Word Count: 8850 words
Rating: Adult or NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. I just like to take them out and play with them every once in awhile.
Author's Note: Thanks to krisomniac and liebesdammerung for their tireless and oh, so patient beta work. Both of you are awesome and helped me so much in bringing this story up from the depths.
Summary: “It feels safe here,” she says, staring out towards the trees on the edge of the property. “No ghosties in the attic, no beasties lurking in the woods. We’re like a normal family.”
Feedback is loved.
He likes to watch her when she’s unaware.
She’s walking up the back porch steps, golden skin glistening with sweat. It’s August and heavy humidity causes the air to shimmer and ripple in the distance. There’s a cold beer by his hand, sweat sliding down the brown bottle and staining the gray concrete lip of the brick porch rail. He acts engrossed in the research he’s doing, but really he's watching her. She sinks into the porch swing, tucking one long leg under the other, resting her chin on her folded knee. She absently rubs a scar on her shin and he wonders if what she’d taste like: salt or vanilla.
He watches her full lips as she soundlessly conjugates Latin verbs before bending over to grasp a book of scientific theories and principles lying open under her. Just a little light reading on a lazy Saturday afternoon, as far as she’s concerned. He wonders where she got that big brain of hers. Maybe Mom’s people, cause he and Dad sure ain’t no rocket scientists.
Sam could be if she wants and he shakes his head. He doesn’t like to think about her leaving them, leaving him, even though he knows it’s inevitable. Sam’s meant for more than the family business. He gets up and settles down beside her on the swing, watching her long brown leg as it curves beneath them.
Without looking at him, she takes his hand and weaves her fingers with his. Her thumb brushes the skin of his hand and an electric shock courses through him. He clears his throat. “You all done with that Shi-Shi stuff?”
“Tai Chi, Dean,” she says, reaching over him and grabbing his beer, sliding the cool glass along her forehead. “You should try it, it’s very relaxing. I meditate while doing it. It helps me clear my head.”
“Naw, I’ll stick with PT and weight training."
She shrugs her shoulders and looks down at the beer label. “I thought you were trying to not to drink so much when Dad’s gone.”
He looks up and smiles at her and she waits until bringing the bottle halfway to her mouth before smiling back.
“So maybe I’m suffering a relapse. You can have it,” he says, striving to keep his voice casual.
“Seriously?" She brings the bottle down from her mouth and rests it between her breasts.
He smiles again, watching her from beneath his lashes. “Seriously. Just go get me another one.”
She jumps up and hurries into the house, the ancient screen door slamming behind her. The loss of warmth from her hand strikes him more than he thinks possible. He was fifteen the first time he got drunk, and she’s a year past due. He sighs and puts the books aside. She hips open the screen and hands him another beer.
Yesterday, there was a boy in the restaurant staring at her while she looked over the menu and when she noticed, her entire body language changed. It was like watching her during a hunt, every one of her senses becoming more alert. To Dean, her every movement became more sensual, languid. Something deep inside of him tightened, watching her casually puff up her hair, pulling it to the side, exposing her long white throat and the curve of her shoulder to the boy. Her hair hid the smile playing on her lips when the boy loudly cleared his throat.
“Did you like him?”
She chokes on a swallow of beer and sputters, “What?”
“That boy watching you at dinner yesterday. Did you like him?”
“I didn’t think you saw that. I don’t know. Maybe.” She sighs and pulls her long hair from the elastic band, and a whiff of lemon floats over him. He’d used the last of the shampoo, and she’d been forced to use dish detergent. “Maybe it was just nice to know someone thought I was pretty.”
“You are pretty, Sam.”
Sam smiles, her tongue peeking between her teeth. She puts her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Dean.”
“You want me to drive you back there tomorrow?”
“No!" She jerks her head up and starts winding her hair into a messy knot; wet tendrils spiral into curls around her ears and at the nape of her neck.
“You’re joking, right? He’s not my type. Besides, you’d kill him if he touched me. Remember what you did to that kid Mark last year?”
This time he pushes off the concrete with his foot, sending the back of the swing flying and crashing into the window sill behind them. “True, that.”
She throws her head back and laughs, flecks of white paint raining onto the porch. “See? You can’t even swing without resorting to violence and I don’t wish the poor kid bodily harm just because,” she pauses and glances over at him. “He seemed to like me. Besides, nothing would ever come of it, so I guess I was just, I don't know, playing with him.”
He swallows a large pull of beer before speaking. “Why don’t you think anything would ever come of it?”
She snorts and a startled bird shoots out from the evergreen tree alongside the porch. “You and Dad will never let me date someone from town, no wait. You and Dad will never let me date anyone. Period. Then I’d have to sneak around and I hate being dishonest."
“You don’t have a dishonest bone in your body, Sam.”
She looks over at him, a sly expression crossing her face. “You think? I didn’t say I couldn’t lie, Dean. I just said I didn’t like it.”
“When did you ever lie?”
“Never. Forget it, okay?”
“So if Mr. All-American hero from last night isn’t your type, what is?”
She leans her head back and stares at him for a moment before answering. “I like the bad boys, I guess, the ones with a bit of hardness to them, the ones who like to fight and drink and save lives. I like men who can hustle pool and cards and swindle a few hundred dollars and kick some ass if it needs to be done.”
