15Disclaimer: Still don't own supernatural, and still don't claim to... well, not in company anyway. Please don't sue me.
Standin' there, a shadow in the hall
I'm hopin' that it might be you, but it wasn't anyone at all
"Dean?" I whispered, watching the shadows drift and part – coalescing into a shape that could almost pass as human – that if I stared at hard enough reminded me of his body, so strong and sure, a steady rock salt barrier against the world.
But it's no one. No one at all.
I rolled over onto my stomach, hiding my face in the empty pillow, wishing somewhere in my mind that he will just – that his memory – it's so painful –
The empty pillow still smells of his skin.
I can still remember the way things were
A flash of the past – his smile as he looks at you, wearing his shirt, a pair of his boxers – and nothing else. He's just come back from a hunt, and the material of his shirt stretches tight across your swollen belly, revealing snatches of the smooth skin beneath. You watch as he bathes his face free of dirt and blood, and then when you can't stand it anymore you whisper, "Dean –" ever so softly, holding out your hand, needing physical confirmation that he's come back to you – that he's alive, he's there. With you.
If I could only bring you back, then I wouldn't need to say a word
Gasps and moans split the thick, heavy silence. Two figures as one thrash on the bed, wild and intent on only each other. Naked, fighting each other for dominance, giving each other pleasure. The sharp worship of each others bodies is almost animalistic in its ferocity.
But even a callous brute could feel the love and emotion spilling off the bed in waves. Even a deaf woman could hear the devotion in the man's voice as he cries the woman's name. Even a blind man could see the way the woman clasps the man in her arms and in her body as though she'll never let him go.
The words they speak with their bodies surpass anything even the most skilled of orators could have vocalised.
When we made love, it felt so strong, I remember
"Turn it off," I growled to my sister, trying not to let her see as the tears fill my eyes, as she watched the two actors on screen fall onto the bed, whispering their words of tenderness to each other. The parody of the act of love being performed on the television sickened me.
The way he and I used to – now that was true love. That was strong, and exact and everything to me. When we made love, I knew it was a forever thing. And I couldn't bear to watch Whatshisname and Whatsherface getting it on, when it was so obviously fake.
– his hands gliding on my skin as he smiled into my eyes and I gasped as he –
I wanted my memories to be pure.
We were so much in love, where did our love go wrong?
You laugh as he comes into the room, wearing only his jeans and rushing around the kitchen, searching for his shirt. You remember ripping it off him last night, dropping it onto the floor somewhere, desperate to taste the salty sweetness of his skin. The colour of peaches and the ripe texture of the same fruit – you can still taste him on your tongue, and as he runs past you glimpse the light bruise on his stomach, just under his ribs where you bit him. You couldn't help it – you were so hot for him, and his moan as you broke his skin almost made you die with the guilty pleasure.
"It's over by the lounge," you remember out loud for him, and when he's located it he pauses in his motions, pulling it on over his head. You watch the play of muscles across his abdomen and chest as he shrugs it on, then pull your eyes away quickly, before he can see that you've been staring again.
It's always kind of amazed you that he was still there, that he chose to come back to you, of all people. In his presence you feel like something dirty and inferior, until he gives you that smile and whispers those words. Then you feel like an angel, like a being of light, something beautiful, that he might bestow his love upon you.
Besides, you weren't going to let him realise how much you want him.
Suddenly his hands slip around you from behind and he breathes against your neck – that most sensitive part that he always makes sure to pay attention to. He knows exactly how it affects you when he does that, and when you melt back onto him, he's not surprised. You are, however, when you feel how hard he is against your back.
Then again, you've always been surprised that you can affect him like that.
"Do you know how sexy it is when you're wearing this damned thing –" he fingers the frayed edges of your painting shirt, "– and nothing else?"
You moan as his fingers glide over the skin of your thighs, his fingers are straying from the hem of the t-shirt, but there's no way in hell that you mind, or that the thought of making him stop even passes through your head.
And you do it fast and loud on the kitchen counter before he has to go out to work, and you make breakfast, drifting in and out of the sunshine around the house for the rest of the day with a huge grin on your face.
When his brother calls you to tell you he's in the emergency ward you are sitting on the kitchen counter again – and as he tells you what happens, your mind takes a second to wonder if the space in front of you will be empty forever – before you rush out the door, grabbing his jeans from last night on the way out.
The memories are drifting by, but the pain is here to stay
Sometimes she lies in bed, the covers pulled up around her like a cocoon, and the memories sweep her mind. There's no escaping their fury at night – the dark brings them all back, everything she managed to repress that day, during the light hours when she could keep herself busy.
