Fic: the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker (SPN, NC-17, Het/Threesome) (2/3)
the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker
a sex trilogy
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: NC-17 (Very Adult)
Warnings: Extremely Graphic Sex (so not kidding), Language
Spoilers: S2, All Hell Breaks Loose (for part 3), this part is Pre-Series
Pairings: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC, Dean/Sam/OFC
Word Count: 4,200
Summary: The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, watch how they notice, how they’ve been waiting, wanting, needing a touch of something edged in recklessness, promise of ephemeral and nothing more.
Author’s Notes: This is vinylroad’s fault. This part is Sam/OFC. Part One: The Butcher can be found here.
Feedback is adored.
*
Not even the nursery rhyme was squeaky clean, rub-a-dub-dub.
Instead it’s -
A freakin’ honest-to-god butcher (Regina’s early-to-rise, unlocking the front of the store, 9:00 am on the nose, sees a busted Chevy, a good year from the ‘60s, chugging past, needs a new engine, For Sale sign taped to the window, she’s hit with a hot flash of memory, burns her cheeks, so she writes it down, thinks of it as an investment);
An amateur baker (Her hair’s shorn short these days, deliberate pixie cut that’ll never get into her eyes, keeps her from worrying about tying it all back, wraps a bandana on and she’s good to go, smirks at the sous chef when he gets flustered at her, but she keeps things professional, stopped having sex in kitchens a long time ago);
And not a candlestick maker, but a candle maker (Only a handful of emergency unscented ones at her home, just for bad storms, she lies to herself, yet, she keeps the plain candles from getting dusty, everything neat and tidy, pretty little candles all in a row, watch the wax drip drip drip).
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, watch how they notice, how they’ve been waiting, wanting, needing a touch of something edged in recklessness, promise of ephemeral and nothing more.
That’s a damn lie, pretty words to cover up the hollow points, to fuse together joints, say this is the beginning and here is the end and thus, the conjunction is the safe middle, round and sloping, petering off at the end, because such things must simply end.
*
They're the ones adrift, these transient boys, cast off from the mundane, marked as something else, dangerous and now, an imperative, no questions asked. No negotiations need.
Beginning here, this one starts, stops, picks up at different points in time (no middle to a story, there’s just story): always the same thing. The Winchesters on their journey, seeking safe harbors. See how they reach out but for a moment, time enough to touch, to impact something unlike a bruise, it fades before the shadow-dark settles over (under) skin. Keep on moving right along, that’s their song, can’t stop for nothing, least of all, regret, they carry that with the rest of their burdens
Part Two: The Baker
*
Dean picks up on it by accident, Sam’s attempts to keep it quiet have failed, utterly, but he perseveres, won’t say a word that’ll lead to Dean being more disgusting, amping up the nasty day-by-day, something’s gotta give, no man could be that gleefully filthy.
“You have a girlfriend,” Dean crows, slapping Sam on the back, ruffling Sam’s hair, which isn’t fair, it’s not like he can strike back when Dean’s gunning down the only road worth mentioning in the quiet town of West Falls, Upstate New York. It’s not quite in the mountains, but enough for there to be some sick twisting roads, dead man’s curves Dean loves swinging around, unspoken dedication in the fine pursuit of getting Sam carsick. Hasn’t happened yet, Sam got out of that phase when he was six, not like that’ll stop Dean. Ten years later, here’s Sam, sixteen years old, and he’s still the kid, got a couple of inches on Dean (overnight, it was, still can’t believe it), but treated like he’s naïve, in need of brotherly talks that Sam does not want to hear.
“Yeah, she’s a girl and a friend. Just, stop,” Sam mutters, as Dean starts in about her, asking if she’s a natural blonde, like, Christ, he doesn’t, can’t, think about her that way (what he does in the bathroom is his own business). Lamely, Sam protests (too much), “We’re just friends.”
Not a lie though, the lines clearly drawn, Sam’s been drawing lines around the blurs and shapes of his life, living out of order, not don’t color in the lines, that’s not what he’s had to learn, instead it’s figure out the lines, black-lining around a mess that could be mistaken for a Jackson Pollack painting: life, all messy, painful, and out-of-context.
She’s a friend, selfish thing to have, he knows, better than most people, he’s already aware of the expiration date, the end of it.
“Friend, huh?” Dean slows down, to just ten over the speed limit, astounding for him. Quick look to Sam, he asks, “Lesbian?”
“What?” Almost sputters, indignation foul and familiar on his tongue, sharper than bile, more familiar than saliva. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s none of my business. God, Dean...”
“No.” Dean gentles his voice, eyebrows knitting into a pretense of Understanding, soft, careful, the asshole vibe ringing clear, “Not Blondie. I meant you, Sam.”
“You’re a-”
“Awesome brother,” Dean cuts in, drums the wheel with his fingers for a moment, quick-snap Dean thought spilling over. And because it’s Dean, he doesn’t question it, doesn’t think more, pulls out a key from his jacket pocket, a condom falls out but he shoves it out of sight, out of mind. Picks up on Sam’s confusion, explains, “That locked room down in the library basement? Used to be an extra study room or somethin’ but it’s empty in the afternoon. And uh, at night. They got a couch there and the table’s solid, can’t break it and not for lack of trying, I swear.”
Dean waits a beat, expecting Sam to say something but he’s too busy chewing on horror, know how it makes him priggish, like, no reason to be shocked that Dean’ll crack into a library for sex as opposed to actually going there to research.
“What?” Dean honestly looks puzzled that Sam isn’t thanking him.
