We Will Not Regret The Past, Nor Wish To Shut The Door On It
Title: We Will Not Regret The Past, Nor Wish To Shut The Door On It
Summary: In spite of her better judgment, Lindsey goes to set the record straight with Sam after the events of "Free To Be You and Me."
Spoilers: Up to the end of 5.04 "The End."
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Lindsay, brief appearance by Dean (sort of)
Rating: NC-17, God help me
Word Count: 6,743
Warnings: Uh, sex. NSFW.
Disclaimer: The closest I have ever come to owning anything related to SPN is that I once read a couple of Misha Collins' tweets. I don't even have Twitter, I borrowed someone else's. So, uh, yeah. I got nothin'. If Kripke knew what I get up to with his creations, he'd probably take me out behind a shed and shoot me.
Neurotic Author's Note: I kind of banged this together on a whim. I haven't re-read it or proofread it or even spell-checked, because I am too fucking chicken. See Neurotic Author's Note #3.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Okay, so I really liked Lindsey and was annoyed she got so little screen time, so I decided to write a quick thing about her going to ask Sam to explain the whole apocalypse deal. It was going to be a quickie, maybe 500 words, nothing big. So that didn't work out as planned.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Oh, dear God, I wrote PORN. Full-on heterosexual sex. *headdesk* IDEK. /o\ Please please PLEASE be nice in your comments, even if it's terrible. Oh God, oh God, oh God. You can tell me if it sucks, just... be nice about it. I can take it, mostly. I can't believe I'm actually posting this. I think I may find a convenient rock to hide under in the meantime. GAH.
Neurotic Author's Note #4: The title is taken from one of the "promises" from Alcoholics Anonymous. Just FYI.
In her everyday life, Lindsey isn't much of a hand-wringer. After years of making bad choice after bad choice, alienating her friends and driving away two boyfriends and making both her parents cry more times than she really likes to remember, she's come to a place in her life which is a lot more zen. She keeps her three-years-sober chip in her pocket, rubs her thumb against it, the ridges on the coin grounding her. She's done self-destructing, she tells herself. Sure, she's not at the point yet where she's spent longer being sober than being drunk, but she's still in a good place.
Today, though... today she really, but really wants a drink. Not just a drink, if she's honest with herself. She wants to sneak into the bar, snake that really large bottle of tequila, and take it home and lose herself in it. She's not going to, though. She's already called her sponsor Erika and told her a half-truth about getting threatened by two men and that she's frightened and wants a drink. She can't exactly tell Erika everything that went on -it's too crazy to fathom, never mind repeat aloud- but just talking to her helps. Erika's seen her through the worst, so this? This is a blip on the radar.
Except, of course, that it isn't. If this were three years ago, she'd be able to write it off as too much alcohol, or maybe delirium tremens. Or something. Yesterday? Yesterday she was completely sober, and there was no mistaking what she heard. There's a whole world opening up under her feet, and if she's not careful, it's going to swallow her whole. She rubs at the chip in her pocket again, and tries to think about the words “apocalypse” and “demons” and “Lucifer” in a way that won't make her lose her mind. She thinks it might be too late. Those men were serious, though, and Keith -Sam- never said anything about them being crazy. Of course, she took off running long before he could explain himself to her, terrified out of her mind, and he hasn't shown any sign of coming after her. She tries to tell herself he doesn't owe her anything, but it doesn't take away the sinking feeling in her stomach at the memory of him with that huge knife, with blood dribbling down his chin.
When he calls in sick to work that afternoon, she takes a moment to think about it. Mind-blowing, earth-shattering revelations and pants-wetting terror aside, she thinks she can understand why he hasn't come back. He's a recovering addict, same as she is. His old life has just blown up in his face and got her hurt and nearly killed. If it were her? She'd be freaking out, and either reaching for a bottle or else trying to ride it out on her own. She paces in her small apartment, trying to convince herself that it's a bad idea to go find him, that the last thing she needs is to offer to hold the hand of a guy she barely knows and who apparently has a bigger addiction problem than she does, even if she finds him attractive and mysterious. It turns out that she still has a thing for bad boys. She's already told Erika about Sam's addiction in broad terms, “drugs” covering a multitude of sins, and Erika's been supportive and gently nudged her away from going there, but she's not sure she can keep going without getting answers
Lindsey is still debating the wisdom of her plan when she finds herself knocking on the door to Sam's apartment. She wipes the palms of her hands on her jeans, her mouth dry. She knocks a second time when there's no answer, and she's about to give up when she hears the soft sound of someone moving inside. The chain scrapes against the door, and she finds herself blinking, robbed of speech, when Sam finally opens the door, having apparently hastily pulled on a pair of jeans and nothing else. He has a tattoo on his left clavicle, a pentacle surrounded by what looks like it might be the rays of the sun, or something. She's staring, she realizes; Sam generally hides under layers of clothing, and it's disconcerting to see the direct evidence of the physical power he showed yesterday, the broad shoulders and well-defined abs proof that he must be damned strong.
He's obviously surprised to see her, and to her astonishment he flushes bright red. “Lindsey! Uh... I wasn't, uh, expecting you.”
She hesitates, doesn't quite know where to begin. “Umm, am I disturbing you?”
He shakes his head. “No, of course not.” He sounds hoarse, but he recovers himself after a moment. “I'm sorry, I'm being rude. Uh, did you want to come in?”
She nods. “If that's okay?”
“Uh, sure,” he steps back, giving her plenty of room, all his body-language non-threatening, as if he's trying to make up for the fact that he single-handedly kicked the asses of two men in front of her just yesterday and came within a hair's breadth of slitting one of their throats, trying to prove he's not a threat to her. “Sorry, I wasn't really expecting company.”
She's not sure what he's apologizing for. The room is spotless, almost military in its neatness, except for a sofa-bed which is pulled out and unmade, the sheets and blanket thrown back as though he was still sleeping when she arrived. She's still taking in the room when she hears him cough quietly, and she turns in time to see him swallow with a grimace of pain. It's only then that she notices that the flush on his cheeks is masking an unhealthy pallor, and that there are dark circles under his eyes.
“You're actually sick,” she says, unsure why she's so surprised, and he grins sheepishly. He has a sweet smile, she realizes, one she's only seen once or twice in the whole time she's known him.
“Yeah. Think it's a 24-hour bug or something. I didn't want to give it to everyone at the bar. Let me guess, you thought I was avoiding you?”
“Were you?” she challenges, and is rewarded with a shrug. He doesn't quite meet her eyes.
“Yeah, okay, maybe that too. But at least I have a valid excuse.” He winces a bit as the implication of what he just said hits, and he tries to recover himself. “Uh, can I get you a glass of water, or something? I don't have much here, sorry. I'm not... not exactly used to having people around.”
She shakes her head. “I'm fine. Look, I know I should probably let you go back to bed, but... I kind of need you to fill me in a bit more about yesterday.”
“Yeah, I was afraid you might. Let me just,” he moves past her and starts trying to put the sofa back together, but she stops him with a hand on his arm.
“It's fine, Ke -Sam. I'll just use a chair. You should go back to bed after this anyway.”
He just nods, pulls the two wooden chairs in the place away from the wall, and holds one for her. A true gentleman, it seems, in spite of everything else. He sinks into the other once she's seated, looking relieved to be off his feet, and she wonders if he's not sicker than he's letting on. For a while there's silence, neither of them knowing exactly where to start.
“I don't suppose there's anything I can say to convince you that those two guys were just crazy and that you shouldn't worry about it?” he offers finally, and she shakes her head.
“Afraid not.”
He scrubs at his face with one hand. “God, I don't know where to start,” he mumbles, and not for the first time she feels a pang of sympathy for him, mingled with a whole bunch of other emotions that don't bear examining too closely right now.
She fumbles in her pocket. “I brought you something, but first I need you to tell me something.”
He looks at her, intrigued but wary. She knows the look. “You did? Uh... what... what do you want to know?”
“I want to know how long it's been.”
He bites his lip, knows what she's asking, but he plays dumb anyway. “How long?”
