fic: Bound By Symmetry (Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; adult)
Bound By Symmetry
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; mildly adult; vague spoilers through 4.13; 3000 words
This is the story of the boy who loves you.
Thanks to angelgazing for all her help. Title and summary from the Decemberists.
One of five six seven ways Dean Winchester slept with his (non-existent) sister.
~*~
Bound By Symmetry
i.
This is the story of the boy who loves you, who pulled you twice from the fire, who traded his soul for yours.
For years, he was the whole world to you, home and safe and happy all tied up in one word, the first word you ever spoke: Dean.
He bandaged your skinned knees and taught you to ride a bike. He gave you piggyback rides and let you eat Lucky Charms for dinner.
You can't remember a time he wasn't there for you; until it actually happens, you can't believe there will be a time he won't be.
*
ii.
The year you discover the truth, Dean tries so hard to give you Christmas--stolen gifts and a stolen tree, and finally, when you ask, the truth about the family business. You read your father's journal with horror and disbelief, because if these things killed your mom, it means they can kill your dad. It means they can kill Dean.
You give him the necklace from Uncle Bobby, because Uncle Bobby said it was special, some kind of protection for your dad, but you think Dean needs it more, because Dean is always here with you, and you can't imagine what life would be like without him. It's the only way you can protect him. (Learning to protect him--to protect yourself--is the only reason you don't fight Dad when he tells you it's time to start training.)
He puts it around his neck and smiles. You can feel the tears welling up again, but it's bad enough he saw you cry once; you're not going to do it again. You're not a little kid anymore, and now you know the truth.
Dad broke his promise, but Dean keeps his. You'll remember that for the rest of your life.
*
iii.
You're a late bloomer, as skinny and flat at fourteen as you were at ten, embarrassed to change in the locker room during gym because you don't wear a bra yet. You're glad you don't need one because you're too embarrassed to ask Dad or Dean about buying one. When you finally do need one, a bag from Victoria's Secret appears on your pillow; you bake Dean's favorite cookies the next night to say thanks. You try not to think about Dean handling the pink lace or blue satin (can't not think about it once you start), and your whole body tingles when he teaches you how to unhook them one-handed, his arm around you and his breath warm and humid against your ear.
Because of Dean and his endless string of girls, you already know more about sex than most kids your age, but your crushes are painfully awkward and sexless--the shy boy you tutor in algebra; the pretty blonde girl who smiles at you in the hallway sometimes; your AP History teacher, with his loafers and Oxford shirts. You are too reserved and too transient to ever do anything about your feelings.
The only guy you spend any time with is Dean and no one else could ever measure up; when you look back on it later, you can see why it all went so weird.
You're sixteen the first time a boy kisses you, his hands sweaty on your cheeks, his mouth wet and heavy against yours. You ache for days after with something you'll eventually identify as desire.
You move a week later and never see him again.
You learn to touch yourself, relieve that ache for a little while, at least. You suddenly understand Dean's endless string of girls. You want what they have.
*
iv.
You start looking at Dean's girlfriends as competition, cockblocking him mercilessly the summer after you graduate. You've always commanded Dean's attention, reveled in being the center of it, and you're tired of other people trying to take it away. You make him take you to the movies, the beach, the mall, make him buy you pizza and ice cream like you're still a kid, but you notice the girls watching him, see the nasty looks they give you, and you smile.
You know you'll always be the one he comes home to.
You haven't told him yet about Stanford, how you mailed your letter of intent back in March and are planning to leave come September. Another secret living under your skin, making you itch to shed it, become someone new, someone different.
You want to tell him--want him to come with you--but you don't know how he'll react.
You prepare a speech like you're still on the debate team, but when Dean takes you to the bar and buys you shots--salt, lime, and tequila burning on your tongue--all your carefully calibrated words melt away.
"You ever wanna just run away?" you ask, looking him right in the eye. "Just get in the car and go? No more hunting, no more monsters, just...you and me and the horizon?"
He laughs, mouth curling in that half-grin that makes your insides go all liquid, and shakes his head.
You slide off your barstool, a little shaky, and put your hands on Dean's thighs to steady yourself. "I'm not joking."
"Sammy--"
You don't let him finish. You lean in and press your mouth to his, inhaling his gasp of surprise. Your tongue slips easily into the wet heat of his mouth and you sway against him, hands coming up to cling to his shoulders. He kisses you back for a few hot seconds, and then pushes you away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"The fuck?" He grabs your wrist and leads you outside. "I think you've had enough."
