duckondebut (duckondebut) wrote,

the samelia project

i don't know, man, i read something, and i wrote something.


(set pre-8.08)


Amelia’s filling out a form for more surgical supplies, and she’s trying to figure out if it’s more Vicryl they require or Prolene, but really, what she’s doing is waiting for a phone call. She has half an eye on the cellphone on her desk, and when (finally) it starts vibrating, she tosses the paperwork aside and answers. “Sam?”

“Amelia, hey. I hope I’m not—I mean, I just wanted to know. Uh. How you’re doing.”

She twirls her pen around in her fingers. “I thought this was an emergency, Sam.”

“No? I just wanted to—”

“I know that your work allows you to call me whenever you damn feel like it, but I have an actual job here.” She idly traces S - A - M with the back of her pen on the form. “So if you think I’m just sitting here all day long, waiting for you to call me to just ask how I am, then you are so mistaken.”

“Okay,” he says, and his voice is stronger, sharper. She smiles. “I won’t call anymore then. You get back to your work; I have a job.”

“Bye,” she says.

Bye,” he says back, a little forcefully, a little tightly, then ends the call.

“Y’know,” comes a dry voice from the door to her office, “for someone too busy to take calls, that’s the fifth time this morning that you two have had the exact same conversation.”

“Oh, shut up, Rhonda.” Amelia smiles, picks up the form, and circles ‘Vicryl’ in red.


(future!fic, possibly set beyond s10; however, contains no spoilers/official spec beyond what has actually aired.)


“I’m going to make coffee,” Amelia announces.

Carlos grunts from where he’s slumped over the Bunker’s kitchen table, still reeking of last night’s tequila. Sam comes striding in, nearly skids on the floor that she’s just cleared of spilt Kelpie blood (“twenty cents a bottle, don’t worry about it,” Carlos had told her when she’d stood, horrified, over the bright green puddle), and says, “Wait!”

Amelia puts her hands up and steps away from the coffeemaker.

Sam squints at it, puts his hands on either side and says, “You are free to come forth—you are free to speak!”

There’s a long, long moment of silence, then Amelia says, “Okay. Definitely no more late-night drinking from here on out.”

Sam grins at her. “The coffeemaker here has a, uh, bit of a history with ghost possession. More than once. You gotta make sure it’s clean, or you end up brewing ectoplasm. Nasty stuff, right, Carlos?”

Carlos grunts.

Amelia throws her hands up. “I don’t care if I have to add salt to the damn thing, I’m going to definitely need more coffee before more of you hunters show up for yet another of your meetings.”

Sam smiles, leans forward, and ghosts his lips over the shell of her ear. “We could take the day off,” he says. “Just you and me.”

“Don’t even think about it,” comes Carlos’ muffled voice.

Amelia laughs. “Maybe this weekend,” she says, stands on her toes, and kisses Sam.

“There’s a fair rolling into town on Sunday,” the coffeemaker supplies helpfully.


(set early s8)


There are days when even the smallest thing Sam does sets her off—he may be listening to Don’s (second-favourite, only if it’s Sunday and there’s a game on) song, or eating breakfast like he used to (for goddsake, don’t drown ‘em in syrup!), or even frowning (you’re asking way too many questions, Amelia). Those are the days she both hates him and loves him with every fibre of her being, and she says words she isn’t sure she should regret, but words that Sam forgives, anyway.

There are nights when Sam’s curled in bed next to her, eyes closed and brow scrunched in some kind of terrible, unimaginable pain, and he flinches at her very touch. There are nights when he cries and she pretends that she doesn’t see, but she never leaves. She presses her lips to every tense, trembling muscle that she can reach, and lets silence and the morning sun take care of everything else.

There are evenings when they sit, hand in hand, the past a blur and the future a blank page, and Sam kisses the nape of her neck and gently bites her earlobe and Amelia’s toes curl and the clock stops for one glorious moment.