“Since your last hit.”
“Does last night count?” he asks bitterly, and she gives him a look that says exactly what she thinks of that. He has the grace to look abashed. “Right. Uh... three months, nine days. Is it sad that I know it that precisely?”
“No. It's pretty normal. Look, this is mostly way over my head, but... addiction is addiction, and I've been there. So, I want you to have this.” She pulls out the small handful of chips she brought with her, and hands him a three-month token. “They helped me, so I figure it can't hurt.”
There's a pause before he reaches over and takes it from her gingerly, as though he expects the small thing to turn white-hot in his hand and burn him. He turns it over in his fingers, making it look impossibly small, tracing over the ridges with the tips of his fingers. His breath hitches, and he turns away, cuffing at his eyes, flushing with embarrassment. “Sorry. I... thank you. It... I don't... thank you.”
She clears her throat, her own eyes pricking. “Don't mention it.”
He pulls himself together after a moment, but his hand closes over the chip. “What would you like to know?”
In the blink of an eye an hour has gone by, and she feels as though she's still not any closer to understanding what just happened to turn her life upside-down. Her mind is whirling with thoughts of ghosts and vampires and demons, and the word “hunter” has taken on meanings she never thought it could have. She's desperate for more information, but Sam looks like he's fading, the cough he was suppressing earlier coming back with a vengeance, and she realizes that he's started to shiver. She gets to her feet, ignoring the startled look he gives her.
“Okay, I think this counts as cruel and unusual punishment. You need to go back to bed, and I'm going to make myself feel useful and make you some soup. Don't argue with me, you know it doesn't work.”
He huffs with laughter at that. “True. You are pretty persistent. I'm sorry, I'm being a lousy host.” He gets up unsteadily, slides back under the blanket on the bed.
She's already rummaging in the cabinets in the tiny kitchenette. “Hey, I'm the one who barged in uninvited, and you're sick. I think you're entitled to be a bad host. At least you have soup. I was kind of worried I'd only find a jar of pickles and some spam or something.”
“I try to keep a bit of food around. Too used to eating out of crappy diners. Never liked it,” he mumbles into his pillow, eyes closing. “More Dean's thing.”
“Your brother?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Sam might have food around, but he's kind of short on everything else. She locates a couple of mugs, and pours the soup into one. She sits next to him on the bed and shakes him by the shoulder.
“No sleeping yet. Soup first.”
He sits up again, fixing her with a look she can't quite identify. “You don't have to do this. I'm a lousy sick person. At least, that's what Dean always says. According to him I'm a whiny bitch when I'm sick.”
“Most guys are. Drink your soup. What's with the tomato rice flavour, anyway? I wouldn't have pegged you as the type.”
He shrugs. “Dunno. It's what Dean always fed me when I was sick.”
“Your brother again. Funny how he keeps coming up.”
Sam takes a sip of his soup, curling both hands around the mug. “He pretty much raised me, after our mom died. I kind of don't have a frame of reference outside of him.”
“What about your dad? I thought you said he took the two of you with him.”
Another shrug. “Yeah, but he... he took her death hard. Kind of got obsessed with hunting. A lot of the time it was just Dean and me,” he shivers, pulls the mug closer to him and takes another drink.
“You need anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. A blanket, or Tylenol, or something.”
“I'm good. Thanks anyway,” he smiles, ducking his head and looking up at her from under his bangs, and she feels her heart flutter in spite of herself. “You're pretty good at this, you know.”
“I swear to God, if you say anything about nurturing instincts I will hit you, sick or not,” she bites her lip, trying not to smile, and he raises a hand in mock surrender.
“Okay, not saying a word,” he pulls the blanket further over his lap, fidgeting with the edge, and she waits a moment before pressing him again.
“Look, I know I'm not being fair, not while you're sick, but...”
“Are you kidding? I almost got you killed yesterday. If anything, I owe you, a lot more than I can ever hope to make up for,” he sighs, rubs a hand over his face in a weary gesture that looks practised, as though he's accustomed to making it. “Ask me anything you want. I won't even make you play darts for it, this time.”
She allows herself a nervous giggle. “Right. I suppose there's no tactful way to ask if those guys were being literal when they got you to say you started the apocalypse. But, uh, I'd like to know.”
He winces. “Well, you certainly don't start with the easy stuff.”
It turns out that it's not easy to summarize armageddon, but Sam does a pretty creditable job of it, as far as she can tell. By the time he's done, the soup is gone, and her mind is filled with angels and demons and broken seals, with blood and hell and betrayal, and in the end she realizes she can't really encompass it all, not really. All she can really see is the man before her, hunched over his empty mug as though the whole world rests on his shoulders (and in a way it does, she supposes), and all she can think of is that she kind of knows how he feels. She edges closer on the bed, and lays a hand on his shoulder, trying not to take it personally when he flinches -she remembers when human contact was just as alien to her. He doesn't look up.
“If you want to leave, I get it,” he says softly. “If I could leave me, I would.”
“I'm not leaving. Not yet, anyway. I have to go home eventually,” she jokes lightly, then sobers up. “Look, I can't really begin to wrap my mind around any of this, but... you're not a bad guy.”
That elicits a bitter laugh. “You think so? You barely know me.”
She shifts closer, and finds it encouraging that he hasn't tried to stop her yet. “You made some spectacularly crappy choices, and you behaved pretty shittily for the better part of a year, but that's what addicts do. We make bad choices, we act like assholes, and we hurt the people we love. It doesn't make us bad people. Anybody can change, if they want to.”
He doesn't say anything, staring at his hands, and she chews on her lip. He's not ready to hear what she's saying, and whatever she says now, it won't make a difference. So instead she reaches up and puts a hand against his cheek. “You're hot,” she says, startled at the feel of his skin.
To her surprise, he twists his head and gives her a small grin. “Kind of you to notice,” he smirks, and she throws her head back with a laugh and swats him lightly on the shoulder.
“Oh my God, I can't believe you just said that! Ass. After I made you soup, and everything.”
He's still smiling, even though it's a sad kind of smile, and she swallows hard, her stomach performing flip-flops, and she thinks, what the hell, and leans forward to brush her lips against his. He stiffens, taken aback, but he doesn't pull away. His lips are rough against hers, tentative at first, but after a moment he leans in, deepens the kiss, pulling her closer, until she's practically in his lap, both hands on his shoulders, enjoying the feel of his tongue against hers, exploring her mouth. He's strangely shy for all he seems to know what he's doing, as though he's holding back. She shoves against him, scrapes her fingernails lightly over his skin, and the soft moan she gets in response sends a thrill through her. His skin his still hot to the touch, and she feels a small twinge of guilt.
“You okay for this?” she murmurs, breaking the kiss for a moment, and he nods breathlessly.
“If you're sure...”
“I kissed you first.”
“True,” he pulls her back, gently but insistently, tugs at her bottom lip with his teeth, his hands circling her waist.
She takes that as acquiescence, and uses the momentum to push him back on the bed, fumbling at the buttons of his fly with one hand, feeling light-headed and clumsy all at once. He's still holding onto her hips, his hands large and firm, and when his fingers slide up under her shirt to brush at the skin of her stomach she feels callouses instead of the smooth skin she was expecting. They're working hands, for all they're finely-made, and he's used them to fight and to kill far more than the simple act of chopping lemons that first caught her attention. The thought sends shivers up her spine, but it barely has time to register before she realizes that he's unfastening her bra, pulling it free beneath her shirt.
“Easy, big boy,” she breathes into his ear. “All in good time.”
He freezes beneath her, his expression suddenly uncertain, and she realizes she's going to have to be careful with him, as ridiculous as it seems. He's twice her size, could easily overpower her, and she thinks that might be the problem: he knows just how dangerous he is, and he doesn't want to be. Not now. She kisses him again, reassuring, starts nibbling at his jawline, enjoying the feeling of his hips bucking up against her involuntarily, his gasp of pleasure as she bites down on his neck where it joins at the shoulder, then whispers into his ear again.
