fic: Beggars Would Ride: 1/5 (Supernatural; Dean/girl!Sam; AU)

[musesfool]

Title: Beggars Would Ride
Author: victoria p. [musesfool]
Summary: He tells himself that the line he's crossing can be redrawn, slightly over the edge into fucked up, and isn't that where they've been living anyway since Mom died?
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Disclaimer: so not mine
Notes: AU. Sam is and always has been a girl.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for enabling and brainstorming and handholding and betaing and everything else, far above and beyond the call of duty. I'd blame her for this, but I'm pretty sure it's mostly my fault (only mostly though). Thanks also to mousapelli, for taking on the monster and coming up victorious, to amberlynne, who put up with a lot of wibbling while I wrote, to oxoniensis and minim_calibre for giving it a good looking over, and to fleurdeleo and gem225 for previewing and encouraging. All remaining errors are my own.
Word count: 46,050
Date begun: November 18, 2006
Date posted: February 28, 2007

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue | Notes

Or you can read it in one long chunk here.

~*~

Beggars Would Ride

The glass of the windshield is warm against Dean's back, holding the heat from the day, and the May air is humid against his skin. He crosses his ankles carefully, making sure not to scuff his heels against the paint, and links his hands behind his head, getting comfortable.

Sam lies next to him, filmy white skirt tangled up around her thighs, long legs bare in the moonlight, feet flexing and pointing in time with whatever crappy pop song she's humming softly, like she's dancing even when she's flat on her back. She doesn't wear skirts often, and it makes seeing her legs now kind of weird, because he feels like maybe he shouldn't--it's more intimate somehow, which is stupid, because he's seen her in less more times than he can count. He looks up instead, so he doesn't have to think about it.

"Shooting star," he says, pointing. He doesn't believe in wishes, but sometimes he wishes he did, wishes he could give her whatever it is she wants and can't seem to find. Irony, he thinks, is a bitch.

"Ah," she breathes, eyes fluttering closed.

He shifts onto his side to look down at her--she's smiling so it lights up her face, dimples and all.

She opens her eyes and squirms a little, and he knows he's making her self-conscious. He remembers sixteen being full of the discomfort of people suddenly watching you when they'd never noticed you before. And knowing what he knows about teenage boys, it's got to be worse for girls.

"What?"

"What'd you wish for?" He doesn't know why he bothers to ask, braces himself for the litany of Why can't we be normal? and I hate hunting and every other complaint she's made since she was old enough to realize that their family's not like everyone else's.

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Can't tell."

"Come on, Sammy, you can tell me."

"Telling's against the rules," she says, shaking her head, as if she doesn't break the rules when it suits her. Or maybe it's just Dad's rules she doesn't worry about breaking, because she knows he'll always cover for her. "The wish won't come true if I tell."

It won't come true anyway, he almost says, but stops himself. She's old enough to know that, and stubborn enough not to care. Instead, he says, "Yeah, but telling me is just like telling yourself, right? You and me, we're two of a kind. No rules against that."

He can see her thinking about it, brow furrowed and mouth turned down, and then she says, "I'm sixteen and I've never been kissed."

He stares at her for a long moment, fiercely glad on the one hand, because she's too good for the grubby boys she goes to school with--and he knows what those boys want and what they'll do to get it--but shocked on the other, because she's Sam, and how can they not see how beautiful she is, how she shines like a light in the darkness?

She takes his silence and surprise the wrong way, words tumbling nervously out of her mouth. "We move around so much, I never get a chance to get to know anybody well enough--"

He doesn't even think about it, which is where his problems usually start. He just knows he's good at this, and he can teach her, make sure she knows what she's doing, make sure she learns to do it right. It's what he does, after all. He's taught her all the necessary things over the years, like how to read, how to pick a lock, how to bring down a werewolf from thirty yards away with one shot. Kissing really isn't any different--damn useful skill to have, really. And obviously, all the boys she knows are morons and can't be trusted with something this important.

And he hates to see that anxious look on her face, like she's done something wrong and isn't quite sure what it is or how to fix it, and he does whatever he can, whenever he can, to make sure she never feels that way at all.

So, he leans in and presses his lips to hers, which are warm and slightly parted. He doesn't do anything else at first, just breathes in her startled gasp, her sudden smile. She doesn't push him away, so he sucks gently at her lips, teasing them open, and she lets him in. He puts a hand on her cheek, can feel her trembling slightly as he licks into her mouth, sucks lightly at her tongue, which still tastes of chocolate from the Hostess cupcakes they had for dessert.

She reaches up, slides her fingers through his hair, holds him to her as she gets the idea, kissing him back with an eagerness that should surprise him, but doesn't.

He eases away, the voice in the back of his head that sounds remarkably like Dad yelling at him to protect his sister, that what he's doing now is wrong, but she cups his face and pulls him back down to kiss her again, and this time, she knows what she's doing. She's always been a fast learner, when she's interested in what he's got to teach. He nips at her lower lip and she makes a desperate little sound in the back of her throat, which sends a jolt of heat through him, changing this from an odd but pleasant experience into something more intense, something he wants.

She presses up against him and he can feel her heart beating like the wings of a caged bird trying to break free; his heart is doing the same. He kisses her back, tongue moving roughly over hers, learning the taste and texture of her mouth, because he's never been able to lie to her, never been able to say no, and now he wants it as much as she does, wants it in a way he's never wanted anything in his life.

He slides his mouth away from hers to kiss along her jaw, then down her throat as she tips her head back, dipping his tongue into the hollow between her collarbones, tasting sweat and soap and soft girl-skin, adding to his store of knowledge. He's the world's foremost expert on Sam Winchester, or so he'd thought until this moment, which is teaching him all sorts of new things about her, like the low moan she makes when he sucks on the spot just below her ear, and the supple, satiny feel of her skin beneath his fingers.

It's warm and soft and a little sloppy, and it's the most perfect thing ever, because it's him and Sam, and they go together like the twin barrels of his old shotgun. But when he runs his hand under her skirt and up her thigh, feeling the soft skin and the light down of hair she hasn't bothered to shave, hears her gasp at the touch, he realizes he has to stop, because it's him and Sam, and they're acting like something out of Flowers in the Attic.

"Sam," he says, his mouth against her ear, her name nothing more than a breath, because he's barely breathing, and he can't make himself move away just yet.

