A Moment is All It Takes, for meg_dallen (Dean/Jess, Sam/Jess, PG-13)
Title: A Moment is All It Takes
Author: sprbitch1313
Recipient: meg_dallen
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Dean/Jess, Sam/Jess
Summary: They’re so much alike, both stuck in hiding, now from others, always from themselves. Lying eyes buried deep in an honest face, a guilt-filled countenance. Shoulders dipping when no one’s looking, so weighted by their burdens.
Author's Notes: For Meg_Dallen...I hope you like!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, by the way.
She’d honestly thought Sam made them up. He had one photo of a young and beautiful couple from years ago whom he claimed were his parents. That was it, no other traces of a family. There were no pictures of him diving into a birthday cake with chubby baby fists, none of a gawky teen in a tux with a shy pretty girl on his arm. There were no snapshots of family vacations or Christmas mornings, or even his graduation. And there was no mail, no letters or cards or care packages. There were no telephone calls, no messages left guilting him into calling home. There was, so it seemed, no home.
And now she understood why.
A dead mother, a grief-stricken father bent on revenge. A caring if distant brother, never even mentioned. And demons, and ghosts, and…
Everything changed in an instant, her entire world split at the seams the night Dean walked into her life, and back into Sam’s.
***
“He’s just not the Sam I knew,” she tells him once, a bourbon-laden late night talk.
“Bullshit, he’s Sam, always has been, always will be.”
“No,” she shakes her head solemnly. “He’s not.”
Because the Sam she knew was gentle and sweet, smart and quick-witted. His idea of a fun night was watching old horror movies, curled up on the couch together in pajamas, a bowl of popcorn between them. A normal day was six hours of class, five in the library, and the rest spent doting on her. The Sam she knew tripped over his own two feet, wouldn’t hurt a fly even if he asked for it, and hadn’t a clue what to do with a gun of any kind.
Last month he came home bloody and bruised, newly thick arms staunch at his sides. “I’m fine,” he’d said. “Gonna shower,” to close out the conversation.
Dean had told her all about it over the phone, her running to call him as soon as the water turned on. A werewolf, yeah they’re real, things got a little out of hand, but we got it under control. Don’t worry about it. He’s fine.
Sam killed it, killed her.
She tries talking to him about it, about anything really. But perpetually shut down is his new mode. Strong and silent, he now carries a glock with him everywhere he goes, even to the supermarket on the few normal days they have together. He’s on edge, ever-watchful, vigilant. Scared.
Back at Stanford he’d wrap his long arms around her and that would be all she needed to feel safe and loved and protected. Now when he touches her it’s as though he’s afraid she might break, alternately too soft a touch to even feel real, or too harsh, too needy, grasping desperately at her lest she should somehow slip through his fingers.
“I almost lost you,” he reminded her once, as though she could ever forget. “I won’t let that happen again.”
The night of the fire she decided to die, let herself be taken away, cleansed by the flame. Giving in was always easier for her than fighting back. But when she saw Sam’s face, later in the hospital, tear-filled eyes and a trembling lip and the pallor of pure, undeniable guilt to his skin, she wondered how she could have ever refused to fight for him. Sweet, smart Sam who had no family but her, no one’s love but her own.
Now there are nights she wants the fire back, wants to burn away to nothing, ash on the wind, so that she can’t see his empty eyes and scarred flesh, can’t feel his hesitant touch, his guilty stare.
***
“He loves you.”
“I know that.” It’s too much.
“More than anything.”
“I know.” It’s too hard. “I love him too.” Just not enough.
***
He calls their place home, Dean does, because he has nowhere else. Two years later and neither Sam nor Dean are ever really there, always out hunting, saving people, searching for answers to their past, a past she finds herself buried in, and for what?
“For what?” her voice carries through the halls. “You made me come here to be safe, but you’re never here to save me! You go out fighting battles you can’t win with…things you can’t kill! You’re so worried about your past, your mom, your dad - what about your future?! What about me?!”
It’s not until she dejectedly turns, heads for her cold and empty bed, that she realizes she might have been yelling at the wrong man. But then again, Dean’s spent his whole life trying to protect Sam from whatever might hurt him, taking the brunt of any battle, and why should that stop now?