“Please tell me you have protection here.”
He nods, swallows. “Top drawer.”
“Thank God. Okay, don't move.” She gets up, rummages in the dresser until she finds the box, and turns back to find him watching her, his pupils blown so wide that she can see only a thin outline of hazel around the black. She lets a lascivious smile play on her lips, stays where she is. “Pants. Off.”
He doesn't hesitate, shucks off his jeans, but the smile he gives her is nervous. “How come you get to keep your clothes but I don't?”
She clambers back onto the bed, straddling him as she tears open one of the cellophane packets. “Because life is unfair that way,” she tells him seriously, and he doesn't protest further, just makes a sound she's going to tease him about after they're done as she presses a hand to his cock, sliding the condom into place.
“Lindsey... off,” he growls at her, pulling her shirt over her head without waiting for further permission. Then again, she knows she's been asking for it. “God,” he murmurs, followed by something that sounds a little incoherent, before he pulls her down onto the bed, flips her easily onto her back, and suddenly she's the one making an embarrassing noise, arching her back as his tongue flicks at one nipple, teasing it to a hard nub, while he rolls the other one between his thumb and forefinger in a way that suggests he really, but really knows what he's doing.
Even through her jeans she can feel how hard he is, and she digs her fingers into his arms, throwing her head back against the thin pillow he uses to sleep, and she's not entirely sure her eyes haven't rolled back into her head. He nudges his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, hooks them into the elastic of her panties, slides both garments off and lets them drop to the floor before turning his attention back to her, mouthing at her other breast, and damn if she's not going to have marks she can't explain tomorrow, but right now she can't bring herself to care. His hands are digging into her hips, and when she wriggles a bit underneath him he lets go, brings his head up to kiss her, pressing their bodies together, and trails one hand down over her stomach, keeps going.
“Oh God!” she bucks, thrusts against his fingers. “God, your hands, Jesus!”
His touch is feather-light at first, circling, teasing, tantalizing her with the promise of what he might do, his tongue still probing the inside of her mouth, and she whimpers, breathing hard. He moves slowly, treating her like some especially sensitive musical instrument, coaxing sounds from her like a goddamn pianist.
“God, Sam, please...” she breaks off the kiss, buries her face in the pillow, gasping as his touch becomes just that much more insistent, fistfuls of the bedsheets clenched in both hands, writhing under him, her whole body tensing and shuddering as she climaxes.
When she opens her eyes again, still panting, he's still on top of her, braced on his elbows, staring at her with a look that's both tender and predatory, as though he wants nothing more than to just take her, as hard as he can, and the thought sends prickles of desire and need through her. She reaches down, enjoys the quiet grunt that escapes from him as she grasps his cock just firmly enough to guide him exactly where she wants him to go, wraps her legs around his waist and locks her ankles at the small of his back. She lets her head fall back, letting him set the pace, and she feels his lips against her throat again. He's gentle with her, careful, goes so slowly she thinks she might actually lose her mind. She brings her hands up and digs her fingers into his shoulders.
“I won't... I won't break,” she gasps, trying to meet his gaze, but he ducks his head.
“I know. Just... just let me...” he doesn't finish his sentence, and dimly she gets that he's trying to prove something to her, maybe to himself, that this is important in a way she can't put her finger on.
He goes back to kissing her neck, caressing every inch of her skin that he can reach until she's bucking against him, desperate for a release that seems just out of reach, until mercifully he takes the hint and increases his tempo, the sound of his breathing echoing harshly in her ears. By now she's lost what little self-possession she had left, moaning and whimpering and writhing, and he seems to pick up on the sense of urgency, moving just a bit faster, breathing her name and “God” against her skin over and over like a mantra, as though the words are interchangeable. Then sparks fly behind her closed eyelids, and she can't hear anything through the sound of blood rushing in her ears; she arches up, feels his name spilling from her lips, feels him shudder through his own orgasm a few moments later.
Sam withdraws just as gently as he's done everything else tonight, then drops to the bed beside her, wedging himself against her and draping an arm over her stomach. Lindsey doesn't open her eyes for several minutes after that, still breathing hard, feeling as though she's floating several inches above the bed. When she finally regains some of her composure, she realizes he's trembling against her, ever so slightly. If he weren't pressed so tightly to her side, she might not even have noticed. She twists a bit to face him, sees that his eyes are squeezed shut, and caresses his cheek with her fingers.
“Hey, you okay?” she asks softly, and he nods, eyes still tightly shut. His breath hitches a bit, and she rubs his shoulder. “You sure? 'Cause, uh... this isn't the usual reaction I get,” she says, keeping her tone light, teasing.
He huffs with laughter at that and opens his eyes, and she isn't entirely surprised to see that he's fighting back tears. “Sorry. I just... thank you.”
“Well, thank you, too, if we're going to be formal and weird about it.”
He looks away, and she wonders just what she said wrong, but he's not drawing back, so it can't all be bad. “It's just... the last person I was with... Ruby, she, uh...” he stammers, trails off, bites his lip, and suddenly she gets it.
“Ruby. The demon-blood pusher. The demon-in-sheep's-clothing.” He nods, and she can feel him tense up, as though he's just waiting for her to maybe recoil in horror and disgust, or maybe spit at him, or something. So she stays put, although normally talking about a previous sex partner would be off-putting like nobody's business. “Let me guess. Not a healthy sexual relationship?”
He snorts at that. “Uh, no. Anyway, I didn't really want to bring her up, or anything like that. Not exactly what I had in mind for pillow-talk.”
“She's a real mood-killer,” Lindsey agrees, but she nestles in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. His eyes are drifting shut again, but this time she's pretty sure it's from exhaustion, and so she lets herself drift too, until sleep claims them both.
It's dark when she opens her eyes again, and for a moment she can't remember where she is and why she's not at home in her own bed. She blinks sleepily, looking for a clock, then finally catches sight of the LED display on the television, which informs her that it's just past two o'clock. She wriggles a bit on the bed, makes a face as she realizes at once that the sheets are damp with her sweat and that she's boiling hot. She throws back the sheet to cool off, and figures out pretty much then that the heat isn't coming from her. Sam is sprawled on his back, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and muttering under his breath. She leans in, but can't make out more than a few words. This isn't good. She puts a hand on his arm, shakes him gently.
“Hey, Sam.”
His head jerks to the side, and he lets out a strangled moan. “You're wrong... I won't... Dean... please...”
Definitely bad. She can't tell if it's just a nightmare or if he's really sick, but either way she needs to pull him out of it. She shakes his arm harder. “Sam! Wake up!”
He stirs under her touch at that, struggles up onto his elbows, and looks at her as though he's not quite sure who she is. “Lindsey?”
She huffs a small laugh of relief, then reaches over him to switch on the only lamp in the room, ignoring his painful squint. “Yeah, dumbass. You're imitating a furnace, and it sounded like you were having a hell of a nightmare.”
He lets himself fall back. “Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.”
“Don't worry about it. You got a thermometer in this place?”
“Wha'?”
“Your thermometer,” she repeats patiently. “Where is it?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
“Stay put, okay? I'm going to get you some water.”
She's as good as her word, too, filling a glass at the sink, but she figures that as long as she's going to be doing the whole nursing schtick, which isn't usually her gig, she may as well do it properly, and rummages in the cabinet until she finds both the Tylenol and the promised thermometer, and even soaks a washcloth under the tap. She sets everything down next to the bed, and perches next to him.
“Thermometer first,” she says firmly, and is relieved when he doesn't argue with her. She slides it under his tongue, rests the back of her fingers against his forehead. “I don't even know why people do that,” she confides. “It's not like you can tell how high someone's fever is by feeling their forehead.” Sam doesn't answer, predictably enough, and she waits for the thermometer to beep before taking it back, and pursing her lips. “Could be worse. You're not about to die or anything.”
“I could've told you that.”
“It's not a 24-hour bug, that's for sure.” She hands him the Tylenol and the water and stares at him until he swallows both. “All the water,” she prompts, and is rewarded with an eyeroll, but he does as he's told.
