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ephemerall ([personal profile] ephemerall) wrote2011-03-15 12:48 pm
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[woodsmoke will always tell old stories]
sam/girl dean, past sam/ruby
adult
4980 words

notes: au. Dean is a girl and always has been.





In the backseat the leather is cold on her legs. It’s early November and she’s wondering where things went wrong. She remembers back in July, the way his fingers felt on her back, moving in tiny ticklish circles; her body aches for him in ways she’s never known before. There are so many others willing, so many others out there to touch her, to make her feel good, but there is nothing, no one like Sam. If she closes her eyes she can picture his face before he kisses her, can picture his body covering hers, and she shivers with the sense-memory of it all. It’s been too long, now, and she needs it like she needs to breathe. Her cheeks heat at the thought of him touching her, kissing her, inside of her.

She jumps when he taps on the window. He looks at her and tilts his head, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Thinking,” she answers and sits up. She grabs her duffel bag from the floor and pushes open the door. He reaches for her bag and she pulls back. “I can carry it for myself, thanks. I’m not an invalid, Sam.”

“I know, I was just –“ he looks at her and she wishes she could push the anger from her face. She wants him to grab her up in his arms and press her back against the car. “Nevermind,” he says, shaking his head. She watches his back, the way his shoulders hunch, and feels the cold of everything in her bones. She follows him inside.






She remembers the feel of his fingers around her throat, pressing her back against the wall. It wasn’t enough; not enough touch, not enough skin, not enough Sam. She remembers Bobby talking, but not what he said, only remembers Sam. She remembers the way his eyes changed when he realized there was no demon here, no ghost, just her and all of her; she remembers the way his arms felt around her body, crushing the breath out of her, and it felt too good to let go.

“I’m sorry, are you two…?”

She remembers the devastating crumple of her heart, the stabbing pain from her chest to her back. She was a pretty girl; thin, dark hair, petite. She was standing in her panties, looking too comfortable, looking like she felt safe here, with Sam. She wanted to die, or kill her, she wasn’t sure.

“What? No. She’s my sister.”

Just his sister. Nothing more than that. Not anymore.






Sometimes, she sees it all in flashes. There’s screaming, there’s blood, and her body jerks at the sudden memory of pain. When she opens her eyes, Sam’s watching her. She feels the warmth start in her belly, but he doesn’t move. He used to look at her like that, every day, but now he shutters it. Blinks and pretends like he doesn’t remember the way she felt, the way she touched, or the press of her mouth. She knows because she can see it, because she knows him oh so well.

“Deanna?” His voice is soft, like he’s trying not to spook her, and it makes her angry. She’s never been fragile; nothing’s changed now.

“I’m fine,” she snaps. She throws her covers back and goes to the bathroom in a tee-shirt and underwear, slamming the door behind her. Her hands shake when she washes her face; when she looks up at her face in the mirror, water clings to her eyelashes and it’s easier this way, because she can pretend she doesn’t know if its water or tears. She dries her face and goes back to bed.

“You okay?” he asks softly; his bed springs creak, like he’s going to come to her.

“Yeah,” she whispers and closes her eyes.






She doesn’t see red; everything fades to grayscale like she’s watching a movie and this isn’t real. The first thing she wants to do is hit Sam, but she doesn’t. She decides, just this once, she’ll ask first, hit later. He tries to explain, but it’s funny that she doesn’t even want to hear it. The second thing she wants to do is grab that skinny little bitch and choke the life out of her, ask her who she thinks she is.

“Hey Deanna. Long time no see.” She smirks, and it’s a different face, but Deanna knows that smirk, and Deanna wants to wipe it off with her fist down the girl’s throat.

“Ruby?” She looks at Sam, “Is that Ruby?”

Something’s said, she’s sure of it, but she can only hear the blood rushing in her ears when she grabs the demon whore. She’s aware she’s fighting, but her body is on autopilot, because all she can think about is Sam fucking her. Sam fucked this; Sam got into bed with a demon cunt, and fucked her.

