fic: This One Laughing Quietly (Supernatural; Dean/girl!Sam; adult)
I sat down to write this afternoon, and instead of working on any of my wsip, this happened. I blame luzdeestrellas. She knows why.
This One Laughing Quietly
Supernatural; Dean/girl!Sam; au; adult; 1,875 words
The summer Sam is sixteen, she spends all her time lying by the pool.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. This is all her fault.
~*~
This One Laughing Quietly
The summer Sam is sixteen, Dad parks them at the Easy Sleep Motel on the outskirts of Brownsville, and heads off for three weeks of chupacabra hunting with Caleb, along the Rio Grande. Dean's got a concussion from tangling with an angry spirit in McAllen, and he's still seeing double when Dad leaves, is woozy for a couple days after.
By the time he's seeing straight again, Sam's settled in like she could stay forever. The motel has a pool that's kept clean, which is a rare luxury in the places they stay, and Sam spends all her time lying in the sun with her nose in a book, or swimming. She's got this white bikini she picked up somewhere, and it's startling against the golden brown of her skin as she absorbs the sunlight, seems to glow with it herself.
He's making breakfast--toast and coffee in the kitchenette--and she's sitting on the end of his bed watching Saturday morning cartoons and painting her toenails a pink so pale he doesn't see the point, the long curve of her back, bare except for the white string of the bikini, an invitation she doesn't even know she's making.
Dean takes a mouthful of coffee and burns the roof of his mouth, a sharp reminder that he can't have what he wants, that he shouldn't want it at all.
"Fuck." He turns the cold water on, sticks his head under the tap to drink, lets it run cool against the abused skin of his palate.
She looks up, squinting at him in the bright morning sunlight streaming in from the window behind him. "Okay, there, champ?"
He nods, spraying drops of water onto the toaster, the microwave, the small table, and she goes back to painting her nails.
*
Sam circles him like she knows what he's thinking, a shark scenting blood in the water, all sharp white teeth and cherry-red smile, lips stained from the Italian ices they bought at the pizzeria after dinner, hot grease not doing Dean's burned mouth any favors, but pizza's the perfect food--all four food groups at once if you play it right, and it's one of the few things Sam won't turn her nose up at. She's always been a picky eater, would rather live on a steady diet of mac and cheese and chicken fingers than anything else, so when he finds something she'll eat without making a face, he sticks with it until they're both sick of it.
She lives in that bikini, wears it under her jean shorts and tank top, its straps always visible, taunting him--untied when she's lying by the pool, so she won't get tan lines. He doesn't know when she started caring about that, doesn't want to think about long stretches of smooth, tanned skin naked against the white towel she lies on. She calls him over to tie and untie them when she turns over, every twenty minutes like clockwork, and he does, every time, because he's seen the way the other guests--two or three businessmen and a handful of members of the border patrol--eye her, the pool boy only too ready to lend her a hand if she needs one. Dean hates them all, hates that he has to sit out in the sun, feeling himself burn even under the frequent coats of sunblock he puts on, to keep an eye on her. He's got more new freckles than he can count, and his nose is as bright as Sam's cherry-stained mouth, but he's not leaving her alone out there.
She sits on the edge of the pool in the early evening, one foot dangling in the deep end, the other curled up under her ass, eating her ice with the little wooden spoon-thing and grinning at him like she's still the happy little kid he remembers, the one who disappeared when puberty hit and she turned into a girl, juiced up on new hormones and moody as hell.
She sets the empty paper cup on the concrete and slides silently into the water, no one around to yell that she has to wait half an hour after eating to swim, long legs and arms stroking the length of the pool easily, at home in the water as if she were born there.
"Come on, Dean," she says, popping up from underwater like a seal, slicking her hair back from her forehead, dark from the water. Her smile is wide and bright.
He grumbles but goes into the room and strips, pulls on the black trunks that used to be Dad's, and grabs a towel from the rack.
When he gets back outside, she's at the edge of the pool, elbows on the concrete to hold herself up, talking to one of the boys who works at the motel. The kid isn't much older than she is, and Dean doesn't have to see the look on his face to know he thinks he's getting lucky.
"Sam."
"Hey," she says. "Nelson, this is Dean. Dean, Nelson. He works here."
"Nice to meet you." Dean gives the kid his best don't fuck with me grin, and the kid gets the message, eyes widening so fast that it'd be funny if the girl he'd been hitting on were anyone but Sam.
