Fic: and i'll be gentle with you
Title: and i'll be gentle with you
Fandom: Supernatural/One Tree Hill Crossover.
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Brooke. Sam POV.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,363.
Summary: It’s like everything that she’s held inside for months, maybe years, comes tumbling out of her mouth like shattered glass, and he feels her ache, her pain with every word, even if he doesn’t understand the half of it. He has a bruise forming now under her finger, poking harder and harder, and thinks wildly, good, let me take some, you can’t hold it all.
Notes: For lavendergaia, and her prompt for "Sam/Brooke; Nervous". Um, It kind of exploded, and this is part two. This part is far more emo, and long winded, and I dunno. Sam Winchester is weird.
It’s his first day at the newest school this month, and he has to stupidly crash into her of all people. Of course, he knew of her. Brooke Davis was plastered around the school like a beacon for lost souls, and the secretary had pointed her out when she handed him his schedule, “Nice girl, if you have any questions or concerns, she’ll help.” But he had knocked the nice girl off her feet, and she was glaring up at him, even as he whispered his sincerest of apologies and helped her gather her things.
“Thank you,” she said, icily, taking her books from him and walking away. He watched her go, a mixture of bewilderment and awe churning in his gut. There was something about her, dark and brilliant and intriguing. Something lurking under the surface, out of sight and out of reach, and he wanted to know what.
He got his wish in the worst form possible. Stuck in more than half her classes and forced to endure the feeling of her glaring daggers at the back of his skull for most of the day, until he resigned himself to her hating his guts for not other reason than he was the start to an awful day for her. He can hear her groan from her seat on the bleachers when he walks into gym, so he smiles at her in hopes of counteracting any bad karma from this morning, but stops the urge to wave. She glares immediately, and he can’t help but laugh as he walks by. Nice girl, indeed. Anything and everything he did, she got sharper and more prickly.
The few blessed seconds she leaves him alone, the coach zeros in on him not long after, spying him shooting some hoops with a couple of the guys, and he should have known better. He’s been in a hundred small towns like this before, where the high school team means everything and he looks like a miracle on a golden platter with his height and reach. But he declines his offer, snorting derisively to himself how easily the little white lie comes from his lips. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to help my dad after school.” He wonders how he would take it if he told him with what, and why exactly his reflexes are so sharp.
When school lets out, Dean’s waiting for him in the parking lot, and Sam settles into passenger’s seat like he’s already home, finding comfort in smell of gunpowder and leather surrounding him. “Hey, hot chick, five o’clock,” Dean says, clicking his tongue and pointing over Sam’s shoulder with a snap of his fingers.
Sam follows his line of vision, and catches Brooke’s eye. She looks away quickly, like just the sight of him burns. He sighs. “Dude, she was totally checking you out, which isn’t surprising since she really, really hates me.”
“Whatever, man,” Dean says, reaching his arm back around to the steering wheel, grin playing on his lips, looking every bit like the cat that caught the canary. “But, my brother, it was you who she was mentally undressing with her eyes.”
“Really?” Sam asks, turning at the last minute to smirk in her direction, and waving as they drove past.
“Really.”
“Huh,” says Sam, leaning back in his seat to think about Brooke Davis, and why the hell she was so confusing.
With his fingers shaking, and his palm sweating, he grabs her hand the next day and tugs her into the nearest closet to ask her straight up what her problem with him was. He doesn’t expect her to whip around and stare up at him with accusing eyes, and just lose it. It’s like everything that she’s held inside for months, maybe years, comes tumbling out of her mouth like shattered glass, and he feels her ache, her pain with every word, even if he doesn’t understand the half of it. He has a bruise forming now under her finger, poking harder and harder, and thinks wildly, good, let me take some, you can’t hold it all.
She steps back when she’s done, looking down at hands wide-eyed and looking up at him with shock written in her gaze, so he laughs. Full and warm chuckles until she’s smiling, too. “I just wanted to know why you didn’t like me,” he says when he can breathe again, and smiles, when he feels the tension leave her shoulders and she takes his hand.
“Come on,” she says, and leads them to their first class, which they were very, very late for.
Suddenly, Brooke Davis is his friend. The first thing he learns, she’s friends with a lot of people. Second thing he learns, hardly any of those friends are guys. Third thing he learns? Brooke Davis is friendly. Fourth thing, he wants to punch any guy who took advantage of that, and almost does, until Dean tells him punching out half the school is a sure way to the fast track of getting expelled. That feeling never really goes away. And when he learns about Lucas Scott and how he’s the reason for everything, it takes all of Dean’s smooth talking and quick thinking to keep him from going after the kid. Dean patches up his hand when he punches the tree, and he lies through his teeth when she asks about it.
