alwaysenduphere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysenduphere) wrote2011-11-15 01:37 pm
alwaysenduphere) wrote2011-11-15 01:37 pm
Entry tags:
fic: a different kind of tough
title: a different kind of tough
pairing: Dean/Sam
rating: NC-17
warnings/enticements: femmeslash, always-a-girl!chesters, second person pov, angst, mentions of dean’s drinking and sam’s tendency to use pain as a coping mechanism .
notes: 3300 words. Set sometime between 7.03 and 7.06 but without the messiness of Dean killing Amy. The mist they mention is a reference to this. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jacyevans for zee beta and stuffs, as always you are awesome. Any mistakes left are of course, mine alone.
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_reversebang and based off zempasuchil’s lovely girl!chesters art. Please take a moment to tell her how awesome it is --> here!
Summary: Sometimes you wonder if there’s ever been a life lived that even remotely resembles yours, even a fictional one. The summary of it would have to be along the lines of ‘whatever you do, don’t read this one,’ because your sister’s grinding up against you to chase away the devil and you’re giving back all that you’re getting because she’s the only thing you have left in the world.
The sun's in your eyes as you head west, and west, and west, your knuckles gripping the wheel too tightly in weak defense against the glaring setting sun over the sweltering desert. You've let your nails grow long again, use them as a last line of defense in a fight if the timing is right, and they dig into the palms of your hands as you drive. Dad never was fond of you having long nails, considered it much more efficient to have them short, easier to pull a trigger or throw a punch, but Dad's not around anymore and sometimes you like to throw some polish on them, bright greens and blues that stand out against your skin.
Sam's nails are long now, too; you can’t help but notice the little crescent moon-shaped indents in her palms, around her wrists, the way she digs them into her hands sometimes when her breathing picks up and she stares at things you cannot see. You wonder if she's conscious of it, this little tell she picked up on hallucination highway, wonder if she's even aware you noticed. You’ll always notice when it comes to Sam.
She's asleep in the passenger seat now, the one familiar thing you have left in the world besides each other, Bobby’s house a pile of rubble and Leviathans on your tail. The seat’s always been too small for her lanky frame, her legs folded up and twisted in an unnatural way. You don’t understand how she contorts her body like she does, how she even finds it comfortable, but she's sleeping peacefully, which is more than you can say about the last motel room you both stayed in, memory of her quiet, pained grunts and twisted expression still fresh on your mind.
You drive, and you drive, and you drive, the narrow two-lane road stretching out in front of you forever and ever like a winding path to a happy ending you'll never find, cracked and weathered along the edges and partly overgrown with half-dead prickly pear. You’re chasing a myth, just a local legend with no root in reality, no real case here at all, but something to chase is better than nothing, or so you keep telling yourself.
Sam shuffles beside you, knees bumping against the glove box as she slowly wakes, her bleary eyes lighting up when she settles on your face, last remnants of unpleasant dreams washing out of them. You don’t know how she’s programmed her body to do it, but she always manages to wake up shortly before your destination, her own internal alarm clock ticking down the miles.
"We there yet?" she asks, twisting her legs around in the seat like a contortionist, groaning with relief when the blood flow reaches her feet again.
You check the trip odometer, numbers ticking down like a timer to doomsday, two hundred and counting on this particular sojourn to the middle of nowhere, Arizona. "About thirty more miles." Dusk's almost gone now, sun peeking in and out around stalwart saguaros, just another thing swallowed up in the desert wasteland. "You doin' okay?"
She gives you a lopsided grin, one of those expressions you’re still learning to read even after all this time, somewhere between ‘why ask stupid questions’ and ‘thanks for caring.’ "Still breathing, at least."
“Well that’s something.” You really don’t know what to say to her that helps. Hallucinations of hell aren’t all that unfamiliar to you, but Sam processes everything so differently than you, a fact that you’re still learning after all this time. So you drive on in silence, clack-clack of a busted axle you haven’t yet had time to fix lending its rhythm to the uncomfortable stillness in the car for the next two dozen miles, until you pull over to your destination, weathered dusty path just off the main road, not a building or other sign of life within eyesight.
