sequel to murder now the path of must, for ephemerall who wanted more.
beta by the lovely thatfilmgirl, everything is right because of her, mistakes are all mine.
title from Down by Jay Sean
warning adult, incest, pre show, very AU.
even if the sky is falling down
Hours pass silently between them, neither of them in the mood for music, only the sound of rushing wind filling the Impala. They hit southern Alabama by early afternoon, the road snaking alongside backwater swamps filled with ancient and barren Cypress trees pointing towards the sky. Occasionally, a homestead peeks through the copses; depressed and gray clapboard houses surrounded by urban debris.
Finally, Dean breaks the silence and says, “I’m hungry.”
Sam flinches at the sound of his voice and looks up from picking her cuticles, ragged nail slicing across her flesh, a sliver of red welling against the white of her skin. It stings and she hisses in relief, welcoming the pain.
Squeezing her bleeding finger in the fist of her other hand, she glances out the open window beside her, before pulling her windblown hair to the side and looking at his profile. “Loads of fine dining on this road,” she says, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at the backseat. “Want me to grab you a can of Spaghetti O’s?”
Dean drives, wrist on the top of the wheel, barely steering the car. “No, I don’t want no nasty ass Spaghetti O’s. I want a greasy bacon cheeseburger, fries and beer right about now.”
“Okay, so find a place and stop. Go through a McDonalds drive thru or something. I’m not hungry.”
Dean inhales through his nose and she can tell he’s annoyed; a flash of anger rushes down her spine, because really, what’s he got to be annoyed about?
“Of course you’re not hungry, you eat like a freaking bird,” he says. “I’m starving and we’ve got no extra money, Sam. The credit cards Dad left are maxed and we left before I could get paid.”
And it's my fault, of course, she thinks. It’s always my fault. “Sorry I ruined your week by killing the guy who wanted to rape me.”
Dean double takes and slams on the brakes, car fishtailing across the broken white lines, smoke rising beneath the back tires. Sam’s hands fly out, bracing against the dashboard.
He grabs her upper arm, pulling her across the seat, shaking her hard enough to snap her teeth together. “The fuck’s the matter with you, Sam?”
I don’t know, she thinks. I got no fucking clue but I’m crawling out of my skin. She looks up at him from under her bangs, biting her bottom lip. "I'm sorry!" she snaps, not knowing how else to explain. Taking a quick choking gasp, she hunches forward, jerking her arm from his grasp, pressing her palms against her temples. "I'm a mess, Dean," she breathes, body shaking.
He snakes his arm behind her, kneading her neck with his hand, fingers massaging the base of her skull. “It’ll be okay, Sam. I promise.”
Inwardly cringing at the gentle touch of his fingers, she closes her eyes against the hot sting of tears because ‘it’ll be okay, Sam’ is the same bullshit line he’s been feeding her since before she could talk. Their life will never be okay. It’ll never be normal. She’ll never be normal. In the span of the last few hours she’s got two more things to add to her Why Sam is a freak list, because when school starts in the fall she’s pretty damn sure she'll be the only girl who killed someone over their summer vacation and had their brother’s tongue in their mouth.
Freaky-ass Sam Winchester, the nomad girl with the high IQ and killer past. Go me!
She shies away from his hand. “I need to get out of the car, Dean.”
“Okay Sam, sure.” Pulling his arm away, he starts to drive again, miles fading behind them until he finally takes a right, turning off the blacktop onto two lines of dirt cutting through the trees.
He drives a few miles until he comes to an abandoned plantation house resting on the edge of open fields, white paint peeling from the exterior, six foot high windows resting behind towering Corinthian columns. No curtains line the windows and daylight shines through matching windows at the back of the house. Green and red weeds grow almost four feet high around the red brick front steps.
Dean leans over her, one hand on the wheel and the other spanning the seat behind her shoulders. He looks out the car window, smiling at her. “Looks like we found home for the night.”
