.0024 - Forget
Dean/Sam, Sam/Jessica
1,528 words
Teaser: He doesn’t want Dean to approve and accept his choices and new life. He wants back the anger and desperation that had filled Dean’s eyes and his words right before their ways had parted.
Flipping through the well thumbed pages of the thick book in his hands, trying to find the right paragraph in the right law, Sam pushes his way through the door of the institute, holding it open with his foot long enough to let Jessica walk through.
She doesn’t stop talking about the case they’ve been arguing about since the professor left the class, two hours ago, and she’s smiling because she believes she’s right. Sam knows that she’s not, but he also knows that there’s no sense in trying to contradict her. He closes the book, giving up, and reaches for her hand, clasping it in his own and stroking it with his thumb lightly.
He looks up, briefly to see where the stairs begin, and stops like he’s been struck with lightning coming out of the blue, when his eyes catch a glimpse of a familiar face among the crowd of strangers. He blinks, convinced that his vision’s playing games on him, but even when he closes and opens his eyes again, four times, it’s still there.
He is. Huddled in a long black coat that, Sam’s sure, was once Dad’s, and dark blue, torn jeans that hang just a little too loosely, he’s leaning against the wall of the nearby building. His slender fingers are wrapped around a brown paper cup, full pink lips taking small, careful sips. His hair is darker and a few inches longer than Sam remembers. A visible cut spreads from one corner of his mouth to the right cheek bone, and a sticking-plaster adorns his left eyebrow. His nose and cheeks are reddened from the freezing wind, which is as alien as it can only be in these parts. Sam would swear that it were right the wheels of his car that have brought it here, sending a little greeting from the cities and people Sam refused to see and save from perdition. Leaving this task in the hands of his Dad and older brother, who’s now completely stopped Sam’s world.
Dean... as beautiful and mysterious as the night itself.
Dean’s gaze move from the pathway and meet Sam’s, making his heart skip a beat and then speed up, practically tripping over itself. He lets go of Jessica’s hand, like he’s been caught doing something prohibited, something wrong. Dean’s eyes, emerald green eyes that have seen too much, too soon, looking old and like nothing could surprise them anymore, widen with surprise, drawing lines of panic all across his face. His hand stops midway to his lips and he pulls away from the wall, standing upright with a slightly robotic, catatonic movement. His gaze slips slowly from Sam’s face to his now empty hand, and then to the petite blonde girl beside him with curiosity and real interest; observing her with the always-suspicious, troubles expecting gaze of a hunter. When he returns his look to Sam, a few endless seconds later, he nods and smiles softly, like he’s sanctioning something, saying: This is right. This is how it should be. A smile that is as honest as he can only master, real, warm and approving.
A smile Sam doesn’t want, because he... doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t want Dean to approve and accept his choices and new life. He wants back the anger and desperation that had filled Dean’s eyes and his words right before their ways had parted.
Wants to bring back the fight that had left marks, both visible and hidden deep under the skin, and had settled bitterness in both of them. Fists and bruised knuckles, spits of blood and oaths that neither really meant. The kiss that tasted of copper, and love so strong it had years ago melted in hatred. A kiss that had made Sam’s lips tingle for days.
Wants to go back to the hot summer nights in Nevada, where they crossed every possible line that was never meant to be traversed, and built up a path paved with sin, leading nowhere except, in all probability, to Hell.
Wants to run his thumb across Dean’s lower lip, taste the dry smoothness and heat of it, sweeten the bitter flavour of coffee on his tongue. Longs to push his hands underneath Dean’s T-shirt and map the old scars and wounds scattered across his back and chest, to seek new ones and repel the pain they hide. Find out what wind has blown him here, what monster has left its imprints on his fair, freckled skin. Needs to tell him that what he sees is not real, just a bubble of secrets and lies, because she’s not Dean. Just a substitute; lovely and loving, and loved only partly. Everything that Dean isn’t and nothing that Dean is...
He wants to go after him, takes a tentative step forward, but Dean shakes his head, halting him. Sam opens his mouth to ask why not, protest against Dean’s decision, one that seems more like an order, but Dean’s eyes offer no other option, no arguments, so he nods and takes the step back. Dean drops his gaze to the cobbled pavement, staring at it for what feels like forever, as if trying to pick up the strength to walk away, while Sam just waits. Hearing and sensing nothing that’s happening around him, maybe even forgetting to breathe; his whole world narrowed to one moment, to the man standing a few, unconquerable metres from him. Dean looks up and at Sam eventually, and gives him another grin, as bitter as the most final goodbye, and turns away. He throws the unfinished coffee into the nearby bin, shoves his hands in the deep pockets of his coat, and disappears into a crowd of students he should never be able to merge into.
In that last look was more than Dean seemed to realize though. A flash of truth that glinted in his eyes briefly, long enough for Sam too see, but not long enough to prove he wasn’t mistaken; showing naked, sincere hurt, and a feeling of betrayal and loss.