"This works," you say, clambering out of the Impala feeling more like a clown pouring out of a clown car packed full of other clowns the way your back's aching and your legs are stiff. “According to the website, this is the spot where people say the mist usually engulfs them."
Sam snaps into business mode then, reciting the details of the case like an intern rattling off symptoms on a medical chart to their attending, and you realize, not for the first time, that she still sees you as her superior, someone to look up to and emulate. It's a painful thought considering how everything's been going.
You pull out the old compass you found as a kid, needle bent and the glass busted up from years of riding around in the glove box. You’ve never really had a use for a compass, easy enough to glean your directions from the angle of the sun and the location of the dippers, but the desert’s a weird place and the looming cliffs have you all turned around. Sometimes, it’s a good idea to break out the backup.
You point vaguely east, toward the base of the Case Grande Mountain, already dark in the fading dusk. "Should start from that direction."
Sam sighs and stuffs her hands in her pockets, leans up against the Impala next to you."So, we wait?"
"We wait."
You wait, and you wait, and you wait, and there are shadows on the horizon and a desert soaked in the light of a full moon, but no mist ever comes. You watch the dark shapes creep along the distant cliffs, morphing themselves into creatures from the abyss, wolves and phoenixes and creatures of folklore you’ve read about all your life. For a moment you wonder if maybe you're not here for the mist but a whole different case altogether. Then you blink and they disappear, just another mirage in the desert. You gain a bit of appreciation for how Sam feels when she hallucinates.
"Listen-"
"No, Dean, I don't want to talk about it."
"Geez. Okay, Grumpy."
Her hair ruffles on a gust of wind and you watch the short strands whip around her face, catching on her nose and her mouth, while yours sits flat on your head, mostly undisturbed in the tightly coiled bun it's been in for three days now, simple and efficient, especially when you're not sure when your next shower will be. Dad used to periodically yell at you to cut it, that it would be a weakness in a fight if some monster managed to grab hold and pull, but you couldn't; your hair was and is your one concession to being a so-called girly girl, the way it curls in just the right way and shines in the right light. It’s got you out of a fair amount of trouble in the past - pretty girl with pretty hair would never push ninety on the highway or hustle pool in a one-stoplight town - and you think Dad would understand now why you kept it so long.
You've been thinking about Dad more often of late, though you’re not sure why, his death forever on your conscience but accepted as just another loss in a long line of them. You imagine he'd probably be appalled at the state of his two daughters, one competently insane and the other competently suicidal; though with that outlook, you hope he'd also be impressed that you made it this far.
You work your flask out of your back pocket, jeans shrunken after dozens of trips through a Laundromat dryer. It jiggles a little as you wiggle it out, slosh-slosh of Jack against the metal walls, half-empty like it always seems to be.
You catch Sam eyeing you sideways when you tip the flask up and swallow down the remaining contents. "Problem?"
"If you have to ask, I think the answer's clear."
"Touché." Silence weighs between you like judgment day, and frankly you've had enough judgments lately for three lifetimes. You're tired of it, so you do what you’re best at – you change the subject. "Think our mystery mist is a no-show. Ready to get out of here?"
You expect her to push the subject and have it out, weeks of dancing around, but there’s silence in answer to your question, and when you look over at her, she’s staring off into the distance and her eyes are wide, her digging her nails into her palms. You wonder how often she's drawn blood. "Sammy?"
She shakes her head and stares off at things you don’t see, her mouth moving in a silent pattern of ‘no no no.’ You reach for her hand, her grounding link in the real world, but she pulls away startled, turning to you with wild eyes before looking back into the desert expanse. “Stop it,” she begs to no one.
“Sammy,” you say, more forcefully this time, punching her in the shoulder in the process. You figure violence probably isn’t the proper way to deal with someone not firmly attached to reality, but you’re short on other things to try.
It seems to do the trick, if only a bit slowly, as she reaches up to grab at the place where your fist collided, her brain finally latching on to the pain and pulling her away from Lucifer’s grasp. “Dean?”