Sam shrugs her shoulders, rolling her neck from side to side, willing it to crack to just release some of the tension snaking through her body. She climbs slowly out of the car, slamming the door behind her.
A dragonfly buzzes across her nose and swipes after it half-heartedly, pulling open the back door and grabbing a duffle bag, slinging it over her shoulder.
Dean pops the trunk and holds it open with one hand, digging for supplies with the other. “Come here and grab this,” he says, handing her the sawed-off and a handgun. She tucks the pistol into the back of her pants as he hands her another bag full of shells and cans of salt.
“Thought we were only staying for one night,” she grumbles.
“Shut up and move it, pack mule,” he says, slinging another duffle across his chest. He slams the trunk, the noise sending a rush of birds into flight.
She hips the back door closed, following Dean through the high grass to the front porch. “If one of those birds shits on my head, so help me I’m going to superglue all your zippers closed.”
He glances at her over his shoulder, freckle covered dimples deepening from his smile. “Promises,” he says, dumping the duffle along side the front door. She drops hers beside his as he glances around him, pulling out the lock pick kit. It’s two shakes and a smile and he’s got the door swinging wide open, the smell of warm wood, dust and dirt wafting over them. Sam pokes her head in, narrowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She glances down the foyer at the graceful curving staircase and then up to the ceiling where the bare bones of an old chandelier gently swings. It's a beautiful house even now, decaying elegance you can only find in the South.
Dean opens the duffle and pulls out a shotgun, cracking it open and checking for shells before slinging it closed. He cautiously steps inside the front door, the floor creaking under his weight but holding. He holds his hand up, motioning for her to stay still. Keeping the gun close to his chest, he walks right, nodding at her once before coming back out to the foyer and going into the room on the left.
My hero. Sam rolls her eyes, swinging away from the front door and leaning against the house. She pulls the gun out of the back of her pants, sliding down, paint chipping at her back, slivers catching and pulling on her shirt, pattering down on the wood beneath her. Legs spread out in front of her; she crosses her ankles and waits, pistol in her lap. Dropping her head back against the wood, she stares out over the field to the right, fingers idling playing with the safety on the gun.
She wonders if there’s something wrong with her, because yeah, she feels guilty, but not as guilty as she probably should, considering all afternoon she’s been wishing she’d just shot Louie in the head instead of snapping his neck. Then she wouldn’t still have his sour breath in her nose or the feel of his rough stubble under her fingertips. She wouldn’t have to remember his eyes, the look on his face when he realized she wasn’t the easy prey he expected her to be and today was the day he was going to die.
“Sam,” Dean calls from inside the house. “Where are you?” He must’ve finished the downstairs sweep.
Rolling her head towards the front door, she stares at the car and says, “Out here.”
“Okay,” his voice already halfway up the stair case.
Plantation houses in the Deep South usually have a more tragic history burned into their walls, heartbreak, despair and blood soaking into the floors like thick honeyed syrup. This house isn’t haunted, at least not in the daytime anyway. Sam’s not sure how she knows; just feels a vibration in the wood against her back, can tell the house is content with its lot right now. After years and years of heavy boots scuffing wooden floors and children running through open doors, the house is enjoying being empty and alone.
It doesn’t mind them, as long as they don’t stay.
Then again, there’s still about four hours left until sundown and things crawl out of the dark.
Her fingers leave the gun and pick at the skin around her nail, worrying it until it bleeds again. She sucks it into her mouth, dirty penny taste bursting on her tongue. Pulling it out, she glances at it, the skin swelling and throbbing.
There’s a grinding and squealing sound above her and she looks up, Dean poking his head out the window he’s just forced open. “The house is cool; you should come in and check it out.”
She nods, looking back down at her hands, fiddling with the cut some more until he calls her name again.
Slowly, she looks back up, grinding paint chips against her scalp. Huffing, she asks, “What, Dean?”
“Knock it off with the brooding.”
Sam stares at him for a moment and then says, “Um, nope. Not gonna happen today. Not looking good for tomorrow, either.”