He doesn't look at you the whole way home. The alcohol in your stomach turns sour; you barely make it home in time to puke. Dean brushes your hair off your forehead and puts you to bed with two aspirin and a bottle of water.
In the morning, he acts like it never happened. You let him.
*
v.
Dad's off on one of his crazy trips, the kind where he won't tell you what's going on. Dean thinks he's got a lead on whatever it is that killed your mother. He's anxious at being left behind, so you distract him. You make Jell-o shots, and he's too proud of your ingenuity to yell. You lounge in the tiny backyard during the long summer afternoon, your legs draped over his knees, the grass tickling your skin, and the strawberry Jell-o stains your mouths.
He carries you inside when the mosquitoes get to be too much. When he leans over to drop you onto your bed, you pull him down into a kiss. He tastes of alcohol and strawberry Jell-o. The room--the world--spins beneath you. You play your tongue against his, moan softly into his mouth, and when he pushes you away, his lips are slick and red.
"Sammy--"
"Dean, please." You lick your lips, swallow hard. You want him so much, ache with it, deep, steady pulse between your legs begging for his touch.
"We can't," he says.
"We can." You pull him close for another kiss. He doesn't resist, settles between your legs, the heat and weight of him making you arch up, desperate for more.
At first, you don't do anything but make out, dizzy with the heat of his mouth on your lips, your neck, your breasts, the touch of his callused hands on your skin. You want more, pull away long enough to take your clothes off. He watches you with this look in his eyes that makes it even harder to breathe.
"Dean, please," you repeat, lying back and holding your arms out to him. He's never been able to refuse you, and he doesn't now, though you can feel the tension in his shoulders. His breath stutters when you wrap your legs around his hips and thrust against him.
He whispers your name like a prayer against the sweaty skin of your throat as his fingers tease you; you think you're going to explode, your whole body gone electric under his touch.
You're loud when you come, louder than you've ever been by yourself. He shuts you up with a hard kiss, stealing what little breath you've got left.
His hands shake a little when he rolls the condom on, and he looks surprised when you tense up as he pushes inside you.
"Sam?"
"S'okay, Dean. I'm good." You shift your hips and the twinge of pain fades as he moves, gets lost in everything else you're feeling.
After, he lets you hold him for a few minutes, his body a solid, comfortable weight pressing you to the bed. You brush your hands through his hair, content. You'd give up Stanford if he asked.
He levers himself off you, his mouth tight and his gaze downcast. "This can't happen again." His voice is rough and low, a promise you don't want him to keep.
You're honestly surprised it didn't happen sooner.
*
vi.
It's a relief when Dad calls, ordering you to join him. When he's around, you can channel all your tension into fighting with him and pretend you haven't noticed the way Dean's distancing himself from you. He doesn't touch you if he can help it, spends his free time working on the car (during the day) and going out to bars (at night). You can smell alcohol and sex on him when he strolls in at three am and stands over your bed. You pretend to sleep, but you can't help sighing when he brushes the hair off your forehead and gives you a good night kiss.
After that, Dean is still skittish, but you're running out of time.
You're in Denver when you break the news. Dad wants to leave for Pennsylvania in the morning, and you realize this is it.
"I'm not going," you say.
Dad glares. "Samantha--"
"I have to be in Palo Alto by Labor Day." You smile, because you still can't believe you got in. "I'm going to Stanford. Got a full scholarship and everything."
They don't look happy, though--Dean looks like he's been kicked in the gut (and how sad is your life that you know exactly what that looks like?) and Dad looks like he's going to have an aneurysm.
"No," he says. "You're not."
You don't remember much about what happens next--you've had so many fights with Dad that they all blur together into one long screaming match that hurts to think about. When he tells you that if you leave, you can't come back, you look at Dean, who looks away.
You replay those moments over and over on your bus ride, during orientation, and through your first week of classes. Then, you're too busy to feel sick, too proud to feel lonely. You put the memories in a box and hide them away with your weapons and the flask of holy water Dean snuck into your backpack.
Dean calls you once and you say, "I can't talk to you," because it hurts too much to hear his voice and know he's not right there if you need him.
He doesn't call again.
You learn not to need him.
You make a couple of friends, date a little, but mostly you study and you work, because you have nothing else. You're making a new life.
You meet Jess in sophomore year. She's in your art class, the one you took because it looked like an easy A. She makes you laugh and she makes you ache, and when she kisses you, you can feel the world spin beneath you.
You can't believe she loves you--says it like it's the easiest thing in the world, like it's not painting a target on your backs.
