two stories: Sarah Blake and Kate the Vampire
This brings me to the end of Season One -- ta da!
Title: "how to put a sparkle in a too sad eye"
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#21)
1,135 words. PG
Notes/Disclaimers: Sarah Blake is from "Provenance" (1.19)
Thanks to alias_chick for hosting 42 Days of Metallicar.
This story takes place "now," late summer 2009, but there are no spoilers for s5. I don't really ship Sam/Sarah, but hey, this is where canon took me!
Sarah contended that she was an optimist, not a bubblehead -- but she had to admit that she thought about Sam a lot -- too much really.
It was just, after all the lines, and his brother practically tossing Sam in Sarah's lap like a larger-than-life carnival prize -- a plush Winchester for the pretty lady! who'll be next now, step right up! -- after all that, Sarah had seen the two sides of Sam -- the two sides he fought a losing battle to keep distinct. He had his good, decent, everyday, normal side -- and his good, decent, everyday, ghost-killing side -- and Sarah really didn't see a contradiction there.
It was in Sam's head, this idea that he was cursed. It wasn't his fault that his mother had died -- Sarah knew that one from the inside. And it wasn't his fault that Jess had died either. Sarah had found the story in the Palo Alto newspaper; Jessica's family had loved Sam so much that he was listed among the grieving family members.
But Sarah also knew that what's inside someone's head makes the whole world look that color to them. Just because she insisted the sky was blue, couldn't make Sam see anything more than a thin scrim between him and a vacant infinity, pricked here and there by tiny rents, slivered arctic glimmerings.
So when Dean had driven off that afternoon, leaving Sam laughing in her arms, Sarah said to herself, "carpe diem," and seized the man.
It wasn't just that he had opened up to her -- it wasn't even just that she'd helped him fight off a ghost and ended up flat on the carpet with 190 pounds of pure muscle lying sweaty on top of her. Well, it was partly that.. but it was really the hall mirror, coming home after their dinner date --she had caught a glimpse and stood captured. No, it was really Sarah in there, flushed, eyes sparkling -- alive again.
They had kissed and laughed and kissed some more, and Sarah had taken Sam back to her place, and she'd plied him with order-in for two whole days.
That was when Dean reluctantly called to interrupt. Another hunter, an acquaintance of their dad's, had called to see if they could help him with backup on a Hunt in Nebraska, and Dean would never turn aside from something like that, not even to make his little brother happy.
Sarah saw Sam's eyes go hard at the mention of their dad. He had told her that he knocked heads with his Dad more often than not -- she could certainly appreciate seeing the world through different eyes than your folks did. Her own father selling the painting that had led to the death of her friend was proof of that.
Sam had reconciled only recently with his Dad, and he still second-guessed the man's every move. That's how Sarah knew that in a way, she was older than Sam by more than merely a year or two. He was a grownup, yeah, but there was still a kid inside him that hadn't finished giving a big double-armed rude gesture to the world and all it expected of him.
With Dean's beautiful car rumbling noisily at the curb, Sarah gave Sam one last kiss goodbye. He smiled shyly back at her through the window and waved before they drove away, Dean's rock music pounding, fading.
After one year went by, Sarah was an expert marksman, and had gotten a handful of emails and three beautifully written letters from Sam.
After two years had gone by, Sarah got her black belt in Judo, and two widely spaced postcards Sam had crammed with tiny, meticulous handwriting.
Three years went by and Sarah was happy. She was in top shape, had made it through P90X. Even her financial portfolio was sunny, thanks to careful stakes in green energy. That year, she got a couple of strange missed calls -- the ID would say, Wedge Antilles, or Steve Hilts, and Sarah would smile. But she didn't smile at the message he'd left that spring, that just said, "I know I'm supposed to make amends, which, ha, yeah, right. But I'm sorry, that's all. Kay. Bye." She held the phone for a long time then, and finally hit reply, but it went straight to voicemail.
