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thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

East of Nowhere - Year Four

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Beta: ilikaicalie

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

YEAR FOUR

Three Years, Three Weeks

You twist in sweat-soaked sheets, your body writhing next to Sam as a dream flickers to life behind your closed eyes.

The bunsen burner is a polished silver and far larger than any you’ve ever seen before, the flames a brilliant blue and strong as they lick upward. You reach over to turn the base, to feed it with oxygen. At once, the fire becomes golden and takes the shape of a flower head. You watch the many petals became more distinct, folding outward, radiating light and warmth. It’s the most beautiful flower you’ve ever seen, more fleeting than any other, yet seemingly eternal.

This looks exactly like your college biology lab, right down to the lopsided stool that rocked when you sat on it. Despite the similarities, you know this is a different place, the anxiety rising as the edges of your vision ebb and flow.

Then you’re outside, standing in the street in front of the house that you and Sam share. It’s as if God has adjusted the colors of the world in the night, like it’s as easy as twisting one of those old plastic dials on a television set. Everything is brighter than it should be; the trees aren’t just green but radiant virescent hues that burn themselves into your sleepy retinas. The houses are as vibrant as if they've been repainted by moonlight and now stand vivid in the golden rays that fall unfettered through the clear sky. The road that should be black asphalt is a sleek river of gray with perfect paint lines and the street-lamps are blue. But, they’ve never been blue, not ever. Everything is so right it’s wrong - really wrong. The front yards that had been disheveled with the decay of late winter just yesterday were a riot of colorful blooms. You turn back to look at the house, the curtain twitches. Someone’s inside and you inherently know it’s not Sam. You hurry to the front door only to find that it is locked. You beat on the hardwood of the door, calling for Sam as a face appears at the window...your face...but with darker eyes and a smile that makes you want to cry.

“Go away,” dark you hiss through the glass, “we don’t need you anymore.”

“He’ll know,” you yell back, “Sam will know that you’re not the real me.”

“What makes you so sure?” dark you smirks, “he hasn’t been able to tell so far.”

Three Years, Four Months

“I’ll go first,” you smile and inch closer until your knees are touching his. You’re both cross-legged on a tattered flannel blanket in the middle of a sun-soaked clearing, surrounded by an ocean of white dandelions. It’s past mid-day, but it’s still warm enough to put a flush in Sam’s cheeks. He smiles bashfully, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Leaning toward him you whisper, “Are you nervous?”

“Yes,” he admits rubbing a hand at the nape of his neck, “but the good kind.”

“Me too.” You grab his hand with two of yours and pull it toward your chest, speaking as you trace the veins of his palm with your thumb. “You probably don’t even remember…”

“Try me,” he urges, reaching out to grab a lock of your hair. He twists it around his finger, his eyes never leaving yours.

“We’d been here a year maybe and we were running out on Miller’s trail. You veered off at full speed, on that skinny dirt footpath, the one right past that huge downed pine and all the roots?” Sam nods affirmatively. “I could barely keep up with you and you just kept looking back at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen and yelling at me: ‘Come on Y/N, I know you’ve got it in you.’”

“I’ve never seen you run that fast,” Sam chuckles, watching as you trace your index finger up his wrist.

“Shhh, it’s my turn to talk,” Sam mouths a quick ‘sorry’ and you continue.

“I chased you all the way to that pond at the north end of the woods and I lost you toward the end. When I rounded that last corner, you were just standing there waiting for me by the water’s edge. I ran up to you, I was going to push you in but instead, you picked me up and hugged me like it was the most natural thing in the world. At that moment, I knew how I felt about you. I don’t know if it was the feeling of you holding me or how happy you seemed to be, but it was the trigger. I wanted a thousand more of those moments. Nothing was the same after that.”

“I remember that day,” Sam expounds, “I even remember what I said to you.”

“No way,” you scoff.

“I told you that no one ever made me want to push that hard, that I move faster when you’re chasing me.”

“I’m still not sure how I feel about that,” chuckling you drop your gaze, but only for a moment because Sam isn’t done.

“That’s not the only thing I remember. Your hair smelled like that eucalyptus shampoo you used to use and the hair tie you were using broke half-way through the run, so it was down and wild from the wind on the trail.” Sam breathes looking at you as if he’s still in that moment.

“Well,” you blush, constantly amazed by the details he’s able to recall. Reaching to the blanket you pick up a thin, silver ring and slip it onto his finger. “That was the moment I knew I loved you.”

He holds his hand up to the light, thumbing at the ring at the base of his finger. Then closes his eyes momentarily, breathing once, in and out, before looking back at you. He takes both your hands in his, turning them palm up just as you did with him. His line of sight shifts away from yours to where his thumbs are pressing into your wrists. “It’s not just one moment for me...and there are some things I haven’t said, things that I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” you’re not sure where this is headed.

“I dreamt about you, a long time before I met you. I used to have this recurring dream when I was in college. It was before I met Jess. I used to dream about a woman, I could never remember the details, just feelings. She made me feel like this; safe and happy. She helped me understand that life could be more than blood and sacrifice. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen...she was you. When I first saw you I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence, that you were just similar. But I don’t think that’s it, I think I saw my future and it was you.”

Sam’s told you about premonitions and latent powers, so this doesn’t come as a complete surprise. You want to speak, due to the whole series of alternating questions and comments racing through your brain, but you remain silent. This is his turn.

“Am I making you reconsider?” Sam’s only half joking, you both know it. You shake your head no and he squeezes your forearms in response. “Do you remember when we were still living at the motel, that night when we drank half the lobby bar? You were mixing Mojitos, which for the record were awful, and I can’t even remember exactly what we were talking about but it was something about Dean and family. You didn’t even look up from what you were doing and you said: ‘Well you’re my family now and you will be, even when we get out of here, so you’re going to have to explain that to Dean because I’m not giving you back.’”

