SPN FIC - What I Am When I Am With You
For those of you who are angsting over the condition and treatment of your Sammy -- maybe you'll enjoy this: a taste of Sam The Good (or at least, Earnest) Boyfriend.
Jess was mad at him the whole afternoon, after he knocked her down.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Jess
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 833 words
WHAT I AM WHEN I AM WITH YOU
By Carol Davis
Jess was mad at him the whole afternoon, after he knocked her down.
He tried to explain: to tell her that he was used to being around other guys (around Dean; that was the thing of it - he was used to being around Dean) and that he'd acted purely on instinct.
"God, Sam," she sputtered. "I just - GOD."
She wasn't Dean, of course. Didn't know how to tuck and roll - at least, not when she was completely taken by surprise. She'd landed hard, twisted the wrist she'd tried to use to break her fall. Bruised her hip, skinned her knee. Her hundred-dollar psych textbook had landed in a puddle, along with the printout of the paper she'd intended to turn in to her professor. He'd created a mess out of good intentions, and she was determined not to let him apologize.
For saving her life.
Okay, maybe her life hadn't been in danger. Maybe the car would have gone on past without hitting her.
"I'm -" he tried.
"This was my favorite skirt," she said, and flapped it at him. It was stained, splotched purple by some unidentifiable substance from the gutter. Dean, he thought, and chewed at his lower lip - Dean's clothing (and Sam's own) had always borne a rainbow of stains. Dean wore most of them as a badge of honor. Had issued the occasional grumbled Shit, but only when the article of clothing in question was beyond salvaging. Shredded, usually.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"GOD, Sam. You didn't need to tackle me."
Better mad than dead, he thought. Or crushed. Or comatose. He'd had no way of knowing the car was going to stop a good ten feet short of hitting her. That it wasn't going to come anywhere near her, really.
"I don't -"
"Sam," she sighed.
It wasn't his fault, he told himself. He hadn't asked to be brought up without women. Without a mother, without sisters, without a gentle, leavening influence to suggest there might be another way of handling things. It wasn't his fault that his life had been rough-and-tumble. Knives and guns and salted doorways. Seedy motel rooms and the constant smell of blood and eating beef jerky in the car at a dusty highway rest stop. Dean had stopped being gentle when Sam was…what, seven? Eight? As best he could remember, his father had never been that way at all.
"I'm sorry," he said, and before he could see her response, he got up from the table and left the room.
She came to him outside, found him standing at the edge of a pool of sunlight, the first sign of a break in the bad weather they'd been slogging through for almost a week. "Sam," she said, and this time her voice had no sharp edges, nothing to stretch the wound of seeing her sprawled on the pavement, battered and upset. She rested a hand on his arm and he stood looking at it, looking at the delicacy of it, the way it lay on his sleeve like a blown leaf.
"I know you meant well," she told him quietly.
He didn't meet her eyes. Not quite. "I didn't mean to…break you."
"No chance, mister. I'm tougher than that."
Then he did look at her. Looked hard, and longingly, at the growing amusement in her eyes. "I love you," he told her, and meant it.
She held his gaze for a moment, then cupped his face between her hands and tilted in so that their noses touched. "I love you too," she said.
"I didn't mean -"
"I know you didn't."
She tucked her arms around him, held him against her in a grip he suspected would have kept them together in gale-force winds. Maybe he'd seen that in her the day they met. Maybe it was no accident he'd been drawn to someone tall, strong, capable. Someone who could handle herself. Handle him.
Handle them.
"Next time -"
"Next time, I might knock you on your ass."
"I'd have it coming," he said. Then: "I'm sorry about your skirt."
She was silent for so long that he began to think she hadn't heard him. Or that, for that one thing, he was unforgiven. Then she whispered against his neck, "Dance with me."
"What?"
"I need to teach you how to move."
"I know how to move."
"With me," she said. "With ME."
"I -"
She was right. Of course. Tall and strong and capable and…right, in a way no one had ever been before. She shifted a little, tried to take a step, and he resisted it for a moment, choosing instead to simply hold on to her, to savor the feathery brush of her hair against his cheek, the weight and warmth of her against his chest, his arms, his belly.
Then he let her move. Let her guide him. One step, then another.