You let her in, further than you've ever let anyone who isn't Dean, and you think maybe you can do this, maybe you can be happy.
Two years later, Dean shows up at your door.
*
vii.
You lie beneath him, breathing in the scent of leather and hair gel and gun oil, so familiar it makes your chest ache. His smile gleams in the moonlight, and for a second, it's like no time has passed at all.
The first thing you notice is that he's still wearing the amulet you gave him. Your eyes sting and you think maybe he's forgiven you. He never could hold a grudge.
You go with him because he asks, because he needs you; that gives you a secret thrill, and you think maybe you didn't learn the lesson quite as well as you thought.
It's easy to fall back into the old routine, to be the Scully to his Mulder, to match your footsteps and heartbeats to his, so steady you could set your clock by him. With the thrill of adrenaline still burning in your veins, you're tempted to blow off your interview, stay in the car and keep on driving. You don't, though. He can't give you what you want, and it would break you both for him to try.
He's all you have left when your life burns down, and you let him carry you away, driftwood on his rising tide.
For months, all you can think about is revenge, killing the thing that killed Mom, that killed Jess, that turned your family into this. All the rage you've carried for years rips its way out of you and claws into Dean, the only target handy.
He takes it, lets your fury break over him in waves, until you're crying and he's holding you. He promises he'll never leave, and you believe him. You seal the vow with a kiss, tasting the salt from your tears on your tongue and his. He kisses you with the fervor of a hungry man finding feast after famine, with an aching want that tastes just like your own. He whispers apologies and soft words of comfort as he fucks you, writes every promise he's ever made and kept on your skin with his tongue and his hands.
This time when he tries to pretend nothing happened, you don't let him. You fight--you've always been good at fighting--until he gives in.
It's not the safe, normal life you'd envisioned with Jess, but with Dean by your side, you feel safer and more like yourself than you have in years.
*
viii.
When Dad dies, you cling to Dean, afraid you're going to lose him anyway to the darkness spiraling inside him, the mix of anger-grief-despair so familiar to you, and you know as much as you want to help, as much as you push him to talk, that nothing but time can ease his pain.
You're afraid sometimes that time is the one thing you don't have. You have too much evidence of what the hunting life does, how it ends bloody and before its time, the true embodiment of live fast, die young, leave a (not-so-)beautiful corpse. You know that's what Dean expects, all he's ever expected--a self-fulfilling prophecy that comes true sooner than either of you would have ever guessed.
When you discover what Dean's done--that he did it to save you--it makes you sick with fear, which, as always, leads to anger.
You throw every ounce of that anger and determination at finding a way out of the deal, never mind that there's no evidence it can be done. You chase rumors and half-whispered stories, try to be strong when you feel like you can already see Dean disappearing, letting go, giving up. It's contagious, his despair blunting your urgency, a sticky trap you can't seem to fight clear of.
When he tells you he wants to live, you think it's the only thing you need--your combined will can overcome any obstacle.
There's a wild, defiant edge to every kiss and every touch after that; you fuck like it's the only thing that matters, like you have all the time in the world. Like nothing can stop you.
The hellhounds come too soon; you listen to Ruby too late. You watch the light in Dean's eyes die. The hope inside you dies with him.
*
ix.
You thought it was bad when you were at Stanford, but you always knew Dean was just a phone call away then, your own stubbornness the only barrier between you. Now, Dean's in the ground in Illinois and you're so far down the rabbithole you can't tell which way is up. You think maybe you've finally found some direction--pulling demons, saving people--when Dean shows up again at your door.
Bobby swears it's him, but it's not until later, when you have him naked and flat on his back, that you're totally sure. His scars are all gone, except for that handprint on his shoulder, but you know him, like he knows you, better than anybody ever has. Now that you have him back, you're never letting him go.
You lean forward and brace yourself, enjoying the look on his face as you move, shimmying a little when you notice him watching your breasts. He reaches up and grabs the amulet dangling between them, holds it in the palm of his hand.
You duck, slip it over your head. "I was keeping it safe for you."
He grins, shifts up to kiss you, hot and wet and sweet. "Thanks."
*
x.
There's an apocalypse coming, and you've got enemies all around, but Dean is with you; even if he's falling apart, that's still more than most people get. You hold him when he has nightmares about hell, try to will his pain away like it's a demon. You forgive him when he tells you what he did there, give him whatever he needs, for everything he's given you--given up for you--over the years.
You'd wish for a happily ever after, but you know this is not a fairy tale.