The moonlight shining through the window illuminates the tears on her face, clinging to skin and lashes. She is silent, except for the ragged breaths dragged in through her mouth, and when it has passed she lies on her stomach, face pressed into the pillows, free to sob again.
Free for that night, for in the morning she makes herself forget once more. She knows it's unhealthy, but the pain is here to stay, and she's dealing the best possible way she can.
And it's no illusion; I'm a lock without a key
"Can I buy you a drink?" a masculine voice asks to my right, and I spun around in shock. A man looks down at me, dark blonde hair – killer smile – blue eyes. For a second, a split, hopeless second I'd thought – I'd imagined – I'd believed –
"I'm sorry," I say, even though I don't mean it. I'm not sorry at all. "I'm waiting for someone."
I suppose I'll be waiting forever.
I'm only livin' half a life, without you here with me
"Why don't you go out more?" your mother asks you, worried. She's never understood. "You're not yourself since –" and then she shuts up. She knows she's gone too far.
He is an unmentionable topic anywhere near you, taboo, as even his name could bring you to tears, or even a panic attack.
"Because I don't want to," you say simply, and take a bite of cereal. It tastes of dust.
"You're like, half a person, since he's gone," your brother's girlfriend says. You would have forgiven her, as it is well known in your household that she has the brains of a chipmunk, but then she says it. "Dean wasn't all that much; I mean, he had an okay body, but seriously, you're better off with out him. And besides, you're the one who –"
The slam of the door as you leave your childhood house echoes up and down the street. Your brother calls you the next day to tell you she's been let go.
Somehow it doesn't make you feel better – but that's not surprising. Nothing does these days. And she was right. You are half a person, without him. No, you aren't even half of one. He wasn't just the one who completed you; he was the one who made you, he was your whole reason for existing.
You tell your brother that he shouldn't have to be miserable too, and tell him to call her back. That if he loves her, he should never let her go.
If only someone had been around to give you that advice.
When we made love, a love that felt so strong, I still remember
We were so deep in love, where did our love go wrong?
You're sitting at the dining table with your best friend and her husband, their children. They invited you over for dinner, an irregular occurrence these days because your best friend's husband is his brother. And you can hardly bear to see him, which he knows, which hurts him, hurts them both, but you can't help it.
The way they touch each other, those little, instinctual, hardly noticed brushings of hands, it hurts too, because you remember being in love so much that your bodies hunger unconsciously for each other.
Even their little son, Tommy, reminds you of him – like an exact miniature replica, huge, mischievous grin, big hazel green eyes and long, long lashes. Those eyes turn up to you, liquefying as he asks for an extra bite of dessert. That look always got to you, no matter what face it was on. And with those eyes, who could resist?
You laugh, a painful grating sound, but a real laugh nonetheless, and you scoop him a bite of the pie out of your bowl. Peach cobbler. Like his skin.
Tommy's perfect little pink mouth opens, and you pop the spoon in – and then a flashback hits you, hard in the heart, making it almost stop from the pain. Feeding him as you lay together in bed. You had the flu, and you were watching old movies in bed, trying not to sneeze on him too much. And then he'd tempted you with his dessert, and you'd ended up feeding each other, laughing softly, before making slow, sweet love to the sounds of Mark Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet berate each other on their pride.
He got the flu the next day, but somehow, neither of you cared at all.
You swallow, eyes clouding, and Tommy stares up at you, eyes wide and unsure to what he's done to elicit this response. You smile, and kiss him on the cheek, whispering that you love him and its okay, auntie's just a little tired. You excuse yourself, thanking your best friend and her husband for their hospitality, commenting on what a wonderful dinner it was, and inane other niceties like that before you can run to your car, get in and drive off, trying to act normal, like you don't know and they don't know your life is falling apart.
I can feel every touch again, as real as it is crazy
Sometimes she lies in bed, trying to recreate with her own hands the magic he wrought on her. She starts at her neck, trailing soft fingers down the column, tracing old patterns and swirls on the skin of her collarbone. As delusional as it may seem she can almost feel his fingers where hers brush – memories and a vivid imagination supplying her with the wordless sounds he used to make when he touched her breasts just so – she cups them, imagines his hands engulfing them, kneading them – the breaths he puffed across her skin as she squirmed, trying to get closer, trying to get away – she was never sure which, as it tickled as much as it gave her chills up her spine. She dances a hand down her stomach, rolling her nipples between two fingers and eyes tightly shut, telling herself that this time it would be different, trying to convince her mind that he's really there, its him doing it all.
