Title: Comfort
Author: ShaedowCat
Beta: kina24 -:blows kisses:- Ta baby!
Characters: Sam, Dean, Jess
Pairing: Sam/Jess, I guess
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst...ugh, gotta get off the angst-trip. First reviewer please suggest something with happy tones!
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I don't own Dean and Sam. I don't own anything except my own twisted ramblings...blah blah, woof woof, yada yada yada
Feedback: PLEASE!
Summary: Sam dreams again about Jess; Dean gives him a hug
Warning: None that I can think of...this shouldn't squick anyone.
Notes: Set two days after Cry...if you haven't read it, for shame! Go read it now -:rolls eyes:- Same universe as all the rest of my Supernatural fics. Dedicated to Master Li for being very quick and reviewing Cry really fast. Thank-you -:hugs:-
Same deal applies here...first person to review gets a drabble/ficlet of their choice. For more info, go to my Profile.
Sam stood beside Jess' mom and dad, watching as the - empty - coffin was lowered into the ground. The fire had burnt so hot that no remains had been found...no bones, no hair, no teeth, nothing. All turned to ash. Jess' parents had been devastated: devout Catholics, they believed that the body had to be buried. Sam wasn't quite as bad off. Jess had confided to him that she had wanted to be cremated when she died, because she couldn't stand the idea of spending eternity in the cold, cold earth.
Today was the first day Sam had actually been able to stop and think about what had happened on a personal level...since that day, at least. Every day between then and now had been filled with interviews by police and fire inspectors and doctors, with interviews of neighbours and friends and people who'd been passing by, with research in the library, with investigating the apartment itself and trying to find out what the hell happened...
He'd been offered a place to stay by friends...hell, even Jess' family had offered to put him up. But Sam had declined, choosing instead to stay with Dean at the hotel room his brother had secured at 4.57 am on November 2nd.
Dean had been worried. Not that he had actually said anything - heaven forbid - but Sam was good at reading his brother's actions, even if he was four years out of practice. Dean hadn't known what to do, what to say, and so had said nothing, had just carried both their duffles into the room and let Sam choose which bed he wanted, had relinquished the shower like he never did without a fight. Had sat cross-legged on the bed beside him as he lay there staring unseeingly at ceiling, trying not to think about what had happened.
He'd lain there for hours, just staring up at the white-washed ceiling...then, suddenly, it all caught up to him, and he just couldn't stand it. He'd flipped over so he was lying on his stomach, face buried into the pillow, shaking with the pain and the fear and the anger of what had happened...not tears, though. Dean hadn't said anything, just shuffled a little closer and run his hand awkwardly up and down Sam's back. The motion reminded Sam of when he'd been hurt (normally or on Hunts) when he was younger and Dean looked after him, and he'd relaxed a little. Eventually he'd drifted off to sleep, the gentle pressure of Dean's hand on his back better than any lullaby.
The priest was calling for people to come forward with any offerings they had to place in the grave with Jess. People were looking at him, as if they expected him to put somthing in. Other people around him had flowers...white roses, and Sam wanted to laugh at the irony. Jess had thought roses were lame, and if she'd been there, would've told everyone to turn themselves back around and get her daisies or carnations or daffodils...bright, cheerful flowers.
People were still looking at him, waiting, expecting, so he stepped forward and knelt at the foot of her grave.
"I love you," he said, his voice low and rough with emotion. Behind him, Jess' mom gave a choked sob. He ignored her. "I will always love you. Death changes nothing." He slowly got to his feet and went back to his place.
The others came forward, throwing in their offerings. Jess' sister Liz threw in not a flower, but a picture she'd taken before they'd gone out for their first date. Sam had been on-time when Jess had been expecting him to be late, and her hair had been wavy instead of straight, and it had been the first picture of them together, and Sam almost broke down, because god, if he'd stopped it then, maybe this wouldn't have happened.
After the last offering was thrown in, the priest concluded the ceremony. People left, heading for the wake. Sam stayed where he was. He exchanged polite words with Jess' father (her mother was incapable of speaking) and sister and brother and friends. Eventually, there was just him, standing at the foot of her grave. He could feel Dean's eyes on him: his brother had been there, standing apart from the rest of the mourners, keeping silent watch over his brother, and Sam took comfort in the fact that Dean was there, looking out for him.
