Chase This Light
Title: Chase This Light
Author: pleadyourcase
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. D:
Preview: His breath is thick with alcohol, and his sleeves stink heavily of cigarette smoke. She hates how small he makes her feel - how needy he makes her feel. The hot air that escapes his slightly parted lips brushes against her cheek, and his face is so close to hers that she feels as if she’s suffocating.
He corners her in Duluth, tree-trunk like arms pinning her to the worn, wooden wall. His lips curl upward into a smirk, and she narrows her eyes, brow furrowing.
How did you find me?
It wasn’t exactly hard, sweetheart.
His breath is thick with alcohol, and his sleeves stink heavily of cigarette smoke. She hates how small he makes her feel - how needy he makes her feel. The hot air that escapes his slightly parted lips brushes against her cheek, and his face is so close to hers that she feels as if she’s suffocating.
She tells him she can’t. He tells her she has to.
At first, she doesn’t notice that Sam is missing. But when his absence becomes as obvious as the white scar that runs from Dean’s right shoulder blade to his left hip, she decides that it would be in her best interest not to ask questions. She doesn’t ask about the scar either.
She lets him feed her cold French fries, wrapping her lips around the flimsy stick of golden potato as it dangles between his index and middle fingers. He keeps his eyes on the road, never once allowing them to peel away - not even after he’s out of French fries and she’s sucking the grease from his fingers.
He doesn’t get angry when she dangles the upper part of her body out the window as they soar across the plains of Montana, the roaring winds muting the whine of the cassette tape. She inhales deeply as bits of the uprooted earth tickle her nose, and for a split second, she forgets that when he was in the shower last week, she found Sam’s palm pilot ringing at the bottom of his duffel bag, wrapped tightly in one of Sam’s old T-shirts. As the defeated sun begins to slink back behind the mountains, she slides back into her seat and rolls the window up.
As the sky begins to blanket the earth in darkness, she can’t help being captivated by the manner in which the moonlight reflects off of the road. No matter how fast the Impala races across the highway, they can never catch up to the sallow patch of light in front of them.
Once the night has settled in, he decides that they’re too far from the nearest motel and pulls over. She practically stumbles out of the car as her legs adjust to being used again.
What’re you doing?
Come on, we’ll be a lot more comfortable out here.
She falls backwards, flattening several small, purple flowers. She stretches her arms as if she’s making a snow angel, the dried bits of weed and grass prodding the bare skin.
Lay down, it’s nice.
He reluctantly squats down beside her, maneuvering his legs so that he’s sitting Indian-style. She snuggles up to his leg and wraps her right arm his thigh, and hours later she awakes to find his forehead pressed against her own, and his left arm draped over her torso. Her breath hitches when he begins to mumble incoherently. She shuts her eyes and grabs hold of a fistful of his shirt’s fabric when she hears him murmur a barely audible, yet very distinct “Sammy.”
Twenty seven bug bites and four cassette tapes later, they hit the Idaho border. It’s cliché, but the go where the road takes them. When they hit a dead end, they flip a coin - heads is right, tails is left. And as the days pass by, to her relief, Jo finds herself less frequented by dreams of her mother, Ash, and the Roadhouse. The past is the past, accept it and move on. He taught her that one.
Two weeks and four days later, she slips back into the musky hotel room, arms filled with
brown paper bags, stacked to the brim with packets of ground coffee and Doritos. Within
seconds the bags are on the ground, their contents scattered accordingly. She’s up against the wall, his chest pressed against her own. His lips are moving hungrily against her mouth, and before she can protest, she finds her hands floating up to his hair, her fingers winding around the short, brown tufts.
Even though it’s the first time they’ve had sex in over eight months, she takes comfort in the familiarity of his body. Each freckle, curve, and the handful of spots where the dark veins can be seen crawling beneath the surface of his skin. She clings to him as if her very life depends on it - arms and legs overlapping, bodily fluid mixing, and her hair tangled within his own. She falls asleep beneath him, still holding on as if the bed was a cliff and he was her rope.
She dreams of giant, fiery, black dogs and tiny purple flowers. The dogs tower over her memories of the mountains in Montana, and can crush entire fields with one placement of their paw. As the field neighboring the one she’s standing in disappears beneath a black paw, she swears that she can hear him whisper to her that they’re out of French fries.
She awakes to a set of keys jabbing into her ribcage. She slips her finger through the large, metal loop and brings the keys closer to her face. Frowning, she sits up, walks to the window, and brushes the curtains aside. The impala stares up at her, and she turns back towards the room, and with a silent hit of realization, she drops to her knees, and the keys fall with her, landing with a soft thud in the peach carpet.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart,
the waking up is the hardest part.