“You're worse than Dean,” he chokes on a mouthful of water and coughs, lets himself sink back down onto the bed, glassy-eyed and still sweating.
“You want me to call him for you? In the morning, maybe?”
He blinks at her. “No. What for?”
She shrugs, then uses the washcloth to wipe his face. “I don't know. Maybe because you're sick and you were calling for him in your sleep?”
He closes his eyes and huffs. “Fever doesn't count. It's like being roofied. I totally call do-over.”
“What are you, seven?” Sam laughs quietly, and she arches an eyebrow, even though he can't see her. “What?”
“Nothing. It's just... I'm usually on the other side of this conversation.” He starts coughing again, leans into her touch as she wipes his face again. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wreck your night. Nothing like babysitting a sick ex-junkie to make for a shitty time.”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. It's unattractive. As I recall, I'm the one who invited myself while you were sick. Besides, it hasn't all been bad,” she smirks, and he gives another huff of laughter. “You sure I can't call your brother?”
He shakes his head. “Not a good idea. He doesn't want anything to do with me, now.”
“You sure?”
“Spoke to him yesterday. He told me to pick a hemisphere and stick to it. Not that I don't deserve it. I wrecked his life.”
That, she can definitely relate to. “That sucks. For what it's worth, he might just need more time to forgive you. It took my sister two and a half years before she would even talk to me.”
“What d'you suppose the timeline is on setting the Devil free to walk the earth?”
“Sarcasm aside? I don't know. But family's family. He might come around,” she wipes his face again, wondering if she should be more worried about how sick he looks. “How're you feeling?”
“Shitty.”
“At least you're honest -now, anyway. Think you can get some sleep?”
“Mm,” he nods, and either he's too tired to argue, or the Tylenol is kicking in, because she can see the tension slowly leaving his body. “You too,” he murmurs, reaching up with a hand to tug at her wrist.
Lindsey lets him pull her back onto the bed and wrap his arms around her. He's still uncomfortably warm to the touch, but it's been a while since she's been held, and it does feel kind of nice and weirdly safe. She rests her head against his chest, listening to his heart beating just a shade too fast. It occurs to her that he must already have been sick when those men attacked him, and if that's what he's capable of when he's under the weather, then she doesn't even want to think of what he can do when he's in full fighting trim. Sam shifts in his sleep, murmurs something. She catches his brother's name again as he tightens his grip, and she thinks that, maybe, for tonight anyway, she's not the one being kept safe.
She awakens to the sound of Sam's cell phone vibrating on the table nearby. He's curled on his side, head resting on his arm, and when she brushes her hand against his forehead she's relieved to find that he's no longer burning to the touch. The cell phone rings again, insistently. Whoever is calling is apparently unwilling to leave a message like a civilised person. When it starts again for a third time, she grabs it and retreats to the furthest corner of the room to answer it, not bothering to check the caller I.D.
“Who's this?” a man's voice barks at her, and she bristles.
“You're the one calling. Maybe you should identify yourself first.”
There's a split-second's pause. “Who. Are. You? And why do you have Sam's phone?”
Oh. “I'm Lindsey, and technically I don't have it so much as I picked it up off his table. Who're you?”
“I'm his brother. Where's Sam?” there's an edge to the man's voice, it could be anger, or anxiety, or both.
“He's asleep. You're Dean?”
Another pause, and this time the voice is hesitant. “Yeah. Why didn't he answer his phone?”
“Like I said, he's asleep.”
“Sam never sleeps through his phone ringing. What's wrong?”
She shrugs, even though he can't see her. “He's been sick. He's better this morning, but I guess he was tired.”
“Look, I need to talk to him.”
“Guess it must be important,” she can't quite keep the edge out of her own voice. “What happened to different hemispheres?”
There's a snort. “God, he still can't keep his mouth shut about anything. Emo princess. It's... look, it's important, okay? I need to talk to him.”
She sighs, knows this isn't something she should keep from Sam. She barely knows him, and it's stupid to want to protect him from his own brother. Besides, Erika's always telling her that every story has six sides, and she only knows Sam's.
“Just a sec,” she sits on the bed, shakes Sam's arm. “Hey, Sam. Wake up. Sam!” He stirs, blinks at her groggily, and she holds out the phone. “It's for you. It's your brother.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah. You going to sit there and stare at it, or what?”
“Uh...” he takes the phone from her, still half-asleep, and she backs off, trying to give him what space she can in the cramped room. “Dean? Yeah... no, I'm fine... No, just 'flu or something... I'm fine, Dean. Look, is there a reason... what? Why? … Dean, if this is some kind of... okay. Okay, just tell me where.”
Lindsay gets dressed, trying hard not to eavesdrop, but it's a one-room apartment, and she's dying of curiosity anyway. She looks up when he flips the phone shut, and feels her heart give a painful lurch in her chest.
“So, you're leaving?”
He nods, regret warring with relief on his face. “I'm sorry. I have to.”
“I thought so.”
“He's my family.”
She sighs. “I get it, I do. I still think it sucks, but... I get it. When are you going?”
“As soon as I can.”
“I'll make you a deal. You let me take you out for breakfast first, I'll give you my phone number, and then you keep in touch?”
He ducks his head with a smile, looks up at her from under his bangs again, and she can't help but think how damned unfair life is sometimes. “You know, your deals with me never go the way you think they will.”
“I'll take the risk.”
She doesn't know whether to be impressed or incredibly depressed at how quickly he's ready not only to go to breakfast, but to vacate the place entirely. Within fifteen minutes he's showered, dressed, and has packed what looks like all his worldly belongings into a duffel bag. He catches sight of her expression, and shrugs ruefully.
“Travelling light has its advantages,” he says simply, as though it's not unusual at all that he's got no permanent billing address, that there's no record of him anywhere except maybe a birth certificate somewhere and a long-defunct university transcript; that he has nothing to his name except for five changes of clothes, a gun and a few knives. He shrugs, holds the door for her. “After you.”
Less than two hours later he's gone, and she spends the next couple of days feeling as though the past week was some sort of really intense, weird dream. Lindsay goes back to work, tells Wally that “Keith” left for a family emergency. He was only there for a week, and while Wally's annoyed at having his busboy bail after so little time, he's relieved at not having to pay him his week's wages. Even after a few days, she still finds there's too much to process, too much to wrap her mind around, and so she decides to be content to miss Sam and not think too hard about any of it, until two days later Tim and Reggie show up at the bar again. For a moment she thinks it's a bad dream, some sort of PTSD-induced nightmare, but there's no mistaking the men who tried to use her to coerce Sam to do what they wanted.
She freezes where she is, just out of sight, pulls her cell phone out of the pocket and dials 911. She gives the bar's address as quietly as she can, hangs up, and catches Wally's eye. He knows that she was attacked in the bar by two guys, nothing more, but he understands well enough when she motions to him. Tim and Reggie are asking questions, and it looks like they're irritating the regulars, but at least the increasingly heated conversation means they're not paying her any attention. She grabs Wally's shotgun from under the bar, crosses the floor faster than she's ever moved in her life, and holds it up a foot away from Tim's head.
“On the floor, asshole!” she snarls, ignoring the startled yells from her regular clients. Both men freeze, hands out to the side, but they stay where they are.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Reggie says, and she catches him trying to turn toward her, so she racks the shotgun for emphasis.
“I said, on the floor! Both of you, hands on your head, on your knees first, then your stomachs. You so much as twitch in the wrong direction, I will turn Tim's head inside-out. You might be able to get to me, but not before he bites it. On. The. Floor.”
There's something viscerally very satisfying about watching them both drop, fingers laced behind their heads.
“We ain't got a problem with you, lady,” Tim says. “We just want Sam.”
“Well, Sam isn't here, and I am. Next time, you think about that before you chain me up to a bar and threaten to slit my throat, asshole.”
“Where is he?”
She snorts. “You think you're in a position to ask questions? Screw that.” She can see flashing blue and red lights through the window in the bar door, and smiles down at them. “You know what, boys?
