A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head: Ch. 3 - Her Crooked Handiwork
For the we_take_five ficathon: prompt, smear.
Title: A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter: 3 of 4: Her Crooked Handiwork
Wordcount: 2850-ish
Fandom & Pairings: Supernatural - Dean/Jo(centric), Sam/Jo
Rating: NC-17, Violence, Language, Sexuality
Genre: Angst/Drama/Action
Warnings: Spoilers up to BUABS
Thanks to: kmousie & purestvixen who make this so easy. And thanks to crack_impala for reccing this! It's very flattering! And thanks again for all the wonderful comments so far!
previous
Ch. 1 - Humans are Animals Too
Ch. 2 - Thank God for Independence Day
A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter 3: Her Crooked Handiwork
Interstate 80
"Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made." - Immanuel Kant
Jo and Dean never talk about what happened that day. For the most part, they don’t talk at all.
The tension is stretched thin, like an elastic band holding together a too-small bunch of pencils, wrapping around and around the three of them, closing them in, too tight to breathe. They move together. They hunt together. They exist together. And things continue as they had before. Only after a while, Sam stops seeing the point in pretending to bunk with Dean.
A few more weeks in Wyoming, and they’re kicking up dust as they chase a nest of vampires all the way from Rock Springs to Casper. They’re in Laramie before they kill the last of them; by that time, they’re so exhausted that they sleep for three days.
It’s already August by the time they drive through Nebraska. It’s hot and dry and Jo sleeps - at least pretends to sleep - the entire time. Nobody mentions the Roadhouse or Ellen.
Nobody dares.
Some nights after a hunt, Jo fucks Sam with more vigor than he thinks he can handle, and on more than one occasion, he wakes up with marks all over his body, bruises and scratches and remnants of her.
He stops asking her what’s wrong in Deep River, Iowa after they salt and burn the remains of a former prostitute.
She never complains.
There are some days when Dean can’t even look at his brother, and that’s what kills him the most. Fuck Jo and her pink underwear. Fuck her pink lips and fuck her coconut-smelling fucking hair. ‘Cause he and Sammy have never kept secrets, at least none that matter. And this matters.
So there are some days he wants her to go, but there are some days he wants her to stay. He knows it’s not worth it, but there’s just something…
Dean only yells at her once.
During a dry spell in Clear Lake, Indiana, she gets bored and buys some wax for the Impala. Only it’s the wrong kind, and Dean catches her way too late. Sam says he’s overreacting, and Jo swings and misses, with Sam’s arm catching her around the waist just in time. She was only trying to help, she says, but Dean is pretty irrational when it comes to that car, Sam tells her.
She knows it’s more than that.
That night in the motel room, Sam is sure she nearly dislocates his shoulder when she pulls him so close and tight while they make love, molding herself to him, sinking into him, afraid to let go. He swears she wishes it were her inside of him instead of the other way around, and when she tightens around him, she cries.
They’re driving through the Poconos and Jo’s riding shotgun when Sam falls asleep in the back seat and Dean turns off the cassette deck for the first time. They don’t talk for a while and just drive straight ahead, the Pennsylvania landscape sliding by them, black in the night.
“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Dean asks, after making sure that Sam’s asleep for the hundredth time.
“Tell him what?” she says, and that’s all Dean needs to hear before he hits the stereo again.
Princeton, New Jersey
It is Dean who drives her away from them.
It starts in Princeton when he slips up during a routine demon possession - a kind of Bonnie and Clyde duo. Sam tells Jo that the real Bonnie and Clyde were actually possessed, a story Dad had told them when they were kids. Dean doesn’t remember this story and wonders if Sam’s just making it up.
Dean would never admit it, but it’s this kind of demon possession that scares him because these sons of bitches don’t have any agenda other than to cause as much pain as they can before they find a better home. They’ve got nothing to lose, no grudge, no ritual, no angle, and that makes them dangerous.
They’re outside the city, some kind of old factory, and Sam’s got the mister all tied up and ready to exorcise. But the chick? Well, she’s the troublesome one. Isn’t it always the chick? Jo and Dean go after her, leaving Sam with his book and his incantations. It’s in the bag, only not really, because Jo loses her weapon and that spunky little brunette with demon on the inside is on top of her before she even realizes it.
And that’s when it happens.
