(no subject)
Out of the Lightning Dream
Supernatural
Sam/Jess; R
3,100 words
A/N: Written for amchara in the spn_summerlove challenge, using the prompt Sam/Jess, Stanford-era, summer rain, secrets revealed. Thanks to revisionary and mcee for all their help and generally being awesome. Originally posted here.
It's pissing rain when Sam wakes up, the sky low and colorless. It's 8:36, nine minutes before the alarm's set to go off, and Jess is still asleep, her back to him, knees tucked up close to her chest. Sam brushes the back of his hand along her arm, leans up on his elbow to kiss her shoulder as he reaches over her to turn the alarm clock off. He swings his feet to the floor, knuckles the grit from his eyes.
So much for going to the beach.
Jess'll be disappointed, but Sam can't really find much complaint about spending a day holed up at home with his girl.
He stumbles to the bathroom, yawning expansively, smiling when he steps up behind the sink. There's a note stuck to the mirror, Jess's loopy handwriting on a flower-shaped Post-It. A small list: sunscreen (45+), h2o-proof mascara, lip balm.
Sam sticks his toothbrush in his mouth and peels the note from the mirror, sneaks back out into the bedroom to grab a pen from his nightstand. He crosses out Jess's list and writes his own: bad movies, pajamas, chinese take-out. Then, after a pause: SEX. He thumbs the note back onto the mirror, dead center.
When he walks back into the bedroom, minty-fresh and working a Q-tip around in his ear, Jess is on her belly, the sheet twisted around her ankle. Both arms wrapped around Sam's pillow and her pale hair fanned out across it. In the grey morning light, he can just make out the tiny mole on the tip of her nose.
Her lips purse and then part again, pink and full, and Sam thinks about crawling back into bed with her, waking her up with his mouth on her neck and his hand up her shirt. He pauses with his boxers tugged halfway up his hips, but then Jess murmurs something incoherent and sticks her head under the pillow, and Sam decides he'll let her sleep a little longer. If she's not up in two hours, he'll reconsider. He closes the door behind him.
The rain's finally broken the heat wave that's been hanging thick and oppressive for a week, and Sam opens all the windows while the coffee brews. The sharp smell of hot, wet cement drifts in with the breeze.
He grabs the paper from the landing and flops down on the sofa with the funnies and his coffee, a pencil tucked behind his ear in case he feels like doing the crossword.
*
He comes to at quarter to ten. Grunting, he drags his numb arm out from underneath his head and sits up, shaking out the pins and needles pricking his fingertips. His coffee is exactly the wrong temperature when he takes a sip, lukewarm and slimy in his throat, and he grimaces. Time for a fresh cup.
The bedroom door opens as he's rinsing out the mug, and Jess pads out, dragging her feet, her hair wild and her pink panties sitting crooked on her hips. She smiles when she sees him and Sam's chest goes tight, hot; he loves her like this, all mussed and sleep-rumpled. She pulls her hair up into a messy knot as she shuffles over to kiss him.
"Thank you for letting me sleep in." She tastes like toothpaste. The skin of her back is warm through her shirt, like her breasts crushed against him.
"Did you get my note?"
She nods, eyes twinkling, and pulls away to hoist herself onto the counter. "Not bad for a last-minute change of plans," she teases. "I think it's workable."
Sam abandons his coffee mug in the sink and moves to stand between Jess's parted legs. He kisses her mouth, her chin, noses the warm spot behind her ear. She hooks her ankles behind his knees, cards her fingers through his hair. Hums out a sigh, a small happy sound.
"What do you think we should tackle first?" Sam asks, mouthing the underside of her jaw.
Jess giggles, wiggling out from under his hands and his mouth to slide gracefully, soundlessly, to the floor. "Coffee." Her tank rides up a little when she reaches up to get a mug from the cupboard. "And cartoons." She gathers up her coffee, grabs the Pop Tarts off the top of the fridge, and saunters out of the kitchen, calling behind her, "Ooh, and can you bring the Pop Tarts?"
He thinks of Dean as he grabs the box, remembers a Saturday morning at least a decade ago, at a motel with pea-green carpet. The last two strawberry frosted Pop Tarts and a Batman cartoon on the ancient TV. Two feet of snow on the ground and no word from Dad since long before the phone went out. Sam takes a second to shake off the memory, then steps out into the living room, meeting Jess's smile over the back of the sofa with his own.