“Right now, Sam is the least of your problems.”
Summary: In spite of her better judgment, Lindsey goes to set the record straight with Sam after the events of "Free To Be You and Me."
Spoilers: Up to the end of 5.04 "The End."
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Lindsay, brief appearance by Dean (sort of)
Rating: NC-17, God help me
Word Count: 6,743
Warnings: Uh, sex. NSFW.
Disclaimer: The closest I have ever come to owning anything related to SPN is that I once read a couple of Misha Collins' tweets. I don't even have Twitter, I borrowed someone else's. So, uh, yeah. I got nothin'. If Kripke knew what I get up to with his creations, he'd probably take me out behind a shed and shoot me.
Neurotic Author's Note: I kind of banged this together on a whim. I haven't re-read it or proofread it or even spell-checked, because I am too fucking chicken. See Neurotic Author's Note #3.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Okay, so I really liked Lindsey and was annoyed she got so little screen time, so I decided to write a quick thing about her going to ask Sam to explain the whole apocalypse deal. It was going to be a quickie, maybe 500 words, nothing big. So that didn't work out as planned.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: Oh, dear God, I wrote PORN. Full-on heterosexual sex. *headdesk* IDEK. /o\ Please please PLEASE be nice in your comments, even if it's terrible. Oh God, oh God, oh God. You can tell me if it sucks, just... be nice about it. I can take it, mostly. I can't believe I'm actually posting this. I think I may find a convenient rock to hide under in the meantime. GAH.
Neurotic Author's Note #4: The title is taken from one of the "promises" from Alcoholics Anonymous. Just FYI.
In her everyday life, Lindsey isn't much of a hand-wringer. After years of making bad choice after bad choice, alienating her friends and driving away two boyfriends and making both her parents cry more times than she really likes to remember, she's come to a place in her life which is a lot more zen. She keeps her three-years-sober chip in her pocket, rubs her thumb against it, the ridges on the coin grounding her. She's done self-destructing, she tells herself. Sure, she's not at the point yet where she's spent longer being sober than being drunk, but she's still in a good place.
Today, though... today she really, but really wants a drink. Not just a drink, if she's honest with herself. She wants to sneak into the bar, snake that really large bottle of tequila, and take it home and lose herself in it. She's not going to, though. She's already called her sponsor Erika and told her a half-truth about getting threatened by two men and that she's frightened and wants a drink. She can't exactly tell Erika everything that went on -it's too crazy to fathom, never mind repeat aloud- but just talking to her helps. Erika's seen her through the worst, so this? This is a blip on the radar.
Except, of course, that it isn't. If this were three years ago, she'd be able to write it off as too much alcohol, or maybe delirium tremens. Or something. Yesterday? Yesterday she was completely sober, and there was no mistaking what she heard. There's a whole world opening up under her feet, and if she's not careful, it's going to swallow her whole. She rubs at the chip in her pocket again, and tries to think about the words “apocalypse” and “demons” and “Lucifer” in a way that won't make her lose her mind. She thinks it might be too late. Those men were serious, though, and Keith -Sam- never said anything about them being crazy. Of course, she took off running long before he could explain himself to her, terrified out of her mind, and he hasn't shown any sign of coming after her. She tries to tell herself he doesn't owe her anything, but it doesn't take away the sinking feeling in her stomach at the memory of him with that huge knife, with blood dribbling down his chin.
When he calls in sick to work that afternoon, she takes a moment to think about it. Mind-blowing, earth-shattering revelations and pants-wetting terror aside, she thinks she can understand why he hasn't come back. He's a recovering addict, same as she is. His old life has just blown up in his face and got her hurt and nearly killed. If it were her? She'd be freaking out, and either reaching for a bottle or else trying to ride it out on her own. She paces in her small apartment, trying to convince herself that it's a bad idea to go find him, that the last thing she needs is to offer to hold the hand of a guy she barely knows and who apparently has a bigger addiction problem than she does, even if she finds him attractive and mysterious. It turns out that she still has a thing for bad boys. She's already told Erika about Sam's addiction in broad terms, “drugs” covering a multitude of sins, and Erika's been supportive and gently nudged her away from going there, but she's not sure she can keep going without getting answers
Lindsey is still debating the wisdom of her plan when she finds herself knocking on the door to Sam's apartment. She wipes the palms of her hands on her jeans, her mouth dry. She knocks a second time when there's no answer, and she's about to give up when she hears the soft sound of someone moving inside. The chain scrapes against the door, and she finds herself blinking, robbed of speech, when Sam finally opens the door, having apparently hastily pulled on a pair of jeans and nothing else. He has a tattoo on his left clavicle, a pentacle surrounded by what looks like it might be the rays of the sun, or something. She's staring, she realizes; Sam generally hides under layers of clothing, and it's disconcerting to see the direct evidence of the physical power he showed yesterday, the broad shoulders and well-defined abs proof that he must be damned strong.
He's obviously surprised to see her, and to her astonishment he flushes bright red. “Lindsey! Uh... I wasn't, uh, expecting you.”
She hesitates, doesn't quite know where to begin. “Umm, am I disturbing you?”
He shakes his head. “No, of course not.” He sounds hoarse, but he recovers himself after a moment. “I'm sorry, I'm being rude. Uh, did you want to come in?”
She nods. “If that's okay?”
“Uh, sure,” he steps back, giving her plenty of room, all his body-language non-threatening, as if he's trying to make up for the fact that he single-handedly kicked the asses of two men in front of her just yesterday and came within a hair's breadth of slitting one of their throats, trying to prove he's not a threat to her. “Sorry, I wasn't really expecting company.”
She's not sure what he's apologizing for. The room is spotless, almost military in its neatness, except for a sofa-bed which is pulled out and unmade, the sheets and blanket thrown back as though he was still sleeping when she arrived. She's still taking in the room when she hears him cough quietly, and she turns in time to see him swallow with a grimace of pain. It's only then that she notices that the flush on his cheeks is masking an unhealthy pallor, and that there are dark circles under his eyes.
“You're actually sick,” she says, unsure why she's so surprised, and he grins sheepishly. He has a sweet smile, she realizes, one she's only seen once or twice in the whole time she's known him.
“Yeah. Think it's a 24-hour bug or something. I didn't want to give it to everyone at the bar. Let me guess, you thought I was avoiding you?”
“Were you?” she challenges, and is rewarded with a shrug. He doesn't quite meet her eyes.
“Yeah, okay, maybe that too. But at least I have a valid excuse.” He winces a bit as the implication of what he just said hits, and he tries to recover himself. “Uh, can I get you a glass of water, or something? I don't have much here, sorry. I'm not... not exactly used to having people around.”
She shakes her head. “I'm fine. Look, I know I should probably let you go back to bed, but... I kind of need you to fill me in a bit more about yesterday.”
“Yeah, I was afraid you might. Let me just,” he moves past her and starts trying to put the sofa back together, but she stops him with a hand on his arm.
“It's fine, Ke -Sam. I'll just use a chair. You should go back to bed after this anyway.”
He just nods, pulls the two wooden chairs in the place away from the wall, and holds one for her. A true gentleman, it seems, in spite of everything else. He sinks into the other once she's seated, looking relieved to be off his feet, and she wonders if he's not sicker than he's letting on. For a while there's silence, neither of them knowing exactly where to start.
“I don't suppose there's anything I can say to convince you that those two guys were just crazy and that you shouldn't worry about it?” he offers finally, and she shakes her head.
“Afraid not.”
He scrubs at his face with one hand. “God, I don't know where to start,” he mumbles, and not for the first time she feels a pang of sympathy for him, mingled with a whole bunch of other emotions that don't bear examining too closely right now.
She fumbles in her pocket. “I brought you something, but first I need you to tell me something.”
He looks at her, intrigued but wary. She knows the look. “You did? Uh... what... what do you want to know?”
“I want to know how long it's been.”
He bites his lip, knows what she's asking, but he plays dumb anyway. “How long?”
“Since your last hit.”
