fic: Beggars Would Ride: 2/5 (Supernatural; Dean/girl!Sam; AU)

[musesfool]

Beggars Would Ride
Part 2

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

Or you can read it in one long chunk here.

*

It becomes another game they play, something fun to while away the time, and more dangerous than the games they played as kids.

Dad takes them with him more often than not these days--Sam isn't enthusiastic, but she keeps her complaints to a minimum, too busy trying to grope Dean whenever she can get away with it to fuss at Dad about hunting.

If it weren't so weird, it'd be almost unbearably sappy, the kind of thing they show in montages in the chick flicks she makes him watch with her, but Dean doesn't complain. He loves the feel of her body beneath his hands and mouth, the sounds she makes when he's got his fingers sliding in and out of her, the taste of her on his tongue, the way she says his name when she comes. And he loves holding her afterward, curling his body around hers and keeping her safe in the darkness, feeling her heart beat under his hand, though she isn't much for cuddling, and tends to squirm away when he's asleep.

It's harder once the school year starts up again. Dad buys himself a truck and finds them a decent apartment in a not-bad part of town not too far from Sam's high school, though it only has two bedrooms; Dean is supposed to be sleeping on the pullout couch in the small living room, but he ends up in Sam's room whenever Dad's away. Dean offers to go with him, but even though Sam is perfectly capable of taking care of herself for a few days, Dad rarely takes him up on it, says she needs someone around, just in case. Dean hates the words just in case, tries to throw them back in Dad's face, says he wants to be at his back, just in case, but Dad shakes his head.

"If something happens, it's better for you to be with Sam. She can't lose us both, Dean."

And he can't argue with that.

Just like he can't argue with Sam, though he has it all mapped out in his head, the territory he's allowed to trace with fingers and lips and tongue--using everything he's learned since the first time he kissed Lisa Figueroa when he was thirteen to make Sam come apart in his arms--and the things he's not going to do, and not going to let her do for him, the spots on his mental map marked "here be monsters," and not the kinds of monsters that can be killed with silver or salt.

She wakes him with kisses, mouth moving hot and wet over his neck and chest, making the muscles in his belly jump. He stops her when she gets to the waistband of his boxer-briefs, though, wraps his fingers in her hair and pulls her up for a long, lazy kiss. He lets her jerk him off, the pleased concentration on her face making him feel as good as the firm strokes of her hand and the laughing, open-mouthed kisses she presses to his face.

It's still all so new to her, so it takes her a while to realize that he distracts her whenever she brushes against his boundaries, but she does figure it out--she's always been the smart one--and their game takes on a competitive edge, same as every other game they've ever played, and this time, he's not so sure he's going to win.

By early October, they're settled in Mobile. Sam's fitting in pretty well, already has a few friends, and has made the varsity track team. It was harder to convince Dad to let her try out than it was for her to make the team, but he finally caved when Dean pointed out it could replace early morning PT sessions none of them really enjoyed.

She heads out for school early and comes home late, and since she seems fairly content (Dean's not looking forward to the first time a hunt conflicts with a meet, but so far things have worked out in their favor, and he isn't one to look for trouble, at least, not within the family), Dad doesn't kick up a fuss. He and Dean are both working shifts at the local mechanic's, a friend of a friend of Bobby's, who was willing to take them on without too many questions once they proved they knew their way around cars.

The weather is still warm when Dad gets a call from Pastor Jim about a mysterious house fire in Valdosta. He refuses to take Dean with him, says it's only a few hours' drive each way and he doesn't want to leave Sam alone, or take her anywhere near the place if it is the thing they've been hunting for so long. He heads out early on Wednesday morning, promising to be back by Friday.

His last words, as always, are, "Look out for Sammy."

Dean nods. "Of course, Dad." He doesn't have to be told--hasn't had to be told since he was a kid; the words are carved into every molecule of his being--but this is yet another Winchester routine that's hardened into ritual over the years.

That night, he comes home after work and gets in the shower, washing sweat and grease away, too tired to cook and wondering if they should order pizza or Chinese.

He's washing the shampoo out of his hair when Sam slips around the curtain, goes right to her knees before he can say anything, water already slicking her hair back from her forehead and sliding down her skin in rivulets, making him want to follow its path with his tongue. Her hands are sure--she's learned what he likes well enough now, firm and fast and a little rough, with a twist on the upstroke--but her mouth is tentative. She swipes her tongue along the head of his cock and he can't bite back a soft grunt of pleasure, because he's imagined this for a while, even as he's stopped her every other time she's tried.

She's sloppy, obviously doesn't know what she's doing, and he feels a fierce thrill of possession he wants to believe is relief, but he's always been shitty at lying to himself. He's glad he's the first to do all of this with her, wants to mark her as his and keep her safe from the rest of the world, from guys like him who will only use her and forget her name the next morning. The irony is not lost on him, even as he drops his head forward so he can watch her full pink lips slide up and down the length of his cock, brow furrowed in concentration, like going down on him is another puzzle to solve, and the answer will make her happy, ease those lines away.

He smoothes back her hair and cups her cheek, trying hard not to give in and fuck her mouth the way his body wants to, but he can't help thrusting a little into the wet heat of it. She makes a small gagging sound, and he says, "Breathe through your nose." His voice is rough, even as he tries to be gentle.

She hums in response, and he feels the vibration shiver down his spine and echo in his bones, hips jerking again, pushing him deeper. It feels so good, as good as he'd imagined, all those times he promised himself he wouldn't let her do this--be this--for him, heat and need spiraling high and tight inside him. He tries to warn her, pull her off when he knows he's going to come, but she smacks his hand away and swallows what she can before she lets him slide out of her mouth and spatter her with come as the shower washes them clean. He wants to pull her up, lick the inside of her mouth, maybe return the favor, but as soon as she's clean, she slips away, satisfied smile curving her lips.

He leans back against the cool tile and thinks about redrawing the lines on his map.

When he gets out of the shower, she's on the phone ordering pizza as if nothing's changed, but then she turns and gives him that smile again, her hair damp and frizzing around her face, and he wonders if he should just throw out the map altogether, because he's in unknown territory now--has been for a while, if he's honest about it--and there's no going back.

*

"I missed the track meet for your stupid hunt, and I didn't even complain," (much, Dean thinks), "and now you won't even let me go to Allison's sweet sixteen? That is so unfair," Sam shouts.

Dad clenches his jaw and says, "I told you, if it was just a regular party, that'd be fine, but we can't afford a fancy dress and shoes, plus a gift, Sam. Stop asking."

