SPN Fic: Every Little Space
Title: Every Little Space
Rating: PG
Word Count: 962
Notes/Warnings: Set during the pilot.
Summary: Jess watches. Sam sleeps.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of the Supernatural universe.
Jess likes sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.
Sleep makes Sam swallow space. As soon as his conscious mind isn’t there to retract his limbs and collapse him into a less imposing package, he becomes spread arms and sprawled legs, a human heater plunked in the middle of the bed, one that Jess can’t move. She does her best to sleep around him in the pockets that aren’t occupied by a knee or a foot or an elbow. She shifts slowly and unwinds the twisted sheets, but Sam always wakes. After the apologies and sheepish, sleepy grins he curls in on himself, arms tucked at his sides or bent under his pillow. But Jess is glad when Sam falls back asleep and refills the bed. There’s too much empty space when he folds into himself.
Jess doesn’t mind small spaces. She secretly likes the divot in the middle of the bed that causes them to list toward each other as if drawn by gravity. She likes the feel of Sam against her. When she wakes to find him hogging the covers, Jess tucks her cold feet behind his knees and slips her hands under his T-shirt, into the warm spots between his ribs and arms. She loves the half-awake, annoyed sound he makes in the back of his throat when she presses her nose against his neck. It vibrates through her as she molds herself into the broad plane of his back and lays her cheek against his shoulder blade. But Jess notes that Sam never pulls away, even in sleep, as she fills the space around him.
Jess wonders about sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.
Sleep untames Sam. He consumes it like he’s starved for it. Chest swelling, arms spread, fingers loosely curled, eyelashes fluttering, his breath grows ragged and uneven, twining through Jess’s hair as he dreams. Sometimes he mumbles, exhaling his secrets. Even though the broken phrases and Latin mean nothing to her, Jess understands by the way they meander through the dark toward her night after night that they aren’t meaningless. But the mysteries that weigh down the words are cocooned in a dark space she can’t reach.
Jess can’t help her curiosity. She wonders what other secrets are struggling to break free. She feels them fluttering behind his heartbeat like tiny feathered birds. She catches them in his gaze. Jess knows Sam will tell her someday, like he’ll explain the curved knife in the green duffel bag at the back of the closet or the boxes of rock salt behind the garbage under the kitchen sink. She knows about his secret ring shopping escapades. He wants to marry her. So Jess waits, trusting her Sam, and fills the silence with her patience.
Jess wishes for sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.
Sleep relaxes Sam. A full course load, a part-time job, and preparing for the interview that will open the doors he deserves have him tense and nervous. He’s not sleeping at night, at home. Sam tries to hide his fatigue behind dismissive jokes and crooked grins, but Jess knows better. She finds him in a carrel on the library’s second floor face down with his books spread open and flattened by the weight of his arms, the pen still perched between his fingers and his legs spilling into the space beneath the adjacent carrel. She slides into the chair next to him, pulls out her sketch book and leads, and lets his even breaths wash into the background.
Jess can’t suppress her worry. Sam’s headaches and nightmares make him restless. He slips from her grasp and retreats to the living room. She makes him chamomile tea that grows cold on the side table. She kneads his shoulders and the soft spot at the base of his skull in time with his breath until her fingers stiffen. After his reassurances and her failed attempts to get him back to bed, she listens to the springs of the second-hand couch groan under his weight and the floor boards bend beneath his bare feet. The space between them swells in the dark, and Jess, not sure what to do, pours her love into the void.
Jess is anxious about Sam. He’s acting different than normal Sam.
She hopes Sam is sleeping wherever he is. If he comes home dead tired for his interview, she’ll lay into that brother of his. She bakes chocolate chip cookies to temper her annoyance with Dean and his lousy timing. It helps distract her from thoughts about the man standing across the street, the man she thinks she has seen in her peripheral vision for the last week. Jess wraps herself in the familiar: she sketches, she studies, she has movie night with friends. She locks the doors and says her goodnight on Sam’s voicemail before her evening shower. Jess leaves the bathroom door open as the empty night presses against the windows.
Jess can’t move or scream or blink. She’s fused to the ceiling. Below her, Sam glances toward the bathroom leaking the scent of lavender around the half-open door. He falls backwards onto their bed with his hands behind his head and eyes closed. Steam threads through the dark, and Jess curls her fingers toward him. Sam sighs and smiles. Cookie crumbs cling to the front of his shirt. And even through the haze of pain and terror Jess thinks he’s beautiful. His eyes open, grow wide, and for a long second there’s nothing. Then his words are lost in the scream that splinters the darkness and forces the breath from her lungs. As fire spirals toward Sam, eclipsing her view, Jess exhales the remains of her love and hopes it will fill every little space around him.