“Does last night count?” he asks bitterly, and she gives him a look that says exactly what she thinks of that. He has the grace to look abashed. “Right. Uh... three months, nine days. Is it sad that I know it that precisely?”
“No. It's pretty normal. Look, this is mostly way over my head, but... addiction is addiction, and I've been there. So, I want you to have this.” She pulls out the small handful of chips she brought with her, and hands him a three-month token. “They helped me, so I figure it can't hurt.”
There's a pause before he reaches over and takes it from her gingerly, as though he expects the small thing to turn white-hot in his hand and burn him. He turns it over in his fingers, making it look impossibly small, tracing over the ridges with the tips of his fingers. His breath hitches, and he turns away, cuffing at his eyes, flushing with embarrassment. “Sorry. I... thank you. It... I don't... thank you.”
She clears her throat, her own eyes pricking. “Don't mention it.”
He pulls himself together after a moment, but his hand closes over the chip. “What would you like to know?”
In the blink of an eye an hour has gone by, and she feels as though she's still not any closer to understanding what just happened to turn her life upside-down. Her mind is whirling with thoughts of ghosts and vampires and demons, and the word “hunter” has taken on meanings she never thought it could have. She's desperate for more information, but Sam looks like he's fading, the cough he was suppressing earlier coming back with a vengeance, and she realizes that he's started to shiver. She gets to her feet, ignoring the startled look he gives her.
“Okay, I think this counts as cruel and unusual punishment. You need to go back to bed, and I'm going to make myself feel useful and make you some soup. Don't argue with me, you know it doesn't work.”
He huffs with laughter at that. “True. You are pretty persistent. I'm sorry, I'm being a lousy host.” He gets up unsteadily, slides back under the blanket on the bed.
She's already rummaging in the cabinets in the tiny kitchenette. “Hey, I'm the one who barged in uninvited, and you're sick. I think you're entitled to be a bad host. At least you have soup. I was kind of worried I'd only find a jar of pickles and some spam or something.”
“I try to keep a bit of food around. Too used to eating out of crappy diners. Never liked it,” he mumbles into his pillow, eyes closing. “More Dean's thing.”
“Your brother?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Sam might have food around, but he's kind of short on everything else. She locates a couple of mugs, and pours the soup into one. She sits next to him on the bed and shakes him by the shoulder.
“No sleeping yet. Soup first.”
He sits up again, fixing her with a look she can't quite identify. “You don't have to do this. I'm a lousy sick person. At least, that's what Dean always says. According to him I'm a whiny bitch when I'm sick.”
“Most guys are. Drink your soup. What's with the tomato rice flavour, anyway? I wouldn't have pegged you as the type.”
He shrugs. “Dunno. It's what Dean always fed me when I was sick.”
“Your brother again. Funny how he keeps coming up.”
Sam takes a sip of his soup, curling both hands around the mug. “He pretty much raised me, after our mom died. I kind of don't have a frame of reference outside of him.”
“What about your dad? I thought you said he took the two of you with him.”
Another shrug. “Yeah, but he... he took her death hard. Kind of got obsessed with hunting. A lot of the time it was just Dean and me,” he shivers, pulls the mug closer to him and takes another drink.
“You need anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. A blanket, or Tylenol, or something.”
“I'm good. Thanks anyway,” he smiles, ducking his head and looking up at her from under his bangs, and she feels her heart flutter in spite of herself. “You're pretty good at this, you know.”
“I swear to God, if you say anything about nurturing instincts I will hit you, sick or not,” she bites her lip, trying not to smile, and he raises a hand in mock surrender.
“Okay, not saying a word,” he pulls the blanket further over his lap, fidgeting with the edge, and she waits a moment before pressing him again.
“Look, I know I'm not being fair, not while you're sick, but...”
“Are you kidding? I almost got you killed yesterday. If anything, I owe you, a lot more than I can ever hope to make up for,” he sighs, rubs a hand over his face in a weary gesture that looks practised, as though he's accustomed to making it. “Ask me anything you want. I won't even make you play darts for it, this time.”
She allows herself a nervous giggle. “Right. I suppose there's no tactful way to ask if those guys were being literal when they got you to say you started the apocalypse. But, uh, I'd like to know.”
He winces. “Well, you certainly don't start with the easy stuff.”
It turns out that it's not easy to summarize armageddon, but Sam does a pretty creditable job of it, as far as she can tell. By the time he's done, the soup is gone, and her mind is filled with angels and demons and broken seals, with blood and hell and betrayal, and in the end she realizes she can't really encompass it all, not really. All she can really see is the man before her, hunched over his empty mug as though the whole world rests on his shoulders (and in a way it does, she supposes), and all she can think of is that she kind of knows how he feels. She edges closer on the bed, and lays a hand on his shoulder, trying not to take it personally when he flinches -she remembers when human contact was just as alien to her. He doesn't look up.
“If you want to leave, I get it,” he says softly. “If I could leave me, I would.”
“I'm not leaving. Not yet, anyway. I have to go home eventually,” she jokes lightly, then sobers up. “Look, I can't really begin to wrap my mind around any of this, but... you're not a bad guy.”
That elicits a bitter laugh. “You think so? You barely know me.”
She shifts closer, and finds it encouraging that he hasn't tried to stop her yet. “You made some spectacularly crappy choices, and you behaved pretty shittily for the better part of a year, but that's what addicts do. We make bad choices, we act like assholes, and we hurt the people we love. It doesn't make us bad people. Anybody can change, if they want to.”
He doesn't say anything, staring at his hands, and she chews on her lip. He's not ready to hear what she's saying, and whatever she says now, it won't make a difference. So instead she reaches up and puts a hand against his cheek. “You're hot,” she says, startled at the feel of his skin.
To her surprise, he twists his head and gives her a small grin. “Kind of you to notice,” he smirks, and she throws her head back with a laugh and swats him lightly on the shoulder.
“Oh my God, I can't believe you just said that! Ass. After I made you soup, and everything.”
He's still smiling, even though it's a sad kind of smile, and she swallows hard, her stomach performing flip-flops, and she thinks, what the hell, and leans forward to brush her lips against his. He stiffens, taken aback, but he doesn't pull away. His lips are rough against hers, tentative at first, but after a moment he leans in, deepens the kiss, pulling her closer, until she's practically in his lap, both hands on his shoulders, enjoying the feel of his tongue against hers, exploring her mouth. He's strangely shy for all he seems to know what he's doing, as though he's holding back. She shoves against him, scrapes her fingernails lightly over his skin, and the soft moan she gets in response sends a thrill through her. His skin his still hot to the touch, and she feels a small twinge of guilt.
“You okay for this?” she murmurs, breaking the kiss for a moment, and he nods breathlessly.
“If you're sure...”
“I kissed you first.”
“True,” he pulls her back, gently but insistently, tugs at her bottom lip with his teeth, his hands circling her waist.
She takes that as acquiescence, and uses the momentum to push him back on the bed, fumbling at the buttons of his fly with one hand, feeling light-headed and clumsy all at once. He's still holding onto her hips, his hands large and firm, and when his fingers slide up under her shirt to brush at the skin of her stomach she feels callouses instead of the smooth skin she was expecting. They're working hands, for all they're finely-made, and he's used them to fight and to kill far more than the simple act of chopping lemons that first caught her attention. The thought sends shivers up her spine, but it barely has time to register before she realizes that he's unfastening her bra, pulling it free beneath her shirt.
“Easy, big boy,” she breathes into his ear. “All in good time.”
He freezes beneath her, his expression suddenly uncertain, and she realizes she's going to have to be careful with him, as ridiculous as it seems. He's twice her size, could easily overpower her, and she thinks that might be the problem: he knows just how dangerous he is, and he doesn't want to be. Not now. She kisses him again, reassuring, starts nibbling at his jawline, enjoying the feeling of his hips bucking up against her involuntarily, his gasp of pleasure as she bites down on his neck where it joins at the shoulder, then whispers into his ear again.
“Please tell me you have protection here.”
He nods, swallows. “Top drawer.”