"It's okay." It's supposed to be reassurance but it sounds like a plea, and it burns.

"It's really not." His voice is low and rough. He swings his legs down, leans against the car with his back to her, trying to catch his breath.

"Dean, please. I wanted to." Her hands are on his shoulders, warm and strong, the nails trimmed neatly and painted bright blue. He can feel the humid warmth of her breath on the nape of his neck, ragged like she's just been out running, but he doesn't turn around. She huffs in exasperation. "You don't have to be such a girl about it," she says after the silence has started to make him itchy, and he's grateful for it, because a few more seconds of her quiet reproach, and he'd have had her spread out on the hood beneath him, and he needs to not think about that ever again. "It was just a kiss."

But they both know that's a lie, and the words sink like stones between them, ready to drag them under. He's almost willing to drown, and that scares him the most.

She sighs again and pulls away. He can hear her slide down off the hood and head back into the house.

Dean misses the weight of her hands on his shoulders, and the feel of her tongue in his mouth.

*

She sulks for three days, fighting with Dad over every little thing and treating Dean to sullen silence. She's vicious when they spar, but smart about it, so he can't really complain, and he can only shrug and make a crude joke about PMS when Dad asks him what her problem is.

But when Sunday rolls around, and Dad takes them out to Waffle House for breakfast, she's all sunshine and smiles again, and Dean breathes easier. He tells himself she was right, it was just a kiss, and he lets himself believe the lie. It's easier than facing the truth.

She doesn't let him off the hook that easily, though. They've always been touchy, relying on physical contact more than words to show how they feel, but now she's sly about it, and pointed, pressing her breasts to his back when she reads the paper over his shoulder, her mouth too close to his ear and her hands lingering a little too long on his chest or hip to be innocent.

He knows he should ignore it, ignore her, but that's the one thing he can't ever do. And maybe there's something wrong with him, because it's not only that he can't ignore her, it's that he doesn't want to, even though he knows he should, knows the feel of her skin under his fingers or the memory of her tongue in his mouth shouldn't make him hard, but it does, and she knows it, too, and won't leave him alone.

Lucky for him, Dad announces they're moving soon, and Sam transfers all her attention to making him miserable, and stops playing games with Dean that neither of them can win.

*

They pull out of Ashland early in the morning, two days after the end of the school year, and head east. Dean dozes in the passenger seat for a while, his crankiness at being relegated back to passenger status in his own car soothed by the silence now that Sam's shouting about having to leave has settled into a quiet pout.

When he wakes a couple hours later, she's curled up in the backseat, nose buried in a book, frown of concentration on her face.

He looks out the window, and when he finally spots what he's looking for in the light traffic pacing them on the highway, he reaches back and slaps her on the leg. "Punch buggy, black," he says, before she can complain. "No punch backs."

She curls her lip at him in the sneer he taught her that time he'd been obsessed with Elvis. "What are you, seven?"

"Passes the time, Samantha." He twists to look at her. "What are you reading?" She holds up the book so he can see the cover. "Flu: The Story of the Great Influenza Pandemic of 1918 and the Search for the Virus That Caused It. Well, that's cheerful."

"Bite me."

He sighs, rubs his forehead, and tries again. "So, what's so interesting about the flu?"

"It's not so much the flu in general as this strain of flu in particular," she says, leaning forward, open book pressed to her chest, over her heart. "It killed between twenty-five and one hundred million people--nobody knows for sure." Dean lets out a long, low whistle, and Sam smiles, getting her geek on, sulk forgotten for the moment. "It was especially deadly to the young and strong, which isn't usually how the flu works; so many soldiers and sailors died, people thought it was germ warfare, that the Germans had concocted the virus to win World War I. But they were probably just worn down from the fighting, and vulnerable.

"Nowadays, scientists think maybe it was a bird flu that migrated to humans." She chatters on for a bit, talking about genetic sequencing and epidemiology, and Dean holds his breath, hoping Dad doesn't say anything about how she should be putting her big brain to work researching ways to improve their hunting techniques, instead of wasting time on a disease from a hundred years ago.

For once, Dad stays quiet. Dean glances over, and he's wearing this proud look Sammy should get to see, but won't, because this has nothing to do with hunting. So Dean turns to her again and smiles, because if Dad can't give it to her, he will.

"That's pretty cool, Sammy."

Her mouth quirks again, this time in a half-smile. "Yeah."

He turns to face forward, pleased with himself.

After that, she starts quoting random statistics at them, her voice soft and interested, in counterpoint to the world-weary tones of Johnny Cash playing on the tape deck, and Dean listens, even after he's pulled out the latest issue of Popular Mechanics and is trying to read about advances in jet propulsion.

And then, she whacks him on the back of the head.

"Hey!"

"Punch buggy, green. No punch backs."

Dad glances over at him, mouth curving in a rare grin. "She's got you there, son."

Dean laughs. "I guess she does."

*

Dean shifts in the chair, trying to ease the crick in his neck. Dad had sounded genuinely regretful when he explained that there was only one room left at the motel, and Sammy had sunk back into the sulk she was treating them to for having to move again, but it was easy for them. They each got to sleep in a bed, even if it was a creaky, saggy motel room bed. The clerk had manfully refrained from laughing when Dean asked about a rollaway, which Dean figures is about the response he deserves for thinking a place like this would even have one.

The rattle and buzz of Dad's snoring is making him crazy after months of actually having his own room, and he's trying really hard not to listen to the slide of Sam's legs underneath the sheets as she tosses and turns, trying not to remember the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. In the weeks since he kissed her, he's stopped thinking about it whenever he has a free second to think, but now they're all living in the same room again, and it's hard not to, when she's walking around in nearly nothing all the time, skin tanned golden from spending all day in the sun when they're not driving from one place to the next.

It's too goddamn hot in the room, with the windows painted shut and the ancient air conditioning unit chugging asthmatically in the corner. He gathers up the sheet he'd kicked off earlier and levers himself out of the chair in frustration, shoving his feet into his boots. He grabs the extra pillow from the floor where it landed when he'd tried to find a comfortable sleeping position, and opens the door.

Dad stirs, murmurs, "Dean?"

"Going out to the car," he answers softly, and with a grunt Dean takes for permission, Dad's snoring away again.

