(no subject)
time will say nothing but i told you so
Supernatural
Sam/Jess; R-ish
1,259 words
A/N: With love and thanks to all the usual suspects. This one's for mcee, all the way.
Sam knows he’s screaming. He can feel the sound tearing his throat, but he can’t hear it; the only thing louder than the roar of the fire is the roar of blood in his veins. Jess, pinned to the ceiling, makes no sound. The fire gathers strength, and then she’s gone.
He wakes up sweat-soaked and panicked, tangled in the sheets and Jess’s long legs (and thank god thank god thank god). Bile rises in his throat and he scrambles out of bed, his knee smacking the toilet as his legs buckle and he gags. There’s a faint taste of ash when he licks his lips, an acrid smell in his nose, and he breathes slow and deep, forcing clean air through his lungs. He retches weakly and presses the heels of his hands to his watery eyes.
Jess’s voice, small and soft, comes from the doorway. “Sam?” Her cool fingers stroke his hair, and he reaches for her blindly, wraps his arms around her legs and rests his cheek on her belly; he can feel her pulse beneath the skin, the rhythm of her breathing, and it calms him enough to find his voice.
“I’m okay.” He tries for a smile and feels it fail, and her hand curves over his cheek, her hair veiling them both as she bends to kiss the top of his head. “Ate something funny, I guess. “
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Go back to bed, I’m just gonna brush my teeth.” This time he forces the smile through, and the twist in his stomach is because he hates lying to her, hates keeping secrets, but he knows he can’t tell her this, and he wouldn’t know how to even if he could. He tells himself it’s just the time of year, the anniversary of Mom’s death coming up, and nothing more.
Jess is already asleep when he climbs back into bed, and he fits himself against her back, skin to skin and his palm pressed to the space between her breasts. He breathes in the safe smell of her skin and prays for dreamlessness; his eyes are closed, but sleep is a long time coming.
*
The second time he has the dream, he wakes and sketches fire, sitting at the edge of the mattress, huddled over his sketchpad in the watery morning light.
His hand moves frantically across the paper as the sun moves across the sky; when he stops his breathing is shallow, and in the center of the flames is the barest hint of a woman's body, the suggestion of hip and breast, curls of flame for hair. From behind him, the blankets rustle and Jess yawns, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she asks what he's drawing.
“Just something from a dream," he answers tiredly. His hands and shoulders tense, and he nearly rips the page from the sketchbook.
She scoots up closer behind him and slides her arms around his neck, her hands clasped on his chest and her cheek resting warmly against his neck when she peeks over his shoulder. After a long moment, she says, "Bad dream?"
"The worst." He covers her small hands with his, their fingers tangling together; hers slender and pale, his large and brown and charcoal-smudged, like ash rubbed into the whorls of his fingerprints.
"Then come back to bed." She tosses the sketchpad to the floor and climbs into Sam's lap, and the knot in his stomach loosens a little when he cups her face in his palm and feels her smile.
*
The night Dean shows up, he isn't dreaming yet. But the adrenaline rush when he wakes, knowing something's wrong, is the same.
Dean only asks one thing about Jess, as they're into their fifth hour on the road. The radio station fades in and out as they pass through the miles of nothingness between towns, and conversation comes in fits and starts, awkward and halting. Sam thinks it's as much to do with lack of sleep as the fact that they haven't seen each other in two years.
They pass an abandoned gas station and Dean turns down the radio, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Sam waits, flipping his cell phone open and closed with his thumb.
Dean clears his throat. "You love her?"
Sam feels the corner of his mouth twitching up, and huffs out a small laugh. "Yeah, I do."
"Good." Dean nods, sniffs, and his grip on the steering wheel loosens. For a second Sam thinks Dean's going to reach over and ruffle his hair, but instead he just turns the radio up again. "That's good, Sammy."
*
There's a terrible moment, after he opens his eyes and sees Jess on the ceiling, where Sam tries to wake himself up, thinking he's just he's dreaming again. There's a worse one when he realizes he's not.
