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apocalypsos) wrote2006-02-02 05:01 pm
apocalypsos) wrote2006-02-02 05:01 pm
Entry tags:
The things I do when I should be getting ready for work ...
Title: 'Tis A Gift To Be Simple, My Ass
Author: Troll Princess
Pairing/Character: Sam/Jess
Rating: R (for language and sexual situations)
Summary: Jess and Sam's relationship is a tapestry of lies.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for "Route 666".
Author's note: There needs to be more Sam/Jess fic in the world. Oh, yes.
********
'Tis A Gift To Be Simple, My Ass
********
1.
She passes by him at this post-finals kegger, with her long blond hair in curls and wearing a skirt that had to be illegal somewhere, and he cuts off the conversation with the guy from his dorm to stop her with a deliberate brush of his fingertips across her arm and a loud, "Don't I know you from Kepper's poli-sci class?"
She flashes him that smile that could bring him to his knees just thinking about it, picturing it in his head after she's long gone.
"I haven't taken poli-sci yet," she says, but she stays.
It doesn't really count -- a half of a lie, and that's if you really want to get technical about it. But a voice in his head says, Strike one, little brother, and he ends up tightening his grip on his plastic cup to keep from punching the wall.
2.
So they're on their first date, waiting for their food to come at this cheap out-of-the-way little diner he practically lives in, and she's dancing her fingernails along the lines of his palm. "My roommate does tarot and palm readings and stuff," she says before she takes his hand in hers over the table. He wonders briefly if that's the start of her list of lies or a good example from her roommate's list, especially when her fingertips stop stroking his lifeline to almost gleefully traipse past his wrist.
The scar has long since faded, as old as it is, but it's still not hard to miss when you're slipping your fingers along the skin of his inner arm like she is. She furrows her brow as the thin, stretched-out ridge of skin comes to her attention, leaning in closer to see.
He's got that puppy-dog smile of his working overtime as he says, "The neighbor's dog bit me when I was six. Practically dragged me halfway to New York before he let go."
Neighbor's dog? We'd have to have some rock-stupid neighbors to keep a fucking black dog as a pet, wouldn't we? That's strike two, Sammy.
9.
It turns out a lot of his early lies are the scars.
"This little punk threw a rock at my head in kindergarten."
"See, this is why you're not supposed to play darts with people who hate you."
"You know how they tell you in high school not to get in the car with a friend when they're drinking? They really should have told us 'a friend' and 'your dad' were interchangeable."
That's low, man, that's really fucking low. That's how many strikes now? Jesus, Sammy, maybe you should take up bowling.
14.
Dad takes up a lot of the list -- "The man's a lousy drunk" can cover up a lot, it turns out, a theory he could never have gotten away with testing out when he was still at home without Social Services poking their heads into their travelling family caravan full of secrets. Unfortunately, he's not the only good cover.
"My mom died in a house fire when I was a baby."
Technically, that's true. But on general principle, strike whatever-the-hell-it-is.
37.
She quickly learns which subjects are off-limits, what she's not going to get a straight answer about and which questions will shutter something in his eyes with the almost audible snap of a window shade being yanked down. Not that it doesn't still happen, that subtle dance around the truth as if he were a fucking prima ballerina, but it's not as frequent now, not as blatant.
A few months after they've been dating, she's spread out beneath him, his tongue and lips pressing wet kisses across her skin as he gently removes the sultry little genie costume from her body. She's still giggling from one too many beers, still riding that fine line between dazed from the drinking and dazed from his hands on her, and she tugs at his green T-shirt with an annoyed little frown on her face. "What is your problem with Halloween, anyway?"
Her hands skim over his abs leaving a searing tingle of sensation in their wake, and he closes his eyes. "I just think it's for little kids, that's all."
She cocks an eyebrow at that, tossing him a saucy smile and a pointed look at his hands on her breasts. "You should probably stop feeling me up, then," she says, and they're both holding in laughter when their lips meet again.
You know what, Sammy? You get lies during sex for free. Even the bad ones. Hell, especially the bad ones.
64.
The lies scatter across the length of their relationship like splattered droplets of ink splashed across the landscape, black marks he tries to ignore. It's for her own good, he thinks most of the time, and every once in a while Dean's voice in his head mutters, Yeah, because that not knowing what's really out there kept Mom real safe, didn't it?
One morning, he wakes up to a warm hand on his chest and a worried expression on her face. He wonders for a moment if he had another nightmare, if he said anything in his sleep like he did that one time, and she interrupts his silent confusion by saying, "You can tell me what went on with your family. You know that, right?"
He smiles and strokes her hair away from her face, fingertips trailing through her long curls. "I know that."
Hell, Sammy, you keep this up and you're going to end up on the goddamn pro tour. Tell you what. I'll buy you the little gloves with no fingers.
If he enjoyed that beatdown of Dean in his living room far more than he should have, he doesn't think he should be blamed for that.
198.
His last words to her were lies. Something about Jack, Jim, and Jose ... that one he remembers. Funny, how he could have lived with that instead of his smiling reassurances that everything would be okay.
One night, there's another nightmare, but this one isn't Jess on the ceiling with blood dripping from her stomach and fire radiating out from her body like a sun in starburst. It's that conversation in their bedroom, and it just keeps going, the lies spilling past his lips in a torrent. "Everything will be fine," he tells her. "I'll come back and we'll graduate and get married and have kids, and I'll always be good and loving and safe, and we'll live happily ever after like in a pretty little fairy tale."
He wakes up soaked in sweat, the sheets twisted around his legs like Jess holding him down and begging him for the truth from the afterlife.
Sam stares at Dean's still silent form for the rest of the night, unable to sleep until Dean says something but almost afraid to wake him up and hear it.
