Association
Word association, Psych 101.
Sam's partner says 'red' and the first thing Sam thinks of is eyes,
bloodshot and hollow, sometimes glowing, tracking him through the
darkness. In closets and nightmares and underneath beds. Hiding behind
staircases in abandoned cellars, glinting off of 40-year old jars of
pickled onions.
He thinks of 18 years spent on the trail of things that go bump in the
night. Of rock salt and silver bullets, gunfire, and his father's
voice, gruff, urgent: "Goddammit, Sammy, *stay down*." Dean pushing at
him, pulling at him, a hand on Sam's neck, holding him there, bruising,
his breath harsh in Sam's ear.
He thinks of the smell of sweat and dirt and sulfur. The copper tang of
blood. Thick and bright, sluggish and dark.
He thinks of smears and splatters. Gauze, needles and thread.
He thinks about last week when he mended a tear in his shirt (the
victim of a nail sticking out of his and Jess's bedroom wall) and how
later, when Jess looked at the seam, at the small, tight stitches, she
put her hands on her hips and said, "Okay, Winchester. You're better at
this than I am. What gives?"
He thinks of her laugh. Of her lips when he kisses her, wide and
faintly sticky with lip gloss, her (his) favorite, which tastes of—
"Cherries," Sam says, not conscious of the fact that he's licking his
upper lip until he's already done it, and his partner rolls his eyes,
saying, "So, I don't think I want to know the story there," and Sam
laughs, like he's trained himself to.
He says, "Yeah. No. No story. Really."
Really. Yeah.
End.
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