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mickeymTitle: Ashes to Ashes
Pairing/Characters: mostly Sam, but Sam/Jess (implied)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: ~1000
Spoilers: for the pilot
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own them; that privilege belongs to Kripke, et al.
Notes: Takes place right after the pilot ends, and before Wendigo. Just a little bit that floated into my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it out. It's kind of a different style for me, so I hope it works. Hope y'all enjoy it :)
Summary: After the fire, Sam's trying to pick up the pieces.
Sam digs through the ruins of the apartment mechanically, ignoring the worried looks Dean keeps throwing his way. A picture here, to save. His laptop, miraculously untouched by smoke or fire. Some clothes. His bike and Jess's bike both a loss. It's hard not to sink to his knees and just stay there, to curl up and let the pain eat him from the inside out.
He has to keep moving, because if he stops…
…when he stops, he thinks.
He feels.
She tastes like springtime, like sunshine, peals of laughter slipping from her and into you. Her hair smells fresh, some fancy herbal shampoo that makes it shine like liquid gold. You bury your hands in that hair, cradle her head, gold flowing over your wrists, entangling you. You don't ever want to be free.
"I'm so sorry, Sam." Becky's kiss is gentle against his cheek, a splash of warmth. Her hug lasts a moment longer, but not long enough to melt the ice Sam's wrapped in. He hugs back, shakes Dennis' hand. Shakes a million hands, hugs a thousand people, blinks his eyes fast to keep the tears at bay.
"Thanks," he says softly, voice hoarse with unshed tears.
Beside him, Jess's mom doesn't try to hide her tears, and Sam aches with cold and hurt when Jess's dad wraps a comforting arm around her. He wants someone -- wants Jess -- to hold him, to tell him it's going to be okay, to warm him up.
Her kisses warm you from your toes to the top of your head. You could -- and have -- kiss her for hours, losing yourself in her warmth, in her vibrancy. Her eyes laugh at you, make you smile back, even when you're tired or grumpy. She brings you a cup of hot cocoa and rubs the back of your neck, fingers gentle against tight, sore muscles.
Dean keeps asking how he is, and all Sam can think is dead. I'm dead, inside. Aloud, he tells him, "I'm fine."
Dean only snorts and goes back to thumbing through Dad's journal.
Dad. Sam's never wanted to see Dad so badly in his whole life. Wants to see him, hug him, ask him how do they find that sonofabitch, how do they kill it?
Another page turned, paper hissing against paper, and there are secrets in there. Sam wants to know them, wants to find the answers to questions he can't even put into words.
Instead of asking, he folds his clothes into small squares of fabric before stuffing them into his duffle. Everything smells like smoke and ashes, even though he's washed all his clothes three times.
Smell of woodsmoke, sugary taste of marshmallows against your tongue. Jess laughs when you hold the marshmallow between your teeth, smiling around it, beckoning her to take it. She's so warm against you, against the chill of the night, and you forget about toasting any more when she climbs into your lap, deepening the kiss.
"Sammy, there's nothin' here, man. I've been all over the apartment, and I got nada."
"We should look again. Try--something." Sam makes himself look up, look at Dean. "Dad's journal--"
Dean shakes his head. "I've been through the journal three times. If it was the same thing that killed mom…." His voice trails off, and Sam looks away from the compassion lighting Dean's eyes.
"It was," he says, squeezing the words out between gritted teeth and tight lips. "She was--Jess was on. On the," and the words stick, thick and heavy in his throat. Swallowing doesn't push them down and coughing doesn't bring them up, and Sam can't breathe. Can't feel anything but the heat of the flames; can't hear anything but the roar of the fire. Can't see anything but Jess's face, eyes wide and shocked, staring down at him.
She tells you she loves you in a hundred different ways: butterfly kisses when you're waking up. Coffee, when she would rather have tea. Cookies, baked from scratch. Gentle reminders of appointments or meetings in colorful sticky notes signed with a smiley face. She makes you feel safe in a way you've never felt before, and you don't know what you'd do without her. You never want to find out.
He sees it over and over again in his dreams; dreams different scenarios where he might have saved her, could have saved her. Guilt is a hot, sour, living thing in Sam's belly that gnaws at him, spurring on still more nightmares until he can't see anything else, even when he's not sleeping.
Jess's parents hug Sam goodbye; her mom gives him a kiss on the cheek and tells him to call, to keep in touch. Sam says he will, but knows he won't.
The registrar's office hands him the withdrawal forms, no questions asked. His professors express their sympathy and understanding, signing off on the forms as soon as he presents them.
Sam goes to the ruins of his apartment -- their apartment -- one last time before he and Dean leave town. He stands inside what's left of the bedroom and stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn from tears, from smoke, from anger. The anger is new, just formed in the last day or so, and Sam feels it burning inside him, black and huge and consuming. It's a welcome change to the cold he's been wrapped in for almost two weeks.
You roll over, pulling Jess up over you. She tosses her hair back and smiles down at you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. You shudder when she rolls her pelvis, and you would swear you slip a little deeper inside her. Your turn to smile when she gasps, the sound low and breathless. She's beautiful, hovering over you like this, all golden and light, your bodies joined together. She moves faster over you, sweat slicking on her skin, your skin. When you kiss her, she tastes like sugar, like salt, like life.
Sam brushes his hand across his eyes, wiping the tears away impatiently. He doesn't get them all; can't even begin to stem the flow, and when he licks his lips, he tastes salt.
Under the salt is the bitter taste of ashes.