You remember that moment well, you’d been a little drunk and had spoken without thinking. Sure, you meant the words, but at the time, it felt like too vulnerable of a confession.

“I’d told you things about my life that must have sounded crazy and terrifying, but none of it phased you. You saw through all of it and somehow found me. Not Sam the hunter, or the son of John Winchester or the guy who almost ended the world. Under all of that, you found me. I don’t think anyone’s ever known the truth and managed not to let it change how they see me. Not until you. That’s when I knew.” He looks up to you, just to make sure that this is real and you’re not backing out. You lean forward, pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips in confirmation. He clears his throat, picking up your ring and slips it delicately onto your finger.

When he’s finished, you interlace your hands, the rings on each of your respective hands rubbing together. There’s a soft breeze that’s blowing in from the east, swirling rogue hair around your face as the sparse clouds above you part. A tingle, hardly noticeable, begins to climb up your spine. The wind is electric as if it’s carrying with it a thousand different emotions: love, sorrow, joy.

“Something’s happening,” your voice is almost nonexistent, only a fragile whisper. Tears fall from your eyes as feelings bubble up from your gut and spill out in fat tears down your cheek.

“I feel it, too,” Sam’s crying with you as he stands and reaches for your hand. You rise to your feet and, for a split second, time seems to stop. Then, in tandem, every white pom-pom of every dandelion in the field bursts into a million small, white explosions around you. The wind picks up and carries the spinning seedlings into the air.

“What is this?” you mutter in awe.

“I think it’s confirmation,” Sam laughs, pulling you into this arms, “I think this moment, finding each other, it’s why we’re here.”

Three Years, Six Months

Considering the general lack of purpose and abundance of free time, it’s surprising that there are still places in Shadow Hill where neither you nor Sam has ventured. However, The Tattoomb is an aptly named tattoo shop that you honestly can’t remember setting foot in before today. It’s nestled between The Sweet Shop and Cool’s Pharmacy near the end of main street.

The name proves accurate, for as the door shuts, you have a vivid flash of being sealed in a sarcophagus. The tall windows facing the street have been painted over black and you blink as the overhead fluorescent lights flicker to life. A thick layer of dust seems suspended in the air, as the light bulbs hum electric in the background.

“Tell me, just one more time,” Sam urges. He’s squatting, sorting through supplies in one of the lower cupboards.

“Not again,” you whine, dropping onto of the reclining chairs. “I know it like the back of my hand, I swear.”

“Humor me, once more and I’ll stop.” He looks up, hitting you with a full-on serious stare until you concede with a roll of your eyes.

“Fine. If I wake up back in the real world, the first thing I do is call Dean.”

“What’s the number?”

You rattle off the phone number without hesitation. “If I can’t reach him I try the other two numbers, for the angel and the sheriff. If I still can’t reach anyone and I have a way to get there, I go to Kansas where I find the Lebanon Community Library and I wait for you.”

“That’s right. If for some reason none of that works, just wait, I’ll find you.” Sam looks at you thoughtfully. He raises a tattoo gun and gestures for your to take off your shoe.

“And these in case we forget each other,” you squirm, visibly displeased with what is about to transpire.

“We don’t have to do this Y/N,” Sam offers, but neither of you are backing out.

You shake your head, “Let’s say we, one day wake up and have no memory of each other. There’d be nothing tying me to you...and...I can’t stand the thought of that.”

“I know, me neither.” He sighs clutching your thigh, “You ready for this?” He’s used the temporary tattoo stencil to create the outline of your new permanent tattoo. He presses it onto the inside of your foot, near the heel. Wetting it just enough to soak through the thin paper, you both wait.

“No, but when have I ever let that stop me. You do know what you’re doing, right?” You trust Sam, but this is a whole new level of commitment.

“I read the instruction manual, twice. With the outline, it’s like paint by numbers.” He winks at you, flipping his hair back.

“You’re instilling so much confidence in me right now.”

You sit through the process with surprising restraint. The topical anesthetic he applied prior helps, but it still doesn’t completely numb the pain. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long; twenty minutes later, you’re looking down at small black letters reading:

Find Sam Winchester

39.809734, -98.55562

It’s simple and to the point. It took the better part of two days to find the perfect words, just enough information to make sense without turning into Memento. The two of you quibbled over several variations until agreeing on the simple turn of phrase. You’re not entirely thrilled with having the coordinates to an underground bunker permanently inked into your skin, but it’s better than the alternative.

Sam covers your heel with a bandage, “I think this is my cue.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to do it,” you squirm.

“I’ll manage,” he assures you, slipping off his shoe and sock before crossing his left calf over his right knee. From what you can tell, he doesn’t even seem to feel it, unflinching as he etches your first and last name into his skin, followed by the coordinates of your hometown.

“You think that’ll be enough?” you ask, handing him the container of Tattoo Goo.

“I know myself well enough to know that I if I wake up with a girl’s name on my body, I’m gonna want to know why. That’s all I’d need. I’ll find a way to remember and I’ll have help.”

Three Years, Eight Months

It’s a frigid morning, icy wind is whipping at breakneck speeds, howling past the windows. The snow stays late this year, starting as gently falling flakes from above and morphing into a snowstorm that hasn't seemed to stop. But, the blustery outdoors is no concern to you or Sam as he turns the knob and the shower sprays down warm water over both of you. Dipping under the stream, you wet your hair and then give him a turn. There’s a series of slow kisses, just the lazy touch of lips while his nose rubs into yours, his tongue slipping easily into your mouth.

You had a fight the night before, a knockdown, drag out, go-to-bed-angry-fight about a grilled cheese sandwich, of all things. Sam was pushing your buttons, insisting that the burner wasn’t high enough, the bread had too much butter, the cheese was cut too thick. You wanted to slap him.

