Your Sorrow for Another Coin - Chapter Three
Your Sorrow for Another Coin
Chapter Three: Little snapshots made from breath
Word Count: 5572
Pairing: John/OFC, Dean/OFC (Het)
Overall Rating: NC-17 (This chapter: PG-13)
Feedback: Absolutely. Concrit is always welcome.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all of the time if they were.
Spoilers/Warnings: None for the series.
A/N: This story was inspired by last year's spn_xx summer challenge - specifically prompt #149, Spelling by Margaret Atwood - and is my response to the This Woman's Work challenge on spn_het_love.
Beta(s): As always, embroiderama is the calm yin to my angsty yang, katelennon is the best damn cheerleader a girl can have, and quirkies helped me immeasurably with characterization and plotting. Everything that rocks about this is because of them. The mistakes? Those are all me.
Summary: Winchesters always needed protecting, from themselves as much as anything else - so maybe it was no surprise that Mama added all that thyme and basil and oregano into spaghetti sauce every time a Winchester crossed their doorstep.
Chapters:
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five
Sam’s puppy dog eyes never changed Mama’s mind, the way he’d look at her whenever Alice excused herself after breakfast.
Mama shook her head and smiled until Sam clambered out of his chair and met Alice in the hallway, grabbing her backpack before Dean could slip it over his shoulder and walking out the front door while Alice was still tying her shoes.
Alice didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was a losing battle, that Mama always made her go to school. Sam just never stayed around long enough during the school year to figure that out, just like Sam didn’t see the way Mama frowned at his father - hiding her concern with a kiss on John’s forehead, lips touching down on the fever as she handed him a glass of iced tea laced with a willow bark tincture and enough sugar to mask the bitterness.
It was hard not feeling guilty, seeing the raggedy shine in Dean’s eyes whenever Alice tumbled out of his car after school and kicked off her shoes on the front porch. Wishing she could do something besides let Sam grab her by the hand and drag her behind him to the stream, looking for crawdads in the lazy water and laughing whenever the one he was holding clamped onto the end of her braid. Dean would smile right along with her every time that sound bubbled out of his baby brother but it never reached his eyes until the night John said they were leaving on Sunday morning and Mama didn’t say a word, handing out pieces of peach cobbler for dessert.
It was worse smiling back when she managed to hit a bulls-eye after dinner, shooting into a warm breeze that made Mama’s wind chimes dance, but Alice could lie as easily as Dean Winchester when she had to; seeing the road in his blood as thick as it was in his papa’s veins when he grinned at nothing but the sky.
“That’s two in one week,” Dean said, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans. “If I were that piece of Styrofoam, I’d start getting scared.”
“Your ass is bigger than a bull’s-eye,” Alice retorted, setting her bow on its stand. She stretched her arms up over her head, the grass cool against her heels, and closed her eyes; feeling the brush of a leaf against her cheek with another ring of the chimes.
“So what’s that nasty patch of grass telling you, Sweet Pea?” Dean’s whisper was right in her ear, prickling the hairs on the back of her neck.
“That you’re gonna go on a picnic with me and Sam tomorrow,” Alice managed. Her goddamn voice cracked when she said it, Dean chuckling into the curve of her neck as he reached around her and picked up her bow.
“Bet Sam would be just as happy reading a book on the porch.”
“I promised that I’d make him chocolate cupcakes ‘cause he won’t be here on his birthday.” Alice’s arms folded around her stomach when his breath came out in a huff, his eyes stormier than they had any right to look. “And it’s not like you asked me to do jack, Dean.”
There was only so much waiting Alice could stand, hoarding it for when it really mattered and she had no choice but to hope she’d wake up to the smell of spaghetti sauce.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, stomping towards the shed with the bow in one hand and her quiver full of arrows in the other.
He looked at her over his shoulder when he opened the door, shaking his head when she didn’t move. There was no way in hell that Alice Meeks was following Dean Winchester into that building, staying three steps behind him like she was a puppy that was supposed to heel.
But those feet of hers had a mind of their own and Alice was standing in front of the door when it whipped open, staring up into his startled face as Dean barreled into her. He caught her before they crashed to the ground, rolling with the fall so that she landed on him in a tangle of arms and legs and her dress skimming her thighs. The fancy move didn’t keep Dean from getting the wind knocked out of him and Alice guessed something was bruised, the way he hissed when her head bounced on his shoulder blade.
And the ground didn’t open up and swallow her whole, no matter how hard she wished for it.