"It'll be okay, Sam, whatever it is you think you did. Fighting ghosts, monsters? I know that must be hard. It must -- blur the lines, right? But I believe in you, Sam. You and Dean are the good guys. Call me back."
It was summertime, late summer, thunderstorms every afternoon, when a different rumble rolled through the parking lot at the gallery. Sarah put down the connoisseur's checklist she was filling out for a beautiful old armoire and practically ran to the door.
There he was, getting out of Dean's car, standing up, all six foot five of him, in all his glory -- shoulders even wider, hair a little longer -- eyes so much sadder, it broke Sarah's heart.
She walked over to him and threw her arms around him. It took him a second, then he gently hugged her back.
"Sam, it's so good to see you," she said, "and you too, Dean," she aimed around the bulk of his brother.
"I'm not sure you'll say that when you know..." Sam broke off.
"Hush! Whatever it is, it's not the end of the world!" Sarah laughed.
"Hey, I'm glad you can laugh -- you look so beautiful -- but it actually kind of is."
"Is what?" Sarah said.
"The end of the world." Sam said, and his eyes looked so sad, but Sarah couldn't really take it in.
"And what? you guys are trying to stop it?" Sarah boggled, still laughing, shocked.
"Looks like," Dean said, wearily.
They were both older, tired looking and strained, but the car was as well-kept and gorgeous as ever, so that had to stand for something.
"Take me back to my place, and tell me all about it. If the world's ending, antiques are not going to be where it's at."
"Well, we've got a list of some old shit we were hoping you could help us track down," Dean said.
"Okay! Let's do it!" Sarah said, grinning up at Sam, and a tiny spark kindled there in Sam's weary eyes.
"End of the world, huh?" Sarah said, leaning forward from the back seat of the Impala and resting her chin between the brothers. "What are we going to do about it?"
Sam and Dean had to laugh -- so that was at least her first triumph. Sarah was ready to save the world, and put the light back into Sam's eyes along the way.
~*O*~
Title: "seeing red in a world gone gray"
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#22)
800 words. PG-13
Notes/Disclaimers: Kate is one of the vampires in "Dead Man's Blood" (1.20).
One thing Kate could never figure out, after, was where all the colors had gone. Before, Kate had been a proper young lady. She had known how to embroider. She'd taken watercolor lessons. At school, she'd studied the old European masters. She could remember -- no, that was a lie. Before, there had been color. She at least knew there had been the idea of color. After, there was only gray, an endless world of gray, ranging between almost white and nearly black.
Before, there had been the idea of helping people. Kate remembered enough to feign it when she could use it for trapping. Trapping was important. It kept food coming. Food kept off the hunger. The hunger was pain, weakness, fear. Blood was warmth -- no, more, it was living again. While the blood filled her mouth, her throat, her veins, Kate almost remembered red. Full of blood, Kate almost remembered love -- and so that's what she called what she felt for the mate, Luther, almost blood to her. In his arms, she could almost, almost feel alive.
Kate remembered - lie! -- but Kate thought that girls like she had been had slept in beds, in houses, and Luther was safe and warm, and he always found her a bed, and held her in his arms. So she wanted to be before to him -- giving him presents to make him smile. Luther smiled, even when he wasn't having fun with blood.
So, trapping was fun -- fun was when the hunger was sharp but the blood was right there, right there in her arms, and she only played at tasting, kept her fangs from ripping in.
Other things were almost fun -- doing them hard enough felt less like hunger. Dancing, the way that before had meant sex; liquor, hot, almost like blood; cars, really fast ones, though the paint was old and chipped, but now, after, she couldn't really see colors anyway. All the cars were gray, so what. Fast was what they were. Fast meant fun, feed, fly -- fast meant not being trapped yourself --another bed somewhere new out of the sun.
