Fic: Arms of an Angel
Arms of an Angel (2/4)
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: Though he'd never flinched from his responsibility for Jess's death, the idea she herself might blame him was an even more bitter pill to swallow. Takes place immediately after "Bloody Mary."
Author's note: Many thanks to iamstealthyone for dotting my i's and crossing my t's.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Arms of an Angel (2/4)
By Sunrize
Why the hell did there have to be six million flavors of Gatorade? Dean stared at the rainbow-hued assortment, chewing his lip, before finally deciding to stick with the old standby--green. Switching the box of crackers, bag of peanut M&Ms, and six-pack of beer to his left arm, he tucked the plastic bottle under the right, curling his lip at the frustrated guy trying to navigate his cart down the crowded aisle. Shopping carts were for wimps. And don't even get him started on those girly little plastic baskets.
He wove his way to the front of the store, nearly groaning aloud when he saw the "10 items or less" lane was closed, while shoppers pushing overflowing carts packed the remaining lines. Taking his place behind an elderly couple with a basket stuffed with canned soup, he glanced uneasily at the clock.
Damn. His twenty-minute trip for groceries and gas was already stretching to well over an hour.
Probably nothing to worry about. Sam had been dead to the world when he left the room, not even twitching when he spread the blanket from his own bed across his brother's sprawled body. It was unlikely he'd surface any time soon.
Dean grinned--Sammy was such a lightweight when it came to booze or drugs. He always passed out, usually after losing the filter between his brain and his mouth.
"Think Jess hates me for what I did?"
The smile faded from Dean's lips, replaced by an all-too-familiar sense of helplessness. He'd expected Sam to hurt over Jess's death--they'd been shacked up together, after all. He'd just never anticipated the depth with which his brother would grieve over her.
He and Sam had been raised to be resilient. Living the way they did--never staying too long in one place, constantly facing danger--you learned to roll with the punches. It was more than their father's conditioning; it was a matter of survival. But Sam wasn't bouncing back from this particular blow. And it was starting to worry Dean more than he cared to admit.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, drinking in auburn hair, twinkling green eyes, and a lot of chest in a tight little tee shirt. She gestured toward him. "Would you like to put your things in my cart?"
Maybe he wasn't in such a hurry after all. Dean raised an eyebrow, his lips curving slowly into a smile. "Well, sweetheart, I can't say I've ever heard it called that before, but I'm game if you are."
She blushed and tried to look indignant, but the dimples gave her away. "I meant your groceries. I thought your arms might be getting tired."
"Oh, the groceries. Nah, I'm good. But thanks for the offer." He tipped his chin at the lines. "Is it always this crowded, or did I miss an announcement of the impending apocalypse?
With a chuckle, she shook her head. "It's Saturday afternoon, prime time for grocery shopping. You're not from around here?"
"Nope, just passing through." He offered his hand and his best roguish grin. "Dean Winchester."
"Laura Flynn." Her hand was warm, fingers long and delicate. "So what brings to you to our boring little town?"
"Just making a pit stop." Dean shuffled backward as the line inched closer to the register. "I'm on a road trip with my brother and he's feeling a little under the weather, so we..." He trailed off, stunned to silence.
Across the store, by the frozen-food aisle, stood a young woman with long blonde curls and a white nightdress. Oddly still amidst the chaos of jostling shoppers and carts, she returned Dean's stare with disturbing intensity.
Jessica? Dean blinked, shaking his head as if to knock loose the vision. When he looked again, she was gone.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Laura's voice broke through his shock. She was staring at him, brow furrowed, while the shoppers behind her grumbled that he was holding up the line.
"I'm fine." Dean quickly closed the gap between himself and the person in front of him.
"Are you sure? You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Hey, wouldn't be the first time." When Laura frowned, he plastered on a grin. "Really, I'm okay."
She smiled back, but there were no dimples and she didn't speak to him again. Which was fine with Dean. Seeing his brother's dead girlfriend didn't exactly put him in the mood for love. In fact, he had the strong urge to just dump the groceries and get the hell out of Dodge.
Once he'd finally paid, Dean stowed the bags in the back seat of the Impala and slid behind the wheel. He paused, key in ignition, and tried to sort through what had just happened.
