fic: Built for Hurricanes (Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; adult)
Built for Hurricanes
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; adult; coda for Mystery Spot; 2,070 words
Wednesday ticks over to Thursday, and Sam thinks maybe she can sleep now.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Title and cut tag text from Kristen Vigard.
~*~
Built for Hurricanes
Sam knows she's freaking Dean out, but she can't help it. She walks him to the car, scanning the parking lot for Cal and his gun, her own gun tucked securely in her waistband if she needs it. She stays glued to Dean's side for three hours as they sit in traffic, her head on his shoulder even when he's keeping both hands on the wheel. She closes her eyes against the memories of crushed metal and mangled bodies, of six endless months behind the wheel with no one in the passenger seat beside her.
She follows him into the coffee shop when they finally stop for lunch, a hundred miles north of Broward County, her fingers curled into his belt loops as they wait for a table with the local lunchtime crowd, two or three truckers, and a handful of families on winter break. She slides into the booth beside him instead of across, curls her legs up and leans, breathing him in.
He gives her the raised eyebrow of What the hell, Sammy? but when she doesn't move, he shakes his head and snorts in resignation, then wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. She sighs, tension in her muscles easing, but she's still on guard for grease fires, stray dogs, choking hazards, and knives flying out of nowhere.
"Where are we going?" he asks when they get back in the car.
She shrugs and answers, "West," because as long as he's with her, she doesn't really care.
They stop for the night at the Super 8 in Gulfport. She doesn't want to, but he says, "You look worse than I feel, Samantha. When was the last time you slept through the night?" She can't answer, the words stuck in her throat, because time is no longer trustworthy and she doesn't know. He takes her silence for assent.
Wednesday ticks over to Thursday, and Sam thinks maybe she can sleep now, can believe she'll wake up and it won't be Tuesday again, won't be the endless Wednesday after.
Dean wakes her with a hand between her thighs, his mouth hot and wet on her neck. She freezes under the touch, gasps and holds her breath for just a second too long, arousal swamped with fear.
He pulls away.
"Sam?"
She hates putting that doubt into his voice, his eyes. "I--You--" She can't look at him, can't make herself say it, can't tell him about the times he died during sex (Tuesdays number thirteen, nineteen, forty, sixty-five, and ninety-six), the heavy weight of him pressing her to the mattress as the light went out in his eyes. He figures it out anyway.
He rolls over onto his back so they can stare at the ceiling together. "Did I at least get to come first?" he asks, and the roughness of his voice belies the joke in his words.
She chokes, half-sob, half-laugh, and raises a hand to cover her mouth, as if she can keep the sound from escaping, too used to silence and nothing but her own company. She blinks back the sting of tears, grateful that he always reaches for the bad joke first. She doesn't trust her voice to answer.
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"Shit."
She chokes again, more of a laugh this time, at the incredulity in his voice. "Yeah."
Once she's sure she's not going to cry, she rolls over onto her side to look at him. He's biting his lip, forehead creased in thought, and she braces for him to say something she doesn't want to hear.
"Come on," he says. He swings out of bed and grabs her hand, pulling her with him.
The digital red numbers on the alarm clock read four twenty three a.m., and Dean's fingers are warm and strong around hers. She goes with him, of course. She can't not, has been following him since before she could walk, and isn't going to stop now, though she has no idea what he's doing.
When they get outside, the air smells of early spring promises, wet asphalt, and exhaust. The pavement is damp and cool under her bare feet, just rough enough to tickle her soles. She shivers. It's not cold, precisely, though it's colder than Florida, and they're not dressed for it.
"Dean," she whispers in protest. "We're in our underwear."
He looks back at her over his shoulder and grins, flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Last one in's a rotten egg," he says, and lets go of her hand to pull his t-shirt off as they hit the pool area. He tosses it at her and she catches it instinctively, presses it to her face for a second to inhale the scent of his sweat before she drops it to the ground, suddenly fearful.
Dean shimmies out of his boxers and cannonballs into the pool. Sam has visions of him cracking his skull on the bottom in the shallow end, blood reddening the water, or of him drowning in the deep end, as if he weren't the one who taught her how to swim.
He pops up, sleek as a seal, and she breathes a sigh of relief. It's Thursday, she reminds herself, watching the play of the moonlight and water over Dean's shoulders as he swims, muscles shifting underneath his skin. She feels a tight, hot ache in her chest and her cunt, the same potent mix of need and love and fear she always feels when she looks at him now.
"C'mon, Sammy," he says. "What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?" He swims to the edge of the pool and flicks water at her ankles. It's cool, not cold, but she shivers anyway.
