mix: i want your chest pressed to my chest [EP]
i want your chest pressed to my chest [ep]
FANDOM: Supernatural (AU for Season 5)
SUBJECT: Sam/OFC (Marla Tudor), grief, loss, longing
DISCLAIMER: Sam Winchester is the property of The CW, Eric Kripke, and lots of other people. Marla's mine, though Kristen Stewart belongs to herself. And of course, all the songs belong to their respective artists and recording companies. Don't sue, cause I'm flat broke.
LENGTH/SIZE: 6 songs, 27 minutes, 32.2 MB
NOTES: I know that original characters aren't everyone's bag, especially in the Supernatural fandom, but please don't let that put you off this mix. If anything, disregard the characters and take the songs as a theme on losing someone you love and grieving the loss. On not being able to let go. That's what I had in mind when I picked the songs, even if it was this character and this idea that spurred me into it. Marla is a character that I roleplay and that I write about, though this pairing has yet to come up in RP situations. She's nephilim, the child of an angel and a human, the product of Heaven's grand scheme to jumpstart the apocalypse. They're the counterpart to Azazel's 'special' children, those now-grown people who he fed demon-blood when they were just babies. (Funny bit, Azazel is known as one of the Grigori, the angels booted out of Heaven for creating the original nephilim.) She was raised believing a regular man was her father, her ties to the divine lying dormant until Lucifer was freed from his prison. She meets Sam by chance shortly after learning the truth, and her life goes to hell as Heaven wants to control her and Hell wants the nephilim dead. She joins Team Free Will, learns about hunting, and loses her family, to put it all in a rough and dirty and shallow thumbnail. Sam was her original tie to the hunting world, and without him, she feels lost. There are things unsaid and things she'll never get to say.
This somehow turned into a writing project for me. Again, you can ignore the character and fiction aspects of this and takes the songs as they are. The writing doesn't always directly relate to the lyrics provided or the lyrics at all -- sometimes it's about the mood of the song and where Marla's head would be. The writing is unbeta'd and probably rough, but it's meant to be in the vein of stream-of-consciousness. The art is my own; any pointers would be appreciated.
So, please enjoy.
Me and a Gun Tori Amos ♫
5am friday morning thursday night far from sleep
I'm still up and driving can't go home obviously
So I'll just change direction cause they'll soon know where I live
And I wanna live
Got a full tank and some chips
--------
And he said "it's your choice babe just remember
I don't think you'll be back in 3 days time so you choose well"
Tell me whats right
She's driving ninety miles an hour away from everything. Dean's in Indiana. Bobby's in South Dakota. Castiel's back in Heaven. And Sam... Sam. Sam Sam Sam. She can't think about him right now. Her vision's already blurry from lack of sleep and tears would mean she'd have to pull over. Stopping means sleeping and sleeping means forgetting, and she cannot forget.
The Only Fault Rachael Yamagata ♫
Hold on, this will floor me.
Differently than any drug that's washed me into sleep.
It's true, the only fault I'll take from you
Is how to run from what you wish to keep.
The normal life works for awhile. It's a small town in Oregon, a speck on the map really, so it's perfect. Everyone says how quiet she is and she tries to remember to smile when she's working. The tips are decent, and the owner plays an already livable wage, but none of the money goes into the rathole apartment she's living in. She tells herself she's building a nest egg, but even in the back of her mind, she knows what it's for: so much for a decent car, more for a locking trunk, and more still for gear of her own.
Day to day life doesn't matter so much. It's night she loves and night she hates, and it's all because she still dreams. Sometimes it's him, cruel and mocking, but never lying. He doesn't lie and he never will, and it makes her sick in the morning. But it's easier to get out of bed in the morning after Lucifer's been in her head. The nights it's Sam are sweeter and harder. He's whole and perfect and there; for a split-second when she wakes up, she swears it's real. She can smell his skin and feel warmth on the other half the mattress. Her heart falls, and she spends the rest of the day in tears. He's tormented and tortured: skin flayed, wounds bleeding freely, bones broken, limbs twisted. His screams mingle with the baying of the hounds when she wakes, and it takes everything she has not to sell her bit of grace and soul, to sell a thousand souls, to get his back.
