When you were only starting to go to kindergarten,
I bet you drove the little boys wild.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to
santacarlagypsy - dear Lozzie, i hope your day is full of wonderful surprises, lots of hugs and laughter, and many many smiles. ::SMILES::
i am a poor bringer of gifts, however i do bring you a snippet of a new story that i'm dedicating to you. i had hoped to have this done this morning, but i don't want to delay it so long that i miss your actual birthday altogether so...here's the first part of five sections. scratch that. i'm actually bringing you the whole damn thing now ::grins:: ta-dahhhhhhh ::smiles:: This one's for you kiddo - happy birthday! and i use that term very deliberately, seeing as how we are the same age - it makes me feel much much YOUNGER. ::lol::
Title: No one said what the truth should be
Author: Niz4
Email: nimitz4@iinet.net.au
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: They both watch you, neither of them saying anything, and you know it then - it won’t get any easier; ever - because you can read it in their faces, on their skin, as is the Winchester way. Their eyes speaking louder than their tongues ever could.
Wordcount: 2509
Characters: Jess / Sam; Jess, Dean
Timeline: AU - from Pilot
Disclaimer: SN belongs to Kripke.
Feedback: tickles
Authors note: The title is a line from the Portishead song Elysium. It's essentially 5 things that never happened to Jess on the road with the boys, and it's for the lovely
santacarlagypsy. Happy birthday to yoooouuuuuuuu ::g::
No one said what the truth should be
1.
You’re keen to learn and Sam says he’ll train you, but he’s too easily distracted, hornet fingers buzzing across your body. It worries you sometimes, how little you know, makes you feel clumsy, useless. You wonder what your purpose is in this world, their world.
Sam and his brother’s.
You hear them fighting about it one night after you go to bed, curled up in the dark, listening. Biting your thumbnail. You hear Dean, his voice bitter and full of hurt as he says, “Fuck you, Sam. I’m not dying in some shit hole because you’d rather fuck your girl than teach her how to watch her back and mine.”
And you hear Sam’s voice rumbling low, too low to make out the words before you catch Dean’s voice again, another bitter pill: “You were the one who wanted her here. Least you can do is teach her right.”
Sam stays up with his brother, and you hear them, their sibling harmonics twisting and turning through the air late into the night. When he eventually crawls into bed the night has turned, the chill air hinting at early morning and he stretches out beside you, tense and still, staring out into the black; not sleeping.
You wriggle back, pressing your spine into his belly, pulling his arm around you. A Sam shawl. Your feet balanced, small on top of his.
You whisper, “What were you two fighting about?”
And Sam says, “Nothing.”
He runs his wide hand down the long, smooth length of your hair and he whispers, “Go to sleep, Jess. It’s late.”
2.
You pad about the kitchen in socks, feel the sharp chill of the wood sneaking through the thick wool stealing away your warmth.
Fill the kettle, desperate for a coffee while you wait for Sam to return from the store. Turn and find his brother standing there, behind you; watching. He’s always watching.
He’s big in this tiny space, made even tinier by his presence, bull thick through his chest, shoulders, absorbing the little area that remains. You watch his face. Recognize the differing shades and similarities with his brother caught on the surface of his skin; fair where your boy is dark, hot where he’s cool; the two of them lean and sharp like knives.
He watches you with eyes full of resentment, and you ignore this - his dislike - because you’re here now, and that’s all that matters. You put the kettle on and wait for the water to boil, leaning, hip back, against the sink and watch him in return.
He grabs another mug, and you both listen for the water to peak, waiting in un-companionable silence.
When it’s done you make sure to pour yours first, and then hold out your hand for his. Dean passes you his mug, watches you with that steady gaze of his, opaque and hard, like glass and he asks, “So. Can you shoot?”
You haven’t told Sam how irritating you find his brother, yet.
Flick him a long look before you answer, blowing away the steam from your drink and his eyes follow your lips, pressed together above the edge of the ceramic and you see this, his eyes on you, and it makes you itch inside. You nod, Yes and say, “Some. Enough to know which end goes where.”
Dean makes a hard smile and he says, “Well, we’ll see won’t we? Drink up, we’re going shooting.”
And he starts you on still targets, large through to small, until you’re aiming at their old empties. You miss half, get the rest and there’s the hint of a smile at the corner of his eyes when he says, “We can work on that. You ever hit clay before?”
