A/N Update that I wrote while sick and feverish? Yep! ~Sammy
marble hands, marble toes
Chapter Four
It's simply that, somehow, when he suddenly sees Sam everywhere, the first time he saw Sam is such a non-issue, he doesn't even remember when it was.
What he does remember, is the times when he saw Sam playing with a Frisbee and a friend's golden retriever. When he saw Sam sitting under a tree, long hair pushed back behind his ears, a thick book in his hands. When he saw Sam laughing at something the barista said in the coffee shop in the corner of town. When he saw Sam pacing back and forth near the amphitheater, yelling at someone on the phone, dimples twisted into a scowl. When he saw Sam with a rainbow flag draped across his shoulders, loping along lazily at the Pride Parade.
He remembers the times he saw Sam and fell a little more in love every time.
000
The blood's still body-warm and fresh, and he licks it off his fingers curiously. It's sweet and sharp and a little bit bitter, but he knows that that'll just make it all the better. He smiles then, and laughs a bit at himself. Sam would have smiled too, flashed his dimples and his straight white teeth. "C'mon, Betty Botter," Sam would have said, "I know you didn't mean to rhyme at me."
The blood is sweet and warm and dark dark red. Red, like that time he bit his tongue when he was seven and the hot glow in his chest when Sam laughs and the color of his knuckles after that man (the evil bad evil man) looked at Sam a bit too long in the bar he visited seven towns and four days into his impromptu end-of-term road-trip.
The blood is thick and heavy as he fills it up in a jar- the black Dark Vader one he imagines Sam would have had gotten him for their two month anniversary, smiling and saying 'Charlie says you love Star Wars'- until the jar is full and brimming and his arms are pale as the sheets around him and his vision is shaky and blurred; and he closes it, carefully, always carefully, not spilling a single drop. Alistair would have been proud. (You lack finesse, Dean. You have to learn to take it slow, to appreciate the finer things.)
The blood is sticky slick on his blade, and he wipes it off on the wet grass. It smells like disinfectant and vomit and iron rust, but it also smells of freshly mown lawns and old libraries and sunshine. It smells like home, he decides. Home, and the tight warmth of Sam's arms.
000
He loves Sam so much it hurts like a knife on his skin.
Sam's wrists are soft and tanned and broad but still so so fragile as he cradles them in his hands. He wraps them in cloth, following the same motions that he'd used on himself, but a hundred, a thousand times more gentle, only a reassurance, not an attempt to stop bleeding. Because Sam isn't bleeding.
His boy would never bleed, not here. Not like him.
He ties the ends of the cloth to the posts at the corners of his bed, and he watches the way Sam stretches out under his t-shirt. He pulls at a cord of muscle on his arm, tracing out the dips and valleys between all his strength.
He moves down to Sam's feet, wraps cloth around strong ankles and tired feet. He binds them to his bed.
His boy looks beautiful this way, he thinks, spread out, soft and safe and protected by wood and cloth and blood and flesh.
Finally, he's safe.
A/N Let me know whatyou thought in a review! :D ~Sammy