pairing/characters: girl!Sam/boy!Jess, girl!Sam/Dean
warnings: incest, violence and peripheral violent child abuse
notes: So obviously AU. Beta by britomart_is, everything right is because of her. Mistakes are all mine.
Title from the lovely haiku Getting By
ghosts of the past sleep lightly
“Damn it, Dean!” Sam cries, throwing out her arm and grasping his shoulder, shaking him roughly. “Wake the fuck up!”
“Hurts,” he moans, the Impala veering to the right and hitting the rumble strip on the side of the road, the brrrump sound loud over his shallow breathing. Sam overcorrects and veers into the oncoming lane and Dean groans, slumping to the left. “Don’t wreck my car,” he moans.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t you fucking die on me,” she pants, frantic now as she glances down into his gray face. There was a hospital off this highway somewhere, she remembers seeing the blue sign with the capital H on the side of the road on their way out, knows she’s got to get him there, get him to where they can help him, stitch him back up, put him back together again.
Dean crumples and collapses against her, blood pouring from his mouth, his head landing in her lap. She stares down at him and screams because his chest is still and his eyes are open, empty–
Sam wakes up with a shout, head coming off her pillow in a rush. She gasps for air, clawing at nothing, eyes open but unseeing.
There’s a thump and a sudden loss of warmth, the blankets ripped from her body. Palms press into her eyes and she frantically tries to control her breathing. From the floor, a muffled voice says, “Jesus Christ.”
She drops her hands from her face and cries, “Oh, God! Jess! I’m sorry!” and lurches across the bed to grab at his flailing arm. Helping him back into the small dorm bed, she throws her leg across him once he’s down beside her, laying her head on his chest. He pulls the sheet up and over their entwined bodies.
“It’s okay,” he says, rubbing circles on her back. “Another nightmare?”
Sam nods and glides her fingers across his chest.
“You’ve been having them a lot lately.”
Sam’s silent for a moment before answering. “I had a fucked up childhood.”
The gray glow of dawn lightens around them and Jess says, “You can tell me about it, you know.”
Sam twitches her lips, turning her head to the white concrete brick wall, a memory seeping in unwelcome.
Dad pointed a finger at the back of the abandoned house and then at her chest. She nodded, throat going dry, the .22 against her shoulder impossibly heavy and large. Dean clasped a hand on the other shoulder before moving it up to cup the back of her neck. “You can do this,” he whispered in her ear before following Dad in the other direction.
Sam creeped around the house, heart pounding so loud in her ears, back to the crumbling wood siding. The pale moon high above leeched color from the house and surrounding fields until it looked like an old black and white old movie. Mist rose from the damp ground, twirled around her ankles and glided up her thighs.
Stopping short, Sam’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the little girl, black blood staining the child’s mouth and face. She lay on her stomach by the open cellar door, pale fingers carelessly wrapping a tendril of faded hair around the ribs of a dead mouse. Her sweet, high pitched voice sang, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb…" and she carelessly kicked her legs in the air. Sam blinked and flinched, the girl suddenly standing before her, fingers crushing the mouse in her hand, small brittle bones cracking in the silence. Sam barely had time to think, ghost and then clawed fingers wrapped tight around Sam’s throat, squeezing, her face coming closer to Sam’s, tongue flicking towards Sam’s lips.
When darkness clouded her vision, Sam saw history replay in vibrant color, hyper aware of the girl’s small, naked thighs splotched with bright red blood, the axe in her hands falling again and again, the crimson staining her smock, her face, splattering the small blue bells on the wallpaper. Warmth coursed through Sam, the little girl’s raw throat screaming, “no more, no more, no more,” axe sinking into the head of the man she once called Daddy. The girl’s tongue snuck out and tasted the river of red, hot copper exploding in Sam's mouth.
