the stem of the spine (Sam/Jo, R)
Title: the stem of the spine
Author: Brinny
Character/Pairing: Sam/Jo
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,568
Notes: Written for joans23 for the holidays.
The world kind of ended last month on a wet and rainy day in the middle of July (you keep thinking it was a Tuesday, but you’re not quite sure) and even though you try really hard, you just can’t bring yourself to care. You fought and you bled and you lost. And that was it.
Now that it’s over, you think that hell on earth could probably be a lot worse. At least you’re alive.
You bend and curl your toes and smile.
He sees you sitting on his bed and he scrunches up his forehead and two little lines pinch in between his eyebrows. He’s so cute when he’s mad and the angry slant of his mouth almost makes you want to jump up and kiss him, but you just don’t think that you’re that kind of girl anymore. Really, if you were going to do anything to him, it’d be cutting his throat open and fucking him until you made him see (an apparently nonexistent) God. And probably not in that order, but you don’t count it out, because, hey, that might be fun, too.
You giggle (you’re still that kind of girl, that will never change) and loop your arms underneath your legs, putting your cheek on bended knees. “Hiya, Sam. Hear you fuck dead girls now. What’s that all about?”
He slowly closes his eyes, dark lashes all prettily fanned across his dirt-smudged cheeks, and lifts his hand, trying to choke out the black smoke that he thinks is buried somewhere inside of you, but isn’t. And you giggle again and reach up and slide your fingers through his. He frowns at you. The boy king and you think, so much emphasis on boy.
You sigh and smile, he looks so adorably confused, and then you let go of his hand. It falls a little limply at his side.
“It’d be so much easier if I was a demon, huh?”
“Jo?” he asks. He tips his head to the right and then to the left, wondering. And he totally asked the wrong question, because honestly, who else would you be? D’uh.
“I really look that different?” you ask, an innocent pout on your lips and one eyebrow raised. After demons took over the earth and you died and all that junk, you found yourself with a lot of free time on your hands and it only took you, like, six hours in front of a mirror to learn how to do that. You wiggle your toes again. “I just wiped off all the dirt and climbed about six feet up. Which, well, it sucked, but this really cute guy named Dean told me that he did it and it wasn’t that hard.”
He half-steps and half-trips backward on his ridiculously long legs and you think about poor little Bambi skidding and sliding all over the winter ice and fuck if you don’t giggle for a third freakin’ time. Oh, well. Before all of this Lucifer and fallen angel business, Sam totally saw your orgasm face about a ten times over, so it’s not like a few giggles are all that embarrassing.
“You’re real,” he says, almost asking, and he sounds like he’s about to cry. And if him skeptical and angry made you want to kiss him; him puppy-doggish and sad makes you want to kiss him all the more. (Those soft and kind of lazy kisses with a little too much tongue and hands accidentally slipping under t-shirts. You know, if you did that stuff anymore.)
He’s still a few steps away from you, but he leans over and carefully presses two fingers to your cheek. And you can’t help it, your lips fall open and you let out a soft and low gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve felt skin on skin and Sam’s skin on your skin has always been the right kind of wrong, even when you were alive and pretty and really, really naïve. And the last time somebody touched you, it left a white and blistering handprint low on your neck, right above and between your shoulder blades. Which, whatever, people always tell you that scars are badass.
“How?” he asks.
You don’t exactly know the how of it, never thought to ask about gift horses and their mouths, so you just shrug and say, “Doesn’t matter.”
He’s closer now, warm and wet breath on your neck, and he uses his thumb to push some of your hair out of your face and messily tuck it behind your ear. It’s a sweet thing to do (it’s a Sam thing to do) and you reach out to wind your fingers around his wrist and move your mouth over his. God, you really never realized how much you missed this. And when you kiss him you try not to think about killing him, because that’s why you’re here (you’re pretty sure that’s the reason, anyway).
But then he hooks his hands onto your shoulders and pulls your lips off of his, one thin stream of spit almost comically pausing between both of your mouths, and slumps down on the bed beside you.
“People just don’t come back from the dead, Jo,” he says with a sigh, looking at the floor. There’s a particular brown stain in the shape of a turtle that seems to have caught his eye, because he doesn’t look up at you when he asks, “If you’re not a demon, what are you?”
Well, damned if you know what you are. As far as you know, you’re still you. You’re still Jo Harvelle, wannabe hunter with the shiny, shiny hair. You do know that you were dead, and then you weren’t. And before that, there was a war that went on too long and you were on the losing side, which is how you ended up dead in the first place. And you know that as soon as you were alive again, the only thing you wanted to do was see him. And yeah, there’s still this weird nagging feeling, like a low and whispery voice in your ear, that says Sam Winchester needs to be gutted. But, that’s probably nothing, right?
