His sorrow’s not so bitter he can’t taste hers, sour on his tongue.
Post season 3, pre season 4. So very AU. Beta by the lovely and talented britomart_is, everything is right because of her. Mistakes are all mine.
Title from Everlong, The Foo Fighters
promise not to stop when i say when
It’s been one month, three weeks, four days and nine hours since the hellhounds took Dean away. More and more he’s learning to live with the unacceptable, easier when sobriety is no longer an issue.
She’s working the jukebox in the corner when he stumbles in, empty bottle of Jack dropped in the garbage by the door.
Pale gray cigarette smoke hangs just below the ceiling, bar almost deserted, a few diehard alcoholics braving the torrential rain and Sunday night. Zeppelin’s Ramble On is almost over and she’s digging in her pocket for more quarters by the time he sidles up to the bar, bleary eyes still on her as she plugs them in the machine, one after the other.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asks, eyes flicking to the girl like she’s a dangerous weapon, a ticking time bomb. A beer bottle and a shot of whisky sit before the empty stool to his left. He points his finger at it and the bartender nods, sliding open the cooler below the bar. Cracking the cap off, he slides it into his waiting hand, reaching for a shot glass and the Jim Beam with the other.
She’s picking songs with lightning speed, punching in numbers like she’s been here for a year and has each one memorized. Her fingers dance against the glass to the opening riff of Don’t Fear the Reaper before turning and walking back to the bar. Sliding into her seat, he catches a glance of skin, plaid shirt riding up against her torso, a cheap flip flop slapping against the bottom of her foot in time to the music. She picks up the shot glass and throws it back, throat working, swallowing in one gulp.
Back of her hand pressed to her mouth, she motions toward the bartender with her other.
“This’ll be your fifth one,” the bartender says, leaning forward, hands spread before him on the bar.
Rolling her eyes, she picks up a twenty from the stack of bills in front of her and slaps it on the edge of the counter. “And your point is? I’m not driving.” The bartender sighs as he fills her glass with Jim, putting another beer down in front of her before walking away again.
“And so what if I fucking was,” she says, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. “What?” she asks aggressively, her hazel eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, cheeks flushed red.
Sam shakes his head and runs his fingers around the rim of his shot glass, mouth watering. The song changes, this time Van Halen’s Running with the Devil exploding from the speakers. He glances at her from below his lashes, she’s lip synching the words, bringing the shot to her mouth and swallowing after singing ‘got nobody waiting at home’.
Something’s catching in the back of his throat and he’ll need to get out of here soon, just buy a fucking bottle and go, these songs she’s randomly playing tearing deep inside, filling him with an ache he can’t drink away. Fighting the urge to tear the fucking jukebox from the wall, he’s ready to push back and leave when she stands on the bottom rung of the stool, reaching over the bar for the bottle of Jim Beam.
“Stay,” she says, filling his shot glass and hers, putting the bottle back before the bartender notices. His sorrow’s not so bitter he can’t taste hers, sour on his tongue. It’s a slow song this time and his heart almost beats out of his chest when James Hetfield sings, ‘So close no matter how far… couldn’t be much more from the heart…’
Picking up the shot, she holds it out to him, a sob caught in her throat when she says, “Let’s drink to my brother, he fucking loved this song."
Against his better judgment, he clinks his glass to hers and swallows the shot down. Picking up the bottle of beer, she chugs it down, only stopping when a hand lands on her forearm.
“You’ve had enough,” says the man alongside her, eyes intent on her face, forcing her fingers off the bottle. “This isn’t helping, Sam. You won’t get strong enough if you keep doing this.”
“Go away, Rudy,” she slurs, grabbing the beer bottle back. “Don’t wanna be ready. I wanna be drunk right now. Doesn’t fucking hurt so much when I can’t feel.”
“I think it’s time to go sleep it off,” Rudy says, grabbing her under the arm and lifting her off the stool.
Flicking his arm off of her, she sways on her feet. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Hey,” Sam says, sliding off his stool and towering over the other man. “She said go away.”
Rudy smiles a feral grin, promising pain and blood, the whites of his eyes bleeding black. “Don’t think this is a fight you want, friend.”
Sam lurches back, surprise cutting through his stupor. If he were sober, maybe he would’ve caught on quicker. Maybe would have made a difference, instead he throws his head back and laughs. “Don’t think you wanna dance with me, Rudy,” he says, arm raising, closing his eyes, feeling the power build deep inside, a burning throughout his gut, something in the back of his mind giving way.
“Don’t,” the girl cries, eyes flying open when she pushes Sam’s arm down, the demon choking on the floor before him. “Not here. Don’t go all super freak on him here.”
“Sam,” the demon coughs and they both turn to look down at him. “Get the fuck away from him.”
“No,” she whispers, looking up at Sam, calculating. “I don’t think so.”
Rudy stares at them as he slowly gets to his feet, face twisting with rage, arm sweeping forward, sending the empty bottles and shot glasses crashing the floor.
“That’s it!” The bartender yells, stalking towards them. “You’re all out! Get the fuck out of my bar before I call the cops!”
