Author: callmeadreamer @ october_thunder
Prompt: Sound (#37)
Fandoms: One Tree Hill/Supernatural
Rating: PG (for sexuality/innuendo)
Disclaimer: Unless otherwise noted, I own nothing nor am I gaining any sort of profit from the use of these characters.
Progress: 2 of 100 (table)
Note: I’ve decided to make these slightly connected, so the first one is mentioned in this, the next one will follow the second paragraph of the story and deal with what’s mentioned. Basically these will be a series of 100 one-shots that are following the same storyline. I might post these on fanfiction.net even, as one whole story.
The first thing you notice when you enter the musty motel room, is that it’s utterly silent. There’s not a sound in the small, double-bed room with cheap 80’s décor. You feel as though it’s not right. He should be reclining on the bed, browsing through the crappy infomercials while debating whether or not you’d be gone long enough for him to watch some x-rated material.
Maybe he got a lead, you tell yourself. Though you know that’s not true. He would’ve called you to tell you, just so that you could get back to the motel first. He doesn’t like you going out alone, but you promised to bring a gun with you as you told him you had to buy ‘female products’. Truth was, you’d called Tree Hill to check on Lucas, and how he was dealing with Brooke’s death as the anniversary was coming up. It was also an anniversary for you; the day you first met Dean. He’d came to Tree Hill with his brother Sam over the fact that Brooke had been killed. He was the first person to make you laugh, the first person to get you to cry, the first person to make you feel like everything might just end up okay.
But now, you felt cold and alone. Where was he? He should be there doing the aforementioned things, or sharpening his knives and cleaning his guns, or pacing the room waiting for your return. This was unsettling. Fear flits through you as you think that maybe something happened. Something bad. Something to him. Maybe the creature caught on to what he was doing, and took him. You scramble through the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. You’re doing the trick where you lightly color in the paper by the phone when the doorknob turned.
Wheeling around, you feel relief course through you when you realize that he’s walking through the door, spattered with the first signs of of rain. Rushing to him, you through your arms around his shoulders in relief. When he doesn’t return the hug, and simply closes the door, you pull back, “What’s wrong?”
He’s not looking you in the eye. He’s looking everywhere but at you. Warning bells immediately ringing loudly in your head. He doesn’t even respond to you as he walks into the room, avoiding touching you. He’s been distant in the last few weeks since he left you waiting in the cabin for eight hours as he sought revenge against the thing that had hurt you. This though, was completely different. He’d at least hugged you when you hugged him.
“Dean…” You start through a sigh, suddenly tired with everything that you’ve been getting from hin the past few weeks. As he starts loading weapons, fear comes back immediately. You speak his name again, louder and demanding, but he doesn’t acknowledge you as he packs away the hand scythe. “Damn it, Dean!” You should, getting him to finally look at you. You rarely curse unless you’re hurting or incredibly pissed off. “Why won’t you look at me? Or touch me?” You ask, knowing that your voice borders on pleading. The tone that you know affects him.
He’s coming at you suddenly, and you tense briefly as his hands slide against your cheeks, and into your hair. His lips pressed against yours roughly, hard and hungry. His left arm crushes around your waist as he deepened the kiss, pressing you against the wall behind you as his hands grab at your clothes. You finally respond, pushing back against him as your fingers curl around the lapels of his leather jacket and push it off his shoulders.
When you awake hours later, the first thing you notice is the silence. You don’t hear him breathing, you don’t feel warm, you don’t smell his special heady blend of cologne and sweat, you don’t see any trace of him ever being there. You sit up in the bed, holding the sheet close to your body as tears cloud your vision. You blink the away quickly, laying down on your pillow again, reaching out blindly to feel the cold sheets where he should be. Your hand brushes over something that crinkles underneath your fingertips. You know what it is before you read the three words.
I’m sorry. Goodbye.
Your tears slip out of your eyes as the silence wrapped around you in a suffocating cloak.
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