"Hey, I'm here. Feel the Impala at your back? That's real. I'm real. Whatever you’re seeing out there right now, it’s not real." Except maybe the shadows that seem to dance over the cliffs in front of you if you glance at them from the right angle, you’re still not sure about those.
She nods, gaze firmly fixed on you now, breathing slowing and fingers digging in, coping mechanisms all out in full force tonight. Slowly she opens the passenger door and sits down inside, the old familiar creak like a welcome beacon to both your ears.
"So uh, you good now? Haven’t seen you freak out quite that much in a couple weeks, thought I was gonna have to beat you up to pull you out."
“Just one fucking day I’d like to go without seeing him.” You watch her anger rise like the fuse on a firecracker, this controlled burn she’s always held just under her skin at things she cannot change. Her knee bounces against the door frame, fabric of her green over shirt flopping back and forth against her leg as she moves. You watch it for a bit, hypnotized, at a loss for words of comfort to say in this situation.
You don’t even know where to start, so you go with what’s always on the tip of your tongue. "I worry about you, you know."
It’s the wrong thing to say.
"Yeah, well. I worry about you too. Especially how you drink like a fish and ignore the fact that your body is exhausted, especially when you pop a handful of Adderall to get you through the day and expect me not to notice because you think I’m asleep in the seat next to you, like I haven’t spent my whole life studying your every move. Especially when we haven't even done anything today other than drive, and drive, and drive some more. Not exactly living the Jack Bauer life at this very moment."
"Girl's gotta get by somehow."
"Give it." Sam thrusts her hand out palm up, like she’s expecting you to easily hand the flask over just because she says so. You scoff.
“I’ve got two more in the trunk if you take this one away, you know.”
Her hand remains outstretched.
“I feel like a kid getting reprimanded for stealing a cookie out of the jar.”
Sam lunges at you, snatching the container out of your hand and pulling you in with it, down into her lap.
There's no one around, and she's solid against your chest, her heartbeat thumping against yours, hard and solid and fast against your breasts, her hands tight around your wrists.
"Been awhile," she says.
"Been a little busy," you retort.
"Too busy for your pain-in-the-ass little sister?" She smiles, her body a furnace in the cold dry air of desert nighttime as she leans in to kiss you. Her fingers are vice grips around your arms, long and thin and strong like the rest of her, built for power and domination and everything in between, and suddenly she's seducing you like you're nineteen again, short on high school boys to fuck around with and trapped in a cabin in bum-fuck Montana with your little sister flaunting newly developed breasts in your direction like a lion in heat.
"Never too busy for you, you know that," you manage to choke out, arousal spreading down inside you like wildfire. It registers somewhere in the back of your mind that this conversation has taken quite the turn, that probably neither of you are in any state of mind to be fucking around, but you’ve always followed your body more than your brain, and you’ve made it this far, even if only barely.
Sam curls a hand around your neck, tilts your face down so the angle’s more accommodating. "Well, good. Because as you said, we're in the middle of nowhere, and I need something to distract me from the fact that Lucifer's right...over...there." She punctuates her words with light kisses down your neck, and you can't help but arch up into them, freezing when the actuality of her words clicks.
"Wait. You're hallucinating and fucking around with me will help? Well Sammy, I never took you for the exhibitionist." Sometimes you wonder if there’s ever been a life lived that even remotely resembles yours, even a fictional one. The summary of it would have to be along the lines of ‘whatever you do, don’t read this one,’ because your sister’s grinding up against you to chase away the devil and you’re giving back all that you’re getting because she’s the only thing you have left in the world, the only thing you’ve ever really had all along.
She stops moving as you do, mumbles shyly, "Can't seem to find anything else that works, worth a shot," and you can hear the worry in her voice, practically see the gears turning as she tries to figure out ‘if she doesn’t do this, how can I get rid of him?’
You grab for her hand, the one with your piss-poor stitching job on the palm, mostly healed after weeks of constant disturbance. You dig your nails in, slightly shorter and blunter than hers and probably less effective, but sending the message all the same: I’m here for you.
You smile, and Sam returns it, silent agreement between the both of you. "Well, I suppose there are worse ways to use a girl," you say.