"You commit credit card fraud all the time, Dad. So don't tell me we can't afford it."

"That's for hunting, not frivolous crap like a dress you'll never wear again and an expensive gift for some girl you hardly know."

"That is such bullshit! You never let me do anything fun. I hate you!" She storms out of the kitchen and slams the door to her bedroom.

Dad rubs his hand over his eyes, jaw tightening, and Dean says, "She doesn't mean it."

Dad gives him a look that can't mean anything good. "She can go to practice," and Dean holds in a sigh of relief at that, because it means he won't have to get up extra-early to run with her, "but you pick her up every day and bring her straight home right afterwards. No stops at the library or the pizzeria or anything else. No hanging out with her friends." He gets up, stands outside her bedroom door, and raises his voice. "Nothing but practice, homework, and chores for a week, Samantha." There's a muffled thump from behind the door. "You wanna push me, young lady? 'Cause I can make you way more miserable than you can make me." Which is a lie, of course, and Dean knows it, even if Sam doesn't. "Now come out of there and set the table. It's time for dinner."

There's another thump, and then the bedroom door swings open and Sam shoves past them, jaw set and eyes bright. "It's not fair," she mutters, slamming mismatched silverware and glasses onto the table. Dad goes into his own bedroom, shuts the door.

"Life isn't fair, princess," Dean says, dumping dry pasta into boiling water.

"Easy for you to say. You get to do whatever the hell you want."

"Being older has its privileges. When you're my age--"

"I'll be in college, and far away from here." She says it like it doesn't mean anything, like it's an established fact, like the sky is blue and water is wet, but it makes his heart stop for a second, and when it starts again, the world's tilting on its axis in a way it never has before. "I don't know why you didn't go, get out while the getting was good." She shakes her head and sucks her teeth. She has no fucking clue what she's talking about.

"Yeah, right," he says when he's sure he won't say anything too revealing. "I suppose college might have its good points. Lots of beer and hot chicks looking to get laid." The plate clatters on the table as if she's dropped it, and he turns to look. She's glaring at him, angry and hurt, and he tries to look innocent. "What?"

"You're disgusting," she says, practically snarling, and she looks like she's ready to stomp off again when Dad comes out of the bedroom and sits down at the table.

"Stop teasing your sister," he says, with that you're older and you ought to know better tone Dean's been hearing for as long as he can remember.

"Yes, sir," he answers, perky enough to be offensive, but Dad lets it go. Sam scowls at him, face all scrunched up unhappily. He stirs the macaroni as Dad quizzes Sam on Latin, and things are normal, or as normal as they ever get.

Dean knows it can't last though.

He picks Sam up each day after practice, sits in the car and watches her stretch and run, listens to her laughter floating on the cool breeze when one of the other girls says something to her, and she glances over and catches sight of him. She waves, and he nods in acknowledgement, and the girls start laughing again, shooting him assessing glances. There are one or two he definitely wouldn't mind getting to know better, but Sam doesn't bring any of them over when she comes to the car. Instead of going around to the passenger side, she bends over and kisses him, hand cupping his cheek and tongue slick and sweet in his mouth.

He pulls back, startled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She scoots around to the passenger side and gets in. "I told them you were my boyfriend."

"Sam." He manages to fit a lot of this is the worst idea ever into his voice.

"No, no, Dean, it's cool. This way we can do whatever we want and nobody has to know." She curls her fingers in his shirt and leans in to kiss him again, hot and wet, and he can't stop himself from kissing her back hard, hungry for her mouth.

A wolf whistle reminds him that no, it really is a terrible idea to make out with his sister in public (in private, too, a little voice in the back of his head whispers, but he ignores it), even if people don't know she's his sister.

He pulls back, licking his lips, which now taste like cherry lip balm, and why do girls always do that? "You got a lot of homework?"

She shrugs. "I did most of it in study hall. I still have some reading for AP History, and a bunch of translations for Spanish, but that's it."

"You'll get it all done?" He doesn't know why he asks--he knows she will. She always does. He'd done his homework in school grudgingly, with Dad standing over him arms folded, immovable, ready to come down like the wrath of God if he didn't toe the line and get decent grades and keep people from noticing there was anything weird about the Winchesters. Sam does it all like it's a gift someone's given her; sometimes she even asks for extra, though why a girl who's never gotten anything but straight As needs extra credit, Dean can't understand. But he has to ask, and she has to say yes, because that soothes a tiny bit of the guilt he feels at disobeying Dad and not taking her straight home, just another ritual to ward off the bad things he knows are going to come out of this. Nothing really eases the guilt of what they do together, but he's gotten good at ignoring that when she's warm and soft in his arms.

Her voice is breathless when she answers, "Yeah."

He nods and eases the car into the shady area behind the track, and he's barely got the car in park when she climbs into his lap. She twines her arms around his neck and kisses him again. He runs his hands up under her shirt, brushes his fingers against the underside of her breasts, frustrated by the tight fit of the sports bra she wears for running; he tugs the straps down her arms so she can wiggle free of them, giving him access to her skin, warm and still damp with sweat from practice, nipples peaking under his palms.

She grabs his hand, puts it between her legs, and he can feel how hot and wet she is through her shorts. He rubs at her through the slick material and she moans into his mouth, grinding down against his fingers. She's flushed and beautiful like this, and it's so easy to forget why it's a bad idea, and so hard to stop, to push her away before he slides his cock inside her and fucks her the way he wants to, skin on skin and nothing in between--fucks her, and fucks everything up for good.

She comes with a soft sigh against his neck, body going stiff and then boneless, and he slides her off his lap, still hard and aching for his own release.

She reaches out, palms his erection through his jeans. "Come on, Dean, let me do this for you." Her voice is soft, breathless, seductive.

He swallows hard, pushes her hand away. "We have to get home. We're already late, and Dad--"

"He's not going to be home for another two hours."

"But he's expecting you to be home now."

"You act like everything he says is the word of God."

"He's trying to protect you. It's not the easiest job in the world."

She huffs, crosses her arms over her chest. "Whatever."

They ride home in what would be chilly silence, except Dean cranks the radio when "Pour Some Sugar On Me" comes on, feeling a small moment of triumph when Sam snorts and rolls her eyes. She glares out the window at the tract housing, and he wonders if she really wishes she lived in one of them, normal family with a normal life, college in two years, and a perfect boyfriend, and then forty years of working nine-to-five. He can't even imagine it, mainly because he knows how easily it can all be taken away.