John and Dean salted and burned the girl’s bones and finally found Sam propped against the cellar door, throat purple and mottled with bruises. The sharp scent of urine burned their nose, the dead mouse peeking beneath her clenched fist tight against her chest, the other hand hugging the gun, cold barrel hard against her cheek, eyes glazed and staring. Tunelessly, she hummed “little lamb, little lamb” over and over.
She was seven years old.
Ok, so maybe not.
Sam shakes her head, pushing her face into his chest, lightly kissing the soft skin above his nipple. “Someday.”
“Sam,” he begins and she lets her hand slowly move south. It’s a cheap trick, this coping mechanism. Whenever Jess starts wanting to talk about her past, the past she’s been trying so hard to just fucking forget about already, it’s easier to use her mouth and hands to distract him.
He moans, her fingers grazing across his semi-hard cock. “This for me?” she whispers, looking up at him, twitching up an eyebrow.
“All for you,” he groans, her hand tightening around him at the root. Sam kisses down his stomach; her tongue moving in slow circles, one hand slowly jerking him off. Her other hand kneads the muscles in his thighs, spreading his legs before her. Sam dips her head down and takes him in her mouth, her tongue flicking over the slit in his dick. He moans above her and she smiles before closing her mouth to suck deeper, feeling him grow impossibly hard. Jess’s hands tangle in her hair and push her down, fucking her mouth slowly. She tongues the vein running along the underside of his cock, hot moisture pooling deep inside of her.
“Enough,” he growls, gripping her under her arms and flipping her over onto her back, fingers pushing aside her panties and gently rubbing her slit, moaning her name when he finds her wet and ready. Jess leans above her, nudging her thighs open for him. Sam holds her panties to the side, Jess entering her slowly and she closes her eyes, pretending it’s not Dean’s face she’s imagining above her.
“We need to get a fucking real place together,” he grunts. She instinctively arches her body up, coming up off the mattress so her arms twine around his shoulders, riding his lap, kissing him deeply, tongue flicking at the roof of his mouth before biting his bottom lip and tugging.
Sam pushes Jess backwards until he’s flat on his back. She lifts off him, swatting his hands away as he struggles to bring her back down on top of him. Sam hooks her thumbs into her panties and slowly, so slowly, pushes them down her thighs. Jess groans in need and tears them off her. She giggles and falls against him. Raising herself up and over his cock, she slowly sinks onto him, moaning, his length filling her. His hands reach for her t-shirt and pull it up and over her head, throwing it to the floor. He leans up and kisses her breasts, tongue swirling around her nipple before sucking it in between his hot, full lips. Jess wraps his arms around her body and kisses her neck, sucking a sweet little hickey in the shadow of her shoulder.
Sam sighs, throwing her head back, hair tumbling down her spine and catching in his hands. “I don’t know how much more of this dorm room bullshit I can put up with,” he pants and she grinds against him, little moans escaping her lips as he fills her up so completely.
“I agree,” she says and then kisses him hard to shut him up. Up and down and forward and back, she moves with him, against him, on him, her hands hard on his shoulders; loving the feel of him hitting her deep inside, wanting to own him, consume him. She squeezes her eyes shut, concentrating on just knowing its Jess below her and not him.
Then suddenly it’s over and her eyes fly open, Jess coming hard in her, his body jerking below her. His eyes are shut and his arms reach for her, pulling her down to kiss his open mouth, his long fingers tangling in her hair. She collapses next to him, too tired from pretending to not think about Dean to worry about not coming herself.
“So, when do you want to start packing?” he breathes after they both catch their breaths.
“Wait, what?” Sam says, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around her.
Jess sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You agreed to move into my apartment with me. Or was it just sex talk?”
Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Sam pulls her knees up to her chest. A long-term relationship really wasn’t on her agenda when she decided to come to Stanford. A degree and a lasting career that didn’t involve hunting, yes. But isn’t Jess the type of man she wanted to meet, maybe used to daydream about marrying? When she wasn’t daydreaming about Dean, that is.