This is the story of the boy who loves you.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; mildly adult; vague spoilers through 4.13; 3000 words
This is the story of the boy who loves you.
Thanks to angelgazing for all her help. Title and summary from the Decemberists.
One of five six seven ways Dean Winchester slept with his (non-existent) sister.
~*~
Bound By Symmetry
i.
This is the story of the boy who loves you, who pulled you twice from the fire, who traded his soul for yours.
For years, he was the whole world to you, home and safe and happy all tied up in one word, the first word you ever spoke: Dean.
He bandaged your skinned knees and taught you to ride a bike. He gave you piggyback rides and let you eat Lucky Charms for dinner.
You can't remember a time he wasn't there for you; until it actually happens, you can't believe there will be a time he won't be.
*
ii.
The year you discover the truth, Dean tries so hard to give you Christmas--stolen gifts and a stolen tree, and finally, when you ask, the truth about the family business. You read your father's journal with horror and disbelief, because if these things killed your mom, it means they can kill your dad. It means they can kill Dean.
You give him the necklace from Uncle Bobby, because Uncle Bobby said it was special, some kind of protection for your dad, but you think Dean needs it more, because Dean is always here with you, and you can't imagine what life would be like without him. It's the only way you can protect him. (Learning to protect him--to protect yourself--is the only reason you don't fight Dad when he tells you it's time to start training.)
He puts it around his neck and smiles. You can feel the tears welling up again, but it's bad enough he saw you cry once; you're not going to do it again. You're not a little kid anymore, and now you know the truth.
Dad broke his promise, but Dean keeps his. You'll remember that for the rest of your life.
*
iii.
You're a late bloomer, as skinny and flat at fourteen as you were at ten, embarrassed to change in the locker room during gym because you don't wear a bra yet. You're glad you don't need one because you're too embarrassed to ask Dad or Dean about buying one. When you finally do need one, a bag from Victoria's Secret appears on your pillow; you bake Dean's favorite cookies the next night to say thanks. You try not to think about Dean handling the pink lace or blue satin (can't not think about it once you start), and your whole body tingles when he teaches you how to unhook them one-handed, his arm around you and his breath warm and humid against your ear.
Because of Dean and his endless string of girls, you already know more about sex than most kids your age, but your crushes are painfully awkward and sexless--the shy boy you tutor in algebra; the pretty blonde girl who smiles at you in the hallway sometimes; your AP History teacher, with his loafers and Oxford shirts. You are too reserved and too transient to ever do anything about your feelings.
The only guy you spend any time with is Dean and no one else could ever measure up; when you look back on it later, you can see why it all went so weird.
You're sixteen the first time a boy kisses you, his hands sweaty on your cheeks, his mouth wet and heavy against yours. You ache for days after with something you'll eventually identify as desire.
You move a week later and never see him again.
You learn to touch yourself, relieve that ache for a little while, at least. You suddenly understand Dean's endless string of girls. You want what they have.
*
iv.
You start looking at Dean's girlfriends as competition, cockblocking him mercilessly the summer after you graduate. You've always commanded Dean's attention, reveled in being the center of it, and you're tired of other people trying to take it away. You make him take you to the movies, the beach, the mall, make him buy you pizza and ice cream like you're still a kid, but you notice the girls watching him, see the nasty looks they give you, and you smile.
You know you'll always be the one he comes home to.
You haven't told him yet about Stanford, how you mailed your letter of intent back in March and are planning to leave come September. Another secret living under your skin, making you itch to shed it, become someone new, someone different.
You want to tell him--want him to come with you--but you don't know how he'll react.
You prepare a speech like you're still on the debate team, but when Dean takes you to the bar and buys you shots--salt, lime, and tequila burning on your tongue--all your carefully calibrated words melt away.
"You ever wanna just run away?" you ask, looking him right in the eye. "Just get in the car and go? No more hunting, no more monsters, just...you and me and the horizon?"
He laughs, mouth curling in that half-grin that makes your insides go all liquid, and shakes his head.
You slide off your barstool, a little shaky, and put your hands on Dean's thighs to steady yourself. "I'm not joking."
"Sammy--"
You don't let him finish. You lean in and press your mouth to his, inhaling his gasp of surprise. Your tongue slips easily into the wet heat of his mouth and you sway against him, hands coming up to cling to his shoulders. He kisses you back for a few hot seconds, and then pushes you away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"The fuck?" He grabs your wrist and leads you outside. "I think you've had enough."