So, you shrug your shoulders again and look at your hands and say, “I’m just Jo.” And then you knock your knee into his. “And Dean came back. And you. Maybe it’s an epidemic.”
“Dean didn’t come back for long,” he says. His eyes lift up and he stares at your chin, quickly puts his finger below your lips, then takes it away and folds his hands together and leans on elbows digging into thighs. “Plus there was this whole saving angel thing.”
You snort.
Somewhere down the line, you stopped believing in the good kind of angels. It was probably right around the time you had to stick your fingers into a messy hole below your ribs to stop yourself from bleeding out (it didn’t work). And you’d tell him this and then lift up your shirt to show him the scar (you’ve always loved to have proof), but every cut and scrape that ever marked your body is gone.
He laughs a little, almost unsure. “So, you’re just you?”
“Yeah. Just me.”
And you lift your shirt up anyway, pulling it straight up and over your head. Forget God, you’re gonna make him see all those pretty angels sitting on clouds with harps that he seems to believe in. And maybe throat cutting and gutting will come later, but right now you just want to feel him inside of you. And only a little more than you want his blood all hot and sticky on your hands, but more just the same. Killing him after is always, always an option.
You put your knees around his hips and kiss him again. He starts a bit, kind of moving his lips awkwardly with yours, and then he pulls at you and knots his fingers in your hair, slowly pushing his tongue against your neck and moving his lips over your collarbone. You work your fingers over the buttons on his shirt. Skin on skin and his heart beats heavy and steady against your own and you dig your nails into his arm, let just a little blood drip from small half-moons.
“I missed you,” you say, all soft and breathy, rubbing your thumb along the inside of his wrist and kissing his cheeks.
And all he says is, “you’re real” for a second time, his voice low and whispered with his lips lightly touching your ear. And he holds his hand between your shoulder blades and the heel of his palm and the tips of his fingers fit a little too neatly against that blistered scar. He presses his hand down harder and smiles at you, kisses the spot beneath your ear. You shiver, shoulders shaking.
“People just don’t come back from the dead, Jo.”
The world kind of ended last month on a wet and rainy day in July (it was a Wednesday) and Sam Winchester is really fucking sick of fire and demons. He fought and he bled and he lost. He’s supposed to command this army of soulless bodies, his brother is gone, and some girl with a pretty smile that he fucked a couple of times died instead of him.
And now it’s over.
At least she’s alive.
Author: Brinny
Character/Pairing: Sam/Jo
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,568
Notes: Written for joans23 for the holidays.
The world kind of ended last month on a wet and rainy day in the middle of July (you keep thinking it was a Tuesday, but you’re not quite sure) and even though you try really hard, you just can’t bring yourself to care. You fought and you bled and you lost. And that was it.
Now that it’s over, you think that hell on earth could probably be a lot worse. At least you’re alive.
You bend and curl your toes and smile.
He sees you sitting on his bed and he scrunches up his forehead and two little lines pinch in between his eyebrows. He’s so cute when he’s mad and the angry slant of his mouth almost makes you want to jump up and kiss him, but you just don’t think that you’re that kind of girl anymore. Really, if you were going to do anything to him, it’d be cutting his throat open and fucking him until you made him see (an apparently nonexistent) God. And probably not in that order, but you don’t count it out, because, hey, that might be fun, too.
You giggle (you’re still that kind of girl, that will never change) and loop your arms underneath your legs, putting your cheek on bended knees. “Hiya, Sam. Hear you fuck dead girls now. What’s that all about?”
He slowly closes his eyes, dark lashes all prettily fanned across his dirt-smudged cheeks, and lifts his hand, trying to choke out the black smoke that he thinks is buried somewhere inside of you, but isn’t. And you giggle again and reach up and slide your fingers through his. He frowns at you. The boy king and you think, so much emphasis on boy.
You sigh and smile, he looks so adorably confused, and then you let go of his hand. It falls a little limply at his side.
“It’d be so much easier if I was a demon, huh?”
“Jo?” he asks. He tips his head to the right and then to the left, wondering. And he totally asked the wrong question, because honestly, who else would you be? D’uh.
“I really look that different?” you ask, an innocent pout on your lips and one eyebrow raised. After demons took over the earth and you died and all that junk, you found yourself with a lot of free time on your hands and it only took you, like, six hours in front of a mirror to learn how to do that. You wiggle your toes again. “I just wiped off all the dirt and climbed about six feet up. Which, well, it sucked, but this really cute guy named Dean told me that he did it and it wasn’t that hard.”
He half-steps and half-trips backward on his ridiculously long legs and you think about poor little Bambi skidding and sliding all over the winter ice and fuck if you don’t giggle for a third freakin’ time. Oh, well. Before all of this Lucifer and fallen angel business, Sam totally saw your orgasm face about a ten times over, so it’s not like a few giggles are all that embarrassing.