Isn’t Jess smart and funny and cute and usually awesome in bed? Sam stares up at his blue eyes above her, his strong jaw now clenching as he runs his hand through his short, dark hair.
Isn’t he the complete opposite of Dean? Jess doesn’t know the difference between revenant and ghost, or a ghoul versus a zombie. If any of them came up and bit him hard on the ass, he’d scream like a little girl. Probably. She glances up at him, taking in the hard edge between his eyebrows she’s come to think of as the ‘I want’ line.
Well, probably not.
The only shooting he’s ever done has been at skeet and she loves that about him. Loves how there’s never any talk about freaky shit between them, no death, or decay or scary places they just have to check out.
He’s normal and isn’t normal just what she wants?
“I didn’t agree to move in with you, Jess,” she says finally. “I think that fucking in a dorm room sucks, yeah, but,” she sighs and rubs the back of her hand over her mouth. “But I’ve already got plans to stay with Beth this summer,” she lies, silently praying Jess won’t have any reason to run into Beth in the few days left before he goes home. “You won’t even be here while you’re home for the summer and—”
“At least if you’re there, I don’t have to worry about the place being empty for two months,” Jess interjects.
“— I just don’t know if I’m ready to take that step,” she finishes lamely.
Jess grabs his jeans and pulls them on, leaving the top button undone. “Sam, come on. All year long you’ve been either in my bed or I’m in yours. I’ve got clothes here. You’ve got clothes at my place. You really don’t think it makes sense to move in together?”
She drops her eyes from his as he grabs his gray t-shirt and pulls it over his head. “I love you,” he says, walking over to her and pulling her up onto her knees. “I’m almost positive you love me too. Isn’t it enough I’ve already resigned myself to being without you all summer, are you going to make me suffer next year too?” He envelops her into his body and rests his chin on the top of her head before moving off towards the door. “Promise me you’ll think about it, okay?”
Sam closes her eyes and sees her brother’s face. Fuck you, Dean.
Sam sighs and Jess closes the door behind him.
Sinking back down into bed, she grabs her phone from the nightstand and stares at it. Shivering, she remembers her dream, remembers how vibrant Dean’s blood was flowing from his mouth, how the hot coppery smell filled the Impala, how she could almost taste it.
And her throat threatens to close up at just dreaming Dean’s dead.
She’s so fucking messed up in the head.
Because sometimes when it’s dark outside and she’s overtired from studying and working and okay, maybe, very over caffeinated, she sees things. Sometimes she knows when things are going to happen. Not like a freaky déjà vu thing, but actually sees the future. Premonitions and shit. It fucks with her mind in all the wrong ways, but sometimes…she just knows.
And if that’s what this morning was, if that was a message and Dean’s hurt or dead she’ll—
You’ll what? Give up school and rush to his side? Die right along with him?
Finally, she sighs and texts the message R U OK? to Dean, instantly regretting it as soon as her thumb presses send.
A minute later, the phone begins to vibrate in her hand, DEAN flashing across the screen. Worrying the thumbnail on her other hand, she stares at it before dropping it on the bed beside her. If she talks to him, hears the rumble of his voice against her ear she knows it’ll tip her little world she’s built here straight into the fucking crapper.
The phone finally stops and thirty seconds later, it vibrates once more. Dean’s left a message.
At least he’s okay, she thinks, standing. That’s really all she wanted to know, right? That he was still alive? Wrapping her robe around her naked body, she grabs her shower caddy and steps out of the room.
Sam comes back into the room after her shower, towel wrapped around her wet hair. Jess is sitting on her bed and staring down at her phone in one hand and cradling a cardboard caddy with two cups of coffee in the other. He looks up at her and says, “Your brother called.”
“My brother?” she asks, blood running hot and then cold. What if Dean said something, something about us—
Jess smiles, but it looks forced. “You do have a brother right? Dean?”
She nods her head and forces her voice to not break, asking, “What did he say?”