He knelt beside the grave, gently tracing the letters on the headstone, spelling out Jess' name. J-E-S-S-I-C-A L-E-E M-
He stopped when his fingers got to her surname, hesitating a moment before giving in and sketching a different set of letters in place...W-I-N-C-H-E-S-T-E-R.
Suddenly, being here - at his girlfriend's grave - was too much, and he jerked his hand away from the stone. "I'm sorry," he whispered, almost choking on the words. He moved to get to his feet.
A pale hand reached up through the earth and latched onto his wrist.
-:-
Sam woke with a start. He bolted upright, breathing hard. The sheets tangling around him suddenly made him feel claustrophobic and he flung them off. He swung himself around so that his feet rested on the floor, needing the feeling of solid concrete under foot to ground him in reality.
"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked from where he was sitting at the table, trawling countless newspapers for their next gig.
Sam ignored him.
Dean hesitated, then got up, walked over, and sat down beside him. They sat there in silence for a long moment.
"I don't know if I can do this," Sam said finally. Dean didn't say anything. He went on. "I don't know how long I can take this. These...dreams..."
"What did you dream?" Dean asked quietly. Sam didn't even question it; he just ran with it.
"About the day of the funeral," he whispered. "About watching the coffin get lowered into the ground. About kneeling next to her headstone, saying sorry. And then..." he trailed off, unable to say it. Dean didn't pry.
Silence again.
"Do you think she blames me?" he asked after a while. Dean glanced at him.
"Why would you even think that?" he asked. Sam shrugged.
"Because if I'd told her what I knew, she'd still be alive. Because..."
"There was nothing you could've done, Sam," Dean said, cutting him off, the utter conviction in his voice brooking no argument...for tonight, at least. "That thing was gunning for her, and no matter what you did, you couldn't have stopped it." Sam nodded.
"Okay." Then... "I miss her," he whispered. God. Miss. What an understatement. Tears welled in his eyes and began to fall down his cheeks, and Sam covered his face in his hands, almost ashamed of the tears that had manged to wriggle through his defenses without his noticing.
A moment passed in silence, and Dean shifted uncomfortably beside him...then, to Sam's unending surprise, he felt Dean's arms wrap around him, almost crushing him in a massive bear-hug. Shock made him tense for a second, then he relaxed, turning and snuggling into the embrace. Dean's left hand lifted to rest on his back and began rubbing up and down...like it had on November 2nd...like it had two nights ago. The gentle pressure was soothing, and after a while the tears slowed, then stopped. Even after Sam stopped crying, Dean held onto him, continued rubbing his back, and Sam found himself quite content to stay there. After a few minutes, however, Dean pulled away slightly, and Sam followed suit.
"You okay?" Dean asked softly, rubbing his thumb gently over Sam's cheek, sweeping away the tears, like he had when Sam had been five and skinned his knees. Sam nodded dumbly, feeling five again, then shook his head slightly and cleared his throat.
"I thought you didn't do chick-flick moments," he mumbled. Dean gave him a wry grin.
"You're a bad influence," he replied. "All this...weepy, crying crap...it's getting to me. You're wearing me down." Sam chuckled.
"Whatever," he said, laughing. "You know this is all you." Dean smirked at him, then got to his feet and headed back over ot the table, getting back to the research.
"Yeah, right. Whatever you say." He sat down and tapped the space-bar, halting the screensaver and returning to the webpage he'd been looking over. He glanced at Sam, a wicked grin on his lips. "So, you want to get back to hunting evil, Frances?"
"Sure. Jerk."
"Okay then. Bitch."
Okay, well, that's it. If the ending seems rushed or incomplete, don't worry, I meant it to be like that. I wanted to end it right after the hug, because y'know, it's a hug!fic, and also, that's how I reckon Dean and Sam would act in that sort of situation...chick-flick moment, then move on as quick as possible with as little damage is possible.
Feedback is muchly appreciated!
luv ShaedowCat xox