SPN FIC - Fracture
Characters: Sam and Jess
Pairings: Sam/Jess
Rating: PG, for violent imagery
Length: 992 words
Spoilers: just the Pilot
Disclaimer: Kripke made 'em up, I just play.
"Bad," he whispers. "Bad...dream."
Fracture
By Carol Davis
He's awake suddenly, feeling pounded and thrashed, like someone threw him off a speeding train and he somersaulted down a steep, gravel-covered slope, completely out of control, all arms and legs; hard, sharp things tearing at his skin, his clothes, jabbing into him, tattooing him head to foot with tiny dark bruises.
He feels like he stopped pinwheeling down the hill because he slammed headfirst into a wall.
For a moment, he has no idea where he is.
But he can smell fire, smell the searing, suffocating stink of things burning that should never be burned. Fabric dense with chemicals - the blanket, their clothing, the cheap rug on the floor beside the bed.
Hair.
Flesh.
He coughs, hard, to force the toxic brew out of his lungs, blinks frantically to clear his eyes.
She was up there - on the ceiling, pinned there in defiance of gravity, eyes and mouth stretched wide, screaming without sound - and he saw her burn. Saw the flames lick greedily at her body like she was nothing more than a delicate doll made of paper, something meant to be consumed in a matter of seconds.
He watched the flames swallow her like waves from a storm engulfing the shore.
Saw her arms, her legs, her hair, the white of her nightgown, all vanish into the greedy maw of the fire.
He struggles against his bonds like a rabid dog tied up inside a canvas sack.
Bonds?
Sheets.
Just sheets. Blanket. Pillow.
With sweat pouring off him, saturating his t-shirt and sweatpants until he feels like someone's doused him with a bucket of fetid water, he pushes himself out of the bed but can't find his feet, can't figure out how to stand up, so he sinks to the floor and huddles there, shielding himself from something that's no longer there.
The room is silent for what seems like miles and miles of time.
Then she shifts under the covers, opens her eyes, peers at him through the darkness that's not complete because of the streetlamp across the street from the bedroom window.
"Sam?" she murmurs.
He can't respond. Can't find his voice.
"Are you all right?" she asks.
When he says nothing she crawls out of bed and crouches beside him on the cheap rug, cupping his cheek in her hand.
"Babe?" she says. "What's wrong?"
He saw her burn.
Saw it.
And not, as Scrooge said, because of a bit of underdone potato. They had a nice dinner, hours ago, and he didn't watch anything bizarre before he switched off the TV and the bedside lamp. It was a nice evening, a good evening: they made love, slow and gentle, the way she likes to when she's feeling mellow.
Wine. They had wine with dinner, from the bottle they bought last week. Maybe it was that.
But that's crap. If anything, the wine relaxed him.
She's more concerned now, holding his face in her hand, running the fingers of the other hand down the damp back of his t-shirt and grimacing at how sweaty he is - not in distaste, but because she's getting nervous. She leans in a little and brushes a kiss against his forehead, looking for fever, frowning more deeply when she finds none.
"Bad," he whispers. "Bad…dream."
"You're soaking wet. You should put on dry clothes."
Before he can respond, she goes to the dresser and pulls out clean sweats and t-shirt, then tugs him up and maneuvers him into a seat on the edge of the bed. He doesn't struggle, doesn't counter what she's doing; really, he doesn't know what to do and isn't sure he could manage to do it if he did. Right now, breathing and remaining upright are the best he can ask of himself. He can feel his heart frantically pattering inside his chest, feel the adrenaline of panic still surging like acid through his bloodstream.
She was burning.
On the ceiling.
Just like his mother did, almost 22 years ago.
And for all he's seen in his life, for all his father and the other hunters have told him, he's never been able to wrap his mind around that. It seems absurd: his mother, a grown woman, pinned to the ceiling of his nursery like a bug stuck to a No-Pest Strip. Like something out of a movie: special effects, a set decorated upside down. He's never been able to picture it without it seeming crazy. A joke. A cartoon.
He can picture it now.
He wonders, for a moment, how his father has held on to sanity all these years.
Jessica takes hold of the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. She strokes his face for a moment, then towels him mostly dry with the shirt and helps him pull on the clean one. When he stands up to take off the damp sweatpants his legs wobble like he's a newborn calf. It must be a foolish sight, though reassuring somehow, because she smiles at him fondly and a little sleepily.
He can't stay standing any longer than it takes to pull up the clean sweatpants. Struggling not to simply collapse onto the bed - and not to shrink into a ball, palms pressed to his face, hiding himself from her, from the image his mind keeps thrusting at him of her hair being eaten by fire - he sits down slowly and takes in, bit by bit, what he can see of the room. It's all whole, solid, not burned. There's no bad smell, other than the rank odor of his sweat drifting off the discarded clothes Jess has tossed into the corner.
"Are you all right?" she asks again, her sweet face creased with concern.
He looks at her, pushes himself to drink her in. He wants to cry.
"Just a dream," he tells her, fighting to match her smile. "Just a bad dream."