This time you have to shake you head, No, and you don’t know who’s more disappointed by the admission; you or him. Dean makes another stone grin as he hands you a rifle and he says, “No matter, we can work on that too.”
And he sounds so serious about it all, you snort laugh and you ask, “So, what - have I passed the test? Am I ready to be the newest Winchester?”
Dean fixes you with a sly eye. He laughs back and it’s a hard sound, it makes a white bloom in the cold air, and he says, “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.”
3.
You study.
They tell you things, your boy and his brother, they’re generous with what they know, but you try to educate yourself and you understand the significance of this decision. How it’s another way of saying, I choose this.
I choose you.
You read the books; the ones in the trunk of the car.
You’d noticed them when he was showing you the weapons. Your eyes finding them, this horizontal stack, paper soldiers standing to attention way back in the shadows, a private library traveling with the three of you.
You can’t read all of them, a lot are in Latin. The first one you held in your hands shared this secret, and you had laughed when you recognized the combination of letters. You had laughed back then, because you hadn’t known better. Thumb running across the rough curling edge of the page, your eyes flicking across to the supple stretch of his body, leaning half-in / half-out of the trunk, the quick movements of his hands, reorganizing. You said, “Sam - it’s in Latin”.
His words returned to you, muffled by the metal shell of the car, “Yeah, I know”.
So calm, so matter-of-fact. So very Sam.
You’d turned the pages, carefully, because the paper felt dry, brittle beneath your skin, and you remember how you’d laughed again and the sound had felt the same as the paper within your throat; dry, brittle. You said, “What, you read these? In Latin?”
He stretched further into the car, the sleek arch of his skin burrowing within and you barely caught his distracted, “Yeah.”
And you remember how you had just stood there in the sunshine, the book and its ancient text weighing heavy in your hands, feeling stupid. Obvious and cold.
You’d waited then, until he’d finished and then you had asked him to select one for you. Sam had looked at you with his quiet, dark eyes, making a slow smile to match. He’d offered no comment as he replaced the book in your hands with another, smaller, thinner volume that was equally old, but you’d felt it - how very pleased he was by this. You’d read it in the tilt of his head; through his fingers, squeezing tight around yours.
Over time you’ve worked your way through a lot of them, those that you can understand at least. They’re not easy to read, and one is disturbing to hold, you don’t like to touch it. It’s bound in something that doesn’t look like the hide of an animal and it feels wrong under your fingertips; pale and too familiar.
Before you met Sam books were companions in your life; easy, friendly and accessible. They had eased you into sleep many, many times - but not these books. These books hold their secrets deep within, and they don’t come easily. You must pry them free; arcane pearls amidst these vellum oysters. And you suspect that in the process of each whispered release they take something in return, leech-like, a dark twisted tasting deep inside.
Sometimes, after you read them you sleep with the lights on, a black salt moat flowing thick around your bed, burrowing beneath the arms of your boy, seeking comfort; needing to be hidden.
Dean relinquishes their father’s journal to you, and you read that as well. And as you do you feel these words, John’s words, stripping away the veil of what was your normal life replacing it with something you can’t quite come to terms with yet. But you try.
4.
You go on your first hunt, and afterwards you sit in the back seat, shaking. You can’t stop shaking.
Sam turns his head back, sympathy softening the edges of his eyes, and he asks, “How are you doing back there?”
And you nod okay, force a smile. Feel how your face is a puzzle that’s been put together all wrong; skin stretched tight across your cheeks, pulling your mouth in weird shapes. Strange and uncoordinated.
He frowns and says, “Jess, wind your window down. The fresh air will help.”
And you do, and he’s right. It’s clean and cold upon your face; needling your nose as you breathe in, and you force yourself to do this slowly, slow deep breaths, as you tilt your head back, close your eyes. Try to ignore the tingling around the edges of your lips.
You’d wanted to do this so much, to hunt; to be included. And now that it’s come you’re just glad that it’s over, so relieved that it’s done, because the reality was worse than you could have imagined it would be. Much worse.
You count out each breath, your head shifting from side-to-side upon the seat, weak and relaxed, listening to the two of them talking in the front. Their words a deep buzzing baritone lulling your ears; buzzing
And you remember the flies, and the smell, and you feel your stomach roll under you. Uncontrolled.