Why would he suddenly be seeing Jessica? He hoped it was just a side effect of his worry for Sam. If there was more troubling his brother than bad dreams, things could get ugly.
Not that they'd been a bed of roses so far.
He started the car and shifted into gear, growling impatiently when a harried woman with five bickering kids and an overflowing cart trundled slowly past his bumper. By the time he pulled out of the parking spot and navigated through the busy lot, the muscles in his neck and shoulders were rock-hard with tension.
Traffic was a bitch, and he hit every light, but finally made it onto the main drag that would take him to the motel. When his eye landed on the gas gauge, he hissed a curse. He'd forgotten about stopping for a fill-up, and the needle was creeping toward empty. Spying a gas station in the distance, he flicked on his turn signal to change lanes and glanced into the rearview mirror...
Into Jessica's intent blue eyes.
Dean's mouth dropped open in astonishment. A silver Lexus loomed in front of him, and he slammed on the breaks, squealing to a stop mere inches from the bumper.
"Son of a bitch!"
Strident honking filled his ears, and a beefy truck driver flipped him the bird as he roared past. When Dean turned to look, the back seat was empty.
Sucking in a calming breath, he wrapped shaking fingers around the wheel and got the car moving, passing the gas station without a second glance. Though he kept his gaze fixed on the road, his thoughts flew in a million directions. What the hell was going on?
One dead girlfriend sighting might be a fluke--two was a pattern. But why? What did Jessica want? And why was she appearing to him and not Sam?
Or was she?
"Just... Thought for a second I saw someone I knew."
Damn it, Sammy.
Dean navigated around a slow-moving minivan, his once nebulous sense of worry now full-out anxiety. Spirits didn't just keep popping up without a reason, and in the case of someone who'd died a violent death, that was rarely a good thing. He thought of Sam spread bonelessly across the bed.
Drugged.
Helpless.
Screw the speed limit. He pressed down hard on the gas, hoping he was wrong.
Praying he wasn't too late.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He flops onto the bed, hands linked behind his neck, eyes drifting shut. It's been a long day--a long weekend--and the soft mattress cushions his aching bones and muscles.
Something tickles his forehead, once, twice. Warmth and wetness. He opens his eyes and feels gut-punched, all the air rushing from his lungs. She's flattened against the ceiling like a bug pinned to cardboard, impossible to believe, impossible to deny. White nightgown--his favorite, which hugs every sweet curve. Hair a wild tangle, eyes dark and liquid.
"Jess?"
"Why, Sam?"
He has to reach her, hold her, save her. Any minute now she'll burst into flames and it will be no use.
Too little.
Too late.
But his body has turned to stone, and all his struggling accomplishes nothing. "No." It's meant to be a scream, but his throat locks down till it's little more than a whisper. "No, God, please. Jess."
"Sam." She watches him squirm, sorrow etched in every line of her face. "You could have told me."
Another drop hits his forehead, then his cheek, and suddenly she's gone, obliterated by a ball of fire.
"No!"
As if a leaden blanket has been torn from his body, he can move. Floundering upright, he swipes a hand across his face and stares at the clear beads of moisture.
Not blood.
Slowly, he touches his tongue to one trembling fingertip, tasting salt.
Tears.
Sam woke with a blanket tangled around his legs and wetness on his cheeks. Fear tingled down his spine and he jerked his gaze upward, half expecting to see Jess pinned to the ceiling. When all he found was cracked and watermarked plaster, he crooked an arm over his face and tried to slow his panicked breathing.
The headache was blinding, more painful than any he'd ever experienced, and he'd been dealing with migraines since the age of eight. Steeling himself against the pain, he moved his arm and squinted at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock.
3:30. Too soon for another pill, not that the last one seemed to be helping. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, making it clear that he needed to get to the bathroom. Soon.
"Dean?" He winced at the sleep-roughened rasp of his voice.
His brother didn't answer, and for the first time Sam registered the absolute stillness. Pushing himself upright, he clutched the edge of the mattress until the room stopped spinning. A scrap of paper lay next to the clock, and he picked it up with clumsy fingers.