Author: Troll Princess
Pairing/Character: Sam/Jess
Rating: R (for language and sexual situations)
Summary: Jess and Sam's relationship is a tapestry of lies.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for "Route 666".
Author's note: There needs to be more Sam/Jess fic in the world. Oh, yes.
'Tis A Gift To Be Simple, My Ass
********
1.
She passes by him at this post-finals kegger, with her long blond hair in curls and wearing a skirt that had to be illegal somewhere, and he cuts off the conversation with the guy from his dorm to stop her with a deliberate brush of his fingertips across her arm and a loud, "Don't I know you from Kepper's poli-sci class?"
She flashes him that smile that could bring him to his knees just thinking about it, picturing it in his head after she's long gone.
"I haven't taken poli-sci yet," she says, but she stays.
It doesn't really count -- a half of a lie, and that's if you really want to get technical about it. But a voice in his head says, Strike one, little brother, and he ends up tightening his grip on his plastic cup to keep from punching the wall.
2.
So they're on their first date, waiting for their food to come at this cheap out-of-the-way little diner he practically lives in, and she's dancing her fingernails along the lines of his palm. "My roommate does tarot and palm readings and stuff," she says before she takes his hand in hers over the table. He wonders briefly if that's the start of her list of lies or a good example from her roommate's list, especially when her fingertips stop stroking his lifeline to almost gleefully traipse past his wrist.
The scar has long since faded, as old as it is, but it's still not hard to miss when you're slipping your fingers along the skin of his inner arm like she is. She furrows her brow as the thin, stretched-out ridge of skin comes to her attention, leaning in closer to see.
He's got that puppy-dog smile of his working overtime as he says, "The neighbor's dog bit me when I was six. Practically dragged me halfway to New York before he let go."
Neighbor's dog? We'd have to have some rock-stupid neighbors to keep a fucking black dog as a pet, wouldn't we? That's strike two, Sammy.
9.
It turns out a lot of his early lies are the scars.
"This little punk threw a rock at my head in kindergarten."
"See, this is why you're not supposed to play darts with people who hate you."
"You know how they tell you in high school not to get in the car with a friend when they're drinking? They really should have told us 'a friend' and 'your dad' were interchangeable."
That's low, man, that's really fucking low. That's how many strikes now? Jesus, Sammy, maybe you should take up bowling.
14.
Dad takes up a lot of the list -- "The man's a lousy drunk" can cover up a lot, it turns out, a theory he could never have gotten away with testing out when he was still at home without Social Services poking their heads into their travelling family caravan full of secrets. Unfortunately, he's not the only good cover.
"My mom died in a house fire when I was a baby."
Technically, that's true. But on general principle, strike whatever-the-hell-it-is.
37.
She quickly learns which subjects are off-limits, what she's not going to get a straight answer about and which questions will shutter something in his eyes with the almost audible snap of a window shade being yanked down. Not that it doesn't still happen, that subtle dance around the truth as if he were a fucking prima ballerina, but it's not as frequent now, not as blatant.
A few months after they've been dating, she's spread out beneath him, his tongue and lips pressing wet kisses across her skin as he gently removes the sultry little genie costume from her body. She's still giggling from one too many beers, still riding that fine line between dazed from the drinking and dazed from his hands on her, and she tugs at his green T-shirt with an annoyed little frown on her face. "What is your problem with Halloween, anyway?"
Her hands skim over his abs leaving a searing tingle of sensation in their wake, and he closes his eyes. "I just think it's for little kids, that's all."
She cocks an eyebrow at that, tossing him a saucy smile and a pointed look at his hands on her breasts. "You should probably stop feeling me up, then," she says, and they're both holding in laughter when their lips meet again.
You know what, Sammy? You get lies during sex for free. Even the bad ones. Hell, especially the bad ones.
64.
The lies scatter across the length of their relationship like splattered droplets of ink splashed across the landscape, black marks he tries to ignore. It's for her own good, he thinks most of the time, and every once in a while Dean's voice in his head mutters, Yeah, because that not knowing what's really out there kept Mom real safe, didn't it?
One morning, he wakes up to a warm hand on his chest and a worried expression on her face. He wonders for a moment if he had another nightmare, if he said anything in his sleep like he did that one time, and she interrupts his silent confusion by saying, "You can tell me what went on with your family. You know that, right?"
He smiles and strokes her hair away from her face, fingertips trailing through her long curls. "I know that."
Hell, Sammy, you keep this up and you're going to end up on the goddamn pro tour. Tell you what. I'll buy you the little gloves with no fingers.
If he enjoyed that beatdown of Dean in his living room far more than he should have, he doesn't think he should be blamed for that.
198.
His last words to her were lies. Something about Jack, Jim, and Jose ... that one he remembers. Funny, how he could have lived with that instead of his smiling reassurances that everything would be okay.
One night, there's another nightmare, but this one isn't Jess on the ceiling with blood dripping from her stomach and fire radiating out from her body like a sun in starburst. It's that conversation in their bedroom, and it just keeps going, the lies spilling past his lips in a torrent. "Everything will be fine," he tells her. "I'll come back and we'll graduate and get married and have kids, and I'll always be good and loving and safe, and we'll live happily ever after like in a pretty little fairy tale."
He wakes up soaked in sweat, the sheets twisted around his legs like Jess holding him down and begging him for the truth from the afterlife.
Sam stares at Dean's still silent form for the rest of the night, unable to sleep until Dean says something but almost afraid to wake him up and hear it.
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*sigh* Poor Jess. Poor Sam. :(
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i've been starting to read more and more present-tense fic, thanks to this fandom. it's ok in short doses.
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I need to go watch Say Anything for my fic...
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I love your Sam/Jess stories - the insight you provide into what little we saw of them makes it all seem much more real and Sam's loss that much more profound. Brava. :)
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