Dean stomps out to the car and flings himself into the backseat, the leather so cool and good against his bare legs and chest after the itchy, warm brocade of the chair. He cranks open the windows to let the light summer breeze in, and settles down, breathing easily for the first time all night.

He's drifting over the line into sleep, the cool familiarity of the car lulling him like nothing else can, when the door to the room opens with a creak, waking him. He looks up to see Sammy scrambling across the gravel, barefoot.

She pokes her head through the open window. "You couldn't sleep either?"

"Insomniac little brat," he mutters in response.

"Hey!" She opens the door, crawls onto the seat and stretches out beside him, wriggling under the sheet and fitting herself into what little space is left.

This, he thinks, even as he automatically wraps his arms around her to keep her from falling, is a really bad idea.

She's wearing a tank top and a pair of his old boxers, and as they fit themselves together, shifting so he's on his back and she's lying on top of him, he can feel the rough brush of stubble against his shins and the soft curves of her breasts against his chest. The chubby twelve-year-old is gone, replaced by a young woman with a sleek, toned body that fits against his perfectly. He can't decide if it's the best thing or the worst thing ever that he didn't stop to pull on a t-shirt before he came out to the car.

"Sammy?"

"It's okay," she murmurs, and brushes a hand through his hair, the way he does to hers when she has nightmares. She shimmies again, trying to get comfortable, and he sucks in a deep breath, willing his body not to respond, and failing. "It's okay. I want to." She leans in, and he can feel her breath--sleep-stale but still edged with the scent of toothpaste--on his chin before she takes his lower lip between hers and sucks on it, sending a shock of pleasure right to his dick.

There are things he knows he should say--we shouldn't or stop or no--but she steals the words from his mouth with her tongue, and the only one he has left when she pulls back is, "Sam."

She smiles at him, eyes and teeth shining dark in the moonlight, and whispers, "Dean," before kissing him again, deep and slow and sleepy, like they have all the time in the world and nothing better to do than make out in the backseat of the car.

He didn't teach her this, but she hasn't been out of his sight long enough to learn it anywhere else since summer started and they've been on the road. Maybe it's just some secret Sam-thing she knows, like the way she knows how to get under his skin with her endless questions about everything, and the way she knows how to get him to do what she wants by giving him that lost puppy-dog look. And it's just like her to make a choice and throw herself into it completely, determined to have her way and refusing to bend until she gets it.

He can't really think too much about it with her tongue in his mouth, sliding slick-rough against his, soft and warm as velvet. He wraps one hand around the nape of her neck, fingers trailing up into the tangled curls there, making her shiver. He slips his other hand under her worn cotton tank top to trace circles on the smooth skin of her back, and the light, strong bones of her spine.

It's been a while since he's done this with anyone, making out for the fun of it instead of in a frantic rush to get laid, and in the wet heat of their kisses, he nearly forgets why they shouldn't be doing it. The only thing he can think is Sam, Sam, Sam, each staccato beat of his heart echoing with the sound of her name.

She rubs against him like a cat, hands stroking over his chest and shoulders, making him shiver with need, then brushing through his hair, feather-light on his face, learning him the way he already knows her, strengths and weaknesses, needs and wants.

He smiles at the way she gasps, "God, Dean," when he finally touches her breasts, thumbing the hard little nipples as she arches into his hands. He drags her up his body so he can take them into his mouth, one at a time, sucking hard enough through the soft, thin cotton that tastes of Sam-sweat and Tide to make her moan. He slides a hand down her back to grab her ass as she rocks against his hard-on, and she freezes, as if she's just realized what she's doing.

"Dean?" Her voice is hoarse and slightly shaky, and she says his name the way she used to, like he can make everything better, make the monsters in the closet go away.

"Sammy," he says, trying to get his breathing under control, suddenly aware that not only is she his sister, she's a sixteen-year-old girl whose only sexual experience has been with her brother, and this is even more fucked up than anything they've ever done, and given some of the shit they've done, that's saying something. He swallows hard, brushes her hair out of her eyes. "Go back to bed, Sammy." She opens her mouth to protest, and he says, "Dad can't find us like this."

She's smart enough to know he's right, but she leans in to kiss him one last time before she goes, tongue thrusting into his mouth quick and hard like a promise.

After he hears the deadbolt slide home behind her, he slips a hand into his boxer-briefs and wraps it around his cock. He tries to remember the last girl he fucked, tries to imagine Playboy's Miss July, but when he comes, all he's thinking of is Sam.

Dad, he thinks, is going to kill him. And Dean won't do a thing to stop him.

*

When Dean comes into the room in the morning, Sam's sitting in front of the television, shoveling Cheerios into her mouth. She watches him, eyes wide and wary, and he sucks in a startled breath when he sees the hickey he left on her throat. Stupid, stupid, amateur mistake, he thinks.

Dad looks up from his journal and says, "You look like you got bit, too, Dean."

Dean nearly chokes, but he manages to keep his cool, turn it into a cough. "Mosquitoes were a bitch last night," he says when he's able to speak again.

"I wouldn't be surprised if this place has bedbugs," Sam says. "Maybe I should spend tonight in the car with Dean."

Dean glares at her, but she's still looking at Dad, challenge in her eyes.

"Or maybe you should spend the day helping Dean do laundry," Dad answers. "You can strip the beds and wash the sheets if it's bothering you that much."

"Maybe if we went back to the bug-free house in Ashland--"

"School's out and we have responsibilities."

"Maybe you do, but I don't see why Dean and I have to come along." She thins her lips and raises her chin in defiance.

"Don't start," Dean interrupts. He can feel the headache beginning just behind his left eye. "Just...don't, okay? Not today." He grabs clean underwear out of his duffel bag, stalks to the bathroom, and slams the door shut behind him. He listens for a moment, but they seem to have settled down--the only thing he hears is the drone of the weatherman's voice predicting ninety-five and humid again, and thunderstorms at night.

*

Dean drops Sam at the laundromat and heads to the nearest coffee shop, looking for coffee and some information on the rash of mysterious deaths plaguing visitors to the town.

When he comes back, she's sitting on one of the empty dryers, long, bare legs dangling down the front, one flip-flop on the floor, the other hanging precariously from her brightly-painted toes, on its way to joining its mate. She's leaning back on her palms, and the straps of her tank top are slipping down her shoulders, revealing strips of pale skin untouched by the sun. She's not wearing a bra--says she doesn't need to, but he's starting to think she's wrong. She looks like seven different kinds of sin all rolled up into one tanned, toned package, and he's never been good at resisting temptation.