When they get home, she pushes past him into the house. She does her homework with a lot of huffing and sighing and slamming of textbooks.

He locks himself in the bathroom and jerks off, replaying their time in the car over again, and comes imagining what it would feel like to be surrounded by the slick heat of her body.

He thinks he knows a little something about wanting what he shouldn't have, and how it can only end badly, but that's not the kind of lesson Sam is willing to learn.

*

Sammy's just like Dad, can hold a grudge forever, and she holds this one for the rest of the week. They snipe at each other when they have to speak, and spend the rest of the time in cold silence. Dad gives him the whatever it is, work it out look, but Dean thinks anything he does will make it worse, one way or the other.

Not only does she not speak to him for three days, she avoids touching him, too, and he misses it--not the sex stuff (though if he's honest with himself, he does miss that), but the regular Sammy-stuff, like ruffling her hair and punching her arm, and all the shit she pretends she's too old for, but still secretly loves, like curling up together under the blanket with a bowl of popcorn and a bag of M&Ms and watching The Little Mermaid--he leers at the mermaids, and she sings along with the songs--when her homework is done.

Maybe this thing they've been doing has run its course, and he tells himself that's probably for the best, and now they can get back to how they used to be. She has enough shit to worry about hiding from the rest of the world without having to deal with this, too. Dean's never run from the truth in his life, but he still can't bring himself to name what they're doing. What they've done. Words--names--have power, and that's one word that can't be erased once it's said, one betrayal that can't be forgiven, so he tries to believe it's no betrayal at all.

*

He's at work that Friday afternoon, flirting with the hot blonde owner of a sweet little silver anniversary seventy-eight Corvette he's going to be working on, and she's saying, "Yeah, I inherited it from my Dad last year. He loved this car like it was his own flesh and blood, you know?" when his phone rings.

"Where the hell are you?" It's Sam, and she sounds pissed.

Fuck. He covers the phone with his hand and smiles at the blonde. "I'm sorry, Chrissy. I have to take this call. It's my kid sister." She gives him a sweet smile and leans back against the hood of her car, long legs crossed at the ankle. "I'm still at work, Sammy. Things have been a little hectic here since Dad left this morning." Dad's investigating rumors of a haunted shrimp boat in Bayou La Batre, and seemed relieved to escape the Forrest Gump jokes Dean's been making since he heard the news. He said he'd call for backup if it turned out to be more than a prank on the tourists. "I think I can wrap things up here in about half an hour. Can you hang around?"

Sam huffs and he can just imagine the expression on her face. "Whatever. I'll just catch a ride with Evan."

"Who the hell is Evan?"

"Allison's brother. It'll be fine."

"I don't know, Sam. I--" As usual, Dad's last words had been, Look out for Sammy, and that generally doesn't include letting her ride in cars with strange boys. And Dean knows that whatever Sam might think, her punishment is technically still in effect, even with Dad away. "Maybe you should wait--"

"Okay, he's here. Gotta go. Bye." And there's nothing but silence in his ear.

He turns and smiles at Chrissy, but his enjoyment in flirting with her isn't quite the same now. "Let's get a look at what you've got under the hood."

She leans forward, giving him a nice view of her tits, and puts a hand on his arm. "That sounds great."

"She's a beauty," he says when he's done checking out the engine. "Doesn't need much work at all."

"Why don't you buy me a drink, and we can talk about the kind of service I'm going to need?"

And he's going to say yes, is already picturing what she'll look like with his dick in her mouth, and resolutely not thinking about Sam, when his phone rings again.

Chrissy's mouth twists in amusement. "Little sister again?"

"Yeah." He flips open the phone, annoyed. "Hold on a second, Sam." He smiles at Chrissy, and maybe it's petty, poking Sam when she's already riled up, but he can't resist. He says, loud enough for Sam to hear, "Can I get a rain check on that drink?"

"Sure thing, sugar."

"Sugar?" Sam says when he puts the phone up to his ear. "You're so predictable. She's blonde, right? Big tits? Wants to fuck you?" Her voice is as corrosive as holy water. Score one for him this round.

"Watch your mouth, Sammy."

"Whatever. I'm home. I'm doing my homework. Nothing big and scary is going to get me while I'm here by myself, so you can go f--"

"Hey, look at that, Sammy, you're breaking up. I'll be home in twenty minutes, and you better not be up to anything you can't explain to Dad when I get there, you hear me?"

She's sitting at the table, books spread out around her, when he walks in.

"Hey, it's Friday night. You don't have to do that shit tonight."

"If Dad calls and we have to go, I won't have time to do it before Monday morning, and I have a test to study for."

He nods. "Okay, that's true." He picks up the phone. "Pizza or Chinese? I'm starving."

"You could have just gone out with Chrissy." She spits the name like a curse. "I'm perfectly capable of spending a night by myself without being attacked by monsters or burning the house down."

He stares at her, surprised, and she seems to have realized what she's just said because she looks away, can't meet his gaze. She gathers up her stuff and mutters, "I'm not hungry," before going to her room and slamming the door.

He shakes his head, ends up making himself a meatloaf hero for dinner, and dozes on the couch, watching reruns of Law & Order.

After a couple of hours, he's bored and starting to feel guilty. He should have been there to pick her up, or should have called her, at least. He should have checked out that Evan guy, made sure he isn't the kind of guy who puts the moves on his kid sister's friends.

If things hadn't been so weird this week, he would have done all of that. He would have dropped everything and brought her back to the garage. Something.

He gets up and goes to her room, knocks on the door. "Hey, you wanna play some Nintendo?" he says. She doesn't say anything. "Or we could get some ice cream or something." Still no answer. "Sammy? You okay in there? Just having a little private time?" He knocks again, worried now, and raises his voice. "Sammy?" When she still doesn't answer, he discovers she's actually locked the door. He forces it open, flimsy lock breaking easily under the weight of his foot.

The window is wide open, and Sam's not there.

"Son of a bitch."

He sticks his head out the window, but she's long gone. He does a quick survey of the room, fear nearly choking him, but her duffel is still in the closet, and everything--her clothes, her Walkman, her goddamn books--is still in place. So, not running away. He lets out a relieved breath.

Sneaking out to meet friends, then. Or that guy, Evan.

Fear resurfaces, and anger replaces relief, and he shoves at the pile of schoolbooks on her desk, knocking them to the floor with a crash.

It doesn't make him feel better.

"Think," he mutters. "Where do sixteen-year-old girls go on Friday nights?" The mall, or the movies, or their friends' houses. Shit. This is going to take hours.

