fic: Things Fall Apart (Supernatural; Sam/Dean/Jo; adult)
Things Fall Apart
Supernatural; Sam/Jo, Sam/Jo/Dean, Sam/Dean; adult; spoilers for "No Rest for the Wicked;" 2,225 words
Jo feels like a ghost in her own life, an intruder in theirs.
Thanks to amberlynne and fleurdeleo for hand-holding, and to luzdeestrellas for betaing. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
Things Fall Apart
Jo doesn't love Sam, and she knows Sam doesn't love her. It's okay, though. She isn't even sure she likes him most of the time. But she's as lonely as he is, and on rare occasions, usually when he thinks she's asleep, she catches the raw, lost look on his face, and it breaks her heart.
He's almost always awake before she is, his hands rough and demanding on her breasts, her hips, her ass, fingers curling up into her pussy hard and fast, like he's pulling a trigger. Maybe he is, because she can't get enough of him, orgasm hitting her like a freight train before his dick is even inside her. He likes to fuck her from behind, bend her over the desk or the chair, the hood of the Impala once--she closed her eyes that time and imagined he was Dean, bit her lip 'til it bled so she didn't say the wrong name when she came, backs of her eyelids painted white with pleasure. It reminds her of the night he was possessed, how fragile she felt, pressed tight between the hard wall of his body and the wood of the bar. How it sent a sick thrill of desire through her before he knocked her out. She wonders if he remembers it too, if he feels the same thing.
She doesn't ask.
He finds her in Ohio, like he knew she'd be there, interrupts her exorcism with an interrogation, and after they've buried the body, hands still damp with sweat and dirt, he tips her face up and kisses her. They fuck against a brick wall backing the vacant lot where they just dug a grave, her legs wrapped around his hips and his teeth sharp on her skin. He knows exactly what she likes and uses it all against her--rough hands and rough hips and a sweet mouth to take away the sting after, like he's somehow fucked her before. He says things sometimes that confuse her, asks her about things they never did together like she should know what he's talking about, and then he catches himself and tells her to forget about it.
She has nowhere else to be, and nothing else to do but hunt and ignore the messages from her mother asking her to be careful and check in when she can, so she shakes off his weirdness--she's used to weirdness, and people baffle her more than ghosts and monsters at this point. Sam is no exception.
Dean's been gone eight weeks, and except for her and Bobby, no other hunter will have anything to do with Sam and his crazy quest to bring his brother back from hell.
Jo likes having a goal, even one as impossible as this.
Sam does it, though, kills enough demons to make hell take notice, and when he kills Lilith, hell spits Dean Winchester back out. It's a hot July night in Kansas, heat lightning splitting the clouds and the roar of thunder shaking the earth.
They take Dean back to the motel, hole up and batten down, ready to stay for as long as it takes to get Dean back to some semblance of functioning. At first, Dean won't let her near him, which is fine, because Sam won't let her help.
She hustles pool and buys groceries, packs up the car when Benjamin Pierce's MasterCard stops working and they have to leave in a hurry. She curls up in the backseat and tries to catch Sam's eye in the mirror, but he ignores her.
Most of the time, Dean stares off into space, Sam stares at Dean, and Jo feels like a ghost in her own life, an intruder in theirs. It was never supposed to be like this, she thinks, but then, nothing ever is.
Sam stays awake as long as he can, twenty-four, thirty-six hours at a time--sometimes longer--before crashing. Dean doesn't ever seem to sleep, just keeps staring, and Jo can't sleep with him watching, eyes wide open in the dark. She takes to sleeping in the car when they drive, tells herself she's helping out, running interference for them with her mother, with Bobby, with the rest of what's left of the hunting community they've never had any use for, and which has mostly never had any use for them.
Dean slowly comes back to himself. He'll always have that haunted look in his eyes, she thinks, but he's able to take care of himself now, even if he still jumps at loud noises and doesn't let anyone but Sam get within three feet. He starts sleeping again, Sam curled up around him like an unbreachable fortress.
The first morning he sleeps later than Sam, Sam pushes her up against the tile in the shower and fucks her hard enough to make walking awkward, her lip bitten through from trying to stay quiet and not wake Dean up.