“So in other words, someone like Dad.”
“Yeah,” she says and gives him a look he doesn’t quite know how to interpret. “Someone just like Dad. And since the old man’s not here, you'll have to do."
She’s teasing, but still he smiles and pulls her folded leg out and up onto his thigh. He rubs at the arch of her foot and she squirms in pleasure. “Will you paint my toenails?”
He pushes her foot off of his lap. “No.”
She reaches under the swing, t-shirt riding up her bare back, her fingers stretching for the small bottle of red polish. “Come on, please? I’m horrible at it. I’ll get it all over everything. Pretty please? I’ll be your slave for the rest of the night if you do.”
Dean wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Fine. Give me your damn foot.”
“You’re going to do it?” she asks, laughing. She puts her foot back into his lap, toes very close to his denim-covered crotch.
Instead of answering, he curls his body over her foot and runs his fingers softly up the arch. She shivers and leans back against the swing cushions. “I like this house,” she says, her voice soft as Dean runs the wand over her big toenail, red blossoming in the small square. “I’ll miss it when we’re gone.”
“Why? We’ve only been here a week,” he says, moving onto the little piggy that stayed home.
“It feels safe here,” she says, staring out towards the trees on the edge of the property. “No ghosties in the attic, no beasties lurking in the woods. We’re like a normal family.”
Dean glances over at the Glock and sawed-off shotgun near his abandoned chair. “We’ll never be a normal family, Sam."
“I know,” she says, her voice sharp as a knife. “Don’t you think I know?” Her voice rises an octave and birds stop chirping in the trees. “Sometimes I like to pretend, okay?”
He looks up at her, but her face is turned away. He drops his eyes back down to her toes, his fingertips gliding over the soft skin. She’s never been ticklish on her feet, but she shifts and sighs with pleasure against his fingers running over the tender bits in between her toes. “This place is supposed to be haunted, you know that right?”
“Yeah, I thought you knew. I guess that’s what you get for zoning out when the old man talks. Only reason Dad was able to get the place cheap was because of the reputation. Man, he’s pissed nothing’s happened yet.”
She smiles and his heart constricts just a bit. “Guess that’s why he took off solo. What happened here?”
“Don’t know much yet. All the stories start with ‘about fifty years ago’. The recurring themes have been suicides and murder, though."
Sam laughs. “You sound excited by the prospect.”
“Of course I am! I checked in town yesterday for newspaper articles, but there aren’t many written records on the place. Dad thinks something must have been covered up,” he says.
“Speaking of which, aren’t you going to town soon?”
Dean finishes polishing the toes on her one foot and motions for the other. “Not tonight.”
She nods her head, taking a drink from her bottle. It’s almost gone. “Oh, yes. You mustn’t charm all the ladies every night. Give the good old boys who actually live in this town a chance.”
Dean arches an eyebrow and looks up. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She waves a hand in front of her face, shooing away an errant mosquito. “You’re hot. I see the way they look at you. All it takes is smile and five minutes of your full attention, and you’ve got them on their backs, legs spread. You storm into town and they see a GQ or Calvin Klein model and you treat them like shit.”
“Huh,” is all he says, his fingers pausing over her toes. If only she knew how rarely he let someone take him home. He has a type, all right, even though he’s been trying to deny it for months. Her type: tall and leggy, with sun-streaked brown hair that curls in the Louisiana heat and firm, apple sized breasts. He wonders what she’d say if she knew sometimes he imagines it’s her when he pushes into the others from behind. Wonders what she’d do if she knew how hard it is not to say her name when he comes, his mouth open and breath harsh on the backs of their necks.
Thunder rumbles omniously from the west. Off in the distance a threatening dark mass of clouds is rolling in, lightning weaving from one looming cloud to another. The air has grown very still, the sounds of the birds silenced.
“Storm coming,” Sam says, draining the rest of the beer. Lighting crackles and the smell of ozone surrounds them. “Do you want to stay out here and watch or go inside?”
Dean finishes his beer and sets the empty down on the table next to the swing. “We can stay out here and watch the rain. But you need to go inside and get us more beer, woman.”
Sam stands up and slightly stumbles. “Whoa,” she says, a wide smile breaking out on her face, grasping Dean’s shoulder with her hand. “This is a new feeling. I think I’m buzzed.”
“You like it?” Dean asks. She releases his shoulder and turns to go into the house.
She stops and brings a hand up to her forehead, smiling wryly. She turns to look at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”
“Best go drag out the cooler then."
She giggles and flirts when she’s drunk, or tipsy, as she likes to say.
He thinks it’s sexy as hell. There are three empties on her side of the swing and she’s pulled her hair free from its elastic band. Without thinking, he wraps his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her close, massaging the kinks from her muscles. She sighs, her breath raising goose pimples along his skin. She rests her head on his shoulder.
She laughs and pokes and it takes every ounce of his willpower to keep his hands off her. She asks him questions about his first kiss and the first time he ever had sex, and before he realizes it, she’s gotten him hard. She wants to know what it felt like the first time he slid his cock into a pussy, and damn if the girl isn’t drunk enough she used those exact words.