*
Jess falls asleep sprawled half on top of him, fifteen minutes into an Invader Zim re-run they've both seen at least twice. He eats the rest of her Pop Tart and mutes the TV, tips his head back against the armrest. His eyes close, his fingers tangling in the soft ends of her hair. Jess's breathing is only slightly out of rhythm with his pulse.
The rain's died down to a soft patter overhead, like drumming fingers, and Sam thinks again of Dad, of Dean. Doesn't miss them, exactly, but wonders where they are, what they're hunting, if they're okay. Last time he saw Dean was through a Greyhound bus window, somewhere in Wyoming. Last time he saw Dad was through the parted curtain of another sad, squat motel on the side of a no-name highway.
He hasn't heard from either of them in almost a year, and mostly it's okay. It's what he wanted.
Jess doesn't even ask anymore, about his family, and Sam never told her much to begin with. He knows Jess doesn't understand, but she leaves it alone, never presses; it's something they talk around, not about. Still, sometimes when she's talking about her brother or her parents, she looks guilty.
*
They spend the morning like that, dozing and waking in turns to change the channel or shift around a little when hands or feet go numb. Bits of commercials and songs and sitcom laugh tracks weave through Sam's dreams, distorted and out of tune. The back of his neck and his knees are damp; Jess's leg sticks to his, her arm hot across his stomach. The rain picks up again, and Sam's dreams go flat and grey.
She wakes him up a little before one, pushes up onto her elbow and squints down at him accusingly.
"You ate the other half of my Pop Tart." Her voice is thick and groggy, but her mouth splits into a smile as she pokes him in the chest. "Now you have to pay for the Chinese food."
Sam hums agreeably, his stomach rumbling. "Let's order it now," he says, threading his fingers through her hair and pulling her down for a sleepy kiss. "I'm starving."
They pore over the menu for twenty minutes before settling on their usual: four eggrolls (three for him, one for her), pot stickers, sweet and sour chicken, vegetable chow mein, shrimp with snow peas, and mu shu pork with extra pancakes. Sam hands her the phone with a wide smile and a kiss to her cheek.
"You order, I'm gonna go shower real quick."
He runs the water a little cool, ducks his head to let the spray hit his closed eyes for a minute. The bathroom door opens and he slicks his hair back off his face, reaching for the soap.
"Jess?" He can see her silhouette on the other side of the shower, distorted by the cheap vinyl. "There a problem with the food?"
The curtain pulls back, and it only takes him the second to blink the water from his eyes to realize she's naked, grinning as she steps up behind him, her arms going around his middle.
"Nope, no problem." Her breasts crush hotly against his back, heat blooming across Sam's chest when she drags her nails lightly down his flanks, settling low in his belly as she palms his hips. "I told them to bring it in an hour."
He starts to turn around, to grab her and press her back against the wall, maybe hike her up and push into her, but she makes a small protesting noise and closes her teeth on his shoulder, soothing the sting with the flat of her tongue, warmer than his skin. She fists his cock loosely, thumbs the head before stroking down the length of it.
He moans, hitching into her hand, and slaps his palm against the tile for balance. The soap slips through his fingers, knocks against his foot and floats towards the drain.
"I did come in here to get clean, you know," he grins, the jet of water beating against his throat, right where his breath is lodged. His eyes slipped closed.
"Well, you can get dirty first."
She gives his cock another slow pull, and Sam sways on his feet, moaning. The hand not holding him up reaches back blindly and curves over Jess's thigh, squeezing mindlessly, once for every two strokes of her hand.
The careful measure of his breathing starts to come apart, stuttering into a hitch at the scrape of her thumbnail over his nipple, the next swipe of her palm over his dick. She chuckles at the jerk of his hips, a warm huff of air against his neck, and Sam's belly tightens warningly.
He stumbles when he turns, clumsy and too close, and crowds her back against the shower wall, needing to kiss her. His pulse thunders in his ears, the water pounds against his back, and he comes with a grunt, spurting across her wrist and her stomach, his hand tangled in her hair.
She kisses him through it, licks a quiet moan into his mouth when he runs his hand between her legs, just feeling her. She's wet, soft; he tries to push her thighs apart but she squirms away with a quiet Mmm, later, gives his balls a light squeeze before stepping around him to grab her shampoo.