"You, too," the kid says, backing away. "I'll be in the office if you need me."
Sam watches him go and then glares up at Dean. Dean shrugs, drops his towel on one of the lounges, and then jumps into the water, splashing everywhere. It's cool enough to feel good after the endless heat of the day, but not cold enough to give him a heart attack, and he lets himself sink for a few seconds before he starts to swim.
"Race you," he says when he comes up for air, already pushing off the wall. Sam squeaks and pushes off herself, trying to catch up, sputtering about how he's cheating. "You waste all your breath talking," he says, over his shoulder, hand reaching the wall while she's still a few yards away, "you'll never catch me."
"Again," she says, laughing, shaking the hair out of her eyes. The sun is slowly sinking behind her, and she's sparkling like diamonds in the light. He wants to lick every drop of water off her skin, has to shake his own head to clear it because she's already off again, and he's got a reputation to maintain.
They swim until they're both exhausted, and the sun is gone, the sky darkening to indigo and the lights around the pool coming up.
He sits on the first step, the concrete rough through the thin material of his trunks, and she swims up, kneels between his thighs, hands falling easily to his waist. Her thumbs dip below the elastic of his waistband, tickling his belly, and she turns her face up to him, eyes wide, water clinging to her lashes.
"Dean," she says, rising up to press her mouth to his. He can taste chlorine and salt, and, when she slips her tongue against his, cherry ice.
He puts his hands on her shoulders, feels the heat of her skin beneath the cool water. He wants to push her away; he wants to drag her close.
"Dean," she says again, her breath hot on his skin. "I want--" She licks her lips, lowers her gaze. "I need--" She can't seem to get the words out, which should worry him, if he weren't already worried about the way her hands are sliding beneath his bathing suit, and the way her skin smells of Waterbabies and chlorine and sunshine, and how much he wants to know if she tastes as good as she smells. "Please--"
He slides a hand from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, cups the back of her head, so delicate, and he can remember holding her as a baby, when she smelled like milk and baby powder, and her hair tickled his palm when he stroked it with feather light touches, always aware of how fragile she was.
"Sam?"
She swallows hard, presses herself against him. "Please," she says again. "I can't--I want--I feel like I'm going to explode if you don't touch me." She takes one of his hands, slips it down under the water, between her legs, lets him feel the heat there, through the flimsy material of her bikini.
He rubs at her gently, and she grinds down against his hand, soft animal noises escaping her throat. He leans in to capture those with his mouth, swallows them down, fingers pushing aside her bathing suit to slide along her cunt, dip into the heat of it, the water not cooling her down at all. He rubs his thumb against her clit in rough circles, slipping one and then two fingers into her. She's so tight, and his dick twitches at the thought of sinking into her, the way he'd let his body sink into the water earlier, all slick, wet heat and need.
She comes with a startled gasp like the ones he's heard occasionally in the darkness of their shared motel room, clenching around his fingers like a vise. He lifts her easily into his lap, maneuvers both their suits so that he can push up inside her, ignoring all the warnings in his head that say no, and don't and stop (her breathless voice urges him on with yes and please and Dean), ignoring every safe sex lecture he's ever heard or given, until he's pushed through her body's resistance and is buried deep inside her.
Her eyes go wide, and he swallows her gasp of surprise, settles her knees on the step around his hips, rests his hands at her waist.
"Easy, Sammy," he says, but he can't stop thrusting up into her cunt, still slowly pulsing from her orgasm, and she can't catch his rhythm, her hands tightening on his shoulders, nails digging into his sunburned skin.
He comes more quickly than he has since he was fifteen and still figuring out how his body worked, face buried against the damp skin of her shoulder, mouthing apologies on her collarbone, and promises he'd die to keep. She loosens her hold on his shoulder, strokes her fingers through his hair, then tugs so she can see his face. She kisses him, laughing into his mouth, and then dips her head to rest against his shoulder, suddenly shy.
He slips out of her, trying to ignore any cloudiness in the water, and tucks his dick into his trunks. He stands, lifting her with him, easy weight even without the water buoying her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, so trusting that it makes his chest hurt.
He carries her back into their room, and they fall asleep together on her bed, soaking the sheets. In the heat, the damp cotton feels good against his skin.
In the morning, he wakes up alone; she's in the shower, singing loudly, and the sun is bright and hot through the gauzy curtains.