Your body fits into her like a glove, always has, and you rearrange yourself just so on top of her, grinding against her as her hands explore your body. She’s the first to reach for jeans, her hand rubbing along the edge of yours before working through the button and zipper, and you roll down against her as she abruptly slides two chilly fingers inside you.
You moan, panting out her name as she dances in and around you, knowing exactly the fastest and easiest way to pleasure you, years of off-again, on-again practice under her belt.
“Dean,” she gasps out, when you finally manage to reciprocate some of the action, your hands sliding up under her shirt and cupping her breasts. Her hands practically swallow yours, everything about her just a couple sizes bigger than you, but it’s all the perfect ratio, each of her breasts the ideally-sized handful for you to twist and pull and hold in just the right way.
“We don’t need to be quiet,” you say, just as much for your own benefit as hers, far too conditioned from living under your father’s thumb and sneaking moments in back rooms at bars and paper-thin motel room walls, Sam too modest and considerate to everyone around you and you too easily swayed by her wants and needs.
“Make some noise,” you say, sliding your hands down, and down, and down, until you’re dipping inside her, around her, your movements echoing each other, arms intertwined. The angle doesn’t work well and you end up taking turns, alternating when it’s obvious one of you is close to falling over the edge, that building sense of all-over pleasure evident in the stiffening of your body and the vibration in your knees. It’s a game you both play, to see who can outlast the other, maximum pleasure out of minimum effort.
Sam wins, nipping at your lip and twisting up inside you in the right combination, and you stutter and fall over the cliff, orgasm one giant wave washing over you as Sam sits back and helps herself through her own using your hand. She’s staring at you smug and satisfied, looking practically happy against the dulled leather of the passenger seat, her hair a sticky mess against her forehead. The edges of your vision are blurry in your post-coital haze, so you don’t move for a bit, content to just straddle your sister under cover of darkness. The only sounds around are your identical panting, slowing down as the minutes tick by.
Eventually the quiet is broken as Sam giggles at a secret all her own, one you’re hoping she’ll share when prompted, and she does, though you almost wish she hadn’t after all.
“Lucifer says you make the best noises as you come,” she says, throwing you that lopsided grin for your eyes only.
“Sam, I gotta tell you, it kind of freaks me out when Lucifer comments on our sex life.” It kind of freaks you out when Lucifer comments about anything and Sam tosses it out like he’s just her imaginary best friend, here to tag along for the rest of eternity. He might very well be, but it’s not a fact you want to accept any time soon.
“He’s gone now, it’s cool.”
‘Cool’ isn’t exactly the word you’d use for this situation, but you don’t really feel like dwelling on it right now, choosing instead to get the hell out of dodge before the desert swallows you up in a fit of insanity."You wanna drive for a bit? I'm tired of this fucking wasteland, s'like looking at a topographical map of my life."
"Do you really think that, Dean?"
“Think what? That our lives are a mess? Look around, Sam, pretty sure we just fucked to ditch the devil in your head in lieu of you staging an intervention and shipping me off to the nearest AA meeting, so I mean, if the shoe fits.”
“But I mean, I'm here. Maybe I'm not all here, but...okay this isn't the greatest pep talk is it?" Her shoulders sag in defeat, and you can’t stand that look on her, the way she walks around with her massive frame worn down with the weight of the world.
You shrug, wishing you could take some of that weight off her shoulders, add it to your load. "I’ve found it’s usually best if you just shut up and drive. We can even listen to some of your shitty music, if it’ll make you feel better."
That gets a smile, and a response worth waiting a lifetime for. “Your shitty music is just fine for me, Dean. We can listen to that.”