He bangs the window shut above her and she sighs, pulling her shirt away from her chest. Alabama’s not any cooler than Florida in August. Sweat’s pooling in between her breasts, under her arms and around her hair at the back of her neck. She’s so fucking tired of being sweaty. Dad’s moving them to Florida at the beginning of July for a Skunk Ape hunt seemed like a good idea at the time, it was summer vacation and she didn’t have anything better to do. She had daydreams of the beach; wearing a bikini and watching Dean’s head explode; thoughts of lying out and getting a tan playing in her head as they drove down.
Didn’t take too long for reality to sink in.
The shitty-ass motel their Dad checked them into made her skin crawl, and she wonders if he knew she was going to end up almost raped he would’ve found a different motel to dump his kids in. It’s a train of thought she shies away from because she’s not sure how the old man feels about her. Sometimes, she catches him looking at her, and she’s pretty damn sure it’s not love she’s seeing on his face.
Then the old man up and left with a hunter neither she nor Dean ever met on a bullshit lead weeks ago, promising he was only going to be gone for the weekend. His weekend turned into two weeks, then three with short phone calls— I’m alive—Dean too cowed to tell him they’re high and dry with no money, instead found an under the table job at a local garage and she spent her days staring out the motel room window, wishing for a pool.
“I’m gonna go find food,” Dean says, walking out onto the porch. “I saw a sign for a place a few miles up the road before we turned.”
Sam looks up at him, hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “Okay, you do that.”
“You don’t want to come with me?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Too hot to move. Bring me back something, though okay? I’ll try to eat.”
Dean hunkers down on his heels in front of her. “I’ll bring the sleeping bags in. Pick a room and salt line it while I’m gone. You will eat what I bring back.”
Sam rolls her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
Dean tucks his hand under her chin and tilts her face up. “It’s probably best you stay out of public until the bruises fade. Purple’s not a good color on you.” His voice is thick, words not said hot on her flesh, asking questions she’s not sure she knows the answers to yet.
A million bees suddenly start buzzing under her skin, vibrating, her lips tingling in memory from his kisses this morning. He runs his thumb over her bottom lip, eyes on her mouth for a moment before meeting her eyes. Dean half smiles and stands up, knees and back cracking. “I saw a hand pump out back by the old summer kitchen. Maybe there’s still water. You can get cleaned up, cool off.”
She understands in that moment it’s all up to her now. He won’t force himself on her, won’t try to kiss her again. If and when she decides that she’d like him to, then all she’ll have to do is ask. And if not, they’ll just keep on, keeping on like always. “Wait, you know what a summer kitchen is?”
Dean starts down the brick steps. “Got me a GED, remember? I learnt some stuff,” he says pointing at his head.
After he’s gone, the idea of cold water bath becomes overwhelming. She gets up, trying to take a deep breath of hot, sticky air. Moving through the tall grass to the back of the house, her jeans catch on brambles and sticker bushes. The pump’s right where Dean said it would be, outside of a rickety shed that looks like one stiff wind will blow it over.
She pushes the handle on the pump up and down, feeling no resistance and no resistance means no water. Come on, baby, she thinks. Frustration seeps in as she pumps and pumps, her arm growing tired. She switches arms and pumps again, then both hands, one hand, furiously pumpingpumpingpumping.
Anger flares hot because really, can’t one fucking thing go right for her today? She just wants to cool off, douse her head, clean off the nasty stink under her arms. Is that too much to ask for, universe? Just a little fucking water? Finally, she steps back, kicks at the metal pole, a solid roundhouse. “Come on,” she screams, her voice echoing across the fields surrounding the house. A crow caws at her from the branches above and she blindly picks up a rock and throws it into the trees.
Temper flaring, she grabs a discarded board and smashes the windows, ducking as glass shards rain over her. Red hot anger explodes through her like molten lava, igniting emotions she’s been burying for too God damned long. She’s apocalyptic with this sudden need for destruction, and she reviles in it, hating everyone.