But, last night seems like a distant memory as he climbs into the shower and slides the door shut.

When he finally pulls away from your mouth, he moves to slip behind you. He washes your hair, massaging as you close your eyes, enjoying the sensation of his strong fingers rubbing your scalp, slow deep circles that send a tingle down your spine. Once he’s done with your hair, he moves on to the rest. He rolls soap between his hands until it lathers, then rubs his sudsy hands over your rib cage and up under each breast. He teases for a moment before giving in and cupping each one, kneading and clutching as you squirm back into his chest.

The water washes the soap away, but his hands don’t leave. Instead, fingers tug at your nipples as he lowers his mouth to the back of your neck, kissing and sucking as he pulls harder at your tits. You whine as he twists your nipples, applying just the right amount of pressure to awaken other parts of your body. Sam’s become an expert at all the places that get you going; he’s spent countless hours experimenting with touches- gentle here, harder there.

One hand stays on your breast while the other trails down your stomach. His hand spreads wide as it sweeps over your belly and then further. Large fingers sweep over your mound as the pad of his index finger finds your clit, and with expert precision, begins slow measured circles as you whimper.

“You like that?” Sam grins at the sound you make, nipping under your ear.

“Yessss..” you hiss, letting your head fall back onto his chest. As his mouth latches onto the skin of your neck, his hands don’t stop the well-rehearsed movements. His finger moving firm and steady over the little bundle of nerves at the apex of your legs controls your whole body. The insistent rhythm of his hand between your legs and tugging on your nipples work in conjunction as your pussy begins to betray you, slick sliding down your thighs where the water washes it away.

You grind back into his embrace, his cock firmly pressing against your butt cheek. He ruts forward as you push back, relieving pressure, but not enough.

“I’m gonna come, baby,” you moan as your legs start to grow weak. Sam wraps his arm around your torso, holding you up. The hand between your legs hooks under as two of his long fingers push inside your cunt, his thumb goes right back to your clit. He knows you don’t like to come without something inside you. He knows you hate that feeling of your pussy clutching at nothing. You reach back and above you, running your hand up his neck and knotting a fist of his hair.

“God, you’re wet this morning, this all for me?” he sucks your earlobe into his mouth as his thumb grazes your sweet spot and your orgasm rips through your body.

“Sam!” you call his name when you come, twitching in his grasp as your eyes roll back into your head. His thumb stills, but his fingers don’t budge, still shoved knuckle deep inside where you’re tight, clenching in frantic, repeating pulses.

When he does pull his fingers from you, it’s only to turn you toward the shower door. Still behind you, he takes each of your hands, one at a time, placing them on the glass of the door. You bow forward, breasts pressing into the cold glass. Back arched, ass out, Sam saddles up to your backside, one hand on your waist, the other guiding the head of his cock between your legs. You feel him, sliding over your slit and then pushing inside, one smooth push until his balls smash against your sex, leaving you unbelievably full. From this angle, he can push deeper than normal, reaching a place inside that makes your entire body quiver, shaking like jello from a mold.

“Sam, I can’t,” in lieu of finishing your sentence you make a desperate sound, one hand fisting as it pounds the door as he pulls out and shoves back in fast, begins a steady rhythm.

“I’ve got you,” he grunts, both hands on your hips, supporting your weight. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m not gonna last long like this.”

One of his hands snakes around your hips, pressing your stomach where there’s a faint swell in your belly with each thrust, his cock making your stomach bulge as he fucks you from behind.

“So deep,” you pant, pressing the side of your face into the glass, searching for some kind of stability. Sam moves his finger down, searching for your clit, but instead, you bat his hand away, the angle is just right, making you see stars with every stroke of his manhood, “I can come just like this.”

“Shit,” Sam grits as he almost shoots his load right then. The idea of you coming from just his cock makes his balls tight. You raise up a little, mustering every last ounce of energy you have standing on your tiptoes and suddenly the angle goes from just right to sweet-mother-fuck. He slides home once, twice, and that’s all she wrote.

If it weren’t for Sam’s support, you’d be on the ground, instead of suspended mid-air as he pushes inside again and again. It doesn’t take long before he’s coming, too, with a grunt and a stutter of his hips, spilling inside you.

Afterwards he holds you, wraps his arms tighter until you feel his thumping heart pressed into your shoulder blade. There are more of those lazy kisses accompanied by gentle touches as he washes your skin for a second time.

Three Years, Eleven Months, One Week

You stand next to Sam at your dining room table, the surface littered with dry herbs, open books, and at the center, a brass bowl. He’s grinding lavender while you read over the list of ingredients. This spell has been a long time coming, Sam stored it away on a whim when he first came across it four years ago, and he assumed you’d never be able to collect everything needed to make it work, but things are different now.

You’ve grown most of the herbs, collecting others from the forest, which is how you found the missing piece of the puzzle, the Olivine gemstone. The smokey green rock was nestled among the larger chunks of stone and granite near the north end of the town. He could hardly believe it when you pulled it from your pocket three days ago.

He sets down the mortar and pestle, spilling the mix of pummeled herbs into the center of the bowl, where it joins a complicated mix of gems and crystals. You check off the list as he adds each one.

“So, we still need the beak of a raven,” you curl a lip in disdain.

“Got it.” Sam’s holding the tiny piece of bone between his fingers, “he died for a good cause.”

You nod, grateful Sam’s willing to do all the dirty work. “That’s it, I mean except for the next part.”

The blood of true love. Apparently old world magic doesn’t work without hemoglobin. He takes your hand in his, “Sorry,” he winces, using the tip of his blade to cut the flesh of your palm. Wet and warm, the blood pours from the wound and Sam moves it over the bowl, squeezing until he’s satisfied it’s enough. He picks up a cloth from the table, wrapping it several times around your palm, the dark stain seeping through. “My turn.”