Wish You Were Here Pink Floyd ♫
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
She drives with the windows down, the fading warmth in the air blowing her hair back from her eyes. The states and the roads blur together after a while; the only way she knows what day it is is by the special offered at whatever diner she stops in. The radio is a static mess, picking up only a handful of stations when she's in town and less in the middle of nowhere. But somehow, on an empty stretch of two-lane in Kansas, the song filters through the speakers, clear as a bell. Nothing's ever a coincidence anymore, and she takes it as a sign. Lawrence is two turn-offs and over an hour away.
She could find the field in her sleep, and in her dreams she has. Standing there makes her heart pound in her chest, a jackhammer drilling its way through her insides, and she's as hollow as she ever was. The tree isn't stained red anymore. There's no sign that Bobby once lay dead beneath it. Nothing here marks what happened, says "Hey, we saved the world here, and sometimes I wonder if it's worth it." With uncertain strength, she snaps branches off the tree, testing weight and durability before picking two. Just as she found the field, she finds the spot where the rings lay afterward. Nothing should grow over that unhappy bit of earth, but the grass is as green as ever, weedy and thick. She wants to dig through the packed dirt, peel it back in crumbling handfuls until she finds him. She knows she won't, though. He isn't in the ground, mouth filled with dirt, lungs burning for air. It still doesn't stop her from scoring the patch with her nails a few times. The branches are tied together, the makeshift cross serving as a crude marker. People should know. People should look here and know what was lost.
Set Fire To the Third Bar Snow Patrol (with Martha Wainwright) ♫
I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from A to where you'd B
It's only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I'd find your face
My fingers in creases of distant dark places
The first thing she does in every motel is tack up the map. There's nearly a hundred maps shoved into the glovebox of her car, but this one stays in her bag, close to her. She carefully smoothes out the creases, placing the pins through the holes already made in the corners. Vivid lines criss-cross the map, raiding out from one central spot. No matter where she is in the country, she knows how far she is from that spot. It's like a talisman, like a superstition. Knowing makes her calmer, makes her okay. The dreams haven't stopped; they've only gotten worse, in fact. But rolling out of bed to touch the map helps. Touched base. Can't get me now.
Another Year Amanda Palmer ♫
i'm getting smaller by degrees
you said you'd help me disappear
but that could take forever
i think i'll wait another year
can't we just wait together?
She didn't drink hard liquor before all this. It was beer beer beer, with stolen gulps of whatever was in the trashcan punch at parties. But the bar's a dive and the beer's piss weak, and it's a whiskey day anyways. The burn smoothes out her jagged edges, straightens out her twisted bits, and makes her clear again. The bartender eyes the bruise on her face, molted black and purple fading to blue, green, brown, and yellow as it reaches for her jaw, but he doesn't say anything. She wouldn't have answered if he had. How do you explain that a ghost slammed you into a wall repeatedly without looking crazy? The new scars and bruises keep most guys from coming close, and it's better that way. She can drink and think and drink her way out of thinking in peace.
The fake ID she uses is one of the first Dean made for her, after looking at the one she had and laughing at how bad it was. The bartender reminds her that her license is about to expire after handing it back. The address is for some tiny town in the middle of nowhere, the place Sam had suggested back when the original plan was for her to hide from both the angels and the demons. He'd been the first to protest her coming with them in the end, but it had turned out alright after all. It took adjusting, but that was the name of the game anyhow, move and adjust, move and adjust.
Amen Jewel ♫
Pieces of us die everyday
As though our flesh were hell
Such injustice, as children we are told
That from God we fell,
Where are my angels?
Where's my golden one?
Where's my hope
now that my heroes have gone?
The apocalypse teaches her to pray. She doesn't waste her time with God. The Father is gone, checked out long ago, disinterested in the sandbox like some great two year old had taken a shit in it. Instead, she gives her thoughts and words to those she does know are up there. Zadkiel. Castiel. The ones who may actually be listening. There's no answer, of course. Heaven's a busy place, and she, after all, isn't needed anymore. Her voice is just one of the many now, no special attention, no angel radar. Still, she prays. Sam used to do it, up until he'd gone to Heaven before he'd gone in the box. She picked it up then, filling the void, praying this would all end differently. She hoped to change the stars and get a reprieve, then. Now she just prays to forget, to be wiped clean and start fresh without the emptiness.