Because really, why are they here in this little bumfuck town in southern Alabama? Why aren’t they living in a small three bedroom ranch house on the outskirts of Lawrence, Kansas? Why can’t her Dad be a normal widower, maybe on his second or third marriage with a couple more kids to call family? Why isn’t Dean in college, going to keggers and pledging a fraternity just as obnoxious as he is?
Why does she know you need to cut out the heart of a werewolf and a machete or power saw works best for a vampire? Why does she know exactly how many cans of salt you can buy before the cashiers start to look at you funny? Why does her father constantly scream, one more repetition, one more mile, one more clip, do it again until you do it right Sam, Goddammit!
Why does she know the brother she loves is probably going to die before he’s thirty? He’s going to die with blood bubbling on his lips and whether he dies alone or in her arms, he’s going to die.
Why is Mary’s ghost holding them hostage?
And she can’t fucking stand it, sometimes she can’t fucking stand her. Can't stand that she was taken away and left them broken, shattered and fucked up beyond recognition of a normal family.
Why does she need to hunt for whatever the fuck it was supernatural something that killed her mother? The mother she has no memory of, the dead mother who took her father away from her before she ever had a chance to really get to know him, the father who used to throw Dean up in the air, kiss him goodnight and left her with a father she’s pretty damn sure blames her for his wife’s death.
Why does she need to pretend that she cares?
Dean’s the little boy lost in all of this, the little boy who aged twenty years in the one second it took Dad to shove her in his arms and tell him to run. Dean who says he stopped crying for his momma when he was six years old and picked up his dad’s rifle instead.
Dean and his goofy grins and horrible taste in television, his cheesy pick up lines and his all-encompassing love for the Impala, his love of the hustle, his aspiration of pulling off the long con, his nasty morning breath and the noxious gas that comes out of his ass if he even gets near an onion. She thinks about how he can grab her elbow and coax that last mile out of her just by the touch of his hand. Murmuring calming words in her ear when she’s about ready to turn the gun on their father, wanting to shoot him to just shut him the fuck up already; trying to keep the peace between them when they’re at each other’s throats.
By the time her blind rage is over, worn out by lack of sleep and heat, the summer kitchen’s a ruined mess of collapsed wood and glass. Eyes stinging from the sweat streaming down her face, she leans forward, hands on her knees. She struggles to breathe, pushing the tangled mess obscuring her vision out of the way. Heaving for breath and wiping the sweat from her forehead, she straightens and turns.
Dean’s standing on the back steps staring at her; white Styrofoam cooler tucked under one arm, plastic shopping bag hanging from the other hand.
Feeling sheepish, she shoves her hands into her back pockets. “How long you been standing there?”
He puts the cooler and the bag down, picks out a bottle of water and throws it to her. “Long enough.”
Catching the bottle with one hand, she cracks open the top and pours half the water over her head, shaking like a wet puppy. “This is all I wanted,” she says, pulling her collar from her neck and dumping the rest of the water down her chest. “Fucking pump won’t work.”
“Christ, Sam,” Dean says, coming forward, pulling a wad of napkins from his back pocket. “You’re bleeding again.”
Sam looks down at the red blotches on her shirt and reaches up to where he’s headed, brushing her fingers across a bleeding scratch on her forehead. “Huh,” she says, grabbing the napkins from his hand. She starts to laugh and tries to stop when it comes out hysterical. She can’t.
“What’s so funny?” Dean asks.
Sam presses the wad of paper napkins against her head, pulls it away, looking at the rapidly growing stain of red before putting it back. Wouldn’t it just be a fucking hoot if she needs stitches? Wouldn’t it just be a perfect end to a perfect fucking day? “I tore down a building and I feel great. Like, fucking awesome great. You should have just let me do this earlier instead of trying to kiss it and make better like you always do.”