Only one thing was more important than blood. No one ever said so to Kate, she just knew it was very important -- and that was, feeding the blood sometimes. The blood knew when it should be fed. The high of feeding the blood was an ecstasy, a swirl of holy intent, and it was easy to feel you were being used by something vast. Flowing back and forth, blood feeding blood -- and feeding the blood was better than feeling no hunger. The emptying veins almost sighed in relief -- Kate could feel them relax as they emptied. The emptying brain felt no fear, calmed its hyper-alertness -- the blood was being fed, and nothing else mattered. As it flowed it almost seemed to whisper, yes, yes.
So Kate was ready to play a little when she trapped the monster. She saw its beautiful car, so black, and she could see how really black it was, and she could even see by the open hood, the cleanliness and newness of the parts of its engine. Kate took a chance to have fun with the monster -- it was almost as pretty as Luther -- maybe the blood would even rise up, demanding to be shared.
But no, the monster only wanted to kill her, kill Luther, kill her whole family.
In the end, the monster's pack alpha shot Luther, and Kate had to be dragged away screaming, as her new daughter peeled her out of there in Luther's own fast, gray car.
Kate would remember their foul stench in her nostrils, though their blood had smelled so sweet. But for now, the blood rose up in her in a wave -- the blood her mate had shared with her so long ago -- it cried out sharply in her soul when Luther went down, and something inside her went down with him.
The blood, Kate thought, Luther's blood, still inside me, even after all these years.
"You okay?" the new daughter said to Kate, several hours' drive later.
"No. No," said Kate, "No, I'm fucking not okay."
Their fast gray car had carried them loudly but smoothly to a new bolt hole, and there they'd lie low for a few days, until the blood told them what to do next.
The new daughter lay down next to her, snuggled in close. Kate wanted to lash out, to destroy the invasive thing, but a whisper of Luther's blood still rushed within the daughter's veins, and Kate keened in loss.
One day, she promised, if she ever caught the scent of that monster again, it or its fast black car, she would take them down, and on that day, she'd show the whole world red.
Title: "how to put a sparkle in a too sad eye"
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#21)
1,135 words. PG
Notes/Disclaimers: Sarah Blake is from "Provenance" (1.19)
Thanks to alias_chick for hosting 42 Days of Metallicar.
This story takes place "now," late summer 2009, but there are no spoilers for s5. I don't really ship Sam/Sarah, but hey, this is where canon took me!
Sarah contended that she was an optimist, not a bubblehead -- but she had to admit that she thought about Sam a lot -- too much really.
It was just, after all the lines, and his brother practically tossing Sam in Sarah's lap like a larger-than-life carnival prize -- a plush Winchester for the pretty lady! who'll be next now, step right up! -- after all that, Sarah had seen the two sides of Sam -- the two sides he fought a losing battle to keep distinct. He had his good, decent, everyday, normal side -- and his good, decent, everyday, ghost-killing side -- and Sarah really didn't see a contradiction there.
It was in Sam's head, this idea that he was cursed. It wasn't his fault that his mother had died -- Sarah knew that one from the inside. And it wasn't his fault that Jess had died either. Sarah had found the story in the Palo Alto newspaper; Jessica's family had loved Sam so much that he was listed among the grieving family members.
But Sarah also knew that what's inside someone's head makes the whole world look that color to them. Just because she insisted the sky was blue, couldn't make Sam see anything more than a thin scrim between him and a vacant infinity, pricked here and there by tiny rents, slivered arctic glimmerings.
So when Dean had driven off that afternoon, leaving Sam laughing in her arms, Sarah said to herself, "carpe diem," and seized the man.
It wasn't just that he had opened up to her -- it wasn't even just that she'd helped him fight off a ghost and ended up flat on the carpet with 190 pounds of pure muscle lying sweaty on top of her. Well, it was partly that.. but it was really the hall mirror, coming home after their dinner date --she had caught a glimpse and stood captured. No, it was really Sarah in there, flushed, eyes sparkling -- alive again.
