Fic: Bespoke Tailoring
Title: Bespoke Tailoring
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam Winchester, The Trickster (pre-slash)
Word Count: 711
Summary: It’s only a jacket. Really.
Notes: Takes place sometime in Season 4. I have no idea what this is.
It’s just a jacket.
It’s an olive-green-
no, not the drab-olive that springs to your mind, a brighter, truer olive, closer to the Greek fruit than any industrial fabric should really come. In fact, let’s begin with that: nothing about this, nothing about him, is quite the way it should be. Stand there, look this way, and you might see the point from which you could begin understanding.
Fruit-olive green, then. And buttery-soft, suppler and smoother than canvas or cotton could hope, but not worn, not even close to threadbare, not even a frayed edge or an errant thread, despite clearly knowing its owner’s shape better than it has a right to, better than some lovers know each other’s. It hangs on him a half-size larger than it might strictly need to be
the better to fool you with, my dear
and a few rows of black stitching appear to be there just for kicks.
Sam’s arm is extended out, with the jacket innocuously held in one hand. He can’t remember how it got there. He blinks, overtaxed mind pushing tired thoughts to the forefront as if through honey, slow and sticky. He’s missing something.
What could he have under there? Maybe nothing, maybe something, but it will keep you guessing all on its own, and that might take your attention off its owner just long enough. Long enough for something, or long enough for nothing.
You’d be surprised how much time nothing can take sometimes.
“Uh...thanks.” It’s folded into a small pillow and when Sam lays his head down, he can smell
sharp snow so white it’s near-blue, whipped into peaks by a cruel wind that can’t be bothered to blow around but hits straight through to the marrow. It smells, however reluctantly, of spices, of oils and powders and sunlight and sand, silks and sweat, kohled eyes and angry words and whispered promises, because India was a long time ago, too long but not long enough, never quite long enough. It smells of coppery-soot, thick killing-smoke and of fire itself, an incongruously dark, curling smell, always nearly something you know but never quite, because how can fire have a smell? Foolishness.
Sam’s eyes close, then open again, sharper than before, hunter’s eyes.
There’s something else there, stitched somewhere between the hem and the air tucked against the green, something golden-soft and liquid-electric
something you think you know, because you think you know what they are, and if you’re very very lucky, you’ll never find out how wrong you are. Close your eyes now, tip your head back - exposing your throat, yes, like that, but you won’t think about that, you’re chasing the scent you can’t possibly catch, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll stop you before you get that far. It doesn’t matter who you are; that isn’t for you to know
Sam starts out of the half-trance, bringing a startled hand half-up to his bared throat. He doesn’t remember moving, but an easy strike with a knife or a claw or a fang would end him right now. His Adam’s apple bobs sharply as he swallows and he stiffens as fingers reach for him, but they only brush lightly over his hair, stroking away the tension headache permanently monitoring his pulse, brushing away the strange veiled whispers he could have sworn-
“Shh,” the Trickster whispers, seated beside Sam on the hard bench in the warehouse they hadn’t realized was coated in sigils and signs to keep everything extra-normal not-human inside, be it god, ghost, angel, demon, demon-blood-laced human, or his own unique brand of multiple-choice. Sam’s older brother would be back to rain destruction down in some form or another, but for now the late-afternoon sunlight sketched rough squares along the cement floor and the air was lazy with waiting. “It wants you to think about it. It won’t let you stop, if you start.”
“Why?” Sam breathes even as his eyes close again slowly, chasing the elusive shadow of sleep.
“Because it’s mine, Sammy." It's an honest answer, and if his eyes had been open, if he hadn't already drifted into a withdrawal-based fevered unconsciousness, Sam might have wondered at the twist to the Trickster’s smile.
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam Winchester, The Trickster (pre-slash)
Word Count: 711
Summary: It’s only a jacket. Really.
Notes: Takes place sometime in Season 4. I have no idea what this is.
It’s just a jacket.
It’s an olive-green-
no, not the drab-olive that springs to your mind, a brighter, truer olive, closer to the Greek fruit than any industrial fabric should really come. In fact, let’s begin with that: nothing about this, nothing about him, is quite the way it should be. Stand there, look this way, and you might see the point from which you could begin understanding.
Fruit-olive green, then. And buttery-soft, suppler and smoother than canvas or cotton could hope, but not worn, not even close to threadbare, not even a frayed edge or an errant thread, despite clearly knowing its owner’s shape better than it has a right to, better than some lovers know each other’s. It hangs on him a half-size larger than it might strictly need to be
the better to fool you with, my dear
and a few rows of black stitching appear to be there just for kicks.
Sam’s arm is extended out, with the jacket innocuously held in one hand. He can’t remember how it got there. He blinks, overtaxed mind pushing tired thoughts to the forefront as if through honey, slow and sticky. He’s missing something.
What could he have under there? Maybe nothing, maybe something, but it will keep you guessing all on its own, and that might take your attention off its owner just long enough. Long enough for something, or long enough for nothing.
You’d be surprised how much time nothing can take sometimes.
“Uh...thanks.” It’s folded into a small pillow and when Sam lays his head down, he can smell
sharp snow so white it’s near-blue, whipped into peaks by a cruel wind that can’t be bothered to blow around but hits straight through to the marrow. It smells, however reluctantly, of spices, of oils and powders and sunlight and sand, silks and sweat, kohled eyes and angry words and whispered promises, because India was a long time ago, too long but not long enough, never quite long enough. It smells of coppery-soot, thick killing-smoke and of fire itself, an incongruously dark, curling smell, always nearly something you know but never quite, because how can fire have a smell? Foolishness.
Sam’s eyes close, then open again, sharper than before, hunter’s eyes.
There’s something else there, stitched somewhere between the hem and the air tucked against the green, something golden-soft and liquid-electric
something you think you know, because you think you know what they are, and if you’re very very lucky, you’ll never find out how wrong you are. Close your eyes now, tip your head back - exposing your throat, yes, like that, but you won’t think about that, you’re chasing the scent you can’t possibly catch, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll stop you before you get that far. It doesn’t matter who you are; that isn’t for you to know
Sam starts out of the half-trance, bringing a startled hand half-up to his bared throat. He doesn’t remember moving, but an easy strike with a knife or a claw or a fang would end him right now. His Adam’s apple bobs sharply as he swallows and he stiffens as fingers reach for him, but they only brush lightly over his hair, stroking away the tension headache permanently monitoring his pulse, brushing away the strange veiled whispers he could have sworn-
“Shh,” the Trickster whispers, seated beside Sam on the hard bench in the warehouse they hadn’t realized was coated in sigils and signs to keep everything extra-normal not-human inside, be it god, ghost, angel, demon, demon-blood-laced human, or his own unique brand of multiple-choice. Sam’s older brother would be back to rain destruction down in some form or another, but for now the late-afternoon sunlight sketched rough squares along the cement floor and the air was lazy with waiting. “It wants you to think about it. It won’t let you stop, if you start.”
“Why?” Sam breathes even as his eyes close again slowly, chasing the elusive shadow of sleep.
“Because it’s mine, Sammy." It's an honest answer, and if his eyes had been open, if he hadn't already drifted into a withdrawal-based fevered unconsciousness, Sam might have wondered at the twist to the Trickster’s smile.