He squats down to rifle through her books, hoping she's got a list of names and phone numbers somewhere, trying to remember the names of the girls she talks about, though she talks so much he tends to tune her out after the first few minutes, trusting the rise and fall of her voice to tell him how to respond, and when he should tune back in.

He flips through each book quickly, methodically, scanning her small, cramped handwriting for clues. And tucked in the back of her history textbook is a flyer, printed in garish color: Party at Darnell's, it screams in purple and green ink.

"I'm gonna kill her," he mutters, crinkling the paper in his fist. He smoothes it out, folds it up, and shoves it into his pocket.

He spends another twenty minutes driving around looking for the address, which is about twenty minutes too long, long enough to allow him to start imagining all the ways this can end badly for her. The place is down by the docks, an old warehouse in a neighborhood even he would think twice about walking around in after dark. So he's got the Glock hidden in his waistband when he pushes his way into the no-longer-abandoned warehouse.

The crappy music is turned up so loud he'd heard it as he'd turned the corner onto the block, and it's brain-melting once he's inside. He makes a mental note to add earplugs to his pockets for possible future use. Never know when they might come in handy. There's almost no light, just strobes and glow-sticks and black lights, scent of pot and cigarettes and sweat heavy in the humid air, smoke curling like ribbons in the darkness. There are kids all over the place, dancing, drinking, making out, and not just kids. He spots people who look his age, and older, which makes him even more nervous.

He pushes his way through the crowd, shaking free of the occasional hand that tries to stop him, ignoring the drinks offered as he passes, and that cranks his level of fear up another notch, even as he tells himself Sam's smart enough not to take a drink from someone else at one of these things.

When Dean finds her, she's leaning against the back wall of the cavernous room, hips canted and head tipped back, laughing up at some guy who's whispering in her ear, his arm braced against the wall by her head. Once Dean sees she's okay, his fear transforms completely into anger.

"Sam," he growls, reaching out and yanking her arm. She stumbles into him, and he wraps an arm around her waist, looks down to see she's wearing boots that come up just past her knees, with high, skinny heels. "Jesus fucking Christ." He glares at the guy, says, "Don't even fucking think about it."

He drags her into the nearest empty room, which is some kind of office, full of dusty bookshelves and old file cabinets, and slams the door behind them. The whole place is practically vibrating with bass, and he has to lean in and shout in her ear to be heard.

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Fuck you, Dean. I'm just trying to have some fun," she answers, shoving at him. He can smell beer on her breath. "I'm not a little kid. And you're not Dad."

He ignores that, because it's true, and yet Dad's not here and his words--Watch out for Sammy--are burned into Dean's soul like a brand, and he can't fail at it any more than he already has. "You didn't drink anything you didn't pour yourself?"

"One Coors Light, right from the bottle." She shrugs one shoulder. "Only bottled beer they had. Opened it myself."

"You know what can happen to girls like you at parties like this, Sam?"

She rubs against him, like a cat looking to be petted, and wraps her arms around his neck. "Why don't you show me?" she says in a husky tone that goes right to his dick.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" But this time when he says it, his lips are against her ear, and it's easy, it's so easy, to suck her earlobe into his mouth, slide his lips down the length of her neck when she tips her head back to give him access, soft gasp escaping her lips, breath warm and beer-scented on his skin.

She laughs. She fucking laughs like it's no big deal. "I was thinking of you."

Anger and fear and need pulse through his veins like blood, and he pushes her up against the door, hands already sliding up under the short black skirt that leaves so much of her long, strong thighs bare. She gasps and arches into his touch when he cups her, hot and wet against his palm, tiny scrap of her underwear not interfering at all.

"C'mon, Dean," she says against his lips, then slips her tongue into his mouth to flutter along the roof of it, wrap around his tongue, make him forget who he is, and where, and why this is a bad idea. "You told me to ask for what I want, and I want you to fuck me," she says when he pulls away, hooks her left leg around his hip and tries to pull him closer, hands yanking his shirt out of his waistband. She finds the gun and raises her eyebrows.

He grabs it from her and shoves it into his jacket pocket. "This place is more dangerous than Dad's haunted shrimp boat."

Her fingers tighten on his shoulders. "You've got some nerve, lecturing me, after some of the shit you've pulled."

"It's different for girls."

"Don't hand me that bullshit. You taught me--"

He wants to shake her until her teeth rattle for being such a stubborn little brat. "It is, and you know it, too. I know it sucks, but it's true. You're the prey here."

"I can protect myself."

"Can you?" He shoves her back against the door again, harder this time, grinding into her, and the whimper she makes isn't about pain at all--her pupils are blown wide, and he can feel her nipples brushing hard and tight against his chest with each ragged breath she takes. He growls into her mouth, biting and sucking at her lips, her tongue. It's a brutal kiss, and she gives it right back to him, teeth and tongue meeting his in a way that makes his nerves sing with need.

He pushes at the stretchy material of her tank top to get at her breasts. She's not wearing a bra, which is good, because he doesn't think he has the patience to deal with one at the moment. He dips his head to lick and suck at her nipples, and she arches into his mouth, holds his head tight against her, nails digging into his scalp. She's talking. He can't hear her words because the goddamn music is too loud, but he can feel her chest rise and fall, the muffled hum of her voice vibrates through him, and he knows she's saying, Dean, please, Dean, because he'd know his name on her lips anywhere, at any time.

He slides a hand under her skirt again, yanks at the cheap thong that passes for her underwear. It comes off in his hand, no doubt leaving angry red marks on her skin. They both stare down at it until he shoves it into his pocket, on top of the gun. He kisses her again, breathing in her laughter, but it's not funny. He thinks of all the different things that could have gone wrong tonight, if he hadn't gotten here in time, if she'd taken a drink from a stranger, if...

Her hands on his fly abruptly derail that train of thought, and then she's shoving his jeans and his underwear down, curling her fingers around his cock. He thrusts into her hand; she thumbs the slit, then licks the precome off the pad of her thumb. He sucks in a breath, fumbles for the condom in his wallet like he's fifteen again and finally getting the chance to fuck Mary Alice Bradshaw on the ugly plaid sofa in her basement.

Sam's a step ahead of him, pulling a small foil packet out of the purse thing dangling from her shoulder, and he growls again, bites down hard on the flesh where her neck meets her shoulder, marking her, jealous of whoever it was she'd planned to use it with before he showed up. She moans a little, breathless, grinding against his thigh.

