AN: So, I'm trying to study, or accomplish any homework for that matter, and this story just won't stay out of my head. I've never had this problem before. Anyway, I guess I'll update, even if it's really soon, and incredibly short.
"Dean. Dean, hey, Dean, wake up," Sam snipped out as he snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face. Dean was leaning in a cheap, motel-issue chair with his feet propped up on the table. Only two of the chair legs touched the ground, and his head had lolled to the side, supported against the wall. A light snore went uninterrupted by Sam's voice. Well, until Dean's sock-clad feet flew off the table, causing his chair to slam back to the floor. Sam smothered a laugh as a loud snort, followed by a string of profanities, filled the room.
"What the hell, man. You don't do that," Dean complained as he swiped a bag of food off the table, and scratched at the stubble on his face. He unrolled the top of the paper bag, sniffing appreciatively. "Get any pie?" he questioned with a boyish grin. Sam scoffed.
"You really need to stop eating so much processed food. There's a lot of chemicals in that crap," Sam replied as he loosened the tie around his neck.
"Ohhh, go spread your hippy vibes somewhere else," Dean complained around a mouthful of cheeseburger. Sam just laughed and sat on the other side of the table. He began picking at the to-go salad he had bought from the mini-mart-and-gas-station down the road. The lettuce leaves were limp and browning at the edges, so he ate the good bits and leaned back, slightly queasy at the sloppy mess of a brother he had in front of him.
As he went to prop his ankle on his knee, something shifted in his pocket. Strange. He didn't remember having anything in his pocket. He didn't even remember putting his hand in his left pocket anytime recently; he always put things in his right. Sam shifted in his seat until he could wrap his fingers around a small piece of metal and a thin chain. For some reason, he left it there, and shrugged at Dean when he gave him a questioning look. Then they argued over what gluten really was, and they both forgot what happened.
At around 3 AM, Sam stirred in his sleep, feeling restless and unsure why. His sheets felt cold as if he'd just crawled into them, even though he'd been sleeping in them for at least a few hours. He drifted in and out as the red numbers on the digital clock slowly changed.
Roses. He could smell them. The scent hung on the air next to his pillow. Sam blearily thought there could actually be a flower in his bed, so he reached out to either knock it off or bring it closer. He wasn't very into flowers, but he could appreciate their aesthetic appeal. He never understood why women actually wanted them as gifts, at least, but maybe that's because he had such bad allergies as a young adolescent. A tall, gangly body, braces, and spring sneeze never gave cause for a large female following.
Roses. Back to the roses. There they were again, pulling him from the edges of sleep like soft touches. His fingertips swept across the off-white sheets, then stopped suddenly, colliding with a cold object. It was smooth when he delicately tested the surfaces with the pads of his four fingers. So soft, like flower petals… Maybe even rose petals. He followed the lines of the object, and he ran into what felt like knuckles, then the beginnings of thin fingers, but as the gears in his mind started turning and began to register what it really was that he felt, the object just disappeared. Gone. There was nothing, even as he pulled furiously at the sheet beside him.
Then he smelled them for a third time, the roses. But it was a thick, heady scent that caressed at his cheek. He could almost taste them, so he reached to touch his own face, finding his cheekbone was cold, and as he held his palm there, his eyes closed completely. His breathing deepened into a steady rhythm that's only followed by a restful sleep.
When the sunlight drifted through the bent and creased blinds at 7 AM, Sam blinked sleepily. The dust motes that floated and swirled by the window were blurry, just like the pale figure sitting at the table. A white dress with pink shapes, flowers maybe, and pale legs, one bouncing up and down with a white high heel at the end. Dark hair. He couldn't make out any features besides that, and when it registered that a woman was in their motel room, he shot up in bed, his head whipping to the table. She wasn't there, though. Nothing was, just dust motes and leftover fast food napkins.
His pants from the previous day were hanging on the back of the chair where the woman in the flowered dress was. After launching himself from bed, Sam fumbled with the pocket, finding the little trinket. His thumb brushed over the engraving on the front. Ruby.
Roses. There was a faint scent of them in the air, and he could swear the smell was coming from the locket. Sam even put it up to his nose, thinking that he could indeed smell them. He heard Dean shifting around, the sheets making a swishing noise as the cheap material met more of its own kind.
"Sammy?" Dean's groggy, sleep-scratched voice called out.
"Yeah, Dean?" Sam put the locket back into the pocket of his pants.
"I got dibs on the shower."
