All Around You Earth Turns to Fire
This is a vignette set in the Strange Angels' verse, written in response to the Connect challenge at the spn-het-love community on Livejournal. The piece does read better with knowledge of the 'verse under your belt.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine. The Colt isn't mine. Wish the car was mine. But I can only blame myself for the Circle of Enoch.
Rating: T (Adult situations, fire and scars)
Miscellaneous: The lovely embroiderama let me bug her in IM. She beta'd this paragraph by paragraph.
Every scar has a memory.
The body doesn't remember; it heals. But the heart always remembers, every slice and scratch of tooth and claw. The push of the knife, the scrape of the bullet. Every jaw clamped against hip and forearm and calf. The heart never forgets the fire, the crackle and spit of every flame he ran through with a baby in his arms.
He tells her their stories, bringing her fingers down to brush the skin and sometimes she jumps when she touches his puckered valleys and thin white lines; leans forward to brush her lips against the five silvered stripes flowering from his shoulder, twins to the ones on her back, and his voice is the only thing she can hear beyond breathing.
"Werewolf," he says.
The tips of her fingers sweep a thick scab of ashen skin as wide as her thumb, running across the inside of his right thigh. The body doesn't remember but the heart screams, the sickly coil of blood. The cry he tries to bite back with teeth in his lower lip, a pair of dark eyes looking down into his as blood soaks into pavement cracks. A gruff voice. Hang on, Dean. Stay with me.And there is regret, looking up into those eyes and knowing he is falling.
The heart always remembers regret. The heart never forgets mistakes. But the heart doesn't see the pride in dark eyes, or hear the remorse that masks itself underneath the ragged order.
Stay with me.
His breath hitches when she brings her mouth down and his body jerks when hot breath rushes against the skin. She kisses the length of it, runs her tongue along the colorless track every time the rusty tang flickers through them; whispering reassurances until he believes her, until his heart is no longer sinking through cracks.
Until the fear that chokes them both becomes a sigh.
Her hands tremble, and he's reaching for them when their eyes meet; sees the shape for the first time across the curve of her abdomen when she places his palm on her stomach, finger to finger amidst its crazy woman's quilt of criss-crossed burns. The hand that made her watch with the price of betrayal burning into her belly, marking her with the crackle and spit of every flame.
"My mother," she says.
His ring is cold but his mouth is warm against hers, his callused hand soft against the swell. The body doesn't remember but the heart screams, the dusky roil of smoke. The scream she makes so loud it scours her throat, a pair of dark eyes looking down into hers as her nightgown flares and disintegrates like ash around her thighs. A sweet voice. Hush now, Charlie. Let me go. And there is regret, looking up into those eyes and knowing he is dying.
The heart always remembers regret. The heart never forgets mistakes. But the heart dismisses the pride in dark eyes, and the love that unmasks itself from within the final entreaty.
Let me go.
She holds her breath when he brings his mouth down, and her body stiffens when hot breath rushes against her skin. He traces each whorled loop with his tongue, kisses them gently every time the smoke glimmers around them; murmuring comforts until she believes him, until her heart is no longer burning in the blaze.
Until the loss that suffocates them both becomes a sigh.
He tells her another story between kisses, with his fingers caught in her hair and sometimes she jumps when lips graze across her shoulder blade; leans forward to flick her tongue against the pulse jumping down the curve of his throat, twin to the stutter in her chest, and his voice is the only thing she needs beyond breathing.
The body doesn't remember; it forgets. But the heart always remembers, every caress and glide of skin and hair. The push of him inside, the scratches down her arms. Every kiss planted against hip and breast and the small of her back. The heart never forgets that morning, the patter and the clean smell of the rain as she danced within the circle of his arms.
Every scar has a memory.
The title is a lyric from the Duran Duran song "Lonely in Your Nightmare."
I'm not even sure where this came from. It was supposed to be "sight" and turned into something for "touch" with a shot of empathy. My brain is a scary creature some days.
I tried to look up the references for the first encounter with a werewolf but I couldn't find a transcript anywhere for "Heart." So the lovely embroiderama and I came up with an age and went for it.