“You’re real,” he says, almost asking, and he sounds like he’s about to cry. And if him skeptical and angry made you want to kiss him; him puppy-doggish and sad makes you want to kiss him all the more. (Those soft and kind of lazy kisses with a little too much tongue and hands accidentally slipping under t-shirts. You know, if you did that stuff anymore.)
He’s still a few steps away from you, but he leans over and carefully presses two fingers to your cheek. And you can’t help it, your lips fall open and you let out a soft and low gasp. It’s been so long since you’ve felt skin on skin and Sam’s skin on your skin has always been the right kind of wrong, even when you were alive and pretty and really, really naïve. And the last time somebody touched you, it left a white and blistering handprint low on your neck, right above and between your shoulder blades. Which, whatever, people always tell you that scars are badass.
“How?” he asks.
You don’t exactly know the how of it, never thought to ask about gift horses and their mouths, so you just shrug and say, “Doesn’t matter.”
He’s closer now, warm and wet breath on your neck, and he uses his thumb to push some of your hair out of your face and messily tuck it behind your ear. It’s a sweet thing to do (it’s a Sam thing to do) and you reach out to wind your fingers around his wrist and move your mouth over his. God, you really never realized how much you missed this. And when you kiss him you try not to think about killing him, because that’s why you’re here (you’re pretty sure that’s the reason, anyway).
But then he hooks his hands onto your shoulders and pulls your lips off of his, one thin stream of spit almost comically pausing between both of your mouths, and slumps down on the bed beside you.
“People just don’t come back from the dead, Jo,” he says with a sigh, looking at the floor. There’s a particular brown stain in the shape of a turtle that seems to have caught his eye, because he doesn’t look up at you when he asks, “If you’re not a demon, what are you?”
Well, damned if you know what you are. As far as you know, you’re still you. You’re still Jo Harvelle, wannabe hunter with the shiny, shiny hair. You do know that you were dead, and then you weren’t. And before that, there was a war that went on too long and you were on the losing side, which is how you ended up dead in the first place. And you know that as soon as you were alive again, the only thing you wanted to do was see him. And yeah, there’s still this weird nagging feeling, like a low and whispery voice in your ear, that says Sam Winchester needs to be gutted. But, that’s probably nothing, right?
So, you shrug your shoulders again and look at your hands and say, “I’m just Jo.” And then you knock your knee into his. “And Dean came back. And you. Maybe it’s an epidemic.”
“Dean didn’t come back for long,” he says. His eyes lift up and he stares at your chin, quickly puts his finger below your lips, then takes it away and folds his hands together and leans on elbows digging into thighs. “Plus there was this whole saving angel thing.”
You snort.
Somewhere down the line, you stopped believing in the good kind of angels. It was probably right around the time you had to stick your fingers into a messy hole below your ribs to stop yourself from bleeding out (it didn’t work). And you’d tell him this and then lift up your shirt to show him the scar (you’ve always loved to have proof), but every cut and scrape that ever marked your body is gone.
He laughs a little, almost unsure. “So, you’re just you?”
“Yeah. Just me.”
And you lift your shirt up anyway, pulling it straight up and over your head. Forget God, you’re gonna make him see all those pretty angels sitting on clouds with harps that he seems to believe in. And maybe throat cutting and gutting will come later, but right now you just want to feel him inside of you. And only a little more than you want his blood all hot and sticky on your hands, but more just the same. Killing him after is always, always an option.
You put your knees around his hips and kiss him again. He starts a bit, kind of moving his lips awkwardly with yours, and then he pulls at you and knots his fingers in your hair, slowly pushing his tongue against your neck and moving his lips over your collarbone. You work your fingers over the buttons on his shirt. Skin on skin and his heart beats heavy and steady against your own and you dig your nails into his arm, let just a little blood drip from small half-moons.
“I missed you,” you say, all soft and breathy, rubbing your thumb along the inside of his wrist and kissing his cheeks.
And all he says is, “you’re real” for a second time, his voice low and whispered with his lips lightly touching your ear. And he holds his hand between your shoulder blades and the heel of his palm and the tips of his fingers fit a little too neatly against that blistered scar. He presses his hand down harder and smiles at you, kisses the spot beneath your ear. You shiver, shoulders shaking.
“People just don’t come back from the dead, Jo.”
The world kind of ended last month on a wet and rainy day in July (it was a Wednesday) and Sam Winchester is really fucking sick of fire and demons. He fought and he bled and he lost. He’s supposed to command this army of soulless bodies, his brother is gone, and some girl with a pretty smile that he fucked a couple of times died instead of him.
And now it’s over.
At least she’s alive.