♫ download the .zip here! ♫
FANDOM: Supernatural (AU for Season 5)
SUBJECT: Sam/OFC (Marla Tudor), grief, loss, longing
DISCLAIMER: Sam Winchester is the property of The CW, Eric Kripke, and lots of other people. Marla's mine, though Kristen Stewart belongs to herself. And of course, all the songs belong to their respective artists and recording companies. Don't sue, cause I'm flat broke.
LENGTH/SIZE: 6 songs, 27 minutes, 32.2 MB
NOTES: I know that original characters aren't everyone's bag, especially in the Supernatural fandom, but please don't let that put you off this mix. If anything, disregard the characters and take the songs as a theme on losing someone you love and grieving the loss. On not being able to let go. That's what I had in mind when I picked the songs, even if it was this character and this idea that spurred me into it. Marla is a character that I roleplay and that I write about, though this pairing has yet to come up in RP situations. She's nephilim, the child of an angel and a human, the product of Heaven's grand scheme to jumpstart the apocalypse. They're the counterpart to Azazel's 'special' children, those now-grown people who he fed demon-blood when they were just babies. (Funny bit, Azazel is known as one of the Grigori, the angels booted out of Heaven for creating the original nephilim.) She was raised believing a regular man was her father, her ties to the divine lying dormant until Lucifer was freed from his prison. She meets Sam by chance shortly after learning the truth, and her life goes to hell as Heaven wants to control her and Hell wants the nephilim dead. She joins Team Free Will, learns about hunting, and loses her family, to put it all in a rough and dirty and shallow thumbnail. Sam was her original tie to the hunting world, and without him, she feels lost. There are things unsaid and things she'll never get to say.
This somehow turned into a writing project for me. Again, you can ignore the character and fiction aspects of this and takes the songs as they are. The writing doesn't always directly relate to the lyrics provided or the lyrics at all -- sometimes it's about the mood of the song and where Marla's head would be. The writing is unbeta'd and probably rough, but it's meant to be in the vein of stream-of-consciousness. The art is my own; any pointers would be appreciated.
So, please enjoy.
Me and a Gun Tori Amos ♫
5am friday morning thursday night far from sleep
I'm still up and driving can't go home obviously
So I'll just change direction cause they'll soon know where I live
And I wanna live
Got a full tank and some chips
--------
And he said "it's your choice babe just remember
I don't think you'll be back in 3 days time so you choose well"
Tell me whats right
She's driving ninety miles an hour away from everything. Dean's in Indiana. Bobby's in South Dakota. Castiel's back in Heaven. And Sam... Sam. Sam Sam Sam. She can't think about him right now. Her vision's already blurry from lack of sleep and tears would mean she'd have to pull over. Stopping means sleeping and sleeping means forgetting, and she cannot forget.
The Only Fault Rachael Yamagata ♫
Hold on, this will floor me.
Differently than any drug that's washed me into sleep.
It's true, the only fault I'll take from you
Is how to run from what you wish to keep.
The normal life works for awhile. It's a small town in Oregon, a speck on the map really, so it's perfect. Everyone says how quiet she is and she tries to remember to smile when she's working. The tips are decent, and the owner plays an already livable wage, but none of the money goes into the rathole apartment she's living in. She tells herself she's building a nest egg, but even in the back of her mind, she knows what it's for: so much for a decent car, more for a locking trunk, and more still for gear of her own.
Day to day life doesn't matter so much. It's night she loves and night she hates, and it's all because she still dreams. Sometimes it's him, cruel and mocking, but never lying. He doesn't lie and he never will, and it makes her sick in the morning. But it's easier to get out of bed in the morning after Lucifer's been in her head. The nights it's Sam are sweeter and harder. He's whole and perfect and there; for a split-second when she wakes up, she swears it's real. She can smell his skin and feel warmth on the other half the mattress. Her heart falls, and she spends the rest of the day in tears. He's tormented and tortured: skin flayed, wounds bleeding freely, bones broken, limbs twisted. His screams mingle with the baying of the hounds when she wakes, and it takes everything she has not to sell her bit of grace and soul, to sell a thousand souls, to get his back.