“You’re strange.” Strange because he’s called Dean weird eleven times today and they’ve only been around each other for about four hours, morning and afternoon, god bless separate rooms, a rarity that Dad unintentionally came across, gave Sam a space of his own. The lines, drawing himself in a box, this is Sam land, no Deans allowed.
“Mmm-hmm. Hey, you wanna know what chicks really dig? Some strange. Strange new guy, just roll up and don’t glower at them or look like you’re freakin’ jailbait or that you can’t figure out where to stick your dick in, don’t matter, anywhere hits the spot, they’re out there, waiting and aching for it. Damn easy to get ‘em plenty riled up.”
“Not everything’s about sex.”
“Only the good stuff,” Dean mutters, pokes at the radio, they can barely get anything that doesn’t sound like a drowned cat being tortured in an Inquisition dungeon, high whines crackling with static, but not ghost-related static, still, it puts both of them on edge.
Close to home, close to ignoring that she’d walked over to Dean’s car, doing that hip-swinging thing that she always did, skittering stop in wooden platforms, tipping her nose up to Dean, saying, delighted, You’re the other Winchester.
Then, Dean had laughed, told her he was, oozed charm and Sam, irrational, apologized that he had to head home today, but they’d work on the project tomorrow and she had agreed, faint wrinkle forming on her forehead, not confusion, something else, probably finally seeing Sam as freak. That has to be it.
“C’mon, I know you popped your cherry a while back. No need to worry about sucking, although, you know, some chicks-”
“Dean!”
Smoothly skips over, warped record that Sam’s been playing in his head, now Dean singing along, in tune, he can be in tune when he wants to. Dean asks, “What the hell are you waiting for? You’ve been hanging around this girl for how long?”
Silence, and Sam thinks, fifteen days, but that’s just it, they’re just days, not dates, out-of-order, just days they’ve spent together. He’s pretty sure Lydia thinks of him as some hopeless case, a stray puppy following her home. Probably thinks he’s just there for the food and he hasn’t given her reason to think anything less.
She’s the kind of girl who lets pies cool on the windowsill, has meringues drying overnight so they’ll be perfect for one of the endless PSA events hosted by her mother, a mother too busy to care that her daughter’s spending her afternoons alone. It’s okay, she tells Sam, once, she likes the time to work on her skills. Lydia’s going to take some classes at a culinary school during the summer, been saving up for it for the whole year, gonna pay for it on her own.
To spend money, not on the bare necessities, not on bullets, but on someone telling you how to make a soufflé.
Sam tries to figure out that world, paint the lines, but it’s unknown, mystifying, just like when she hands him a lemon bar, something that he shouldn’t like, tart and crumbly, dusts him with confectioner’s sugar and she laughs, she totally meant for that to happen, she probably doesn’t realize he has an erection, has to stand over the cooking island, bending down, pretending to push a strand of hair off of her face.
Thanks, Sam, she says, quick little smile that disappears once the oven goes off, new recipe she’s working on mastering. Unspoken, not needed, but Sam gets it, understands what it means.
Friends and he doesn’t mind it, really.
He wanted to keep her to himself, stupid possessive thought, he knows, but to have her separate from this other life, it makes him feel like Sam even if he’s obscuring, blurring the who-what-why of him. He likes that time slows down around her, how he doesn’t have to worry about how this is going to end. Doesn’t need to fear that summer’s coming way too fast and they’ll be off god-knows-where, hunting-killing-fighting until it’s time to enter a new school, staying on the edges, hoping to be a face that no one can recall.
Friends, he repeats, pushing down that sharp question of what if there’s more?
He likes that Lydia rambles about baking, that she answers his novice questions honestly, doesn’t ask, why don’t you know what’s the difference between milk and dark chocolate other than the color? It’s almost geeky, how her sentences start overlapping, no end to a sentence, tacks on and then, looks up at him, and he sees the confectioner’s sugar on her nose, she missed it, and he can’t break the roll she’s on. She lights up when she gets into the scientific minutiae, knows that he can follow her there, they’re always trying to one-up each other in chemistry class.
He asks her if he should get a little chalkboard for her next time and she laughs, covers her mouth, nose, with her hand. When she goes to wash her hands, he sees that she’s still got the sugar, off-center mark of barely-there white.
And if he wants to kiss, lick, that powdery sugar off her nose, well he’ll deal with that.
He’s not going to let anyone ruin what he has, not Dad or Dean, most of all, he’s going to stay out of his own way. Dean’s still blathering on, saying how he just has to go for it, make a move, but Sam swears he won’t, can’t, convinced she’s not interested.
*
The first move to Lydia, point to Lydia, but it should be penalty, he isn’t ready, couldn’t think, that, no, can’t think now, mouth opening when her tongue darts in, twists, she’d once bragged that she’d never met a tongue-twister she couldn’t master, once tied a cherry stem for him, offered it to him like a prize.
She steals it from him, the victory, the discovery, when he tries to sneak one of the still-sticky cupcakes, they’ve just been frosted, simple chocolate icing on chocolate.
They’re supposed to add the sprinkles to make it her triple chocolate attack, specialty, when she kisses him. Kneels on the stool, almost stealthy the way her mouth bumps against his, open, shocked.
He gathers his wits, possibly right before all the blood rushes to his dick.
She jumps up on the counter after he pulls off her skirt, keeps on the boy-cut panties (he doesn't get that, "boy-cut" - his underwear has never had a peek-a-boo element to reveal the curve of his ass and he's grateful for that), she's almost eye-level to him now.
"I wore this for you," she says, gesturing to the lace-up top, black corset, almost, Lydia loves wearing the weirdest things.
He thinks she's holding her breath as he opens her up, slow, slow, exposing nothing, pulling out the laces. He says, "Can you, um, cup yourself?"
