Anything but a boy at the bar (SPN/Gilmore Girls, Sam and Dean Winchester/Rory Gilmore, NC-17)
Under normal circumstances I would be finishing out my 16-hour Monday workday right about now. Let me tell you how GLAD I AM that someone took my shift, so I am not doing that. \o/
Title: Anything but a boy at the bar
Fandom: Supernatural/Gilmore Girls crossover
Pairing: Sam and Dean Winchester/Rory Gilmore (but not really Sam/Dean)
Rating: Adult
Summary: For tonight Sam can be the guy who picks up girls in a bar, and she can be the girl who gets picked up, and tomorrow they can each be someone else.
Notes: Written (belatedly) for the help_haiti Lightning Round for serpentsheart. I found this prompt a big challenge, and I hope I did it justice. Title from Ingrid Michaelson. 1350 words.
i.
“You look like someone I used to know,” she says, her eyes lingering too intently on Sam’s face.
Sam leans forward, hiding behind his hair. No use in letting her think too long about it. For all he knows, she’s from some little town where they spent a semester in high school. But that’s not what he wants to talk about tonight. “I’m Sam,” he says, pitched low, and he wonders if he looks like he’s trying too hard. He’s still new to this kind of subterfuge, Dean over at the pool table doing a more familiar kind of hustling.
“Rory,” she says, and she puts out her hand in an automatic way that says someone somewhere taught her real manners. Then she falters, looking around at the dingy bar, biting her lip like maybe she’s in the wrong place. Sam sympathizes.
He takes her hand, watches it engulfed by his. When Sam really looks at her, he can see the act she’s putting on, her heavy eyeliner and tight jeans and the shirt cut so low he can see the pink lace of her bra every time she moves her shoulder. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Can I buy you a drink?” For tonight he can be the guy who picks up girls in a bar, and she can be the girl who gets picked up, and tomorrow they can each be someone else.
ii.
By the time Rory’s on her third vodka cranberry, there are two of them, one to either side of her, telegraphing messages with their eyebrows over the top of her head. One of them looks like Dean and the other is called Dean, and Rory is feeling light and reckless when Sam asks if she wants to come back to their motel room. She says yes. Sam kisses her in the parking lot, his big hands framing her face, pushing back her hair. Dean watches them with dark, thoughtful eyes, and Rory shivers, unfamiliar heat pooling in her belly.
“Do you do this a lot?” she asks, in the wide backseat of their sleek old car, one leg tucked under her.
“No,” says Sam, at the same time Dean says, “Yes.”
Rory’s pretty sure they’re both telling the truth. “And you’re not going to murder me and dump my body by the side of the highway?” She says it loud and cheery, as though there isn’t a little part of her that’s deeply afraid of what happens to girls in unfamiliar backseats. “Because there’s a whole town in Connecticut that’ll be after you if you do.”
Dean purses his lips. “How big a town?”
“He’s joking,” Sam cuts in. “Please. He’s joking.” Sam’s eyes settle on Rory’s for a moment, his head twisted uncomfortably around to look at her. He looks so much like Dean, like what Dean probably looks like now, five years on. It hurts a little, this unexpected ache in her chest as she meets his eyes.
She starts to wonder what Sam and Dean are to each other. In the bar she assumed Dean was Sam’s wingman, trying to help out a buddy, but looking at them in the front seat, settled so easily in their places that it looks like maybe they live in this car, she wonders how they fit together. And then, with a rush of desire and uncertainty, where they plan for her to fit in.
Rory feels drunker now than she did when they left the bar, a little uncoordinated, and she has to bite her lip to keep back a flow of unnecessary words: “you look like the first boy who ever loved me” and “how do you know I’m not going to pull a Megan Fox and eat you?” Like a stranger in a strange land, she doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of people who don’t speak her language, and Sam and Dean don’t seem like guys who watch a lot of movies. So she keeps careful track of the mile markers along the highway and tries to imagine how she’ll get back to her car at the end of the night.
iii.
Dean watches her and Sam together, watches how Sam meets her eyes so sincerely, like they’re not doing exactly what they’re doing. Sam kisses her gentle and slow in the stairway to the second floor, leans down to whisper as though Dean’s not even there. He can’t hear what they say, but Rory smiles a crooked, hopeful little smile and takes his hand, lets him walk her into their crappy little room as if it’s someplace better. She moans high and sweet as Sam kisses down the side of her neck, pulls her shirt to the side to graze his teeth against her collarbone. Dean leans by the door, letting them take their time, letting Sam undress her. He never knows how much Sam wants him to participate, and that’s fine because Dean likes to watch.
Rory’s skin is smooth and pale, freckles spread across her shoulders, down her arms, and Sam is kissing her everywhere, mouthing over the soft curves of her breasts in pale pink lace, hands spread low on her hips, flirting with the waist of her jeans. Sam looks up, over her shoulder at Dean, and Dean nods. Sam’s doing fine without him.
