Writing Workshop #5
You’re my favorite, Sammy.
Left turn or right, there’s no real way to go wrong in life. But there are moments when you’re lying there and then, just like that, in an explosion that you had never planned on, your life goes away and someone else’s life replaces it. A stranger’s. This is not Sam Winchester’s life.
People never think that fire is just as hot as it looks, like the decals of comics and the flash in movies is somehow just empty, but Sam knows better. He knows better, because there’s absolutely nothing but the searing hot flash of flames against your face, lapping against the room, pulsating so hot and so blue that a person could burn to death if they didn’t have a brother who dragged them out, for the second time in their life. It licks at your skin and burns the top layer to a point where there are more scars to be added to an ever-growing collection and just to touch it, a person could get burned past the point of healing.
The smell…the smell is something Sam will never forget. Whether it’s just hot dogs burning on a barbeque or a lighter going off to light a smoke, he’ll wince. He won’t be able to help it. When he smells fire, all that comes back to him is the burning flesh, the way his walls had crumbled with Jess’ life, falling into oblivion to the smell of a roast of hatred, guilt, and horror.
Something else burned into his memory is the sight of her on the ceiling. Her. The nightgown he’d always loved to run his fingers over when it got out of the dryer and it had always been so flawless and perfect and smelled of flowers and their detergent and her perfume and now, all he can see is the way it had caught fire, the shocked look in her eyes and the blood…the blood, Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever stop seeing her on the ceiling, with her blood dripping from her body, the one he had longed to touch every day.
It wasn’t smoke on his tongue that he’d tasted. Just guilt. Guilt and the knowing that he could have stopped it, a horrible bitterness at the back of his mouth. Those dreams he had been having had a reason behind them and Sam had ignored them and tossed them aside like morbid fantasies. Instead, they had haunted him by coming real and shellacking his tongue with that guilt that he just couldn’t swallow away.
And even though she hadn’t said anything, for some reason, above the sound of flames crackling and the building falling, all Sam could hear was Jess whispering his name like a prayer to him, like a plea for him to save her. “Sam.”
When Dean had pulled him away, that was it. He was done. From that moment on, his life belonged to someone else. Someone with Sam’s face, with his memories, but not him anymore. The real Sam Winchester is hidden under too many layers of loss and pain and he can’t feel him anymore. He won’t be able to even think about bringing him back until the son of a bitch that ruined him is dealt with.
Left turn or right, there’s no real way to go wrong in life. But there are moments when you’re lying there and then, just like that, in an explosion that you had never planned on, your life goes away and someone else’s life replaces it. A stranger’s. This is not Sam Winchester’s life.
People never think that fire is just as hot as it looks, like the decals of comics and the flash in movies is somehow just empty, but Sam knows better. He knows better, because there’s absolutely nothing but the searing hot flash of flames against your face, lapping against the room, pulsating so hot and so blue that a person could burn to death if they didn’t have a brother who dragged them out, for the second time in their life. It licks at your skin and burns the top layer to a point where there are more scars to be added to an ever-growing collection and just to touch it, a person could get burned past the point of healing.
The smell…the smell is something Sam will never forget. Whether it’s just hot dogs burning on a barbeque or a lighter going off to light a smoke, he’ll wince. He won’t be able to help it. When he smells fire, all that comes back to him is the burning flesh, the way his walls had crumbled with Jess’ life, falling into oblivion to the smell of a roast of hatred, guilt, and horror.
Something else burned into his memory is the sight of her on the ceiling. Her. The nightgown he’d always loved to run his fingers over when it got out of the dryer and it had always been so flawless and perfect and smelled of flowers and their detergent and her perfume and now, all he can see is the way it had caught fire, the shocked look in her eyes and the blood…the blood, Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever stop seeing her on the ceiling, with her blood dripping from her body, the one he had longed to touch every day.
It wasn’t smoke on his tongue that he’d tasted. Just guilt. Guilt and the knowing that he could have stopped it, a horrible bitterness at the back of his mouth. Those dreams he had been having had a reason behind them and Sam had ignored them and tossed them aside like morbid fantasies. Instead, they had haunted him by coming real and shellacking his tongue with that guilt that he just couldn’t swallow away.
And even though she hadn’t said anything, for some reason, above the sound of flames crackling and the building falling, all Sam could hear was Jess whispering his name like a prayer to him, like a plea for him to save her. “Sam.”
When Dean had pulled him away, that was it. He was done. From that moment on, his life belonged to someone else. Someone with Sam’s face, with his memories, but not him anymore. The real Sam Winchester is hidden under too many layers of loss and pain and he can’t feel him anymore. He won’t be able to even think about bringing him back until the son of a bitch that ruined him is dealt with.