Both the hunters and the hunted
Both the hunters and the hunted
Word Count: 275
Characters: Dean, River Tam (Gen)
Rating: PG-13 (Dean likes to swear...)
Feedback: Absolutely. Concrit is always welcome.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine and River doesn't belong to me, either.
Spoilers/Warnings: None for the show.
A/N: This is a small vignette in my Rhapsody on a Windy Night 'verse. I think it works as a stand-alone piece but it does take place directly after In this last of meeting places. Written for the Case Study in 275 Words challenge at spn_het_love and the Teammates prompt at crossovers100.
Beta(s): All mistakes are mine.
Summary: Some skies can only be walked alone.
Sam walks underneath the bloody moon where the world begins, following an echo of the red woman’s song down a river of fire. He’s a penitent, bare feet against the flame, and the wind can’t dance in Sam’s wake. Not even the brother who runs from dogs can follow the road where the river leads.
Some skies can only be walked alone.
She perches on a pillow, strokes Sam’s hair with her fingers and she watches the brother cradle the old Colt. He inhales to the rhythm of the brush scraping through its barrel and exhales to the snap of bullets into the cylinder, a hazel eye staring down the sight until have to save Sammy have to save Sammy have to save Sammy is all that she can breathe.
You pulled him from the fire, she says. He ignores her because she’s fong luh, because she can creep through the cracks like a ghost and split him open like rotten fruit. Never got to be a boy. She sighs. Always had to take care of Sammy.
You going to talk all night?
I was a girl once. Sam moans and she kisses his forehead, just enough magic left for him to drift into the black. But now I hear the thunder when it whispers and the lightning when it screams. She hops off the bed, a glide to the floor as flowers swirl around her knees. I can tell you where to shoot the bull’s-eye so you don’t waste your bullets.
Son of a bitch. He grins, spinning the cylinder. Sam always picks the weird ass chicks.
She pokes his nose and counts freckles.
A/N:
The title of this story is a line from the T.S. Eliot poem “Murder in the Cathedral.”