Feels stupid, saying that to her, but she only lets out this long, long breath, whispers, "I don't, um, mind doing that."
Flash of skin, down, between her breasts, to her bellybutton, to the edge of her panties, sees that there's flour, dusting up between her thighs, how she's wriggling on the countertop.
Tentative touch to the front of her panties, lower, Sam says, amazed, "You're wet."
Like, it's for him, wet, miracle of miracles. Strikes, bold, thumb pushing in at the middle, where there's the seam, and under that, where her slit is, asks, "You touch yourself thinking of me?"
"You," she laughs sweet, touch of chocolate to her breath, "are an idiot. You've been coming over here for fifteen days. I counted. Every night. Yes, I’d think - what you’d feel like."
"This time, I, I want to touch," Sam says, watches how her hands touch her breasts, memorizes how she likes it.
"Yes please," she says. "I get to touch you back? Promise?"
"Anywhere," Sam says and he pushes her legs further, sucks through wet panties, earns a Jesus Christ.
Too much of a barrier, she sets her hands at the edge, pushes off, he peels the panties down her legs, see the trimmed curls, hint of the flush of her, vivid, wetted, strokes her with his fingers, asks her where. “Where do you want me to touch?”
“There, there,” she closes her eyes, presses up against his hand when he finds a there.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, nearly shocked at how rough it sounds, has to continue, to explain, “I need to see,” but she doesn’t hear it, instead, gasps and moans, her hand squeezes his bicep, other hand more occupied on pinching her right nipple, fierce.
“Another,” she says and he doesn’t know what she means until he slowly works a second finger in her, sees how she squirms down. Thumbs at her clit, sees her shake her head, “No, please, like this.”
Slim fingers joining his, much more careful, guiding where it’s best, outside, along her folds, not quite on the clit, she bucks against him.
“Like that? That’s how you need it?”
“Fuck,” she manages, sweet shudder of an orgasm slipping on by, he doesn’t stop until she opens her eyes, flashes sweet at him, a hot smile. “I get to touch you now.”
“Yes,” he says, because, well, he can’t say much other than that.
Her hands work fast at stripping off his belt, pulling down his zipper, strokes him through his boxers. “Oh,” she says, a little wondering, licking her lips. “Condom?”
“Oh.”
Then remembers, inanely, Dean, patting Sam on the chest, saying I know you have a bleeding heart, but seriously, you have to fuck her before your balls explode. Sam had to rant about that stupid urban legend, ignored Dean’s mischievous gleam in his eyes for Dean being gross again.
“We don’t have to-” but she’s now got her hand under his boxers and yes they fucking do.
Finds the condom stuck into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Chides himself, how could he forget Winchester Sleight of Hand 101, with Dean explaining it to Sam, Dean barely eleven years old but could fleece a wallet without so much as a pretended stumble against an easy mark. For emergencies, only, that’s the rule, can’t commit little felonies along the way unless it’s worth it. A Dean way of saying he needs to get laid.
Oh, except for the fact that Dean tells Sam he needs to get laid. Frequently. Once, in public and in front of Dad. That had been an interesting experience.
Better, this experience, shucking down jeans, Lydia ripping the packet open between her teeth, handing it to Sam, saying, “I want to see you do it.”
Does, does, settles it on, looks at her, through hair that’s just a little too long, she has to brush it away, smiles at him when he angles, pushing in, not too far, can’t, won’t, has to wait for this to settle, almost relieved when he slides in further. Realizes, stupidly, he hasn’t even asked, but she answers, almost squeaks.
“No, I’m not a virgin.” Laughs against his shoulder. “That look on your face. Oh. Oh, you just thought-”
“Yeah,” he says, repeats, “yeah.” There’s little talking after that.
Smacking wet against her thighs, breathes hard against her, has to still when she hits him on the ass, too hard, with the weight of her shoes, thinks of asking to take them off, but then, thinks, better to leave them on. Careful, careful, pulls out of her, his hand to her pussy, fingers trailing down to where they meet. Then, when they don’t, when he slides out, he continues exploring, inquisitive little strokes to her, how she tightens up, looks up and sees she’s biting her lip white.
“Hang on,” he says and means it, strokes up her legs, hips, narrowing of her waist, the smooth planes, span of her ribs, thumbs her nipples before continuing on, over her shoulder, then down. Down her arms, hands-to-hands, twines fingers. She goes to kiss him but he plays her well, avoids, encourages her to wrap arms around his neck, clutching close.
“Oh,” she says, tickles his ear before she licks, bites his earlobe. “Hang on. Where’re you taking me?”
Sam pulls his jeans up, barely manages it, doesn’t think stumbling will make him look suave, she wraps her legs around him, holds tight, legs assist in keeping his pants from falling, does not help with his dick rubbing against her, warm, too inviting.
“Here,” he answers, sweeping a baking pan away, hears it clatter to the ground, chiming matches Lydia’s laugh.
Plunks her down, her ass hitting the marble, winces when she makes a soft oh and lets go of him, rubs her ass. “You always take me to the best places.”
“Like your kitchen. And uh, your kitchen.” Has no idea how to say I’m sorry without sounding pathetic, jeans slipping low, dick rubbing up against her thigh, not the best way to apologize, nearly humping her when he tries to massage away the sting on her ass.
She stills his hands, pushes them hard against her. Cocks an eyebrow, mouth to his before she says, “I don’t mind bruises.”
