wut? M. fanficced! (and liked it more than she thought she would...)
writer's block juxtaposed with a bloodthirsty need to write lead to finding a temporary salvation in fanfiction. which is something i haven't dabbled in since i was sixteen.
--awww, it's a moment for the scrapbooks! M.'s first Supernatural fanfic; it can go right alongside the first time i tried to drink soda through a straw with my nose.
"Muscle Memory"
i own nothing, kripke is god. feedback is welcomed.
Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar bed. And Sam, surrounded by unfamiliar smells and walls.
Hours ago, he walked through the door of the apartment he and Jessica shared. Hours ago, he had fallen blissfully onto a familiar bed, surrounded by familiar smells and sounds. For a moment, hours ago, it had been a night like any other night in which Sam had come home late; Jessica in the shower and Sam waiting patiently for her to join him in bed before falling asleep.
Hours ago seemed like days, seemed like a dream, and Sam wasn’t really sure yet if it had actually happened at all.
Sam shut his eyes, and saw Jessica and fire. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see her pinned to the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Turning onto his side he gazed at the other bed, it was only an arm's-length away, but the distance between them felt much farther than that.
“Dean.” Sam hated how young he sounded. His voice caught in the awkward pitch just above a whisper that cracks and breaks.
“Sammy?” Dean answered, the stiff sheets rustling as he shifted, "What's wrong?"
“Did I wake you up?” Sam was insecure and unsure of where they stood anymore. He felt stupid for calling out. He never used to feel that way when he woke his brother up at night.
“No.” The same lie Dean always answered that question with. Sighing he lifted his blankets and affectionately whispered: “C’mere, stupid.”
And Sam was moving, fumbling in the dark to cross the distance, ducking under the lifted sheet, and settling into Dean’s embrace like he always had. Pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder, Sam surrounded by everything Dean and feeling the familiar vibration of Dean's voice against his cheek.
“It’s okay,” Dean’s voice pitched low, rumbling through his chest. “I've got you, Sammy.”
This embrace as familiar as it was new. And Sam found himself propelled back to years ago, when it was one of his many nightmares that drew them together rather than fire and loss. When they had always shared a bed because Sam couldn’t sleep unless wrapped up in everything Dean, feeling his brother holding him steady.
The nightmare had been of wild, scattered pictures. Nonsensical; a motel in Sedona, dense woods and Dean not there, blood, faces, endlessly driving in the dark, and fire swallowing it all. Sam was trapped in the fire, screaming and terrified because he was alone without Dean.
Then suddenly the fear was gone. Chased away by his brother’s arms, and his brother’s scent, and his brother’s voice, “I’m here, Sammy, I’ve got you now. You’re safe. You know I’d never let anything happen to you.” The words softly breathed into his hair, kisses brushed against his nightmare sweaty forehead warmed by hushed murmurs of, “Sammy. Sammy.”
Movement from the other bed, and a click as the small motel lamp lit the room, too bright for eyes adjusted to the dark.
“Sammy,” comes their father’s tired, concerned voice, but Sam can’t see him. His eyes are shut, pressed against Dean’s shoulder to block out the light and dreams. “You got him?”
“Yeah, I've got him.” Sam feels it against his face, a rough, low rumble. He hears their father moving around the room. The faucet squeaking as it’s turned on and spitting when it’s turned off, and a glass of water is set on the table next to the bed Sam and Dean shared. A warm calloused hand fell awkwardly on Dean’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze as if he were trying to say, "I’m sorry. I’m not sure what else to do." The calluses catch as they run through damp curls, a clumsy comfort, but it’s the best he can do because Dean's the only one who had ever been able to chase away Sam’s nightmares.
“Okay.” Blankets shifting, bed squeaking as a comfortable position was found, punctuated by heavy sighs. The lamp clicked off.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean whispered, pulling Sam down into the nest of hotel blankets and over-starched sheets, his arms coiled around Sam’s lanky, too-skinning preteen frame.
“I got you, Sammy.” Dean’s fingers combed through his hair, the vibrations of his voice making him shiver and curl closer, wrap himself tighter in everything Dean. His brother’s arms, and smell, and soft, feathery whispers of comfort along his neck, in his ear, against his cheek.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was muffled against brother’s shoulder, his hands clenched, bunching the worn material of Dean’s shirt, not letting go.
“I've always got you, Sammy.” One of Dean’s hands rested on his back, the other was cradling his head, fingers buried in curls that had stayed baby-soft. And Sam, his nightmare forgotten was lulled back to sleep surrounded by everything Dean and soft whispers of, “Sammy. Sammy.”
“Dean.” Sam whimpered against his brother’s shoulder, swallowing the sobs welling in his throat; Jessica was gone.
“It’s okay,” Dean murmured, one hand on his back, the other cradling his head, fingers buried in the soft curls. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you, Sammy.”
It was the soft “Sammy” that broke the dam, and Sam curled against his brother mourning the life he had lost, comforted as Dean pulled him closer. Surrounding him in everything Dean. Sam relaxed into his brother. Eyes closed and face pressed against the curve of Dean’s neck, trying to block out his pain by hiding behind Dean’s shoulder because it had always worked before.
He felt Dean yawn against the side of his head, and sighed in sudden exhaustion, one hand taking a handful of Dean’s shirt and holding it tight. In a motel in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by everything Dean, Sam is home. The pain over Jessica was still there, a steady ache in his chest, but alongside it was the rebirth of something that was lost when he left for Stanford.