You smile back at your sister as she slides her way into the driver's seat before you catch one last glance at the looming rock face in the distance, squinting for any sign of mysterious mist, for the weird amalgam of shapes you’d seen earlier, but nothing out of the ordinary appears.
pairing: Dean/Sam
rating: NC-17
warnings/enticements: femmeslash, always-a-girl!chesters, second person pov, angst, mentions of dean’s drinking and sam’s tendency to use pain as a coping mechanism .
notes: 3300 words. Set sometime between 7.03 and 7.06 but without the messiness of Dean killing Amy. The mist they mention is a reference to this. Many thanks to
jacyevans for zee beta and stuffs, as always you are awesome. Any mistakes left are of course, mine alone.Written for
spn_reversebang and based off zempasuchil’s lovely girl!chesters art. Please take a moment to tell her how awesome it is --> here!Summary: Sometimes you wonder if there’s ever been a life lived that even remotely resembles yours, even a fictional one. The summary of it would have to be along the lines of ‘whatever you do, don’t read this one,’ because your sister’s grinding up against you to chase away the devil and you’re giving back all that you’re getting because she’s the only thing you have left in the world.
The risk is moral death each time we act,
And every act is whittled by the blade
Of history, pared down to brutal fact,
The fact: we only want what we degrade.
No beauty in the glass makes our loss good,
No hero in the wings can take the stage,
The clash of blood at war with its own blood
Intoxicates us with colossal rage.
A cold beer and the young moon’s tender horns
Are shining on the table where we spar
Like women gladiators, bred and born
To wear our father’s breastplates, greaves and scars.
There’s something not quite right here. We can’t talk
Like some girls, who’d say, “Hell, the bastards broke our hearts.”
We are a different kind of tough; we hawk
Our epic violence in bleak bars, in bed, in art.
- Suzanne Doyle
The sun's in your eyes as you head west, and west, and west, your knuckles gripping the wheel too tightly in weak defense against the glaring setting sun over the sweltering desert. You've let your nails grow long again, use them as a last line of defense in a fight if the timing is right, and they dig into the palms of your hands as you drive. Dad never was fond of you having long nails, considered it much more efficient to have them short, easier to pull a trigger or throw a punch, but Dad's not around anymore and sometimes you like to throw some polish on them, bright greens and blues that stand out against your skin.
Sam's nails are long now, too; you can’t help but notice the little crescent moon-shaped indents in her palms, around her wrists, the way she digs them into her hands sometimes when her breathing picks up and she stares at things you cannot see. You wonder if she's conscious of it, this little tell she picked up on hallucination highway, wonder if she's even aware you noticed. You’ll always notice when it comes to Sam.
She's asleep in the passenger seat now, the one familiar thing you have left in the world besides each other, Bobby’s house a pile of rubble and Leviathans on your tail. The seat’s always been too small for her lanky frame, her legs folded up and twisted in an unnatural way. You don’t understand how she contorts her body like she does, how she even finds it comfortable, but she's sleeping peacefully, which is more than you can say about the last motel room you both stayed in, memory of her quiet, pained grunts and twisted expression still fresh on your mind.
You drive, and you drive, and you drive, the narrow two-lane road stretching out in front of you forever and ever like a winding path to a happy ending you'll never find, cracked and weathered along the edges and partly overgrown with half-dead prickly pear. You’re chasing a myth, just a local legend with no root in reality, no real case here at all, but something to chase is better than nothing, or so you keep telling yourself.
Sam shuffles beside you, knees bumping against the glove box as she slowly wakes, her bleary eyes lighting up when she settles on your face, last remnants of unpleasant dreams washing out of them. You don’t know how she’s programmed her body to do it, but she always manages to wake up shortly before your destination, her own internal alarm clock ticking down the miles.
"We there yet?" she asks, twisting her legs around in the seat like a contortionist, groaning with relief when the blood flow reaches her feet again.
You check the trip odometer, numbers ticking down like a timer to doomsday, two hundred and counting on this particular sojourn to the middle of nowhere, Arizona. "About thirty more miles." Dusk's almost gone now, sun peeking in and out around stalwart saguaros, just another thing swallowed up in the desert wasteland. "You doin' okay?"
She gives you a lopsided grin, one of those expressions you’re still learning to read even after all this time, somewhere between ‘why ask stupid questions’ and ‘thanks for caring.’ "Still breathing, at least."