“It felt like Heaven. All soft, moist and tight at the same time,” he answers, noticing with the next lighting flash her face has reddened, either from the beer or the conversation, he doesn’t know. “And when I moved, I thought my brain was gonna explode. And then, two strokes later, I did.”
“You did not!”
He puts his hand over his heart. “I did. I couldn’t help myself. I made it up to her though. ”
Sam covers her mouth with the back of her hand and belches. “How many have…?”
“How many what?”
“God, I don’t know. Twenty or so?”
She throws her head back and laughs. “You don’t even know?”
“I don’t keep a running tally of notches on my bedpost, if that’s what you’re asking, Sam.”
She nods her head and glances out towards the lawn, the rain beginning to fall in soft nickel sized plops. Her face is scrunched up in concentration, and then she sighs, the sky opening up and rain pours down.
“One,” she says, bringing the beer up to her lips and taking a long pull. She’s still not accustomed to the taste and she grimaces and makes a 'yuck' face.
“Twenty or so is your magic number. Mine is one.”
His body stiffens. “Wait, what?" His brain refuses to comprehend what she’s just shared. She’s had sex? Some asshole put his hands on her body, pushed his dick into her? And she thinks she can just volunteer that information like they’re buddies or something? White hot heat of rage courses through him and he tries to rationalize his response. He knows the reason he’s mad isn’t rational, but he doesn’t care.
“Are you telling me you let some dirt bag fuck you?" A sudden thin chill hangs on the edge of his words.
Sam flinches as if he slapped her. “He wasn’t a dirt bag. At the time, he was my boyfriend.”
“Was it Mark? That snot nosed little shit I caught kissing you that night? Was he the one who fucked you? I knew I should have killed him when I had the chance. Or was it someone else? How could you let some piece of shit touch you like that? What the fuck, Sam?” He swipes his empty bottles on the table beside the swing and they crash loudly to the concrete porch. She jerks her legs up onto the swing, narrowly missing getting her feet slashed.
“Stop!" Sam cries. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?” He yells.
“Like you’re jealous or something!” she screams back and then she stops, her mouth opening and closing, staring up at him. The skin around her eyes tightens and she narrows her eyes. “You are,” she breathes, throwing her empty beer bottle at him. He doesn’t flinch away when the glass connects with his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. It falls and smashes to the ground. “You son of a bitch. What right do you have to be jealous of me? What about all those trailer park and bar whores you fuck? Do I ever try and prevent you from going out and having a good time? Who the hell are you to try and teach me about morality?”
“Fuck that noise, Sam. This isn’t about morals. This is about you and me. This is about you lying, too--you should have told me.”
“And then what? You want to be my best friend? You want me to giggle and tell you how good it felt?" She rises up on her knees, the swing and steel chains swaying above her.
“You want me to give you a blow by blow of what happened?”
He moves forward without thinking, grasping her wrist and pulling her hard towards him. She falls against him; hand tight on his upper arm to keep from tumbling down onto the broken glass. He cradles her face in his hand and one swift movement, lowers his mouth to hers.
He kisses her hard, lips moving over hers, ignoring her wide open eyes. She’s responding, mouth opening so he can dart his tongue inside and finally taste what he’s been craving for so long.
Suddenly she twists and arches her back, pushing him away.
“What was that?” she gasps, the blood draining from her face. He drops his hand from her wrist, his brows drawing together in surprise, staring at her red skin beginning to bruise.
She holds up her hand to either ward him or his words off. “Don’t,” she whispers.
“I don’t know!" Lightning flashes over head and a crash of thunder shakes the house. She’s breathing fast, chest rising and falling with every expiration. “I don’t know. Get away from me, Dean.”
“And go where?”
She laughs. It’s harsh over the thunder chasing the lightning above. “I don’t care. Anywhere. Just get away from me right now.”
She stares off the porch, legs pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes unfocus until her vision fills with the dark outline of the trees in the distance. She runs her fingers slowly over her swollen lips.
All her life, all she’s ever wanted was to be normal.
Sam wants a cookie cutter life. She wants the home cooked meals and chores around the house. She wants the National Honor Society in just one freaking school and the debate club. She wants to run track and cheerlead and all the things she’s never been able to have because they move all the time.
It’s always been the same wish, no matter how many candles she’s blown out or falling stars she’s seen. It’s just never come true.
It shouldn’t be like this, she thinks. They’re not normal. She shouldn’t know the things she does. At sixteen, no one should see what she’s seen. She shouldn’t know what it feels like to have her father’s hot blood gushing over her fingers, desperately trying to keep him alive after a werewolf hunt. She shouldn’t know the hundred different ways she can kill a man with just her bare hands. Are there any other girls in the world who know mythical creatures are real and can hurt, even kill?
She should be like other girls, spending her summer working at a crappy minimum wage job and waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up afterwards. There should be parties to go to and drugs to experiment with, not military drills and weapons training. Her father should work a crappy nine to five job, come home and sit in an easy chair, and watch the news or read the newspaper. He shouldn’t be quiet and hard and constantly mourning for a wife taken away prematurely.
He should be proud when she brings home straight A report cards and glowing recommendations from her teachers, not tired and distracted. He should be helping her plan her future, discussing college degrees and scholarship information.
