Fic:Ghosts with Voices
Title :: Ghosts with Voices
Author :: avamclean
Status :: One-Shot
Rating :: FR13
Summary :: She was empty, a husk with nothing to fill it but rage.
Disclaimer :: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.
Prompt :: dana_chosenart ‘Dean’s Leather Jacket’
Ghosts with Voices
The humidity gave the air weight, pushed it down on Buffy’s slim frame as she curled her knees up closer to her chest and continued to gaze out, past her neighbor’s roof and into the trees separating her from the waning moonlight. Her throat felt tight, her eyes burned and the nothing she ate for dinner was currently twisting shallow circles in her stomach. A pointed chin thrust forward and her head inclined, slanted bangs falling limply to the side as she held in the wounded sound crawling its way upward from her chest.
There was a hole inside of her and it wasn’t numb. It was cold and it was hollow and the twisting in her stomach was only making it worse because he wasn’t just away. Dean was simply gone . He was gone in the most emptying of ways and in hell. He wasn’t just a phone call away. He wasn’t just a few states away and something frightening was growing in that stretching void inside of her, something that burned cold and consumed and broke everything in its path.
He wasn’t miles away from her.
He just wasn’t.
Her shoulders hunched, bringing the tear in the leather of the jacket she wore into view and her stomach rebelled at the sight of dried blood coating the edges. Damp lashes dipped, coming to rest against her cheeks as she inhaled slowly, ignoring the slight copper tinge to the air around her. Her hands flexed and she quelled the urge to dry heave off the roof as she lifted her head and ignored the fact that Sam was crawling his way through the window and settling that long-limbed body beside her.
He was quiet, still for the span of thirty heartbeats-she counted-before he spoke and his words were soft, but not just noise, not like the words of her friends. “I’m going to kill her. I swear, Buffy, I will kill Lilith.”
Another tear slipped down her cheek and she turned, rested her head on her knees and kept her eyes closed as she asked, “It wasn’t quick or painless, was it?”
“No,” a cold rage filled his one word reply and Buffy’s eyes opened, searched Sam’s wounded face as he searched hers before asking, “Will you help me?”
Her next breath caught in her throat and Buffy turned back to the moon, to the stars painting the black sky cobalt and away from the fact that Dean had asked her, so many times before, to go with him. She’d said no, always no, because of her family, because of her responsibilities. Her life was made up of ghosts with voices and empty promises and broken things that left her wanting, aching for more until Dean filled it. He’d overflowed her life, made it whole and nowhere near perfect, but so much more then tolerable. Dean was the reason she fought, he was her peace and now she was empty, a husk with nothing to fill it but rage-a rage Sam shared.
She turned back to him, to the coldness in his gaze and told him, “This won’t bring us peace.”
“That’s not what I’m after.”
“Well okay,” a sharp nod accompanied her soft, “Then let’s kill the bitch.”
She was miles from who she used to be.
The end.
Author :: avamclean
Status :: One-Shot
Rating :: FR13
Summary :: She was empty, a husk with nothing to fill it but rage.
Disclaimer :: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.
Prompt :: dana_chosenart ‘Dean’s Leather Jacket’
Ghosts with Voices
The humidity gave the air weight, pushed it down on Buffy’s slim frame as she curled her knees up closer to her chest and continued to gaze out, past her neighbor’s roof and into the trees separating her from the waning moonlight. Her throat felt tight, her eyes burned and the nothing she ate for dinner was currently twisting shallow circles in her stomach. A pointed chin thrust forward and her head inclined, slanted bangs falling limply to the side as she held in the wounded sound crawling its way upward from her chest.
There was a hole inside of her and it wasn’t numb. It was cold and it was hollow and the twisting in her stomach was only making it worse because he wasn’t just away. Dean was simply gone . He was gone in the most emptying of ways and in hell. He wasn’t just a phone call away. He wasn’t just a few states away and something frightening was growing in that stretching void inside of her, something that burned cold and consumed and broke everything in its path.
He wasn’t miles away from her.
He just wasn’t.
Her shoulders hunched, bringing the tear in the leather of the jacket she wore into view and her stomach rebelled at the sight of dried blood coating the edges. Damp lashes dipped, coming to rest against her cheeks as she inhaled slowly, ignoring the slight copper tinge to the air around her. Her hands flexed and she quelled the urge to dry heave off the roof as she lifted her head and ignored the fact that Sam was crawling his way through the window and settling that long-limbed body beside her.
He was quiet, still for the span of thirty heartbeats-she counted-before he spoke and his words were soft, but not just noise, not like the words of her friends. “I’m going to kill her. I swear, Buffy, I will kill Lilith.”
Another tear slipped down her cheek and she turned, rested her head on her knees and kept her eyes closed as she asked, “It wasn’t quick or painless, was it?”
“No,” a cold rage filled his one word reply and Buffy’s eyes opened, searched Sam’s wounded face as he searched hers before asking, “Will you help me?”
Her next breath caught in her throat and Buffy turned back to the moon, to the stars painting the black sky cobalt and away from the fact that Dean had asked her, so many times before, to go with him. She’d said no, always no, because of her family, because of her responsibilities. Her life was made up of ghosts with voices and empty promises and broken things that left her wanting, aching for more until Dean filled it. He’d overflowed her life, made it whole and nowhere near perfect, but so much more then tolerable. Dean was the reason she fought, he was her peace and now she was empty, a husk with nothing to fill it but rage-a rage Sam shared.
She turned back to him, to the coldness in his gaze and told him, “This won’t bring us peace.”
“That’s not what I’m after.”
“Well okay,” a sharp nod accompanied her soft, “Then let’s kill the bitch.”
She was miles from who she used to be.
The end.