Sammy,
Went to get some of that green shit you drink when you're sick. You puke on your bed, I'm not giving you mine.
Back soon.
One corner of Sam's mouth turned up. Only Dean could make insults feel like a hug. Crumpling the paper into a ball, he gritted his teeth and eased slowly to his feet.
For a moment all he could do was double over, one hand braced on the night table, the other pressed to his temple. His brain felt as if it might just explode and leak out of his ears, the pain a white-hot, pulsing agony. When he could finally move, he shuffled toward the bathroom, hunched over and weaving like an elderly drunk.
Turning on the fluorescent light was unthinkable, so he navigated by touch and the illumination spilling in from the room. He fumbled with the cold water, splashing handfuls onto his face and running damp fingers through his hair. Something, a flicker of movement, caught his eye, and he lifted his gaze to the mirror.
Jessica stared back at him, pale, perfect. Shining like a beacon in the heavily shadowed depths.
Sam took two staggering steps backward, his shoulders slamming into the wall. Suddenly too weak to support him, his legs folded and he slid slowly down until his butt hit the floor. When he looked again, the mirror showed only the indistinct reflection of tile walls and the towel rack.
He crawled to the toilet bowl and threw up, moaning and spitting bile with each spasm. Things got hazy and confused--Jess, pain, Dean, dark-haired figure in a mirror, Jess in a mirror, Dad, Dean... He had to call Dean.
Something cold and hard pressed the length of his back and he scrubbed his sleeve against bleary eyes, straining to see in the nearly nonexistent light. He was lying on the floor near a sink. As he looked around, the room undulated gently, as if he were underwater.
Panic spiked. He hurt. He hurt and he didn't know where he was, and where was Dean, and how did he get here, and why couldn't he remember? Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he couldn't think. Everything was all jumbled up in his head and it hurt.
"Dean." He licked dry lips, his eyes burning. "Dean!"
The cry spiked through his head and dark blossoms sprang up at the edges of his vision. His lips moved soundlessly--Dean, help--as his fingers scrabbled uselessly against the tile. Then his eyes slid shut and, mercifully, he didn't feel anything at all.
Go to part 3
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Description: Though he'd never flinched from his responsibility for Jess's death, the idea she herself might blame him was an even more bitter pill to swallow. Takes place immediately after "Bloody Mary."
Author's note: Many thanks to iamstealthyone for dotting my i's and crossing my t's.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Arms of an Angel (2/4)
By Sunrize
Why the hell did there have to be six million flavors of Gatorade? Dean stared at the rainbow-hued assortment, chewing his lip, before finally deciding to stick with the old standby--green. Switching the box of crackers, bag of peanut M&Ms, and six-pack of beer to his left arm, he tucked the plastic bottle under the right, curling his lip at the frustrated guy trying to navigate his cart down the crowded aisle. Shopping carts were for wimps. And don't even get him started on those girly little plastic baskets.
He wove his way to the front of the store, nearly groaning aloud when he saw the "10 items or less" lane was closed, while shoppers pushing overflowing carts packed the remaining lines. Taking his place behind an elderly couple with a basket stuffed with canned soup, he glanced uneasily at the clock.
Damn. His twenty-minute trip for groceries and gas was already stretching to well over an hour.
Probably nothing to worry about. Sam had been dead to the world when he left the room, not even twitching when he spread the blanket from his own bed across his brother's sprawled body. It was unlikely he'd surface any time soon.
Dean grinned--Sammy was such a lightweight when it came to booze or drugs. He always passed out, usually after losing the filter between his brain and his mouth.
"Think Jess hates me for what I did?"
The smile faded from Dean's lips, replaced by an all-too-familiar sense of helplessness. He'd expected Sam to hurt over Jess's death--they'd been shacked up together, after all. He'd just never anticipated the depth with which his brother would grieve over her.
He and Sam had been raised to be resilient. Living the way they did--never staying too long in one place, constantly facing danger--you learned to roll with the punches. It was more than their father's conditioning; it was a matter of survival. But Sam wasn't bouncing back from this particular blow. And it was starting to worry Dean more than he cared to admit.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, drinking in auburn hair, twinkling green eyes, and a lot of chest in a tight little tee shirt. She gestured toward him. "Would you like to put your things in my cart?"