“You really want me to go to that picnic?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I might consider going if there’s gonna be chicken pot pie.” Dean tightened his arms. “But if I’m stuck underneath that freaking tree watching you and Samantha make daisy chains and feed each other cupcakes, I’m not gonna be eating any of that freezer crap.”
“You just wanna kill the chicken.”
“Hell, yeah! Sam’s gonna scream like a girl when I kill the chicken.”
“You screamed like a girl the first time your papa killed a chicken.” Dean had taken one look at the headless body spurting blood as it ran around in a crazy circle and shrieked so loud that Mama dropped her flower basket on her way from the garden, ripping a strip from her shirt like Dean was the one bleeding. “So much for being some tough hunter kid,” Alice added.
“I wasn’t the one hiding behind someone every time the damn thing moved.” His voice was a squeak. “It’s coming straight for us, Dean. Make it stop. Make it stop. It’s gonna bleed all over my dress.” Dean snorted. “So much for being some tough farm kid.”
“Don’t make me hit you, Dean Winchester.”
That only made him start wheezing from laughing so hard.
Her hair fell around them when she leaned forward, giggling every time he squealed ‘make it stop’ and ‘it’s gonna bleed all over my dress’ in a stupid high-pitched voice. But she caught her breath when their eyes met and he stopped laughing, the ripped denim of his jeans scratching the inside of her thighs - and she swallowed hard when his fingers brushed her shoulders, slipping underneath the straps falling down on her upper arms. Her hands were on either side of his head and Alice waited for the grass pressing against her palms to tell her something, for the earth to ground her when Dean breathed the one question she wasn’t about to answer with a ‘no.’
Sam’s voice cut through the wind, sharp enough for them both to jerk.
There was nothing to do but sigh and stand up when Sam started calling their names, yelling about how it was time for more cobbler with ice cream and how it was time for them to lose The Game of Life all over again.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sunlight filtering in through the front curtains woke her up, warm on her back as Alice curled up on the couch.
Sam was sacked out on his stomach in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by M&Ms. Dean was sleeping with his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning against the couch, and his head rocked forward every time he snored; mumbling about five more minutes and stop hogging the blankets until his head tilted backwards. She tried to fall back asleep, focusing on the words for those seconds when Dean jerked himself awake, but they didn’t drown out the rhythmic creak of her mama’s bed any more than the birds outside; breathy sighs and John Winchester’s moan rumbling through her belly, the burn making Alice’s skin itch.
She sat up slowly and slipped a pillow behind Dean’s head, throwing her grandma’s daisy chain afghan over Sam as she padded into the kitchen.
There was enough chicken in the freezer for two pot pies, already cooked and cut up into chunks. Alice left the plastic container in the sink, soaking in cool water, and grabbed two metal buckets and some gloves on her way outside. It was too soon for fresh vegetables so they’d have to make do with canned ones from the pantry but Mama was always lucky when it came to her berries, ripening faster than anywhere else in the county and twice as sweet cooked up into a pie.
It was just as easy making up crust for three as it was for two.
Even with the gloves and all those mornings watching Mama hum while blackberries fell into her bucket, Alice still managed to get scraped up and her dress ripped when it got caught on one of the bushes. Dean burst out laughing when she stumbled back into the kitchen with her stained lips and a dress showing more thigh than he’d ever see on the farm outside of Mama’s shed, looking up from his bowl of corn flakes with a strangled snort, until he saw the cut on her cheek. He grabbed the buckets and had her sitting on a chair before Alice could blink, dabbing at her cheek with a fresh washcloth dipped in warm water.
“Jesus Christ, Alice,” he said, pulling a branch out of her hair. “I think the bush won.”
“Got enough blackberries for a pie,” she retorted. “I think that makes us even.”
“You’re one crazy chick,” Dean whispered, mapping the length of a scratch down her arm with the rough pad of his index finger. “But I love me some pie.”
Alice touched his wrist, blushing because goddamn Dean was smiling down at her like she was one of those girls who flirted back instead of the idiot sitting there with welts springing up on her legs and twigs knotted in her hair because she was too stupid to change clothes before picking berries. It wasn’t playing fair, teasing her with nothing but the curve of his lips and the way one hand on her shoulder could make her tremble, and she tilted her head up when Dean leaned in closer.
Maybe he was going to kiss her instead of always teasing her about it, a promise in his smile - but Sam stumbled into the kitchen, his hair standing up all over the place and Dean jerked his hand back like she was a hot potato, that smile turning into a smirk.