“Thank God. Okay, don't move.” She gets up, rummages in the dresser until she finds the box, and turns back to find him watching her, his pupils blown so wide that she can see only a thin outline of hazel around the black. She lets a lascivious smile play on her lips, stays where she is. “Pants. Off.”
He doesn't hesitate, shucks off his jeans, but the smile he gives her is nervous. “How come you get to keep your clothes but I don't?”
She clambers back onto the bed, straddling him as she tears open one of the cellophane packets. “Because life is unfair that way,” she tells him seriously, and he doesn't protest further, just makes a sound she's going to tease him about after they're done as she presses a hand to his cock, sliding the condom into place.
“Lindsey... off,” he growls at her, pulling her shirt over her head without waiting for further permission. Then again, she knows she's been asking for it. “God,” he murmurs, followed by something that sounds a little incoherent, before he pulls her down onto the bed, flips her easily onto her back, and suddenly she's the one making an embarrassing noise, arching her back as his tongue flicks at one nipple, teasing it to a hard nub, while he rolls the other one between his thumb and forefinger in a way that suggests he really, but really knows what he's doing.
Even through her jeans she can feel how hard he is, and she digs her fingers into his arms, throwing her head back against the thin pillow he uses to sleep, and she's not entirely sure her eyes haven't rolled back into her head. He nudges his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, hooks them into the elastic of her panties, slides both garments off and lets them drop to the floor before turning his attention back to her, mouthing at her other breast, and damn if she's not going to have marks she can't explain tomorrow, but right now she can't bring herself to care. His hands are digging into her hips, and when she wriggles a bit underneath him he lets go, brings his head up to kiss her, pressing their bodies together, and trails one hand down over her stomach, keeps going.
“Oh God!” she bucks, thrusts against his fingers. “God, your hands, Jesus!”
His touch is feather-light at first, circling, teasing, tantalizing her with the promise of what he might do, his tongue still probing the inside of her mouth, and she whimpers, breathing hard. He moves slowly, treating her like some especially sensitive musical instrument, coaxing sounds from her like a goddamn pianist.
“God, Sam, please...” she breaks off the kiss, buries her face in the pillow, gasping as his touch becomes just that much more insistent, fistfuls of the bedsheets clenched in both hands, writhing under him, her whole body tensing and shuddering as she climaxes.
When she opens her eyes again, still panting, he's still on top of her, braced on his elbows, staring at her with a look that's both tender and predatory, as though he wants nothing more than to just take her, as hard as he can, and the thought sends prickles of desire and need through her. She reaches down, enjoys the quiet grunt that escapes from him as she grasps his cock just firmly enough to guide him exactly where she wants him to go, wraps her legs around his waist and locks her ankles at the small of his back. She lets her head fall back, letting him set the pace, and she feels his lips against her throat again. He's gentle with her, careful, goes so slowly she thinks she might actually lose her mind. She brings her hands up and digs her fingers into his shoulders.
“I won't... I won't break,” she gasps, trying to meet his gaze, but he ducks his head.
“I know. Just... just let me...” he doesn't finish his sentence, and dimly she gets that he's trying to prove something to her, maybe to himself, that this is important in a way she can't put her finger on.
He goes back to kissing her neck, caressing every inch of her skin that he can reach until she's bucking against him, desperate for a release that seems just out of reach, until mercifully he takes the hint and increases his tempo, the sound of his breathing echoing harshly in her ears. By now she's lost what little self-possession she had left, moaning and whimpering and writhing, and he seems to pick up on the sense of urgency, moving just a bit faster, breathing her name and “God” against her skin over and over like a mantra, as though the words are interchangeable. Then sparks fly behind her closed eyelids, and she can't hear anything through the sound of blood rushing in her ears; she arches up, feels his name spilling from her lips, feels him shudder through his own orgasm a few moments later.
Sam withdraws just as gently as he's done everything else tonight, then drops to the bed beside her, wedging himself against her and draping an arm over her stomach. Lindsey doesn't open her eyes for several minutes after that, still breathing hard, feeling as though she's floating several inches above the bed. When she finally regains some of her composure, she realizes he's trembling against her, ever so slightly. If he weren't pressed so tightly to her side, she might not even have noticed. She twists a bit to face him, sees that his eyes are squeezed shut, and caresses his cheek with her fingers.
“Hey, you okay?” she asks softly, and he nods, eyes still tightly shut. His breath hitches a bit, and she rubs his shoulder. “You sure? 'Cause, uh... this isn't the usual reaction I get,” she says, keeping her tone light, teasing.
He huffs with laughter at that and opens his eyes, and she isn't entirely surprised to see that he's fighting back tears. “Sorry. I just... thank you.”
“Well, thank you, too, if we're going to be formal and weird about it.”
He looks away, and she wonders just what she said wrong, but he's not drawing back, so it can't all be bad. “It's just... the last person I was with... Ruby, she, uh...” he stammers, trails off, bites his lip, and suddenly she gets it.
“Ruby. The demon-blood pusher. The demon-in-sheep's-clothing.” He nods, and she can feel him tense up, as though he's just waiting for her to maybe recoil in horror and disgust, or maybe spit at him, or something. So she stays put, although normally talking about a previous sex partner would be off-putting like nobody's business. “Let me guess. Not a healthy sexual relationship?”
He snorts at that. “Uh, no. Anyway, I didn't really want to bring her up, or anything like that. Not exactly what I had in mind for pillow-talk.”
“She's a real mood-killer,” Lindsey agrees, but she nestles in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. His eyes are drifting shut again, but this time she's pretty sure it's from exhaustion, and so she lets herself drift too, until sleep claims them both.
It's dark when she opens her eyes again, and for a moment she can't remember where she is and why she's not at home in her own bed. She blinks sleepily, looking for a clock, then finally catches sight of the LED display on the television, which informs her that it's just past two o'clock. She wriggles a bit on the bed, makes a face as she realizes at once that the sheets are damp with her sweat and that she's boiling hot. She throws back the sheet to cool off, and figures out pretty much then that the heat isn't coming from her. Sam is sprawled on his back, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and muttering under his breath. She leans in, but can't make out more than a few words. This isn't good. She puts a hand on his arm, shakes him gently.
“Hey, Sam.”
His head jerks to the side, and he lets out a strangled moan. “You're wrong... I won't... Dean... please...”
Definitely bad. She can't tell if it's just a nightmare or if he's really sick, but either way she needs to pull him out of it. She shakes his arm harder. “Sam! Wake up!”
He stirs under her touch at that, struggles up onto his elbows, and looks at her as though he's not quite sure who she is. “Lindsey?”
She huffs a small laugh of relief, then reaches over him to switch on the only lamp in the room, ignoring his painful squint. “Yeah, dumbass. You're imitating a furnace, and it sounded like you were having a hell of a nightmare.”
He lets himself fall back. “Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.”
“Don't worry about it. You got a thermometer in this place?”
“Wha'?”
“Your thermometer,” she repeats patiently. “Where is it?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
“Stay put, okay? I'm going to get you some water.”
She's as good as her word, too, filling a glass at the sink, but she figures that as long as she's going to be doing the whole nursing schtick, which isn't usually her gig, she may as well do it properly, and rummages in the cabinet until she finds both the Tylenol and the promised thermometer, and even soaks a washcloth under the tap. She sets everything down next to the bed, and perches next to him.
“Thermometer first,” she says firmly, and is relieved when he doesn't argue with her. She slides it under his tongue, rests the back of her fingers against his forehead. “I don't even know why people do that,” she confides. “It's not like you can tell how high someone's fever is by feeling their forehead.” Sam doesn't answer, predictably enough, and she waits for the thermometer to beep before taking it back, and pursing her lips. “Could be worse. You're not about to die or anything.”
“I could've told you that.”
“It's not a 24-hour bug, that's for sure.” She hands him the Tylenol and the water and stares at him until he swallows both. “All the water,” she prompts, and is rewarded with an eyeroll, but he does as he's told.