Then Don calls, and Sam leaves, and there are no more days, or nights, or timeless evenings. There is no more silence—only a strange kind of love, and an even stranger kind of shame.

She whispers, “Sam,” against Don’s lips, but Don doesn’t mind.


(set just pre-8.08)


Amelia’s already left for work when Sam wakes up. No wonder: it’s eleven AM, and Sam doesn’t usually sleep in this late. He’s the one brewing coffee and cooking breakfast even before Amelia’s crawled out of bed, and if the faint whiff of burnt eggs is anything to go by, she didn’t even try to wake him up today. She probably thinks it’s a good thing (you never sleep enough, and it’s freaking me out, she’ll say), but Sam’s aching all over and exhaustion drips off him like treacle.

After a whole ten minutes of debating the merits of sleeping the rest of the day versus getting his creaking joints moving, Sam finally levers himself out of bed. Fifteen minutes later, he’s sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and the Classifieds open in front of him, but his eyes are burning and the words are trailing down the page like melting wax.

He gives a token attempt at choking down some coffee, pukes it all up moments later, then crawls back into bed, shivering, a headache pulsing behind his eyes.

He must’ve slept again, because the next thing he knows, somebody’s brushing his sweaty hair out of his face, there’s a blanket tucked snugly around his shoulders, and it isn’t quite so cold anymore. He opens his eyes to see a hazy Amelia bending over him, sunlight filtering through her curls.

“You’re an idiot,” she informs him.

Sam smiles. “Love you too,” he rasps.

She seems a little startled—tucks her head, smiles, maybe a little shyly—then reaches to help him sit up. When he’s settled against the pillows, she hands him pills and a glass of water. “Keep these down,” she says, “and we’ll consider skipping the clinic visit.”

“’M not a dog,” he mumbles without quite knowing why, but swallows the pills obediently.

“Aw, damn,” Amelia says. “And here I was, hoping for a puppy.”

Sam snorts, almost chokes on his own phlegm. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Go to sleep, Sam,” she says. He closes his eyes at the touch of her cool lips against his forehead.


(set in an au s10)


“It’s a brunette! Ah, Sammy, at least you’re being consistent.”

The little dank room stinks of blood and ammonia and more stale sweat than she can stand. Dean—the great, mysterious, scepter-over-their-lives Dean—is chained to a chair in the middle, shirt in tatters, strange symbols drawn on the floor and the ceiling above him and practically carved into his skin. He’s laid-back, relaxed, practically unspooled in his chair, regardless of the chains holding him, and his eyes—

“Hm, so how is this one gonna go?” His grin is over-bright, glinting. “Fire? Strangulation? Hex? Oh, oh, wait! I forgot! You’re just waiting to kill her yourself, aren’t you?”

Every instinct is wailing at her to run out of the room, but Amelia says, “Where’s Sam?”

Dean throws his head back and gives a short, barking laugh. “Another point for consistency! Every one of your girlfriends is as dumb as the last, Sammy.” He looks at her, and she can see herself reflected in his inky-black eyes. “Who do you think I’m talking to, bitch?”

She looks beyond him, and there’s Sam—Sam, huddled against the wall, knees to his chest and face buried in his hands. She rushes to his side, and he looks terrible up close—face streaked with blood and covered in bruises, fingers stiff and swollen.

“Get out of here, Amelia,” he rasps.

“Not without you,” she says, and pries his hands away. “God, you stink. When did you last get out of this stupid place and take a shower, huh?”

Dean starts laughing hysterically from behind them, and she flinches.

“I can’t leave,” Sam whispers. “I have to—it’s my responsibility. I have to stay here.”

“Both of you are grown fucking men, Sam. He’s no more your responsibility than I’m yours.” She holds his hand, starts getting up. “Come on. You need to get out of here.” Her voice softens. “At least for some time.”

His expression crumples, and it looks like for a moment that he’s going to cry, but finally he follows her to his feet.

She leads him out of the room, shutting the door on Dean’s mocking laughter.

Tags: fanfiction, supernatural, writing

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