Who? Sam 2 (narrative) | open to other narratives/scenes What? FOREST FIRE. Where? The forest, the town, surrounding areas, etc. When? Backdated a couple days, to when the fire was to be had. Rating? Probably not, like, insane. Notes! Since we're not going to do a whole big group log, 'cause that could easily get out of control / take a year to finish / would probably never GET finished, I figured I would post a little something, so people who want to react can do so. Feel free to sub-thread/interact amongst yourselves, or post little narrative bits of your own, or whatever. <3
When the fire finally got going, it wasn’t hard to slip away from the others, busy now with people rushing over (were they people, or were they those local things, the empty people? He couldn’t tell, didn’t care), panic and anger and a rush to save a forest that didn’t matter in a world none of them belonged in. Sam didn’t want to talk to any of them, deal with any of their stupid reactions. Now that the fire was going, he felt drained, exhausted, like he’d used his powers except he hadn’t, like he’d spent all day crying, but he hadn’t done that either, had only just started letting tears even form in his eyes for the first time in three days about five minutes ago, when the first trees really lit up and he realized nothing was happening.
Nothing was happening, Dean wasn’t here, he wasn’t back home, and it was Christmas soon, and it just, this was supposed to make everything better. He'd expected an immediate result, and maybe something would happen later but he wanted it to happen now.
Maybe it just wasn’t enough. He'd have to figure out what to do next, what more could be done...
It wasn’t hard to slip back to the apartment complex, and up onto the roof. He was good at going unnoticed, when he tried. From there, he could see the fires, could still smell the smoke, but the heat was gone, just the winter air on his skin and he curled his legs up, knees under his chin and he waited - for the flames to die, for something to happen, for the world to open up and throw him back home, something but there wasn’t anything. Just the flurry of activity below and the burning pressure behind his eyes that only started to let up when the tears streamed down his face. It wasn’t crying, because he didn’t know if he could cry anymore without screaming, without breaking something, without throwing himself over the edge of the roof, without losing it completely. So, he wasn’t crying. Just losing tears, and that was okay, he could handle that.