She hesitates, hands at the hem of her tank top, and she has a flash of being sixteen; that summer, she'd lived in a white bikini she'd bought at Wal-Mart, trying to keep Dean's attention focused on her. As if it ever wasn't. She'd left the suit behind when she went to Stanford, hasn't thought of it in years. She'd always borrowed one of Jess's suits when they went swimming, because Jess had loved the beach, and had bathing suits in every color and style.
"Sam?"
She takes a deep breath and pulls the tank top off. Her panties follow, puddling at her feet, white in the darkness as she steps out of them. She has to force herself not to fold the clothes, to leave them in a messy pile at the side of the pool.
She takes a deep breath and remembers being five or six, Dad standing waist-deep in the water, promising to catch her when she jumped, and Dean calling encouraging things from his side.
She hits the water, colder than the few drops on her skin, and comes up gasping and shivering.
"That'll put hair on your chest," Dean says, smirking at her.
She splashes him. "You're so lame."
They have a brief water fight, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake the other guests but still managing to splash each other pretty thoroughly. She still feels that same stab of fear every time he goes under, but she tries not to let him see it, tries to keep the edge of panic out of her laughter.
He hears it, though. He always does. He grabs her and pulls her close, mouth hot against her water-cooled skin. "I gotcha," he whispers, lips against her ear. "It's okay."
"Dean--"
He cuts her off with a kiss, hot and hard and demanding, and she wraps her arms around him, kisses him back, desperate for the taste and feel of him.
He hooks a foot around her knee, pulls her under, still kissing her, breathing for the both of them, the way he always has; she lets herself sink to the bottom with him.
When they come up for air, they're both gasping, and she buries her face against his neck, tracing the fluttering pulse at the base of his throat with trembling fingers.
"Dean," she says again, treading water, arms still wrapped around his shoulders, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice and failing. "I can't touch the bottom."
"Hang on." He swims them back a few feet, presses her up against the side of the pool, the cement rough and tile smooth on her back. The large, painted five feet marker to her right looks black in the moonlight. She wraps her legs around him, lowers a hand into the water to stroke him. He grins, startled, and she wants to make a joke about shrinkage, but can't find the words, so she kisses him again, swallowing his laughter.
He shifts her up, slides inside, smooth and easy as slipping a clip into her favorite gun, and rolls his hips, his tongue hot on her neck and sweet in her mouth. He tastes of chlorine and sleep and life, and she can't stop kissing him, touching him, breathing him in, because she knows now, what it's like without him, and she doesn't want to ever face that again.
"It's okay, baby," he murmurs against her jaw. "I gotcha."
It's wet and slippery, and her back is probably going to be scraped up good, but she doesn't care when he's moving inside of her, the beat of his heart strong and fast against her chest. She thinks she might be too wound up to come, can't quite get there, even with his thumb on her clit and his dick in her cunt, but he keeps whispering in her ear, so good and so tight and fuck, Sammy, you're so hot, and the heat rises up inside her to counteract the chill of the water, of the past six months she's spent alone.
Dean comes with a grunt and a shudder, his body holding her up against the wall, the heavy press of him making her panic for a second before she hears the ragged rush of his breath, feels it hot against her neck.
"Gonna get you there, baby," he mutters, fingers replacing his cock and stroking in, hard and fast, and she would laugh at the determined look on his face if she had the breath for it, if she weren't so close to coming she could taste it.
Sam loves the few seconds before she comes more than anything, the way the whole world just stops for one endless moment, like it's holding its breath with her, and then pleasure pulses through her in a fierce rush, and he licks the words she wants to say off her tongue.
He holds her there until she's stopped shaking, hands stroking over her hair and back until she's breathing normally again. Then he lifts her up to sit on the side of the pool and hefts himself up beside her with a grunt. Her legs feel rubbery and weak, and her back is scraped and stinging, but she feels better than she has since before they went to Florida.
"You're totally carrying me back to the room," she says, resting her head against his arm and kicking the water so it splashes them.
He pulls her close and sighs. "Yeah, okay."
They pull their underwear back on, and her teeth start chattering, cold after the warm press of his body against hers, even in the water. She's ready to climb onto his back, take a piggyback ride like when they were kids, but he slings her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry instead. She thinks about protesting, but decides she's too tired, and anyway, the view is pretty good. She lifts his shirt and blows raspberries against the cool, wet skin of his lower back, and he hops awkwardly.
"I'll drop your ass right here," he warns, but she can hear the laughter in his voice.
She thinks about changing into dry clothes once they're back in the room, but Dean dumps her into the bed and flops down next to her, and she decides she can't be bothered. He's asleep almost immediately. She rests her head on his chest and listens to the even rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. She lies awake until the sky lightens, then she turns off the alarm and lets herself sleep, finally believing it's truly Thursday.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; adult; coda for Mystery Spot; 2,070 words
Wednesday ticks over to Thursday, and Sam thinks maybe she can sleep now.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Title and cut tag text from Kristen Vigard.