Sam stops the fighting, and sends Ruby out with the innocent man. She can’t even look at him, so she turns her back and walks out.

Later, at their hotel, she doesn’t want to hear Sam’s excuses. She doesn’t pull her punches and the blood on his lips makes her feel good.






Later, when things have calmed down and Sam’s lip is swollen, she feels remorse. She doesn’t look at him when she apologizes. “I just… you promised me, Sam, and then you lied to my face.” Her voice is quiet, if not defeated, and when she looks at Sam he looks sick, like this is going to kill him.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Say you won’t do that shit anymore.” She’s resolute in her answer to this entire problem, but he doesn’t look so sure.

“I’m saving people,” he says. “Doing things this way… the victim lives.”

“You’re using a power that you got from demon blood! What good can come out of it?” she asks, and she can feel the color in her cheeks.

“Dee, Ruby said that –“

“Fuck Ruby!” she screams and stands up. “You know what Cas told me, Sam? If you don’t stop this, he will. You know what that means? It means God doesn’t want you doing this.”

Sam’s quiet for too long, and sits down on his bed with his back to her. She can feel the distance between them like a heavyweight and she hates it. God how she hates it. She moves from her bed, from her side of the room and stands in front of him. She drops to her knees and scoots herself between his legs, takes his face in her hands. “Please,” she whispers.

She leans up and presses her mouth to his, and she can taste the blood from the cut on his lip. “Please,” she whispers against his lips. His hands rest on her shoulders and for a moment, it’s so good – good like it used to be, his mouth warm on hers, and heat between them, but he pushes her gently away. She searches his eyes for something, anything, and all she can see is sorrow and regret.

“Ok,” he says. “I’m done with it.”

It doesn’t really feel like the victory she thought it was.






Sam’s quiet for a few hundred miles, and the distant look on his face tells her he’s missing something; she knows him too well not to know what every look means. She’s afraid to ask if he’s missing using his powers, or if he misses Ruby. She’s not sure she wants to know the answer to either question. She keeps driving in silence for a hundred miles before she finally glances over at him, slouched in his seat, staring out the window and nothing in particular.

“Do you love her?” She asks, like it some kind of revelation, and almost gags on the words.

“What? Who?”

“Ruby. Are you in love with Ruby?” She asks, and almost misses the stop sign as they come into town. She slams on the brakes and Sam stares at her incredulously.

“Are you insane?” he asks her, and for a minute she feels relieved, until she reminds herself he didn’t answer the question. Sam’s always been good at dodging.

“Don’t answer a question with a question, Sam. Tell me; are you in love with Ruby?”

He’s quiet for a pair of minutes and someone behind them honks their horn. She glances in the rearview and drives on. When she glances at Sam he shakes his head. “It’s not like that, Dee,” he says softly. “I don’t. I mean, she isn’t.” He wipes a hand over his face and pushes his hair back.

“But you’ve been fucking her,” she says, and it’s not a question by any means. Sam’s gaze is hard, and by no means sorry.

“Don’t,” he says. “Just… don’t go there.”

She pulls into the parking lot of the motel and slams the brakes harder than she really needs to. Sam has to put his hands forward to avoid slamming into the dash. “What the fuck is wrong with you? She’s a demon whore-“

“Stop it.” It’s not uncommon for Sam to interrupt her, but it’s not so common for him to be so finite or angry. She looks up at him and his eyes burn, and she feels sick that he has to defend that bitch. “Don’t call her that. You don’t know her, not at all, Deanna.” She opens her mouth to talk and Sam cuts her off. “You were gone,” he says. The words hurt; her chest literally aches at the lost look in his eyes and the pain in his voice. “You were gone,” he says again softly, and gets out of the car without looking back at her.