Maybe he wasn't in such a hurry after all. Dean raised an eyebrow, his lips curving slowly into a smile. "Well, sweetheart, I can't say I've ever heard it called that before, but I'm game if you are."
She blushed and tried to look indignant, but the dimples gave her away. "I meant your groceries. I thought your arms might be getting tired."
"Oh, the groceries. Nah, I'm good. But thanks for the offer." He tipped his chin at the lines. "Is it always this crowded, or did I miss an announcement of the impending apocalypse?
With a chuckle, she shook her head. "It's Saturday afternoon, prime time for grocery shopping. You're not from around here?"
"Nope, just passing through." He offered his hand and his best roguish grin. "Dean Winchester."
"Laura Flynn." Her hand was warm, fingers long and delicate. "So what brings to you to our boring little town?"
"Just making a pit stop." Dean shuffled backward as the line inched closer to the register. "I'm on a road trip with my brother and he's feeling a little under the weather, so we..." He trailed off, stunned to silence.
Across the store, by the frozen-food aisle, stood a young woman with long blonde curls and a white nightdress. Oddly still amidst the chaos of jostling shoppers and carts, she returned Dean's stare with disturbing intensity.
Jessica? Dean blinked, shaking his head as if to knock loose the vision. When he looked again, she was gone.
"Hey, are you okay?"
Laura's voice broke through his shock. She was staring at him, brow furrowed, while the shoppers behind her grumbled that he was holding up the line.
"I'm fine." Dean quickly closed the gap between himself and the person in front of him.
"Are you sure? You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Hey, wouldn't be the first time." When Laura frowned, he plastered on a grin. "Really, I'm okay."
She smiled back, but there were no dimples and she didn't speak to him again. Which was fine with Dean. Seeing his brother's dead girlfriend didn't exactly put him in the mood for love. In fact, he had the strong urge to just dump the groceries and get the hell out of Dodge.
Once he'd finally paid, Dean stowed the bags in the back seat of the Impala and slid behind the wheel. He paused, key in ignition, and tried to sort through what had just happened.
Why would he suddenly be seeing Jessica? He hoped it was just a side effect of his worry for Sam. If there was more troubling his brother than bad dreams, things could get ugly.
Not that they'd been a bed of roses so far.
He started the car and shifted into gear, growling impatiently when a harried woman with five bickering kids and an overflowing cart trundled slowly past his bumper. By the time he pulled out of the parking spot and navigated through the busy lot, the muscles in his neck and shoulders were rock-hard with tension.
Traffic was a bitch, and he hit every light, but finally made it onto the main drag that would take him to the motel. When his eye landed on the gas gauge, he hissed a curse. He'd forgotten about stopping for a fill-up, and the needle was creeping toward empty. Spying a gas station in the distance, he flicked on his turn signal to change lanes and glanced into the rearview mirror...
Into Jessica's intent blue eyes.
Dean's mouth dropped open in astonishment. A silver Lexus loomed in front of him, and he slammed on the breaks, squealing to a stop mere inches from the bumper.
"Son of a bitch!"
Strident honking filled his ears, and a beefy truck driver flipped him the bird as he roared past. When Dean turned to look, the back seat was empty.
Sucking in a calming breath, he wrapped shaking fingers around the wheel and got the car moving, passing the gas station without a second glance. Though he kept his gaze fixed on the road, his thoughts flew in a million directions. What the hell was going on?
One dead girlfriend sighting might be a fluke--two was a pattern. But why? What did Jessica want? And why was she appearing to him and not Sam?
Or was she?
"Just... Thought for a second I saw someone I knew."
Damn it, Sammy.
Dean navigated around a slow-moving minivan, his once nebulous sense of worry now full-out anxiety. Spirits didn't just keep popping up without a reason, and in the case of someone who'd died a violent death, that was rarely a good thing. He thought of Sam spread bonelessly across the bed.
Drugged.
Helpless.
Screw the speed limit. He pressed down hard on the gas, hoping he was wrong.
Praying he wasn't too late.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He flops onto the bed, hands linked behind his neck, eyes drifting shut. It's been a long day--a long weekend--and the soft mattress cushions his aching bones and muscles.