It’s when she bites his lip, can’t explain it, but to say, that’s the beginning, there, and he knows it’s stupid, it’s been happening, but that’s it, gone, teeth nipping his bottom lip, little tug, groans into her mouth. Lost, he’s lost, that’s what he is, when he pulls her legs up, she’s quick to comply, eager, lying across the island, hair fallen over, dirty golden-brown mess of hair, no doubt what they’ve been up to. Experimenting, she’ll say, new recipes, added quick, to keep the joke to herself, maybe let her mother ignore the kiss-bruised lips, shadow-promises of future hickeys.
Thinks: caught and Sam shoves his jeans down, down, helps her angle her shoes right at the edge, she tilts her hips, spreads legs wider, her pussy open to him, he has to, just has, swirls his tongue in her, flicks the underside, finds a nub a little harder than the rest of her so soft, tap-tap-tap.
She almost yanks his head back, fingers wrapping hard in his hair, he pulls his head away, thinks, it’s over and I did something wrong. “I’m sorry, did I-”
“Holy hell.” Eyes closed, he can see the edges of the shadows she paints over her lines, the faint brown-black, thin line across her eyelid, how she doesn’t get the mascara all the way down to the blonde roots of her eyelashes. Memorizes this, no idea why she pulled him away - she doesn’t let him stay too long in his thoughts. Says, “You wanted to touch.”
Nods, dumbfounded, puts a hand on her knee, steadying her when she sits up again.
She smacks his hips, both hands hitting skin-and-bone, fingernails scratching low, then up. Up and then back, across his ass, meeting in the middle before going slow again. Nipping down his torso, leaves little pink marks that fade in seconds.
Sam thinks he gets a vowel out, can’t figure out which one it is, goes to a string of constants when her hands sweep back to over his hips, across his pelvis, one hand stroking his dick, other cups his balls, releases fingers, just her palm, gentle almost-not-rubs, says to him, “You always watch my hands.”
Groans out something when she makes the sojourn up the column of his neck, settling the score, leaving potential hickeys of her own, sucking sweet nothings, whispers of words he can’t catch when she moves on to a new little sweet spot on his neck.
Needs, yes, he needs, has to cup her face in his hands, mouth opens, soft, but he presses on, hard kiss his answer while she keeps on stroking him, adding more pressure and he won’t last, not like that. Has to still her, hand over hers, says, “That’s not fair.”
“Nope. We’re not supposed to be fair, right?”
Dangerous question to ask, when the angle’s just right, island’s been set up perfect for him, no need to crouch over, worry, that he won’t be able to, cant of his hips, she wraps fingers around the base of him, helps, pushes in, “This fair?”
“Oh, yes, um, this is fair,” she agrees, her hand between them, leaving his dick to go back to her pussy, touching at the top, where he can’t quite angle himself to, to push against her clit. No, it’s better to watch her, see her fingers, working off to the side, not touching direct.
“That’s how you do it. When you’re thinking of me,” Sam says as he pulls out, barely keeps the head in and pushes back, asks if he’s filling her up.
“God, you’re huge, are you kidding me?” Exasperation, here she is, hair sticking to her face, neck, dragging over her shoulders. Making little wriggling movements, her body, answering his. He almost laughs at her frustration, doesn’t, frustration leeching into his bones, needs to go deep.
“Can you, um, move your legs a little wider? Just, please, I want, you’re so wet, and I...” Wheedles, begging, sucks her nipple till it’s a stiff peak, bites down just to scrape the end, flicks his tongue across.
“Ye-es,” she says, splitting it into two words, fingering herself, other hand now at his back, spreads for him, god, yes, just like that, that’s exactly -
Just then, she looks at him, looks so deep into him that she must see the fractures of his bones, the splintering he’s done, separating things, breaking him down to molecules, can probably tell him the formulas that have created him, only this time, there’s no reason to kiss off sugar, he just does, trails a kiss down her face, sucks tongue in his mouth, stroke-stroke-stroke, wait for it, plunges deep, goes deep, only way to describe it, she claws at his back, scratches hard and true.
Pistons, looking for a better angle, how she knows to move back up, grips the back of his neck, he slings her legs over his arms, settles in the crook of his arms, nestles her there, the angle’s not meant to last, gotta fall apart, exactly, that’s the plan, has to be what they’re supposed to do, clutches, bruises into her hips, slapping into slick and hot, tightening, knows this, a welcoming, heart beating fast and she’s moaning, he sucks, just sucks at Lydia’s breasts, one after the other, alternating in rhythm.
“Oh God,” but more like, ohgodohgodOHGOD, clenching, quick, fierce little clutches, perfect, wet suck, too much, holds her still, but he can’t be still, what is it, can’t find words, fucking, no, god, no words here.
Stills and quiets, manages an eternity in the breakdown, finds his way back to her, she’s splayed across the marble, pristine, white, perfect antagonist to their shared debauchery.
Knows he’s being overdramatic, laughingly thinks to himself that he’s allowed that, gently pulls out, wonders how discreet a condom in the kitchen garbage can really would be.
“We made a mess.”
“Good mess.”
He laughs, helps her up, she sways a little on her feet, still wearing those platform shoes, he still needs to lean down to kiss her. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Good idea,” she nearly trips him to the ground, they settle, cloud of flour-dust hitting them, oh right, that pan had been floured, the one he knocked to the ground.
They don’t burst out into laughter, unable to do much , just thoroughly wiped out, little gasp-laughs. She nuzzles up against him, hot stick of her skin matches his own, damp and sweaty, blood flushing their skin. She pushes away sweat-matted hair from his forehead, kiss-pecks him.