“It’s too bad your mom’s spit doesn’t work on cuts,” he said.
The only thing keeping Alice Meeks from kicking Dean Winchester in the shin was his little brother, eyes blinking furiously at them.
“Jackass,” Alice muttered, pushing past Dean hard enough to knock him backwards.
“Great timing, Bozo,” Dean snapped as Alice stomped into the hall.
They were already arguing by the time Alice reached the stairs, spitting and hissing like snakes; spitting and hissing just like the voices inside Mama’s room, urgent whispers cutting through her sharper than knives as Alice rummaged through her dresser for a clean set of clothes.
Sam and Dean were still arguing when Alice stepped out of the shower, every cut stinging from the soap and the water; the cracks in Sam’s voice fighting against the growl in Dean’s until their papa’s sandpaper admonition about being guests in someone’s home shut them up, a jagged ‘be packed in fifteen minutes’ that sent Dean sprinting up the stairs and Sam stampeding right after him.
They ran past Alice like she was some phantom girl, haunting the hallway with wet hair dripping onto her shoulders, but Alice wasn’t sure what hurt worse when Mama stepped out of her bedroom with an armful of sheets and eyes just as full as they had been on the day Papa was buried.
And Alice wasn’t sure that she was going to forgive John Winchester so easy for making her mama look like that, for ruining Sam’s birthday picnic by leaving a day early. Sam’s muffled sob made Alice’s throat ache, resting her hand on the guest room door when Dean promised to buy his baby brother chocolate cupcakes on his birthday because it was the closest she could get to touching them.
She followed them down the stairs, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying herself when Sam wiped his nose with the back of his hand. John was holding Mama in the hallway - one arm wrapped around her waist and a hand cradling the back of her head. Alice’s fingers twitched when John’s dark eyes met hers, a whisper of blonde hair and a scream flickering in her chest. It was the old ghost, the one that made him a legend barreling down back roads in a car that growled like the Devil.
“Put your things in the car, boys,” he said.
They didn’t say a word, Sam marching out after Dean. The wind caught the front door and slammed it into the clapboard wall outside, wind chimes fighting with each other, but all John did was lower his head. Mama rested her forehead on his chest and maybe he would have stayed if she had asked, maybe she could have stopped the wind if she could see his eyes full of apologies, but Mama just lifted her head and sighed; her hands clenched into fists near her hips and a whispered ‘stay on the back roads’ to hold them over, John’s big fingers grazing the scabs on her throat before his mouth dipped down as penance.
Alice could feel fingers herself, rough pads touching down on the half-moons cut into her arms, when the trunk of the Impala slammed shut. Dean was leaning against the car, next to Sam - both of them watching her through the screen door, identical poses with their arms folded across their chests and hips jutting out to keep their balance.
She ran down the porch steps without looking back. Sam was closest, eyeing her warily as she pounded across the grass and he stiffened when she threw her arms around his shoulders, kissing his cheek. He tasted like salt and smelled like sweat and a strangled noise burst out of him when she kissed his cheek a second time.
“You keep each other safe, okay?” Alice swallowed. “For me.”
“Okay,” Sam hissed, disentangling himself from her arms. “But all bets are off if Dean gives me a noogie.” He turned bright red and closed his eyes, body shifting on the balls of his feet as he jammed his hands into his pockets. Sam leaned forward and missed her cheek, ending up with a mouthful of wet hair for his troubles and a stubbed toe; tripping out of the way before Alice could hug him again.
Dean’s shoulders slumped when the back door of the car slammed shut and Sam turned around just long enough to grab the nearest book stashed behind his head. Dean stared down at his boots.
“You gotta promise me something,” she said softly, kicking Dean’s boot just hard enough with a bare toe to get his attention.
“What’s that, Sweet Pea?”
His eyes went wide when Alice grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt and dragged Dean’s mouth down to hers, spluttering when she kissed a corner and scratching underneath his ear when Alice’s heels touched grass. And his cheeks went pink when Dean heard Sam laughing and it was all Alice could do to keep from blushing herself when Dean met her eyes. Feeling Mama’s hot stare on her back only made it worse but Meeks’ women always paid the fiddler once they started dancing.
“Promise me that you’re gonna kiss me first next time.”
Dean’s breath hitched before he managed a chuckle. “And here I thought you were gonna make me promise not to give Sam a noogie.”