Instead, she’s doing it alone. Oh, Dean would do what he could to help, if she asked. But he’d moan and sulk about keeping it from the old man. The one time she brought up Stanford, her college of choice, his eyes had grown distant. He didn’t want her to leave either.
Now she knows why.
Their life is fucked up.
Yet at the same time, she’s wondering why she stopped him. It felt better than good, his mouth on hers. If she’s being honest with herself, she knows it’s the best kiss she’s ever had. The few other times have been with boys her age, wet, sloppy kisses stolen after school or in the dim basements of classmates.
Heat rushed from Dean's touch, tightening the skin around her breasts and raising her nipples. Even now they ache and she closes her eyes and moans, imagining Dean’s hot mouth enclosing them, sucking them in. One kiss and he’s gotten her wet.
She isn’t blind, she knows he’s hot. She thinks he’s hot. And yeah, when she was thirteen and she read that stupid Flowers in the Attic book she used to fantasize about him. Even used to masturbate to the idea of the two of them having sex, but she thought that was behind her, that it was just a silly hormonal crush.
With a sigh of resignation, she realizes it’s only just begun.
She rubs her hands over her face, trying to shake off the buzz enveloping her body. Why did she ever think it was a good idea to drink beer? Brown glass glitters under her feet, another flash of lightning illuminating the porch. “Aw, crap,” she says, realizing there’s no way she’s going to be able to get out of that swing without cutting the bottom of her feet. “Dammit, Dean!"
He must be in the kitchen; she can hear the sounds of shattering glass echoing throughout the house. Maybe after he’s smashed everything breakable he’ll storm out of the house, the Impala keys tight in his fist. He’ll drive until his head clears, or maybe he’ll go to town and drink cheap whiskey and find a girl to fuck.
You’ll stop him if he tries, the little voice in her head whispers. You want him to finish what he started.
“Oh fuck,” she whispers, dropping her forehead to her knees.
The porch door slams and she jumps, swinging her head to the right. Goose pimples break out all along her skin and her exhaled breath fogs in a plume before her. Then the front door slams open again and a young man who is definitely not Dean runs out, grabbing the arm of the girl who wasn’t there a moment ago.
“I have to leave!” The girl cries, the boy pulling her to his chest. “He’ll kill you if he finds me here.”
His hands move up and cradle her face. “I love you, Josie. Why can’t that be enough?”
Sam gasps, a shiver of panic threatening to overtake her. She’s never encountered a time slip before. She’s heard of them, even read first-hand accounts in her research, but she’s never known anyone who experienced one. Where just a second ago a storm was raging, the sun is shining over head and the trees in the distance are smaller. Instead of a swing she’s sitting on a long bench and painted planks cover the floor of the porch below her bare feet.
“I can’t, Jack.”
“You can! We can leave here, right now! I’ve got my car parked by the road. We’ll run away together and we’ll run until we find a place where no one knows us. Listen to me. No one will know us. We’ll get married. We just need--”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Nowhere, Daddy,” Josie says, backing away from Jack. An older, taller man comes around the side of the house and up the steps. Jack spins around and puts himself in front of her, holding his arms out to protect her. For the first time, Sam gets a clear look at the girl’s face. She’s been beaten. The skin around her left eye is black, the lid swollen and red. Dark bruises color her cheekbone and neck.
“Didn’t think I knew, did you? You think I’m blind? You waited for me to go into my office to write my sermon before sneaking over here.”
“No, Daddy. I swear.”
“Don’t you talk back to me, Josephine! You git on home, I’ll deal with you later.”
“Reverend Porter,” the man, Jack, begins.
“You shut your mouth, boy. You put your filthy hands on her,” he cries. “You ruined her. You defiled my angel and brought Satan into our lives. "
Time shifts and there’s a long shiny, knife in the reverend’s hand. It rises above his head and he plunges it deep into Jack’s chest. Sam covers her mouth with her hands and cries out in horror. The knife falls again and again, slashing until the boy tumbles to the boards.
Josie screams, a long mournful wail, dropping to the planks by the boy, her blouse and face splattered in blood.
And then someone’s shaking her. Sam gasps and time slips back.
“Sam?” Dean asks, grasping both of her upper arms. “Sammy, SAM!”
She blinks and nods, her eyes filling with tears.
“You screamed and then you weren’t breathing. Oh, God. Don’t do that to me again, you hear?” he says, shaking her, his boots crunching on the glass beneath the swing. He kicks aside a cast iron frying pan, pulling her into his arms. He turns around in one fluid motion and she’s in his lap. He smoothes the hair away from her forehead and holds her to his chest. She sobs against it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean chants, rocking her.
“Don’t,” Sam says, fighting for control and Dean tightens his arms around her. “Don’t say sorry.” She tries for normalcy, ignoring the feel of Dean’s arms around her. “What were you gonna do with the frying-"
Whatever else she’s going to say is lost when she’s shoved violently from Dean’s embrace and thrown to ground. She screams, something grabbing handfuls of hair and dragging her through the broken glass. Her hands and feet fight for traction on the shards and concrete. It pulls her up and slams her against the brick wall.