Shyly, eyelashes fluttering up, Lydia looks above, spies the cupcakes that have safely been stowed away on the opposite counter. “So, are you hungry?”
end
To be Concluded... Part Three: The Candlestick Maker
a sex trilogy
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: NC-17 (Very Adult)
Warnings: Extremely Graphic Sex (so not kidding), Language
Spoilers: S2, All Hell Breaks Loose (for part 3), this part is Pre-Series
Pairings: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC, Dean/Sam/OFC
Word Count: 4,200
Summary: The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, watch how they notice, how they’ve been waiting, wanting, needing a touch of something edged in recklessness, promise of ephemeral and nothing more.
Author’s Notes: This is vinylroad’s fault. This part is Sam/OFC. Part One: The Butcher can be found here.
Feedback is adored.
*
Not even the nursery rhyme was squeaky clean, rub-a-dub-dub.
Instead it’s -
A freakin’ honest-to-god butcher (Regina’s early-to-rise, unlocking the front of the store, 9:00 am on the nose, sees a busted Chevy, a good year from the ‘60s, chugging past, needs a new engine, For Sale sign taped to the window, she’s hit with a hot flash of memory, burns her cheeks, so she writes it down, thinks of it as an investment);
An amateur baker (Her hair’s shorn short these days, deliberate pixie cut that’ll never get into her eyes, keeps her from worrying about tying it all back, wraps a bandana on and she’s good to go, smirks at the sous chef when he gets flustered at her, but she keeps things professional, stopped having sex in kitchens a long time ago);
And not a candlestick maker, but a candle maker (Only a handful of emergency unscented ones at her home, just for bad storms, she lies to herself, yet, she keeps the plain candles from getting dusty, everything neat and tidy, pretty little candles all in a row, watch the wax drip drip drip).
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, watch how they notice, how they’ve been waiting, wanting, needing a touch of something edged in recklessness, promise of ephemeral and nothing more.
That’s a damn lie, pretty words to cover up the hollow points, to fuse together joints, say this is the beginning and here is the end and thus, the conjunction is the safe middle, round and sloping, petering off at the end, because such things must simply end.
*
They're the ones adrift, these transient boys, cast off from the mundane, marked as something else, dangerous and now, an imperative, no questions asked. No negotiations need.
Beginning here, this one starts, stops, picks up at different points in time (no middle to a story, there’s just story): always the same thing. The Winchesters on their journey, seeking safe harbors. See how they reach out but for a moment, time enough to touch, to impact something unlike a bruise, it fades before the shadow-dark settles over (under) skin. Keep on moving right along, that’s their song, can’t stop for nothing, least of all, regret, they carry that with the rest of their burdens
Part Two: The Baker
*
Dean picks up on it by accident, Sam’s attempts to keep it quiet have failed, utterly, but he perseveres, won’t say a word that’ll lead to Dean being more disgusting, amping up the nasty day-by-day, something’s gotta give, no man could be that gleefully filthy.
“You have a girlfriend,” Dean crows, slapping Sam on the back, ruffling Sam’s hair, which isn’t fair, it’s not like he can strike back when Dean’s gunning down the only road worth mentioning in the quiet town of West Falls, Upstate New York. It’s not quite in the mountains, but enough for there to be some sick twisting roads, dead man’s curves Dean loves swinging around, unspoken dedication in the fine pursuit of getting Sam carsick. Hasn’t happened yet, Sam got out of that phase when he was six, not like that’ll stop Dean. Ten years later, here’s Sam, sixteen years old, and he’s still the kid, got a couple of inches on Dean (overnight, it was, still can’t believe it), but treated like he’s naïve, in need of brotherly talks that Sam does not want to hear.
“Yeah, she’s a girl and a friend. Just, stop,” Sam mutters, as Dean starts in about her, asking if she’s a natural blonde, like, Christ, he doesn’t, can’t, think about her that way (what he does in the bathroom is his own business). Lamely, Sam protests (too much), “We’re just friends.”
Not a lie though, the lines clearly drawn, Sam’s been drawing lines around the blurs and shapes of his life, living out of order, not don’t color in the lines, that’s not what he’s had to learn, instead it’s figure out the lines, black-lining around a mess that could be mistaken for a Jackson Pollack painting: life, all messy, painful, and out-of-context.
She’s a friend, selfish thing to have, he knows, better than most people, he’s already aware of the expiration date, the end of it.
“Friend, huh?” Dean slows down, to just ten over the speed limit, astounding for him. Quick look to Sam, he asks, “Lesbian?”
“What?” Almost sputters, indignation foul and familiar on his tongue, sharper than bile, more familiar than saliva. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s none of my business. God, Dean...”
“No.” Dean gentles his voice, eyebrows knitting into a pretense of Understanding, soft, careful, the asshole vibe ringing clear, “Not Blondie. I meant you, Sam.”
“You’re a-”
“Awesome brother,” Dean cuts in, drums the wheel with his fingers for a moment, quick-snap Dean thought spilling over. And because it’s Dean, he doesn’t question it, doesn’t think more, pulls out a key from his jacket pocket, a condom falls out but he shoves it out of sight, out of mind. Picks up on Sam’s confusion, explains, “That locked room down in the library basement? Used to be an extra study room or somethin’ but it’s empty in the afternoon. And uh, at night. They got a couch there and the table’s solid, can’t break it and not for lack of trying, I swear.”
Dean waits a beat, expecting Sam to say something but he’s too busy chewing on horror, know how it makes him priggish, like, no reason to be shocked that Dean’ll crack into a library for sex as opposed to actually going there to research.
“What?” Dean honestly looks puzzled that Sam isn’t thanking him.
“You’re strange.” Strange because he’s called Dean weird eleven times today and they’ve only been around each other for about four hours, morning and afternoon, god bless separate rooms, a rarity that Dad unintentionally came across, gave Sam a space of his own. The lines, drawing himself in a box, this is Sam land, no Deans allowed.