It’s not like the injuries are a new thing, anyway. He pops up with a new one every week, a new lie attached just as seamlessly. The limp in his leg he got after tussling with a poltergeist, turns into tripping down the stairs over his backpack he dumbly left out. If he has to play up the clumsiness to make sure his lies are believed, so what. It’s better than the alternative, and as much as he dislikes his dad sometimes, he’s not about ready to paint him as the villain in this tale.
Brooke is a sunny and welcome reprieve from his dark and dangerous double life, a bright spot he never expected, a soft place to fall and a place to go when home gets too much and he just wants out. Whether they’re studying, or watching a movie, or whispering into the night; he feels a sense of home and comfort he’s only ever associated with the car and Dean, and he doesn’t ever want to let go. He holds on for now, catalogues the moments in his mind for eventually, for when it’s time to go and he can’t take her with him.
Eventually comes too soon. The hole in the wall, and the look on Dean’s face the only evidence he allows his father to see.
He goes over to her house with a piece of paper shaking between his hands. It’s Bobby Singer’s address and phone number, the only constant and sure thing he can rely on. He knocks, angerguiltsadness twisting through him that he almost stuffs the note under the door and turns to run. But she catches him, and he has to explain it to her like it’s not cracking his very foundations, like he wants to say goodbye and not I’m sorry for all the lies, and for all the things I can’t explain. I’m sorry for leaving, I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’m sorry for never telling you…
She kisses him, shutting down his thoughts, and he can taste her tears on his tongue. He holds onto the memory, holding onto her enfolded against him and crying into his chest, and he takes it out on the drive to another town, another state, away from her left alone in the dust. He didn’t know Dean sat in the back with him, didn’t feel him until his arm wrapped around his back and pulled him in, until all he felt was the strong and steady of brother and safe, and finally he felt the sting of tears.
And so he cried, Dean holding him together, his father singing soothing along to Johnny Cash lulling him to sleep, and the wind rushing through the car like the caress of someone long forgot against his cheek.
Fandom: Supernatural/One Tree Hill Crossover.
Pairing/Characters: Sam/Brooke. Sam POV.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,363.
Summary: It’s like everything that she’s held inside for months, maybe years, comes tumbling out of her mouth like shattered glass, and he feels her ache, her pain with every word, even if he doesn’t understand the half of it. He has a bruise forming now under her finger, poking harder and harder, and thinks wildly, good, let me take some, you can’t hold it all.
Notes: For lavendergaia, and her prompt for "Sam/Brooke; Nervous". Um, It kind of exploded, and this is part two. This part is far more emo, and long winded, and I dunno. Sam Winchester is weird.
It’s his first day at the newest school this month, and he has to stupidly crash into her of all people. Of course, he knew of her. Brooke Davis was plastered around the school like a beacon for lost souls, and the secretary had pointed her out when she handed him his schedule, “Nice girl, if you have any questions or concerns, she’ll help.” But he had knocked the nice girl off her feet, and she was glaring up at him, even as he whispered his sincerest of apologies and helped her gather her things.
“Thank you,” she said, icily, taking her books from him and walking away. He watched her go, a mixture of bewilderment and awe churning in his gut. There was something about her, dark and brilliant and intriguing. Something lurking under the surface, out of sight and out of reach, and he wanted to know what.
He got his wish in the worst form possible. Stuck in more than half her classes and forced to endure the feeling of her glaring daggers at the back of his skull for most of the day, until he resigned himself to her hating his guts for not other reason than he was the start to an awful day for her. He can hear her groan from her seat on the bleachers when he walks into gym, so he smiles at her in hopes of counteracting any bad karma from this morning, but stops the urge to wave. She glares immediately, and he can’t help but laugh as he walks by. Nice girl, indeed. Anything and everything he did, she got sharper and more prickly.
The few blessed seconds she leaves him alone, the coach zeros in on him not long after, spying him shooting some hoops with a couple of the guys, and he should have known better. He’s been in a hundred small towns like this before, where the high school team means everything and he looks like a miracle on a golden platter with his height and reach. But he declines his offer, snorting derisively to himself how easily the little white lie comes from his lips. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to help my dad after school.” He wonders how he would take it if he told him with what, and why exactly his reflexes are so sharp.