She lights up like an EMF meter in a haunted house when she sees him, makes him feel like a hero. Sometimes, he feels like she's the only right thing he's ever done in his life, and he's so close to fucking it up completely, if he hasn't already, that he almost turns around and walks out.

He thinks about it sometimes--not very often, but occasionally, and more now than when Sammy was younger and needed him like breathing--when she and Dad start yelling at each other and her voice scrapes like nails on a chalkboard against his ears, all the words she uses worse than curses (hate this and normal and why? why? why? all the time, like she's still four, and doesn't like the answers they give her), he thinks about walking down to the train station, buying a ticket to anywhere, and starting over again, without a backwards glance. But he knows he'll never do it, not when she looks at him like this, like he's Batman and Santa Claus all rolled into one.

He holds out the iced mochaccino she didn't ask for but he knows she wants, but she doesn't jump off the dryer like he expects; instead, she raises one hand and crooks her fingers at him. She's got another think coming if she thinks he'll go for that. He drops into one of the bright yellow, molded-plastic seats opposite the machine she's sitting on, leans back, one arm draped along the seatbacks, and smirks.

She cocks her head, considering, and then slides down off the dryer. He supposes she means to be smooth, but there's an awkward coltishness to her, and she stumbles a little over the discarded flip-flop. She reminds him of Bambi, learning to walk on the ice, spindly legs flying out in all directions, but just for a second. She's got training and reflexes, and she's getting used to the new shape of her body; when she does learn to control it (and the day's not far off; he can tell), she'll be deadly, in more ways than one.

She takes the plastic cup from him, wraps her full, pink lips around the straw and sucks, hollowing out her cheeks, holding his gaze, mischief in her eyes. The guy behind the counter, who's been pretending he's not staring at her for as long as Dean's been there, gives her a lingering once-over, and Dean wants to knock the guy's teeth down his throat.

"Cut it out, Lolita," he says, elbowing her, and when she laughs, loud, open-mouthed, and genuine, he says, "It's not that funny."

"I'm not twelve," she answers. "And you're not--"

"Responsible? Your brother? What? What can you possibly say--"

"I love you." She says it like she's said it to him every day of her life, and she has, but almost never in words. It's not something they say, avoiding the words because saying them is like painting a target on their backs; they are more aware of the power of words to invoke, to hurt, to soothe, and those words are powerful magic they're too superstitious to call on overtly. It hits him now like a punch to the gut. He thinks vaguely that he should be proud--he's the one who taught her to fight dirty, to take every advantage, and to always hit the enemy's weak spots hardest, and it's clear she's taken his lessons to heart.

"Fuck you." He gets up, shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn't grab her and shake her and make her take it back.

She stares up at him for a long moment, then looks down at her hands, and he hates that he can't tell which way she's going to jump. Time was, he'd have known exactly what she was thinking from the set of her lips, the curve of her spine, but that seems to have disappeared the day she got her first period, sprouted breasts when he wasn't paying attention. The breasts don't look like much, small and high and bound flat when they're hunting, but now he knows the weight of them in his hands, the sounds she makes when he touches them, and it's a whole different language from the one they used to speak. He turns away, hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails digging into his palms as if he can dig the memory out of his skin.

A washing machine buzzes, and she starts unloading the washer and loading the dryer, her arm brushing against his, warm and familiar, the Sammy he knows, not the stranger she's becoming.

"What'd you find out?"

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and tells her.

*

The summer rolls by in a series of dusty towns and miles of highway, white lines and black asphalt scrolling like an endless set of veins across the body of the world: redcaps in Lexington, a nest of pixies in Fayetteville, a cranky old ghost in Buckhannon.

They eat breakfast in roadside diners, Dad and Sam doing the crossword together--in Latin, sometimes, or with runes, to make it more interesting--while Dean reads the sports pages to keep up with the Cubs, their futile quest for a championship inspiring loyalty the way winning teams never have with him. Sometimes, he imagines going to Wrigley, or Fenway, seeing if there really is a curse keeping the Cubs or Sox from winning, and if there is, trying to break it.

Dad buys a hibachi, sets it up in the parking lot of whatever motel they're staying at, and grills dinner for the three of them each night. Sometimes they sit out under the stars and listen to a ballgame on the radio, or play cards until it's too dark to see, Sam sneaking sips of beer from Dean's bottle while he and Dad pretend not to notice.

It's as close to normal as they get, and Dean thinks he would be happy living this way for the rest of his life.

There are long days of training, honing Sam into a stronger fighter now that she's done growing. Their sparring is edged with tension that sends Dean out at night, looking for a fight or a fuck, and not too picky about which he finds, just so long as he doesn't have to go back to the motel and see the invitation in her eyes, and the hurt when he turns it down and climbs into his own bed.

"I think we should give her some privacy," he says one afternoon while she sleeps in the backseat, loose-limbed and sprawling, pillow clutched in her arms like the teddy bear she lost somewhere in South Dakota when she was ten, and she spent the week after crawling into Dean's bed to use him as a replacement. Their boundaries have always been fluid--he can count on one hand the times she's locked him out of a room--and maybe that's the problem. The look Dad gives him makes him say, "I can stay with you. I don't need my own room. I just think--"

"She doesn't sleep well when you're not around."

He nods, forcing himself not to feel guilty about being out all night the last few nights, with pretty college girls slumming it on their summer vacations, and the big-breasted bottle-blonde from the local coffee shop.

"I get that, I do. But she's going to have to learn sometime." He shifts, unused to arguing with his father and unsure of how to approach what he wants to say. "People notice. She's not a little kid anymore, Dad, and, well, people notice."

Dad nods once, his mouth tight. "People are always willing to think the worst, Dean. But right now it's safer for her if you're there. She's strong, she's well-trained, but she's always going to be," he doesn't say, younger, your responsibility, Sammy, but he doesn't need to, "vulnerable in ways you're not. When we settle in the fall, she can have her own room again."

Dean's not sure he can hold out that long, but he says, "Yes, sir," because he knows the conversation is over.

*

Another town, another haunting, another salt and burn, lather, rinse, repeat. Dean's only way of keeping track these days is the length of time between Sam's awkward attempts at seduction, which are harder and harder to dodge, and her sulks afterward, when she's unsuccessful.