"They were giving them out at the door," she manages, tearing it open and rolling it on him with trembling, inexpert fingers. "Seemed rude not to take one."

He snorts in disbelief. "I see."

He hoists her up, wrapping her other leg around him, and pushes forward, the head of his cock sliding along the slick folds of her cunt, and she gasps. "Fuck, Dean." She shoves her hands up under his shirt, scrapes her nails down his back.

"That's the plan, Sammy." He knows, with the crystal clear certainty he gets when he's sighting some monster down the barrel of his gun, that if he does this now, there will be no going back, and if he doesn't, there's no going forward, no escape from this scenario playing out again and again until she finally sets her eyes on someone else. And as much as he'd like to believe that's what he wants for her, the sharp jolt of possessive anger he feels at the thought forces him to admit, if only to himself, that it's not.

He isn't gentle. He pushes inside her and doesn't stop until he's all the way in, ignoring her surprised gasp and the way she goes still in his arms.

"God, baby, you're so tight," he murmurs, thrusting into the tight, slick heat of her cunt, "so wet."

"All for you," she answers, pressing him closer with her feet against his ass, those heels digging into the backs of his thighs, edging the almost unbearable pleasure with just enough pain to make it sharpen into focus. He knows they're going to leave a mark, welcomes it. "Just for you."

His hands are tight on her ass, fingers digging into firm flesh like she's the only thing anchoring him to the earth, and he fucks her hard against the door, in time with the bass still pounding through the walls, his mouth hot and wet against her neck and jaw, and for one quick second he thinks this is the only way he can keep her safe, make sure she never leaves him.

She clings to him, nails scraping against his skin, teeth sharp against his neck, his jaw, before latching onto his lower lip, biting into soft, sensitive flesh and then licking the sting away.

Pleasure bursts like lightning under his skin, shivers down his spine and then out, as he loses his rhythm and thrusts erratically, whole world going white behind his eyes as she clenches her body around him, drawing him in deeper, her voice in his ear, shouting, "Dean, Dean, Dean," as he comes shuddering inside her, her name on his lips.

He presses his face to her neck, breathes in sweat and Sam and sex, and when he recovers, he realizes--"Fuck, Sam. You didn't--Christ, I can't believe I didn't make you come first."

She runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and laughs--he can feel it all the way down to his toes. "Man, I am never ever letting you forget that, either." She lowers her legs slowly, unsteady on her feet, but he's not ready to let her go just yet. They cling to each other for a few moments that feel endless and much too quick at the same time. He cups her cheek briefly, presses a warm kiss to her forehead and another to her lips, and then he pulls away.

He tosses the condom away and cleans himself up, the tips of his ears burning as he realizes she's watching him, fascinated, pink tip of her tongue poking out between red, saliva-slick lips.

"Nice boots," he says, to cover his embarrassment. "Where'd you get 'em?"

"Daphne lent them to me. I don't think I like the heels, though. They'd be a bitch to run in. I can barely walk in them."

"Boots like that are not made for walking."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, God. You're so lame."

He grins at that, and slips an arm around her waist because she's wobbly on those heels, or maybe because she's just had sex for the first time, and he can't think about that right now, though he wants nothing more than to do it again, slow, this time, gentle, and oh God, how could he have--

She stumbles and grabs onto him, warm and soft at his side, looks up and gives him a grin, bright enough to light their way out of this place.

His ears are ringing and his clothes stink of pot and sex and he hopes fervently that he hasn't missed Dad's call, but when he checks his phone, there are no messages.

He walks her back to the car, one hand steady on her hip, the other in his jacket pocket, tight on the grip of his gun, but they make it without incident. He actually opens the door for her before going around to the driver's side, and she looks up at him in grateful surprise, but doesn't say anything.

They ride in silence for a few minutes, and he keeps glancing over at her. She's fidgety, and he realizes two things at once: her underwear is still in his pocket, and she's probably sore as hell.

Then she turns and grins at him, like she just got one over, and he says, "I'm not gonna tell Dad about you sneaking out, but don't think you're getting away with this."

"If that was your idea of punishment," she says, still grinning, "bring it on. It's way better than wind sprints or push-ups."

"I'm not joking."

"Neither am I." She shifts again, pulls at her skirt, which is made of some stretchy material that rides up when she moves, and he can see the long, strong muscles of her thighs. The memory of those legs wrapped around his hips, of coming deep inside her body, floods his veins with heat, and it's his turn to shift uncomfortably. The endless loop of streetlights washes over her face as they drive, and he can see the redness on her neck and chest where his stubble scraped her skin, the bruises blossoming where he marked her, had his mouth and hands and cock where no one else has ever been, and he was never meant to be.

His hands tighten on the wheel, and he takes a deep breath, tries to regain some control. She must sense the change in his mood, because she reaches out to touch him, and he flinches away.

"Don't--don't freak out on me, Dean. Please. I know it's weird, but that's us, right? Who we are. We do all the weird shit that normal people freak out about. This isn't any different."

She won't stop talking, throwing his own words back in his face, and he just wants her to shut up, wants her to leave him alone. Wants to pull over and fuck her again, until she's screaming his name like it's the only word she's ever known, feeling it the way he felt her name, her body, before.

He can't--won't--do that, so he takes refuge in anger, though even that isn't safe anymore. "What were you thinking?" he asks her for the third time, and they both know this time she has to answer. Rituals must be observed, and even Sam respects that.

"I wanted to make you mad. Make you jealous." She smiles. "And I did."

He shakes his head. "Jesus, Sam. What we did--what I did to you--"

"Not to me, Dean. With me. It's not wrong. I wanted it, I was right there with you all the way. Well, maybe not all the way." She smirks at him and he knows she's never going to let that go. But she's serious when she says, "You didn't--whatever you're thinking, you didn't hurt me. You'd never hurt me."

He wishes he could believe that the way she does. Makes himself believe it, because she does. Ain't that a change, he thinks, from when they were kids and she'd believed everything he told her with wide eyes and an eager smile and a Dean says like she was quoting the Bible.

When they get home, he tosses his jacket over a chair and helps her to her room. She looks at the busted lock on her door and the books scattered on the floor the way he left them, says shrilly, "You kicked down my door and went through all my stuff?"

It's easy enough to fall back into their natural rhythm; he lets their version of normality wash over him like a warm bath. "You snuck out of the house to go to a party in an abandoned warehouse. Don't even think you have the moral high ground here, princess."

She sinks down onto the bed, all fight gone out of her, unzips the boots, and kicks them off.