“Sam!" Dean shouts, diving for the shotgun, but it’s useless against the invisible fiend wrapping strong fingers around her throat.
She stares at Dean, her fingers scrambling against her neck, trying to fill her lungs with air. “No!” she chokes, Dean swinging the gun around until it’s pointing at her. He throws it aside and grabs the frying pan. Sam’s vision grows dim around edges and stars explode behind her eyes. Blackness is closing in when suddenly the air in front of her whooshes to the side and the pressure releases. She gasps for air and sinks to the ground, hands wrapping around her bruised neck.
Dean kneels in front of her, dropping the cast iron frying pan to the side. One hand is on her face and the other checking over the numerous bleeding cuts covering her legs and torso. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, his scared eyes meeting hers and in a flash, it all comes clear.
They’re so very fucked.
“Guess the place is haunted after all,” she rasps before letting her head fall to her knees. “I need a drink.”
Dean hands her the bottle of Jack Daniels and she anchors it between her thighs on the closed toilet seat. There isn’t any part of her body not throbbing or stinging. He blots iodine on one of the deeper cuts on her back and she hisses in pain. “This one won't stop bleeding, I think I’m gonna have to stitch it,” Dean says, getting up and reaching for the make-shift medical kit above the sink.
She nods and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The Jack’s going down hard, but it’s starting a fire in her belly that’s slowly spreading out along her limbs. “What about the others?" She asks, glancing down at the streaks of dried blood running down her arms and legs.
“I think this one’s the worst of them.”
“Sam,” Dean says, looking down at her. She tilts her head, wishing he wasn't her brother. “I’m sorry about before. If I hadn’t gotten so pissed the glass wouldn’t have been there and you wouldn’t have been cut.”
She nods. “I still would have gotten slammed against the wall and throttled though,” she says with a slight smile. Dean’s mouth tightens. Wow, she thinks, he’s pretty. No wonder he’s always getting ass.
“What?" Dean asks.
Sam brings the bottle up to her lips and takes a healthy swallow. Funny, it doesn’t seem to burn much going down anymore. “What?" She asks, blinking and staring at his eyelashes. It isn’t fair he inherited the thick, long ones.
Hmm. I wonder if something else is thick and long, she giggles.
“You mumbled something about me getting ass. Jesus, I think you’re drunk." He pulls the needle from the case and flicks the Bic lighter to sterilize it. He threads the needle and gently pushes her to the side so he can get to the cut. “This is going to hurt.”
“Yeah, like it doesn’t already,” and then her breath hisses out between her teeth as he stabs the needle into her skin. “What the fuck Dean? You wanna take it easy back there?"
“Take another swig of Jack,” he says from behind her. She drops her head onto her arms resting on the sink, the bottle dangling from her fingers. “Jesus! How long is the cut? A fucking mile?”
“Will you shut up and stop being such a freaking baby?" Dean says. “What the hell happened out there, Sam?”
She opens her eyes and stares down at the worn linoleum of the bathroom. “I think I fell into a time slip,” she says, and the needle pauses. “One minute I was sitting out there on the swing watching the rain and the next thing I know I’m in the middle of something crazy out there on the front porch.”
“What was it?”
“Murder,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at Dean. Damn, he’s got a pretty mouth. I wonder what he’d do if I leaned over and kissed him. Well, duh, she thinks. He kissed me first.
“Will you finish sewing me up please? I saw a couple arguing out on the porch and I think from their clothing, your stories were right, it was about fifty years ago. The boy-- Jack! His name was Jack,” her voice rises, struggling not to flinch away from the needle. “He wanted Josie - that was the girl - ow, fuck! That was the girl he was arguing with. He wanted her to run away with him. Someone beat the shit out of her, Dean.”
“I’m almost done here.”
“Oh, thank you God,” Sam says, her head falling onto her arms again. “It must have been her father who beat her. Jack was trying to convince her to run away with him when her father comes around the house with this big ass butcher knife and then he murdered Jack." Sam’s breath hitches and catches in her throat and this time it has nothing to do with the pain of stitches. “He stabbed him…so many times, Dean,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “Right in front of me and there was nothing I could do.”
“Hey. Hey Sammy,” Dean turns her around so she’s looking down at him. “We’ll get the fucker that did this to you, okay?"
“I know. Jack called him Reverend Porter, her father. He’s the one that murdered him. We have to find his grave, Dean.”
Something heavy crashes in the other room at her words.
Dean jumps up and leaves the small bathroom, grabbing the shotgun leaning against the doorjamb. Sam limps behind him. He stops so suddenly at the entrance of the living room, she slams into his back. He reaches behind her and slides his arm around her waist, pulling her against him. She curves into him, grateful for his strength.
All the furniture in the room has been upended, the couch cushions slashed. Even as they watch, something pulls the heavy bookshelves from the walls and smashes the wooden shelves. “Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes.
Dean hands her the shotgun and grabs the metal can of salt from the dining room table. He salts the doorways and all of the window sills in the room, dodging books and lamps as they fire like projectiles at his head. He jumps back over the salt line and Sam watches something flicker and push the broken furniture aside after her brother. It hits the invisible barrier and the air around the doorway ripples.