“Mmm-hmm. Hey, you wanna know what chicks really dig? Some strange. Strange new guy, just roll up and don’t glower at them or look like you’re freakin’ jailbait or that you can’t figure out where to stick your dick in, don’t matter, anywhere hits the spot, they’re out there, waiting and aching for it. Damn easy to get ‘em plenty riled up.”
“Not everything’s about sex.”
“Only the good stuff,” Dean mutters, pokes at the radio, they can barely get anything that doesn’t sound like a drowned cat being tortured in an Inquisition dungeon, high whines crackling with static, but not ghost-related static, still, it puts both of them on edge.
Close to home, close to ignoring that she’d walked over to Dean’s car, doing that hip-swinging thing that she always did, skittering stop in wooden platforms, tipping her nose up to Dean, saying, delighted, You’re the other Winchester.
Then, Dean had laughed, told her he was, oozed charm and Sam, irrational, apologized that he had to head home today, but they’d work on the project tomorrow and she had agreed, faint wrinkle forming on her forehead, not confusion, something else, probably finally seeing Sam as freak. That has to be it.
“C’mon, I know you popped your cherry a while back. No need to worry about sucking, although, you know, some chicks-”
“Dean!”
Smoothly skips over, warped record that Sam’s been playing in his head, now Dean singing along, in tune, he can be in tune when he wants to. Dean asks, “What the hell are you waiting for? You’ve been hanging around this girl for how long?”
Silence, and Sam thinks, fifteen days, but that’s just it, they’re just days, not dates, out-of-order, just days they’ve spent together. He’s pretty sure Lydia thinks of him as some hopeless case, a stray puppy following her home. Probably thinks he’s just there for the food and he hasn’t given her reason to think anything less.
She’s the kind of girl who lets pies cool on the windowsill, has meringues drying overnight so they’ll be perfect for one of the endless PSA events hosted by her mother, a mother too busy to care that her daughter’s spending her afternoons alone. It’s okay, she tells Sam, once, she likes the time to work on her skills. Lydia’s going to take some classes at a culinary school during the summer, been saving up for it for the whole year, gonna pay for it on her own.
To spend money, not on the bare necessities, not on bullets, but on someone telling you how to make a soufflé.
Sam tries to figure out that world, paint the lines, but it’s unknown, mystifying, just like when she hands him a lemon bar, something that he shouldn’t like, tart and crumbly, dusts him with confectioner’s sugar and she laughs, she totally meant for that to happen, she probably doesn’t realize he has an erection, has to stand over the cooking island, bending down, pretending to push a strand of hair off of her face.
Thanks, Sam, she says, quick little smile that disappears once the oven goes off, new recipe she’s working on mastering. Unspoken, not needed, but Sam gets it, understands what it means.
Friends and he doesn’t mind it, really.
He wanted to keep her to himself, stupid possessive thought, he knows, but to have her separate from this other life, it makes him feel like Sam even if he’s obscuring, blurring the who-what-why of him. He likes that time slows down around her, how he doesn’t have to worry about how this is going to end. Doesn’t need to fear that summer’s coming way too fast and they’ll be off god-knows-where, hunting-killing-fighting until it’s time to enter a new school, staying on the edges, hoping to be a face that no one can recall.
Friends, he repeats, pushing down that sharp question of what if there’s more?
He likes that Lydia rambles about baking, that she answers his novice questions honestly, doesn’t ask, why don’t you know what’s the difference between milk and dark chocolate other than the color? It’s almost geeky, how her sentences start overlapping, no end to a sentence, tacks on and then, looks up at him, and he sees the confectioner’s sugar on her nose, she missed it, and he can’t break the roll she’s on. She lights up when she gets into the scientific minutiae, knows that he can follow her there, they’re always trying to one-up each other in chemistry class.
He asks her if he should get a little chalkboard for her next time and she laughs, covers her mouth, nose, with her hand. When she goes to wash her hands, he sees that she’s still got the sugar, off-center mark of barely-there white.
And if he wants to kiss, lick, that powdery sugar off her nose, well he’ll deal with that.
He’s not going to let anyone ruin what he has, not Dad or Dean, most of all, he’s going to stay out of his own way. Dean’s still blathering on, saying how he just has to go for it, make a move, but Sam swears he won’t, can’t, convinced she’s not interested.
*
The first move to Lydia, point to Lydia, but it should be penalty, he isn’t ready, couldn’t think, that, no, can’t think now, mouth opening when her tongue darts in, twists, she’d once bragged that she’d never met a tongue-twister she couldn’t master, once tied a cherry stem for him, offered it to him like a prize.
She steals it from him, the victory, the discovery, when he tries to sneak one of the still-sticky cupcakes, they’ve just been frosted, simple chocolate icing on chocolate.
They’re supposed to add the sprinkles to make it her triple chocolate attack, specialty, when she kisses him. Kneels on the stool, almost stealthy the way her mouth bumps against his, open, shocked.
He gathers his wits, possibly right before all the blood rushes to his dick.
She jumps up on the counter after he pulls off her skirt, keeps on the boy-cut panties (he doesn't get that, "boy-cut" - his underwear has never had a peek-a-boo element to reveal the curve of his ass and he's grateful for that), she's almost eye-level to him now.
"I wore this for you," she says, gesturing to the lace-up top, black corset, almost, Lydia loves wearing the weirdest things.
He thinks she's holding her breath as he opens her up, slow, slow, exposing nothing, pulling out the laces. He says, "Can you, um, cup yourself?"
