I Crave You.
Title: I Crave You.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing: Pre-Wincest? or gen, as you like.
Spoilers: End of season 3.
Word Count: 249.
Note: The smallest thing I've ever written. But I like it. Sam's POV.
Warning: Tears, tears, tears. yeah, pretty angsty.
I forgot what happened after you death.
[Spoiler (click to open)]
We call it post-traumatic shock, or something. I think. I don't know and I don't care.
I feel alone.
Desperatly, I'm looking for people. I want to feel surrounded. I let my body guide me in the search of a contact.
Something, anything, to tell me that it's not a dream.
I'm drowning.
Like we can try to drown a fish.
I'm drowning in the caresses which remind me that I'll never feel your hand on my shoulder again.
I'm drowning in the kisses which, again and again, shout that the days when you used to kiss my forehead to wish me a good night were gone long ago.
And each morning, I wake up with this feeling that I'm breathing way too much; the idea that something is wrong engraved in a corner of my mind.
Each day, I tell myself that you saved me, that I need to thank you, that I need to treasure this life, that I need to live for you.
Each day, I tell myself that I'm the one who should have died. That I would rather have died.
I miss you.
More than anything else.
Your sarcastic comments, your music always too loud, your loving claps on my back that nearly make me stumble, your tantrums, your laughter, everything.
I need you.
You never believed in God or in anything else.
This is thus not a prayer, Dean.
Just a message.
A cry for help.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing: Pre-Wincest? or gen, as you like.
Spoilers: End of season 3.
Word Count: 249.
Note: The smallest thing I've ever written. But I like it. Sam's POV.
Warning: Tears, tears, tears. yeah, pretty angsty.
I forgot what happened after you death.
[Spoiler (click to open)]
We call it post-traumatic shock, or something. I think. I don't know and I don't care.
I feel alone.
Desperatly, I'm looking for people. I want to feel surrounded. I let my body guide me in the search of a contact.
Something, anything, to tell me that it's not a dream.
I'm drowning.
Like we can try to drown a fish.
I'm drowning in the caresses which remind me that I'll never feel your hand on my shoulder again.
I'm drowning in the kisses which, again and again, shout that the days when you used to kiss my forehead to wish me a good night were gone long ago.
And each morning, I wake up with this feeling that I'm breathing way too much; the idea that something is wrong engraved in a corner of my mind.
Each day, I tell myself that you saved me, that I need to thank you, that I need to treasure this life, that I need to live for you.
Each day, I tell myself that I'm the one who should have died. That I would rather have died.
I miss you.
More than anything else.
Your sarcastic comments, your music always too loud, your loving claps on my back that nearly make me stumble, your tantrums, your laughter, everything.
I need you.
You never believed in God or in anything else.
This is thus not a prayer, Dean.
Just a message.
A cry for help.