~fin~
Pairing/Characters: mostly Sam, but Sam/Jess (implied)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: ~1000
Spoilers: for the pilot
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I don't own them; that privilege belongs to Kripke, et al.
Notes: Takes place right after the pilot ends, and before Wendigo. Just a little bit that floated into my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it out. It's kind of a different style for me, so I hope it works. Hope y'all enjoy it :)
Summary: After the fire, Sam's trying to pick up the pieces.
Sam digs through the ruins of the apartment mechanically, ignoring the worried looks Dean keeps throwing his way. A picture here, to save. His laptop, miraculously untouched by smoke or fire. Some clothes. His bike and Jess's bike both a loss. It's hard not to sink to his knees and just stay there, to curl up and let the pain eat him from the inside out.
He has to keep moving, because if he stops…
…when he stops, he thinks.
He feels.
She tastes like springtime, like sunshine, peals of laughter slipping from her and into you. Her hair smells fresh, some fancy herbal shampoo that makes it shine like liquid gold. You bury your hands in that hair, cradle her head, gold flowing over your wrists, entangling you. You don't ever want to be free.
"I'm so sorry, Sam." Becky's kiss is gentle against his cheek, a splash of warmth. Her hug lasts a moment longer, but not long enough to melt the ice Sam's wrapped in. He hugs back, shakes Dennis' hand. Shakes a million hands, hugs a thousand people, blinks his eyes fast to keep the tears at bay.
"Thanks," he says softly, voice hoarse with unshed tears.
Beside him, Jess's mom doesn't try to hide her tears, and Sam aches with cold and hurt when Jess's dad wraps a comforting arm around her. He wants someone -- wants Jess -- to hold him, to tell him it's going to be okay, to warm him up.
Her kisses warm you from your toes to the top of your head. You could -- and have -- kiss her for hours, losing yourself in her warmth, in her vibrancy. Her eyes laugh at you, make you smile back, even when you're tired or grumpy. She brings you a cup of hot cocoa and rubs the back of your neck, fingers gentle against tight, sore muscles.
Dean keeps asking how he is, and all Sam can think is dead. I'm dead, inside. Aloud, he tells him, "I'm fine."
Dean only snorts and goes back to thumbing through Dad's journal.
Dad. Sam's never wanted to see Dad so badly in his whole life. Wants to see him, hug him, ask him how do they find that sonofabitch, how do they kill it?
Another page turned, paper hissing against paper, and there are secrets in there. Sam wants to know them, wants to find the answers to questions he can't even put into words.
Instead of asking, he folds his clothes into small squares of fabric before stuffing them into his duffle. Everything smells like smoke and ashes, even though he's washed all his clothes three times.
Smell of woodsmoke, sugary taste of marshmallows against your tongue. Jess laughs when you hold the marshmallow between your teeth, smiling around it, beckoning her to take it. She's so warm against you, against the chill of the night, and you forget about toasting any more when she climbs into your lap, deepening the kiss.
"Sammy, there's nothin' here, man. I've been all over the apartment, and I got nada."
"We should look again. Try--something." Sam makes himself look up, look at Dean. "Dad's journal--"
Dean shakes his head. "I've been through the journal three times. If it was the same thing that killed mom…." His voice trails off, and Sam looks away from the compassion lighting Dean's eyes.
"It was," he says, squeezing the words out between gritted teeth and tight lips. "She was--Jess was on. On the," and the words stick, thick and heavy in his throat. Swallowing doesn't push them down and coughing doesn't bring them up, and Sam can't breathe. Can't feel anything but the heat of the flames; can't hear anything but the roar of the fire. Can't see anything but Jess's face, eyes wide and shocked, staring down at him.
She tells you she loves you in a hundred different ways: butterfly kisses when you're waking up. Coffee, when she would rather have tea. Cookies, baked from scratch. Gentle reminders of appointments or meetings in colorful sticky notes signed with a smiley face. She makes you feel safe in a way you've never felt before, and you don't know what you'd do without her. You never want to find out.
He sees it over and over again in his dreams; dreams different scenarios where he might have saved her, could have saved her. Guilt is a hot, sour, living thing in Sam's belly that gnaws at him, spurring on still more nightmares until he can't see anything else, even when he's not sleeping.
Jess's parents hug Sam goodbye; her mom gives him a kiss on the cheek and tells him to call, to keep in touch. Sam says he will, but knows he won't.
The registrar's office hands him the withdrawal forms, no questions asked. His professors express their sympathy and understanding, signing off on the forms as soon as he presents them.
Sam goes to the ruins of his apartment -- their apartment -- one last time before he and Dean leave town. He stands inside what's left of the bedroom and stares at the ceiling until his eyes burn from tears, from smoke, from anger. The anger is new, just formed in the last day or so, and Sam feels it burning inside him, black and huge and consuming. It's a welcome change to the cold he's been wrapped in for almost two weeks.
You roll over, pulling Jess up over you. She tosses her hair back and smiles down at you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. You shudder when she rolls her pelvis, and you would swear you slip a little deeper inside her. Your turn to smile when she gasps, the sound low and breathless. She's beautiful, hovering over you like this, all golden and light, your bodies joined together. She moves faster over you, sweat slicking on her skin, your skin. When you kiss her, she tastes like sugar, like salt, like life.
Sam brushes his hand across his eyes, wiping the tears away impatiently. He doesn't get them all; can't even begin to stem the flow, and when he licks his lips, he tastes salt.
Under the salt is the bitter taste of ashes.
~fin~