Dad doesn't notice much difference--she still complains when he makes her help dig graves, though she never learned from either him or Dean that women aren't capable of everything men are (and more, but Dad will never know about the supplementary sex talk Dean gave her when she was thirteen and too embarrassed to ask Dad)--but Dean could fill volumes on the vast varieties of Sam's sulks, and this one is directed at him, and is sort of a cross between, I'm not a kid anymore, and who needs you anyway? It makes his head hurt when they're together for too long, and lately, it seems like they're always together, but never in the way they really want to be.

He wishes Dad would settle on a new car, so he could ride alone in the Impala sometimes, Zeppelin cranked up loud and the wind in his hair, instead of riding shotgun in his own car because Dad's picky, and the last truck he had got mauled by a pissed off spirit bear up in Vancouver. He doesn't say anything, though. It's not his place.

Sam unbends a little when Dad starts up this annoying variation on the memory game they play sometimes; it was originally designed to teach her and Dean the names (in both English and Latin) and functions of the herbs and spices they use in hunting. It works better than flashcards and is a break from license plate bingo and punch buggy, but Dean stopped finding it fun when he was nine. He doesn't understand how they can spend so much time rattling off lists of obscure herb combinations, trying to stump each other--he'd never thought Dad was a geek, but Sammy must get it from somewhere--but at least when they do it, they're not fighting. Dad looks downright smug the first time Sam actually wins, turns to Dean and says, "Your sister is one smart cookie," while Sam preens in the backseat like she's just won the lottery. Listening to them play that stupid game is almost worth it, just to see them both smiling at the same time.

*

"Come on, Dean! Race you!" have been Sam's favorite words since she could walk and talk, and that's one thing that hasn't changed with the onset of puberty and teenage rebellion. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, flushed from the heat, hair out of her face for once, held back with an old red bandana.

He scrubs a hand through his sweaty hair and grins. "You think you can take me?"

Her answering grin is just as cocky. "I know I can."

"Goal post to goal post," he says, pointing down the field. "Loser has to clean the winner's weapons."

"You're on." They finish stretching (he's not watching the way she bends and twists, though he can feel her watching him, skin prickling under her regard), and then she says, "Ready, set, go," and takes off, arms and legs pumping.

She's tall for a girl, with long legs that eat up the ground when she runs, and she loves it, the one part of training Dad almost never has to order her to do. She's begged to run track at every high school she lands at, but so far, Dad's said no every time. Dean thinks he might have to take her side next time she asks, convince Dad it's a viable alternative to the wind sprints and PT they do for him.

Dean's never been a big fan of running for its own sake--he can run with the best of them, for his life or the ninety feet between bases on a baseball diamond, but he doesn't get the big Zen high from it that Sam does. He gets that from shooting, from hunting, from looking down the sights and pulling the trigger on some evil thing that needs killing, from knowing he's saving some family from the hell his has been through. But he runs now, for exercise, sure, but also for Sam, pushing her the way Dad pushes him, giving her something to strive for, someone to beat.

And now it gives them both a way to work out some of the tension built up between them.

Lately, she's been winning as often as he has, and this time it's by more than a few inches, which makes her unbearable.

"Again," he says, sucking down a few breaths, cutting her off in mid-boast. She nods and sets herself. He can smell her, vanilla lotion and sweat and Flex shampoo. It's distracting, and he doesn't get a good jump, knows he's lost thirty yards in, comes in a full five yards behind her this time.

"You didn't get a good start," she says, rubbing beads of sweat off her upper lip with the back of her hand, and he has to stop himself from leaning in and licking at her mouth. She grabs her left ankle, then her right, stretching her quads, lean muscle shifting under smooth, tanned skin, and he licks his own lips, looks away. "Again."

He forces himself to concentrate this time, locks in on the in-out of his breathing, the furious, methodical pumping of arms and legs, the slap and push of his feet against the grass. This time, he wins by an arm's-length, and he grins at her, triumphant.

"Can't win 'em all, Sammy."

She's panting now, chest heaving with exertion, and the rueful disappointment on her face twists into anger at his words. She steps closer, laying her hands flat against his sweat-soaked t-shirt, and shoves him.

"Did you let me win?"

"What?"

She shoves at him again, against the goalpost, the metal hot against his back, her breasts warm and soft against his chest, though the rest of her is stiff with anger, her fingers fisted in the damp material of his shirt.

"Did. You. Let. Me. Win?"

He straightens up, looks down at her from his four-inch height advantage. "I stopped letting you win at anything when you were ten, Sammy."

He grabs her shoulders, planning to shove her away, but he doesn't. Runs his thumbs along the soft skin of her upper arms instead, then moves his hands up to trace her collarbones, brushing at the drop of sweat sliding down her neck.

All the fight goes out of her; she melts against him, hands uncurling and sliding up to clasp around the back of his neck, drawing his head down to hers. The kiss is soft, tentative, brush of lips and whisper of breath, and it still sets heat sparking under his skin, fierce and hungry and so different from the humid press of air or the tight burn of exercise.

He runs his fingers through her sweat-damp hair, sending the bandana fluttering to the ground, forgotten, tightens his hold to dip her head back so he can kiss her again, teasing her with the quick flick of his tongue against her lips. She presses closer with a needy little whimper that makes him ache.

"Hey, you two, get a room."

They spring apart, still breathing heavily. Sam's face is flushed with embarrassment, lust, and anger, which is, thankfully, directed not at him but at the kid with the soccer ball who's just interrupted them.

"Are you done?" the kid asks, tossing the ball from one hand to the other as his friends join him.

She reaches down, picks up her bandana, and shoves it into her pocket. "It's all yours," she says, walking away, head held high.

One of the older boys lets out a wolf whistle, and Dean glares at him before he follows.

They jog back to the motel in silence, cooling down, though Dean's still wound tight, need skittering through his veins like spiders on the bathroom wall when the lights go on. The car's not in the spot in front of Dad's room, and he barely has time to close the door before Sam's pushing him up against it, all exploring hands and hot, wet mouth on his skin, hungry in a way he shouldn't understand but does, completely, down to the soles of his feet and the marrow of his bones. He wraps her hair, dirty blonde bleached pale gold by a summer in the sun and now dark with sweat, around his fingers, tugs her head back so he can lick her throat, tasting salt, skin, and lotion--not the Johnson's baby lotion he still buys for her when he does the shopping, but some vanilla stuff she started wearing when she started caring about girl things.