“Well that’s something.” You really don’t know what to say to her that helps. Hallucinations of hell aren’t all that unfamiliar to you, but Sam processes everything so differently than you, a fact that you’re still learning after all this time. So you drive on in silence, clack-clack of a busted axle you haven’t yet had time to fix lending its rhythm to the uncomfortable stillness in the car for the next two dozen miles, until you pull over to your destination, weathered dusty path just off the main road, not a building or other sign of life within eyesight.
"This works," you say, clambering out of the Impala feeling more like a clown pouring out of a clown car packed full of other clowns the way your back's aching and your legs are stiff. “According to the website, this is the spot where people say the mist usually engulfs them."
Sam snaps into business mode then, reciting the details of the case like an intern rattling off symptoms on a medical chart to their attending, and you realize, not for the first time, that she still sees you as her superior, someone to look up to and emulate. It's a painful thought considering how everything's been going.
You pull out the old compass you found as a kid, needle bent and the glass busted up from years of riding around in the glove box. You’ve never really had a use for a compass, easy enough to glean your directions from the angle of the sun and the location of the dippers, but the desert’s a weird place and the looming cliffs have you all turned around. Sometimes, it’s a good idea to break out the backup.
You point vaguely east, toward the base of the Case Grande Mountain, already dark in the fading dusk. "Should start from that direction."
Sam sighs and stuffs her hands in her pockets, leans up against the Impala next to you."So, we wait?"
"We wait."
You wait, and you wait, and you wait, and there are shadows on the horizon and a desert soaked in the light of a full moon, but no mist ever comes. You watch the dark shapes creep along the distant cliffs, morphing themselves into creatures from the abyss, wolves and phoenixes and creatures of folklore you’ve read about all your life. For a moment you wonder if maybe you're not here for the mist but a whole different case altogether. Then you blink and they disappear, just another mirage in the desert. You gain a bit of appreciation for how Sam feels when she hallucinates.
"Listen-"
"No, Dean, I don't want to talk about it."
"Geez. Okay, Grumpy."
Her hair ruffles on a gust of wind and you watch the short strands whip around her face, catching on her nose and her mouth, while yours sits flat on your head, mostly undisturbed in the tightly coiled bun it's been in for three days now, simple and efficient, especially when you're not sure when your next shower will be. Dad used to periodically yell at you to cut it, that it would be a weakness in a fight if some monster managed to grab hold and pull, but you couldn't; your hair was and is your one concession to being a so-called girly girl, the way it curls in just the right way and shines in the right light. It’s got you out of a fair amount of trouble in the past - pretty girl with pretty hair would never push ninety on the highway or hustle pool in a one-stoplight town - and you think Dad would understand now why you kept it so long.
You've been thinking about Dad more often of late, though you’re not sure why, his death forever on your conscience but accepted as just another loss in a long line of them. You imagine he'd probably be appalled at the state of his two daughters, one competently insane and the other competently suicidal; though with that outlook, you hope he'd also be impressed that you made it this far.
You work your flask out of your back pocket, jeans shrunken after dozens of trips through a Laundromat dryer. It jiggles a little as you wiggle it out, slosh-slosh of Jack against the metal walls, half-empty like it always seems to be.
You catch Sam eyeing you sideways when you tip the flask up and swallow down the remaining contents. "Problem?"
"If you have to ask, I think the answer's clear."
"Touché." Silence weighs between you like judgment day, and frankly you've had enough judgments lately for three lifetimes. You're tired of it, so you do what you’re best at – you change the subject. "Think our mystery mist is a no-show. Ready to get out of here?"
You expect her to push the subject and have it out, weeks of dancing around, but there’s silence in answer to your question, and when you look over at her, she’s staring off into the distance and her eyes are wide, her digging her nails into her palms. You wonder how often she's drawn blood. "Sammy?"
She shakes her head and stares off at things you don’t see, her mouth moving in a silent pattern of ‘no no no.’ You reach for her hand, her grounding link in the real world, but she pulls away startled, turning to you with wild eyes before looking back into the desert expanse. “Stop it,” she begs to no one.
“Sammy,” you say, more forcefully this time, punching her in the shoulder in the process. You figure violence probably isn’t the proper way to deal with someone not firmly attached to reality, but you’re short on other things to try.