"Remind me to call Daphne and Allison in the morning, tell them I didn't get roofied and kidnapped or something," she says, pulling her socks off and rubbing at the arch of her left foot.

"Here, let me--" He sits down next to her, and she swings around, rests her feet in his lap. "Not like they were paying attention. If that's what your friends are like, maybe you should find some new ones. And don't roll your eyes at me."

"They didn't mean to--"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to hear it." He presses his thumbs into the ball of her foot, working slowly and surely to ease the pressure there from the heels she's not used to wearing.

She sighs and flops onto her back, letting him take care of her. She wriggles a little when he brushes a particularly ticklish spot.

"God, that feels good," she murmurs as he rotates her ankle, slides his hand up her calf, half-hard from the feel of her skin under the pads of his fingers.

He shoots her a grin. "I'm the foot fucking master, and don't you forget it."

She giggles and scoots down the bed a bit, though the material of her skirt doesn't move with her, and now her legs are bare nearly to the tops of her thighs.

He swallows hard, fingers tightening on her calf. "You okay?" he asks, voice gone hoarse.

"Little sore," she answers, not even pretending not to know what he means. She leans up on her elbows now, straps of her tank top sliding down her arms, and smiles at him in invitation, sliding her foot along his thigh. "Wouldn't mind doing it again."

He clears his throat, tries to joke. "You need to be able to walk tomorrow."

"You really think that's gonna be a problem?"

"Hold on a sec."

He goes to the bathroom, wets down a washcloth with warm water, grabs a towel, and goes back to the bedroom, and stops dead in the doorway for a second, has to remind himself to start breathing again, because she's got her skirt off now, is sitting up and touching herself, curious. There's no blood on her thighs, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief about that.

"Hey," he says, "let me." He holds up the washcloth. He tries to be detached, the way he is when he cleans her wounds from hunting, or rubs her strained muscles from running, but he can't quite manage it, not when she's laid out before him like an undiscovered country, his own new world ready to be explored. Her hands open and close, fingers curling in the sheets, and she makes all sorts of hot little noises while he cleans and dries her off.

"Dean," she says, trapping his hand against her cunt with her own and thrusting against it, all slick warm heat and the promise of happiness. "Dean, please." And there's no amulet, no salt line or chalked sigil that can protect him from that. He doesn't want one that could.

He touches her softly, gently, everything he wasn't earlier, presses teasing little kisses down her body, swirls his tongue in her bellybutton while she giggles and squirms, her hands now stroking through his hair and over his neck like a blessing, her voice murmuring his name like a benediction.

"Gonna make it good for you this time, so good for you, baby," he whispers against the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she makes this broken, whimpering sound that sends a jolt of heat right to his dick.

He goes slow, using lips and tongue and fingers to make her moan and gasp, hips arching off the bed. When he looks up, she's got her shirt shoved up and is palming her breasts, eyes closed and face screwed up in intense concentration, taking what he gives her and begging for more with soft choking sounds that never quite spell out his name. He brings her to the edge and then over it, and she shakes and shudders and moans until she's spent, sprawled bonelessly, shamelessly, across her bed.

He brushes her sweaty hair back from her forehead, kisses her softly, every touch an apology, a request for the forgiveness she holds back from everyone else and finds so easy to give him, who deserves it least.

She curls into him, hands tangling in his shirt to keep him close, whispers, thank you against his neck, and something that might be love you over his heart--he's not sure, and she doesn't say it again, but he's not going to ask.

He holds her until she falls asleep, blissful, fucked-out smile on her face, and then goes back into the bathroom, jacks himself until he comes. He's slow to wash, wants to keep her scent on his skin as long as he can.

He's restless, last vestiges of adrenaline burning off now that he knows she's home and safe and asleep, that the biggest danger to her now--always--is him, and no one else. He's not used to sticking around after sex, but there's no place for him to go, and he wouldn't go even if there was. He's made his bed, and he's got to lie in it.

As he pulls the gun out of his jacket pocket, still wrapped in the ripped remains of Sam's underwear, he thinks, once again, that irony is a bitch.

*

He's not sure what time it is when he finally falls asleep, but he wakes to the shrill ring of the phone, and on the other end, Dad's voice weary and excited at the same time, barking directions to Bayou La Batre and lists of supplies for them to bring him when they come.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel and her old pink bathrobe pulled tight around her waist. She presses a kiss to his forehead while Dad's still talking in his ear.

When he hangs up, she says, "I made coffee," and then, "I have a trig test on Monday, so this better not take too long." Everything is the way it should be, and Dean breathes out in relief, feeling like he's dodged one more bullet.

*

After the haunted shrimp boat--and Dean doesn't think he'll be able to face a plate of scampi for months--Dad's restless, eager to move on, find something else to hunt. He pulls Sam out of school at the holidays; they pack up and are on the road in less than a day, leaving the warmth of the Gulf Coast behind as they head north and west, chasing rumors of ghosts and danger.

Dad still makes them share a room when they stay at motels, and Dean doesn't complain again, lets himself be surrounded by Sam and what she's giving him, trying not to think about it as what he's taking from her.

It should be weird, and in some ways it is, because she's Sammy, and he remembers holding her the day she was born, remembers carrying her out of the house the night of the fire, remembers singing her to sleep, kissing her scraped knees, and now he knows what she looks and sounds like when she comes, what she tastes like. He's never stuck around long enough to know anyone the way he knows her, to let anyone know him the way she does, and he knows there's no easy out for either of them when this ends--and it will end, because she wants so much more from life than hunting and fucking her brother, and the thing is, she deserves it, and he's afraid that when she gets it, she'll leave him behind altogether, one more relic of a life she doesn't want. And he's afraid that if she doesn't get it, she'll end up hating him for keeping her with him, for betraying her trust and using sex to hold her close.

He's not sure which he's more afraid of, so he pushes it away, loses himself in the smooth skin of her belly and the silky weight of her breasts in his hands, under his tongue.

In some ways, though, it's as normal as anything else in their lives, because it's Sam and Dean, curled up under the ugly polyester covers, bad eighties cop shows on television, warm and safe from the world outside, better protection than any salt lines or chalk symbols could ever be.

*

They spend Christmas with Pastor Jim, New Year's with Bobby, and land in Ames, Iowa when Sam reminds them that she's still got school to finish and could they please settle until June this time?

They rent a small house not too far from the university, and Sam trades in her flip-flops and jean jacket for snow boots and a parka, complaining the whole time about the cold and how showing up in January makes it hard to get on the track team, even with a glowing reference from her old coach in Mobile.