***
She finds herself watching him, more closely than ever before, though, admittedly, she would study him back when they first met, try and figure out this mysterious man, blood of her love, but otherwise a stranger forced into her life. She saw him as cocky, often rude, at times abrasive. He was, she determined, nothing like Sam. Brazen as opposed to quiet. An outspoken cover in place of unwavering truth. Flippancy instead of drive.
But, no, she was wrong. They’re so much alike, both stuck in hiding, now from others, always from themselves. Lying eyes buried deep in an honest face, a guilt-filled countenance. Shoulders dipping when no one’s looking, so weighted by their burdens.
***
“I’m going out,” he says one night, simple as that, as though he’d ever been in the habit of really going anywhere. But she merely nods her approval, kisses him goodnight, and heads to bed. “Sometimes I need to be alone,” he tells her all too often. And sometimes, so does she.
She wakes up screaming, strong hands holding her down to still her thrashing. He can’t be distracted, you understand, those same words spoken to her through yellow eyes so long ago making their way to the surface amid flames and fear. He’s too important to me.
“Shh, it’s okay,” she hears, more as deep rumbles in his chest than as actual words. “It’s okay. It’s alright. Just a dream.” Just a dream, she repeats to herself. It was a just a dream. She calms down a bit, falls into him, leaning heavily against his chest. “You okay?” his voice is so soft and full of concern she can barely stand it. “Shhh,” he starts again, calloused hands pushing back her hair as she begins to weep.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “Sorry.”
His fingertips glide along her temple, her cheekbone, his thumb gently lifting away a tear.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
He leans her back down onto the pillow, sits over her, staring, deep worried eyes glistening in the moonlight. He continues to wipe away her tears, tucks her long, light hair behind one ear. The dream is gone, the demon, the fire, the pain, all gone. But she can’t stop crying, quiet sobs shuddering her body as he sits beside her patiently. Without realizing it her hand comes up to cover his, softly grasping the fingers that had so effortlessly stroked her face. “I want to be like you,” she mutters, barely audible. And it’s true, so true. She wants to be just like him, able to laugh instead of cry, joke instead of feel. Fuck instead of talk.
“What?” he asks, leaning closer to better hear.
“I want,” she says a bit shakier than before, “you.”
And she reaches up to cup the back of his head, pull him just that little bit closer. When their mouths meet she can almost feel him melt into her, gradually falling further, deeper, until, “Jess,” flows out of him in one hot breath.
He tries to pull away, but she won’t let him, both hands now gripping his shoulders, sliding around his neck like a needy, clingy little girl. “Dean,” she says, tasting his name on her tongue. “Dean.” So familiar and foreign all at once.
He’s shaking his head, face contorted in an odd sort of grimace when he leans into her again, kissing her greedily, pushing her deeper into the mattress with his own weight as he sidles on top of her. She’d kicked off the sheets during the nightmare and her tank top is nearly soaked through with sweat, as is her hair, sticky slick in his fingers. He combs his hands through as best he can, getting lost in the mess of damp curls, and when he feels her arch into him, under him, he gives it a good tug.
She lets out a little moan, her mouth parting from his just long enough for him to say, “No, we…” But that’s all he can get out, too lost in the moment, too lost in her, to think of any other words.
She reaches down and grapples with the zipper on his jeans. He pulls away a bit, untangles his hand from her hair to bat away her fingers. But instead of stopping there, as she figures he intends to do, he slips his fingertips just beneath the waistband of her panties, pressing her flesh as he moves them slowly down.
Again, her mouth separates from his. Again, she lets out a little moan. And again, Dean’s face takes on a tortured grimace that she simply can’t bear to see. “Do it,” she says, tightly shutting her eyes, blocking the sight of him. “Please, just do it,” a plea on a breath.
He rips off her underwear as she tugs down his pants, neither looking at anything, Jess with eyes so firmly shut she can feel the pressure of new tears beneath her lids. Dean with a gaze so empty and glazed it hardly seems he’s there. There are no more words from either of them, no more moans, no more cries. No more deep, long kisses. He slips into her fast and hard, violently thrusting, splitting her, it seems, down the middle.
It’s too much. It’s too hard.
He comes inside her, faster than she’d ever thought he would, and collapses onto her, slick with shared sweat and tears.
***
When she wakes up the next morning, curled into a tight ball on the same spent sheets, she feels Sam’s long, heavy arm draped around her. For a moment she leans into him, for a moment she feels safe and secure, happy and loved. For a moment, with him slightly snoring next to her, his breath warm on her back, his grip on her loose and relaxed, she thinks he’s the Sam she fell in love with.