“It’s not fair holding someone to a promise you know they can’t keep,” Alice retorted, the heat in her cheeks rushing to the edges of her ears when Dean grinned down at her. “That’d be like asking you to stop throwing pistachio shells at Sam when he’s trying to read or asking you not to make those half-assed jokes whenever I’m practicing with my recurve.”
“Alice?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
Dean’s mouth slammed down on top of hers, swallowing up her ‘make me’ before it could even bubble out as a whisper - and a ripple cascaded through her when his tongue darted between her lips like a wriggling tadpole. There was nothing stopping a whole field full of butterflies from blowing through her belly when Dean’s hands tightened on her upper arms, pulling her in close with a low laugh burning its way down to the tips of her toes and lifting her past a week of wondering what his goodbye would taste like.
John Winchester’s bark of a cough brought her back to the ground.
Alice smiled weakly when Dean smirked and slipped his hands into his pockets, whistling softly as he sauntered around the car and slid into the passenger’s side of the front seat. Mama’s arm settled across Alice’s shoulders, one hand stroking the hair at Alice’s temple even though she was staring hard at the back of Dean’s head with a mother’s frown.
“That boy isn’t like his papa, Sweet Pea.” Mama said the words slow, a sigh dropping out of her like it was falling through a cloud. “He’ll forget that kiss come the next town or two.”
“I know, Mama. It’s never gonna be anything but what it is.”
Mama’s breath came out in a huff and Alice lowered her head to hide from Mama’s eyes when the Impala roared down the driveway. Alice Meeks was nothing more than the cold comfort of a long road. She’d watched her mama dance with a rambling man long enough to know that the dust falling back to the ground was all a Winchester left behind.
But knowing that didn’t keep her from wishing just a little, laying flat on her back out in the field instead of helping Mama in the herb garden, her fingertips brushing her lips with a butterfly touch - staring up into the sun until her eyes hurt.
And it didn’t keep away the stinging tears that only proved Mama right, drying up in the sun.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first postcard showed up seventeen days later.
Every inch was covered with Dean’s chicken scratch, tiny letters that could make a girl go cross-eyed just trying to read about being stuck in a motel that sucked ass while Sam got pissy about watching a Godzilla marathon - except for the little stick figure in the lower left hand corner, all shaggy haired with a book and a grumpy frown that made Alice giggle. She rested her elbows on the counter, kicking her feet against the bar of the chair, and stared down at the postscript; smiling to herself and singing along to the crackle of the old radio even when the wind and the rain outside picked up speed.
Sam still wants to go on that fucking picnic - so don’t forget that you owe me pie.
The screen door banged open thirty minutes past closing time, just like Mama said it would before she drove out to Phelps, and Naomi Baker was standing there watching Alice from the doorway with narrowed eyes, water dripping off her uneven bangs. She was wearing faded overalls and steel-toed boots, with the same salt and pepper hair that Alice remembered from Papa’s funeral. But the scar was new, a jagged edge ripped deep enough to make the left side of Naomi’s face sag - and Alice’s throat hurt when Naomi smiled at her, the right side of her mouth quirked while the left side did nothing at all.
“Last time I was here, you were chasing around butterflies in pigtails.” Naomi sauntered past the bookshelves and the case full of charms, leaning on the counter. “Where’s your mother, child?”
It wasn’t right to stare but that didn’t keep Alice’s eyes from flickering along the angry red streak where something had torn through flesh and muscle, her fingers twitching as fast as Alice could blink; hoping it looked like she had something in her eye. And it wasn’t like she could turn away if she wanted to, not with her fingers fluttering like hummingbird wings on her thighs and that shadow of a man looking at her over Naomi’s shoulder; sorrow burned into his skin and a shattered world in his eyes, a twist to his mouth that knew nothing was ever going to be the same no matter what he did.
“She’s…” Alice shook her head sharply. “She’s delivering twins two towns over but she left you something.” She ducked down underneath the counter, sucking in a breath and grabbing the small bundle Mama was finishing up when Alice came back from school - binding the thick string with a knot turned just so and a flare to her nostrils that Alice had probably imagined, setting a wax seal that Mama had warned her not to crack. “You’re supposed to treat it gentle,” Alice managed, handing Naomi the package with down-turned eyes.
But the man was gone - an unlucky ghost coming face-to-face with the one Meeks woman who couldn’t dream true - and all that remained was a tingle in her fingers drowned out by her sigh.
Naomi raised an eyebrow when their eyes met, flashing another one of her lopsided grins. “Why is it that every time I come to your mother for help, she makes me something that smells like it can wake the dead?” Naomi slipped it into a pocket. “Guess that makes it strong enough to send something back.”