She grabs hold of his hair, tight, nails scraping bluntly across his scalp because there isn't a lot to grab, yanks him back up for a hard, hot kiss, all teeth and tongue, not gentle at all. She's shaking a little in his arms as he walks her back to the bed, desperate and gasping when he breaks the kiss, pupils blown and voice ragged when she says, "Dean, please." And there's no way he can resist that.

He skates his hands over her arms, her breasts, the toned muscles of her legs. He finds the smooth, untouched skin on the inside of her thigh, then slips his fingers beneath the soft material of her running shorts, the elastic of her underwear. She doesn't give him time to hesitate, arches up into his touch and says it again, "Dean, please."

She's wet and hot and responsive to every brush and thrust of his fingers, panting harder than she did during the races they just ran, muscles tensing as she gets close. He leans back so he can watch her face, flushed and intent, mouth slack as she gasps out soft little noises that make his cock ache in anticipation of what she might sound like when he's buried deep inside her. Her eyes flutter closed, though she keeps trying to open them.

"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning close again, mouth against her ear, free hand brushing her cheek gently. "It's okay, Sammy. It's all gonna be okay." It's not a lie if he believes it, and right now, he does, he has to. "Just come for me now."

And then he hears it, just barely hears it over the fucking hot sounds Sam's making, the rumble of the Impala, so familiar as to not even stand out.

"Oh, fuck." He jumps up, and Sam's eyes snap open in protest. "Dad."

"Oh, fuck!" She bolts into the bathroom on shaky legs, and slams the door, leaving him to face Dad alone.

Dad bangs into the room a few seconds later, rare smile on his face. He must have found something new to hunt.

"Pack it up, Dean. We're heading out as soon as you're done."

He keeps his back turned, tries to will his erection away, though he can hear the shower running and he knows, he knows, she's in there finishing what he started. He wishes he were, too.

Instead, he forces himself to pay attention as Dad tells him about the possibility of a phantom train in Harpers Ferry. He snaps, "Yes, sir," at the right moments, absorbs the information almost without thinking about it, second nature to file away everything the man says, knowing it will appear in his mind when he needs it most. He doesn't seem to have anything filed away regarding wanting to fuck his own sister, though, can't even imagine Dad's white-hot fury if he ever found out Dean had even thought about thinking about it, let alone laid hands or lips on her. Knows he'd be dead and buried, bones salted and burned, if Dad ever caught wind of what he's thinking, what he's doing. What he's already done.

He's packing, trying to ignore how his right hand still smells of Sam, when she comes out of the shower, flushed and clean, her hair already forming into frizzy ringlets around her head from the humidity. She's wrapped in a tiny, threadbare motel towel, which barely covers her from armpit to ass, and practically scampers across the floor to the dresser. She digs around in the drawer for a second and finds what she's looking for, then grins at him, cruel and mocking, lacy scraps that pass as girl's underwear clutched in her fingers, and when the fuck did Dad start allowing her to wear that stuff instead of the big old granny panties he'd been buying five to a pack at Wal-Mart for years?

It's his turn to slam into the bathroom, which is still steamy and smells of Sam's vanilla lotion. He takes a lukewarm shower and jerks off, resolutely not thinking about her, though the smell of the soap and shampoo makes that difficult, because everything in there--everything everywhere--reminds him of Sam.

It's not particularly satisfying, because it's not what he really wants, and what he wants, he can't have, shouldn't even be thinking of, and he can't ever escape from it, from her. Wouldn't want to even if he could.

Basically, he thinks, as he slides into the front seat of the Impala, he's fucked.

For once, Sam doesn't complain at all about leaving, curls up in the backseat with her book--something about the Black Plague this time--and hums happily to herself until Dean jams Motorhead into the tape deck.

She's asleep when they arrive in Charles Town, but it's not that late, just after eleven. He half carries her to the bed, buries his face in her hair for a brief moment, then tucks her in, kisses her forehead when he's sure she's out of it enough not to know. He stops at the door to toss her flip-flops, which had fallen off in the car, into the room.

He looks at his father, doesn't even ask this time, just tips his head towards the door. Dad nods, lets him go to find the nearest bar, the nearest pool game, the nearest girl who isn't related, and he laughs thinly to himself at the jokes he used to make about West Virginia weddings.

He knows exactly what he needs and he finds it pretty quickly. One beer, one shot of Jack, and one tiny, stacked blonde bent over in the ladies room, bracing herself against the ugly yellow sink while he fucks her. Doesn't bother to learn her name, because he won't remember it in the morning. All that matters is that she's not Sam. The world is full of girls who aren't Sam, girls who say yes (yeah, sugar, yeah, just like that), and it's okay, not like Sam, who says yes to him when she shouldn't, knowing that to her he can't ever say no.

He makes it back to the motel by two, can still smell the blonde--Lucy? Lacey? Fucked if he knows. Fucked anyway, good enough to make him sleepy, make him forget for a while, and that's what he'd gone out for, so consider this mission a success, Winchester.--on his skin.

He's sitting on the bed, unlacing his boots, when Sam says, "Dean?" He looks over to see her sitting up in bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them.

"What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep." She shrugs. "Slept in the car too long, I guess."

He nods, but the guilt is already starting. She doesn't sleep well when you're not there.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy."

She huffs, and he can tell she's annoyed--it's like a knot of tension at the base of his skull when she's angry at him, only loosens when she finally wears out, gives up, gets mad at Dad, which is a knot of tension in his left shoulder, up high, steady on since she turned twelve and decided she wanted to be normal, whatever the fuck that means.

Even in the darkness he can see the stubborn set of her jaw, the tight line of her lips, holding back questions she wants to ask but won't. Maybe she's reading the answers in the loose-limbed way he moves, the scent of whatever her name was on his skin.

"Fuck you," she answers, yanking the covers to her chin and turning her back to him.

He closes his eyes, because hurting her is the last thing he wants to do, but this is a cleaner kind of hurt than the other, isn't it? Fucked if he knows that, either. He's too shagged out to deal with it all now.

"Whatever."

But he lies awake until she goes back to sleep. The even sound of her breath finally lulls him to sleep, too, as the sky begins to lighten.

