep breath, the scent of shampoo and motel soap flooding her senses, and left before she ventured to run her thumb along the length of his lips. The soft click of the old, wooden door behind her reverberated against her eardrum with the force of an explosion - it felt something like longing.
The first time he awoke to find her standing over him, he wasn’t as startled as she had expected him to be. Fingers gripping the back of her head, he gently guided her face closer to his, lips brushing against her ear, “I could feel you in my dreams.” Emotion flickered across her face and she pulled away, astonished. Things weren’t supposed to go this far.
He waits up for her the next night, and while his eyes are sealed shut, she knows he’s fully awake and alert to her every move. She’s scared, but has no heart to pound against her ribcage, nor stomach walls for the butterflies to tickle.
She melts into the shadows as she watches them slay a whole nest of vampires in less than fifteen minutes. She hates herself for cringing every time one of the blood-suckers stalks towards Dean, baring its teeth. She hates her sigh of relief even more when the thin blade of his machete kisses their necks.
One night, Sam sneaks from the motel room to go for a night drive. She waits until the fading headlights of the Impala are completely shrouded in darkness before she enters their room. Dean is waiting for her, the dim, golden light from the bedside lamp caressing his face. “You just let him leave?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “He can take care of himself,” Dean replies, running his fingers through his hair, which is sticking up in every direction, courtesy the pillow. “Obviously,” she scoffs, “otherwise you wouldn’t be checking out so soon.”
It isn’t until her ankle is so twisted up within the cotton sheets that she can’t move that she tells him. Not until she can feel his breath against her neck, chapped lips resting against her jaw line - not until every inch of their skin is connected, weaved together with the threads of sweat and mistakes. “I wish I could save you.” He drags his thumb along her bare back, tracing the outline of her spine, the rough, fleshy pad of his finger making her feel everything that she has worked tirelessly to suppress. She’s gone by the time Sam has rounded the block twenty eight times and downed three cups of coffee, and long gone before she allows herself to think.
Author: pleadyourcase
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.
Characters: Ruby/Dean, Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. ;__; Especially not Supernatural or Sylvia Plath.
Summary: Fingers gripping the back of her head, he gently guided her face closer to his, lips brushing against her ear. “I could feel you in my dreams.” Emotion flickered across her face and she pulled away, astonished. Things weren’t supposed to go this far.
"I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
- Slyvia Plath
The years were long, but their twig-like fingers could not touch her. She fought limb for limb as hell tore her apart, ripping away her skin, burning her eyes. The idea that it was her own fault was ground into her mind, branded deep, attached to her every thought like a tiny, silver keychain. Digging her heals into the ground, jaw clenched, breathing labored - how was it that such an innocence could blossom into a self-destructive swirl of smoke and greed?
She always tailed closely behind the Winchesters, the rumble of the Impala resonating in her head deep into the night. Like an apple tree in a barren orchard, she blossomed. It had been too long since the tingle of concern had tugged at the corner of her heart. She worried about those boys. Her own selfish reasons drove her, but her love for them put the gas in the tank.
She envied Dean and the way his selflessness consumed him. He could have runaway from his father - he could have protected himself. He could have had a normal life, plagued by loneliness, but distracted by the trivial aspects of the stereotypical schedules of a young man. It pained her greatly to see the flickering vacancy light of their newest motel cast across his face, illuminating the pain that was etched deep into his skin. She could almost feel the ache with every smile he cast. But, was it more selfless than selfish of him to leave his brother all alone like that?
She watched them sleep. Broken figures covered in cheap comforters that stunk of musk and mildew, their chests rising and falling in sync with each other. “Such beautiful disasters,” she breathed as she nuzzled her face into the crook of Dean’s neck. She took a deep breath, the scent of shampoo and motel soap flooding her senses, and left before she ventured to run her thumb along the length of his lips. The soft click of the old, wooden door behind her reverberated against her eardrum with the force of an explosion - it felt something like longing.
The first time he awoke to find her standing over him, he wasn’t as startled as she had expected him to be. Fingers gripping the back of her head, he gently guided her face closer to his, lips brushing against her ear, “I could feel you in my dreams.” Emotion flickered across her face and she pulled away, astonished. Things weren’t supposed to go this far.
He waits up for her the next night, and while his eyes are sealed shut, she knows he’s fully awake and alert to her every move. She’s scared, but has no heart to pound against her ribcage, nor stomach walls for the butterflies to tickle.
She melts into the shadows as she watches them slay a whole nest of vampires in less than fifteen minutes. She hates herself for cringing every time one of the blood-suckers stalks towards Dean, baring its teeth. She hates her sigh of relief even more when the thin blade of his machete kisses their necks.
One night, Sam sneaks from the motel room to go for a night drive. She waits until the fading headlights of the Impala are completely shrouded in darkness before she enters their room. Dean is waiting for her, the dim, golden light from the bedside lamp caressing his face. “You just let him leave?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “He can take care of himself,” Dean replies, running his fingers through his hair, which is sticking up in every direction, courtesy the pillow. “Obviously,” she scoffs, “otherwise you wouldn’t be checking out so soon.”
It isn’t until her ankle is so twisted up within the cotton sheets that she can’t move that she tells him. Not until she can feel his breath against her neck, chapped lips resting against her jaw line - not until every inch of their skin is connected, weaved together with the threads of sweat and mistakes. “I wish I could save you.” He drags his thumb along her bare back, tracing the outline of her spine, the rough, fleshy pad of his finger making her feel everything that she has worked tirelessly to suppress. She’s gone by the time Sam has rounded the block twenty eight times and downed three cups of coffee, and long gone before she allows herself to think.