Jess makes a face, holding the phone out to her. “Nothing, really,” and the way he says it makes her heart flip in her chest.
“What did he say, Jess?” she asks, clammy moisture breaking out along her forehead.
“He asked me who I was.”
“And?” she prompts, taking the phone from him and dropping it into the pocket of her robe, watching Jess release a coffee and raising it for a sip.
Jess lowers it and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “He asked me who the fuck I was and where the hell you were. And when I asked, very politely, I might add, who was calling, he replied, Dean fucking Winchester.”
Oh, Christ. Sam’s knees weaken. This wasn’t exactly the way she wanted Dean to learn she was in a relationship. “Did you tell him, you’re my,” her throat threatens to close at the words, “my boyfriend?”
Jess glances up at her sharply, and Sam knows she’s grown pale, can feel the blood draining from her face to her feet. “Are you okay?”
“He didn’t threaten to dismember or kill you or anything, did he?”
Jess moves to stand, but Sam puts up her hand and stills him. “Dammit, Sam. That was your brother on the phone? Not some crazy psycho killer who’s stalking you, right?”
“No,” Sam’s shaking her head so hard the towel comes loose. “Dean’s my older brother. He just gets weirdly overprotective of me,” Sam says, thinking of that time so many years ago when in a drunken moment she admitted to having had sex before. Remembers how he exploded and how that lead to them doing things to each other with Dean on top of her and then in her on the kitchen table and—
Sam snaps out of it. “Just tell me he didn’t say anything about coming here, okay?”
Jess shakes his head. “He didn’t want to talk to me. Said he already left you a message and he’d speak to you later. Funny, I didn’t know you had a brother, you never mentioned it before. Guess it’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type.”
Relief courses through Sam. Of course Dean had to know she’d have a different life here. He had to realize she’d probably have a boyfriend, right?
I’m so screwed, Sam thinks. What a fucking mess.
Jess puts the coffee cup on the nightstand, gesturing with his head at the desk behind her, leaning forward to grab the sash of her robe. “I brought you newspapers like you’re always asking for. I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with those missing kids.”
Reeling her close to him, Jess unties the sash and brushes his hands up her damp skin, shedding her of the short satin robe. “I do have a score to settle with you though,” he whispers, his mouth hot against her bare stomach, his heavy, large hand pressing against her lower back, sliding down to cup her ass. Sam throws her head back, the towel covering her head falling to the floor and releasing her wet hair and she gasps, his tongue slowly licking his way south, both of them ignoring the sound of the phone vibrating in her pocket on the floor.
“You’re a fucking bitch, Sam,” Dean snarls when she finally gets around to listening to his message. “I–we haven’t heard from you in six months and you text me to ask if I’m alright? And then you don’t pick up the fucking phone when I call even though I know you’re sitting there staring at it in your hand! In what ‘the world revolves around Sam’ universe do you think that’s okay?” Dean’s silent for a moment. “Fuck you, we’re fine. I’m fine.”
The thing is he’s not fucking fine because Sam does this to him, all the time.
Just when he thinks he’s gotten used to her being gone, maybe can live without her, she calls or emails or just pops up in his Goddamn head and he’s lost all over again. And maybe he should move on, like she’s trying so fucking hard to do but he can’t. Because that’s not him. He doesn’t just drop people he cares about. That’s just not the way he’s wired.
And Sam? She’s under his skin, in his blood, the air he breathes.
Jesus Christ, sometimes she’s such a fucking bitch, but he misses her like a heroin addict jonesing another fix. There will never be anyone else who knows him the way she does. No one else he can talk to about the fucked up shit they’ve seen and done and honestly, he doesn’t want anyone else.
But today he was maybe twenty minutes from getting laid and what’s she do? Fucking text messages him.