Afterwards, they sit across from one another at the kitchen table, Sam going over everything she saw during the time slip. Tomorrow, they decide, they’ll track down Reverend Porter's grave and they’ll salt and burn his bones. “Until then,” Dean says with a slight smile, “we’ve got a ghost trapped in the living room.”
Sam purses her lips together and makes that face that always makes Dean laugh. “Wish I could say it was the first time.”
They both silently turn their heads and watch the ghost continue to destroy the room.
“We need… I need to find out what happened to Josie and Jack,” Sam says, and Dean nods.
“Why now?" Dean wonders aloud. “What was the trigger that set it off?”
Sam shivers. “I think it was us.”
“Us?” Dean asks. “Why?”
“You know why,” she says, getting up from the table. “If I call you Chris, will you call me Cathy?”
Dean stares up at her, baffled.
She stands above him and before she thinks too hard leans down and kisses him soft on the mouth. “Forget it. I’m drunk. I need to take a shower and go to bed.”
He can’t help it.
He thinks about her while she’s in the shower, imagining her long fingers caressing the soap, bubbles and suds running over her body, the water rippling in little streams down her skin. Her fingers will disappear into the triangle of curls hiding her cunt and he’ll wish her fingers were his mouth. His mouth waters at the thought of spreading her open and tasting her.
He wants to creep up the stairs and open the bathroom door, the noise of the water masking the squeak of hinges. He’ll undress slowly, his cock hard and wanting when he pushes his jeans down to his ankles. Then he’ll pull back the curtain and watch her back arch as she pushes her head under the spray, her long wet hair a dark stripe down her back. He’ll wrap his arms around her slick middle and pull her towards him roughly, his erect cock sliding between her thighs and rubbing against her pussy lips. She’ll gasp in surprise and squirm in his arms, but he’ll kiss her full mouth, his tongue darting into duel with hers.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he’ll whisper into her mouth and she’ll groan in pleasure, his fingers grasping her ass cheek and squeezing. He’ll lift her leg in one motion and push deep inside her with another. “You’re mine, Sam. Don’t you ever forget it.”
A heavy book flies from the living room and crashes against the kitchen table, interrupting his wet daydream. Above him, the shower turns off and he follows her progress down the hall to her room by the way the floor creaks above.
Elbows on the table, he rests his head on his hands, listening to the sound of her door closing. He’s tired.
And he’s in love with his sister.
Dean doesn’t remember when it began, this constant want. And to be honest, he doesn’t really care. He wonders sometimes if he’s possessed or if something put a spell on him, but the one thing he never feels is shame.
For the first time in a long time, he finally feels like he’s doing something right.
“Good mornin’, Sunshine. Up and at ‘em.”
She groans, and Dean imagines the jackhammer in her head pounding as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her hand flails above her body and he catches it, giving it a gentle pull. “Don’t,” she moans. “I’m gonna puke if you make me sit up.”
Dean chuckles low in his throat. “Let’s go. We got hunting to do. I wanna torch some bones.”
“Don’t wanna go,” she whines. “Don’t make me. Leave me here so I can die in peace.”
He sits down beside her and the bedsprings squeal. His hand drifts under her t-shirt and strokes the soft skin of her back. He glances at the stitches along her side, checking for swelling and redness. He's relieved when he sees none. “How’s that bottle of Jack tasting now, little sister?”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah well, I’m proud of you Sammy,” he said, pulling his hand from her back and slapping her firm ass. “You didn’t even cry when I stitched you up." He gets up, giving the bed a slight shove with his knee. She groans again. “Let’s go. That ghost is still trapped in the living room. I’d like to have him gone by the time Dad comes home late tonight.”
“You knew? You knew Dad was coming home tonight and you still let me drink last night?”
“I didn’t let you do anything. You grabbed the bottle of Jack and drank half of it down before I started cleaning your wounds.”
“We were out of beer. And I’d just been attacked by a ghost. Why didn’t you stop me?"
Dean shrugs, running a hand over his sleep-twisted hair. “Damage was already done. Besides you're a cute drunk."
She rolls over onto her side, pulling her legs up to her chest. His mouth goes dry, her shorts pulling down and the shadow of her butt cleft peeks into view. “I was cute?”
“Oh, yes. Yes you were,” he chuckles and tries to pull the sheet from her prone body. She grabs it as it slips down below her hip, showing her long, lean torso and the slice in her skin marred by black thread. “Don’t you remember asking me to kiss your boo-boos?”
Sam rolls over and hangs her head off the side of the bed, her long hair brushing against the floor. “I didn’t. Please tell me I didn’t,” she whispers.
Dean kneels down beside her and tucks his fingers under her chin, pulling her face up. Looks her straight in her blood-shot eyes. “You didn’t. But would it be such a terrible thing if you did?”
She opens her mouth and closes it a few times until he runs his thumb over her bottom lip. “Go back to sleep for another hour or two. I was only messing with you."
He's just about the leave her room when she asks, “Why?”
Dean turns around, his hand tightening on the door jamb “Why was I messing with you?”
“No. Why did you kiss me?”
He searches her face for a moment, finally deciding to tell the truth. Her face is so open, so beautiful. “I wanted to.”