He licks his lips and imagines he can still taste cherry ice on his tongue.
end
*
Note: Title and cut-tag text from "Nightswimming" by REM.
*
August 26, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This One Laughing Quietly
Supernatural; Dean/girl!Sam; au; adult; 1,875 words
The summer Sam is sixteen, she spends all her time lying by the pool.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. This is all her fault.
~*~
This One Laughing Quietly
The summer Sam is sixteen, Dad parks them at the Easy Sleep Motel on the outskirts of Brownsville, and heads off for three weeks of chupacabra hunting with Caleb, along the Rio Grande. Dean's got a concussion from tangling with an angry spirit in McAllen, and he's still seeing double when Dad leaves, is woozy for a couple days after.
By the time he's seeing straight again, Sam's settled in like she could stay forever. The motel has a pool that's kept clean, which is a rare luxury in the places they stay, and Sam spends all her time lying in the sun with her nose in a book, or swimming. She's got this white bikini she picked up somewhere, and it's startling against the golden brown of her skin as she absorbs the sunlight, seems to glow with it herself.
He's making breakfast--toast and coffee in the kitchenette--and she's sitting on the end of his bed watching Saturday morning cartoons and painting her toenails a pink so pale he doesn't see the point, the long curve of her back, bare except for the white string of the bikini, an invitation she doesn't even know she's making.
Dean takes a mouthful of coffee and burns the roof of his mouth, a sharp reminder that he can't have what he wants, that he shouldn't want it at all.
"Fuck." He turns the cold water on, sticks his head under the tap to drink, lets it run cool against the abused skin of his palate.
She looks up, squinting at him in the bright morning sunlight streaming in from the window behind him. "Okay, there, champ?"
He nods, spraying drops of water onto the toaster, the microwave, the small table, and she goes back to painting her nails.
*
Sam circles him like she knows what he's thinking, a shark scenting blood in the water, all sharp white teeth and cherry-red smile, lips stained from the Italian ices they bought at the pizzeria after dinner, hot grease not doing Dean's burned mouth any favors, but pizza's the perfect food--all four food groups at once if you play it right, and it's one of the few things Sam won't turn her nose up at. She's always been a picky eater, would rather live on a steady diet of mac and cheese and chicken fingers than anything else, so when he finds something she'll eat without making a face, he sticks with it until they're both sick of it.
She lives in that bikini, wears it under her jean shorts and tank top, its straps always visible, taunting him--untied when she's lying by the pool, so she won't get tan lines. He doesn't know when she started caring about that, doesn't want to think about long stretches of smooth, tanned skin naked against the white towel she lies on. She calls him over to tie and untie them when she turns over, every twenty minutes like clockwork, and he does, every time, because he's seen the way the other guests--two or three businessmen and a handful of members of the border patrol--eye her, the pool boy only too ready to lend her a hand if she needs one. Dean hates them all, hates that he has to sit out in the sun, feeling himself burn even under the frequent coats of sunblock he puts on, to keep an eye on her. He's got more new freckles than he can count, and his nose is as bright as Sam's cherry-stained mouth, but he's not leaving her alone out there.
She sits on the edge of the pool in the early evening, one foot dangling in the deep end, the other curled up under her ass, eating her ice with the little wooden spoon-thing and grinning at him like she's still the happy little kid he remembers, the one who disappeared when puberty hit and she turned into a girl, juiced up on new hormones and moody as hell.
She sets the empty paper cup on the concrete and slides silently into the water, no one around to yell that she has to wait half an hour after eating to swim, long legs and arms stroking the length of the pool easily, at home in the water as if she were born there.
"Come on, Dean," she says, popping up from underwater like a seal, slicking her hair back from her forehead, dark from the water. Her smile is wide and bright.
He grumbles but goes into the room and strips, pulls on the black trunks that used to be Dad's, and grabs a towel from the rack.
When he gets back outside, she's at the edge of the pool, elbows on the concrete to hold herself up, talking to one of the boys who works at the motel. The kid isn't much older than she is, and Dean doesn't have to see the look on his face to know he thinks he's getting lucky.
"Sam."
"Hey," she says. "Nelson, this is Dean. Dean, Nelson. He works here."
"Nice to meet you." Dean gives the kid his best don't fuck with me grin, and the kid gets the message, eyes widening so fast that it'd be funny if the girl he'd been hitting on were anyone but Sam.
"You, too," the kid says, backing away. "I'll be in the office if you need me."