He doesn't look at you the whole way home. The alcohol in your stomach turns sour; you barely make it home in time to puke. Dean brushes your hair off your forehead and puts you to bed with two aspirin and a bottle of water.
In the morning, he acts like it never happened. You let him.
*
v.
Dad's off on one of his crazy trips, the kind where he won't tell you what's going on. Dean thinks he's got a lead on whatever it is that killed your mother. He's anxious at being left behind, so you distract him. You make Jell-o shots, and he's too proud of your ingenuity to yell. You lounge in the tiny backyard during the long summer afternoon, your legs draped over his knees, the grass tickling your skin, and the strawberry Jell-o stains your mouths.
He carries you inside when the mosquitoes get to be too much. When he leans over to drop you onto your bed, you pull him down into a kiss. He tastes of alcohol and strawberry Jell-o. The room--the world--spins beneath you. You play your tongue against his, moan softly into his mouth, and when he pushes you away, his lips are slick and red.
"Sammy--"
"Dean, please." You lick your lips, swallow hard. You want him so much, ache with it, deep, steady pulse between your legs begging for his touch.
"We can't," he says.
"We can." You pull him close for another kiss. He doesn't resist, settles between your legs, the heat and weight of him making you arch up, desperate for more.
At first, you don't do anything but make out, dizzy with the heat of his mouth on your lips, your neck, your breasts, the touch of his callused hands on your skin. You want more, pull away long enough to take your clothes off. He watches you with this look in his eyes that makes it even harder to breathe.
"Dean, please," you repeat, lying back and holding your arms out to him. He's never been able to refuse you, and he doesn't now, though you can feel the tension in his shoulders. His breath stutters when you wrap your legs around his hips and thrust against him.
He whispers your name like a prayer against the sweaty skin of your throat as his fingers tease you; you think you're going to explode, your whole body gone electric under his touch.
You're loud when you come, louder than you've ever been by yourself. He shuts you up with a hard kiss, stealing what little breath you've got left.
His hands shake a little when he rolls the condom on, and he looks surprised when you tense up as he pushes inside you.
"Sam?"
"S'okay, Dean. I'm good." You shift your hips and the twinge of pain fades as he moves, gets lost in everything else you're feeling.
After, he lets you hold him for a few minutes, his body a solid, comfortable weight pressing you to the bed. You brush your hands through his hair, content. You'd give up Stanford if he asked.
He levers himself off you, his mouth tight and his gaze downcast. "This can't happen again." His voice is rough and low, a promise you don't want him to keep.
You're honestly surprised it didn't happen sooner.
*
vi.
It's a relief when Dad calls, ordering you to join him. When he's around, you can channel all your tension into fighting with him and pretend you haven't noticed the way Dean's distancing himself from you. He doesn't touch you if he can help it, spends his free time working on the car (during the day) and going out to bars (at night). You can smell alcohol and sex on him when he strolls in at three am and stands over your bed. You pretend to sleep, but you can't help sighing when he brushes the hair off your forehead and gives you a good night kiss.
After that, Dean is still skittish, but you're running out of time.
You're in Denver when you break the news. Dad wants to leave for Pennsylvania in the morning, and you realize this is it.
"I'm not going," you say.
Dad glares. "Samantha--"
"I have to be in Palo Alto by Labor Day." You smile, because you still can't believe you got in. "I'm going to Stanford. Got a full scholarship and everything."
They don't look happy, though--Dean looks like he's been kicked in the gut (and how sad is your life that you know exactly what that looks like?) and Dad looks like he's going to have an aneurysm.
"No," he says. "You're not."
You don't remember much about what happens next--you've had so many fights with Dad that they all blur together into one long screaming match that hurts to think about. When he tells you that if you leave, you can't come back, you look at Dean, who looks away.
You replay those moments over and over on your bus ride, during orientation, and through your first week of classes. Then, you're too busy to feel sick, too proud to feel lonely. You put the memories in a box and hide them away with your weapons and the flask of holy water Dean snuck into your backpack.
Dean calls you once and you say, "I can't talk to you," because it hurts too much to hear his voice and know he's not right there if you need him.
He doesn't call again.
You learn not to need him.
You make a couple of friends, date a little, but mostly you study and you work, because you have nothing else. You're making a new life.
You meet Jess in sophomore year. She's in your art class, the one you took because it looked like an easy A. She makes you laugh and she makes you ache, and when she kisses you, you can feel the world spin beneath you.
You can't believe she loves you--says it like it's the easiest thing in the world, like it's not painting a target on your backs.