A little holy water and Bonnie’s running scared, or so they think. Jo’s not hurt, a bloody lip and the wind knocked out of her is all. “Go! Get the girl!” she tells him, but he’s got that look on his face, the one he gets when he thinks Sam’s in trouble, and she knows there will be no arguing with him.
She lets him help her up and his arm is around her and they’re closer than they’ve been since that day and their eyes connect just a little too long. She doesn’t see it happen, and neither does he, but all of a sudden he groans and grabs his side, and then she’s the one holding him up.
Bonnie’s little blade sure can make a nice hole.
Dean wakes up twice before he really wakes up, and both times it’s Sam beside him.
“I got there just in time,” Sam says the first time. “I’m okay. Jo’s okay. We’re all okay. Well… you’re not okay. Clearly.”
Dean’s head is spinning, and he barely registers what his brother is saying, only remembers it later. He’s feverish and hungry but is out again before it matters.
The second time, Sam’s too busy watching cartoons to even notice he’s awake.
“Dude,” Dean mumbles. “I need drugs.”
“You’re awake,” Sam says, surprised, and clicks off the television.
“And in pain.”
“I’ll get something.”
He pulls up his shirt and examines his abdomen where Bonnie sliced him good on his left side while Sam rummages around in the bathroom for something strong enough to knock him out. The stitches are hers, he knows, and the scars from her crooked handiwork will last well beyond the pain. He fingers the black threads and winces, the wound still fresh.
He’s already asleep by the time his brother finds the bottle of vicodin.
When he finally does wake up, it’s a week before he sees her. And it’s only for a minute, but it’s long enough to know she’s still alive, to see it with his own eyes, long enough for him to remember the reason he put himself in this position, the reason he’s got a knife wound in his gut, the reason he slipped up, just like he said Sam would, long enough for their eyes to meet and long enough for him to know that she knows too.
The next time he sees her, she’s right by his side in the chair by the bed, her gaze fixed on him. It’s not that fire of anger he remembers when they argued back in Jackson Hole. It’s not the looks she used to give him before he screwed everything up, back when he could have had her if he wanted her, but it isn’t fear either. He’s seen it before, if only he could place it, and then he would know what she’s thinking. He was always so bad at that.
He closes his eyes and remembers. He remembers the times he’s seen that look in her eyes, and there are only two.
One was after Sam, when he made that promise, before he turned away, when she thought he couldn’t see her anymore, but not even then, not really. Because there was still hope then, even so very little.
It was that other day, when the sun beat down and they’d just drug her out of that hole and he thought, oh, he thought. But it was the memory that did it to her, or rather, the shattering of one. It was her father and his father and their fathers, and the truth about them, and the pain. And when he opened his eyes, there it was again, and did he do that to her? Maybe it’s the painkillers, because he just doesn’t remember doing that to her.
They sit like that for a long time, him on the bed, her on that chair, leaning onto her knees, face to face. He doesn’t know where Sam is now and for a minute he doesn’t even care because there is really so much to say, and at the same time, so very little.
He had given himself away, and she, well, she was never that great at hiding in the first place, maybe from herself but not from him, not when she shivered under his touch up against that motel wall in Jackson Hole and not when she lost herself in his brother - a fact he couldn’t blame her for.
He blinks and she’s up, moving away, walking towards the door. He stands, leans, whatever, and wants to call for her but there’s no need because she’s already at his side and she’s helping him back onto the bed and she’s shushing him, and the feeling of her arm around his back and her fingers laced with his is almost too much, and God, the drugs.
She lowers him onto the bed, and his weight pulls her down with him, and they’re sitting next to each other, legs over the side, with his tight grip and refusal to let her go. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t say anything. She just untangles herself from his arms and smiles a pained smile, that it fucking hurts to smile smile. He’s seen it before, but only once and now it’s gone already and replaced by that look. And that’s when he lowers his lips to hers, crushing them to hers, even though what he means to say is, I’m done pretending. He pushes his tongue through her soft lips, exploring that dark place inside and maybe, maybe he can stop himself, but no.
And what she means to say is, I know, I’m sorry, and possibly, you need to brush your teeth, but instead she kisses him back. This time it isn’t angry or hard, but desperate and full of bitter need, their hands searching, his landing in her hair and on her stomach, hers on his face, his hair, his neck.
They both know it is the beginning of the end.
Jo moans when they finally disconnect, his taste still on her lips, their breath coming in uneven gasps, hands still roaming, foreheads connected, exhausted from the wait of it, from the weight of it.