Now, it’s time for you to get your hands dirty. The spell was explicit in its instruction; the blood has to be drawn by the lover. Taking the knife from him, you draw in a sharp breath, it’s now or never. Pressing down, you drag the blade, the feeling of his skin splitting makes your stomach turn. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but he remains stoic for your benefit.

“That’s good, you did it,” he praises, taking the knife from you and holds his hand over the bowl, offering his half of the sacrifice. Wiping his hand on his jeans, he looks down at the leather-bound book. Next, he pulls out his wallet, removes a photo of him and Dean when they were kids. It’s as old as it looks, tattered around the edges. He’s about to burn the last thing in his possession tying him to the outside world. He scribbles a message on the back:

Dean,

Shadow Hill. Trapped. Two of us. I’m alive.

Sam

“I think that’s it.” He’s trying something new with this spell. No summoning or teleportation, he’s simply going to communicate, attempting to open a window through the fabric of space and time to push a message through.

Picking up the box of matches, he strikes one on the side of the box. His eyes dance from the flame to you as he drops it into the bowl. There’s a spark, a flash of light, then multicolored smoke twisting upward. There’s deafening silence, a stillness as you both stare at the dissipating smoke.

Then, chaos.

The walls of the house violently shake, as if the earth below is moving the very foundation. There’s a horrifying sound reverberating all around you, painfully loud like the scream of a thousand trumpets.

“Sam,” you reach for him but he’s already moving. Both hands on your arms, pushing you in front of him.

“We gotta get out of the house.” The sliding door that leads to the back deck shatters like it’s been hit with a missile, glass, and wood exploding in all directions. You feel it hit your face, but continue moving as Sam tries to cover your body with his. He guides you through the now empty doorway and down the trembling stairs of the deck.

Your feet hit the grass and you fall to your knees, the very earth undulating in savage tremors. Sam scoops his hands under your armpits and lifts you back up, dragging you away from the house and into the middle of the backyard where you both collapse. You watch in terror as the entire neighborhood shakes and rattles, akin to the feeling of teeth clanking together in your mouth.

There’s a sound like the tearing of fabric, only at a brutal volume that makes you both cover your ears. Above the house, a hundred feet in the air, a sliver of white light begins to appear. It begins to expand, the chorus of sounds reaching a potent crescendo as shiny beams stream out in all directions like a star exploding in the daytime sky.

Just when you think your eardrums will pop, the shimmering tear begins to collapse in on itself, sucking in sound and life like the cousin of a black hole folding inwards until there’s nothing left.

With a bright flash, it’s gone just as quick as it came.

The two of you sit side by side, stunned as the world returns to normal.

“I think it worked,” Sam whispers looking to you. His optimism is tempered as he gets a view of your face, “Jesus, baby, you’re bleeding.”

“What? Where?” you don’t feel pain with the adrenaline still pumping, your heart still thumping wildly in your chest.

“Your head,” he reaches up and wipes his finger across your hairline. Tiny shards of glass still lodged in your skin catch under the pads of his fingers.

“Oh,” bewildered you bring a hand to your face to check, but it’s the wide splotch of blood on your palm that steals the attention. You turn your hand over, staring, but unable to make sense of it.

“Where is that from?” There’s a catch in his voice, an octave higher than normal as he grabs your wrist for inspection.

“I don’t know,” simultaneously you both took down, Sam gasping in horror at the jagged piece of wood protruding from the right side of your stomach. You wrap a hand around it, moving in slow motion because there’s a buzzing in your brain that’s muting everything else. You look up to him, offering casually, “I think I got hurt.”

“Fuck,” he bats your hand away, “don’t pull on it okay? It could make it worse.” You’re conflicted as to what is more troubling, the sight of your impaled stomach or the expression of sheer terror on his face.

Nodding agreeably you lay back. He lifts your shirt up, exposing the wound, and hisses when he gets the first look. The Sam that remains calm, cool and collected is not the man hovering over you. Instead, he’s panicking. “It doesn’t hurt, it just feels warm….although, I do feel kinda funny.”

The edges of your vision blur as a tingling sensation spreads outward from the gash, snaking through extremities until it reaches your fingertips. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, much like your foot falling asleep, except this is everywhere.

What you can’t see, is the amount blood that’s pouring from your belly, staining the green grass, and soaking through the denim of Sam’s jeans where he’s kneeling beside you. One moment you’re looking at him and the next, your eyes are rolling back into your head, lids fluttering shut.

“Nononono,” he shakes your shoulders but you remain limp. “Come on, please don’t let this be happening. I don’t know what to do, baby.” He cries, blinking back tears.

Sitting back on his haunches, he takes a deep breath, separating action from emotion. He does know what to do, he’s been through his before, countless times with Dean and others. He makes a decision, taking you into his arms and jogging around the house and through the side door leading to the garage. Inside, there’s an old Toyota 4Runner he fixed up last year. He places you in the passenger seat, but the maneuver twists the wood stuck in your gut, pain jolting you awake with a scream.

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be alright,” Sam places a shaky hand momentarily at the side of your face before closing your door and running to the driver’s side. Laid over the seat, you lean against his shoulder as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the road.

“I don’t have what I need here,” Sam assures you.

“Where are we….” you choke out, clutching the open wound as you slip back into the dark.

“The hospital,” Sam mutters.

He pulls the car up to the emergency entrance, throwing the car into park with a jerk. He plucks you from the vehicle and scurries through the wide, automatic sliding doors then down the hallway of the abandoned Shadow Hill Community Hospital.

He knows the layout because when you first arrived, you searched this hospital from top to bottom. It’s just like everything else here, it resets every night, which means there are fresh medications and sterile instruments every morning.