Dean's twenty-first birthday sneaks up on them--Dad's picking up shifts as a security guard at the hospital, and Dean's pumping gas during the day and hustling pool at night, trying to make the rent and keep them in food and clothes and ammo. He comes home that night to Sam beaming at him over a heavily decorated cake (she's more enthusiastic in the kitchen than capable, because she tends to get absorbed in her reading and forget she's cooking) and Dad pulling him into a one-armed hug and inviting him out for a drink, since he's legal now.

After dinner and cake, Dad gives him a new shotgun, which is more than he expected--when he turned eighteen, Dad gave him the Impala, and he's only gotten small gifts since then, doesn't really need anything else.

Sam hands him a small box wrapped in bright paper. "It's not much," she says, looking anxious.

"I'm sure it's great." She's taped it up so tightly he has to pull out his pocketknife to get it open. When he finally manages it, he sees three leather bracelets resting on that white cottony stuff they put in jewelry boxes.

"They're elephant hair bracelets," she says, leaning forward and sliding them onto his right wrist, fingers warm as a kiss against his skin. "The knots represent earth and nature, and the strands represent the seasons. They're supposed to provide protection from illness and accidents."

"Thanks, Sammy." He smiles, honestly touched at the thought she put into the gift.

She's still holding his hand in hers when Dad pulls on his jacket and says, "Come on, Dean." Sam pouts, and he almost gives in to her when she asks to come along--it'd be the least of the things he's given in on--but Dad laughs and ruffles her hair, easy with her in a way he rarely is lately, and says, "You'll have your turn, Sammy. Your brother will be so busy warning away your potential boyfriends that he won't have time to enjoy himself."

The idea of some asshole picking Sam up in a bar makes Dean feel a little sick, but he pushes it away, brushes a hand down her back and drops a kiss on the top of her head to say thank you.

"Dad, please?" she says. "My homework's all done, and I promise I won't complain when you're ready to leave."

Dad looks at Dean, and Dean shrugs. "It's fine by me."

Dad rubs a hand over his jaw and says, "Okay, but we're not staying long. And don't even try to order anything but Coke, Sammy."

"Diet Coke."

Dad smiles. "That, too."

She throws her arms around him, gives him a quick squeeze, and he rests a hand on the top of her head for a second, as always looking as startled by her spontaneous shows of affection as he is by her constant questioning of his authority.

She grabs her coat and bumps her hip against Dean's as they walk out, her hand skimming under his shirts and over his belly like a promise, making him stumble. She spins away from him, laughter ringing through the cold night air like a bell.

The bar is like a hundred other bars he's been in since he was sixteen and old enough to stare down bouncers with his fake ID--hard wood floors and scarred wood tables, darts and pool in the backroom, a jukebox heavy on Skynyrd and Zeppelin, and a cute blonde waitress dressed in a short skirt and belly shirt despite the cold.

"Midnight Rider" is playing when they slide into a booth, and the waitress saunters over, eyes and smile bright.

"I'm Annette, and I'll be your waitress tonight. What can I get you folks?" she says, never looking away from Dean.

"It's my boy's birthday," Dad says, "so we're doing a little celebrating."

It doesn't seem possible, but Annette's smile gets wider and she leans in, giving him a whiff of her flowery perfume. "Happy birthday."

He can feel Sam tense next to him, so he puts a hand on her knee and squeezes. "I'll have a bottle of Bud and a shot of Jack."

"Make that two," Dad says. "And a Coke for the young lady."

"Diet Coke." Sam's smile is tight and false, and he wonders if she regrets coming.

"Happy birthday, son," Dad toasts him, and they knock back the shot, warmth of it in his chest welcome after the cold outside. Sam sips her diet Coke and fidgets until Dad hands her a bunch of singles and sends her off to commandeer the jukebox. "Don't forget to play some Johnny Cash," he says, and she waves her hand, promising nothing.

The liquor doesn't taste any different now that Dean's legal, but he likes not having to worry about getting tossed out, about having his ID confiscated (there was this town down the Jersey shore where the bouncers got fifty bucks for every fake they found, and Dean tried three different clubs before he gave up; he's looking forward to going back to Jersey someday and walking in like he owns those places), because those things can be a bitch to replace, and even though he's gotten good at it over the years, it's still time and effort he could be spending on something else.

"Thanks, Dad."

They drink in silence for a couple minutes, and Dean hums along with the jukebox, which has switched to "Baba O'Riley," and grins at the waitress when she goes past, a little extra swing in her hips, just for him.

Another beer, another shot, and Dad's slouching against the back of the booth a little, small smile on his face. "Sammy's settling in pretty well, don't you think? She seems happier lately."

He looks over to see her bent over the jukebox, face scrunched up in concentration. "Yeah." He takes a sip of beer, forces himself to stay calm, because Dad doesn't know, can't ever know, what's putting a smile on Sam's face these days. "I think the track thing--I think it's good for her. Girls who play sports--" He has some vague recollection of a Nike commercial about it that used to enthrall her. He fumbles for words, can't find any that won't lead to trouble, so he settles for repeating himself as if he's said something profound. Dad'll blame the Jack if he even notices how lame Dean sounds. "It's good for them. Keeps her out of trouble." He takes another sip of beer. "Looks good on her college applications, too." Not that he wants her to go, or to go away, anyway. Which is what it means--it's not like they're going to stay in one place, so no matter where she goes, it will be away.

Dad nods. "I wish we could let her go. I wish it was safe. But it's not, Dean. You understand that, right?"

"I--Yeah, of course." He hates that it's not safe, hates that he's grateful that keeps her with him, but he's not sure, in the end, that she's going to stay.

"Don't encourage her. It'll only break her heart when she can't go."

"Dad, I'm not--"

Dad gives him a look, because he knows how Dean crumbles like a Ritz cracker when Sam pushes him.

"Any boys I should know about?" Dean chokes on his beer, and Dad laughs. "I know, it's...difficult to think about. But she's a beautiful girl, and they're bound to come sniffing around, probably sooner rather than later."

Dean clears his throat, manages to find his voice. "I know. I'm on it." It's not technically a lie.

"Don't be afraid to show 'em your new shotgun." Dad clinks his bottle against Dean's, and this time, they both laugh, though Dean's is edged with nervousness he hopes his father can't hear. "Your sister is a special girl. I'm sure every father thinks that about his daughter, but Sammy...Sammy is..."