“Guess so,” Alice said softly, spreading her hands out in front of her.
“God knows I’ve never been much to look at.” Naomi snorted, shaking her head slowly. “Even when I was young - took a blind man to see what no one else did. But that’s no cause to gawk at my face like the earth’s stopped turning.” She touched Alice’s cheek. “Saved a lot of people fighting the thing that did this.”
She said it with pride, the same way Dean would talk about his papa taking out a revenant with nothing but a sawed-off shotgun and some rock salt - the silver lining buried deep inside all of the scars and all of the bruises and all of the lonely days traveling through a world that only a handful of people believed in, a clean thing pulled out from the losses that scattered good people into the dark. Even Papa had wandered until he had a wife and a daughter and a rambling farm to come back to.
Alice swallowed.
“Naomi?”
“Yes?”
“Do you wanna stay for dinner?” The words tumbled out, her tongue tripping over itself just trying to get them out before Naomi could turn on her heel and saunter back out the door the way she’d come in. “Mama made me beef goulash ‘cause of the storm and I can’t eat it all by myself.” Alice stretched her arms up over her head. “And I could fix up the guest room for you if you need a place to sleep.”
“How can you think about eating after spending all afternoon sitting next to that charm?”
“Mama’s tinctures smell worse and I have to drink those every time I get sick.” And nothing would ever turn Alice’s stomach again like the stink coming off of John Winchester’s arm.
Naomi laughed, squeezing Alice’s hand. “Wish I could stay, child, but there are things I need to do.”
Alice shivered when Naomi looked up at the clock. It might as well have been the witching hour, a night dangerous enough for a woman to carry a charm wrapped in butcher paper just to see her through wherever she was headed. She watched Naomi walk out the door, raising her hand instead of waving when Naomi smiled at her, and waited until she couldn’t see the taillights of Naomi’s battered truck before sliding out of her chair.
The dust was heavy, marking the soles of her feet as she walked across the shop and locked it up tight - and Dean would have laughed and spent all night teasing her about being a girl when she took that postcard of his back into the house and slid it underneath her pillow.
But even falling asleep with her palm touching the rough side of the paper didn’t keep Alice from calling Chuck Trelawny in the morning.
It wasn’t like she was ever going to bake Chuck a pie.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The only thing worse than riding the bus during a snowstorm was walking through one, with her feet jammed into oversized plastic boots and a scarf wrapped around her head and waddling around like a duck when things got icy.
It was the wind more than anything else, spraying angry snowflakes into her face and leaving behind tiny pinpricks that stung like a swarm of little bees. There were days when Alice wished the Meeks lived closer to town, when the bus made its last stop at the Vliet crossroads instead of going down the county road like it usually did and the walk home became a rite of passage underneath a darkened sky. Mama always had hot cocoa waiting for her in the kitchen by the time Alice had thrown her backpack onto the floor and unzipped her boots, slipping off her wet socks and her old coat, but it still took two cups with extra marshmallows before her hands warmed up.
The snow had stopped falling by the time the bus dropped them off in front of the mill but the wind whistled louder than a blue jay as it flew through bare branches.
Alice said goodbye to Barbara Jean and trudged down the county road, head bent as she followed a fresh tire track and her scarf covering everything but her eyes. That still didn’t keep the snow from blowing up into her face, the heat of her breath keeping her nose hairs from freezing even when the cold air cut through her lungs with an icy ache.
A lump that might have been a car was sitting at the turnoff into the driveway and a single set of footsteps led to the house. She gave up trying to match the stride after she fell flat on her ass, losing her scarf when she had to roll over just to stand up. Alice would have left her backpack in the snow right along with it if she could have, the weight of it getting heavier the closer she got to the front door.
She was going to need a bath just to feel her toes.
At least she wasn’t some poor hunter picking something up in the middle of a blizzard.
But the store was closed and the tracks went up the steps, losing themselves in the loose pile of snow on the welcome mat the same way hers did as she tapped her toes on the mat, and Alice could smell garlic and onions simmering in olive oil when she opened the front door. “It’s just me,” Alice bellowed. “School got cancelled.”
She started shrugging out of her backpack, taking a warm breath full of thyme and oregano and filled with a laugh that had Alice blushing before the last person she wanted to see popped his head out of the kitchen.