Backing through the swinging doors of operating room one, Sam places you carefully on the gurney, then he goes to work. Flipping every switch on the wall, the fluorescent lights flicker to life while he pulls open drawers, collecting everything he can: forceps, clamps, needles, adhesive tape.

Next, he moves to the small locked cabinet, breaking the glass to get inside. He reads each vial until he finds the lidocaine. Moving back to the table, he presses two fingers to the pulse point at your neck where he can feel a faint pulse. He fills a syringe and tries to numb the area around the wound as best he can.

And then, he does the most difficult thing he’s ever done in his entire life. He tries to save yours.

You hear the gentle blip of a heart monitor before anything else. It takes every ounce of strength you can muster up just to blink and once you do, you wish you hadn’t. Your eyeballs feel like sandpaper, as does your mouth.

Turning your head, you’re greeted with the sight of Sam. He’s asleep on the adjacent hospital bed, mouth hanging open and belly down. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue scrubs, instead of jeans. His normal five o’clock shadow is thicker than normal making you wonder exactly how long you’ve been asleep.

“Sam,” you call, your voice little more than a scratchy whisper. He doesn’t budge.

Like an ancient computer coming online, sections of your body are waking up, one after the other. You wiggle toes, then fingers, just testing the basics. It’s when you try to sit up that every nerve lights up, pain so great that it’s hard to get a handle on. Your breathing is labored and placing a hand on your chest, you wince, pulling down the neckline to reveal twin burn marks above each breast.

“What the hell,” you murmur, touching one of the blisters carefully. The realization dawns on you, these are the residual imprints from a defibrillator; your heart must have stopped.

“Sorry about those, I had the voltage up too high. In my defense, the lower settings weren’t getting the job done,” Sam’s voice is thick from sleep as he sits up, sliding from the bed and into the chair next you. He looks somewhere between relief and exhaustion. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“It’s good to be here,” you counter, then cough. The pain in your stomach surges as the muscles contract and you howl.

His brow furrows in concern as he takes a cup from the bedside table and holds it up to your lips. “Drink something.”

You swallow, then sputter, before shooing him away. Even swallowing hurts. “It was bad?”

“It still is bad,” Sam’s mouth twists, his eyes flicking down the floor and back up to you. He reaches out, taking your hand and squeezing. “For a while, I didn’t know if you were gonna survive, then I didn’t know if you’d wake up. I stitched you up as best as I could, but you’re gonna have one hell of a scar, it’s not pretty.”

“You have more than your fair share, so, now we match.” Offering a weak smile you watch him watch you. “How long was I out?”

“Four days.” He’s trying to stay positive, but the look in his eyes is telling a different story.

“What’s wrong?”

He releases your hand, rubbing his palms on his knees, “It’s infected. You were running a fever until this morning.”

“That’s good, right? That the fever’s gone?”

“Yeah, I just...I didn’t know what I was doing Y/N. I was just trying to stop the bleeding…” he stops himself from telling you what he’s really thinking: that you could have internal damage, slowly killing you from the inside and there’s no way to know.

He doesn’t tell you that when your heart stopped and the screech of the flat line filled the room, he screamed along with it. He came this close to losing you. He doesn’t tell you that he stayed awake for two days, crying next to your bed and begging that someone would hear him. He tried bargaining with whatever silent force was watching over this place, pleading for the God he knows exists to intervene and save you.

But, there was no relief. Nothing. The two of you are nothing more than a forgotten experiment left to self destruct.

It was all on him.

Recovery is slow. You wonder if you’ll ever fully heal because the pain is an ever-present companion, haunting every move from morning until night. You struggle to sit up, then stand, then walk. It’s three weeks before Sam allows you to go home, still protesting as he drives you the four minutes from the hospital to your house. After that, it’s long days in bed, reading and eating meals brought to you on a tray until you think you’re going burst from the boredom of it all. But, you don’t complain, you just grin and bear it.

Yes, healing is a long and involved process for you both. For Sam, it’s the brutal realization that there is no safety net. It’s a simple fact he knew before but now he feels it, the desperation sinks in, right down to his bones. This place might repair itself every night, but that same magic doesn't work on flesh and bone. There’s no one to fall back on, no one to reach out to. The love he feels for you should make him happy, but it’s tempered with a sense of dread because eventually there will come a situation he can’t fix.

It’s only a matter of time.

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#East of nowhere #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfic #series

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thatswholelotofsodiumchlori-blog · 6 years

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Happy Hallothankmas!

I was sitting in my room, skyping my friend as I fell asleep and my computer died. I had also been binge watching my favorite show on the TV, which had Netflix already on it. The show was in the horror genre, but it wasn’t really that scary, but it did have some blood and gore that was a little disturbing. I wake up suddenly, not knowing what woke me up, at around 2 o’clock in the morning. I hear a creaking in the floor and a sudden shadow flies passed me. All the sudden it starts to fly towards me. I start to run thinking it’s something from my favourite show and I was just having a nightmare, but could you really feel your lungs burning while dreaming, unless something sat on top of you? Then I close my eyes, waiting for the impact, for I could not keep running and gave up. I opened my eyes thinking it had been to long for the spirit not to hit me, and the little silhouette of a man stood there staring at me, but it had not face, as if it was just a shadow. It finally spoke, but all I heard was mumbling along the lines of, “I’m new at this job,” and the silhouette grabbed my arm and a flash of buildings flashed by and then a country side, the a city again, it kept changing until finally it stopped. The suddenness of this stop made me feel like I was in a car going at the top speed, and the driver slamming on the breaks, but instead of a seat belt being there to hold me back there was just air, so I fall down on the cold, hard, snow, and ice covered ground. I knew there were “Ugglor i lera,” or as my friend would say “Owls in the mud.” Everything felt off, it was like nobody could see me as me and the shadow walked down the sidewalk. It didn’t even feel colder than my house was during the night when my mother turned of the heat in the middle of a winter night out in the country where we moved after she meet her new husband when I was a child.

