Spn fic: Storm

[tea_and_ink]

Title: Storm
Author: Paola
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: I own no one you can recognize, the words however...
Summary: It begun with her storming out to bring some calm upon them. 

A/N: Y'all know how time-lines aren't really something I pay a lot of attention to, right? Well, this was written to be somewhere during the second half of S1 an before S2. Entirely unspoilery, in fact, it could be argued to take place in some AU, for that matter.

Storm

 

He gritted his teeth against the cold air, damn winter, he hated winter.

 

Why did she have to do this in winter? Couldn’t she have waited until spring, at least? Or let it happen earlier, like in summer, or fall?

 

No, she liked fall; that would be the last time she’d chose for this. Actually she didn’t really have a choice at all, but she had dragged him all the way over here, so yeah, he was gonna bust her chops about it from every possible angle; because it was just so typical of that woman, to just let things get out of hand before she got to fix them. Reckless kid, that one.

 

Damn, it was cold.

 

He stepped inside the bedroom; she’d rented a cheap motel room where to establish her

HQ, not that she slept there often, it was just a place she kept coming back to, a place she called home. A physical home that is, her real home was… elsewhere.

 

The place smelled like moist, blood and sweat, possibly her blood and her sweat, her things weren’t there of course, she was on a gig when crap happened, and she took her stuff with her. But still, she lingered there somehow, in some sort of ethereal way that made his breath catch, his heart beat faster, his knees give in a little.

 

He had to sit down, and was about to do so on the bed, but thought better and chose the chair instead, he remembered that chair, he remembered having sat there while she nurtured some wound of his, making him whole again; he remembered her face tilted to the side, half lit by the street lights, watching him sleep, guarding the dreams he pretended to be having.

 

She had always taken good care of him; he wished he’d done the same for her.

 

Well, he was here now, wasn’t he? Did she really expect more from him? What did she expect from him, anyways? Why had she called him? Why not her brother, or that priest she trusted so much?... what was his name again? Something with a K, he thought. Whatever, Mr. “K” wasn’t there either, so what did it matter his name at this point?

 

God, so many questions and she wasn’t there to answer them, he’d probably die not knowing those answers. Even if she were there, she’d most likely ignore his questioning and wouldn’t tell him. She was annoying like that.

 

The wind shut the door, while a car drove by, casting white, violent light over the room, the bathroom door was closed, the table by his chair was clean and the bed was neatly made. It occurred to him that he’d never seen that bed made, if she wasn’t sleeping in it, then it was him; or it was both of them spreading research papers across it.

A flash of her legs, curled up under her, a pencil in her mouth, eyes focused on the papers on her hands, a memory of one of the last times he’d been in that room with her. And god, it hurt. Like being gutted hurt, pain numbing everything else but the stench of your own blood, and the sound of your life slipping through your fingers.

 

His stomach did a funny flip that had him taking deep breaths; this was not the time to break down, not here, in this place where she still lingered.

 

Closing his eyes he could see her under him, panting and whispering his name, eyes open and legs gripping, she had a tattoo on her left hip and he used to trace the design lines with his fingers in the aftermath, it was a butterfly, black and silver. He liked that butterfly. She used to walk around when deep in thought; it drove him nuts how she couldn’t stay still long enough for him to get used to it. And now, if only he could see her rotating her foot after he asked her to stop moving for a goddamned second. If only.

 

Minutes stretched into hours and still he sat there, in the dark, waiting for something, some kind of signal that he knew wasn’t coming, and yet couldn’t stop waiting for. He wanted some kind of a message, some clarification of what on earth was he doing there, what was he supposed to be looking for.

 

“The board” he murmured to no one, inspiration hitting him. Of course the board, the sole reason for her choosing of that room, the loose board hiding under the bed, guarding treasures unknown to him, but important enough for her to keep safely tucked away from prying eyes.

 

And now, they were about to be revealed to his eyes. Never in his life had he felt so unworthy.

 

On his knees he pushed the bed aside and ran his fingers over the ever-so-slight crease on the floor, driving his knife in to lift up the board and unravel a metal box. He sat back, folding his legs in front of him, the little box cradled in his hands, hesitation nesting in his head. Should he really open that box? Maybe he should just mail it to her brother or that “K” priest friend of her.

 

Maybe he should just leave it there and walk away, never look back.

 

Even as he debated with himself, his fingers found the lid’s edge and lifted. His eyes met a white envelope, blue ink drawing his name on it. He pulled it out and found a letter inside, for him. A good bye letter, damn her! She knew this was coming and still she went for it.

 

A letter that let him know in no uncertain terms the way she felt about her decision and the reasons why he was the one on the receiving end of those words. A letter that spoke of trust and fellowship, intimacy and maybe even love. Reasoning and doubts were spelled for him –and for him alone- in that letter. Her own handwriting telling him all the things her tongue was never able of putting together for his ears. And even if she did let him know those things with her actions, it was comforting to know that she knew, it wasn’t some visceral, subconscious reaction she wasn’t aware of, she knew and she was in peace with that knowledge.

 

And now, so was he.

 

The box wasn’t empty yet, there were a necklace and a set of keys that he took and put away in his pocket, he’d figure out what to do with those later. Now all that mattered was her and the fact that he’d never get to see her again, or cuss at her carelessness.

 

Because now he knew she wasn’t being her usual carefree self, she was being the grown up there, the one making the conscious sacrifice that would keep them all safe for a little longer. The one giving them a shot.

 

For the rest of his life he’d try to find the way to make this up to her. And for the rest of his life he’d know that nothing he ever did was gonna be enough to thank her. She’d given him back his brother, his Sammy and nothing in this world would ever compare to that. So all he could do now was hope she’d find a fitting reward in another world, because he really hoped there was another world for such a spirit like hers.

 

Dean got in his car, the keys and the necklace weighting in his right pocket, the letter weighting in his heart. And as he started the engine he decided that he’d make it count, he’d make her death count and every little evil bastard that had a say in that, would suffer the consequences of pissing off a Winchester.