It seems to do the trick, if only a bit slowly, as she reaches up to grab at the place where your fist collided, her brain finally latching on to the pain and pulling her away from Lucifer’s grasp. “Dean?”
"Hey, I'm here. Feel the Impala at your back? That's real. I'm real. Whatever you’re seeing out there right now, it’s not real." Except maybe the shadows that seem to dance over the cliffs in front of you if you glance at them from the right angle, you’re still not sure about those.
She nods, gaze firmly fixed on you now, breathing slowing and fingers digging in, coping mechanisms all out in full force tonight. Slowly she opens the passenger door and sits down inside, the old familiar creak like a welcome beacon to both your ears.
"So uh, you good now? Haven’t seen you freak out quite that much in a couple weeks, thought I was gonna have to beat you up to pull you out."
“Just one fucking day I’d like to go without seeing him.” You watch her anger rise like the fuse on a firecracker, this controlled burn she’s always held just under her skin at things she cannot change. Her knee bounces against the door frame, fabric of her green over shirt flopping back and forth against her leg as she moves. You watch it for a bit, hypnotized, at a loss for words of comfort to say in this situation.
You don’t even know where to start, so you go with what’s always on the tip of your tongue. "I worry about you, you know."
It’s the wrong thing to say.
"Yeah, well. I worry about you too. Especially how you drink like a fish and ignore the fact that your body is exhausted, especially when you pop a handful of Adderall to get you through the day and expect me not to notice because you think I’m asleep in the seat next to you, like I haven’t spent my whole life studying your every move. Especially when we haven't even done anything today other than drive, and drive, and drive some more. Not exactly living the Jack Bauer life at this very moment."
"Girl's gotta get by somehow."
"Give it." Sam thrusts her hand out palm up, like she’s expecting you to easily hand the flask over just because she says so. You scoff.
“I’ve got two more in the trunk if you take this one away, you know.”
Her hand remains outstretched.
“I feel like a kid getting reprimanded for stealing a cookie out of the jar.”
Sam lunges at you, snatching the container out of your hand and pulling you in with it, down into her lap.
There's no one around, and she's solid against your chest, her heartbeat thumping against yours, hard and solid and fast against your breasts, her hands tight around your wrists.
"Been awhile," she says.
"Been a little busy," you retort.
"Too busy for your pain-in-the-ass little sister?" She smiles, her body a furnace in the cold dry air of desert nighttime as she leans in to kiss you. Her fingers are vice grips around your arms, long and thin and strong like the rest of her, built for power and domination and everything in between, and suddenly she's seducing you like you're nineteen again, short on high school boys to fuck around with and trapped in a cabin in bum-fuck Montana with your little sister flaunting newly developed breasts in your direction like a lion in heat.
"Never too busy for you, you know that," you manage to choke out, arousal spreading down inside you like wildfire. It registers somewhere in the back of your mind that this conversation has taken quite the turn, that probably neither of you are in any state of mind to be fucking around, but you’ve always followed your body more than your brain, and you’ve made it this far, even if only barely.
Sam curls a hand around your neck, tilts your face down so the angle’s more accommodating. "Well, good. Because as you said, we're in the middle of nowhere, and I need something to distract me from the fact that Lucifer's right...over...there." She punctuates her words with light kisses down your neck, and you can't help but arch up into them, freezing when the actuality of her words clicks.
"Wait. You're hallucinating and fucking around with me will help? Well Sammy, I never took you for the exhibitionist." Sometimes you wonder if there’s ever been a life lived that even remotely resembles yours, even a fictional one. The summary of it would have to be along the lines of ‘whatever you do, don’t read this one,’ because your sister’s grinding up against you to chase away the devil and you’re giving back all that you’re getting because she’s the only thing you have left in the world, the only thing you’ve ever really had all along.
She stops moving as you do, mumbles shyly, "Can't seem to find anything else that works, worth a shot," and you can hear the worry in her voice, practically see the gears turning as she tries to figure out ‘if she doesn’t do this, how can I get rid of him?’