You let her in, further than you've ever let anyone who isn't Dean, and you think maybe you can do this, maybe you can be happy.
Two years later, Dean shows up at your door.
*
vii.
You lie beneath him, breathing in the scent of leather and hair gel and gun oil, so familiar it makes your chest ache. His smile gleams in the moonlight, and for a second, it's like no time has passed at all.
The first thing you notice is that he's still wearing the amulet you gave him. Your eyes sting and you think maybe he's forgiven you. He never could hold a grudge.
You go with him because he asks, because he needs you; that gives you a secret thrill, and you think maybe you didn't learn the lesson quite as well as you thought.
It's easy to fall back into the old routine, to be the Scully to his Mulder, to match your footsteps and heartbeats to his, so steady you could set your clock by him. With the thrill of adrenaline still burning in your veins, you're tempted to blow off your interview, stay in the car and keep on driving. You don't, though. He can't give you what you want, and it would break you both for him to try.
He's all you have left when your life burns down, and you let him carry you away, driftwood on his rising tide.
For months, all you can think about is revenge, killing the thing that killed Mom, that killed Jess, that turned your family into this. All the rage you've carried for years rips its way out of you and claws into Dean, the only target handy.
He takes it, lets your fury break over him in waves, until you're crying and he's holding you. He promises he'll never leave, and you believe him. You seal the vow with a kiss, tasting the salt from your tears on your tongue and his. He kisses you with the fervor of a hungry man finding feast after famine, with an aching want that tastes just like your own. He whispers apologies and soft words of comfort as he fucks you, writes every promise he's ever made and kept on your skin with his tongue and his hands.
This time when he tries to pretend nothing happened, you don't let him. You fight--you've always been good at fighting--until he gives in.
It's not the safe, normal life you'd envisioned with Jess, but with Dean by your side, you feel safer and more like yourself than you have in years.
*
viii.
When Dad dies, you cling to Dean, afraid you're going to lose him anyway to the darkness spiraling inside him, the mix of anger-grief-despair so familiar to you, and you know as much as you want to help, as much as you push him to talk, that nothing but time can ease his pain.
You're afraid sometimes that time is the one thing you don't have. You have too much evidence of what the hunting life does, how it ends bloody and before its time, the true embodiment of live fast, die young, leave a (not-so-)beautiful corpse. You know that's what Dean expects, all he's ever expected--a self-fulfilling prophecy that comes true sooner than either of you would have ever guessed.
When you discover what Dean's done--that he did it to save you--it makes you sick with fear, which, as always, leads to anger.
You throw every ounce of that anger and determination at finding a way out of the deal, never mind that there's no evidence it can be done. You chase rumors and half-whispered stories, try to be strong when you feel like you can already see Dean disappearing, letting go, giving up. It's contagious, his despair blunting your urgency, a sticky trap you can't seem to fight clear of.
When he tells you he wants to live, you think it's the only thing you need--your combined will can overcome any obstacle.
There's a wild, defiant edge to every kiss and every touch after that; you fuck like it's the only thing that matters, like you have all the time in the world. Like nothing can stop you.
The hellhounds come too soon; you listen to Ruby too late. You watch the light in Dean's eyes die. The hope inside you dies with him.
*
ix.
You thought it was bad when you were at Stanford, but you always knew Dean was just a phone call away then, your own stubbornness the only barrier between you. Now, Dean's in the ground in Illinois and you're so far down the rabbithole you can't tell which way is up. You think maybe you've finally found some direction--pulling demons, saving people--when Dean shows up again at your door.
Bobby swears it's him, but it's not until later, when you have him naked and flat on his back, that you're totally sure. His scars are all gone, except for that handprint on his shoulder, but you know him, like he knows you, better than anybody ever has. Now that you have him back, you're never letting him go.
You lean forward and brace yourself, enjoying the look on his face as you move, shimmying a little when you notice him watching your breasts. He reaches up and grabs the amulet dangling between them, holds it in the palm of his hand.
You duck, slip it over your head. "I was keeping it safe for you."
He grins, shifts up to kiss you, hot and wet and sweet. "Thanks."
*
x.
There's an apocalypse coming, and you've got enemies all around, but Dean is with you; even if he's falling apart, that's still more than most people get. You hold him when he has nightmares about hell, try to will his pain away like it's a demon. You forgive him when he tells you what he did there, give him whatever he needs, for everything he's given you--given up for you--over the years.
You'd wish for a happily ever after, but you know this is not a fairy tale.
This is the story of the boy who loves you.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~