She enjoys drinking lately, probably more than she should. She used to drink beer with Dad sometimes, and with Sam often; sometimes she’d drink a little whiskey, but tonight its vodka. It hits her harder than it normally does, thanks to her empty stomach, and she wonders if Sam is back at the motel fucking Ruby, or if he even misses her right now. She taps her empty shot glass on the bar top for another and the bartender leers at her.

“Pour. The fucking. Vodka,” she enunciates, over the sound of Rock ‘N Roll Train; he shakes his head and pours the shot. She tips it back and doesn’t cough; the burn feels magnificent.

Someone sits next to her. “Drowning your sorrows?”

She snorts, “Sure.”

“Want some company?” He asks and she thinks he might be genuine, and he might just want to fuck her. She doesn’t really care either way.

“Not really,” she answers, grabbing her next shot and tipping it back, not looking at him.

“It’s no fun to drink alone,” he says, and orders himself scotch on the rocks.

She means to be annoyed when she looks at him, and tries not to let the surprise show on her face when she realizes he’s actually handsome. He has a strong face, clean shaven, deep eyes, and a nice mouth. She smirks. “You going to buy me a drink or are you going to sit there and look pretty?” He laughs and orders her another drink. He says his name is Deacon, and she laughs inwardly, reminds herself to ask Cas later if this was his idea of a joke.

Deacon is so far from her ideal, so far from being Sam that it makes her want to fuck him just because. She’s drunk and she knows it, but it doesn’t matter since it’s what she came here for; the numbness in her limbs is awkward because it’s been so long since she’s felt it.

His hand is overly warm when she leads him out of the bar. It’s been hours now so she knows he’s not a demon, probably not a serial killer, so sex is pretty much guaranteed; she feels little thrills start in her belly and shiver up her spine. It’s been a while.

She feels too warm, and the leather of the seat sticks to the sweaty small of her back, and she digs her fingers into his shoulders. “Come on,” she urges, impatient; she’s not sure if he even has a condom, but decides she doesn’t really give a shit. She’ll find a planned parenthood or something later. His lips on her throat feel good and he presses his thumb against her clit. She gasps, lets go of him and slams her hands above her head, against the door, as her orgasm hits her fast and hard. She can feel his cock in her, feel him thrusting too fast, and he whispers fuck. She can feel him pulsing in her.

She closes her eyes and focuses on catching her breath.

It can’t have been more than a couple minutes when she hears “…the fuck?” and it isn’t Deacon’s voice - not at all. She opens her eyes and Sam’s dragging Deacon out of the car by the back of his shirt, pants still open, softened dick and condom still exposed. She thinks at least he was smart enough to carry one. “You were supposed to find her and bring her back, not fuck her!” Sam yells.

She sits up suddenly, skirt rucked up around her hips, underwear still pushed to the side. “What?!” She feels the anger instantly and it boils.

“Look, Sam, I-“

“You two know each other?” she asks incredulously, angrily, interrupting Deacon.

“Shut up.” Sam’s looking at Deacon when he says it, but she isn’t sure who he’s actually talking to. The anger and authority in his voice is real, and it’s a little scary, so she shuts up. “I, in no way, gave you permission to touch my sister,” he says to Deacon, voice low and furious.

“She’s a big girl, and I doubt she needs your permission,” Deacon replies, and she really kind of agrees with him, but that, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. Sam grabs him by his shirt and punches him, but he doesn’t stop at one punch or even five. She scrambles to fix her panties and push down her skirt, gets out of the car and grabs Sam by the arm, pulling.

“Sam! Stop it!” she screams. When he stops his knuckles are split and bloody, and Deacon’s face is a mess. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He shakes her hands off of him and growls “Get in the car.” She doesn’t like being told what to do, least of all by Sam, but she doesn’t argue because his face is pale with rage.
They drive in silence back to the motel, the motion of the car making her stomach protest the alcohol in it. He throws the car in park much rougher than he needs to and goes inside without waiting for her. It’s starting to rain so she goes inside behind him, and slams the door harder than she means to. She needs to puke – she really needs to puke – but there’s an argument here that cannot wait.