Sam turns and half-collapses back against the tile, eyeing the long curve of her throat, the jut of her breasts as she tips her head back into the spray, wetting her hair. She catches his eye and grins, beckons him over with the crook of her finger.
"Lather me up?" she asks, and he nods, grinning, pushing away from the wall.
*
They're still getting dressed--or pretending to, Jess lying on the bed in her panties and Sam still in his towel, nuzzling the sweet-smelling skin of her belly--when the doorbell rings.
"Shit," Sam mutters, biting at Jess's hip before scrambling up and grabbing a pair of sweats from the floor, cleaner than the ones he threw in the hamper earlier. "Just a sec!" he calls, and doesn't even bother with a shirt, just grabs his wallet from the dresser and steps into the hall to open the front door.
The delivery guy is small, stooped, missing two teeth when he smiles at Sam's hurried, "Keep the change." It's more to do with wanting to get back inside, to Jess, than generosity, but Sam always overtips; he remembers too many dine-and-dashes and waitresses who got stiffed out of their fifteen percent.
Jess is already in the kitchen when he gets there, grabbing forks and spoons and plates, tucking a whole roll of paper towels under her arm. She's wearing her Hello Kitty tank, the one with the straps that always slip over her shoulder, and Sam's always thought the absent way she pulls them back up is unbelievably and inexplicably sexy. She does it now, and he grins, rustles the bag so that she turns, damp hair swinging.
She gathers everything up in her arms, follows Sam out into the living room. He shakes his head. "We forgot the pork fried rice," she grumps, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. She pulls a carton of plain white rice from the bag and wrinkles her nose at it, then puts it back down.
Sam sits next to her and sets about unpacking the food, tucking a spoon into each of the cartons. He rips into the little wax-lined bag of eggrolls, holding it out to her. "Want one of my eggrolls instead?"
"Yes." She grins and slides both of them onto her plate.
*
When their plates and the cartons are empty, Jess flops back into the corner of the sofa, her head on the armrest and her feet in Sam's lap, clutching her belly. Sam runs his thumb idly over her ankle, clicking through the channels for the fourth time, but all he can find is a lot of golf and racecars, an E! True Hollywood Story, and some lame countdown on VH1.
"Nothing on," he yawns. Jess just nods, her eyes closed. Sam's thumb strokes over her ankle, trips over a ridge of raised skin next to the bone.
He runs his thumb over it again, curious, and turns her ankle so he can see it. The scar is long and smooth, slightly curved. Probably took a few stitches to close. Jess squirms, her ankle twitching. She's ticklish there.
"How'd you manage that?" he asks.
She leans up on her elbows, curls her toes under. "Trying to sneak out my window when I was sixteen. There was this big tree outside my room that I used to climb down, and I don't know why, because I'd done it a million times before, but that night the branch just snapped."
Sam feels the corner of his mouth hitch up. He envies her, with her normal childhood and happy memories, but he loves how easily she shares them, how mindlessly. His fingers flex on her calf.
"Got eight stitches. And grounded for two weeks." She returns his smile, pokes him in the thigh with her big toe. "Now you. Come on, we can swap war stories."
Sam hesitates. He's got plenty of scars, and plenty of stories to go with them, but none he can tell her. He remembers, suddenly, Dad and Bobby doing this. Sitting at Bobby's kitchen table passing a bottle of Jack between them, rolling up sleeves and pant cuffs to show off shiny pink scars shaped like teeth, claws, worse. Remembers crouching at the top of the stairs with Dean, trying to make out what they were saying.
"Sam?" He snaps back to attention and Jess is watching him expectantly, eyebrow quirked. "Fine," she huffs, mock-exasperated, but she's still smiling. "I'll go again. See this one?" She sits up and points to a small circle on her knee; he nods, thumbs her fingers out of the way to feel it. It's older than the one on her ankle, almost invisible. "Rusty nail in our backyard. Hurt like a mofo."
He can't not give her something, some little bit of truth, even if he can't give her all of it.
"I can do you one better," he says, feeling around the top of his foot. "Here." He points between his first and second toes, lifts his foot to show her the matching one underneath. The scars are slightly oval-shaped, a little wider than the one on her knee. "Me and my brother were poking around this abandoned house, and I stepped on a nail. Went straight through my boot."
"Gross!"