Pairings: Sam/Jess
Rating: PG, for violent imagery
Length: 992 words
Spoilers: just the Pilot
Disclaimer: Kripke made 'em up, I just play.
"Bad," he whispers. "Bad...dream."
Fracture
By Carol Davis
He's awake suddenly, feeling pounded and thrashed, like someone threw him off a speeding train and he somersaulted down a steep, gravel-covered slope, completely out of control, all arms and legs; hard, sharp things tearing at his skin, his clothes, jabbing into him, tattooing him head to foot with tiny dark bruises.
He feels like he stopped pinwheeling down the hill because he slammed headfirst into a wall.
For a moment, he has no idea where he is.
But he can smell fire, smell the searing, suffocating stink of things burning that should never be burned. Fabric dense with chemicals - the blanket, their clothing, the cheap rug on the floor beside the bed.
Hair.
Flesh.
He coughs, hard, to force the toxic brew out of his lungs, blinks frantically to clear his eyes.
She was up there - on the ceiling, pinned there in defiance of gravity, eyes and mouth stretched wide, screaming without sound - and he saw her burn. Saw the flames lick greedily at her body like she was nothing more than a delicate doll made of paper, something meant to be consumed in a matter of seconds.
He watched the flames swallow her like waves from a storm engulfing the shore.
Saw her arms, her legs, her hair, the white of her nightgown, all vanish into the greedy maw of the fire.
He struggles against his bonds like a rabid dog tied up inside a canvas sack.
Bonds?
Sheets.
Just sheets. Blanket. Pillow.
With sweat pouring off him, saturating his t-shirt and sweatpants until he feels like someone's doused him with a bucket of fetid water, he pushes himself out of the bed but can't find his feet, can't figure out how to stand up, so he sinks to the floor and huddles there, shielding himself from something that's no longer there.
The room is silent for what seems like miles and miles of time.
Then she shifts under the covers, opens her eyes, peers at him through the darkness that's not complete because of the streetlamp across the street from the bedroom window.
"Sam?" she murmurs.
He can't respond. Can't find his voice.
"Are you all right?" she asks.
When he says nothing she crawls out of bed and crouches beside him on the cheap rug, cupping his cheek in her hand.
"Babe?" she says. "What's wrong?"
He saw her burn.
Saw it.
And not, as Scrooge said, because of a bit of underdone potato. They had a nice dinner, hours ago, and he didn't watch anything bizarre before he switched off the TV and the bedside lamp. It was a nice evening, a good evening: they made love, slow and gentle, the way she likes to when she's feeling mellow.
Wine. They had wine with dinner, from the bottle they bought last week. Maybe it was that.
But that's crap. If anything, the wine relaxed him.
She's more concerned now, holding his face in her hand, running the fingers of the other hand down the damp back of his t-shirt and grimacing at how sweaty he is - not in distaste, but because she's getting nervous. She leans in a little and brushes a kiss against his forehead, looking for fever, frowning more deeply when she finds none.
"Bad," he whispers. "Bad…dream."
"You're soaking wet. You should put on dry clothes."
Before he can respond, she goes to the dresser and pulls out clean sweats and t-shirt, then tugs him up and maneuvers him into a seat on the edge of the bed. He doesn't struggle, doesn't counter what she's doing; really, he doesn't know what to do and isn't sure he could manage to do it if he did. Right now, breathing and remaining upright are the best he can ask of himself. He can feel his heart frantically pattering inside his chest, feel the adrenaline of panic still surging like acid through his bloodstream.
She was burning.
On the ceiling.
Just like his mother did, almost 22 years ago.
And for all he's seen in his life, for all his father and the other hunters have told him, he's never been able to wrap his mind around that. It seems absurd: his mother, a grown woman, pinned to the ceiling of his nursery like a bug stuck to a No-Pest Strip. Like something out of a movie: special effects, a set decorated upside down. He's never been able to picture it without it seeming crazy. A joke. A cartoon.
He can picture it now.
He wonders, for a moment, how his father has held on to sanity all these years.
Jessica takes hold of the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. She strokes his face for a moment, then towels him mostly dry with the shirt and helps him pull on the clean one. When he stands up to take off the damp sweatpants his legs wobble like he's a newborn calf. It must be a foolish sight, though reassuring somehow, because she smiles at him fondly and a little sleepily.
He can't stay standing any longer than it takes to pull up the clean sweatpants. Struggling not to simply collapse onto the bed - and not to shrink into a ball, palms pressed to his face, hiding himself from her, from the image his mind keeps thrusting at him of her hair being eaten by fire - he sits down slowly and takes in, bit by bit, what he can see of the room. It's all whole, solid, not burned. There's no bad smell, other than the rank odor of his sweat drifting off the discarded clothes Jess has tossed into the corner.
"Are you all right?" she asks again, her sweet face creased with concern.
He looks at her, pushes himself to drink her in. He wants to cry.
"Just a dream," he tells her, fighting to match her smile. "Just a bad dream."