Feels stupid, saying that to her, but she only lets out this long, long breath, whispers, "I don't, um, mind doing that."
Flash of skin, down, between her breasts, to her bellybutton, to the edge of her panties, sees that there's flour, dusting up between her thighs, how she's wriggling on the countertop.
Tentative touch to the front of her panties, lower, Sam says, amazed, "You're wet."
Like, it's for him, wet, miracle of miracles. Strikes, bold, thumb pushing in at the middle, where there's the seam, and under that, where her slit is, asks, "You touch yourself thinking of me?"
"You," she laughs sweet, touch of chocolate to her breath, "are an idiot. You've been coming over here for fifteen days. I counted. Every night. Yes, I’d think - what you’d feel like."
"This time, I, I want to touch," Sam says, watches how her hands touch her breasts, memorizes how she likes it.
"Yes please," she says. "I get to touch you back? Promise?"
"Anywhere," Sam says and he pushes her legs further, sucks through wet panties, earns a Jesus Christ.
Too much of a barrier, she sets her hands at the edge, pushes off, he peels the panties down her legs, see the trimmed curls, hint of the flush of her, vivid, wetted, strokes her with his fingers, asks her where. “Where do you want me to touch?”
“There, there,” she closes her eyes, presses up against his hand when he finds a there.
“Take off your shirt,” he says, nearly shocked at how rough it sounds, has to continue, to explain, “I need to see,” but she doesn’t hear it, instead, gasps and moans, her hand squeezes his bicep, other hand more occupied on pinching her right nipple, fierce.
“Another,” she says and he doesn’t know what she means until he slowly works a second finger in her, sees how she squirms down. Thumbs at her clit, sees her shake her head, “No, please, like this.”
Slim fingers joining his, much more careful, guiding where it’s best, outside, along her folds, not quite on the clit, she bucks against him.
“Like that? That’s how you need it?”
“Fuck,” she manages, sweet shudder of an orgasm slipping on by, he doesn’t stop until she opens her eyes, flashes sweet at him, a hot smile. “I get to touch you now.”
“Yes,” he says, because, well, he can’t say much other than that.
Her hands work fast at stripping off his belt, pulling down his zipper, strokes him through his boxers. “Oh,” she says, a little wondering, licking her lips. “Condom?”
“Oh.”
Then remembers, inanely, Dean, patting Sam on the chest, saying I know you have a bleeding heart, but seriously, you have to fuck her before your balls explode. Sam had to rant about that stupid urban legend, ignored Dean’s mischievous gleam in his eyes for Dean being gross again.
“We don’t have to-” but she’s now got her hand under his boxers and yes they fucking do.
Finds the condom stuck into the front pocket of his flannel shirt. Chides himself, how could he forget Winchester Sleight of Hand 101, with Dean explaining it to Sam, Dean barely eleven years old but could fleece a wallet without so much as a pretended stumble against an easy mark. For emergencies, only, that’s the rule, can’t commit little felonies along the way unless it’s worth it. A Dean way of saying he needs to get laid.
Oh, except for the fact that Dean tells Sam he needs to get laid. Frequently. Once, in public and in front of Dad. That had been an interesting experience.
Better, this experience, shucking down jeans, Lydia ripping the packet open between her teeth, handing it to Sam, saying, “I want to see you do it.”
Does, does, settles it on, looks at her, through hair that’s just a little too long, she has to brush it away, smiles at him when he angles, pushing in, not too far, can’t, won’t, has to wait for this to settle, almost relieved when he slides in further. Realizes, stupidly, he hasn’t even asked, but she answers, almost squeaks.
“No, I’m not a virgin.” Laughs against his shoulder. “That look on your face. Oh. Oh, you just thought-”
“Yeah,” he says, repeats, “yeah.” There’s little talking after that.
Smacking wet against her thighs, breathes hard against her, has to still when she hits him on the ass, too hard, with the weight of her shoes, thinks of asking to take them off, but then, thinks, better to leave them on. Careful, careful, pulls out of her, his hand to her pussy, fingers trailing down to where they meet. Then, when they don’t, when he slides out, he continues exploring, inquisitive little strokes to her, how she tightens up, looks up and sees she’s biting her lip white.
“Hang on,” he says and means it, strokes up her legs, hips, narrowing of her waist, the smooth planes, span of her ribs, thumbs her nipples before continuing on, over her shoulder, then down. Down her arms, hands-to-hands, twines fingers. She goes to kiss him but he plays her well, avoids, encourages her to wrap arms around his neck, clutching close.
“Oh,” she says, tickles his ear before she licks, bites his earlobe. “Hang on. Where’re you taking me?”
Sam pulls his jeans up, barely manages it, doesn’t think stumbling will make him look suave, she wraps her legs around him, holds tight, legs assist in keeping his pants from falling, does not help with his dick rubbing against her, warm, too inviting.
“Here,” he answers, sweeping a baking pan away, hears it clatter to the ground, chiming matches Lydia’s laugh.
Plunks her down, her ass hitting the marble, winces when she makes a soft oh and lets go of him, rubs her ass. “You always take me to the best places.”
“Like your kitchen. And uh, your kitchen.” Has no idea how to say I’m sorry without sounding pathetic, jeans slipping low, dick rubbing up against her thigh, not the best way to apologize, nearly humping her when he tries to massage away the sting on her ass.
She stills his hands, pushes them hard against her. Cocks an eyebrow, mouth to his before she says, “I don’t mind bruises.”
