Fic: If You Need Me, Don’t Look For Me Here
Author: tahirire
Wordcount: 707
Rating: PG 13
Beta: blacklid
Genre: Tag for 6.22
Spoilers: Up through 6.22
Warnings: Mental instability
Summary: Real or not real?
If You Need Me, Don’t Look For Me Here
Clip. Swish. Thud. Clip clipclipswishthud. A satisfied noise, somewhere up above. Cool air under your collar. Your fingers, wondering, brush against the grain. (Pieces of you underneath your nails, spattered across the room like dust, blowing everywhere in the breeze.) Pieces of you on the floor.
He’s saying that’s better, but he doesn’t sound like he means it.
You don’t remember what you did before this, but it must have been wrong, to make him sound like that. The only sound in your recent memory has been the electric buzz of blades.
You ask him if you had lice. His lips press together. Your fingers run back and forth through what used to be your hair, exploring, but there is nothing left to grab a hold of. You gulp hard. Blink back panic. (There’s nothing to grab hold of.)
Yeah, Sammy, he says. But they’re gone now.
You tilt your head, squint up at him. Real or not real?
He sighs. Not real.
You figured as much. He promised never to lie. It sing-songs through your brain.
Lice, lice, lies on ice. In your head they aren’t so nice.
You were on ice. That much you know for sure.
He comes for you in the big black bird. It gobbles up its own shadow on the pavement. Dark as night, flash of a knife, a tomb. (Home.) Not a big enough ass to be a hearse.
You climb in, careful of the bodies. The black home bird tomb car is warm. It melts the ice and floods the seats with blue. You start to wash away, so you grapple with the strap, try to hang on.
He is looking at you strangely, blowing bubbles, and he’s waiting for you to ask, so you do, even though you know the answer.
Under water, you say, Real or not real?
Not real.
Oh. Okay.
You nod your approval and lean back in your seat and take deep breaths. The freezing waves burn going in, but not coming out. You smile at how much better you’re getting.
At night, he can’t come with you when you go. (He wants to, but he can’t.)
If you do, you tell him every night, then you can’t tell me what’s real anymore.
You make him tie you down. (He doesn’t want to, but he does.)
He only asked you why once. (Because the bright lights tore you from the smooth ground while you grabbed for a handhold, tossed you in the air over and over, ate you one thought at a time. Left you with nothing to grab hold of.) The words don’t work sometimes, but you grabbed his wrist and choked out three: I’ll float away. You left bruises behind his eyes again.
He only wraps the ropes around your hands, though. He attaches you to the bedpost like a helium balloon, but he holds you down himself.
Sometimes it’s a lake, wide and deep. Rough textures of leaves and fur floating suspended in a limbo of ice. Sometimes it’s a desert, burning blue and green.
But sometimes it’s a field of yellow wildflowers, thistle and dandelion and thyme. So much time; if only you could harvest it.
Sometimes Jess walks through the tall grass, golden afternoon sunlight, smiling with her eyes across the field at you where you lay and rest.
Getting there is easy. It’s the staying that’s hard. She comes to you, but the earth is made of papier-mâché. You are empty, (Full of Nothing) but Jess's memory weighs too much. The earth tears and you fall through into the cage below, down, down, sideways until you hear him calling you.
Sammy, wake up. Sam!
Dean weighs as much as the earth, too. But he never lets you fall. Instead, he builds stairs for you to climb.
We went to Hell, but we’re back now.
You blink and taste salt water on your tongue.
Sam. We’re back now, he urges.
You want to ask back where, but it doesn’t matter.
Real, Dean. It’s real.
He looks so relieved that you think maybe it is. Maybe it is real.
You wish there was a way to know for sure.
Wordcount: 707
Rating: PG 13
Beta: blacklid
Genre: Tag for 6.22
Spoilers: Up through 6.22
Warnings: Mental instability
Summary: Real or not real?
If You Need Me, Don’t Look For Me Here
Clip. Swish. Thud. Clip clipclipswishthud. A satisfied noise, somewhere up above. Cool air under your collar. Your fingers, wondering, brush against the grain. (Pieces of you underneath your nails, spattered across the room like dust, blowing everywhere in the breeze.) Pieces of you on the floor.
He’s saying that’s better, but he doesn’t sound like he means it.
You don’t remember what you did before this, but it must have been wrong, to make him sound like that. The only sound in your recent memory has been the electric buzz of blades.
You ask him if you had lice. His lips press together. Your fingers run back and forth through what used to be your hair, exploring, but there is nothing left to grab a hold of. You gulp hard. Blink back panic. (There’s nothing to grab hold of.)
Yeah, Sammy, he says. But they’re gone now.
You tilt your head, squint up at him. Real or not real?
He sighs. Not real.
You figured as much. He promised never to lie. It sing-songs through your brain.
Lice, lice, lies on ice. In your head they aren’t so nice.
You were on ice. That much you know for sure.
He comes for you in the big black bird. It gobbles up its own shadow on the pavement. Dark as night, flash of a knife, a tomb. (Home.) Not a big enough ass to be a hearse.
You climb in, careful of the bodies. The black home bird tomb car is warm. It melts the ice and floods the seats with blue. You start to wash away, so you grapple with the strap, try to hang on.
He is looking at you strangely, blowing bubbles, and he’s waiting for you to ask, so you do, even though you know the answer.
Under water, you say, Real or not real?
Not real.
Oh. Okay.
You nod your approval and lean back in your seat and take deep breaths. The freezing waves burn going in, but not coming out. You smile at how much better you’re getting.
At night, he can’t come with you when you go. (He wants to, but he can’t.)
If you do, you tell him every night, then you can’t tell me what’s real anymore.
You make him tie you down. (He doesn’t want to, but he does.)
He only asked you why once. (Because the bright lights tore you from the smooth ground while you grabbed for a handhold, tossed you in the air over and over, ate you one thought at a time. Left you with nothing to grab hold of.) The words don’t work sometimes, but you grabbed his wrist and choked out three: I’ll float away. You left bruises behind his eyes again.
He only wraps the ropes around your hands, though. He attaches you to the bedpost like a helium balloon, but he holds you down himself.
Sometimes it’s a lake, wide and deep. Rough textures of leaves and fur floating suspended in a limbo of ice. Sometimes it’s a desert, burning blue and green.
But sometimes it’s a field of yellow wildflowers, thistle and dandelion and thyme. So much time; if only you could harvest it.
Sometimes Jess walks through the tall grass, golden afternoon sunlight, smiling with her eyes across the field at you where you lay and rest.
Getting there is easy. It’s the staying that’s hard. She comes to you, but the earth is made of papier-mâché. You are empty, (Full of Nothing) but Jess's memory weighs too much. The earth tears and you fall through into the cage below, down, down, sideways until you hear him calling you.
Sammy, wake up. Sam!
Dean weighs as much as the earth, too. But he never lets you fall. Instead, he builds stairs for you to climb.
We went to Hell, but we’re back now.
You blink and taste salt water on your tongue.
Sam. We’re back now, he urges.
You want to ask back where, but it doesn’t matter.
Real, Dean. It’s real.
He looks so relieved that you think maybe it is. Maybe it is real.
You wish there was a way to know for sure.