He’d just finished up a case outside of Bumfuck, Idaho and was looking forward to a little celebration. He was tired, sweaty and probably had blood on his clothes and it was close to ten am, but he wanted some grease, some beer and some pussy, in that order. His body craved it after a job well done.
And now, after leaving her a voice mail, he’s pushing his diner breakfast away in disgust, dropping a twenty on the table and stalking out the door, huffing at the disappointed look the hot little waitress throws his way. His phone is to his ear as he leans over to unlock the door of the Impala, and then shock sending him upright, a man answering Sam’s phone.
A fucking boyfriend? Dean stares down at the phone in disgust, snapping it shut. Sam can’t answer the phone herself, but her fucking boyfriend can?
Jealously ripples down his spine and he yanks the car door open, sliding inside.
Idaho ain’t that far from California, after all.
It was supposed to be just a job, an easy hunt.
But when it goes south, it goes south so fucking fast, her head spins.
She limps through the upper hallways of the abandoned warehouse, broken glass crunching under her feet. Filth floats from the floor in little puffs around her knees and up into her face. Sam covers her nose with the crook of her elbow, the dust settling down deep in her lungs, the urge to cough sudden and sharp.
She’s so fucking screwed. It was supposed to be just one Rawhead. Not a whole fucking Rawhead family.
Shotgun and phone both lost in the darkness when two of them came out of the shadows and attacked. The dead flashlight that saved her ass still tight in her grip after she smashed into the eye of one of them. Leaning back against the crumbling wall, she throws the Maglite over the metal balcony, listening to it crash against the concrete floor below.
Sam flinches, an echoing roar filling the vast warehouse. One of them isn’t far. She stares at the darkened ceiling; one bloody hand pressing her nose closed, the other pointing the gun at the floor.
Stupid, she’s so fucking stupid.
How could she think it was okay to hunt without backup? The old man’s in her head, screaming at her, face apocalyptic because she didn’t plan for this. Didn’t take into consideration that just because Rawheads normally kill alone don’t mean they won’t feed in groups and how very fucked she is to be trapped in the dark, probably bleeding out from the claw slice deep in her thigh. All it will take now is one sneeze and one of those Rawheads tracking her will find her and she doesn’t have enough bullets to finish the job.
Sam closes her eyes and counts to ten, nostrils flaring, something behind her crashing. Another horrible bellow below fills the space,getting closer. Maybe she ain’t got enough bullets to take both monsters out, but she sure as shit got one left to finish the job.
Hell if she’ll end up like those street kids, torn up and eaten.
Besides, if the fucking monsters don’t take her out, all the asbestos she’s inhaling probably will, finding little hidey holes deep in her lungs and having little cancer babies in her bronchioles. Or is it bronchi?
Sam thinks of Jess and her heart constricts, suddenly remembering the way they’d sit in the library across from each other, her poli-sci books spread out in front of her, his pre-med anatomy books in front of him. The look in his impossibly blue eyes when she’d glance up at him, like she was the prize he won and not the other way around.
Then, simply, she thinks of Dean.
That’s when she decides there isn’t any way in Hell she’ll have her body found in this abandoned factory turned Rawhead abattoir a hundred miles away from where she’s supposed to be. Needing to keep moving, she shoves off the wall, her bleeding leg nearly collapsing beneath her. Her hand braces against the plaster to keep herself from falling and she uses it as a makeshift crutch, leaving fading bloody handprints as she goes.
The metal steps are nearly too much for her mangled leg, every step down sending hot steel knives into her flesh and into her nerve endings. With a sudden sharp sob, she promises herself that if she gets out of here alive she’s apologizing to Dean for everything. She’ll even cop to the fire ants in his underwear drawer when they were kids.
And then a Rawhead’s right at the top of the stairs behind her, hot carrion breath on her neck and she hallucinates for the first time. Blood loss must be the reason she’s hearing Dean shout her name over and over again. Growling with fury, the monster shoves her forward and she freefalls the last ten steps, an involuntary guttural scream ripping from her mouth. She lands hard on something sharp, tearing open her wounded leg even more and cracking something deep in her chest.