Another three weeks and they're hunting again, simple salt-and-burn jobs that Sam could probably do in his sleep, easing Dean back into the life.
He still spooks pretty easy, though, and sometimes he doesn't sleep afterward; she can hear the soft rise and fall of Sam's voice talking him through the night when that happens, and she wishes someone would talk to her like that. She wonders if her mother would, if she tracked her down, threw herself into her arms, and cried.
If her heart weren't broken already, it would break again to think she doesn't know anymore.
She keeps telling herself she's going to leave--they don't want her and they certainly don't need her--but Sam seems to know when she's reached that level of frustration. He reaches out, touches her hand, his fingers warm and real against her skin, or gives her a tired smile that makes her believe they're actually in this together, at least until the next time they act like she's not there.
Dean is doing better, and Sam starts leaving him with her for short periods of time--he goes for a run in the mornings, or to the library to do research. One night, after they put down a pair of ornery ghosts and Dean actually used the shotgun without freaking out, Sam grins at them and announces they all deserve a reward. "I'm going down to the gas station and getting us some beer," he says.
Dean beams at him, and Jo can't help smiling, too.
She's stripped down to her underwear, waiting to take her turn in the bathroom, when Dean gets out of the shower. They've been living together so long that she's lost what little modesty she ever had, but even so, this is new, different. He stares at her for a long moment, gives her a slow once-over that makes her blush, sets heat burning low and wet between her legs. He still doesn't talk much, but the look he's giving her says enough.
She knows she should be over it--he ditched her like an unwanted prom date in Duluth; she's been fucking his brother for months; and no matter what she and Sam tell themselves, he's still pretty fucked up and probably always will be. But she's pretty fucked up, too, and when he puts his hand on her face and kisses her, she kisses him back. She figures this is probably the only way she'll ever get the experience of fucking Dean Winchester, even if he isn't quite the same guy he was when they first met. He fumbles with the clasp of her bra, but has no problem shoving her panties down and off, brows drawn together in concentration, like he's trying to remember how this goes.
She pushes him down into the easy chair, wedges her knees into the seat beside his hips, and pulls his towel open so she can wrap a hand around his cock. He moans low in his throat, thrusts into her grip, and she smiles, kisses him again, deep and wet. She raises herself up and slides down onto him, biting her lower lip against how good it feels. He tangles one hand in her hair and pulls her close to kiss her again, his other hand tight on her hip.
She's so lost in the harsh rasp of their breathing and the wet sound of their fucking that when the door opens, it takes a few seconds for her to realize what the sound is.
And then Sam is behind her, huge hands tight on her shoulders for a moment before moving down to her hips.
He says, "Dean?" and Dean's eyes fly open, wide and dark with heat and confusion.
"Sam?"
Jo freezes, thighs trembling with need and trepidation.
"You okay with this?" Sam says, sliding one hand up to cup her breast while the other slides down to tease her clit. She nods, even though she knows he isn't talking to her.
"Yeah," Dean says, swallowing hard, watching Sam's hands moving over her body. "Yeah."
Sam moves away for a second and Jo shivers at the touch of cool air on her skin, and then he's back, lube in hand, long fingers undoing his belt and fly. Dean is looking over her shoulder now, eyes locked on Sam, and Jo turns to watch, too, as he slicks his cock. And then his fingers are cool and wet against her ass, pushing in. She tenses and Dean moans again, pulling her forward so Sam can slide in behind, two fingers working her open like a corkscrew in a bottle of wine.
She rests her hands on Dean's shoulders, buries her face in his neck as the head of Sam's cock pushes into her inch by slow-moving inch. He grunts and tightens his hands on her hips hard enough that she knows she'll have finger-shaped bruises when he's done. Dean rubs her lower back for a few seconds, then moves down between them to finger her clit. She gasps and tightens around him, around them, and Sam growls again, his teeth sharp against her shoulder. He thrusts forward and Dean thrusts back, and Jo claws at Dean's shoulders, trying to hold on when heat and need start to overwhelm her.
Dean is still staring at Sam, and when she tilts her head back against Sam's shoulder, he's staring back at Dean, lower lip caught between his teeth. They're splitting her open and they don't even see her. She nips at the underside of his jaw, reminds them she's there, and Sam huffs a laugh, pulls her hair so he can run his teeth along the length of her throat.
