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[personal profile] elohvee
church bells all were broken.
Supernatural. Sam/Jess. R. 440 words. Spoilers for Pilot episode only. Title from Don McLean.

He breathes across her skin, warm beneath his palm, and he whispers, I'm sorry.

She squirms a little, lifts her hips just so, bumps his chin with her thigh. Exhale, inhale. She twists the sheets in one hand and his hair gently in the other and she says, Sorry for what?

Sam shakes his head. I don't know. I don't know why I said that. Never mind. He kisses her stomach and hooks two fingers in her waistband, then pulls.


They watch TV with her head in his lap, his fingers splayed across her ribcage. He laughs quietly when a shot or sound makes her jump, and Jess swats at his leg lazily with one hand. It isn't funny, she says, giggling.

He slides a hand under the fabric of her skirt and murmurs, Isn't it?

She makes a soft sound in her throat, an encouragement, as much of a yes as he needs. She closes her eyes, tips her head back, bares her throat, and he forgets how to breathe.


He's a good student: he learns.

One slow-sliding finger makes her whimper, two make her moan. He presses her thigh and she keens. A flicker of his tongue, then a slow, broad swipe, and she arches back and says his name over and over until it's just another sound.


She likes candles, lights them for Atmosphere, she says, and for the smell. Gardenia, she says and points. Jasmine. Juniper.

They all smell the same and sickly-sweet to him, and he wonders why the feel of her skin isn't a recognized texture, why her laugh isn't part of the Muzak, why the smell of her hair isn't a candle.

He kisses her forehead and repeats, like he's learning. Very seriously he says, Jasmine. And he points. Juniper. Gardenia.

She shows her teeth and her fingers inch around the waist of his jeans. She slips the button out of the eye, drags the zipper down, and nods her head three times. Yes, she says. Yes, and yes.


She holds him in one small hand, runs her fingers over him and then her lips, humming a melody he doesn't know as she goes. Her fingernails, painted soft pink, scrape his skin and he curses, arches up into her hand.

Sorry, she says, and she sounds like it, even smiling. Sorry. Here. Let me just—


He sleeps and remembers inside her. He dreams and he sees the curve of her back, the bones of her ankles, the rougher skin over her knees. He sleeps and sees her burning, sees her empty.

Awake, he can't tell the candles apart.
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