The hand pauses at the indent below her navel, and it doesn't move. She knows that tonight is not different. That she still can't bear to touch herself, because only he ever touched her there, and it was stupid anyway. He wasn't there. He was never coming back.
Feeling his touches on her, like he was really there, trying to recreate it was crazy.
She rolls back on her stomach, hugging the comforter to her stomach and tries to will herself to sleep.
And I kiss every kiss again, so tender they amaze me
Your first kiss with him was in the public females bathroom stall at a local library, in some tiny town in the middle of Minnesota.
You'd been researching a local haunting, some woman whose gardener had killed her – a simple salt and burn job that was unmemorable, bar for what had happened before it.
You had been fighting with him over theories, you'd told him straight out that it wasn't the woman doing the killing, it was the person who'd killed her, and he was arguing that it must be her; she was the one who'd died the violent death.
You remember the librarian giving you dirties as your 'friendly debate' got louder and louder by the second, the way the other locals kept shushing you, his absolute refusal to listen to what you were saying, just because you were new at it all.
You finally stalked off, yelling 'you won't listen to me because I'm new, but you shouldn't be so close minded as to believe just because your older you know it all, Dean!', locking yourself into the bathroom, trying to calm yourself down. Sammy was counting on you to do the research right, and you liked Sam, you didn't want to let him down.
More people would die if you didn't stop letting your temper get away with you, if you didn't stop letting Dean get to you as no one else could.
You washed your face before the mirror, your cupped hands filling with water before you splashed it onto your face, gasped at its cold, and turned the tap off. When you looked up he was standing behind you, and you almost screamed.
Spinning around, you'd whispered harshly, 'what the hell are you doing?', covering up your surprise, and he replied, 'apologising', before he'd moved forwards and pressed his lips against yours.
You'd just stood there, shocked, until he pulled back. 'I'm not sorry for that', you remember him saying, 'but if you're going to hit me do it now.'
You grabbed him then, plastered yourself against him desperately, finally understanding why he made you so angry, why when he went off with diner waitresses to fuck behind the building you felt hurt and furious all at once, why when you had to sleep in the same bed with him because the motel had nothing else you felt as though you couldn't breathe.
What started out as your first kiss ended up as the first time the two of you had sex. You remember how embarrassing it was to walk out of that bathroom, as the locals gave you even stranger looks than they had been when you were fighting with him, and you realised you'd been screaming his name at the top of your lungs as he had you against the sink, wild and rough and sweaty, and like nothing you'd ever known.
When you drove back to the motel in his Impala, and he pulled to a stop in front of it, he pulled you by the neck until your lips touched again. It was the sweetest, softest kiss you'd ever had; tender, beautiful, and you could taste his essence, a bitter sweet collection of everything you thought of as Dean.
When he drew back a little, opening his hazel green eyes to look down at you and ask if it had been your first time, you knew he actually cared when you said yes.
I live through the end again, feeling like I'm dying
He lies there in that cramped white bed, smiling up at her and making jokes while she sits, numb and crumbling as his words wash over her. "The doctors say you could have died," she whispers, staring at the bandages that cover his thick dark blonde hair.
"I'm not going anywhere yet," he replies, laughing up at her, squeezing her frozen hand. "Too much to live for."
She knows that he means her, or at least she hopes he does, and it breaks her in half.
She jerks back from him, pulling her hand away and standing, hands curling around her stomach. It's flat, and smooth again. Bare. She's protecting herself now, from him. From pain.
"Dean, I can't – I can't do this anymore!" Sam had told her what had happened, how Dean had gotten careless because the demon had mentioned her name, threatened her. Sam hadn't told her it was all her fault that Dean was hurt, but she knew it was. He'd been distracted, weaker, because of her.
He is uncomprehending. "Do what?"
And she cries, and tells him how she had to sit in the waiting room for ten hours straight. How the doctors wouldn't tell her whether he was alive or dead, whether he was okay, whether she was ever going to see him again. And how she'd realised, that she might never. That he might disappear off the face of the earth one day because something had taken him away from her. And that it would be her fault.
How she couldn't live if that happened. How she couldn't live like this, a constant state of worry and fear and – she didn't tell him but – love. It hurt too much. She couldn't live with the guilt of knowing it was her who had gotten him killed.
He'd told her, she was just stressed, she needed to calm down, to think it over, to stop and take a second, it wasn't her fault, it was his, not to blame herself – but she was scared and she was scarred and she was aching, and all she could think about was that wait, out on the hard chair.