She can't catch her breath, stops breathing altogether when Dean comes, rough and jerky and too soon, too soon, but Sam slides his fingers in when Dean's dick slides out of her cunt. He curls them just right, thumb circling over her clit, and she comes, arching and shaking, grinding down against Sam's hand, his cock still pushing in and out of her ass.
Dean reaches up, brushes over the curve of her cheek to cup Sam's face, pull him in close. They stare at each other for a long moment.
Dean says, "Sam?"
Sam leans forward, hips pumping relentlessly, and kisses Dean, hard and sloppy, all thrusting tongue and teeth. Dean makes a low, desperate noise into Sam's mouth, his stubble rough against Jo's cheek before she ducks her head and presses her face into the crook of his neck. Sam comes inside her, but his attention is all on Dean, and Dean's is on him.
Sam lets her up--they've never had any afterglow to bask in--and she does her best to clean herself up. When she comes out of the bathroom after a quick wash, they're already asleep in the bed under the window. She stumbles to the other bed, too hollowed out and exhausted to hurt.
It's still dark when she wakes up, but coming up on dawn. She looks over to the other bed, where Dean is curled against Sam, who is wound around him like a snake.
Jo slips her feet to the floor quietly, soreness making her slow, even more careful than usual not to wake them, and packs her few belongings into her bag.
She's lacing up her boots when she realizes Sam is only pretending to be asleep. He won't say anything, though. She's pretty sure it's pity, but she'll pretend it's out of kindness. He was kind to her once, she thinks. Or maybe that's just another lie she needs to believe.
She steals a Toyota from the parking lot, finds a GPS unit in the glove compartment, and programs it for the nearest bus depot. When she gets there, she leaves the car parked neatly in the lot, fingerprints wiped off as best she can. She takes the GPS, though, so she'll know where she is, and where she's going.
She knows she's a mess--unshowered, still smelling of sex and burned bones, shadows under her eyes like bruises.
The ticket clerk barely gives her a second glance when she approaches the window. "Next bus is at 6:45," he says before she even asks. "Going to Lexington, Kentucky."
It's as good a place as any. Jo buys a ticket, and she doesn't look back.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam/Jo, Sam/Jo/Dean, Sam/Dean; adult; spoilers for "No Rest for the Wicked;" 2,225 words
Jo feels like a ghost in her own life, an intruder in theirs.
Thanks to amberlynne and fleurdeleo for hand-holding, and to luzdeestrellas for betaing. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
Things Fall Apart
Jo doesn't love Sam, and she knows Sam doesn't love her. It's okay, though. She isn't even sure she likes him most of the time. But she's as lonely as he is, and on rare occasions, usually when he thinks she's asleep, she catches the raw, lost look on his face, and it breaks her heart.
He's almost always awake before she is, his hands rough and demanding on her breasts, her hips, her ass, fingers curling up into her pussy hard and fast, like he's pulling a trigger. Maybe he is, because she can't get enough of him, orgasm hitting her like a freight train before his dick is even inside her. He likes to fuck her from behind, bend her over the desk or the chair, the hood of the Impala once--she closed her eyes that time and imagined he was Dean, bit her lip 'til it bled so she didn't say the wrong name when she came, backs of her eyelids painted white with pleasure. It reminds her of the night he was possessed, how fragile she felt, pressed tight between the hard wall of his body and the wood of the bar. How it sent a sick thrill of desire through her before he knocked her out. She wonders if he remembers it too, if he feels the same thing.
She doesn't ask.
He finds her in Ohio, like he knew she'd be there, interrupts her exorcism with an interrogation, and after they've buried the body, hands still damp with sweat and dirt, he tips her face up and kisses her. They fuck against a brick wall backing the vacant lot where they just dug a grave, her legs wrapped around his hips and his teeth sharp on her skin. He knows exactly what she likes and uses it all against her--rough hands and rough hips and a sweet mouth to take away the sting after, like he's somehow fucked her before. He says things sometimes that confuse her, asks her about things they never did together like she should know what he's talking about, and then he catches himself and tells her to forget about it.
She has nowhere else to be, and nothing else to do but hunt and ignore the messages from her mother asking her to be careful and check in when she can, so she shakes off his weirdness--she's used to weirdness, and people baffle her more than ghosts and monsters at this point. Sam is no exception.