~*~
Built for Hurricanes
Sam knows she's freaking Dean out, but she can't help it. She walks him to the car, scanning the parking lot for Cal and his gun, her own gun tucked securely in her waistband if she needs it. She stays glued to Dean's side for three hours as they sit in traffic, her head on his shoulder even when he's keeping both hands on the wheel. She closes her eyes against the memories of crushed metal and mangled bodies, of six endless months behind the wheel with no one in the passenger seat beside her.
She follows him into the coffee shop when they finally stop for lunch, a hundred miles north of Broward County, her fingers curled into his belt loops as they wait for a table with the local lunchtime crowd, two or three truckers, and a handful of families on winter break. She slides into the booth beside him instead of across, curls her legs up and leans, breathing him in.
He gives her the raised eyebrow of What the hell, Sammy? but when she doesn't move, he shakes his head and snorts in resignation, then wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a quick kiss to the top of her head. She sighs, tension in her muscles easing, but she's still on guard for grease fires, stray dogs, choking hazards, and knives flying out of nowhere.
"Where are we going?" he asks when they get back in the car.
She shrugs and answers, "West," because as long as he's with her, she doesn't really care.
They stop for the night at the Super 8 in Gulfport. She doesn't want to, but he says, "You look worse than I feel, Samantha. When was the last time you slept through the night?" She can't answer, the words stuck in her throat, because time is no longer trustworthy and she doesn't know. He takes her silence for assent.
Wednesday ticks over to Thursday, and Sam thinks maybe she can sleep now, can believe she'll wake up and it won't be Tuesday again, won't be the endless Wednesday after.
Dean wakes her with a hand between her thighs, his mouth hot and wet on her neck. She freezes under the touch, gasps and holds her breath for just a second too long, arousal swamped with fear.
He pulls away.
"Sam?"
She hates putting that doubt into his voice, his eyes. "I--You--" She can't look at him, can't make herself say it, can't tell him about the times he died during sex (Tuesdays number thirteen, nineteen, forty, sixty-five, and ninety-six), the heavy weight of him pressing her to the mattress as the light went out in his eyes. He figures it out anyway.
He rolls over onto his back so they can stare at the ceiling together. "Did I at least get to come first?" he asks, and the roughness of his voice belies the joke in his words.
She chokes, half-sob, half-laugh, and raises a hand to cover her mouth, as if she can keep the sound from escaping, too used to silence and nothing but her own company. She blinks back the sting of tears, grateful that he always reaches for the bad joke first. She doesn't trust her voice to answer.
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"Shit."
She chokes again, more of a laugh this time, at the incredulity in his voice. "Yeah."
Once she's sure she's not going to cry, she rolls over onto her side to look at him. He's biting his lip, forehead creased in thought, and she braces for him to say something she doesn't want to hear.
"Come on," he says. He swings out of bed and grabs her hand, pulling her with him.
The digital red numbers on the alarm clock read four twenty three a.m., and Dean's fingers are warm and strong around hers. She goes with him, of course. She can't not, has been following him since before she could walk, and isn't going to stop now, though she has no idea what he's doing.
When they get outside, the air smells of early spring promises, wet asphalt, and exhaust. The pavement is damp and cool under her bare feet, just rough enough to tickle her soles. She shivers. It's not cold, precisely, though it's colder than Florida, and they're not dressed for it.
"Dean," she whispers in protest. "We're in our underwear."
He looks back at her over his shoulder and grins, flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Last one in's a rotten egg," he says, and lets go of her hand to pull his t-shirt off as they hit the pool area. He tosses it at her and she catches it instinctively, presses it to her face for a second to inhale the scent of his sweat before she drops it to the ground, suddenly fearful.
Dean shimmies out of his boxers and cannonballs into the pool. Sam has visions of him cracking his skull on the bottom in the shallow end, blood reddening the water, or of him drowning in the deep end, as if he weren't the one who taught her how to swim.
He pops up, sleek as a seal, and she breathes a sigh of relief. It's Thursday, she reminds herself, watching the play of the moonlight and water over Dean's shoulders as he swims, muscles shifting underneath his skin. She feels a tight, hot ache in her chest and her cunt, the same potent mix of need and love and fear she always feels when she looks at him now.
"C'mon, Sammy," he says. "What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?" He swims to the edge of the pool and flicks water at her ankles. It's cool, not cold, but she shivers anyway.