Gasping for air now, she thinks, this is it, her heart beating in time to the blood gushing from her leg. She must've hit her femoral artery. Somehow, the gun is still in her hand and everything slows, impossibly large teeth descending towards to the soft, unprotected skin of her belly. Bringing the gun up to rest at her temple, vision blurring, her finger tightening against the trigger.
Maybe it’ll be quick. Maybe I won’t even feel the bullet when it smashes into my skull.
And then monster explodes above her, gore, blood and pieces raining down over her broken body. And it’s enough. Finally it’s enough and she’s ready to pull the trigger when the gun is knocked out of her hand.
“Dean,” Sam whispers, hands roughly grabbing at her and then she’s gone.
“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Dean pants, tightening the belt against her thigh, and then hardly feels her weight in his arms as he runs back to the Impala. Frantic now, he glances down into her gray face, peeling out onto the main road from abandoned warehouse.
There was a hospital off this highway somewhere, remembers seeing the blue sign with the capital H on the side of the road on his way out, tracking Sam through the GPS in her phone, knows he’s got to get her there, get her to where they can help her, stitch her back up, put her back together again.
Her head slides into his lap and he careens to a tire-smoking stop in front of the hospital entrance, shouting for help even as he’s reaching across her and throwing open the passenger side door. Someone pulls Sam out of the car and into their arms before whisking her through the double doors.
Dean runs after the yells of “Code blue! Code blue!” until doors whoosh shut in his face and people are suddenly pushing him back, telling him to wait where he is, covered in her blood and not knowing if she’s going to die alone.
Hands shaking, he leans against the wall outside of the treatment room, body sliding to floor. He brings his knees up and rests his elbows, blood covered hands dangling useless between his legs. Dean’s head falls back and bangs against the wall, again and again, tears sliding down his face in time to someone shouting, “Clear!”
It’s cold where she is.
She blinks slowly, mushy-minded and disoriented, a shiver running through her. A clean and antiseptic smell fills her nostrils, the low sound of water dripping distracting her from the sound of chattering teeth. Kneading her fingers at the harsh blanket beneath them, she opens her eyes slowly.
Tubes run from the veins in her arms up to plastic bags hooked high above her. A machine beeps quietly in the corner, recording every beat of her heart. The upper half of a body is slumped over at the end of her bed, head resting next to her knee.
Tears fill her eyes. She inches her fingers towards the top of his head, suddenly needing to know he’s there and not a dream. He starts when her fingers brush his hair, jerking up off the bed. Dean turns his head, the rough stubble against his cheek so stark against his pale face. His eyes are so haunted, the skin under them bruised an unhealthy purple. An involuntary sob escapes from somewhere deep inside of her.
“Hey,” he whispers, one word a novel length soliloquy.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers back, her fingers seeking his. His hand engulfs hers, his other one wiping across his face. “Please,” her voice catches, “don’t be mad at me.”
A harsh laugh escapes his lips as something tragic and heartbreaking flickers across his face. “Sam,” he starts, before clearing his throat and trying again. “You died.”
“Your heart stopped for three endless minutes. Three minutes until they shocked it back to beating again. I think I’m beyond mad at you.”
He stands up and moves over her, trembling hands lightly curling around her face. He leans down and kisses her softly. “I don’t know how I would have lived if you were gone. Don’t you ever fucking die on me again,” he whispers before kissing her again.
A small smile hitches up one side of her lips. “I’ll try,” she says, leaning up so this time, she can kiss him back.
“You had to get an apartment on the second floor, didn’t you,” Dean bitches a week later, helping her up the stairs.
Sam fumbles in the pocket of the sweatpants swimming on her hips–Dean’s clothes on her back–for the keys as they reach the door. “It’s not my place,” she says, fitting the key in the lock and swinging open the door. “It’s Jess’s.”