And then Dean does this thing with his face that he always does, same expression from in the woods early this morning, eyes going wide and mouth slack, showing her how fucking awful she is, how she’s stabbed him in the heart again. She pulls the napkins from her head, and turning them over, hoping when she takes them away next time they won’t be sodden with blood. “Oh, fuck me,” she says. “Look, I’m sorry.”
Dean waves a hand and his face goes stony. “Come here and let me look at it.” He wipes across the wound roughly and pushes her head up and to the side, examining the cut in better light. “It looks okay,” he announces. “The blood’s starting to slow down, so I don’t think it’ll need any stitc--”
Sam presses her mouth to his, kissing him hard, probing between his lips with her tongue. He responds for a moment, hot mouth sliding over hers, hand moving down to the side of her neck before pulling away, a tight smile on his face. “Now who’s trying to kiss and make it better?” He hands her the napkins and walks back to the porch. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
When he returns, he sits down on the step and pats the space next to him. She sits, laying her head down in his lap, sudden hiss of pain when he swipes the cut roughly with an alcohol pad. “I’m sorry,” she says as he’s applying butterfly bandages.
“You already said that,” he says automatically, putting his hand behind her head and pushing her up and off his lap.
“Did Dad call you back while you were gone?”
Dean starts rooting in the cooler, pulling out a bottle of beer and popping the cap off with his ring. “Yeah, he knows.”
Sam’s hands drop to her knees, Dean in profile swallowing down the beer, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “Then I’m sorry for what he said. It wasn’t your fault. You know that right?”
He wipes his hand across his mouth, “He’s right, I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
Knowing Dad, he must verbally given Dean fifty lashes with a bamboo cane. She winds her arm around his back and leans into him. “No, if he cared, he wouldn’t have left. Or at least have sent us money or something. You were doing what you needed to do for us.”
“Look, stop it, Sam. He’s our father. He deserves our respect—your respect. So just stop, okay? I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Dean stands and grabs the plastic bag. “I’m starving and I got you that disgusting shit you love to eat.”
“You bought me fruit?"
After they finish eating, Dean pulls his tool box from the trunk of the car and fiddles with the pump, bowing triumphantly when he gets the water flowing. Sam laughs and claps her hands, jumping off the porch and running to him, rapidly pumping water and splashing him with it at the same time.
Finally clean, she sheds her jeans, dropping on the sleeping bag heavily, heat lethargy dragging her down before the sun slides below the horizon. She’s doesn’t even remember closing her eyes, but sometime later she’s awakened by the house shaking, walls and beams groaning above and below them. She rolls over, propping her head up with an elbow. Dean’s sitting up on the sleeping bag beside her, shotgun slung across his naked thighs, his eyes locking on hers in the moonlight.
“What is it?” she whispers.
He looks past her for a moment, out the windows, to the high full moon illuminating the room in a soft blue glow. “Don’t know yet. Maybe just the wind,” he whispers back, motioning with his head out the windows to the heavily swaying black silhouettes of the trees.
She drops down onto her back, arm across her belly, staring up at the ceiling. With her other hand she touches the floor, fingers spread along the rough wood, feeling the house. “There’s something here,” she says, “but it’s curious, not harmful. Almost residual, I think.”
Footstep race across the floor above them, echoing down the hall until the noise fades. Somewhere in the house a door closes. Dean cocks an eyebrow and looks down at her incredulously. “How the fuck can you tell that?”
Sam shrugs her shoulders, rolling back over onto her side and propping her head up in her hand, smiling at him. “I don’t know. Me and the house got to know each other earlier, I guess.”
Dean stands and walks to doorway leading to the foyer. He looks down, making a noise of disgust. “Was it when you were supposed to be lining the doorways and windows with salt, Sam?”
She jumps up and tears into a duffle bag, pulling out the heavy canister of salt. “Crap, I forgot.” She shakes out a line across the threshold, moving over to the windows and French doors leading outside and lining them too. “I thought you would have double checked me,” she bitches at Dean when she stands beside him.
“You weren’t the only one tired, Sam.”