Lurching for the door, pushing it open, moaning, “Dean, stop the car. Jesus, stop -"
He’s quick about it, but you’re faster, reefing the door open before the car comes to a complete standstill. And it’s a relief to be leaning out, one hand on this metal the other holding onto the earth for purchase as you vomit into the gutter.
Dean gets out. And he holds up your long hair, twisting it around his fist, lifting it clear as you choke through this endless wave. His voice is soft above you, softer than you’re used to as he says, “It’s okay. There you go. It’s okay…”
And your stomach is a foul ocean beneath you, rocking and rolling, bucking within and you heave again, registering another hand now - the wide smooth palm of your boy - upon your back, soothing your skin. And then it’s over.
It ends as quickly as it starts, leaving you with watery eyes, coughing what’s left onto the ground before you push up. Leaning back into the car, feeling exhausted and thin. Empty.
Sam offers you a bottle of water, which is warm but clean, and you are so grateful for it. You make small sips, holding it with unsteady hands and you whisper, “Damn it. Jesus, sorry…”
And Dean squats down beside you, watches you through your open door. He studies you, focused and still as he asks “You okay now?” And you take another sip, feel yourself blush pasty white as you make a weak nod.
He pats your thigh as his brother, your boy, looks on, and his hand is hot where your skin is cold. He says, “Don’t worry about it, you did good back there.” Flicks a small stone into the mess that you’ve just made, grins his wolf smile and he says “This? This don’t mean shit.”
And Sam tells you that the next time it will be better, you’ll be better, and you can’t stop yourself from asking, “Does it get any easier?” Which is stupid, you know this, but you can’t stop the question from curling across your tongue.
They both watch you, neither of them saying anything, and you know it then - it won’t get any easier; ever - because you can read it in their faces, on their skin, as is the Winchester way. Their eyes speaking louder than their tongues ever could.
5.
It’s a quiet night and you’re bored. It makes you fractious, cat tongued and sharp-eyed. These four walls pressing in too tightly around you, when what you really want to do is to run, to move. To use the new rifle…
You seek him out, padding across the bed on all fours to drop down beside him where he’s stretched out reading. Your voice a low purr, all persistent charm and sugar sweet, “C’mon, Sam? It’ll be fun. C’mon…”
He frowns, curls up under his blanket, and he says, “No way. It’s freezing outside.” Paw him with your hands and fix him with a winsome smile - please, Sam. please… - but he avoids your eye, refuses to be sucked into your games, shakes his head laughing, “Jesus. No! Go ask Dean. He’s crazy enough to do it."
So you make a face and slouch off. Find him in the lounge room, drinking beer on the couch watching re-runs of Mash, and you flop down beside him, sighing loudly, reach for his beer - which he lets you take.
His eyes never shift from the TV, pretending to ignore you, but he smiles at Hawkeye and he asks, “What do you want?” and you know that he means you.
Take a swig and feel the bitter surge in your mouth, snapping dry and sharp across your tongue, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand as you hand the bottle back, and you say, “Night shooting.”
Burp loudly at Colonel Potter and slide your eyes sideways to catch the transition of his smile into a grin, all smoky heat and bright shine at the end. His skin, lips and cheeks, stained red and hot by the beer and the heater near his feet.
Dean says nothing for a moment, pretends to consider your request, but you already know that he’ll do it; you can tell. But you give him the pretence of choice. Bury your hands in the pockets of your hoodie, sucking your belly back against your spine and curl over, forehead to knees, peeking up through your hair; watching the clean sharp line of his jaw, his strong fingers curved around the glass.
Watch him sideways, waiting. And he plays along, biding his time until your impatience gives out and you prompt, “Well? Do you want to or what?”
Dean makes a slow nod at the screen and now you grin, and he bares his teeth back at you, looking down with shining eyes and he says, “You’ll need Sam’s jacket. It’s cold out tonight.”
And he's right. You go out into the night with him and you’re grateful for Sam’s jacket because you're cold in your layers, even with the extra padding. You walk beside him, your partner in crime, matching your stride to his, listening to the boots on the snow, yours and his. The soft hush of your weight falling, lifting, falling again as you move out together across the ground.
The air is sharp, it stings the skin on your cheeks, makes your sinus ache, and you look up into the clear night sky. You look up at the birch moon, watching you both from above, plotting its new beginnings and yours.
And you hunt.