Where we were felt so familiar, like I had lived in this area before. It was snowing, and we were in a city surrounded by people, skyscrapers,stores,parks, and street lamps that were about six feet tall, had a warm, and yellow glow, from the frames covered in extravagant swirls that are almost as black as the silhouette. They looked beautiful in the snow, and made the setting almost like a black and white photo, if the people and the lights had all gone away, it would be a true black and white photo except right there in your face, as if you were the camera, processing the surrounding area capturing the moment that will never happen again in a flash. I turned to the silhouette and asked why we were here after gaining the strength to stand up without feeling sick. The silhouette tried to speak but it couldn’t so it simply grabbed my hand again, but this time we just walked towards a park full hills and children being pushed down the hills on their sleds and pulled back up by their parents. These people looked like they were enjoying the snow instead of hiding away in their houses on a Christmas like I was earlier before I was brought here. I had grown away from my family, but our Christmas Eves used to be like this, a family enjoying the snow, staying outside until it was dark outside and our noses were pink. It seems that we are heading towards a family off in the distance away from everyone else on the tallest hill, around one of the city fire pits. As we get closer i begin to recognize the family. My mother stands with my aunt, while my dad, grandpa, and uncle, push and pull me and my cousin up the hill when we were five or six years old. I realize that me and the silhouette are no longer in the present, or watching a home video that my grandmother recorded. We are in the past, nobody can see or hear us, a man and his wife even walked through me and the silhouette, like we were ghosts. A chill ran through my body as they both passed through us, but by the time the fifth person walked through us i was getting used to the sensation, and it was almost like it wasn't there anymore. It felt like days, that we were watching my past family, but suddenly again we started to move quickly again.

The scenery moved slower this time but it was still fast. When we stopped, we were in a ballroom filled with young people in sparkling dresses and dark colored tuxedos and few white ones. The youngest seemed to be around 12 years old and the oldest looked around their late 20s. The ballroom was decorated with gold, red and green decorations, and they weren’t the cheap ones either. You could tell that they put time and effort into decorating this room. There were huge wreaths hanging over the door ways that glowed with Christmas lights and and glowing light bulbs were stringed across the ceiling and around the perimeter or the room. I could spot myself in the distance, I would never forget this night. I was 13 and me and my teammates got invited to a cheerleader Christmas ball. We all had fun and this was the only way I could escape my family at the time. My mother and father started to separate and my grandmother took care of me. The moment I saw the dress I was wearing that night in the store I knew it was perfect. It was all I got for Christmas that year, but I didn’t care. That dress was the most important thing to me. I loved how it was long and puffed out a little, the top was strapless and was covered in rhinestones and the farter down the dress went the more they spread out. Every move i made it sparkled, I felt beautiful, and like a princess who had just been crowned queen after many years of waiting. My hair was braided in a way it went around my whole head and here were little jewels in my then, light brown hair that matched the rhinestones on my dress. My makeup matched the white color of the dress, and also sparkled around my bright green eyes. This time when me and the silhouette watched me and my friends dance it only felt like minutes. I did not want this moment to end but it did when the silhouette let go of my hand, and everything vanished, and I was back in my living room with my eyes closed waiting for the impact, but the silhouette was gone.

I was very skeptical about what was going to happen after the trip to my past, so I walked around my house, turning every light on, for I lived by myself with my cat, waiting for something to appear. I looked everywhere in my house and yet I found nothing, not a soul, it was just me and my cat. I walked back to my room turned the lights out and that's when I noticed a glowing outside of my tiny house, in the tree line that separated me and my neighbors. I begin to think about how much has changed from where I lived from when I was a young girl. I do miss the city, but living there is too expensive and if I lost my job, because the city is so far from there, I would barely be able to afford the house I’m in now. I begin to see the shape of the glowing thing in my yard, and when I get right up to it, I see that it is a flower. It is the most beautiful flower I had ever seen. It was a bright fiery orange, it glowed so bright, it had deep red spots freckled along the petals, there was yellow stripes going down the stem, leaves, and petals, the glow of the orange, red, yellow, and green was like seeing a dancer perform in the dark with a spotlight on her and her only while everybody watched. I grabbed my sleeping bag and tent, and spent the night outside by the flower.

I get woken up again by a rustling noise in the trees. I step outside my tent and see that the flower is gone and there is a faint glow in the pine tree. I climb up the pine tree o see if the wind tore the flower out of the ground and flew up into the tree, but when I get close to the glowing, I see there is no flower but a girl who almost resembles it. She looks to be around 10 years old, and I start yelling for her to come down with me so I can talk to her. She jumps and I scream not knowing that she would float down like the wisps of a dandelion. When we both are on the ground I can see her better. She has a soft golden glow around her, her hair is colored like the orange of the flower. Her eyes are a light green that have gold specks in them, and her face is covered in red freckles. Upon her head is a flower crown made of the flowers like the one I found, glowing brighter than the girl. Her dress is a bright white, like how angels would wear up in the heavens above. It was so pure and it fit her loosely, and reached slightly passed her knees. She wore no shoes, she looked as if she belonged in the forest, with nature, and took care of it. The girl spoke to me. All she said was a simple little, “Come,” and nothing else. She reached out her hand waiting for me to grab it, I was hesitant until her voice, which was so sweet, like honey, spoke the word again.