Wish You Were Here Pink Floyd ♫
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
She drives with the windows down, the fading warmth in the air blowing her hair back from her eyes. The states and the roads blur together after a while; the only way she knows what day it is is by the special offered at whatever diner she stops in. The radio is a static mess, picking up only a handful of stations when she's in town and less in the middle of nowhere. But somehow, on an empty stretch of two-lane in Kansas, the song filters through the speakers, clear as a bell. Nothing's ever a coincidence anymore, and she takes it as a sign. Lawrence is two turn-offs and over an hour away.
She could find the field in her sleep, and in her dreams she has. Standing there makes her heart pound in her chest, a jackhammer drilling its way through her insides, and she's as hollow as she ever was. The tree isn't stained red anymore. There's no sign that Bobby once lay dead beneath it. Nothing here marks what happened, says "Hey, we saved the world here, and sometimes I wonder if it's worth it." With uncertain strength, she snaps branches off the tree, testing weight and durability before picking two. Just as she found the field, she finds the spot where the rings lay afterward. Nothing should grow over that unhappy bit of earth, but the grass is as green as ever, weedy and thick. She wants to dig through the packed dirt, peel it back in crumbling handfuls until she finds him. She knows she won't, though. He isn't in the ground, mouth filled with dirt, lungs burning for air. It still doesn't stop her from scoring the patch with her nails a few times. The branches are tied together, the makeshift cross serving as a crude marker. People should know. People should look here and know what was lost.
Set Fire To the Third Bar Snow Patrol (with Martha Wainwright) ♫
I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from A to where you'd B
It's only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I'd find your face
My fingers in creases of distant dark places
The first thing she does in every motel is tack up the map. There's nearly a hundred maps shoved into the glovebox of her car, but this one stays in her bag, close to her. She carefully smoothes out the creases, placing the pins through the holes already made in the corners. Vivid lines criss-cross the map, raiding out from one central spot. No matter where she is in the country, she knows how far she is from that spot. It's like a talisman, like a superstition. Knowing makes her calmer, makes her okay. The dreams haven't stopped; they've only gotten worse, in fact. But rolling out of bed to touch the map helps. Touched base. Can't get me now.
Another Year Amanda Palmer ♫
i'm getting smaller by degrees
you said you'd help me disappear
but that could take forever
i think i'll wait another year
can't we just wait together?
She didn't drink hard liquor before all this. It was beer beer beer, with stolen gulps of whatever was in the trashcan punch at parties. But the bar's a dive and the beer's piss weak, and it's a whiskey day anyways. The burn smoothes out her jagged edges, straightens out her twisted bits, and makes her clear again. The bartender eyes the bruise on her face, molted black and purple fading to blue, green, brown, and yellow as it reaches for her jaw, but he doesn't say anything. She wouldn't have answered if he had. How do you explain that a ghost slammed you into a wall repeatedly without looking crazy? The new scars and bruises keep most guys from coming close, and it's better that way. She can drink and think and drink her way out of thinking in peace.
The fake ID she uses is one of the first Dean made for her, after looking at the one she had and laughing at how bad it was. The bartender reminds her that her license is about to expire after handing it back. The address is for some tiny town in the middle of nowhere, the place Sam had suggested back when the original plan was for her to hide from both the angels and the demons. He'd been the first to protest her coming with them in the end, but it had turned out alright after all. It took adjusting, but that was the name of the game anyhow, move and adjust, move and adjust.
Amen Jewel ♫
Pieces of us die everyday
As though our flesh were hell
Such injustice, as children we are told
That from God we fell,
Where are my angels?
Where's my golden one?
Where's my hope
now that my heroes have gone?
The apocalypse teaches her to pray. She doesn't waste her time with God. The Father is gone, checked out long ago, disinterested in the sandbox like some great two year old had taken a shit in it. Instead, she gives her thoughts and words to those she does know are up there. Zadkiel. Castiel. The ones who may actually be listening. There's no answer, of course. Heaven's a busy place, and she, after all, isn't needed anymore. Her voice is just one of the many now, no special attention, no angel radar. Still, she prays. Sam used to do it, up until he'd gone to Heaven before he'd gone in the box. She picked it up then, filling the void, praying this would all end differently. She hoped to change the stars and get a reprieve, then. Now she just prays to forget, to be wiped clean and start fresh without the emptiness.
♫ download the .zip here! ♫