The footsteps continue down the stairs, echo across the foyer in front of them and then out the front door, closing loudly, even though the door doesn’t move.
“See, told you. Residual.”
She jumps at a high piercing wail, and a sudden thump upstairs. Moving closer to Dean, he wraps an arm around her waist. “Residual, huh?’ he breathes against her ear. A baby cries in the night and Sam curves closer around Dean when the infant is silenced by the low sound of singing, a soft crooning causing something inside her to ache almost in memory, the floorboards rocking rhythmically above them. She shivers, even though it’s still close to ninety degrees in the room.
Suddenly, she realizes she’s wearing only a t-shirt and underwear and he’s wearing nothing but boxers.
Sam turns, wrapping her arms around his waist, locking her hips against his, rubbing against him. “Residual,” she whispers against his mouth.
“Sam,” he groans, his arms falling to his side, forehead resting against hers. “You’re killing me here with this hot and cold shit.”
“I mean it this time,” she whispers. “No stopping. No what if’s. I want this. I want you.”
Dean bends and lays the gun flat on the floor. His hands cover her face, slanting it, kissing her mouth open under his until her knees weaken. Dean turns her against the wall, hand sliding down her leg and pulling it up against him, pushing his groin against her. She breaks away from his mouth and gasps, the friction delicious. Sam feels heavy down there, ripe and wet. Dean pulls her arms up over her head and locks them in his fist, his cock falling out his boxers and grinding into her, against her panty covered clit. He’s kissing her mouth, her neck, and the soft spot just behind her ear until she can’t take it anymore and she shakes against him, coming hard.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs against her the side of her mouth, “come for me.”
He releases her hands, fingers gliding down her sides, tickling her, pulling her t-shirt up and over her head. She instinctively tries to cover herself, but he catches the backs of her hands in his own.
“Don’t,” he says. “You’re beautiful in the moonlight.”
“Shut up,” she says, breaking one hand free to punch against his bare shoulder.
He smiles a feral grin, making her heart skip a beat. “So it’ll be like that, huh?” He picks her up, legs around his waist and dumps her down on the sleeping bags, covering her body with his own. With two fingers sliding down her body he’s got her moaning again, spreading her legs for him, lifting herself off the floor, craving him deep inside.
Kissing down her stomach, tonguing her belly button, he ducks below the edge of her panties, fingers seeking and finding her hot and wet. “Oh, Sam,” he moans, pulling his hands up and sucking his fingers into his mouth. “God, you taste so good.”
He pulls her underwear down her legs and tosses them into the corner. He kisses her hip bones, the inside of her thighs, his hot breath on her slit making her moan in anticipation. Propping herself on her elbows, she watches the top of his head dip lower, almost coming off the sleeping bag when his tongue touches her there. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, head dropping back and staring at the ceiling. He’s talented.
With one hand, he presses her back down onto the floor, pushing her legs up, spreading them as far as he can, eating her pussy like a gourmand. He’s licking her clit with a rhythmic motion, tongue waving against it and for the second time, she coming hard, burying her hand in his hair, fisting it, grabbing tight to keep her from falling off the earth. Dean slowly licks her down, kissing back up her body and resting beside her on the bag. She twitches, aftershocks rocking through her like electric currents.
“Have you, since Louisiana?” he whispers.
Suddenly shy, she covers her face with her hands for a moment. Biting her bottom lip, she lets them fall and stares up into his face, shaking her head.
He’s so fucking beautiful when he gives her a little soft smile. “Good.”
Taking her hand in his, he guides her to his hard cock, wrapping her fingers around it. It’s soft like velvet. She moves her hand up and down slowly, loving the way his eyes close at her touch. “I'll make it good,” he says, leaning down and nuzzling her neck. “I promise. If you let me, I’ll make sure you’ll never hurt again.”
He’s asking for so much more then what he’s saying. He’s asking for the sun and the moon and the stars.
And for tonight, she’ll give it to him.
And just because, Jay Sean's Down