He doesn't tell her they were squatting in that house, that they had no electricity or running water, that the boots he was wearing were a size too small and almost worn through. The monsters aren't the only things he doesn't want her to know about.
She climbs astride his lap, pressing him back into the cushions. "Gimme your hand." He does, and she places it under her shirt, to the warm underside of her breast, where he knows there's an L-shaped scar just above her ribs. He traces it with his fingertip, lets his thumb idly circle her nipple. She shivers out a laugh, threads her fingers through his hair.
"That one there," she says, soft and little shaky, "is the first, last, and only time I ever did Jager shots. I fell on a glass coffee table."
Sam sits up to kiss her, to cup her other breast in his hand, full and heavy and hot. Jess licks her lips and his, raises her arms to let him pull her tank over her head. Her nipples are the same color as her mouth, pebbling under his tongue.
Jess pushes her hands down the back of Sam's sweats, kneels up to tug them down over his hips. His cock bobs out, the wet head streaking the inside of her thigh. She revs into him and he groans, his mouth smearing across her throat.
His eyes slit open when she shimmies back, his empty hands curling into fists as he watches her step out of her panties. The breeze shifts, and all Sam can smell is her. Her skin on the damp air, clinging to his tongue, vanilla-sweet and the bite of fresh sweat underneath.
He can feel the tremble in her thighs when she straddles him again, the quiver of her belly when he slicks his hand through her cunt, opening her to the blunt shove of his fingers. She grits out a curse, his name, her fingers skittering over the scar on his shoulder when she tries to dig in with her slippery fingers.
"What's this one?" she asks.
It takes him a second to remember. Poltergeist. Dad told him not to go upstairs, but he did anyway.
He can't think of a lie, can't think at all with her hand on his cock and her cunt pulsing around his fingers. But he doesn't want to give her any more half-truths, hates that he's ever had to.
"No more war stories," he murmurs, batting her hand away.
She nods, distracted, gasping against his mouth when he sinks into her. Her spine bows under his hands, curving her out of the kiss, and he watches the heave of her tits through hooded eyes, the glistening hollow of her throat, his cock stroking in out of her. Feels her tight and hot and perfect around him, over him, and knows that this is the most honest thing he can give her; that this, at least, has never lied to her.
Supernatural
Sam/Jess; R
3,100 words
A/N: Written for amchara in the spn_summerlove challenge, using the prompt Sam/Jess, Stanford-era, summer rain, secrets revealed. Thanks to revisionary and mcee for all their help and generally being awesome. Originally posted here.
It's pissing rain when Sam wakes up, the sky low and colorless. It's 8:36, nine minutes before the alarm's set to go off, and Jess is still asleep, her back to him, knees tucked up close to her chest. Sam brushes the back of his hand along her arm, leans up on his elbow to kiss her shoulder as he reaches over her to turn the alarm clock off. He swings his feet to the floor, knuckles the grit from his eyes.
So much for going to the beach.
Jess'll be disappointed, but Sam can't really find much complaint about spending a day holed up at home with his girl.
He stumbles to the bathroom, yawning expansively, smiling when he steps up behind the sink. There's a note stuck to the mirror, Jess's loopy handwriting on a flower-shaped Post-It. A small list: sunscreen (45+), h2o-proof mascara, lip balm.
Sam sticks his toothbrush in his mouth and peels the note from the mirror, sneaks back out into the bedroom to grab a pen from his nightstand. He crosses out Jess's list and writes his own: bad movies, pajamas, chinese take-out. Then, after a pause: SEX. He thumbs the note back onto the mirror, dead center.
When he walks back into the bedroom, minty-fresh and working a Q-tip around in his ear, Jess is on her belly, the sheet twisted around her ankle. Both arms wrapped around Sam's pillow and her pale hair fanned out across it. In the grey morning light, he can just make out the tiny mole on the tip of her nose.
Her lips purse and then part again, pink and full, and Sam thinks about crawling back into bed with her, waking her up with his mouth on her neck and his hand up her shirt. He pauses with his boxers tugged halfway up his hips, but then Jess murmurs something incoherent and sticks her head under the pillow, and Sam decides he'll let her sleep a little longer. If she's not up in two hours, he'll reconsider. He closes the door behind him.
The rain's finally broken the heat wave that's been hanging thick and oppressive for a week, and Sam opens all the windows while the coffee brews. The sharp smell of hot, wet cement drifts in with the breeze.