Author: sprbitch1313
Recipient: meg_dallen
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Dean/Jess, Sam/Jess
Summary: They’re so much alike, both stuck in hiding, now from others, always from themselves. Lying eyes buried deep in an honest face, a guilt-filled countenance. Shoulders dipping when no one’s looking, so weighted by their burdens.
Author's Notes: For Meg_Dallen...I hope you like!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, by the way.
She’d honestly thought Sam made them up. He had one photo of a young and beautiful couple from years ago whom he claimed were his parents. That was it, no other traces of a family. There were no pictures of him diving into a birthday cake with chubby baby fists, none of a gawky teen in a tux with a shy pretty girl on his arm. There were no snapshots of family vacations or Christmas mornings, or even his graduation. And there was no mail, no letters or cards or care packages. There were no telephone calls, no messages left guilting him into calling home. There was, so it seemed, no home.
And now she understood why.
A dead mother, a grief-stricken father bent on revenge. A caring if distant brother, never even mentioned. And demons, and ghosts, and…
Everything changed in an instant, her entire world split at the seams the night Dean walked into her life, and back into Sam’s.
***
“He’s just not the Sam I knew,” she tells him once, a bourbon-laden late night talk.
“Bullshit, he’s Sam, always has been, always will be.”
“No,” she shakes her head solemnly. “He’s not.”
Because the Sam she knew was gentle and sweet, smart and quick-witted. His idea of a fun night was watching old horror movies, curled up on the couch together in pajamas, a bowl of popcorn between them. A normal day was six hours of class, five in the library, and the rest spent doting on her. The Sam she knew tripped over his own two feet, wouldn’t hurt a fly even if he asked for it, and hadn’t a clue what to do with a gun of any kind.
Last month he came home bloody and bruised, newly thick arms staunch at his sides. “I’m fine,” he’d said. “Gonna shower,” to close out the conversation.
Dean had told her all about it over the phone, her running to call him as soon as the water turned on. A werewolf, yeah they’re real, things got a little out of hand, but we got it under control. Don’t worry about it. He’s fine.
Sam killed it, killed her.
She tries talking to him about it, about anything really. But perpetually shut down is his new mode. Strong and silent, he now carries a glock with him everywhere he goes, even to the supermarket on the few normal days they have together. He’s on edge, ever-watchful, vigilant. Scared.
Back at Stanford he’d wrap his long arms around her and that would be all she needed to feel safe and loved and protected. Now when he touches her it’s as though he’s afraid she might break, alternately too soft a touch to even feel real, or too harsh, too needy, grasping desperately at her lest she should somehow slip through his fingers.
“I almost lost you,” he reminded her once, as though she could ever forget. “I won’t let that happen again.”
The night of the fire she decided to die, let herself be taken away, cleansed by the flame. Giving in was always easier for her than fighting back. But when she saw Sam’s face, later in the hospital, tear-filled eyes and a trembling lip and the pallor of pure, undeniable guilt to his skin, she wondered how she could have ever refused to fight for him. Sweet, smart Sam who had no family but her, no one’s love but her own.
Now there are nights she wants the fire back, wants to burn away to nothing, ash on the wind, so that she can’t see his empty eyes and scarred flesh, can’t feel his hesitant touch, his guilty stare.
***
“He loves you.”
“I know that.” It’s too much.
“More than anything.”
“I know.” It’s too hard. “I love him too.” Just not enough.
***
He calls their place home, Dean does, because he has nowhere else. Two years later and neither Sam nor Dean are ever really there, always out hunting, saving people, searching for answers to their past, a past she finds herself buried in, and for what?
“For what?” her voice carries through the halls. “You made me come here to be safe, but you’re never here to save me! You go out fighting battles you can’t win with…things you can’t kill! You’re so worried about your past, your mom, your dad - what about your future?! What about me?!”
It’s not until she dejectedly turns, heads for her cold and empty bed, that she realizes she might have been yelling at the wrong man. But then again, Dean’s spent his whole life trying to protect Sam from whatever might hurt him, taking the brunt of any battle, and why should that stop now?
***
She finds herself watching him, more closely than ever before, though, admittedly, she would study him back when they first met, try and figure out this mysterious man, blood of her love, but otherwise a stranger forced into her life. She saw him as cocky, often rude, at times abrasive. He was, she determined, nothing like Sam. Brazen as opposed to quiet. An outspoken cover in place of unwavering truth. Flippancy instead of drive.