She can see through the thin material of his pajama pants that he’s already hard for her but she doesn’t touch him yet because she’s not sure he wants her to and she’s not sure she can stop once she starts. But then he tugs at the hem of her shirt and she lifts her arms so he can pull it over her head. The light in the room is white, almost sterile, and it’s mid-afternoon so the sun is shining through the curtains and is reflected in her hair as he drops her shirt to the floor beside the bed. The way he looks at her in that moment, those green eyes of his so filled with urgency, is all the answer she needs.
She’s on top of him then, straddling him on the edge of the bed, and this time when their lips collide, there is no finesse in it at all. It reminds her of the last time, only different. His hands connect with her skin, first at her waist, then up her back to her shoulders, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of his calloused hands on her, finally on her, and she bites down on his bottom lip, plush and soft beneath her tongue. And now she thinks she needs this more than he does.
She grinds her warmth onto his hardness and smiles into his mouth when he moans softly at the sensation. He falls back when her inner thigh bumps roughly against his wound. The sound elicited from his lips is not one of pleasure. He brings one hand to his side where the sutures are exposed below the hem of his t-shirt. “Shit. I can’t,” he says, but he doesn’t really mean that. He wants to, does he ever, but he’s not sure his body will let him.
Jo just closes her mouth over his and moves her hands to his chest, pressing him down onto the bed. She smoothes her hand down to his abdomen, careful of his side, lower still, dipping her fingers below his pajama pants and wrapping her fingers around the thickness of his cock. He bucks his hips, thrusts into her hand, and groans again, pleasure and pain all rolled into one.
Dean knows he won’t last long, and screw the pain, he needs this now, right fucking now, so he grabs for her waist, yanking at the top of her jeans, fumbling for the button, hastily ripping it open and then the zipper. She steadies his hands with her own and moves away from him for a minute, just long enough to tear out of her jeans and then they connect again, hips and pelvises and hands and lips.
She pulls his shirt over his head, yanking and fighting with the material, parting and panting just long enough to discard it and then reconnect, stomach to stomach, breathing into one another, and rocking into one another even though they’re not quite there yet, not quite connected, still separated by the thin material of her white panties.
She can feel him solid beneath her, can feel his hands cupping her ass, her thighs, moving to pull back the wet fabric between her legs. His unsteady fingers graze the flesh underneath that aches with want and she thinks there’s time but there isn’t and then Dean’s inside of her and she arches her back, kneading into him as she bites back a scream, because she wasn’t quite ready.
Jo doesn’t move, just for a second, feeling him hard inside of her, allowing herself to completely envelop him. When she opens her eyes, she sees the urgency in his, asking her if she’s okay. She gives a quick nod and then feels him trying to start; but he can’t because the hurt is too raw, but the need is even greater and he leans up off the bed and into her and gives a little nudge as he kisses her mouth, lifting her just slightly and then pulling her hips down hard again.
“Dean,” she whimpers into his mouth, saying his name for the first time and it dawns on him he hasn’t heard her voice in weeks and just the sound of it makes him buck into her, her soft tight walls squeezing his cock firmly. He groans, pleasure and pain in the sound in his voice, and she tries to focus on that, rocks her hips back and forth, thinking of all the things they’re forgetting, her whole body aching at the thought.
Their movements turn frenzied as she lifts herself off of him and back down again, the silence in the room now replaced with the sound of their panting, skin against skin, the bed sagging and creaking beneath them.
It’s only another minute and a few more thrusts, pushes, pulls, and then his hands dig into her thighs and then she’s clutching his back. She shudders hard when she comes and bites into his shoulder, pulling him a little too roughly because he groans and pulls back, his stitches coming undone. But he’s not yet done, and she knows the wound will need tending, so she grinds down on him and back up again - quick motions, one, two, three, and then he comes, spilling himself inside of her, grunting and gasping for air.
She finds his mouth, warm and wet and drunk from her despite the pain and lays him back, her hand covering his side where he’s bleeding again, and collapses on him, spent and sweaty and out of breath. And even in this post-coital fog, even then, she knows it’s over.
Jo helps him clean up, sews up the wound, gives him some pills, and they don’t even kiss again before he falls asleep. Sam will be back soon, and he’ll wonder where she’s gone. She could stay, talk to Dean, but she already knows this conversation. She’s had it with herself a thousand times.