She hesitates, hands at the hem of her tank top, and she has a flash of being sixteen; that summer, she'd lived in a white bikini she'd bought at Wal-Mart, trying to keep Dean's attention focused on her. As if it ever wasn't. She'd left the suit behind when she went to Stanford, hasn't thought of it in years. She'd always borrowed one of Jess's suits when they went swimming, because Jess had loved the beach, and had bathing suits in every color and style.
"Sam?"
She takes a deep breath and pulls the tank top off. Her panties follow, puddling at her feet, white in the darkness as she steps out of them. She has to force herself not to fold the clothes, to leave them in a messy pile at the side of the pool.
She takes a deep breath and remembers being five or six, Dad standing waist-deep in the water, promising to catch her when she jumped, and Dean calling encouraging things from his side.
She hits the water, colder than the few drops on her skin, and comes up gasping and shivering.
"That'll put hair on your chest," Dean says, smirking at her.
She splashes him. "You're so lame."
They have a brief water fight, trying to keep quiet so as not to wake the other guests but still managing to splash each other pretty thoroughly. She still feels that same stab of fear every time he goes under, but she tries not to let him see it, tries to keep the edge of panic out of her laughter.
He hears it, though. He always does. He grabs her and pulls her close, mouth hot against her water-cooled skin. "I gotcha," he whispers, lips against her ear. "It's okay."
"Dean--"
He cuts her off with a kiss, hot and hard and demanding, and she wraps her arms around him, kisses him back, desperate for the taste and feel of him.
He hooks a foot around her knee, pulls her under, still kissing her, breathing for the both of them, the way he always has; she lets herself sink to the bottom with him.
When they come up for air, they're both gasping, and she buries her face against his neck, tracing the fluttering pulse at the base of his throat with trembling fingers.
"Dean," she says again, treading water, arms still wrapped around his shoulders, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice and failing. "I can't touch the bottom."
"Hang on." He swims them back a few feet, presses her up against the side of the pool, the cement rough and tile smooth on her back. The large, painted five feet marker to her right looks black in the moonlight. She wraps her legs around him, lowers a hand into the water to stroke him. He grins, startled, and she wants to make a joke about shrinkage, but can't find the words, so she kisses him again, swallowing his laughter.
He shifts her up, slides inside, smooth and easy as slipping a clip into her favorite gun, and rolls his hips, his tongue hot on her neck and sweet in her mouth. He tastes of chlorine and sleep and life, and she can't stop kissing him, touching him, breathing him in, because she knows now, what it's like without him, and she doesn't want to ever face that again.
"It's okay, baby," he murmurs against her jaw. "I gotcha."
It's wet and slippery, and her back is probably going to be scraped up good, but she doesn't care when he's moving inside of her, the beat of his heart strong and fast against her chest. She thinks she might be too wound up to come, can't quite get there, even with his thumb on her clit and his dick in her cunt, but he keeps whispering in her ear, so good and so tight and fuck, Sammy, you're so hot, and the heat rises up inside her to counteract the chill of the water, of the past six months she's spent alone.
Dean comes with a grunt and a shudder, his body holding her up against the wall, the heavy press of him making her panic for a second before she hears the ragged rush of his breath, feels it hot against her neck.
"Gonna get you there, baby," he mutters, fingers replacing his cock and stroking in, hard and fast, and she would laugh at the determined look on his face if she had the breath for it, if she weren't so close to coming she could taste it.
Sam loves the few seconds before she comes more than anything, the way the whole world just stops for one endless moment, like it's holding its breath with her, and then pleasure pulses through her in a fierce rush, and he licks the words she wants to say off her tongue.
He holds her there until she's stopped shaking, hands stroking over her hair and back until she's breathing normally again. Then he lifts her up to sit on the side of the pool and hefts himself up beside her with a grunt. Her legs feel rubbery and weak, and her back is scraped and stinging, but she feels better than she has since before they went to Florida.
"You're totally carrying me back to the room," she says, resting her head against his arm and kicking the water so it splashes them.
He pulls her close and sighs. "Yeah, okay."
They pull their underwear back on, and her teeth start chattering, cold after the warm press of his body against hers, even in the water. She's ready to climb onto his back, take a piggyback ride like when they were kids, but he slings her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry instead. She thinks about protesting, but decides she's too tired, and anyway, the view is pretty good. She lifts his shirt and blows raspberries against the cool, wet skin of his lower back, and he hops awkwardly.
"I'll drop your ass right here," he warns, but she can hear the laughter in his voice.
She thinks about changing into dry clothes once they're back in the room, but Dean dumps her into the bed and flops down next to her, and she decides she can't be bothered. He's asleep almost immediately. She rests her head on his chest and listens to the even rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. She lies awake until the sky lightens, then she turns off the alarm and lets herself sleep, finally believing it's truly Thursday.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~