"Yeah, Dad. I know." He takes another swallow of beer, signals the waitress for another round. "I'm sure she'd like to hear that, too." It's as close as he's come to criticizing his father in a long time. Possibly ever.

Dad looks away for a second, shakes his head. "She'd probably turn it into some kind of argument. Never saw a kid who liked to argue so much. Stubborn as hell, too."

"Gee, I wonder where she gets that from."

Dad points a finger at him in warning. "Watch yourself, buddy." But there's no heat in it.

Alanis Morrisette's sharp, angry voice blares out of the speakers, and they both wince.

"That and her god-awful taste in music."

"That I can't take any credit for." He shakes his head. "At least she's grown out of that boy band shit."

"Yeah, even this angry chick rock is a step up from that." Dean shudders, remembering the Backstreet Boys poster she'd carried from crappy apartment to cheap motel to crappy apartment, fished it out of the garbage every time he'd tried to get rid of it. And then one day, it'd disappeared as if it'd never been there at all, and she curled her lip disdainfully at her old tapes, left them behind somewhere between Tallahassee and Atlanta. "If she'd kept it up, I was gonna suggest disowning her."

Dad laughs again. "So you let her play the angry chick rock in the car?"

"God, no! Same rules as always. Driver picks the music." Though Dad had bent that sometimes for them, let him listen to Metallica's new albums the day they came out, let Sam play Nevermind until the tape damn near snapped once she'd discovered Nirvana.

"She's gonna be taking Driver's Ed this semester." Dad takes the new bottle of beer from the waitress, who leans in to clear the empty shot glasses off the table and gives Dean a look down her shirt. Dean grins appreciatively, lets his gaze slide down her body like he's already got her undressed and on her knees. She walks away with a smile, and he thinks they're going to have to leave her a nice tip, either way. "Been thinking you should take her out driving."

"Wait, what?" Dean snaps out of his daze, sits up straight. "You want me to let Sammy drive the Impala?"

Sam slides back into the booth next to him, sullen glare at the waitress replaced with an eager look. "You learned to drive in the Impala."

"Yeah, but that was me. Dad taught me to drive when I was tall enough to reach the pedals." He hadn't done it but once or twice then, in emergencies, but knowing how to drive when other kids his age were still riding around on bicycles, had been the coolest thing--cooler than the first time Dad had handed him a beer after a hunt (at fifteen) or the first time Dad let him drop a book of lit matches into a grave (at thirteen, and that's still pretty fucking cool at twenty-one)--because even as a kid he'd known the Impala was pretty much as cool as things ever got, and he'd hit that peak at twelve and never come down.

Dad reaches out and squeezes Sam's hand. "Well, Sammy's certainly tall enough for that."

"Dad--"

"Dean."

There's no arguing with that tone of voice, and Dean knows it. "Yes, sir."

"It's not like I haven't taught her the basics."

"And I'll be taking Driver's Ed," she adds.

Dad nods. "You'll just be helping her practice." He must still look skeptical, because Dad says, "I'm counting on you, Dean."

"Yes, sir."

"I mean it." He leans forward, gets that focused look only hunting puts on his face. "I heard from Caleb this afternoon. He's tracking a pack of werewolves. Next full moon, we're going after 'em. We're gonna need every gun we've got on this one, and I need to know I can count on you and Sammy both to be prepared for anything."

Dean nods, head spinning. They've taken down lone werewolves on occasion, and there was that time with what turned out to be a married couple outside Three Forks, but a whole pack is something else, something big. The thought of depending on Sam to drive in an emergency is kind of scary, but she'll be safer waiting in the car than tramping through the woods with him and Dad and Caleb, and Dad knows what he's doing--he's kept them all alive so far.

"We will be, Dad. Don't worry about it."

"Good man." Dad claps him on the shoulder, smiling, and that's all Dean's ever asked from him, best present he could have gotten. The only dark spot is the way Sam tenses next to him, but he kicks her before she can complain about hunting again, and she bites her lip and looks away.

One more round, and Dean's just getting into the swing of the night, eyeing the pool table with interest, but Dad's ready to pack it in. He glances at the waitress and gives Dean a knowing grin. "You can stay if you want--it's your birthday party. I'll leave the chain off, but try not to stay out too late."

Dean nods. "I won't."

Dad tosses a couple of twenties onto the table and stands, pulling his jacket on. "Come on, Sammy, let's motor. You've got school in the morning."

She slides out of the booth and gives him a look that's hurt and angry all at once. He grabs her hand, squeezes it--to reassure her? To apologize for something he hasn't done yet, but they both know he's thinking of doing? He's not sure, and she obviously doesn't get it, or, more likely, she doesn't want it, because she jerks away, lips quirking in a frown. She's generally got a good poker face, and it's getting better as she gets older, but her mouth always gives her away--he's been reading it for years, like a second language she doesn't even know she's speaking.

"I didn't even get to hear all my songs," she starts, but one look from Dad stops her. She promised, and even in something as small as this, they all take that seriously. "Happy birthday," she says instead, and lets Dad lead her away.

Dean gets up, goes to the pool table, and puts his money down for next, offering to play the winner. Turns out the guy owns a red sixty-nine GTO, and they get to talking about cars and engines, the possibility of some part-time work in a garage. Dean grins wide, surprisingly warmed at the oddness of maybe making a friend. Annette keeps the drinks coming, and now that he's alone, she's even more flirtatious, and he shows his appreciation.

He thinks about it as he plays, not even trying to hustle tonight and still winning enough to at least cover his tab and still have cash left over, thinks about dyed blonde hair ghosting over his skin, the weight and feel of her tits in his hands--she's at least a C-cup, if not a D--and lips painted bright pink wrapped around his dick. He wonders if she'd let him fuck her in that tight little ass, if she'd giggle and pretend she'd never done it before, or if she'd be proud of her ability to give him whatever he wanted.

Nirvana segues into Johnny Cash as he sinks the eight ball again, pockets his winnings, and leans a hip against the table to watch her as she takes off her apron and drops it on the bar.

"Going on my break," she says when she walks past, hips swaying like an invitation.

Dean thinks of Sam, all the promises he's made her, and all the ones he hasn't, the things he shouldn't give her, and the things he always will.

"Have a good night," he says. When she pouts, he says, "I've got to be at work early in the morning," and she walks away, knowing rejection when she hears it.

And the really fucked up part is, he doesn't regret it nearly as much as he thought he would, as he probably should. He drains the rest of his beer and heads home, Annette the waitress already forgotten.

*

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

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