“Come,” she said, “come with me to see today’s Christmas, I can help you reconnect with the spirit of Christmas and Joy,” I grabbed her hand not knowing what her words meant. Instead of flying through towns and cities we floated through the air to where my mother lived. Many cars were outside her house including my grandmother’s and father’s. We stepped inside the house, I look over to the girl and she looked like she aged about five years in the short period of time it took to get to my mother’s house in the midday. Her face was less bubbly and more mature and stern, she looked even more beautiful and her eyes were more golden. Her dress fit like how mine from the ball looked except more simple. The crown stayed the same, but the glow dimmed slightly. After I’m done looking at the girl i see my family gathered around in a circle, getting ready to exchange gifts and play games. Ater all of the gift exchanging is done, they all get up and start to play a game where there are 3 boxes and each one has someone in it. They person standing up is blindfolded and cannot look behind them until they count to 30. If they guess right the get a bag of chocolate. I remember playing this game before i became disconnected from my family. I start to cry wishing I was with them right now and wishing they could see me. They girl then takes my outside, and we begin to float back to my house, and she lays me down I the tent as I sob. She begins to age rapidly and her hair goes from orange to white, and as she says,”My job is done,” she turns to flames and the flower is there again but this time it doesn’t glow and the colors are dull.

I get back up and get in my bed hoping this long night is over. It feels like it's been days, but the time only has changed once during the present, and yet it still feels like Christmas Eve. I sit and wait for the next ghost, spirit, shadow or whatever to come. It’s been hours and I’ve fallen back to sleep. I don’t wake up but in my dream I start to walk through a white plain towards a cemetary. This time everyone I know is around a grave in the plain. I start to run towards my family and I see that my mother, father, grandmother, and cousin aren’t there. I start to panic, until I see all of them except my grandmother. I walk through my family to get to the grave. I’m struck with horror as I see my grandmother’s name written across the head stone. It doesn’t feel right. I saw her when I was with the girl. I think about where I am. Is this just a dream? Will I really never see my grandmother again before she dies? I start to panic again. This time i feel worse and worse and worse! My heart races and the beating gets louder until, everything just stops.

I wake up, my laptop on my lap and my TV on with the show still going. I check my phone before i do anything else. It says across it 8:35 am, December 25 2028. I begin to feel relief from everything that happened last night, the silhouette, the girl and the dream. I start to get dressed and eat breakfast. I feed my cat and head out the door. I stop at a dollar store and get some cheesy cards for my family, and start to head towards my mother’s house. When I enter the house everybody greets me and wishes me a merry Christmas. We all get in a circle after dinner, exchange our presents, and play games. I will never miss a Christmas ever again.