Sam watches him go and then glares up at Dean. Dean shrugs, drops his towel on one of the lounges, and then jumps into the water, splashing everywhere. It's cool enough to feel good after the endless heat of the day, but not cold enough to give him a heart attack, and he lets himself sink for a few seconds before he starts to swim.
"Race you," he says when he comes up for air, already pushing off the wall. Sam squeaks and pushes off herself, trying to catch up, sputtering about how he's cheating. "You waste all your breath talking," he says, over his shoulder, hand reaching the wall while she's still a few yards away, "you'll never catch me."
"Again," she says, laughing, shaking the hair out of her eyes. The sun is slowly sinking behind her, and she's sparkling like diamonds in the light. He wants to lick every drop of water off her skin, has to shake his own head to clear it because she's already off again, and he's got a reputation to maintain.
They swim until they're both exhausted, and the sun is gone, the sky darkening to indigo and the lights around the pool coming up.
He sits on the first step, the concrete rough through the thin material of his trunks, and she swims up, kneels between his thighs, hands falling easily to his waist. Her thumbs dip below the elastic of his waistband, tickling his belly, and she turns her face up to him, eyes wide, water clinging to her lashes.
"Dean," she says, rising up to press her mouth to his. He can taste chlorine and salt, and, when she slips her tongue against his, cherry ice.
He puts his hands on her shoulders, feels the heat of her skin beneath the cool water. He wants to push her away; he wants to drag her close.
"Dean," she says again, her breath hot on his skin. "I want--" She licks her lips, lowers her gaze. "I need--" She can't seem to get the words out, which should worry him, if he weren't already worried about the way her hands are sliding beneath his bathing suit, and the way her skin smells of Waterbabies and chlorine and sunshine, and how much he wants to know if she tastes as good as she smells. "Please--"
He slides a hand from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, cups the back of her head, so delicate, and he can remember holding her as a baby, when she smelled like milk and baby powder, and her hair tickled his palm when he stroked it with feather light touches, always aware of how fragile she was.
"Sam?"
She swallows hard, presses herself against him. "Please," she says again. "I can't--I want--I feel like I'm going to explode if you don't touch me." She takes one of his hands, slips it down under the water, between her legs, lets him feel the heat there, through the flimsy material of her bikini.
He rubs at her gently, and she grinds down against his hand, soft animal noises escaping her throat. He leans in to capture those with his mouth, swallows them down, fingers pushing aside her bathing suit to slide along her cunt, dip into the heat of it, the water not cooling her down at all. He rubs his thumb against her clit in rough circles, slipping one and then two fingers into her. She's so tight, and his dick twitches at the thought of sinking into her, the way he'd let his body sink into the water earlier, all slick, wet heat and need.
She comes with a startled gasp like the ones he's heard occasionally in the darkness of their shared motel room, clenching around his fingers like a vise. He lifts her easily into his lap, maneuvers both their suits so that he can push up inside her, ignoring all the warnings in his head that say no, and don't and stop (her breathless voice urges him on with yes and please and Dean), ignoring every safe sex lecture he's ever heard or given, until he's pushed through her body's resistance and is buried deep inside her.
Her eyes go wide, and he swallows her gasp of surprise, settles her knees on the step around his hips, rests his hands at her waist.
"Easy, Sammy," he says, but he can't stop thrusting up into her cunt, still slowly pulsing from her orgasm, and she can't catch his rhythm, her hands tightening on his shoulders, nails digging into his sunburned skin.
He comes more quickly than he has since he was fifteen and still figuring out how his body worked, face buried against the damp skin of her shoulder, mouthing apologies on her collarbone, and promises he'd die to keep. She loosens her hold on his shoulder, strokes her fingers through his hair, then tugs so she can see his face. She kisses him, laughing into his mouth, and then dips her head to rest against his shoulder, suddenly shy.
He slips out of her, trying to ignore any cloudiness in the water, and tucks his dick into his trunks. He stands, lifting her with him, easy weight even without the water buoying her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, so trusting that it makes his chest hurt.
He carries her back into their room, and they fall asleep together on her bed, soaking the sheets. In the heat, the damp cotton feels good against his skin.
In the morning, he wakes up alone; she's in the shower, singing loudly, and the sun is bright and hot through the gauzy curtains.
He licks his lips and imagines he can still taste cherry ice on his tongue.
end
*
Note: Title and cut-tag text from "Nightswimming" by REM.
*
August 26, 2007
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~