Dean burst out laughing the second he saw her standing in the hallway, wet hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks burning so much that she probably looked like a boiled crawdad in her red wool coat - especially with her arms bent backwards because the goddamn backpack wasn’t coming off gracefully, its nylon straps stuck on rough sleeves. And he kept right on laughing when the backpack fell on her foot with a dull thump and Alice hopped to the coat rack, stopping with a sound more like a hiccup than a laugh when she glared at him.
“Need some help?” he asked, his lips twitching.
“Not from you,” Alice croaked.
Dean snorted and crossed the hall, grabbing her arms and snatching a kiss before Alice could even unbutton her coat. He didn’t stop moving until she was pushed into the wall, both of them shivering when her hands slid up underneath his flannel shirt; a rough scratch of wool mittens on his skin.
“Shit,” Dean whispered against her lips. “You’re freezing.”
“You’re the idiot who started kissing me before I got my boots off.” Alice rested her forehead on his chest, dropping her hands to his waist and losing herself in the earthy musk of Dean’s leather jacket that had infused his t-shirt. “Mama said your papa was working a job in Pennsylvania,” she said softly, tilting her head up to look at him. “Some place called Perryopolis.”
“Dad wanted me to come here and score some intel on some freak of nature called a squonk. He thinks it’s been kidnapping fifth graders.” Dean grinned when Alice shook her head. Only a goddamn Winchester would use a word like ‘intel’ to describe folk tales and lumberjacks’ stories and end up being the only one in the room impressed with himself, turning old legends into tools instead of seeing them for the truths they held. “Said your mom has some books about it,” he added.
There was a reason why squonks dissolved into tears without one story about them hurting any creature, let alone a child; walking sorrow wrapped in boil-covered skin, bursting open when someone looked at it funny.
“Your papa is sure that it’s a squonk?” she asked slowly.
“That’s what the books are for. I’m supposed to bring them back tonight.”
“There’s no way Mama’s gonna let you leave with at least two more feet of snow coming.” Alice returned his grin. “And you know Mama’s gonna win.”
“She already has. I’m stuck here with you in the middle of the sticks until this thing blows over and I can dig the car out.” He licked his thumb and pressed it down on her forehead. “Maybe if I play my cards right, your mom’ll teach me that thing she does with her spit after I do that research for Dad.” Dean’s mouth suddenly quirked up. “And you’re gonna help me, Sweet Pea.”
“After you laughed at me jumping around like a spastic?” Alice slipped off her mittens, dropping them on top of the backpack, but that didn’t stop the heat from spreading through her belly. Alice swallowed, sucking in a breath. “Don’t think you’re gonna get off easy just ‘cause you know how to kiss a girl.” She lowered her head, steadying her breath to the rhythm of coat buttons sliding through the holes; fingers working the polished wood. “You’re gonna be lucky if I bake you a pie.”
Dean scratched underneath his ear, staring at the wall.
“I was gonna help,” he said slowly. “Eventually.” Dean chuckled when Alice sighed and bent over to unzip her boots but he waited until she was peeling off her wet socks to drag that laugh right down; an itch that burned through her belly as hot as the windburn on her cheeks. “You woulda laughed if it was Sam jumping around like a spastic. It was fucking hilarious.”
She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. “Then how come I’m not laughing now?”
“Does this mean you’re not making me some pie later?”
Alice giggled, pushing up on her toes to reach his mouth. It got easier not to blush every time they did it, even with Mama humming in the kitchen while meatballs sizzled in a cast iron skillet. When the Winchesters showed up on New Year’s Eve, not even Sam had kept them from making out right at midnight, curled up around each other on the couch while Sam made gagging noises behind one of Mama’s books on Chinese legends and their parents played out a rough dance in Mama’s bedroom that all three of them couldn’t ignore.
It was the itching that got worse every time she tasted him; so deep inside that all Alice wanted to do was let Dean scratch as hard and as long as he could no matter what Mama said. No matter how many warnings Mama wrapped up in a sigh or the kiss on Alice’s temple when a flash of sunlight coming down hard on the back window of the Winchester’s car made Alice lower her eyes, still waving as hard as she could when Sam leaned out the window and watched Mama stand with her on the porch.
And maybe she should have listened, the girl who never heard anything but the rain when the clouds opened up or the birds chirping as the sun rose, instead of ignoring full months of Mama’s good intentions.
But there wasn’t much that could get past the drumming in her rib cage when Dean pulled away to brush the pad of his thumb across Alice’s lower lip, swollen from his hot cocoa-flavored kisses.
Chapter Four
A/N:
The title of this chapter is a song lyric from “Northbound 35” by Jeffrey Foucault.