He grabs the paper from the landing and flops down on the sofa with the funnies and his coffee, a pencil tucked behind his ear in case he feels like doing the crossword.
*
He comes to at quarter to ten. Grunting, he drags his numb arm out from underneath his head and sits up, shaking out the pins and needles pricking his fingertips. His coffee is exactly the wrong temperature when he takes a sip, lukewarm and slimy in his throat, and he grimaces. Time for a fresh cup.
The bedroom door opens as he's rinsing out the mug, and Jess pads out, dragging her feet, her hair wild and her pink panties sitting crooked on her hips. She smiles when she sees him and Sam's chest goes tight, hot; he loves her like this, all mussed and sleep-rumpled. She pulls her hair up into a messy knot as she shuffles over to kiss him.
"Thank you for letting me sleep in." She tastes like toothpaste. The skin of her back is warm through her shirt, like her breasts crushed against him.
"Did you get my note?"
She nods, eyes twinkling, and pulls away to hoist herself onto the counter. "Not bad for a last-minute change of plans," she teases. "I think it's workable."
Sam abandons his coffee mug in the sink and moves to stand between Jess's parted legs. He kisses her mouth, her chin, noses the warm spot behind her ear. She hooks her ankles behind his knees, cards her fingers through his hair. Hums out a sigh, a small happy sound.
"What do you think we should tackle first?" Sam asks, mouthing the underside of her jaw.
Jess giggles, wiggling out from under his hands and his mouth to slide gracefully, soundlessly, to the floor. "Coffee." Her tank rides up a little when she reaches up to get a mug from the cupboard. "And cartoons." She gathers up her coffee, grabs the Pop Tarts off the top of the fridge, and saunters out of the kitchen, calling behind her, "Ooh, and can you bring the Pop Tarts?"
He thinks of Dean as he grabs the box, remembers a Saturday morning at least a decade ago, at a motel with pea-green carpet. The last two strawberry frosted Pop Tarts and a Batman cartoon on the ancient TV. Two feet of snow on the ground and no word from Dad since long before the phone went out. Sam takes a second to shake off the memory, then steps out into the living room, meeting Jess's smile over the back of the sofa with his own.
*
Jess falls asleep sprawled half on top of him, fifteen minutes into an Invader Zim re-run they've both seen at least twice. He eats the rest of her Pop Tart and mutes the TV, tips his head back against the armrest. His eyes close, his fingers tangling in the soft ends of her hair. Jess's breathing is only slightly out of rhythm with his pulse.
The rain's died down to a soft patter overhead, like drumming fingers, and Sam thinks again of Dad, of Dean. Doesn't miss them, exactly, but wonders where they are, what they're hunting, if they're okay. Last time he saw Dean was through a Greyhound bus window, somewhere in Wyoming. Last time he saw Dad was through the parted curtain of another sad, squat motel on the side of a no-name highway.
He hasn't heard from either of them in almost a year, and mostly it's okay. It's what he wanted.
Jess doesn't even ask anymore, about his family, and Sam never told her much to begin with. He knows Jess doesn't understand, but she leaves it alone, never presses; it's something they talk around, not about. Still, sometimes when she's talking about her brother or her parents, she looks guilty.
*
They spend the morning like that, dozing and waking in turns to change the channel or shift around a little when hands or feet go numb. Bits of commercials and songs and sitcom laugh tracks weave through Sam's dreams, distorted and out of tune. The back of his neck and his knees are damp; Jess's leg sticks to his, her arm hot across his stomach. The rain picks up again, and Sam's dreams go flat and grey.
She wakes him up a little before one, pushes up onto her elbow and squints down at him accusingly.
"You ate the other half of my Pop Tart." Her voice is thick and groggy, but her mouth splits into a smile as she pokes him in the chest. "Now you have to pay for the Chinese food."
Sam hums agreeably, his stomach rumbling. "Let's order it now," he says, threading his fingers through her hair and pulling her down for a sleepy kiss. "I'm starving."
They pore over the menu for twenty minutes before settling on their usual: four eggrolls (three for him, one for her), pot stickers, sweet and sour chicken, vegetable chow mein, shrimp with snow peas, and mu shu pork with extra pancakes. Sam hands her the phone with a wide smile and a kiss to her cheek.
"You order, I'm gonna go shower real quick."