When school lets out, Dean’s waiting for him in the parking lot, and Sam settles into passenger’s seat like he’s already home, finding comfort in smell of gunpowder and leather surrounding him. “Hey, hot chick, five o’clock,” Dean says, clicking his tongue and pointing over Sam’s shoulder with a snap of his fingers.
Sam follows his line of vision, and catches Brooke’s eye. She looks away quickly, like just the sight of him burns. He sighs. “Dude, she was totally checking you out, which isn’t surprising since she really, really hates me.”
“Whatever, man,” Dean says, reaching his arm back around to the steering wheel, grin playing on his lips, looking every bit like the cat that caught the canary. “But, my brother, it was you who she was mentally undressing with her eyes.”
“Really?” Sam asks, turning at the last minute to smirk in her direction, and waving as they drove past.
“Really.”
“Huh,” says Sam, leaning back in his seat to think about Brooke Davis, and why the hell she was so confusing.
With his fingers shaking, and his palm sweating, he grabs her hand the next day and tugs her into the nearest closet to ask her straight up what her problem with him was. He doesn’t expect her to whip around and stare up at him with accusing eyes, and just lose it. It’s like everything that she’s held inside for months, maybe years, comes tumbling out of her mouth like shattered glass, and he feels her ache, her pain with every word, even if he doesn’t understand the half of it. He has a bruise forming now under her finger, poking harder and harder, and thinks wildly, good, let me take some, you can’t hold it all.
She steps back when she’s done, looking down at hands wide-eyed and looking up at him with shock written in her gaze, so he laughs. Full and warm chuckles until she’s smiling, too. “I just wanted to know why you didn’t like me,” he says when he can breathe again, and smiles, when he feels the tension leave her shoulders and she takes his hand.
“Come on,” she says, and leads them to their first class, which they were very, very late for.
Suddenly, Brooke Davis is his friend. The first thing he learns, she’s friends with a lot of people. Second thing he learns, hardly any of those friends are guys. Third thing he learns? Brooke Davis is friendly. Fourth thing, he wants to punch any guy who took advantage of that, and almost does, until Dean tells him punching out half the school is a sure way to the fast track of getting expelled. That feeling never really goes away. And when he learns about Lucas Scott and how he’s the reason for everything, it takes all of Dean’s smooth talking and quick thinking to keep him from going after the kid. Dean patches up his hand when he punches the tree, and he lies through his teeth when she asks about it.
It’s not like the injuries are a new thing, anyway. He pops up with a new one every week, a new lie attached just as seamlessly. The limp in his leg he got after tussling with a poltergeist, turns into tripping down the stairs over his backpack he dumbly left out. If he has to play up the clumsiness to make sure his lies are believed, so what. It’s better than the alternative, and as much as he dislikes his dad sometimes, he’s not about ready to paint him as the villain in this tale.
Brooke is a sunny and welcome reprieve from his dark and dangerous double life, a bright spot he never expected, a soft place to fall and a place to go when home gets too much and he just wants out. Whether they’re studying, or watching a movie, or whispering into the night; he feels a sense of home and comfort he’s only ever associated with the car and Dean, and he doesn’t ever want to let go. He holds on for now, catalogues the moments in his mind for eventually, for when it’s time to go and he can’t take her with him.
Eventually comes too soon. The hole in the wall, and the look on Dean’s face the only evidence he allows his father to see.
He goes over to her house with a piece of paper shaking between his hands. It’s Bobby Singer’s address and phone number, the only constant and sure thing he can rely on. He knocks, angerguiltsadness twisting through him that he almost stuffs the note under the door and turns to run. But she catches him, and he has to explain it to her like it’s not cracking his very foundations, like he wants to say goodbye and not I’m sorry for all the lies, and for all the things I can’t explain. I’m sorry for leaving, I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’m sorry for never telling you…
She kisses him, shutting down his thoughts, and he can taste her tears on his tongue. He holds onto the memory, holding onto her enfolded against him and crying into his chest, and he takes it out on the drive to another town, another state, away from her left alone in the dust. He didn’t know Dean sat in the back with him, didn’t feel him until his arm wrapped around his back and pulled him in, until all he felt was the strong and steady of brother and safe, and finally he felt the sting of tears.
And so he cried, Dean holding him together, his father singing soothing along to Johnny Cash lulling him to sleep, and the wind rushing through the car like the caress of someone long forgot against his cheek.