“What the hell was that?” She asks, and her voice is higher than she cares for it to be, but this is a side of Sam she definitely isn’t used to. She wonders if this is what Ruby’s brought to the table for him. He doesn’t answer right away, throwing his jacket angrily on the desk. “Sam!”

He spins around to face her. “You’ve got my full attention, Dee! That’s what you wanted, right? Well, I got the point, thank you, but fucking some random guy from the bar wasn’t necessary!”

“Apparently, he wasn’t so random,” she says angrily.

“That is so not the point here,” he says back.

“Then what is?” She shouts at him. Maybe it’s because she’s still drunk, but she doesn’t understand this.

“It makes me sick,” he answers. “It makes me sick to think of someone else touching you, let alone someone else fucking you.” His hands are in tight fists at his sides, like he’s trying to keep them under control; she knows he’d never hit her, but after seeing him beat the hell out of someone she’s not sure he wouldn’t put a hole in the motel wall.

Her head is light and she’s dizzy; she’s too goddamn drunk for this shit right now. “I have needs, you know. I’m human.” Human, she thinks, not like Ruby, who he’s been fucking without a problem while he ignores her existence.

“Damn it!” He flings an ashtray from the desk at the wall, and the sound it makes when it breaks hurts her ears.

“What do you want me to do, Sam?” she yells. “You haven’t touched me, and I’ve been back for months.”

He closes his eyes and exhales. “Deanna-“

“And what about you?” she interrupts. “You think it doesn’t make me sick to know you’re fucking Ruby? Not just some random chick, but a motherfucking demon, Sam!”

“I’m not,” he says so quietly she really isn’t sure she heard him correctly.

“What?”

“I said, I’m not,” he answers, loudly and quite clearly. “I haven’t touched Ruby since you’ve been back.”

“Then why don’t you touch me?” she asks, too close to tears for her own comfort or for Sam’s. “Do you not want to?”

“I do,” he says. “I do, I just thought. I didn’t think I was allowed to. I mean, an angel of God pulls you out of hell, and… I thought God would probably disapprove of having sex with your sibling. Considering it’s a pretty huge sin, I thought He might… I thought He might put you back if I…” He gestures between them.

“Sammy,” she says softly, relieved to almost the point of tears, and wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I think maybe God has bigger shit to worry about than me fucking my brother.”

“But what if-“

“No,” she interrupts. “No ‘what ifs’. Sam, if God wants my help that badly, He’ll turn his head for this. For us,” she says earnestly. She feels sick to her stomach thanks to the excessive amounts of alcohol, and a little because there is a tiny part of her that wonders what if I’m wrong?

She doesn’t have time to do, or say, or even think anything else, and he’s moving, standing in front of her. His hands are warm on her cheeks, his thumb tracing her lips. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, slipping his hands up into her hair, and pressing his mouth to hers softly.

She is so dizzy, with booze and with Sam, that he helps her stay steady on her feet. “Sammy, please,” she begs and he kisses her again, longer, softly.

“Not tonight,” he says and she wants to fall on her knees and beg him. She doesn’t understand. “Not when you’re drunk.”

It’s touching that he’s worried about her virtue, or integrity, or whatever it is he is worried about, and she laughs a little. “Okay,” she says and leans against him, lets him wrap his arms around her. She wants to just stand there with his arms around her all night, but really, really doesn’t feel good. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I really, really have to puke.”






She spends a majority of her night on the bathroom floor, or with her head hanging over the toilet. The intensity of the vomiting comes down around four in the morning, and stops completely around six. Sam comes and sits down next to her, smoothing her hair back, away from her forehead. “I’m so tired, Sammy,” she whispers.

“I know, baby,” he says softly, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her temple.