Where people around her wailed their grief, and held onto each other and clutched cups of weak, lukewarm coffee as though they were lifesavers. How she'd always had the underlying fear of his destruction in the back of her head. In her heart.
She loved him. But she couldn't bear to. Not if it meant it would get him killed.
"No more, Dean. No more."
And she turned around, and was almost out the door when he said it, a broken, half plea. "Do you love me?"
They'd said the words, maybe once. Maybe twice. Never enough for it to sink in in the daylight hours, or at anytime when they weren't touching. They'd both known too little of it to be sure or confident in each other.
Yes, yes, she loved him. More than life. But it would be better for him if she told him – if she gave him no hope. Then he would have a clean break. She wouldn't have to see him, wouldn't have to have her body scream with the pain of his nearness. Because she knew he'd leave her alone if she said it.
Could she hurt the one person she loved that much, to protect him from her?
Yes. She could.
"No," she whispered, heart breaking. "No, I don't."
And she left him.
And then I touch my cheek, realise I'm crying
I felt the tracks on my cheeks; they ran straight down, as though they knew their path. One was probably ingrained on my skin by now anyway, so many nights, so many times I've cried. It was amazing that I still had any tears left to cry with.
I touched two fingers to my left cheek, pulling the hand away to study the wetness that sticks there. I put them to my tongue, tasting the salt, the sorrow inside them, and wonder if I'll keep crying forever, because – because, well, I knew that that was how long I was going to feel like this.
It's harder to choose to love a person – its not at all like that unconditional love that you feel for family and the like. You don't really choose to love them, so it's easier to forgive and easier to get hurt. Somewhere along the line, I stopped choosing to love him and fell into that unconditional love. But it had all the strings of chosen love, and none of the benefits. Benefits like being able to stop loving him.
When we made love, a love so strong, and I remember
We were so deep in love, so tell me, where did our love go wrong?
You come back that night from having it out with a vengeful spirit. Tired, sore, bloody; unsure whether you've broken a couple of your ribs or not and not particularly caring, you lie down on your lounge and pray for morning to come so you can wash the sight of the spirit's decapitated head laughing at you out of your mind with sunlight.
Imagine, a decapitated, lonely, desperate spirit laughing at you, because it read your mind. It's so far beyond pathetic, you don't even know where to start describing it to yourself.
Closing your eyes, you sigh and sink back further into the cushions. They're moulded to your body shape, from all the times you were pressed down into them by another body on top of yours.
– panting as he thrusts, in – out, you clutch the arm of the chair, trying to anchor yourself –
Why do you stay here, when everything reminds you of him? Of how it used to be? It just compounds the pain and the knowledge. But it's all you have to remember him by. The apartment, the memories, the two tiny scars on the inside of your knee…
You remember how you got that. Your first hunt with the brothers, and you were being cocky to cover up how nervous you were. Well, the spirit stabbed its dagger through the skin of the back of your knee, effectively nailing you to the floor. You almost fainted from the disgust, horror and most of all pain. How the hell it managed to miss crippling you for life you didn't think you'd ever know – but you'll always be damn grateful.
Even through it all you'd managed, when its back was turned, to aim your gun, breathe in once to steady yourself, and shoot it, straight in the back, where its heart would have been. This gave the boys all the time they needed to do their thing, put the spirit to rest, all that.
You came to when Dean was at your leg, and Sam was holding your shoulders down so you couldn't move. You knew Dean was going to yank it out, it was going to hurt like a bitch, and you'd probably pass out again, but that all faded as his eyes met yours and he said, "Thanks. Good shot."
You smiled, and then he pulled the dagger out of your leg, and just like you predicted, you fainted.
You trusted him from that night onwards. You always trusted him. The only one you didn't trust was yourself. You didn't trust yourself not to fuck it all up for him.
When we made love, we belong together
It's those nights I'm dreaming of
"You're not well," the woman says to her. "You're making yourself sick."
"Tell me something I don't know," she replies, and the woman looks at her pale, pale face, almost unrecognisable she's lost so much weight, so much of herself these past months. "For god's sake Sharika, I even dream about him. Of course I'm sick."
"Okay, I will tell you something you don't know. Dean's coming over."
They'll stay with me, they'll last forever
I gasped, then choked, my heart pounding a mile a minute. "Dean?" I managed to get out. "Coming here?" I felt a panic attack coming on, dancing at the edges of my awareness. I couldn't – I couldn't – I couldn't do it if I saw him again. I'd give in. I'd beg him to come back.
I'd debase myself to any lengths it took to get him back.
