FILLED: Nun hat er nichts mehr lieb, PG 3/3honeylocusttreeOctober 15 2011, 01:19:45 UTC
The stitches come out for good, and neither Bobby nor Dean give him any warnings about what to do with the injury now that it’s healed. The scar is pink and bright and Sam turns it and turns it, watching the light flicker and shine on its surface.
He goes to see (SarahJessicaRachel) the stupid dog and hunkers down beside it, running his good hand over her tiny head, scratching behind the floppy ears. Her tongue lolls out. Her skull is so small, so fragile. She’ll never survive in this world on her own.
She whines and bounces and he reaches down with his other hand, the scarred one, and it plops onto her back, above the knob of spine, and it must not have been as healed as he and Bobby thought. A tiny pain fizzes just under the skin, licks at the bones and tendons, and the dog flickers, just for an instant, and Sam can see the leaves and feathers and dead grass in the space where she was.
Then the pain’s gone, and she looks up at him, eyes liquid and wanting, but Sam’s already on his feet, back to the door, and he can hear his heart and taste the bitterness of loss already. He swallows and swallows again. He’ll never get the taste out of his mouth.
“Oh,” he says quietly, to no one. “Oh.
He turns away, goes back inside.
--
She follows him around the house. The nameless thing. The mutt, the goddamn dog, the whatever-it-is. Follows him around, nails clacking on the floor, and she cries. She cries through Dean’s telenovelas and she cries over Lucifer, who’s back and hanging around in the corner whenever he can get away with it. She cries at the door when Sam shuts himself in the bathroom and splashes water on his face over and over. She whimpers and she whines and clatters all over the place and Sam can hear her even when he can’t see her. He sits on the couch, on the arm of the couch, perched next to Dean’s head, and makes himself watch his brother’s stupid show, and just about manages to contain the flicker of his eyes or the cringing of his shoulders every time the damn puppy makes that sound. That desolate, horrible noise.
He just about manages, anyway. Until Dean looks up at him, with sharp, too-knowing eyes, mouth pressed into a line. Sam catches the glance, startles back, nearly slides off the arm of the couch.
Dean spits, “For God’s sake, Sam, go feed your damn dog.”
Sam licks his lips and flicks a rapid glance at the door, at the puppy watching him with imploring eyes.
He looks back at his brother, but Dean doesn’t say anything else.
-the end-
_______________________________________________
I have got to learn to stop leaving drive-by comments on prompts. This keeps happening to me.
I’m not taking responsibility for this one, though. I wrote this over the course of a couple hours. No real edits, since it’s comment-fic.
He goes to see (SarahJessicaRachel) the stupid dog and hunkers down beside it, running his good hand over her tiny head, scratching behind the floppy ears. Her tongue lolls out. Her skull is so small, so fragile. She’ll never survive in this world on her own.
She whines and bounces and he reaches down with his other hand, the scarred one, and it plops onto her back, above the knob of spine, and it must not have been as healed as he and Bobby thought. A tiny pain fizzes just under the skin, licks at the bones and tendons, and the dog flickers, just for an instant, and Sam can see the leaves and feathers and dead grass in the space where she was.
Then the pain’s gone, and she looks up at him, eyes liquid and wanting, but Sam’s already on his feet, back to the door, and he can hear his heart and taste the bitterness of loss already. He swallows and swallows again. He’ll never get the taste out of his mouth.
“Oh,” he says quietly, to no one. “Oh.
He turns away, goes back inside.
--
She follows him around the house. The nameless thing. The mutt, the goddamn dog, the whatever-it-is. Follows him around, nails clacking on the floor, and she cries. She cries through Dean’s telenovelas and she cries over Lucifer, who’s back and hanging around in the corner whenever he can get away with it. She cries at the door when Sam shuts himself in the bathroom and splashes water on his face over and over. She whimpers and she whines and clatters all over the place and Sam can hear her even when he can’t see her. He sits on the couch, on the arm of the couch, perched next to Dean’s head, and makes himself watch his brother’s stupid show, and just about manages to contain the flicker of his eyes or the cringing of his shoulders every time the damn puppy makes that sound. That desolate, horrible noise.
He just about manages, anyway. Until Dean looks up at him, with sharp, too-knowing eyes, mouth pressed into a line. Sam catches the glance, startles back, nearly slides off the arm of the couch.
Dean spits, “For God’s sake, Sam, go feed your damn dog.”
Sam licks his lips and flicks a rapid glance at the door, at the puppy watching him with imploring eyes.
He looks back at his brother, but Dean doesn’t say anything else.
-the end-
_______________________________________________
I have got to learn to stop leaving drive-by comments on prompts. This keeps happening to me.
I’m not taking responsibility for this one, though. I wrote this over the course of a couple hours. No real edits, since it’s comment-fic.
Title From Rilke’s The Song of the Waif.
Reply
Reply
Glad you enjoyed! I expect anyone else who reads this may want to lynch me, so...heh.
<3!
Reply
No, it was LOVELY. And I love me some crazy Sammy. Thank you so much <3 <3
Reply
Leave a comment