“You're worse than Dean,” he chokes on a mouthful of water and coughs, lets himself sink back down onto the bed, glassy-eyed and still sweating.
“You want me to call him for you? In the morning, maybe?”
He blinks at her. “No. What for?”
She shrugs, then uses the washcloth to wipe his face. “I don't know. Maybe because you're sick and you were calling for him in your sleep?”
He closes his eyes and huffs. “Fever doesn't count. It's like being roofied. I totally call do-over.”
“What are you, seven?” Sam laughs quietly, and she arches an eyebrow, even though he can't see her. “What?”
“Nothing. It's just... I'm usually on the other side of this conversation.” He starts coughing again, leans into her touch as she wipes his face again. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to wreck your night. Nothing like babysitting a sick ex-junkie to make for a shitty time.”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself. It's unattractive. As I recall, I'm the one who invited myself while you were sick. Besides, it hasn't all been bad,” she smirks, and he gives another huff of laughter. “You sure I can't call your brother?”
He shakes his head. “Not a good idea. He doesn't want anything to do with me, now.”
“You sure?”
“Spoke to him yesterday. He told me to pick a hemisphere and stick to it. Not that I don't deserve it. I wrecked his life.”
That, she can definitely relate to. “That sucks. For what it's worth, he might just need more time to forgive you. It took my sister two and a half years before she would even talk to me.”
“What d'you suppose the timeline is on setting the Devil free to walk the earth?”
“Sarcasm aside? I don't know. But family's family. He might come around,” she wipes his face again, wondering if she should be more worried about how sick he looks. “How're you feeling?”
“Shitty.”
“At least you're honest -now, anyway. Think you can get some sleep?”
“Mm,” he nods, and either he's too tired to argue, or the Tylenol is kicking in, because she can see the tension slowly leaving his body. “You too,” he murmurs, reaching up with a hand to tug at her wrist.
Lindsey lets him pull her back onto the bed and wrap his arms around her. He's still uncomfortably warm to the touch, but it's been a while since she's been held, and it does feel kind of nice and weirdly safe. She rests her head against his chest, listening to his heart beating just a shade too fast. It occurs to her that he must already have been sick when those men attacked him, and if that's what he's capable of when he's under the weather, then she doesn't even want to think of what he can do when he's in full fighting trim. Sam shifts in his sleep, murmurs something. She catches his brother's name again as he tightens his grip, and she thinks that, maybe, for tonight anyway, she's not the one being kept safe.
She awakens to the sound of Sam's cell phone vibrating on the table nearby. He's curled on his side, head resting on his arm, and when she brushes her hand against his forehead she's relieved to find that he's no longer burning to the touch. The cell phone rings again, insistently. Whoever is calling is apparently unwilling to leave a message like a civilised person. When it starts again for a third time, she grabs it and retreats to the furthest corner of the room to answer it, not bothering to check the caller I.D.
“Who's this?” a man's voice barks at her, and she bristles.
“You're the one calling. Maybe you should identify yourself first.”
There's a split-second's pause. “Who. Are. You? And why do you have Sam's phone?”
Oh. “I'm Lindsey, and technically I don't have it so much as I picked it up off his table. Who're you?”
“I'm his brother. Where's Sam?” there's an edge to the man's voice, it could be anger, or anxiety, or both.
“He's asleep. You're Dean?”
Another pause, and this time the voice is hesitant. “Yeah. Why didn't he answer his phone?”
“Like I said, he's asleep.”
“Sam never sleeps through his phone ringing. What's wrong?”
She shrugs, even though he can't see her. “He's been sick. He's better this morning, but I guess he was tired.”
“Look, I need to talk to him.”
“Guess it must be important,” she can't quite keep the edge out of her own voice. “What happened to different hemispheres?”
There's a snort. “God, he still can't keep his mouth shut about anything. Emo princess. It's... look, it's important, okay? I need to talk to him.”
She sighs, knows this isn't something she should keep from Sam. She barely knows him, and it's stupid to want to protect him from his own brother. Besides, Erika's always telling her that every story has six sides, and she only knows Sam's.
“Just a sec,” she sits on the bed, shakes Sam's arm. “Hey, Sam. Wake up. Sam!” He stirs, blinks at her groggily, and she holds out the phone. “It's for you. It's your brother.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah. You going to sit there and stare at it, or what?”
“Uh...” he takes the phone from her, still half-asleep, and she backs off, trying to give him what space she can in the cramped room. “Dean? Yeah... no, I'm fine... No, just 'flu or something... I'm fine, Dean. Look, is there a reason... what? Why? … Dean, if this is some kind of... okay. Okay, just tell me where.”
Lindsay gets dressed, trying hard not to eavesdrop, but it's a one-room apartment, and she's dying of curiosity anyway. She looks up when he flips the phone shut, and feels her heart give a painful lurch in her chest.
“So, you're leaving?”
He nods, regret warring with relief on his face. “I'm sorry. I have to.”
“I thought so.”
“He's my family.”
She sighs. “I get it, I do. I still think it sucks, but... I get it. When are you going?”
“As soon as I can.”
“I'll make you a deal. You let me take you out for breakfast first, I'll give you my phone number, and then you keep in touch?”
He ducks his head with a smile, looks up at her from under his bangs again, and she can't help but think how damned unfair life is sometimes. “You know, your deals with me never go the way you think they will.”
“I'll take the risk.”
She doesn't know whether to be impressed or incredibly depressed at how quickly he's ready not only to go to breakfast, but to vacate the place entirely. Within fifteen minutes he's showered, dressed, and has packed what looks like all his worldly belongings into a duffel bag. He catches sight of her expression, and shrugs ruefully.
“Travelling light has its advantages,” he says simply, as though it's not unusual at all that he's got no permanent billing address, that there's no record of him anywhere except maybe a birth certificate somewhere and a long-defunct university transcript; that he has nothing to his name except for five changes of clothes, a gun and a few knives. He shrugs, holds the door for her. “After you.”
Less than two hours later he's gone, and she spends the next couple of days feeling as though the past week was some sort of really intense, weird dream. Lindsay goes back to work, tells Wally that “Keith” left for a family emergency. He was only there for a week, and while Wally's annoyed at having his busboy bail after so little time, he's relieved at not having to pay him his week's wages. Even after a few days, she still finds there's too much to process, too much to wrap her mind around, and so she decides to be content to miss Sam and not think too hard about any of it, until two days later Tim and Reggie show up at the bar again. For a moment she thinks it's a bad dream, some sort of PTSD-induced nightmare, but there's no mistaking the men who tried to use her to coerce Sam to do what they wanted.
She freezes where she is, just out of sight, pulls her cell phone out of the pocket and dials 911. She gives the bar's address as quietly as she can, hangs up, and catches Wally's eye. He knows that she was attacked in the bar by two guys, nothing more, but he understands well enough when she motions to him. Tim and Reggie are asking questions, and it looks like they're irritating the regulars, but at least the increasingly heated conversation means they're not paying her any attention. She grabs Wally's shotgun from under the bar, crosses the floor faster than she's ever moved in her life, and holds it up a foot away from Tim's head.
“On the floor, asshole!” she snarls, ignoring the startled yells from her regular clients. Both men freeze, hands out to the side, but they stay where they are.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Reggie says, and she catches him trying to turn toward her, so she racks the shotgun for emphasis.
“I said, on the floor! Both of you, hands on your head, on your knees first, then your stomachs. You so much as twitch in the wrong direction, I will turn Tim's head inside-out. You might be able to get to me, but not before he bites it. On. The. Floor.”
There's something viscerally very satisfying about watching them both drop, fingers laced behind their heads.
“We ain't got a problem with you, lady,” Tim says. “We just want Sam.”
“Well, Sam isn't here, and I am. Next time, you think about that before you chain me up to a bar and threaten to slit my throat, asshole.”
“Where is he?”
She snorts. “You think you're in a position to ask questions? Screw that.” She can see flashing blue and red lights through the window in the bar door, and smiles down at them. “You know what, boys?
“Right now, Sam is the least of your problems.”