“Sam... Sammy...” Dean’s voice echoes in Sam’s ear, breathless and shaking, and breaking into a moan on the last syllable. His body burns like the flame of a candle, quivering underneath Sam’s and his touch, head thrown back and eyes firmly closed, only the dark shadows of his eyelashes contrasting with his otherwise pale skin...
Something, someone tugs at the sleeve of Sam’s jacket, urgently and impatiently, and pierces his memory like a pin in a child’s balloon. He startles, finally tearing his eyes away from the place where Dean was standing only a minute ago. “Huh?”
It’s not Dean’s hand that touches Sam’s cheek, smoothing away the single stray tear he didn’t even feel falling, not Dean’s voice whispering Sam’s name, pulling him out of the abyss of broken dreams and never made promises.
“Are you okay?” Jessica asks, her tone filled with worry and confusion, waving her hand in front of Sam’s face to get his attention.
“Sorry... what?”
“I’ve been talking to you,” she complains. “For perhaps the last five minutes, but you were like... gone.”
“I’m okay,” Sam smiles. Or tries to, at least, even though he knows it’s empty and totally dishonest.
“Are you sure? Because if you told me you’ve just seen a ghost I’d totally believe you.”
A ghost. Maybe he was a ghost, visible to Sam’s eyes only, leaving no proof of his existence, for nothing has changed, nothing has stirred; not a blade of grass the tip of his army boot might have grazed in his walk, not a snowy white feather fallen upon the side walk. No one noticed, no one lifted their eyes from their everyday agenda and daily problems to see a random, albeit a very handsome man, who always remains unseen when he wants to be. Watching from distance and shadows, and smiting like a guardian angel when wrong looms from the darkness, only to vanish anew. Dad has trained him well, too well for Sam’s liking.
“I just... got lost in my thoughts,” Sam says, quietly, although everything inside him screams, urging him to burn this illusion he’s built up and face what he’s run away from. Because he can’t keep running from what is still inside him, flickering with the same intensity as always. He wants to run away, run until he catches and stops the sleek, roaring Impala, dark like the emptiness he feels, and tell her driver that he’d been wrong when he thought that he could forget.
Instead, he does the opposite and winds his arm around Jessica’s waist, pulling her closer, kissing away her clouds, and the unspoken questions for which he could never provide satisfying answers. Closes his eyes and makes himself believe he doesn’t pretend he’s holding someone else.
1,528 words
Teaser: He doesn’t want Dean to approve and accept his choices and new life. He wants back the anger and desperation that had filled Dean’s eyes and his words right before their ways had parted.
Flipping through the well thumbed pages of the thick book in his hands, trying to find the right paragraph in the right law, Sam pushes his way through the door of the institute, holding it open with his foot long enough to let Jessica walk through.
She doesn’t stop talking about the case they’ve been arguing about since the professor left the class, two hours ago, and she’s smiling because she believes she’s right. Sam knows that she’s not, but he also knows that there’s no sense in trying to contradict her. He closes the book, giving up, and reaches for her hand, clasping it in his own and stroking it with his thumb lightly.
He looks up, briefly to see where the stairs begin, and stops like he’s been struck with lightning coming out of the blue, when his eyes catch a glimpse of a familiar face among the crowd of strangers. He blinks, convinced that his vision’s playing games on him, but even when he closes and opens his eyes again, four times, it’s still there.
He is. Huddled in a long black coat that, Sam’s sure, was once Dad’s, and dark blue, torn jeans that hang just a little too loosely, he’s leaning against the wall of the nearby building. His slender fingers are wrapped around a brown paper cup, full pink lips taking small, careful sips. His hair is darker and a few inches longer than Sam remembers. A visible cut spreads from one corner of his mouth to the right cheek bone, and a sticking-plaster adorns his left eyebrow. His nose and cheeks are reddened from the freezing wind, which is as alien as it can only be in these parts. Sam would swear that it were right the wheels of his car that have brought it here, sending a little greeting from the cities and people Sam refused to see and save from perdition. Leaving this task in the hands of his Dad and older brother, who’s now completely stopped Sam’s world.
Dean... as beautiful and mysterious as the night itself.
Dean’s gaze move from the pathway and meet Sam’s, making his heart skip a beat and then speed up, practically tripping over itself. He lets go of Jessica’s hand, like he’s been caught doing something prohibited, something wrong. Dean’s eyes, emerald green eyes that have seen too much, too soon, looking old and like nothing could surprise them anymore, widen with surprise, drawing lines of panic all across his face. His hand stops midway to his lips and he pulls away from the wall, standing upright with a slightly robotic, catatonic movement. His gaze slips slowly from Sam’s face to his now empty hand, and then to the petite blonde girl beside him with curiosity and real interest; observing her with the always-suspicious, troubles expecting gaze of a hunter. When he returns his look to Sam, a few endless seconds later, he nods and smiles softly, like he’s sanctioning something, saying: This is right. This is how it should be. A smile that is as honest as he can only master, real, warm and approving.