You grab for her hand, the one with your piss-poor stitching job on the palm, mostly healed after weeks of constant disturbance. You dig your nails in, slightly shorter and blunter than hers and probably less effective, but sending the message all the same: I’m here for you.
You smile, and Sam returns it, silent agreement between the both of you. "Well, I suppose there are worse ways to use a girl," you say.
Your body fits into her like a glove, always has, and you rearrange yourself just so on top of her, grinding against her as her hands explore your body. She’s the first to reach for jeans, her hand rubbing along the edge of yours before working through the button and zipper, and you roll down against her as she abruptly slides two chilly fingers inside you.
You moan, panting out her name as she dances in and around you, knowing exactly the fastest and easiest way to pleasure you, years of off-again, on-again practice under her belt.
“Dean,” she gasps out, when you finally manage to reciprocate some of the action, your hands sliding up under her shirt and cupping her breasts. Her hands practically swallow yours, everything about her just a couple sizes bigger than you, but it’s all the perfect ratio, each of her breasts the ideally-sized handful for you to twist and pull and hold in just the right way.
“We don’t need to be quiet,” you say, just as much for your own benefit as hers, far too conditioned from living under your father’s thumb and sneaking moments in back rooms at bars and paper-thin motel room walls, Sam too modest and considerate to everyone around you and you too easily swayed by her wants and needs.
“Make some noise,” you say, sliding your hands down, and down, and down, until you’re dipping inside her, around her, your movements echoing each other, arms intertwined. The angle doesn’t work well and you end up taking turns, alternating when it’s obvious one of you is close to falling over the edge, that building sense of all-over pleasure evident in the stiffening of your body and the vibration in your knees. It’s a game you both play, to see who can outlast the other, maximum pleasure out of minimum effort.
Sam wins, nipping at your lip and twisting up inside you in the right combination, and you stutter and fall over the cliff, orgasm one giant wave washing over you as Sam sits back and helps herself through her own using your hand. She’s staring at you smug and satisfied, looking practically happy against the dulled leather of the passenger seat, her hair a sticky mess against her forehead. The edges of your vision are blurry in your post-coital haze, so you don’t move for a bit, content to just straddle your sister under cover of darkness. The only sounds around are your identical panting, slowing down as the minutes tick by.
Eventually the quiet is broken as Sam giggles at a secret all her own, one you’re hoping she’ll share when prompted, and she does, though you almost wish she hadn’t after all.
“Lucifer says you make the best noises as you come,” she says, throwing you that lopsided grin for your eyes only.
“Sam, I gotta tell you, it kind of freaks me out when Lucifer comments on our sex life.” It kind of freaks you out when Lucifer comments about anything and Sam tosses it out like he’s just her imaginary best friend, here to tag along for the rest of eternity. He might very well be, but it’s not a fact you want to accept any time soon.
“He’s gone now, it’s cool.”
‘Cool’ isn’t exactly the word you’d use for this situation, but you don’t really feel like dwelling on it right now, choosing instead to get the hell out of dodge before the desert swallows you up in a fit of insanity."You wanna drive for a bit? I'm tired of this fucking wasteland, s'like looking at a topographical map of my life."
"Do you really think that, Dean?"
“Think what? That our lives are a mess? Look around, Sam, pretty sure we just fucked to ditch the devil in your head in lieu of you staging an intervention and shipping me off to the nearest AA meeting, so I mean, if the shoe fits.”
“But I mean, I'm here. Maybe I'm not all here, but...okay this isn't the greatest pep talk is it?" Her shoulders sag in defeat, and you can’t stand that look on her, the way she walks around with her massive frame worn down with the weight of the world.
You shrug, wishing you could take some of that weight off her shoulders, add it to your load. "I’ve found it’s usually best if you just shut up and drive. We can even listen to some of your shitty music, if it’ll make you feel better."
That gets a smile, and a response worth waiting a lifetime for. “Your shitty music is just fine for me, Dean. We can listen to that.”
You smile back at your sister as she slides her way into the driver's seat before you catch one last glance at the looming rock face in the distance, squinting for any sign of mysterious mist, for the weird amalgam of shapes you’d seen earlier, but nothing out of the ordinary appears.