I couldn't let myself, even though god knew I wanted to see him again. I wanted to touch him. Or just see him. To know that he's there.
To see that he's not just a memory.
I leapt up from the lounge, my body pumping adrenaline into my system, and I made to run – anywhere – anywhere but –
"Look, it's too late. He's already here."
And the door opened.
He stepped inside, Sam pushing him in, and not letting him back out, sticking his body in the way. He was obviously as reluctant to see me as I was to see him – though doubtlessly for different reasons. I knew he couldn't possibly love me anymore. If he ever had.
When he finally turned around our eyes met, and it felt as though I'd been struck by an anvil in the chest. He looked…he looked…
Perfect.
Despite the fact that he'd obviously lost weight. Despite that fact that he had bags beneath his eyes that could carry him through a three month trip in China. Despite the fact that I had never seen something I wanted so much, but could not have. The pain was like nothing I'd ever imagined existed, even after what I'd been going through without him.
And possibly because of the fact that he looked more like a fallen angel than ever.
He was looking at me like he couldn't believe I was actually there either. He took a single step forwards, and reflexively I took a single one back – it broke the spell he'd cast on me, and I turned around, running – running anywhere –
He was on top of me and I realised that Sam and Sharika were gone – where, I didn't know, and with Dean on top of me I couldn't bring myself to care.
"You look like shit," Dean said, looking down at me from where he straddled my hips. His hands held my wrists against the floor, and I couldn't move.
"You look like shit warmed over," I countered, and tried to buck him off me. All it resulted in was him being pressed even harder against me, and me feeling like I was going to die from the pleasure-pain of it. I wanted to buck again, just to see how he'd react – to see if he'd – but I didn't.
Remember, I tried to tell myself. You love him – you are going to protect him from you. Don't let him get hurt again. Tell him to get off you – tell him –
"Why do you look like shit?"
"Why do you?"
"I asked first."
"Well, I asked second," I replied, trying to moan as he bent closer, looking so intensely into my eyes I could have swooned from the overload to my senses. Months without him, then he comes back and climbs on top of me, and I can see his eyes –
I can see his eyes, his beautiful eyes that I fell in love with all over again.
"I look like shit," Dean whispered, "Because the woman I love left me."
Love. Love, not loved. LOVE.
NO, NO, NO, DON'T! PROTECT DEAN! PROTECT –
"Oh, how sad for you," I said sarcastically, trying not to let him see how breathless I was.
"She said she didn't love me anymore," Dean continued, as though I hadn't interrupted. "And yet, my brother and his wife call me up and tell me that the woman I love is falling apart, and I had better come do something about it. Tell me, why would she be falling apart, why would she look like she's been starving and abusing herself, if she didn't love me, and thought she was doing the right thing by leaving me while I was laid up in a hospital bed?"
"She's had the flu," I answered flippantly. Every second my strength leeched away. Dean, Dean, Dean. Everywhere. He was everywhere. Surrounding me. I wanted him, I loved him, why couldn't I have him? Why couldn't I be selfish? "Now get the fuck off me."
I knew as soon as I said it, the swearing gave me away. He still knew me, and he knew that I didn't swear, not unless I was close to breaking point.
"No."
And he kissed me. He didn't let go of my wrists, and I clung to my self control as hard as I possibly could – don't kiss him back – don't kiss him back – oh god. His lips were hard, demanding, like he was trying to remember me, soak all of me into him so he wouldn't forget. Like this was the last kiss he'd ever allow himself.
And just like that, I melted. At the first sign that he might have been giving up on me, I couldn't bear it anymore. I kissed him back, tongue duelling, breath mingling, heat melding.
"Fuck you, Dean," I whispered as he pulled back to stare into my tear filled eyes. "Why the hell did you make me love you?"
"I could ask you the same question."
"Don't. Make love to me. Now."
When we made love
Two bodies as one buck and heave against each other, naked against each others skin and the rough material of the carpet. A bundle of clothes lie discarded more or less next to them on the floor, tangled and forgotten as love making heat immerses them in its glow. They touch each other everywhere, hands smoothing, mouths lavishing, as though committing every centimetre of each other's skin to memory, exploring territory they had forgotten, as though it was their first time, as though it would be the last.
Breathless words can be heard from anywhere inside the room – 'fuck you', 'you already are', 'go to hell', 'I was there without you', 'hate you', 'me too', 'love you', 'always'.
Replete, carpet burn made better with butterfly kisses, doubt made better with words that come far too easy now that they are back together, they lie in each others arms.
"Why?" he asks, and knowing exactly what he means, she answers.
"Because I love you. Why else?"