Let her lead.
"You're right," he told her softly, when she smiled serenely up at him. "You do."
* * * * *
Jess was mad at him the whole afternoon, after he knocked her down.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Jess
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 833 words
WHAT I AM WHEN I AM WITH YOU
By Carol Davis
Jess was mad at him the whole afternoon, after he knocked her down.
He tried to explain: to tell her that he was used to being around other guys (around Dean; that was the thing of it - he was used to being around Dean) and that he'd acted purely on instinct.
"God, Sam," she sputtered. "I just - GOD."
She wasn't Dean, of course. Didn't know how to tuck and roll - at least, not when she was completely taken by surprise. She'd landed hard, twisted the wrist she'd tried to use to break her fall. Bruised her hip, skinned her knee. Her hundred-dollar psych textbook had landed in a puddle, along with the printout of the paper she'd intended to turn in to her professor. He'd created a mess out of good intentions, and she was determined not to let him apologize.
For saving her life.
Okay, maybe her life hadn't been in danger. Maybe the car would have gone on past without hitting her.
"I'm -" he tried.
"This was my favorite skirt," she said, and flapped it at him. It was stained, splotched purple by some unidentifiable substance from the gutter. Dean, he thought, and chewed at his lower lip - Dean's clothing (and Sam's own) had always borne a rainbow of stains. Dean wore most of them as a badge of honor. Had issued the occasional grumbled Shit, but only when the article of clothing in question was beyond salvaging. Shredded, usually.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"GOD, Sam. You didn't need to tackle me."
Better mad than dead, he thought. Or crushed. Or comatose. He'd had no way of knowing the car was going to stop a good ten feet short of hitting her. That it wasn't going to come anywhere near her, really.
"I don't -"
"Sam," she sighed.
It wasn't his fault, he told himself. He hadn't asked to be brought up without women. Without a mother, without sisters, without a gentle, leavening influence to suggest there might be another way of handling things. It wasn't his fault that his life had been rough-and-tumble. Knives and guns and salted doorways. Seedy motel rooms and the constant smell of blood and eating beef jerky in the car at a dusty highway rest stop. Dean had stopped being gentle when Sam was…what, seven? Eight? As best he could remember, his father had never been that way at all.
"I'm sorry," he said, and before he could see her response, he got up from the table and left the room.
She came to him outside, found him standing at the edge of a pool of sunlight, the first sign of a break in the bad weather they'd been slogging through for almost a week. "Sam," she said, and this time her voice had no sharp edges, nothing to stretch the wound of seeing her sprawled on the pavement, battered and upset. She rested a hand on his arm and he stood looking at it, looking at the delicacy of it, the way it lay on his sleeve like a blown leaf.
"I know you meant well," she told him quietly.
He didn't meet her eyes. Not quite. "I didn't mean to…break you."
"No chance, mister. I'm tougher than that."
Then he did look at her. Looked hard, and longingly, at the growing amusement in her eyes. "I love you," he told her, and meant it.
She held his gaze for a moment, then cupped his face between her hands and tilted in so that their noses touched. "I love you too," she said.
"I didn't mean -"
"I know you didn't."
She tucked her arms around him, held him against her in a grip he suspected would have kept them together in gale-force winds. Maybe he'd seen that in her the day they met. Maybe it was no accident he'd been drawn to someone tall, strong, capable. Someone who could handle herself. Handle him.
Handle them.
"Next time -"
"Next time, I might knock you on your ass."
"I'd have it coming," he said. Then: "I'm sorry about your skirt."
She was silent for so long that he began to think she hadn't heard him. Or that, for that one thing, he was unforgiven. Then she whispered against his neck, "Dance with me."
"What?"
"I need to teach you how to move."
"I know how to move."
"With me," she said. "With ME."
"I -"
She was right. Of course. Tall and strong and capable and…right, in a way no one had ever been before. She shifted a little, tried to take a step, and he resisted it for a moment, choosing instead to simply hold on to her, to savor the feathery brush of her hair against his cheek, the weight and warmth of her against his chest, his arms, his belly.
Then he let her move. Let her guide him. One step, then another.
Let her lead.
"You're right," he told her softly, when she smiled serenely up at him. "You do."
* * * * *