Gathering her money, she throws some bills down. “The fuck you looking at?” she snaps at the people standing and gaping by the pool table. Snagging her brown leather jacket from the back of her stool, she stares at Sam for a moment before stalking to the door and punching it open, the wet sounds of cars rushing by momentarily drowning out Hetfield’s guitar solo. The demon follows her out.
The silence in the bar is deafening when the song ends.
He’s thinking about her walking through the alley back to the car, hands shoved in his front pockets, brown paper covered bottle tucked under his arm. Rain patters on his head and down the back of his shirt, sliding down his spine. He thinks maybe he’s dreaming when she materializes from the shadows, dark hair plastered against her face, small hands shoving him back against the bricks, lips hot on his when she jumps up and wraps her legs around his waist.
“Christo,” he hisses, breaking away from her mouth.
Chuckling against his mouth, she whispers, “Not a fucking demon—not yet. Maybe that’s what I’ll have to do to get him back.”
Her hands tighten against his hair and she pulls his head to the side, teeth catching his lower lip and biting down, pulling away before her tongue sweeps in to sweeten the hurt. He knows he should push her off, wipe her away, but it’s been so fucking long since Dean left, so fucking long since he’s felt someone else’s breath on his.
Fingers snake down his chest and unbutton his shirt, nails raking up his sides and down the back of his jeans to clench at his ass. Her mouth covers one of his bare nipples, tongue flicking against the small nub. She’s ruthless, grinding against him with her thigh, pushing at him until his cock is hard down his leg. Moaning, she pulls open her shirt and guides his mouth to her tits, pulling the bra cups down so he can suck the pale nub in, the flat of his tongue rubbing against the underside of her nipple.
Something inside freezes when he glances up, her face thrown back against the downpour, the feeble glow from the sodium light at the end of the alley arching against the curves of her cheekbone, the moles on her face.
The moles mirroring his own.
Dropping her, he tightens his hands on her upper arms, squeezing hard enough to bruise, shaking her as he asks, “What’s your brother’s name?”
“Don’t,” she says over the rain as her hands fumble for his belt, undoing it and pulling down his zipper. “I can’t—I don’t—don’t make me say his name now.” Reaching below the elastic of his boxers she palms him until he groans, giving in way too easy, his mouth crushing down on hers. He pulls her shirt up, large hand down the back of her pants, ripping at her panties, spanning her butt, fingers trailing down and finding her wet and ready.
She’s not gentle, riding his cock in her hand, stroking and jerking until he’s hard and pulsing. Turning, he crushes her against the bricks, hitching her higher, her hand hot against his cheeks, mouth fucking his tongue with an intense rhythm.
“Come on,” she says, tongue sneaking into his ear. “The car’s not far. I want to fuck you.” His already hard cock throbs and twitches against her hand. Carrying her, he’s kissing her deeply, folding her back over the trunk of the Impala, his hands pushing her soaked hair from her face. Sam rubs his cock against the junction of her thighs, dry fucking her hard.
Coming up, she wraps her arms around his neck, biting along his jaw, pulling his shirt up and over his head, scratching the skin down his back. He picks her up, throwing open the door and pushing her in the car, her fingers already sliding her wet jeans down her legs. Crawling in after her, he slams the door behind him, pushing his pants down his thighs. “Fuck me hard,” she whispers as his hips fit into hers. “I won’t break.”
Not waiting any longer, he holds her open against him, his cock gliding over her slit, waiting until she looks up at him, until she whispers, “please.” He slowly fills her up, eyes closing at the delicious friction, the softness of her cunt surrounding him, clenching him tight. She begins to shake, forcing him in deeper, legs coming up and wrapping behind him, opening up to him more. Hitching an arm under her knee, he forces her leg up onto his shoulder and pounds into her, the entire car rocking, her hands braced against the window behind her, pushing back against him. He breathes into her, his forehead resting against hers, her open mouth tasting like beer, blood, sulfur.
Pushing up, she forces him back until she’s in his lap, knees along his hips. She rides him hard, grinding down, tightening her pussy around his cock, milking him as she bites his shoulders, his neck. His mouth covers her nipple, sucking one in as he grasps her ass cheeks, pulling them apart, fingers sliding forward until he’s running his finger over her puckered asshole. Gently, he pushes in and she freezes above him, her breath shortening into a low gasp of pleasure. “Yes,” she moans into his mouth. “Do that again and maybe I’ll let you fuck my ass.”
And her rough, low voice is enough to send him over the edge. His arms tighten around her, pulling her close as his body bucks up against her, come flooding deep inside. She fucks against him hard, pulling her own orgasm from his body, her teeth against his shoulder, blood on her tongue when she kisses him again.
“Oh,” she cries out, head thrown back, hands flat against the roof of the car, impaling herself on his cock.
“Dean,” she whispers later into the crook of his neck, aftershocks vibrating throughout her body. Sam’s hand still on her back, fingers clenching tight against her flesh. “My brother's name is Dean.”
As a bonus that you got this far, 7 Nation Army was totally the song playing in my head while I wrote this. It's such a Sam (both of them!) song.