Later, he won't remember Dean dragging him outside, only the feel of hands, strong and sure, the cool night air, the explosion of glass. He remembers the smell, not of fire but of burning, and the wail of sirens, the buzz of voices in the street. He remembers Dean's silence, the way Dean just watched him, waiting.
It's a hundred miles before Dean speaks, and even then it's only "I'm sorry, Sammy," his eyes flickering briefly to Sam's face, then back to the road. It's enough.
Sam never asks why Dean came back that night, if he ever really left to begin with, because it doesn't matter in the end. Instead he's simply, quietly grateful; and sometimes when Dean hands him his coffee or buys another round or bandages up a wound, Sam says "thanks," and it's for everything.
*
Sam's memory of his last night with Jess is already cloudy, only six months later. He remembers the taste of tequila in her mouth, salt and lime in the corners; that she was wearing her red lace bra under her costume and the way the straps fell off her shoulders when he pulled her into his lap; that she laughed when he kissed her and stopped when his fingers slipped inside her panties. He can't remember if he said her name, if she came with her eyes open or closed, if he kissed her again before they fell asleep.
On the nights he lies awake, with the white noise of highway traffic and Dean's quiet snores, he tries to remember the shape of her hands, the pattern of the freckles across her shoulders, the last thing he said to make her laugh. Sometimes, when he remembers something, he can sleep a little.
*
He wonders if Dad feels this way, about Mom. If he kissed her good-night the night she died, whispered an I love you into her hair; he hopes the last words his parents spoke to one another were ones of love, that Dad's grief isn't compounded by regret.
Sam wishes he knew the last thing Mom said to him, what endearments she might've kissed onto his forehead as she leaned over his crib. If it was her or Dad who tucked Dean into bed that night, and if there was a bedtime story, what it was. He wonders what questions keep Dad up at night, what details he struggles to remember, what he'll never forget.
So many questions he never thought of until he was stumbling -- not walking, not yet -- in his father's shoes. And now that Dad's left too, it feels both too soon and too late to ask.
Supernatural
Sam/Jess; R-ish
1,259 words
A/N: With love and thanks to all the usual suspects. This one's for mcee, all the way.
Sam knows he’s screaming. He can feel the sound tearing his throat, but he can’t hear it; the only thing louder than the roar of the fire is the roar of blood in his veins. Jess, pinned to the ceiling, makes no sound. The fire gathers strength, and then she’s gone.
He wakes up sweat-soaked and panicked, tangled in the sheets and Jess’s long legs (and thank god thank god thank god). Bile rises in his throat and he scrambles out of bed, his knee smacking the toilet as his legs buckle and he gags. There’s a faint taste of ash when he licks his lips, an acrid smell in his nose, and he breathes slow and deep, forcing clean air through his lungs. He retches weakly and presses the heels of his hands to his watery eyes.
Jess’s voice, small and soft, comes from the doorway. “Sam?” Her cool fingers stroke his hair, and he reaches for her blindly, wraps his arms around her legs and rests his cheek on her belly; he can feel her pulse beneath the skin, the rhythm of her breathing, and it calms him enough to find his voice.
“I’m okay.” He tries for a smile and feels it fail, and her hand curves over his cheek, her hair veiling them both as she bends to kiss the top of his head. “Ate something funny, I guess. “
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Go back to bed, I’m just gonna brush my teeth.” This time he forces the smile through, and the twist in his stomach is because he hates lying to her, hates keeping secrets, but he knows he can’t tell her this, and he wouldn’t know how to even if he could. He tells himself it’s just the time of year, the anniversary of Mom’s death coming up, and nothing more.
Jess is already asleep when he climbs back into bed, and he fits himself against her back, skin to skin and his palm pressed to the space between her breasts. He breathes in the safe smell of her skin and prays for dreamlessness; his eyes are closed, but sleep is a long time coming.
*
The second time he has the dream, he wakes and sketches fire, sitting at the edge of the mattress, huddled over his sketchpad in the watery morning light.