They had kissed and laughed and kissed some more, and Sarah had taken Sam back to her place, and she'd plied him with order-in for two whole days.
That was when Dean reluctantly called to interrupt. Another hunter, an acquaintance of their dad's, had called to see if they could help him with backup on a Hunt in Nebraska, and Dean would never turn aside from something like that, not even to make his little brother happy.
Sarah saw Sam's eyes go hard at the mention of their dad. He had told her that he knocked heads with his Dad more often than not -- she could certainly appreciate seeing the world through different eyes than your folks did. Her own father selling the painting that had led to the death of her friend was proof of that.
Sam had reconciled only recently with his Dad, and he still second-guessed the man's every move. That's how Sarah knew that in a way, she was older than Sam by more than merely a year or two. He was a grownup, yeah, but there was still a kid inside him that hadn't finished giving a big double-armed rude gesture to the world and all it expected of him.
With Dean's beautiful car rumbling noisily at the curb, Sarah gave Sam one last kiss goodbye. He smiled shyly back at her through the window and waved before they drove away, Dean's rock music pounding, fading.
After one year went by, Sarah was an expert marksman, and had gotten a handful of emails and three beautifully written letters from Sam.
After two years had gone by, Sarah got her black belt in Judo, and two widely spaced postcards Sam had crammed with tiny, meticulous handwriting.
Three years went by and Sarah was happy. She was in top shape, had made it through P90X. Even her financial portfolio was sunny, thanks to careful stakes in green energy. That year, she got a couple of strange missed calls -- the ID would say, Wedge Antilles, or Steve Hilts, and Sarah would smile. But she didn't smile at the message he'd left that spring, that just said, "I know I'm supposed to make amends, which, ha, yeah, right. But I'm sorry, that's all. Kay. Bye." She held the phone for a long time then, and finally hit reply, but it went straight to voicemail.
"It'll be okay, Sam, whatever it is you think you did. Fighting ghosts, monsters? I know that must be hard. It must -- blur the lines, right? But I believe in you, Sam. You and Dean are the good guys. Call me back."
It was summertime, late summer, thunderstorms every afternoon, when a different rumble rolled through the parking lot at the gallery. Sarah put down the connoisseur's checklist she was filling out for a beautiful old armoire and practically ran to the door.
There he was, getting out of Dean's car, standing up, all six foot five of him, in all his glory -- shoulders even wider, hair a little longer -- eyes so much sadder, it broke Sarah's heart.
She walked over to him and threw her arms around him. It took him a second, then he gently hugged her back.
"Sam, it's so good to see you," she said, "and you too, Dean," she aimed around the bulk of his brother.
"I'm not sure you'll say that when you know..." Sam broke off.
"Hush! Whatever it is, it's not the end of the world!" Sarah laughed.
"Hey, I'm glad you can laugh -- you look so beautiful -- but it actually kind of is."
"Is what?" Sarah said.
"The end of the world." Sam said, and his eyes looked so sad, but Sarah couldn't really take it in.
"And what? you guys are trying to stop it?" Sarah boggled, still laughing, shocked.
"Looks like," Dean said, wearily.
They were both older, tired looking and strained, but the car was as well-kept and gorgeous as ever, so that had to stand for something.
"Take me back to my place, and tell me all about it. If the world's ending, antiques are not going to be where it's at."
"Well, we've got a list of some old shit we were hoping you could help us track down," Dean said.
"Okay! Let's do it!" Sarah said, grinning up at Sam, and a tiny spark kindled there in Sam's weary eyes.
"End of the world, huh?" Sarah said, leaning forward from the back seat of the Impala and resting her chin between the brothers. "What are we going to do about it?"
Sam and Dean had to laugh -- so that was at least her first triumph. Sarah was ready to save the world, and put the light back into Sam's eyes along the way.