~o*O*o~
Rating: PG
Word Count: 962
Notes/Warnings: Set during the pilot.
Summary: Jess watches. Sam sleeps.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of the Supernatural universe.
Jess likes sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.
Sleep makes Sam swallow space. As soon as his conscious mind isn’t there to retract his limbs and collapse him into a less imposing package, he becomes spread arms and sprawled legs, a human heater plunked in the middle of the bed, one that Jess can’t move. She does her best to sleep around him in the pockets that aren’t occupied by a knee or a foot or an elbow. She shifts slowly and unwinds the twisted sheets, but Sam always wakes. After the apologies and sheepish, sleepy grins he curls in on himself, arms tucked at his sides or bent under his pillow. But Jess is glad when Sam falls back asleep and refills the bed. There’s too much empty space when he folds into himself.
Jess doesn’t mind small spaces. She secretly likes the divot in the middle of the bed that causes them to list toward each other as if drawn by gravity. She likes the feel of Sam against her. When she wakes to find him hogging the covers, Jess tucks her cold feet behind his knees and slips her hands under his T-shirt, into the warm spots between his ribs and arms. She loves the half-awake, annoyed sound he makes in the back of his throat when she presses her nose against his neck. It vibrates through her as she molds herself into the broad plane of his back and lays her cheek against his shoulder blade. But Jess notes that Sam never pulls away, even in sleep, as she fills the space around him.
Jess wonders about sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.
Sleep untames Sam. He consumes it like he’s starved for it. Chest swelling, arms spread, fingers loosely curled, eyelashes fluttering, his breath grows ragged and uneven, twining through Jess’s hair as he dreams. Sometimes he mumbles, exhaling his secrets. Even though the broken phrases and Latin mean nothing to her, Jess understands by the way they meander through the dark toward her night after night that they aren’t meaningless. But the mysteries that weigh down the words are cocooned in a dark space she can’t reach.
Jess can’t help her curiosity. She wonders what other secrets are struggling to break free. She feels them fluttering behind his heartbeat like tiny feathered birds. She catches them in his gaze. Jess knows Sam will tell her someday, like he’ll explain the curved knife in the green duffel bag at the back of the closet or the boxes of rock salt behind the garbage under the kitchen sink. She knows about his secret ring shopping escapades. He wants to marry her. So Jess waits, trusting her Sam, and fills the silence with her patience.
Jess wishes for sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.
Sleep relaxes Sam. A full course load, a part-time job, and preparing for the interview that will open the doors he deserves have him tense and nervous. He’s not sleeping at night, at home. Sam tries to hide his fatigue behind dismissive jokes and crooked grins, but Jess knows better. She finds him in a carrel on the library’s second floor face down with his books spread open and flattened by the weight of his arms, the pen still perched between his fingers and his legs spilling into the space beneath the adjacent carrel. She slides into the chair next to him, pulls out her sketch book and leads, and lets his even breaths wash into the background.
Jess can’t suppress her worry. Sam’s headaches and nightmares make him restless. He slips from her grasp and retreats to the living room. She makes him chamomile tea that grows cold on the side table. She kneads his shoulders and the soft spot at the base of his skull in time with his breath until her fingers stiffen. After his reassurances and her failed attempts to get him back to bed, she listens to the springs of the second-hand couch groan under his weight and the floor boards bend beneath his bare feet. The space between them swells in the dark, and Jess, not sure what to do, pours her love into the void.
Jess is anxious about Sam. He’s acting different than normal Sam.
She hopes Sam is sleeping wherever he is. If he comes home dead tired for his interview, she’ll lay into that brother of his. She bakes chocolate chip cookies to temper her annoyance with Dean and his lousy timing. It helps distract her from thoughts about the man standing across the street, the man she thinks she has seen in her peripheral vision for the last week. Jess wraps herself in the familiar: she sketches, she studies, she has movie night with friends. She locks the doors and says her goodnight on Sam’s voicemail before her evening shower. Jess leaves the bathroom door open as the empty night presses against the windows.
Jess can’t move or scream or blink. She’s fused to the ceiling. Below her, Sam glances toward the bathroom leaking the scent of lavender around the half-open door. He falls backwards onto their bed with his hands behind his head and eyes closed. Steam threads through the dark, and Jess curls her fingers toward him. Sam sighs and smiles. Cookie crumbs cling to the front of his shirt. And even through the haze of pain and terror Jess thinks he’s beautiful. His eyes open, grow wide, and for a long second there’s nothing. Then his words are lost in the scream that splinters the darkness and forces the breath from her lungs. As fire spirals toward Sam, eclipsing her view, Jess exhales the remains of her love and hopes it will fill every little space around him.
~o*O*o~