#shortstory story earlychristmas inspired chralesdickens

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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4 For a few moments, Peeta and I take in the scene of our mentor trying to rise out of the slippery vile stuff from his stomach. The reek of vomit and raw spirits almost brings my dinner up. We exchange a glance. Obviously Haymitch isn't much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. As if by some unspoken agreement, Peeta and I each take one of Haymitch's arms and help him to his feet. "I tripped?" Haymitch asks. "Smells bad." He wipes his hand on his nose, smearing his face with vomit. "Let's get you back to your room," says Peeta. "Clean you up a bit." We half-lead half-carry Haymitch back to his compartment. Since we can't exactly set him down on the embroidered bedspread, we haul him into the bathtub and turn the shower on him. He hardly notices. "It's okay," Peeta says to me. "I'll take it from here." I can't help feeling a little grateful since the last thing I want to do is strip down Haymitch, wash the vomit out of his chest hair, and tuck him into bed. Possibly Peeta is trying to make a good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games begin. But judging by the state he's in, Haymitch will have no memory of this tomorrow. "All right," I say. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." There's any number on the train. Cooking for us. Waiting on us. Guarding us. Taking care of us is their job. "No. I don't want them," says Peeta. I nod and head to my own room. I understand how Peeta feels. I can't stand the sight of the Capitol people myself. But making them deal with Haymitch might be a small form of revenge. So I'm pondering the reason why he insists on taking care of Haymitch and all of a sudden I think, It's because he's being kind. Just as he was kind to give me the bread. The idea pulls me up short. A kind Peeta Mellark is far more dangerous to me than an unkind one. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. And I can't let Peeta do this. Not where we're going. So I decide, from this moment on, to have as little as possible to do with the baker's son. When I get back to my room, the train is pausing at a platform to refuel. I quickly open the window, toss the cookies Peeta's father gave me out of the train, and slam the glass shut. No more. No more of either of them. Unfortunately, the packet of cookies hits the ground and bursts open in a patch of dandelions by the track. I only see the image for a moment, because the train is off again, but it's enough. Enough to remind me of that other dandelion in the school yard years ago. I had just turned away from Peeta Mellark's bruised face when I saw the dandelion and I knew hope wasn't lost. I plucked it carefully and hurried home. I grabbed a bucket and Prim's hand and headed to the Meadow and yes, it was dotted with the golden-headed weeds. After we'd harvested those, we scrounged along inside the fence for probably a mile until we'd filled the bucket with the dandelion greens, stems, and flowers. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad and the rest of the bakery bread. "What else?" Prim asked me. "What other food can we find?" "All kinds of things," I promised her. "I just have to remember them." My mother had a book she'd brought with her from the apothecary shop. The pages were made of old parchment and covered in ink drawings of plants. Neat handwritten blocks told their names, where to gather them, when they came in bloom, their medical uses. But my father added other entries to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, pines. Prim and I spent the rest of the night poring over those pages. The next day, we were off school. For a while I hung around the edges of the Meadow, but finally I worked up the courage to go under the fence. It was the first time I'd been there alone, without my father's weapons to protect me. But I retrieved the small bow and arrows he'd made me from a hollow tree. I probably didn't go more than twenty yards into the woods that day. Most of the time, I perched up in the branches of an old oak, hoping for game to come by. After several hours, I had the good luck to kill a rabbit. I'd shot a few rabbits before, with my father's guidance. But this I'd done on my own. We hadn't had meat in months. The sight of the rabbit seemed to stir something in my mother. She roused herself, skinned the carcass, and made a stew with the meat and some more greens Prim had gathered. Then she acted confused and went back to bed, but when the stew was done, we made her eat a bowl. The woods became our savior, and each day I went a bit farther into its arms. It was slow-going at first, but I was determined to feed us. I stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath my feet. Plants are tricky. Many are edible, but one false mouthful and you're dead. I checked and double-checked the plants I harvested with my father's pictures. I kept us alive. Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first. Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got bored and moved on. Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of our district. On May 8th, I went to the Justice Building, signed up for my tesserae, and pulled home my first batch of grain and oil in Prim's toy wagon. On the eighth of every month, I was entitled to do the same. I couldn't stop hunting and gathering, of course. The grain was not enough to live on, and there were other things to buy, soap and milk and thread. What we didn't absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Hob. It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me. Game was game after all, no matter who'd shot it. I also sold at the back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remember what my father had told me and learning a few new tricks as well. The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels. The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his wife wasn't around. The Head Peacekeeper loved wild turkey. The mayor had a passion for strawberries. In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed the plants growing around me. Tall with leaves like arrowheads. Blossoms with three white petals. I knelt down in the water, my fingers digging into the soft mud, and I pulled up handfuls of the roots. Small, bluish tubers that don't look like much but boiled or baked are as good as any potato. "Katniss," I said aloud. It's the plant I was named for. And I heard my father's voice joking, "As long as you can find yourself, you'll never starve." I spent hours stirring up the pond bed with my toes and a stick, gathering the tubers that floated to the top. That night, we feasted on fish and katniss roots until we were all, for the first time in months, full. Slowly, my mother returned to us. She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter. People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies. One day, I heard her singing. Prim was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching, waiting for her to disappear on us again. I didn't trust her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness, for her neglect, for the months she had put us through. Prim forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing was ever the same between us again. Now I was going to die without that ever being set right. I thought of how I had yelled at her today in the Justice Building. I had told her I loved her, too, though. So maybe it would all balance out. For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another district. 7? 10? I don't know. I think about the people in their houses, settling in for bed. I imagine my home, with its shutters drawn tight. What are they doing now, my mother and Prim? Were they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lay untouched on their plates? Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears. Is my mother holding up, being strong for Prim? Or has she already started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my sister's fragile shoulders? Prim will undoubtedly sleep with my mother tonight. The thought of that scruffy old Buttercup posting himself on the bed to watch over Prim comforts me. If she cries, he will nose his way into her arms and curl up there until she calms down and falls asleep. I'm so glad I didn't drown him. Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This day has been endless. Could Gale and I have been eating blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago. Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in District 12, where I belong. Probably the drawers hold any number of nightgowns, but I just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed in my underwear. The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. A thick fluffy comforter gives immediate warmth. If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face. But no tears come. I'm too tired or too numb to cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion. Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea. I put the green outfit back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold mockingjay and I think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and Prim waking up, having to get on with things. I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping and it doesn't look too bad, so I just leave it up. It doesn't matter. We can't be far from the Capitol now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the last word in fashion. As I enter the dining car, Effie Trinket brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering obscenities under her breath. Haymitch, his face puffy and red from the previous day's indulgences, is chuckling. Peeta holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed. "Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch, waving me over. The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice. I've only even tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my father bought one as a special treat. A cup of coffee. My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I've never seen. "They call it hot chocolate," says Peeta. "It's good." I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I've drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I'll never see food again. And I said, "I won't unless I bring it home." That shut her up. When my stomach feels like it's about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions. Peeta is still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate. Haymitch hasn't paid much attention to his platter, but he's knocking back a glass of red juice that he keeps thinning with a clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it's some kind of spirit. I don't know Haymitch, but I've seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor. He'll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol. I realize I detest Haymitch. No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance. It isn't just that we've been underfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors and he's a big part of the reason why. The rich people who back tributes - either because they're betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner - expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with. "So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say to Haymitch. "Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Haymitch, and then bursts out laughing. I exchange a look with Peeta before I remember I'm having nothing more to do with him. I'm surprised to see the hardness in his eyes. He generally seems so mild. "That's very funny," says Peeta. Suddenly he lashes out at the glass in Haymitch's hand. It shatters on the floor, sending the bloodred liquid running toward the back of the train. "Only not to us." Haymitch considers this a moment, then punches Peeta in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers. I brace myself to deflect his hit, but it doesn't come. Instead he sits back and squints at us. "Well, what's this?" says Haymitch. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" Peeta rises from the floor and scoops up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen. He starts to raise it to the red mark on his jaw. "No," says Haymitch, stopping him. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena." "That's against the rules," says Peeta. "Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," says Haymitch. He turns to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" The bow and arrow is my weapon. But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well. Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it. I realize that if I want Haymitch's attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am. "Stand over here. Both of you," says Haymitch, nodding to the middle of the room. We obey and he circles us, prodding us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough." Peeta and I don't question this. The Hunger Games aren't a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors. "All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Haymitch. "But you have to do exactly what I say." It's not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all. "Fine," says Peeta. "So help us," I say. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone - " "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Haymitch. "But - " I begin. "No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark. There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as if night has fallen again. I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels. This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today. Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces. Peeta Mellark and I stand in silence as the train speeds along. The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness. The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment. We can't help it. Both Peeta and I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. The cameras haven't lied about its grandeur. If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in District 12. The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch us die. But Peeta holds his ground, actually waving and smiling at the gawking crowd. He only stops when the train pulls into the station, blocking us from their view. He sees me staring at him and shrugs. "Who knows?" he says. "One of them may be rich." I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim. did Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd. All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has a plan forming. He hasn't accepted his death. He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.

#HungerGames

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