Dean leaves her leaning on the doorjamb and cases the place. “It’s clear,” he says, pulling her arm up over his shoulder. “Who’s Jess?”
“I can walk, you know,” she grumps, ignoring his question.
“Yeah, let me see you try it when you’re not on Oxycodone. Christ, it’s hot and musty in here.” Dean gently drops her onto the couch, tucking a throw pillow under her knee.
She sighs in relief to be off her feet, not wanting to admit how badly her leg is throbbing, pain radiating up and throughout her body. Her Rawhead encounter cost her two blood transfusions, three broken ribs and seventy-four stitches trailing up her thigh, a dark railroad against her white skin. “The central air controls are on the wall to the right in the kitchen,” she says, her head dropping down on the arm rest. He walks away, and she must’ve dozed off for awhile because when she wakes up with a cry of pain, the light is different and Dean’s kneeling before her with two white pills and a glass of water.
“Thanks,” she says, handing the glass back to him. He grunts and motions for her to sit up, then pulling her back down so her head’s in his lap. Dean’s fingers brush the hair back from her forehead. She shifts, closing her eyes and hissing with pain.
“So this place belongs to your boyfriend, huh?”
Her eyes fly open and find him staring down at her, his moss green eyes flecked with gold. He picks up a picture frame next to her glass and holds it up so she can see. It’s her and Jess, arms wound around each other, both smiling widely at the camera. With a shiver of guilt, Sam doesn’t remember who took the picture.
“Do you love him?” he asks casually, putting the picture back.
Sam bites her bottom lip before answering. “I don’t know. I think I do sometimes and then I—” she stops, looking away from his green, green eyes. He deserves the truth. “Then I think about you.”
“Huh,” Dean says, continuing to run his hands through her hair, softly working through the knots and tucking the errant strands behind her ears. Sam inwardly sighs against the touch of his fingers on her skin. “Does your boyfriend know how badly you fucked yourself up?”
Sam shakes her head. “I called him when I was in the hospital and told him I fell off my bike, that’s why he hadn’t heard from me in a few days. He wanted to jump on a plane and come back, but I persuaded him to stay home. His grandfather’s not doing too well, he’s needed more there than here.”
“Does he know I’m here with you?”
Sam nods. “That’s part of the reason he agreed to stay home.”
Dean sighs, his large fingers trailing down the bruises on her face. “Dad wants you to call him when you can.”
“Did you tell him everything? How I nearly got myself killed? ”
Dean smiles. “No. I already lost you once. Don’t want the old man to come up here and kill you all over again.”
The pills are starting to work, the dying afternoon light in the apartment taking on a dreamy, lush quality. Dean gathers her gently in his arms, pulling her up until she’s in his lap, injured leg stretched out before her on the couch.
“How you feeling?” he asks.
“Like I’m floating. Nothing hurts right now.”
“Good, cause I don’t think your boyfriend should feel so safe with me here,” he says, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below her ear. Sam shivers, a staccato rhythm beginning to beat in her chest. “Been wanting to do this for days,” he murmurs, his breath playing against her neck. She moans, her head falling forward. He kisses up her jaw, hand against her cheek, turning her face towards his. His mouth opens above hers, tongue sweeping in, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip.
Arms gather her behind her knees and behind her shoulders. He stands and carries her into the guest bedroom, eyes hot and he lays her down gently on the bed. She counts Dean’s freckles and he lies down beside her, slowly unbuttoning her shirt, his breath catching at the sight of her naked skin. “So beautiful,” he whispers, kissing the spot between her breasts. “Missed you so fucking much.” His hot mouth moves over her nipple, her body almost coming off the bed, his tongue sucking the sensitive nub deeper into his mouth.
She moans and totally knows why people buy this drug on the streets. She’s hazy and vibrating with need, this delicious feeling he’s slowly building in her, the warmth spreading throughout her body. He kisses down her tummy, tonguing the space just below her elastic waistband. “Do you think we can, do you want…I can, I mean,” Dean asks and she laughs, because Dean’s never asked before.