He’s careful when he slides his arms under her and lifts her up. It’s not something she’d usually let him get away with, carrying her around, but she’s too sick to worry or even really care about it in that particular moment. He carries her to bed and lays her down, carefully taking off her shoes, her jean skirt, and sliding her under the blankets. She’s grateful when he slides in next to her and lets her put her head on his chest; she can hear the steady beat of his heart.






She dreams. There’s never any fire, and she’s not burning, but there’s pain. There is always pain. There is blood, so much blood, and screaming. She can hear them all screaming, begging, and she can hear herself screaming for Sam. She’s always down on her knees, spitting blood, and then there are chains, hooks, someone lashing her back. And she screams; she’s always screaming here. Lilith smiles with blood on her teeth, and rips flesh from bone while she’s still conscious. There are others, horrible, disfigured faces, and they hold her down, tear at her flesh and burn through her insides, forcing every inch they can manage into her.

She’s always screaming.






When she wakes up Sam isn’t there and it makes her nervous, but a look around the room and she sees him sitting at the desk, still in his tee-shirt and flannel pants from last night. She breathes slow, and careful, and doesn’t close her eyes. There are things she can’t see, won’t see again; not now. Sam turns to face her, and asks how she feels.

“Not as bad as I should,” she answers, crawling out of bed. Her head hurts, but at least she isn’t sick to her stomach. “Is there coffee?”

He nods. She’s wearing his shirt, and her panties, and she can’t remember how that happened. She knows they didn’t have sex because sex with Sam is unforgettable. He watches her cross the room to the kitchenette and pour a cup of coffee; his scrutiny makes her nervous. “What?”

“You were…making noise in your sleep,” he says carefully, like if he uses the wrong words he’ll upset her. She hates when he treats her like a child.

“I had a bad dream,” she replies, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Were you dreaming about Hell?”

She’s actually surprised he asked because he’s been so careful to avoid the subject altogether. She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

He starts to say something else and she looks at him, makes it plain in her face that this is not a subject she wants to talk about at all right now, so he lets it go.






Things seem quiet, so they decide to take a few days for themselves. They eat breakfast at eleven in the morning before they head out. Sam orders pancakes and coffee; she thinks about screaming and the sudden ache she feels makes her stomach twist, so she just orders coffee. Sam doesn’t ask and she’s glad, but the look on his face tells her well enough that he’s worried; she doesn’t tell him that he should be, because they ruined her down there.

Sam eats quietly, and she drinks her coffee with extra cream and a couple sugars. Some of her tastes have changed since she’s been back. She used to eat her steaks medium rare, and now the sight of uncooked meat and blood makes her think of things she shouldn’t remember, like what her insides look like on the outside.
She starts when Sam touches her hand. “You okay?”

She forces a smile. “Always.”






Sam doesn’t explain his reasoning, but he spends more money than he should to rent a suite for a few days. Inside, it looks like an apartment, and she thinks that maybe he did this for her, but doesn’t ask. There’s a kitchen, not a kitchenette, and a bathroom with a real tub that she can sink into later. The carpet is even soft under her feet, and the sheets don’t scratch when she feels them. She doesn’t want to think about what kind of money Sam is spending.

She falls asleep on the couch, watching TV, with her feet in Sam’s lap. She doesn’t dream.
She wakes up in bed, Sam next to her, apparently watching her sleep. She gives him a lazy smile and he kisses her. Her reaction is immediate; all it takes is a kiss and she can feel the heat rushing between her legs. She slides her hands into his hair and pulls, pressing his mouth harder to hers, kissing him until she can barely breathe. She wants this, wants it more than she’s wanted anything in a long, long time.

When he starts kissing her neck, she shivers. “Please,” she whispers, and he slides his hands up under her shirt. It feels so good having him touch her skin that it gets hard to breathe. “Sam, please.”

“Shh,” he whispers. “I’ll get us there.”