But, no, she was wrong. They’re so much alike, both stuck in hiding, now from others, always from themselves. Lying eyes buried deep in an honest face, a guilt-filled countenance. Shoulders dipping when no one’s looking, so weighted by their burdens.
***
“I’m going out,” he says one night, simple as that, as though he’d ever been in the habit of really going anywhere. But she merely nods her approval, kisses him goodnight, and heads to bed. “Sometimes I need to be alone,” he tells her all too often. And sometimes, so does she.
She wakes up screaming, strong hands holding her down to still her thrashing. He can’t be distracted, you understand, those same words spoken to her through yellow eyes so long ago making their way to the surface amid flames and fear. He’s too important to me.
“Shh, it’s okay,” she hears, more as deep rumbles in his chest than as actual words. “It’s okay. It’s alright. Just a dream.” Just a dream, she repeats to herself. It was a just a dream. She calms down a bit, falls into him, leaning heavily against his chest. “You okay?” his voice is so soft and full of concern she can barely stand it. “Shhh,” he starts again, calloused hands pushing back her hair as she begins to weep.
“I’m sorry,” she hiccups. “Sorry.”
His fingertips glide along her temple, her cheekbone, his thumb gently lifting away a tear.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
He leans her back down onto the pillow, sits over her, staring, deep worried eyes glistening in the moonlight. He continues to wipe away her tears, tucks her long, light hair behind one ear. The dream is gone, the demon, the fire, the pain, all gone. But she can’t stop crying, quiet sobs shuddering her body as he sits beside her patiently. Without realizing it her hand comes up to cover his, softly grasping the fingers that had so effortlessly stroked her face. “I want to be like you,” she mutters, barely audible. And it’s true, so true. She wants to be just like him, able to laugh instead of cry, joke instead of feel. Fuck instead of talk.
“What?” he asks, leaning closer to better hear.
“I want,” she says a bit shakier than before, “you.”
And she reaches up to cup the back of his head, pull him just that little bit closer. When their mouths meet she can almost feel him melt into her, gradually falling further, deeper, until, “Jess,” flows out of him in one hot breath.
He tries to pull away, but she won’t let him, both hands now gripping his shoulders, sliding around his neck like a needy, clingy little girl. “Dean,” she says, tasting his name on her tongue. “Dean.” So familiar and foreign all at once.
He’s shaking his head, face contorted in an odd sort of grimace when he leans into her again, kissing her greedily, pushing her deeper into the mattress with his own weight as he sidles on top of her. She’d kicked off the sheets during the nightmare and her tank top is nearly soaked through with sweat, as is her hair, sticky slick in his fingers. He combs his hands through as best he can, getting lost in the mess of damp curls, and when he feels her arch into him, under him, he gives it a good tug.
She lets out a little moan, her mouth parting from his just long enough for him to say, “No, we…” But that’s all he can get out, too lost in the moment, too lost in her, to think of any other words.
She reaches down and grapples with the zipper on his jeans. He pulls away a bit, untangles his hand from her hair to bat away her fingers. But instead of stopping there, as she figures he intends to do, he slips his fingertips just beneath the waistband of her panties, pressing her flesh as he moves them slowly down.
Again, her mouth separates from his. Again, she lets out a little moan. And again, Dean’s face takes on a tortured grimace that she simply can’t bear to see. “Do it,” she says, tightly shutting her eyes, blocking the sight of him. “Please, just do it,” a plea on a breath.
He rips off her underwear as she tugs down his pants, neither looking at anything, Jess with eyes so firmly shut she can feel the pressure of new tears beneath her lids. Dean with a gaze so empty and glazed it hardly seems he’s there. There are no more words from either of them, no more moans, no more cries. No more deep, long kisses. He slips into her fast and hard, violently thrusting, splitting her, it seems, down the middle.
It’s too much. It’s too hard.
He comes inside her, faster than she’d ever thought he would, and collapses onto her, slick with shared sweat and tears.
***
When she wakes up the next morning, curled into a tight ball on the same spent sheets, she feels Sam’s long, heavy arm draped around her. For a moment she leans into him, for a moment she feels safe and secure, happy and loved. For a moment, with him slightly snoring next to her, his breath warm on her back, his grip on her loose and relaxed, she thinks he’s the Sam she fell in love with.