A smile Sam doesn’t want, because he... doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t want Dean to approve and accept his choices and new life. He wants back the anger and desperation that had filled Dean’s eyes and his words right before their ways had parted.
Wants to bring back the fight that had left marks, both visible and hidden deep under the skin, and had settled bitterness in both of them. Fists and bruised knuckles, spits of blood and oaths that neither really meant. The kiss that tasted of copper, and love so strong it had years ago melted in hatred. A kiss that had made Sam’s lips tingle for days.
Wants to go back to the hot summer nights in Nevada, where they crossed every possible line that was never meant to be traversed, and built up a path paved with sin, leading nowhere except, in all probability, to Hell.
Wants to run his thumb across Dean’s lower lip, taste the dry smoothness and heat of it, sweeten the bitter flavour of coffee on his tongue. Longs to push his hands underneath Dean’s T-shirt and map the old scars and wounds scattered across his back and chest, to seek new ones and repel the pain they hide. Find out what wind has blown him here, what monster has left its imprints on his fair, freckled skin. Needs to tell him that what he sees is not real, just a bubble of secrets and lies, because she’s not Dean. Just a substitute; lovely and loving, and loved only partly. Everything that Dean isn’t and nothing that Dean is...
He wants to go after him, takes a tentative step forward, but Dean shakes his head, halting him. Sam opens his mouth to ask why not, protest against Dean’s decision, one that seems more like an order, but Dean’s eyes offer no other option, no arguments, so he nods and takes the step back. Dean drops his gaze to the cobbled pavement, staring at it for what feels like forever, as if trying to pick up the strength to walk away, while Sam just waits. Hearing and sensing nothing that’s happening around him, maybe even forgetting to breathe; his whole world narrowed to one moment, to the man standing a few, unconquerable metres from him. Dean looks up and at Sam eventually, and gives him another grin, as bitter as the most final goodbye, and turns away. He throws the unfinished coffee into the nearby bin, shoves his hands in the deep pockets of his coat, and disappears into a crowd of students he should never be able to merge into.
In that last look was more than Dean seemed to realize though. A flash of truth that glinted in his eyes briefly, long enough for Sam too see, but not long enough to prove he wasn’t mistaken; showing naked, sincere hurt, and a feeling of betrayal and loss.
“Sam... Sammy...” Dean’s voice echoes in Sam’s ear, breathless and shaking, and breaking into a moan on the last syllable. His body burns like the flame of a candle, quivering underneath Sam’s and his touch, head thrown back and eyes firmly closed, only the dark shadows of his eyelashes contrasting with his otherwise pale skin...
Something, someone tugs at the sleeve of Sam’s jacket, urgently and impatiently, and pierces his memory like a pin in a child’s balloon. He startles, finally tearing his eyes away from the place where Dean was standing only a minute ago. “Huh?”
It’s not Dean’s hand that touches Sam’s cheek, smoothing away the single stray tear he didn’t even feel falling, not Dean’s voice whispering Sam’s name, pulling him out of the abyss of broken dreams and never made promises.
“Are you okay?” Jessica asks, her tone filled with worry and confusion, waving her hand in front of Sam’s face to get his attention.
“Sorry... what?”
“I’ve been talking to you,” she complains. “For perhaps the last five minutes, but you were like... gone.”
“I’m okay,” Sam smiles. Or tries to, at least, even though he knows it’s empty and totally dishonest.
“Are you sure? Because if you told me you’ve just seen a ghost I’d totally believe you.”
A ghost. Maybe he was a ghost, visible to Sam’s eyes only, leaving no proof of his existence, for nothing has changed, nothing has stirred; not a blade of grass the tip of his army boot might have grazed in his walk, not a snowy white feather fallen upon the side walk. No one noticed, no one lifted their eyes from their everyday agenda and daily problems to see a random, albeit a very handsome man, who always remains unseen when he wants to be. Watching from distance and shadows, and smiting like a guardian angel when wrong looms from the darkness, only to vanish anew. Dad has trained him well, too well for Sam’s liking.
“I just... got lost in my thoughts,” Sam says, quietly, although everything inside him screams, urging him to burn this illusion he’s built up and face what he’s run away from. Because he can’t keep running from what is still inside him, flickering with the same intensity as always. He wants to run away, run until he catches and stops the sleek, roaring Impala, dark like the emptiness he feels, and tell her driver that he’d been wrong when he thought that he could forget.
Instead, he does the opposite and winds his arm around Jessica’s waist, pulling her closer, kissing away her clouds, and the unspoken questions for which he could never provide satisfying answers. Closes his eyes and makes himself believe he doesn’t pretend he’s holding someone else.