~*O*~
Title: "seeing red in a world gone gray"
Series: 42 Days of Metallicar and the Women of Supernatural (#22)
800 words. PG-13
Notes/Disclaimers: Kate is one of the vampires in "Dead Man's Blood" (1.20).
One thing Kate could never figure out, after, was where all the colors had gone. Before, Kate had been a proper young lady. She had known how to embroider. She'd taken watercolor lessons. At school, she'd studied the old European masters. She could remember -- no, that was a lie. Before, there had been color. She at least knew there had been the idea of color. After, there was only gray, an endless world of gray, ranging between almost white and nearly black.
Before, there had been the idea of helping people. Kate remembered enough to feign it when she could use it for trapping. Trapping was important. It kept food coming. Food kept off the hunger. The hunger was pain, weakness, fear. Blood was warmth -- no, more, it was living again. While the blood filled her mouth, her throat, her veins, Kate almost remembered red. Full of blood, Kate almost remembered love -- and so that's what she called what she felt for the mate, Luther, almost blood to her. In his arms, she could almost, almost feel alive.
Kate remembered - lie! -- but Kate thought that girls like she had been had slept in beds, in houses, and Luther was safe and warm, and he always found her a bed, and held her in his arms. So she wanted to be before to him -- giving him presents to make him smile. Luther smiled, even when he wasn't having fun with blood.
So, trapping was fun -- fun was when the hunger was sharp but the blood was right there, right there in her arms, and she only played at tasting, kept her fangs from ripping in.
Other things were almost fun -- doing them hard enough felt less like hunger. Dancing, the way that before had meant sex; liquor, hot, almost like blood; cars, really fast ones, though the paint was old and chipped, but now, after, she couldn't really see colors anyway. All the cars were gray, so what. Fast was what they were. Fast meant fun, feed, fly -- fast meant not being trapped yourself --another bed somewhere new out of the sun.
Only one thing was more important than blood. No one ever said so to Kate, she just knew it was very important -- and that was, feeding the blood sometimes. The blood knew when it should be fed. The high of feeding the blood was an ecstasy, a swirl of holy intent, and it was easy to feel you were being used by something vast. Flowing back and forth, blood feeding blood -- and feeding the blood was better than feeling no hunger. The emptying veins almost sighed in relief -- Kate could feel them relax as they emptied. The emptying brain felt no fear, calmed its hyper-alertness -- the blood was being fed, and nothing else mattered. As it flowed it almost seemed to whisper, yes, yes.
So Kate was ready to play a little when she trapped the monster. She saw its beautiful car, so black, and she could see how really black it was, and she could even see by the open hood, the cleanliness and newness of the parts of its engine. Kate took a chance to have fun with the monster -- it was almost as pretty as Luther -- maybe the blood would even rise up, demanding to be shared.
But no, the monster only wanted to kill her, kill Luther, kill her whole family.
In the end, the monster's pack alpha shot Luther, and Kate had to be dragged away screaming, as her new daughter peeled her out of there in Luther's own fast, gray car.
Kate would remember their foul stench in her nostrils, though their blood had smelled so sweet. But for now, the blood rose up in her in a wave -- the blood her mate had shared with her so long ago -- it cried out sharply in her soul when Luther went down, and something inside her went down with him.
The blood, Kate thought, Luther's blood, still inside me, even after all these years.
"You okay?" the new daughter said to Kate, several hours' drive later.
"No. No," said Kate, "No, I'm fucking not okay."
Their fast gray car had carried them loudly but smoothly to a new bolt hole, and there they'd lie low for a few days, until the blood told them what to do next.
The new daughter lay down next to her, snuggled in close. Kate wanted to lash out, to destroy the invasive thing, but a whisper of Luther's blood still rushed within the daughter's veins, and Kate keened in loss.
One day, she promised, if she ever caught the scent of that monster again, it or its fast black car, she would take them down, and on that day, she'd show the whole world red.