He runs the water a little cool, ducks his head to let the spray hit his closed eyes for a minute. The bathroom door opens and he slicks his hair back off his face, reaching for the soap.
"Jess?" He can see her silhouette on the other side of the shower, distorted by the cheap vinyl. "There a problem with the food?"
The curtain pulls back, and it only takes him the second to blink the water from his eyes to realize she's naked, grinning as she steps up behind him, her arms going around his middle.
"Nope, no problem." Her breasts crush hotly against his back, heat blooming across Sam's chest when she drags her nails lightly down his flanks, settling low in his belly as she palms his hips. "I told them to bring it in an hour."
He starts to turn around, to grab her and press her back against the wall, maybe hike her up and push into her, but she makes a small protesting noise and closes her teeth on his shoulder, soothing the sting with the flat of her tongue, warmer than his skin. She fists his cock loosely, thumbs the head before stroking down the length of it.
He moans, hitching into her hand, and slaps his palm against the tile for balance. The soap slips through his fingers, knocks against his foot and floats towards the drain.
"I did come in here to get clean, you know," he grins, the jet of water beating against his throat, right where his breath is lodged. His eyes slipped closed.
"Well, you can get dirty first."
She gives his cock another slow pull, and Sam sways on his feet, moaning. The hand not holding him up reaches back blindly and curves over Jess's thigh, squeezing mindlessly, once for every two strokes of her hand.
The careful measure of his breathing starts to come apart, stuttering into a hitch at the scrape of her thumbnail over his nipple, the next swipe of her palm over his dick. She chuckles at the jerk of his hips, a warm huff of air against his neck, and Sam's belly tightens warningly.
He stumbles when he turns, clumsy and too close, and crowds her back against the shower wall, needing to kiss her. His pulse thunders in his ears, the water pounds against his back, and he comes with a grunt, spurting across her wrist and her stomach, his hand tangled in her hair.
She kisses him through it, licks a quiet moan into his mouth when he runs his hand between her legs, just feeling her. She's wet, soft; he tries to push her thighs apart but she squirms away with a quiet Mmm, later, gives his balls a light squeeze before stepping around him to grab her shampoo.
Sam turns and half-collapses back against the tile, eyeing the long curve of her throat, the jut of her breasts as she tips her head back into the spray, wetting her hair. She catches his eye and grins, beckons him over with the crook of her finger.
"Lather me up?" she asks, and he nods, grinning, pushing away from the wall.
*
They're still getting dressed--or pretending to, Jess lying on the bed in her panties and Sam still in his towel, nuzzling the sweet-smelling skin of her belly--when the doorbell rings.
"Shit," Sam mutters, biting at Jess's hip before scrambling up and grabbing a pair of sweats from the floor, cleaner than the ones he threw in the hamper earlier. "Just a sec!" he calls, and doesn't even bother with a shirt, just grabs his wallet from the dresser and steps into the hall to open the front door.
The delivery guy is small, stooped, missing two teeth when he smiles at Sam's hurried, "Keep the change." It's more to do with wanting to get back inside, to Jess, than generosity, but Sam always overtips; he remembers too many dine-and-dashes and waitresses who got stiffed out of their fifteen percent.
Jess is already in the kitchen when he gets there, grabbing forks and spoons and plates, tucking a whole roll of paper towels under her arm. She's wearing her Hello Kitty tank, the one with the straps that always slip over her shoulder, and Sam's always thought the absent way she pulls them back up is unbelievably and inexplicably sexy. She does it now, and he grins, rustles the bag so that she turns, damp hair swinging.
She gathers everything up in her arms, follows Sam out into the living room. He shakes his head. "We forgot the pork fried rice," she grumps, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. She pulls a carton of plain white rice from the bag and wrinkles her nose at it, then puts it back down.
Sam sits next to her and sets about unpacking the food, tucking a spoon into each of the cartons. He rips into the little wax-lined bag of eggrolls, holding it out to her. "Want one of my eggrolls instead?"
"Yes." She grins and slides both of them onto her plate.
*
When their plates and the cartons are empty, Jess flops back into the corner of the sofa, her head on the armrest and her feet in Sam's lap, clutching her belly. Sam runs his thumb idly over her ankle, clicking through the channels for the fourth time, but all he can find is a lot of golf and racecars, an E! True Hollywood Story, and some lame countdown on VH1.