He undresses her slowly, like he’s unwrapping a Christmas present with paper too pretty to rip. His lips are soft, gentle, kissing her neck, her collar bones, her stomach; he kisses her hips, her legs, and leaves her in her bra and panties, leaning back to look at her. “God, you’re beautiful,” he says, and kisses her mouth.

She pulls at his shirt and he tugs it over his head, tossing it on the floor. She feels like a teenager again, hands trembling as she tries to unbutton his jeans. He pushes them off his hips, taking his boxers with them, and drops them off the side of the bed. She just watches him for a moment, amazed. She reaches down to touch him, his cock hard and silky in her hand, and he gasps. She sits up, pushing him over on his back, and kisses him long and hard. She doesn’t waste time, just slides down his body and takes his cock into her mouth.

“Jesus,” he gasps.

She loves the taste of him, salty-bitter and earthy; she takes his dick further into her throat, as far as she can, nosing at his pubic hair. His hands slip into her hair, just resting there, holding her, not forcing her down. His fingers tighten a little when she moves her mouth over him, and he breathes hard. “Dee,” he says. “Dee, stop.”

She does. He reaches for her, unclasps her bra and throws it. Neither one of them knows where it goes. He pushes her panties down and leaves them at the end of the bed. He lays her back against the pillows and kisses her, pressing his fingers into her cunt, and she arches into his palm. He presses his thumb to her clit, rubbing in tiny circles, working his fingers in her, and it feels amazing. A few minutes and she can’t help but to come, arching her back and losing her breath.

He’s reaching for a condom and she stops him. “Don’t.”

He looks like a scared little boy. A lot can happen without protection, a lot the neither one of them can afford or deal with.

“I know my cycle; I won’t get pregnant. I just… God, Sam I want to feel you.”

He nods, kisses her deeply, and slides into her. His body is trembling as he starts to move. He almost feels too big for her, like their first time, and her body stretches and gives, pulls him in deeper. She presses his mouth to hers, hands in his hair, arching her back to meet his thrusts. He feels so good she could cry. He reaches between them, fingers at her clit, rubbing in tiny tight circles that make her breath hitch. She pulls her legs up, wrapping them around his waist, wanting him as deep as he can possibly go. “Dee, I can’t…”

She goes first, body shaking, her breath shuddering out of her in broken gasps, and Sam follows. She can feel his dick pulsing in her, and the thought of him coming in her, filling her cunt, almost makes her come again. He rests his forehead against hers, breathing hard. He kisses her once, softly, and again. “I love you,” he whispers. “God, I love you.”

His body is warm, curled around her, and she sleeps.






In the morning, Sam is awake, showered, and dressed by the time she gets out of bed. The silence isn’t awkward, but it isn’t comfortable either. She yanks the sheet off the bed and wraps it around her as she walks across the room. She stops behind him, kisses between his shoulder blades, and inhales the smell of his clean tee-shirt.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Back to the real world,” he says quietly. “Back to hunting things, exorcising demons.”

“Don’t forget stopping the seals from being broken to keep Lucifer in Hell,” she adds, and her sarcasm isn’t lost on him. They shouldn’t have to do this, and it feels like they’re the only ones doing anything.

He turns to face her, kisses her forehead softly, and then her mouth. “When this is over, I promise, I’ll give you something better.”

She shakes her head, hair hanging loosely around her face. “I don’t need all that, Sammy. Just you.”

“If we survive this, I’ll give you whatever you want,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ear.






She gets dressed in the bathroom and stares at her reflection. She used to have a scar under her eyebrow from falling through the floor of an old barn when she was twelve; she used to have a lot of scars, and somehow she has none anymore. Her skin is flawless, but everything on the inside is all a mess. She closes her eyes and she can see the flashes of red, hear the screaming.

She starts when Sam opens the door. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she says, stuffing her toothbrush down in her bag. She looks up at him and grins and they both know it’s forced. She says “We’ve got work to do,” but it’s funny that, once, it used to mean more.