Heat shimmers above the blacktop as they cruise along the road into town, hot air blowing through the car and rendering conversation impossible. Sam stares out the open window of the Impala, her hair whipping in a maelstrom of fury around her head. They pass sugar cane and tobacco fields, stalks rustling and dancing in the wake of the car. Dean’s got an old Pat Benatar tape in the player, just for her. She looks over at him and smiles as he sings along.
“Life is too short, so why waste precious time…oh, life is too short, so why waste precious time…”
His fingers bounce on the steering wheel in time with the beat, his arm long and muscular in his faded gray t-shirt. Instantly, she wonders what it would feel like to have those fingers on her, in her.
Oh, boy. This line of thought needs to stop like, right now.
Dean sings, “Cut it out… drop it… count me out… baby stop it! Life is too short, so why waste precious time. Life is too short, so why waste precious time!”
“You’re such a dork,” she says when the song ends.
He looks over at her in surprise. “Yeah, well, you’re a geek.”
“Ah. At least I’m a pretty geek.”
“Well then, I’m a hot dork.”
Sam slowly shakes her head, considering it. “Nope, you’re just a dork.”
She smiles at him, glad for his fool-proof hangover remedy. Four aspirin and two hours later, she feels downright normal. Of course, the greasy egg and bacon sandwiches he made for breakfast didn’t hurt either.
“You know what I love about Louisiana?" Dean says, turning the Impala into a parking space in front of the town library.
“Well, yeah. There's some amazing food. But I’m talking about the town names: Slaughter, Independence, and Convent. Hell, there’s even a Sulphur--”
“Dean, I’ve been thinking,” Sam says, cutting him off and staring at the small brick library, her fingers pulling her hair back into a respectable pony tail. “You’ve already checked the town records for information on the house, right?”
Sam turns her head and looks at the large steeple of the church across the street, winding a cheap scarf around her bruised neck. “What if we try to find the person instead?”
Sam nods, opening the car door. It creaks and moans as she slides around it, shutting it carefully. Dean walks around the car to stand by her. “How many churches are in this joint?"
Sam glances down one side of the street and counts two steeples. She turns her head and counts three more down the other side. “Too damn many, and that’s just the ones on Main Street. Let’s grab a phone book and check.”
They're four churches down before they finally hit pay dirt. Pastor Thomas of the First Baptist didn't remember anything about a Reverend Porter, but the man who cleans the church overheard and stopped them before they leave.
He remembers Reverend Porter from when he was a child. “He was fanatical man,” the caretaker says, changing the altar cloths. “My mother knew him when she was a child, said he was a wild, mean kid. She was glad when he moved away to attend college. Then fifteen years later he returns with his family, saying he’s a changed man and starting up a Holy Roller evangelist church right outside of town. My family went to a few services until he started preaching that his daughter was the second coming of Mary.”
“What happened to him?" Sam asks, shoving her hands into the front pocket of her jeans. She feels woefully underdressed for the inside of a church.
“Died,” the cleaning man says.
“Was he murdered?” Sam asks.
“Oh, no. Heart attack on the back porch of the Monroe house not long after his daughter ran off with his illegitimate son. Either way, both of those kids disappeared. Never seen again.”
Dean moves forward. “His son?”
“Jack Monroe. Turns out Reverend Porter had an affair with Molly Monroe before he left town. No one ever knew who Jack’s father was until his mother died. I guess it was her deathbed confession. But by then, it was too late. Those kids were in love. It was quite the scandal. Why ya’ll askin’ so many questions about the Porters and the Monroes?”
“We live in the Monroe house, sir and we found some stuff that got us curious is all." Sam smiles and the man smiles back, her easy grin charming him. “We’d like to pay our respects to Reverend Porter, if it’s not too much trouble. Where might we find his last resting place?”
“Not the happy ending you were hoping, huh?” Dean asks,walking alongside her back to the car.
Sam kicks a rock into the street, shaking her head, pulling the scarf free and rubbing the ring of bruises around her neck. “No. Jack was stabbed and my best guess is he strangled Josie to death. I hope the bastard suffered when he had his heart attack. He didn’t deserve a quick and easy death. ” She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, her mouth opening in a silent 'o'.
“I think I know where he buried the bodies,” she breathes when Dean stops and looks at her.
Dean smiles and says, “They’re under the porch, right?”
“Yeah. During my time slip I noticed the porch had a wooden floor. Now it’s concrete. I wonder if the Reverend filled the porch in before his heart attack or if it was done after he was dead. I’m almost positive our ghost isn’t Josie or Jack," she pauses. "I hope they’re together, wherever they are,” she sighs. “I guess we’ll find out when we salt and burn Reverend Porter’s bones.”
Sam waits until they’re back in the car before sighing and dropping her head to her hands.
“Are you all right?” Dean asks, before putting the key in the ignition.
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. This is so messed up, Dean. Even for us.”
He rolls down his window and Sam does the same. Its a million degrees in the car and it gives her an excuse to not look at him for a moment longer.
“What do you want to do?" He asks, turning the engine over. It comes to life, the rumble comforting and disconcerting all at once.
She answers without thinking. “I don’t know. Kiss again?”