He urges her onto the bed, strips out of his shirts so she’s distracted by his chest when he starts on her fly. “Okay?” says Sam, low against her cheek, and Rory rolls her jeans off her hips. Her panties are pink lace to match her bra, flimsy little scrap of fabric between Sam’s long fingers and the heat of her. He cups her, strokes her, and she shuts her eyes, rolling her head against the pillow. Dean pushes off from the wall, comes over for a closer look.
“What do you want, Rory?” Dean asks, and her eyes fly open.
She looks at Sam, folded up between her legs, and whispers, “Dean,” then bites her lip like she knows that’s wrong.
Dean doesn’t kiss her mouth, starts under her chin and works his way down, leaving her mouth to Sam as he settles between her legs. Rory shivers as he pulls her panties down, hitches out a moan against Sam’s lips as Dean licks into her the first time. She’s wet for them, tangy and warm against Dean’s mouth, soft and trembling under his tongue. He spreads her open with his fingers, sucks at her clit until she cries out and reaches for him, her fingers clutched frantically against his scalp as she comes. Sam’s mouth is bitten red, and they’re both watching Dean as he glances up.
He passes Sam a condom, and Sam holds it up, pinched between two fingers, asking permission. Rory nods, kissing him again.
Dean watches Sam move in her, their noses pressed together, breathing each other’s breath. She’s looking up into his face, watching Sam like she can’t believe he’s really there. Sam is looking right back, dropping little kisses at the corners of her mouth as he fucks her. For a second Dean can see how they would’ve been together if Sam had met her someplace else, if their lives weren’t fucked sideways already.
She leaves after coffee in the morning, sheepish smile and t-shirt turned inside out. Sam stands in the doorway, shifting on his feet as he stumbles through the morning-after spiel. Sam talks in wandering half-sentences, Rory in nervous little bursts. “I could call you if, you know, we’re around, and…”
“Yeah,” she says. “Great. Do that. If you’re.”
“Will you, ah, can you get back okay? I mean…”
“I can. I’ll be. Yeah. I’ll get a cab. Nice to.” She blushes. They pause. And then Sam bends to kiss her and Rory leans up into it, the soft press of his mouth. He lingers, and Dean thinks for one terrifying moment he’s going to follow her out the door. But then Sam stays and Rory goes, and it’s just the two of them again, Sam and Dean with another stretch of road in front of them.
~fin~
Title: Anything but a boy at the bar
Fandom: Supernatural/Gilmore Girls crossover
Pairing: Sam and Dean Winchester/Rory Gilmore (but not really Sam/Dean)
Rating: Adult
Summary: For tonight Sam can be the guy who picks up girls in a bar, and she can be the girl who gets picked up, and tomorrow they can each be someone else.
Notes: Written (belatedly) for the help_haiti Lightning Round for serpentsheart. I found this prompt a big challenge, and I hope I did it justice. Title from Ingrid Michaelson. 1350 words.
i.
“You look like someone I used to know,” she says, her eyes lingering too intently on Sam’s face.
Sam leans forward, hiding behind his hair. No use in letting her think too long about it. For all he knows, she’s from some little town where they spent a semester in high school. But that’s not what he wants to talk about tonight. “I’m Sam,” he says, pitched low, and he wonders if he looks like he’s trying too hard. He’s still new to this kind of subterfuge, Dean over at the pool table doing a more familiar kind of hustling.
“Rory,” she says, and she puts out her hand in an automatic way that says someone somewhere taught her real manners. Then she falters, looking around at the dingy bar, biting her lip like maybe she’s in the wrong place. Sam sympathizes.
He takes her hand, watches it engulfed by his. When Sam really looks at her, he can see the act she’s putting on, her heavy eyeliner and tight jeans and the shirt cut so low he can see the pink lace of her bra every time she moves her shoulder. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Can I buy you a drink?” For tonight he can be the guy who picks up girls in a bar, and she can be the girl who gets picked up, and tomorrow they can each be someone else.
ii.
By the time Rory’s on her third vodka cranberry, there are two of them, one to either side of her, telegraphing messages with their eyebrows over the top of her head. One of them looks like Dean and the other is called Dean, and Rory is feeling light and reckless when Sam asks if she wants to come back to their motel room. She says yes. Sam kisses her in the parking lot, his big hands framing her face, pushing back her hair. Dean watches them with dark, thoughtful eyes, and Rory shivers, unfamiliar heat pooling in her belly.
“Do you do this a lot?” she asks, in the wide backseat of their sleek old car, one leg tucked under her.
“No,” says Sam, at the same time Dean says, “Yes.”