Dean's been gone eight weeks, and except for her and Bobby, no other hunter will have anything to do with Sam and his crazy quest to bring his brother back from hell.
Jo likes having a goal, even one as impossible as this.
Sam does it, though, kills enough demons to make hell take notice, and when he kills Lilith, hell spits Dean Winchester back out. It's a hot July night in Kansas, heat lightning splitting the clouds and the roar of thunder shaking the earth.
They take Dean back to the motel, hole up and batten down, ready to stay for as long as it takes to get Dean back to some semblance of functioning. At first, Dean won't let her near him, which is fine, because Sam won't let her help.
She hustles pool and buys groceries, packs up the car when Benjamin Pierce's MasterCard stops working and they have to leave in a hurry. She curls up in the backseat and tries to catch Sam's eye in the mirror, but he ignores her.
Most of the time, Dean stares off into space, Sam stares at Dean, and Jo feels like a ghost in her own life, an intruder in theirs. It was never supposed to be like this, she thinks, but then, nothing ever is.
Sam stays awake as long as he can, twenty-four, thirty-six hours at a time--sometimes longer--before crashing. Dean doesn't ever seem to sleep, just keeps staring, and Jo can't sleep with him watching, eyes wide open in the dark. She takes to sleeping in the car when they drive, tells herself she's helping out, running interference for them with her mother, with Bobby, with the rest of what's left of the hunting community they've never had any use for, and which has mostly never had any use for them.
Dean slowly comes back to himself. He'll always have that haunted look in his eyes, she thinks, but he's able to take care of himself now, even if he still jumps at loud noises and doesn't let anyone but Sam get within three feet. He starts sleeping again, Sam curled up around him like an unbreachable fortress.
The first morning he sleeps later than Sam, Sam pushes her up against the tile in the shower and fucks her hard enough to make walking awkward, her lip bitten through from trying to stay quiet and not wake Dean up.
Another three weeks and they're hunting again, simple salt-and-burn jobs that Sam could probably do in his sleep, easing Dean back into the life.
He still spooks pretty easy, though, and sometimes he doesn't sleep afterward; she can hear the soft rise and fall of Sam's voice talking him through the night when that happens, and she wishes someone would talk to her like that. She wonders if her mother would, if she tracked her down, threw herself into her arms, and cried.
If her heart weren't broken already, it would break again to think she doesn't know anymore.
She keeps telling herself she's going to leave--they don't want her and they certainly don't need her--but Sam seems to know when she's reached that level of frustration. He reaches out, touches her hand, his fingers warm and real against her skin, or gives her a tired smile that makes her believe they're actually in this together, at least until the next time they act like she's not there.
Dean is doing better, and Sam starts leaving him with her for short periods of time--he goes for a run in the mornings, or to the library to do research. One night, after they put down a pair of ornery ghosts and Dean actually used the shotgun without freaking out, Sam grins at them and announces they all deserve a reward. "I'm going down to the gas station and getting us some beer," he says.
Dean beams at him, and Jo can't help smiling, too.
She's stripped down to her underwear, waiting to take her turn in the bathroom, when Dean gets out of the shower. They've been living together so long that she's lost what little modesty she ever had, but even so, this is new, different. He stares at her for a long moment, gives her a slow once-over that makes her blush, sets heat burning low and wet between her legs. He still doesn't talk much, but the look he's giving her says enough.
She knows she should be over it--he ditched her like an unwanted prom date in Duluth; she's been fucking his brother for months; and no matter what she and Sam tell themselves, he's still pretty fucked up and probably always will be. But she's pretty fucked up, too, and when he puts his hand on her face and kisses her, she kisses him back. She figures this is probably the only way she'll ever get the experience of fucking Dean Winchester, even if he isn't quite the same guy he was when they first met. He fumbles with the clasp of her bra, but has no problem shoving her panties down and off, brows drawn together in concentration, like he's trying to remember how this goes.
She pushes him down into the easy chair, wedges her knees into the seat beside his hips, and pulls his towel open so she can wrap a hand around his cock. He moans low in his throat, thrusts into her grip, and she smiles, kisses him again, deep and wet. She raises herself up and slides down onto him, biting her lower lip against how good it feels. He tangles one hand in her hair and pulls her close to kiss her again, his other hand tight on her hip.