Something tickles his forehead, once, twice. Warmth and wetness. He opens his eyes and feels gut-punched, all the air rushing from his lungs. She's flattened against the ceiling like a bug pinned to cardboard, impossible to believe, impossible to deny. White nightgown--his favorite, which hugs every sweet curve. Hair a wild tangle, eyes dark and liquid.
"Jess?"
"Why, Sam?"
He has to reach her, hold her, save her. Any minute now she'll burst into flames and it will be no use.
Too little.
Too late.
But his body has turned to stone, and all his struggling accomplishes nothing. "No." It's meant to be a scream, but his throat locks down till it's little more than a whisper. "No, God, please. Jess."
"Sam." She watches him squirm, sorrow etched in every line of her face. "You could have told me."
Another drop hits his forehead, then his cheek, and suddenly she's gone, obliterated by a ball of fire.
"No!"
As if a leaden blanket has been torn from his body, he can move. Floundering upright, he swipes a hand across his face and stares at the clear beads of moisture.
Not blood.
Slowly, he touches his tongue to one trembling fingertip, tasting salt.
Tears.
Sam woke with a blanket tangled around his legs and wetness on his cheeks. Fear tingled down his spine and he jerked his gaze upward, half expecting to see Jess pinned to the ceiling. When all he found was cracked and watermarked plaster, he crooked an arm over his face and tried to slow his panicked breathing.
The headache was blinding, more painful than any he'd ever experienced, and he'd been dealing with migraines since the age of eight. Steeling himself against the pain, he moved his arm and squinted at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock.
3:30. Too soon for another pill, not that the last one seemed to be helping. His stomach twisted unpleasantly, making it clear that he needed to get to the bathroom. Soon.
"Dean?" He winced at the sleep-roughened rasp of his voice.
His brother didn't answer, and for the first time Sam registered the absolute stillness. Pushing himself upright, he clutched the edge of the mattress until the room stopped spinning. A scrap of paper lay next to the clock, and he picked it up with clumsy fingers.
Sammy,
Went to get some of that green shit you drink when you're sick. You puke on your bed, I'm not giving you mine.
Back soon.
One corner of Sam's mouth turned up. Only Dean could make insults feel like a hug. Crumpling the paper into a ball, he gritted his teeth and eased slowly to his feet.
For a moment all he could do was double over, one hand braced on the night table, the other pressed to his temple. His brain felt as if it might just explode and leak out of his ears, the pain a white-hot, pulsing agony. When he could finally move, he shuffled toward the bathroom, hunched over and weaving like an elderly drunk.
Turning on the fluorescent light was unthinkable, so he navigated by touch and the illumination spilling in from the room. He fumbled with the cold water, splashing handfuls onto his face and running damp fingers through his hair. Something, a flicker of movement, caught his eye, and he lifted his gaze to the mirror.
Jessica stared back at him, pale, perfect. Shining like a beacon in the heavily shadowed depths.
Sam took two staggering steps backward, his shoulders slamming into the wall. Suddenly too weak to support him, his legs folded and he slid slowly down until his butt hit the floor. When he looked again, the mirror showed only the indistinct reflection of tile walls and the towel rack.
He crawled to the toilet bowl and threw up, moaning and spitting bile with each spasm. Things got hazy and confused--Jess, pain, Dean, dark-haired figure in a mirror, Jess in a mirror, Dad, Dean... He had to call Dean.
Something cold and hard pressed the length of his back and he scrubbed his sleeve against bleary eyes, straining to see in the nearly nonexistent light. He was lying on the floor near a sink. As he looked around, the room undulated gently, as if he were underwater.
Panic spiked. He hurt. He hurt and he didn't know where he was, and where was Dean, and how did he get here, and why couldn't he remember? Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he couldn't think. Everything was all jumbled up in his head and it hurt.
"Dean." He licked dry lips, his eyes burning. "Dean!"
The cry spiked through his head and dark blossoms sprang up at the edges of his vision. His lips moved soundlessly--Dean, help--as his fingers scrabbled uselessly against the tile. Then his eyes slid shut and, mercifully, he didn't feel anything at all.
Go to part 3