"Nothing on," he yawns. Jess just nods, her eyes closed. Sam's thumb strokes over her ankle, trips over a ridge of raised skin next to the bone.
He runs his thumb over it again, curious, and turns her ankle so he can see it. The scar is long and smooth, slightly curved. Probably took a few stitches to close. Jess squirms, her ankle twitching. She's ticklish there.
"How'd you manage that?" he asks.
She leans up on her elbows, curls her toes under. "Trying to sneak out my window when I was sixteen. There was this big tree outside my room that I used to climb down, and I don't know why, because I'd done it a million times before, but that night the branch just snapped."
Sam feels the corner of his mouth hitch up. He envies her, with her normal childhood and happy memories, but he loves how easily she shares them, how mindlessly. His fingers flex on her calf.
"Got eight stitches. And grounded for two weeks." She returns his smile, pokes him in the thigh with her big toe. "Now you. Come on, we can swap war stories."
Sam hesitates. He's got plenty of scars, and plenty of stories to go with them, but none he can tell her. He remembers, suddenly, Dad and Bobby doing this. Sitting at Bobby's kitchen table passing a bottle of Jack between them, rolling up sleeves and pant cuffs to show off shiny pink scars shaped like teeth, claws, worse. Remembers crouching at the top of the stairs with Dean, trying to make out what they were saying.
"Sam?" He snaps back to attention and Jess is watching him expectantly, eyebrow quirked. "Fine," she huffs, mock-exasperated, but she's still smiling. "I'll go again. See this one?" She sits up and points to a small circle on her knee; he nods, thumbs her fingers out of the way to feel it. It's older than the one on her ankle, almost invisible. "Rusty nail in our backyard. Hurt like a mofo."
He can't not give her something, some little bit of truth, even if he can't give her all of it.
"I can do you one better," he says, feeling around the top of his foot. "Here." He points between his first and second toes, lifts his foot to show her the matching one underneath. The scars are slightly oval-shaped, a little wider than the one on her knee. "Me and my brother were poking around this abandoned house, and I stepped on a nail. Went straight through my boot."
"Gross!"
He doesn't tell her they were squatting in that house, that they had no electricity or running water, that the boots he was wearing were a size too small and almost worn through. The monsters aren't the only things he doesn't want her to know about.
She climbs astride his lap, pressing him back into the cushions. "Gimme your hand." He does, and she places it under her shirt, to the warm underside of her breast, where he knows there's an L-shaped scar just above her ribs. He traces it with his fingertip, lets his thumb idly circle her nipple. She shivers out a laugh, threads her fingers through his hair.
"That one there," she says, soft and little shaky, "is the first, last, and only time I ever did Jager shots. I fell on a glass coffee table."
Sam sits up to kiss her, to cup her other breast in his hand, full and heavy and hot. Jess licks her lips and his, raises her arms to let him pull her tank over her head. Her nipples are the same color as her mouth, pebbling under his tongue.
Jess pushes her hands down the back of Sam's sweats, kneels up to tug them down over his hips. His cock bobs out, the wet head streaking the inside of her thigh. She revs into him and he groans, his mouth smearing across her throat.
His eyes slit open when she shimmies back, his empty hands curling into fists as he watches her step out of her panties. The breeze shifts, and all Sam can smell is her. Her skin on the damp air, clinging to his tongue, vanilla-sweet and the bite of fresh sweat underneath.
He can feel the tremble in her thighs when she straddles him again, the quiver of her belly when he slicks his hand through her cunt, opening her to the blunt shove of his fingers. She grits out a curse, his name, her fingers skittering over the scar on his shoulder when she tries to dig in with her slippery fingers.
"What's this one?" she asks.
It takes him a second to remember. Poltergeist. Dad told him not to go upstairs, but he did anyway.
He can't think of a lie, can't think at all with her hand on his cock and her cunt pulsing around his fingers. But he doesn't want to give her any more half-truths, hates that he's ever had to.
"No more war stories," he murmurs, batting her hand away.
She nods, distracted, gasping against his mouth when he sinks into her. Her spine bows under his hands, curving her out of the kiss, and he watches the heave of her tits through hooded eyes, the glistening hollow of her throat, his cock stroking in out of her. Feels her tight and hot and perfect around him, over him, and knows that this is the most honest thing he can give her; that this, at least, has never lied to her.