You roll outta bed and down on to your knees,
and for a moment you can hardly breathe
- John Mayer
Author: pleadyourcase
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. D:
Preview: His breath is thick with alcohol, and his sleeves stink heavily of cigarette smoke. She hates how small he makes her feel - how needy he makes her feel. The hot air that escapes his slightly parted lips brushes against her cheek, and his face is so close to hers that she feels as if she’s suffocating.
He corners her in Duluth, tree-trunk like arms pinning her to the worn, wooden wall. His lips curl upward into a smirk, and she narrows her eyes, brow furrowing.
How did you find me?
It wasn’t exactly hard, sweetheart.
His breath is thick with alcohol, and his sleeves stink heavily of cigarette smoke. She hates how small he makes her feel - how needy he makes her feel. The hot air that escapes his slightly parted lips brushes against her cheek, and his face is so close to hers that she feels as if she’s suffocating.
She tells him she can’t. He tells her she has to.
At first, she doesn’t notice that Sam is missing. But when his absence becomes as obvious as the white scar that runs from Dean’s right shoulder blade to his left hip, she decides that it would be in her best interest not to ask questions. She doesn’t ask about the scar either.
She lets him feed her cold French fries, wrapping her lips around the flimsy stick of golden potato as it dangles between his index and middle fingers. He keeps his eyes on the road, never once allowing them to peel away - not even after he’s out of French fries and she’s sucking the grease from his fingers.
He doesn’t get angry when she dangles the upper part of her body out the window as they soar across the plains of Montana, the roaring winds muting the whine of the cassette tape. She inhales deeply as bits of the uprooted earth tickle her nose, and for a split second, she forgets that when he was in the shower last week, she found Sam’s palm pilot ringing at the bottom of his duffel bag, wrapped tightly in one of Sam’s old T-shirts. As the defeated sun begins to slink back behind the mountains, she slides back into her seat and rolls the window up.
As the sky begins to blanket the earth in darkness, she can’t help being captivated by the manner in which the moonlight reflects off of the road. No matter how fast the Impala races across the highway, they can never catch up to the sallow patch of light in front of them.
Once the night has settled in, he decides that they’re too far from the nearest motel and pulls over. She practically stumbles out of the car as her legs adjust to being used again.
What’re you doing?
Come on, we’ll be a lot more comfortable out here.
She falls backwards, flattening several small, purple flowers. She stretches her arms as if she’s making a snow angel, the dried bits of weed and grass prodding the bare skin.
Lay down, it’s nice.
He reluctantly squats down beside her, maneuvering his legs so that he’s sitting Indian-style. She snuggles up to his leg and wraps her right arm his thigh, and hours later she awakes to find his forehead pressed against her own, and his left arm draped over her torso. Her breath hitches when he begins to mumble incoherently. She shuts her eyes and grabs hold of a fistful of his shirt’s fabric when she hears him murmur a barely audible, yet very distinct “Sammy.”
Twenty seven bug bites and four cassette tapes later, they hit the Idaho border. It’s cliché, but the go where the road takes them. When they hit a dead end, they flip a coin - heads is right, tails is left. And as the days pass by, to her relief, Jo finds herself less frequented by dreams of her mother, Ash, and the Roadhouse. The past is the past, accept it and move on. He taught her that one.
Two weeks and four days later, she slips back into the musky hotel room, arms filled with
brown paper bags, stacked to the brim with packets of ground coffee and Doritos. Within
seconds the bags are on the ground, their contents scattered accordingly. She’s up against the wall, his chest pressed against her own. His lips are moving hungrily against her mouth, and before she can protest, she finds her hands floating up to his hair, her fingers winding around the short, brown tufts.
Even though it’s the first time they’ve had sex in over eight months, she takes comfort in the familiarity of his body. Each freckle, curve, and the handful of spots where the dark veins can be seen crawling beneath the surface of his skin. She clings to him as if her very life depends on it - arms and legs overlapping, bodily fluid mixing, and her hair tangled within his own. She falls asleep beneath him, still holding on as if the bed was a cliff and he was her rope.
She dreams of giant, fiery, black dogs and tiny purple flowers. The dogs tower over her memories of the mountains in Montana, and can crush entire fields with one placement of their paw. As the field neighboring the one she’s standing in disappears beneath a black paw, she swears that she can hear him whisper to her that they’re out of French fries.
She awakes to a set of keys jabbing into her ribcage. She slips her finger through the large, metal loop and brings the keys closer to her face. Frowning, she sits up, walks to the window, and brushes the curtains aside. The impala stares up at her, and she turns back towards the room, and with a silent hit of realization, she drops to her knees, and the keys fall with her, landing with a soft thud in the peach carpet.
When you're dreaming with a broken heart,
the waking up is the hardest part.
You roll outta bed and down on to your knees,
and for a moment you can hardly breathe
- John Mayer