He can never know, he’d say, and she would agree.
And we can never…, he wouldn’t finish that sentence, too painful for the both of them. And she would say, I know, and then collect her things. So she decides to skip right to the end, but before she goes, she leaves Sam a note.
I’m sorry, is all it says, and it’s as much of the truth as she can give him.
Coming Soon. The 4th and Final Chapter!
If Not Yet of the Flesh
Title: A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter: 3 of 4: Her Crooked Handiwork
Wordcount: 2850-ish
Fandom & Pairings: Supernatural - Dean/Jo(centric), Sam/Jo
Rating: NC-17, Violence, Language, Sexuality
Genre: Angst/Drama/Action
Warnings: Spoilers up to BUABS
Thanks to: kmousie & purestvixen who make this so easy. And thanks to crack_impala for reccing this! It's very flattering! And thanks again for all the wonderful comments so far!
previous
Ch. 1 - Humans are Animals Too
Ch. 2 - Thank God for Independence Day
A Lover in My Bed, and a Gun to My Head
Chapter 3: Her Crooked Handiwork
Interstate 80
"Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made." - Immanuel Kant
Jo and Dean never talk about what happened that day. For the most part, they don’t talk at all.
The tension is stretched thin, like an elastic band holding together a too-small bunch of pencils, wrapping around and around the three of them, closing them in, too tight to breathe. They move together. They hunt together. They exist together. And things continue as they had before. Only after a while, Sam stops seeing the point in pretending to bunk with Dean.
A few more weeks in Wyoming, and they’re kicking up dust as they chase a nest of vampires all the way from Rock Springs to Casper. They’re in Laramie before they kill the last of them; by that time, they’re so exhausted that they sleep for three days.
It’s already August by the time they drive through Nebraska. It’s hot and dry and Jo sleeps - at least pretends to sleep - the entire time. Nobody mentions the Roadhouse or Ellen.
Nobody dares.
Some nights after a hunt, Jo fucks Sam with more vigor than he thinks he can handle, and on more than one occasion, he wakes up with marks all over his body, bruises and scratches and remnants of her.
He stops asking her what’s wrong in Deep River, Iowa after they salt and burn the remains of a former prostitute.
She never complains.
There are some days when Dean can’t even look at his brother, and that’s what kills him the most. Fuck Jo and her pink underwear. Fuck her pink lips and fuck her coconut-smelling fucking hair. ‘Cause he and Sammy have never kept secrets, at least none that matter. And this matters.
So there are some days he wants her to go, but there are some days he wants her to stay. He knows it’s not worth it, but there’s just something…
Dean only yells at her once.
During a dry spell in Clear Lake, Indiana, she gets bored and buys some wax for the Impala. Only it’s the wrong kind, and Dean catches her way too late. Sam says he’s overreacting, and Jo swings and misses, with Sam’s arm catching her around the waist just in time. She was only trying to help, she says, but Dean is pretty irrational when it comes to that car, Sam tells her.
She knows it’s more than that.
That night in the motel room, Sam is sure she nearly dislocates his shoulder when she pulls him so close and tight while they make love, molding herself to him, sinking into him, afraid to let go. He swears she wishes it were her inside of him instead of the other way around, and when she tightens around him, she cries.
They’re driving through the Poconos and Jo’s riding shotgun when Sam falls asleep in the back seat and Dean turns off the cassette deck for the first time. They don’t talk for a while and just drive straight ahead, the Pennsylvania landscape sliding by them, black in the night.
“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Dean asks, after making sure that Sam’s asleep for the hundredth time.
“Tell him what?” she says, and that’s all Dean needs to hear before he hits the stereo again.
Princeton, New Jersey
It is Dean who drives her away from them.
It starts in Princeton when he slips up during a routine demon possession - a kind of Bonnie and Clyde duo. Sam tells Jo that the real Bonnie and Clyde were actually possessed, a story Dad had told them when they were kids. Dean doesn’t remember this story and wonders if Sam’s just making it up.
Dean would never admit it, but it’s this kind of demon possession that scares him because these sons of bitches don’t have any agenda other than to cause as much pain as they can before they find a better home. They’ve got nothing to lose, no grudge, no ritual, no angle, and that makes them dangerous.