And Sam was slowly lulled to sleep surrounded by everything Dean and soft whispers of, “Sammy. Sammy.”
--awww, it's a moment for the scrapbooks! M.'s first Supernatural fanfic; it can go right alongside the first time i tried to drink soda through a straw with my nose.
"Muscle Memory"
i own nothing, kripke is god. feedback is welcomed.
Unfamiliar ceiling. Unfamiliar bed. And Sam, surrounded by unfamiliar smells and walls.
Hours ago, he walked through the door of the apartment he and Jessica shared. Hours ago, he had fallen blissfully onto a familiar bed, surrounded by familiar smells and sounds. For a moment, hours ago, it had been a night like any other night in which Sam had come home late; Jessica in the shower and Sam waiting patiently for her to join him in bed before falling asleep.
Hours ago seemed like days, seemed like a dream, and Sam wasn’t really sure yet if it had actually happened at all.
Sam shut his eyes, and saw Jessica and fire. He opened his eyes, half expecting to see her pinned to the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Turning onto his side he gazed at the other bed, it was only an arm's-length away, but the distance between them felt much farther than that.
“Dean.” Sam hated how young he sounded. His voice caught in the awkward pitch just above a whisper that cracks and breaks.
“Sammy?” Dean answered, the stiff sheets rustling as he shifted, "What's wrong?"
“Did I wake you up?” Sam was insecure and unsure of where they stood anymore. He felt stupid for calling out. He never used to feel that way when he woke his brother up at night.
“No.” The same lie Dean always answered that question with. Sighing he lifted his blankets and affectionately whispered: “C’mere, stupid.”
And Sam was moving, fumbling in the dark to cross the distance, ducking under the lifted sheet, and settling into Dean’s embrace like he always had. Pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder, Sam surrounded by everything Dean and feeling the familiar vibration of Dean's voice against his cheek.
“It’s okay,” Dean’s voice pitched low, rumbling through his chest. “I've got you, Sammy.”
This embrace as familiar as it was new. And Sam found himself propelled back to years ago, when it was one of his many nightmares that drew them together rather than fire and loss. When they had always shared a bed because Sam couldn’t sleep unless wrapped up in everything Dean, feeling his brother holding him steady.
The nightmare had been of wild, scattered pictures. Nonsensical; a motel in Sedona, dense woods and Dean not there, blood, faces, endlessly driving in the dark, and fire swallowing it all. Sam was trapped in the fire, screaming and terrified because he was alone without Dean.
Then suddenly the fear was gone. Chased away by his brother’s arms, and his brother’s scent, and his brother’s voice, “I’m here, Sammy, I’ve got you now. You’re safe. You know I’d never let anything happen to you.” The words softly breathed into his hair, kisses brushed against his nightmare sweaty forehead warmed by hushed murmurs of, “Sammy. Sammy.”
Movement from the other bed, and a click as the small motel lamp lit the room, too bright for eyes adjusted to the dark.
“Sammy,” comes their father’s tired, concerned voice, but Sam can’t see him. His eyes are shut, pressed against Dean’s shoulder to block out the light and dreams. “You got him?”
“Yeah, I've got him.” Sam feels it against his face, a rough, low rumble. He hears their father moving around the room. The faucet squeaking as it’s turned on and spitting when it’s turned off, and a glass of water is set on the table next to the bed Sam and Dean shared. A warm calloused hand fell awkwardly on Dean’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze as if he were trying to say, "I’m sorry. I’m not sure what else to do." The calluses catch as they run through damp curls, a clumsy comfort, but it’s the best he can do because Dean's the only one who had ever been able to chase away Sam’s nightmares.
“Okay.” Blankets shifting, bed squeaking as a comfortable position was found, punctuated by heavy sighs. The lamp clicked off.
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean whispered, pulling Sam down into the nest of hotel blankets and over-starched sheets, his arms coiled around Sam’s lanky, too-skinning preteen frame.
“I got you, Sammy.” Dean’s fingers combed through his hair, the vibrations of his voice making him shiver and curl closer, wrap himself tighter in everything Dean. His brother’s arms, and smell, and soft, feathery whispers of comfort along his neck, in his ear, against his cheek.
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was muffled against brother’s shoulder, his hands clenched, bunching the worn material of Dean’s shirt, not letting go.
“I've always got you, Sammy.” One of Dean’s hands rested on his back, the other was cradling his head, fingers buried in curls that had stayed baby-soft. And Sam, his nightmare forgotten was lulled back to sleep surrounded by everything Dean and soft whispers of, “Sammy. Sammy.”
“Dean.” Sam whimpered against his brother’s shoulder, swallowing the sobs welling in his throat; Jessica was gone.
“It’s okay,” Dean murmured, one hand on his back, the other cradling his head, fingers buried in the soft curls. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you, Sammy.”
It was the soft “Sammy” that broke the dam, and Sam curled against his brother mourning the life he had lost, comforted as Dean pulled him closer. Surrounding him in everything Dean. Sam relaxed into his brother. Eyes closed and face pressed against the curve of Dean’s neck, trying to block out his pain by hiding behind Dean’s shoulder because it had always worked before.
He felt Dean yawn against the side of his head, and sighed in sudden exhaustion, one hand taking a handful of Dean’s shirt and holding it tight. In a motel in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by everything Dean, Sam is home. The pain over Jessica was still there, a steady ache in his chest, but alongside it was the rebirth of something that was lost when he left for Stanford.
And Sam was slowly lulled to sleep surrounded by everything Dean and soft whispers of, “Sammy. Sammy.”