It’s when she bites his lip, can’t explain it, but to say, that’s the beginning, there, and he knows it’s stupid, it’s been happening, but that’s it, gone, teeth nipping his bottom lip, little tug, groans into her mouth. Lost, he’s lost, that’s what he is, when he pulls her legs up, she’s quick to comply, eager, lying across the island, hair fallen over, dirty golden-brown mess of hair, no doubt what they’ve been up to. Experimenting, she’ll say, new recipes, added quick, to keep the joke to herself, maybe let her mother ignore the kiss-bruised lips, shadow-promises of future hickeys.
Thinks: caught and Sam shoves his jeans down, down, helps her angle her shoes right at the edge, she tilts her hips, spreads legs wider, her pussy open to him, he has to, just has, swirls his tongue in her, flicks the underside, finds a nub a little harder than the rest of her so soft, tap-tap-tap.
She almost yanks his head back, fingers wrapping hard in his hair, he pulls his head away, thinks, it’s over and I did something wrong. “I’m sorry, did I-”
“Holy hell.” Eyes closed, he can see the edges of the shadows she paints over her lines, the faint brown-black, thin line across her eyelid, how she doesn’t get the mascara all the way down to the blonde roots of her eyelashes. Memorizes this, no idea why she pulled him away - she doesn’t let him stay too long in his thoughts. Says, “You wanted to touch.”
Nods, dumbfounded, puts a hand on her knee, steadying her when she sits up again.
She smacks his hips, both hands hitting skin-and-bone, fingernails scratching low, then up. Up and then back, across his ass, meeting in the middle before going slow again. Nipping down his torso, leaves little pink marks that fade in seconds.
Sam thinks he gets a vowel out, can’t figure out which one it is, goes to a string of constants when her hands sweep back to over his hips, across his pelvis, one hand stroking his dick, other cups his balls, releases fingers, just her palm, gentle almost-not-rubs, says to him, “You always watch my hands.”
Groans out something when she makes the sojourn up the column of his neck, settling the score, leaving potential hickeys of her own, sucking sweet nothings, whispers of words he can’t catch when she moves on to a new little sweet spot on his neck.
Needs, yes, he needs, has to cup her face in his hands, mouth opens, soft, but he presses on, hard kiss his answer while she keeps on stroking him, adding more pressure and he won’t last, not like that. Has to still her, hand over hers, says, “That’s not fair.”
“Nope. We’re not supposed to be fair, right?”
Dangerous question to ask, when the angle’s just right, island’s been set up perfect for him, no need to crouch over, worry, that he won’t be able to, cant of his hips, she wraps fingers around the base of him, helps, pushes in, “This fair?”
“Oh, yes, um, this is fair,” she agrees, her hand between them, leaving his dick to go back to her pussy, touching at the top, where he can’t quite angle himself to, to push against her clit. No, it’s better to watch her, see her fingers, working off to the side, not touching direct.
“That’s how you do it. When you’re thinking of me,” Sam says as he pulls out, barely keeps the head in and pushes back, asks if he’s filling her up.
“God, you’re huge, are you kidding me?” Exasperation, here she is, hair sticking to her face, neck, dragging over her shoulders. Making little wriggling movements, her body, answering his. He almost laughs at her frustration, doesn’t, frustration leeching into his bones, needs to go deep.
“Can you, um, move your legs a little wider? Just, please, I want, you’re so wet, and I...” Wheedles, begging, sucks her nipple till it’s a stiff peak, bites down just to scrape the end, flicks his tongue across.
“Ye-es,” she says, splitting it into two words, fingering herself, other hand now at his back, spreads for him, god, yes, just like that, that’s exactly -
Just then, she looks at him, looks so deep into him that she must see the fractures of his bones, the splintering he’s done, separating things, breaking him down to molecules, can probably tell him the formulas that have created him, only this time, there’s no reason to kiss off sugar, he just does, trails a kiss down her face, sucks tongue in his mouth, stroke-stroke-stroke, wait for it, plunges deep, goes deep, only way to describe it, she claws at his back, scratches hard and true.
Pistons, looking for a better angle, how she knows to move back up, grips the back of his neck, he slings her legs over his arms, settles in the crook of his arms, nestles her there, the angle’s not meant to last, gotta fall apart, exactly, that’s the plan, has to be what they’re supposed to do, clutches, bruises into her hips, slapping into slick and hot, tightening, knows this, a welcoming, heart beating fast and she’s moaning, he sucks, just sucks at Lydia’s breasts, one after the other, alternating in rhythm.
“Oh God,” but more like, ohgodohgodOHGOD, clenching, quick, fierce little clutches, perfect, wet suck, too much, holds her still, but he can’t be still, what is it, can’t find words, fucking, no, god, no words here.
Stills and quiets, manages an eternity in the breakdown, finds his way back to her, she’s splayed across the marble, pristine, white, perfect antagonist to their shared debauchery.
Knows he’s being overdramatic, laughingly thinks to himself that he’s allowed that, gently pulls out, wonders how discreet a condom in the kitchen garbage can really would be.
“We made a mess.”
“Good mess.”
He laughs, helps her up, she sways a little on her feet, still wearing those platform shoes, he still needs to lean down to kiss her. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Good idea,” she nearly trips him to the ground, they settle, cloud of flour-dust hitting them, oh right, that pan had been floured, the one he knocked to the ground.
They don’t burst out into laughter, unable to do much , just thoroughly wiped out, little gasp-laughs. She nuzzles up against him, hot stick of her skin matches his own, damp and sweaty, blood flushing their skin. She pushes away sweat-matted hair from his forehead, kiss-pecks him.
Shyly, eyelashes fluttering up, Lydia looks above, spies the cupcakes that have safely been stowed away on the opposite counter. “So, are you hungry?”
end
To be Concluded... Part Three: The Candlestick Maker