*

The phantom train turns out to be some local teenagers having a laugh, scaring the crap out of the late-summer tourists, one last big prank before school starts again. Dad growls about wasted time, wasted money, slams out of the room like he's going to hunt those brats down and salt and burn their bones instead, though Dean knows he's just going to the bar across the street.

The last thing Dad says before walking out the door is, "Look after your sister," and Sam grins at Dean in a way that makes his belly clench in fear, scarier than any ghost or ghoul he's ever faced. She doesn't complain about having a babysitter anymore, and on some level it makes him want to laugh, because it's not like he wouldn't have tried seducing a hot babysitter if he'd ever had one, and as much as she'd like to deny it, Sammy's just as much a Winchester as he is.

"I'm sure we'll have fun," she says as Dad swings the door shut.

Dean braces himself, but she just pulls out a deck of cards.

"Poker?"

He pops open a Rolling Rock and sits down cross-legged on her bed. "Okay. I'll deal first."

She grins and snags a sip of his beer before handing over the deck of cards.

They play for a couple of hours--seven card stud and five card draw, matchsticks and silver bullets standing in for chips, which stand in for money they don't have.

He wins pretty steadily, though she scores a nice hand or two along the way, and he lets her drink some of his beer when she does.

"I'll see your silver bullets," she says when he's on his third beer, "and raise you..." She looks down at the small pile of matches she has left, and smiles. "A shirt."

"What?" He can't have heard that right.

"A shirt." She pulls her t-shirt over her head, drops it into the pot. Her plain cotton bra--and thank fuck she's wearing one today--is very white against her tanned skin, and her hair is tousled and shining gold like a halo around her head. There's a light pink flush in her cheeks that could be from the heat or from embarrassment or, probably, both. "If I win, I get my shirt back, and you have to take yours off. If you win, well, I've already taken my shirt off, so I'd say it's pretty much a win for you either way, isn't it?"

He swallows hard. "That's not how it works."

She shrugs, and he forces himself to keep looking at her face. "House rules," she says.

She's got a full house, queens over sevens, to his straight, and she grins at him when he pulls his t-shirt off.

"Dude. That's more like it."

He throws the shirt at her and it hits her in the face. She holds it there for a second, inhales, and he freezes at the soft sound of her breath catching.

"Aren't you going to put your shirt back on?" he asks, voice hoarse.

Her smile is slow and predatory, and it makes his belly clench again, but this time, not in fear. "I'm comfortable like this."

He knows he should argue, should tell her to get dressed right the fuck now, Samantha, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to.

Two more hands, and she's undoing the buttons on her jean shorts, peeling them down long, tanned legs before he can stop her.

"I call," she says, dropping them into the pot. Like the bra, her bikini bottom is plain white cotton, nothing intentionally seductive about it, but he can see the shadow of her cunt, the faint line of hair trailing down her abdomen leading to it. He swallows hard, keeps his eyes on his cards.

"This is a really shitty idea."

"I've shown you mine, big brother. Time for you to show me yours."

He lays down his cards, trying to pretend that's all she means. "Two pair--aces and eights." Dead man's hand, and ain't that the truth?

She fans her cards out slowly, grin curling over her face. "Four nines. Read 'em and weep. Or strip, as the case may be." When he doesn't move she says, "Don't punk out on me now, Dean." He clenches his jaw, because she knows exactly how to push his buttons, and okay, that's a line of thought he wants to cut off before it goes places it shouldn't, but he can't when she continues, "I'd be happy to help if the concept of undressing is giving you trouble." She's already moving across the bed, those long fingers so good at picking locks easily flicking open the buttons on his fly, and he forces himself to hold still under her touch.

"Sam." He means it as a warning, but his voice is low and raw, full of everything he wants from her and shouldn't have.

She looks up at him, the sheer need in her eyes making his breath catch in his throat. She reaches up and presses her thumb to his lower lip, pulling it down slightly.

The moment stretches out endlessly, and he tells himself that he can control this, can make it into another lesson for her. Tells himself that the line he's crossing can be redrawn, slightly over the edge into fucked up, and isn't that where they've been living anyway since Mom died?

Slowly, he darts out his tongue to taste the pad of her thumb, salt and Sam, as familiar and strange to him as she is. He sucks her finger into his mouth, watching as her eyes widen, and listening as her breath hitches. With a soft wet sound, he releases her thumb, and reaches out to cup her cheek gently, tip her face up to his so he can kiss her.

He tastes beer and heat as he slides his tongue over hers, need firing in his veins as she climbs into his lap without breaking the kiss. He can feel how wet she is, and it makes his dick, half-hard since she took off her shirt, twitch.

She's all awkward movement, unsure where to put her arms and legs, and he soothes her wordlessly, strokes his hands down the soft skin of her arms, pressing forward so she's on her back against the pillows, legs wrapped around his hips, the cards scattering beneath them, forgotten.

She traces a path over his skin with blunt fingernails, laughing with breathless delight when the muscles of his stomach jump under her touch, and looking at him with wide-eyed awe that turns into calculation when he growls low after she presses her palm to his cock before he moves her hand away.

He doesn't bother to unhook her bra, just shoves it up so he can touch her breasts without any fabric between them, loving the way they feel, small and warm and firm in his hands.

"I know you like big tits," she whispers, "and I'm not--I don't--"

He cuts her off with a ruthless kiss, then dips his head down to lick at her peaked nipples. "Don't need more than a handful," he murmurs into the soft skin between her breasts, though his hands look too large and alien on her body as he touches her. "Perfect just the way you are, Sammy."

She looks skeptical, so he spends some time showing her just how much he likes her breasts, licking and sucking until she's shaking and begging for more. She arches beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders and her nails digging into his skin, her breath coming in short stuttering gasps that sound like his name.

She moans softly in protest when he finally moves on, sliding his lips down the smooth plane of her stomach to dip his tongue into her bellybutton, kiss the mole beside it. She giggles then, and runs her fingers through his hair.

He moves down the bed, fingers tracing words he'll never say on the soft, unmarked skin of her thighs, following with his lips, his tongue. He can smell her, breathes in deep and exhales onto sensitive skin, but doesn't even make a move towards taking her underwear off yet. He teases her with kisses and nips along the soft flare of her hip, the tender flesh of her belly.

"Dean, please," she says, squirming. "I want--" She tries to maneuver herself into position, tries to direct his kisses with her hands in his hair.