“I won’t break,” Sam says breathlessly, leaning up on her elbows and he slowly pulls her sweatpants down over her hips. She braces herself with her good leg, his hand sliding over her naked butt, his fingers teasing at the wetness already beginning to gather between her legs.
His eyes trail up her body and he kneels between her legs, softly kissing the tight, stretched skin below her stitches.
“Never gonna be able to give you up, Sam,” he says, his fingers slowly sliding up the inside of her thigh. Her head falls back and she opens up to him. Dean hooks a hand under her good knee and pulls it up until the back of it rests on his shoulder. Leaning forward, he catches her weight in his hands, raising her up so he can breathe against her, his mouth slowly kissing the outside lips of her pussy. Hot blood pounds through her veins. He teases her, tongue flicking in and out.
Finally, after what feels like a fucking hour, Sam moans, the tip of his tongue delving inside and touching her clit. She bucks against his mouth, hands coming down and pushing against his head, wanting more, wanting him in her harder.
Dean rolls his tongue in waves against her clit, two fingers sliding deep inside of her, fucking her with a slow, delicious rhythm. It’s not enough.
She grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him up from in between her legs. “I want you to fuck me,” she gasps.
“Sam, I don’t want to hurt—” His breath catches in his throat, she rolls onto her good side and raises her leg. She listens to him shedding his clothes behind her, tearing open a condom and unrolling the latex down his cock, waiting for him to fall back down beside her so she can kiss the smell of herself off of his mouth.
Dean fucks his cock in the little hollow at the junction of her thighs, his arm snaking around her neck and turning her head, kissing her hard. His mouth moves down her neck and sucks a bruise against the delicate skin, his fingers pulling her open, the head of his cock teasing against her entrance.
Inching in her so painfully slow, Sam breaks away from his mouth and pants when his hand slides down her belly and tickles her clit. “Gonna fuck you, slow, Sam. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”
“Yeah,” she moans, rocking back against him. “Yeah, oh God, yeah.” She wants him to fuck her hard, wants to feel him bruise her, brand her, but knows he never will. Not with her leg so fucked up. So she reaches back and grasps his hip, fingers digging in, hand sliding up and gripping his biceps, grinding against him as hard as she can. Dean holds her scarred thigh up behind her knee, careful to never put any pressure on her wounds.
Pressure builds, her hand flailing out and grasping the sheet above her head, pushing herself deeper onto Dean’s cock. Colored sparks of light begin to flash behind her closed eyes. When she comes, her whole body spasms, harsh uh, uh moans escaping her mouth.
“Sam, Sammy, Sam,” Dean groans, still fucking her from behind, kissing and biting her shoulder. “Yeah, baby. Come on Sam. Come on my cock. Yeah, you’re so tight, gonna make me come,” and then he tenses behind her, driving into her deep as he can, groaning, every muscle rigid.
A few moments later Dean slides out of her and rolls her over, gathering her in his arms so her ear’s over his heart. Sam hums against his skin, aftershocks firing through her nerve endings. That was, Sam admits ruefully, one of the best fucks she’s ever had. And if she’s gonna be completely honest with herself, all the best fucks in her life have been with Dean.
There’s a decision in her future. One she’s definitely not looking forward to, but one that she’s going to have to make for her own sanity. And she’s going to lose someone she loves. But not today. She’s not going to think about it today.
Suddenly she stiffens, remembering her promise about the ants.
“Hey,” he whispers. “You okay? You’re leg’s not hurting too bad, is it?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head and taking a deep breath.
“Do you remember that really bad prank war when I was twelve?”
A/N: This follows before the sky darkens and stale taste of recycled air.
And, okay, in the interest of full disclosure, boy!Jess is totally Tahmoh Penikett in my fucked up little head.