Dean’s grin slowly widens. “I meant if you wanted to wait until dark to do Reverend Porter’s remains, but I’ll take kissing over the salt and burn job if that’s what you want.”
Sam groans and drops her head into her hands again. “You’ve got me all confused, Dean.”
The dip in the leather seat warns her before he slides in. Intense flares of want fill her belly as he gives her that slow, sultry grin of his. “It’s really not that hard a decision, Sam." His large hand cups her face, tilts her head up and in one forward motion, he presses his mouth to hers. Something gives deep inside, and she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him back with reckless abandon. Her senses reel as if short-circuited. This is Dean, and she‘s Sam and damn if it doesn’t feel good. Blood pounds in her brain, his hand cradling the back of her neck, entwining her hair around his fingers. His mouth opens and when his tongue touches hers, she jumps as if touched by an electric shock.
Dean’s mouth moves away from hers and she gasps, he's kissing down her neck and tonguing the hollow at the base of her throat. Sam wraps her arms around his neck, attempting to pull him on top of her. “We can’t do this here,” he says, bringing his head up and looking out the car windows. “Let’s go home.”
Ten miles feels like ten hours before Dean finally parks the car in the drive of their rented house. Sam gets out of the car and Dean swings out on her side, slamming the door and pulling her to him. His hands grab her denim covered ass, bringing her close enough to feel his erection through his jeans. He attacks her mouth as if she’s the air he needs to breathe in order to save himself from drowning. She whimpers, he's untucking her t-shirt and sneaking a hand up to cup her breast. His thumb tweaks a nipple and she gasps into his mouth.
She feels like she’s on fire.
He walks her backwards through the lawn and up the porch steps, never taking his mouth from hers. It’s as if he’s afraid if they stop for one moment, she’ll change her mind. Once in the kitchen, he pulls her shirt up over her head, his gaze falling onto her white bra. He ducks his head and mouths her nipple through the cotton and she runs her fingers through his hair with one hand while supporting herself on the table with the other. He fumbles with his belt until it falls to the floor, the loud clunk of it enraging the ghost in the living room.
Sam giggles and Dean looks up at her, pushing his jeans down. “What?”
“Nothing, really,” she says, taking in his tousled hair and swollen lips. “We’ve just still got a ghost trapped in the living room.”
“Let him listen. Sounds like the dick could have used a little loosening up." He undoes her jeans and pushes them down, Sam lifting the edge of his shirt and pulling it over his head. She wants skin. She needs to feel it, taste it, wants it next to hers. Kicking off her jeans, she undoes her bra strap, her mouth seeking his again. Moaning with need, she bites his lip hard and he retaliates by picking her up and dropping her on the kitchen table. He grabs her hips and pulls her to the edge, nudging her legs apart with his thighs.
“I can’t be gentle this time, Sam,” he pants, spreading her legs, cock hard and ready. She reaches down and he sucks in his breath. She wraps her hand around it, heavy and so velvety soft.
“I need a condom,” he groans, reaching for his pants, trying not to break contact with her. Fumbling with the wrapper, he slides it down his cock, his fingers dipping between her thighs. They feel so impossibly good brushing her clit and sliding inside of her.
Sam's got an ache, a fire and an itch and if he doesn’t fill it, put it out, scratch it, she’s going to scream with frustration.
“I’m ready,” she whispers, guiding him in and without warning, he goes hard into her. She arches her back as he takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. His hands wrap around her torso, pulling her close as possible, rocking in and out. She barely realizes his mouth has left her breasts and reclaims her tongue, giving herself up to the rhythm he set.
She moans at the delicious friction building between them and his hands and lips are everywhere. She can feel her heart, her pulse beating erratically, spreading her legs farther, bringing her knees higher, wanting him deeper, his fingers gently rubbing at her clit until she breaks and wave after wave of orgasm shakes her body. Dean thrusts once, twice, three times more until his own orgasm overtakes him.
Sam trembles, he's resting his forehead against hers, his breath and their hearts in perfect tune. He pulls her tight against him, kissing everywhere he can touch. “Love you,” he whispers. “Loved you forever.”
“Me too,” she whispers back. “Let’s go upstairs. I think the ghost can wait for a little while longer.”
Later that night, Sam awakens with a start, darkness flush against her bedroom windows. Dean’s arms are tight around her and his chest against her back. She’s sore in places she’s never thought possible. She smiles and curves deeper against him, ignoring the bangs and clatters from the first floor until the sound of the front door slamming brings her to a sitting position, the sheet falling away from her naked body. She pushes at Dean until he stumbles from the bed, his hands grasping for the same sheet she’s wrapping around her body.
“Go get in your own room.” Sam whispers, pulling the sheet from his hands. She should be horrified at the fear of getting caught, but she laughs at Dean struggling to pull up and button his jeans.
Silence, and then more crashing and the old man yelling up the stairs: “Sam? Dean? Either one of you want to tell me why the hell there’s a ghost trapped in the living room?”
It’s been that way ever since I can remember. I don’t remember much of the fire that killed my mom, but I do remember Dad pushing her into my arms and screaming at me to run.
So like I said, it’s been my life’s work to protect her.
I figure that means she belongs to me now.
Pat Benatar - Precious Time