His hand moves frantically across the paper as the sun moves across the sky; when he stops his breathing is shallow, and in the center of the flames is the barest hint of a woman's body, the suggestion of hip and breast, curls of flame for hair. From behind him, the blankets rustle and Jess yawns, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she asks what he's drawing.
“Just something from a dream," he answers tiredly. His hands and shoulders tense, and he nearly rips the page from the sketchbook.
She scoots up closer behind him and slides her arms around his neck, her hands clasped on his chest and her cheek resting warmly against his neck when she peeks over his shoulder. After a long moment, she says, "Bad dream?"
"The worst." He covers her small hands with his, their fingers tangling together; hers slender and pale, his large and brown and charcoal-smudged, like ash rubbed into the whorls of his fingerprints.
"Then come back to bed." She tosses the sketchpad to the floor and climbs into Sam's lap, and the knot in his stomach loosens a little when he cups her face in his palm and feels her smile.
*
The night Dean shows up, he isn't dreaming yet. But the adrenaline rush when he wakes, knowing something's wrong, is the same.
Dean only asks one thing about Jess, as they're into their fifth hour on the road. The radio station fades in and out as they pass through the miles of nothingness between towns, and conversation comes in fits and starts, awkward and halting. Sam thinks it's as much to do with lack of sleep as the fact that they haven't seen each other in two years.
They pass an abandoned gas station and Dean turns down the radio, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Sam waits, flipping his cell phone open and closed with his thumb.
Dean clears his throat. "You love her?"
Sam feels the corner of his mouth twitching up, and huffs out a small laugh. "Yeah, I do."
"Good." Dean nods, sniffs, and his grip on the steering wheel loosens. For a second Sam thinks Dean's going to reach over and ruffle his hair, but instead he just turns the radio up again. "That's good, Sammy."
*
There's a terrible moment, after he opens his eyes and sees Jess on the ceiling, where Sam tries to wake himself up, thinking he's just he's dreaming again. There's a worse one when he realizes he's not.
Later, he won't remember Dean dragging him outside, only the feel of hands, strong and sure, the cool night air, the explosion of glass. He remembers the smell, not of fire but of burning, and the wail of sirens, the buzz of voices in the street. He remembers Dean's silence, the way Dean just watched him, waiting.
It's a hundred miles before Dean speaks, and even then it's only "I'm sorry, Sammy," his eyes flickering briefly to Sam's face, then back to the road. It's enough.
Sam never asks why Dean came back that night, if he ever really left to begin with, because it doesn't matter in the end. Instead he's simply, quietly grateful; and sometimes when Dean hands him his coffee or buys another round or bandages up a wound, Sam says "thanks," and it's for everything.
*
Sam's memory of his last night with Jess is already cloudy, only six months later. He remembers the taste of tequila in her mouth, salt and lime in the corners; that she was wearing her red lace bra under her costume and the way the straps fell off her shoulders when he pulled her into his lap; that she laughed when he kissed her and stopped when his fingers slipped inside her panties. He can't remember if he said her name, if she came with her eyes open or closed, if he kissed her again before they fell asleep.
On the nights he lies awake, with the white noise of highway traffic and Dean's quiet snores, he tries to remember the shape of her hands, the pattern of the freckles across her shoulders, the last thing he said to make her laugh. Sometimes, when he remembers something, he can sleep a little.
*
He wonders if Dad feels this way, about Mom. If he kissed her good-night the night she died, whispered an I love you into her hair; he hopes the last words his parents spoke to one another were ones of love, that Dad's grief isn't compounded by regret.
Sam wishes he knew the last thing Mom said to him, what endearments she might've kissed onto his forehead as she leaned over his crib. If it was her or Dad who tucked Dean into bed that night, and if there was a bedtime story, what it was. He wonders what questions keep Dad up at night, what details he struggles to remember, what he'll never forget.
So many questions he never thought of until he was stumbling -- not walking, not yet -- in his father's shoes. And now that Dad's left too, it feels both too soon and too late to ask.