He swallows hard, trying to keep control, and laughs against her belly. "You can't say it, you're probably not old enough to do it."

"Bastard," she mutters, hands tightening in his hair, enough to cause a short burst of pain. "Lick me," she says, and he looks up, meets her gaze, smiles at the way she's blushing, proud of the way she doesn't look away when she's asking for what she wants. "Can't stop thinking about it," she whispers, and he almost loses it right there, has to reach down and squeeze the base of his cock for just a second, because he's been thinking of it, too. "Your mouth, and--"

He hooks his fingers under the elastic and pushes her panties down and off, then slides his hands up the length of her legs, thumbs coming to rest in the creases where they join her body. He licks his lips at the sight of her, dark hair curling over swollen pink flesh, and strokes his fingers over the wet folds of her cunt, hungry to touch and smell and taste. Every sound and movement she makes hits his bloodstream like whiskey; he pays close attention, learning this the way he's learned everything else about her, because it's his job to make her happy, and this is just one more way to do that.

He flicks his thumb across her clit and she moans, hands clenching in his hair hard enough to sting.

"Wait," he says, sitting up. "Wait."

She raises herself up on her elbows, eyes wide and dazed but mouth twisting in annoyance. "What the fuck?"

He slides down off the bed to kneel at the foot of it, and eases his jeans down over his hips a bit to get comfortable and still be able to stroke his dick if he needs to. Then he wraps his hands around her knees and pulls until her ass is at the edge of the bed and her legs are draped over his shoulders.

"Better this way," he tells her with a grin.

"But now I can't see you," she answers, pouting.

That surprises him even as it sends another jolt of heat to his dick. "You want to watch?"

"I told you, I've been imagining it forever."

He has to take a deep breath before he can answer, and his voice is ragged when he says, "Stay up on your elbows, just like that."

He uses his thumbs to spread her open, and even that touch makes her gasp and shimmy. When he dips his head to lick her, she moans again and presses up against his mouth. He's surrounded by her--her taste in his mouth and her scent in his nose, and the feel of her under his tongue and his fingers. She's the only thing he can see, the whole of his horizon--she's the ocean and he's drowning in her. It's the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he wants to make it the best thing that's ever happened to her.

She's a talker, though she's not making much sense at the moment, and the sound is muffled anyway, but he knows what she means, knows when she's close, and knows how to make it good for her, her whole body shaking as she comes under his mouth, her body clenching hard around his fingers, and then he gets her off again before she's even finished coming down from the first time.

"God," she breathes, and he laughs. He loves the surprised, satisfied look on her face; it amazes him that he can do this to her, make her feel like that.

He licks his lips, thinks he'll be tasting her forever, already wants to taste her again. "No, just me." He slides back up onto the bed to kiss her, and she makes a face.

"What are you--" Her voice is slow, hazy, and he shakes his head and smiles.

"Trust me," he whispers against her mouth, and she does. Of course, she does, though he knows she shouldn't, not after what he's just done. But she lets him kiss her, learns the taste of herself on his tongue.

"Huh," she says when he eases back.

He grins. "Yeah."

She curls up against him, and he can see the fact that he's still mostly dressed register on her face. She reaches down to touch him, and he knows he should stop her, shouldn't let her do it, but when her warm hand curls around his cock, draws him out of his briefs, he can't help thrusting into it.

She's tentative at first, and her exploration nearly kills him, fingers sliding up and down, learning the feel of him.

"Sam," he growls, wrapping his hand around hers, holding it still.

"Show me," she says, more interested than she's been in anything he's had to teach her in ages, looking at him like he's one of her books, or some kind of equation to be solved, frown of concentration between her eyebrows.

"We shouldn't," he manages, because fuck, he really wants to.

She laughs, whole body shaking with it. "We already did, dumbass." She starts stroking him again, harder now, learning what he likes from how his body responds, from his hand guiding her instead of stopping her. She's always been a quick study. It doesn't take long, tension building and breaking as he comes, spurting over their hands and bodies, pearly white against the sleek, tanned skin of her belly.

"Wow," she says when he's done, running her fingers through the mess he's left on her skin and then putting them in her mouth, curious. He swallows hard, knowing that image will be featuring in his fantasies from now on. She opens her mouth to say something else, but he leans in, kisses her instead, long and slow, everything a goodbye kiss should be, because they can't do this again, even if they'll never really say goodbye, the two of them entangled like the taste of his come and hers now on his tongue.

He pulls away, brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek, and she grabs his hand.

"Whatever stupid thing you're about to say," she says, "don't."

He jerks his hand free. "Sam--"

"Just don't, okay." Her face is stormy, and he turns away so he doesn't have to see her get upset, reaches for the box of tissues on the night table between the beds and starts cleaning her off, as if he can wipe away what they've done, but she grabs his hand again and squeezes tight. "You're the one person I trust, the one person who's never going to hurt me. So don't give me some stupid bullshit about how you're sorry, and we shouldn't have, and can't ever again, because you're not, and we did, and we can."

He shakes his head. "You keep saying you want to be like other people--"

She doesn't let him finish. "And you keep telling me we're not, and I just have to suck it up." She takes a deep breath and shoves her other hand through her tangled hair, holding his gaze with wide, serious eyes. "Well, if I have to suck it up and accept that, then you have to accept this, and stop pretending. Don't lie to me like I'm one of the skanks you fuck and leave, who doesn't even know your real name. I'm your sister, and I know you, and all I have right now is what you give me." Her voice is low, serious. Heartbreaking. "So, please, Dean, give me this."

Her face is all scrunched up like she's trying not to cry, and he's never had any defense against her anyway. He pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair. Her head is pressed against his chest, and he hopes she can hear his heart beating, because he has no other response. It's not true, and he, at least, knows it, but because she believes it is, he does, too. He can feel her breath on his skin, warm and moist, in time with his own, and silently asks for forgiveness.

He doesn't know how long they sit there like that, but finally she pushes away and says, "Okay, ew. I really need to take a shower."

He laughs, a little shaky, and lets her go.

While she's showering, he cleans up the room, putting the matches and bullets back in their boxes. He's on his hands and knees, reaching for the queen of hearts that's wedged beside the night table, when he realizes the cards are marked. He sits back on his heels and starts laughing again. She's definitely a Winchester to the bone.

*

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue | Notes

*