She's so lost in the harsh rasp of their breathing and the wet sound of their fucking that when the door opens, it takes a few seconds for her to realize what the sound is.
And then Sam is behind her, huge hands tight on her shoulders for a moment before moving down to her hips.
He says, "Dean?" and Dean's eyes fly open, wide and dark with heat and confusion.
"Sam?"
Jo freezes, thighs trembling with need and trepidation.
"You okay with this?" Sam says, sliding one hand up to cup her breast while the other slides down to tease her clit. She nods, even though she knows he isn't talking to her.
"Yeah," Dean says, swallowing hard, watching Sam's hands moving over her body. "Yeah."
Sam moves away for a second and Jo shivers at the touch of cool air on her skin, and then he's back, lube in hand, long fingers undoing his belt and fly. Dean is looking over her shoulder now, eyes locked on Sam, and Jo turns to watch, too, as he slicks his cock. And then his fingers are cool and wet against her ass, pushing in. She tenses and Dean moans again, pulling her forward so Sam can slide in behind, two fingers working her open like a corkscrew in a bottle of wine.
She rests her hands on Dean's shoulders, buries her face in his neck as the head of Sam's cock pushes into her inch by slow-moving inch. He grunts and tightens his hands on her hips hard enough that she knows she'll have finger-shaped bruises when he's done. Dean rubs her lower back for a few seconds, then moves down between them to finger her clit. She gasps and tightens around him, around them, and Sam growls again, his teeth sharp against her shoulder. He thrusts forward and Dean thrusts back, and Jo claws at Dean's shoulders, trying to hold on when heat and need start to overwhelm her.
Dean is still staring at Sam, and when she tilts her head back against Sam's shoulder, he's staring back at Dean, lower lip caught between his teeth. They're splitting her open and they don't even see her. She nips at the underside of his jaw, reminds them she's there, and Sam huffs a laugh, pulls her hair so he can run his teeth along the length of her throat.
She can't catch her breath, stops breathing altogether when Dean comes, rough and jerky and too soon, too soon, but Sam slides his fingers in when Dean's dick slides out of her cunt. He curls them just right, thumb circling over her clit, and she comes, arching and shaking, grinding down against Sam's hand, his cock still pushing in and out of her ass.
Dean reaches up, brushes over the curve of her cheek to cup Sam's face, pull him in close. They stare at each other for a long moment.
Dean says, "Sam?"
Sam leans forward, hips pumping relentlessly, and kisses Dean, hard and sloppy, all thrusting tongue and teeth. Dean makes a low, desperate noise into Sam's mouth, his stubble rough against Jo's cheek before she ducks her head and presses her face into the crook of his neck. Sam comes inside her, but his attention is all on Dean, and Dean's is on him.
Sam lets her up--they've never had any afterglow to bask in--and she does her best to clean herself up. When she comes out of the bathroom after a quick wash, they're already asleep in the bed under the window. She stumbles to the other bed, too hollowed out and exhausted to hurt.
It's still dark when she wakes up, but coming up on dawn. She looks over to the other bed, where Dean is curled against Sam, who is wound around him like a snake.
Jo slips her feet to the floor quietly, soreness making her slow, even more careful than usual not to wake them, and packs her few belongings into her bag.
She's lacing up her boots when she realizes Sam is only pretending to be asleep. He won't say anything, though. She's pretty sure it's pity, but she'll pretend it's out of kindness. He was kind to her once, she thinks. Or maybe that's just another lie she needs to believe.
She steals a Toyota from the parking lot, finds a GPS unit in the glove compartment, and programs it for the nearest bus depot. When she gets there, she leaves the car parked neatly in the lot, fingerprints wiped off as best she can. She takes the GPS, though, so she'll know where she is, and where she's going.
She knows she's a mess--unshowered, still smelling of sex and burned bones, shadows under her eyes like bruises.
The ticket clerk barely gives her a second glance when she approaches the window. "Next bus is at 6:45," he says before she even asks. "Going to Lexington, Kentucky."
It's as good a place as any. Jo buys a ticket, and she doesn't look back.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~