Rory’s pretty sure they’re both telling the truth. “And you’re not going to murder me and dump my body by the side of the highway?” She says it loud and cheery, as though there isn’t a little part of her that’s deeply afraid of what happens to girls in unfamiliar backseats. “Because there’s a whole town in Connecticut that’ll be after you if you do.”
Dean purses his lips. “How big a town?”
“He’s joking,” Sam cuts in. “Please. He’s joking.” Sam’s eyes settle on Rory’s for a moment, his head twisted uncomfortably around to look at her. He looks so much like Dean, like what Dean probably looks like now, five years on. It hurts a little, this unexpected ache in her chest as she meets his eyes.
She starts to wonder what Sam and Dean are to each other. In the bar she assumed Dean was Sam’s wingman, trying to help out a buddy, but looking at them in the front seat, settled so easily in their places that it looks like maybe they live in this car, she wonders how they fit together. And then, with a rush of desire and uncertainty, where they plan for her to fit in.
Rory feels drunker now than she did when they left the bar, a little uncoordinated, and she has to bite her lip to keep back a flow of unnecessary words: “you look like the first boy who ever loved me” and “how do you know I’m not going to pull a Megan Fox and eat you?” Like a stranger in a strange land, she doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of people who don’t speak her language, and Sam and Dean don’t seem like guys who watch a lot of movies. So she keeps careful track of the mile markers along the highway and tries to imagine how she’ll get back to her car at the end of the night.
iii.
Dean watches her and Sam together, watches how Sam meets her eyes so sincerely, like they’re not doing exactly what they’re doing. Sam kisses her gentle and slow in the stairway to the second floor, leans down to whisper as though Dean’s not even there. He can’t hear what they say, but Rory smiles a crooked, hopeful little smile and takes his hand, lets him walk her into their crappy little room as if it’s someplace better. She moans high and sweet as Sam kisses down the side of her neck, pulls her shirt to the side to graze his teeth against her collarbone. Dean leans by the door, letting them take their time, letting Sam undress her. He never knows how much Sam wants him to participate, and that’s fine because Dean likes to watch.
Rory’s skin is smooth and pale, freckles spread across her shoulders, down her arms, and Sam is kissing her everywhere, mouthing over the soft curves of her breasts in pale pink lace, hands spread low on her hips, flirting with the waist of her jeans. Sam looks up, over her shoulder at Dean, and Dean nods. Sam’s doing fine without him.
He urges her onto the bed, strips out of his shirts so she’s distracted by his chest when he starts on her fly. “Okay?” says Sam, low against her cheek, and Rory rolls her jeans off her hips. Her panties are pink lace to match her bra, flimsy little scrap of fabric between Sam’s long fingers and the heat of her. He cups her, strokes her, and she shuts her eyes, rolling her head against the pillow. Dean pushes off from the wall, comes over for a closer look.
“What do you want, Rory?” Dean asks, and her eyes fly open.
She looks at Sam, folded up between her legs, and whispers, “Dean,” then bites her lip like she knows that’s wrong.
Dean doesn’t kiss her mouth, starts under her chin and works his way down, leaving her mouth to Sam as he settles between her legs. Rory shivers as he pulls her panties down, hitches out a moan against Sam’s lips as Dean licks into her the first time. She’s wet for them, tangy and warm against Dean’s mouth, soft and trembling under his tongue. He spreads her open with his fingers, sucks at her clit until she cries out and reaches for him, her fingers clutched frantically against his scalp as she comes. Sam’s mouth is bitten red, and they’re both watching Dean as he glances up.
He passes Sam a condom, and Sam holds it up, pinched between two fingers, asking permission. Rory nods, kissing him again.
Dean watches Sam move in her, their noses pressed together, breathing each other’s breath. She’s looking up into his face, watching Sam like she can’t believe he’s really there. Sam is looking right back, dropping little kisses at the corners of her mouth as he fucks her. For a second Dean can see how they would’ve been together if Sam had met her someplace else, if their lives weren’t fucked sideways already.
She leaves after coffee in the morning, sheepish smile and t-shirt turned inside out. Sam stands in the doorway, shifting on his feet as he stumbles through the morning-after spiel. Sam talks in wandering half-sentences, Rory in nervous little bursts. “I could call you if, you know, we’re around, and…”
“Yeah,” she says. “Great. Do that. If you’re.”
“Will you, ah, can you get back okay? I mean…”
“I can. I’ll be. Yeah. I’ll get a cab. Nice to.” She blushes. They pause. And then Sam bends to kiss her and Rory leans up into it, the soft press of his mouth. He lingers, and Dean thinks for one terrifying moment he’s going to follow her out the door. But then Sam stays and Rory goes, and it’s just the two of them again, Sam and Dean with another stretch of road in front of them.
~fin~