They’re outside the city, some kind of old factory, and Sam’s got the mister all tied up and ready to exorcise. But the chick? Well, she’s the troublesome one. Isn’t it always the chick? Jo and Dean go after her, leaving Sam with his book and his incantations. It’s in the bag, only not really, because Jo loses her weapon and that spunky little brunette with demon on the inside is on top of her before she even realizes it.
And that’s when it happens.
A little holy water and Bonnie’s running scared, or so they think. Jo’s not hurt, a bloody lip and the wind knocked out of her is all. “Go! Get the girl!” she tells him, but he’s got that look on his face, the one he gets when he thinks Sam’s in trouble, and she knows there will be no arguing with him.
She lets him help her up and his arm is around her and they’re closer than they’ve been since that day and their eyes connect just a little too long. She doesn’t see it happen, and neither does he, but all of a sudden he groans and grabs his side, and then she’s the one holding him up.
Bonnie’s little blade sure can make a nice hole.
Dean wakes up twice before he really wakes up, and both times it’s Sam beside him.
“I got there just in time,” Sam says the first time. “I’m okay. Jo’s okay. We’re all okay. Well… you’re not okay. Clearly.”
Dean’s head is spinning, and he barely registers what his brother is saying, only remembers it later. He’s feverish and hungry but is out again before it matters.
The second time, Sam’s too busy watching cartoons to even notice he’s awake.
“Dude,” Dean mumbles. “I need drugs.”
“You’re awake,” Sam says, surprised, and clicks off the television.
“And in pain.”
“I’ll get something.”
He pulls up his shirt and examines his abdomen where Bonnie sliced him good on his left side while Sam rummages around in the bathroom for something strong enough to knock him out. The stitches are hers, he knows, and the scars from her crooked handiwork will last well beyond the pain. He fingers the black threads and winces, the wound still fresh.
He’s already asleep by the time his brother finds the bottle of vicodin.
When he finally does wake up, it’s a week before he sees her. And it’s only for a minute, but it’s long enough to know she’s still alive, to see it with his own eyes, long enough for him to remember the reason he put himself in this position, the reason he’s got a knife wound in his gut, the reason he slipped up, just like he said Sam would, long enough for their eyes to meet and long enough for him to know that she knows too.
The next time he sees her, she’s right by his side in the chair by the bed, her gaze fixed on him. It’s not that fire of anger he remembers when they argued back in Jackson Hole. It’s not the looks she used to give him before he screwed everything up, back when he could have had her if he wanted her, but it isn’t fear either. He’s seen it before, if only he could place it, and then he would know what she’s thinking. He was always so bad at that.
He closes his eyes and remembers. He remembers the times he’s seen that look in her eyes, and there are only two.
One was after Sam, when he made that promise, before he turned away, when she thought he couldn’t see her anymore, but not even then, not really. Because there was still hope then, even so very little.
It was that other day, when the sun beat down and they’d just drug her out of that hole and he thought, oh, he thought. But it was the memory that did it to her, or rather, the shattering of one. It was her father and his father and their fathers, and the truth about them, and the pain. And when he opened his eyes, there it was again, and did he do that to her? Maybe it’s the painkillers, because he just doesn’t remember doing that to her.
They sit like that for a long time, him on the bed, her on that chair, leaning onto her knees, face to face. He doesn’t know where Sam is now and for a minute he doesn’t even care because there is really so much to say, and at the same time, so very little.
He had given himself away, and she, well, she was never that great at hiding in the first place, maybe from herself but not from him, not when she shivered under his touch up against that motel wall in Jackson Hole and not when she lost herself in his brother - a fact he couldn’t blame her for.
He blinks and she’s up, moving away, walking towards the door. He stands, leans, whatever, and wants to call for her but there’s no need because she’s already at his side and she’s helping him back onto the bed and she’s shushing him, and the feeling of her arm around his back and her fingers laced with his is almost too much, and God, the drugs.
She lowers him onto the bed, and his weight pulls her down with him, and they’re sitting next to each other, legs over the side, with his tight grip and refusal to let her go. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t say anything. She just untangles herself from his arms and smiles a pained smile, that it fucking hurts to smile smile. He’s seen it before, but only once and now it’s gone already and replaced by that look. And that’s when he lowers his lips to hers, crushing them to hers, even though what he means to say is, I’m done pretending. He pushes his tongue through her soft lips, exploring that dark place inside and maybe, maybe he can stop himself, but no.
And what she means to say is, I know, I’m sorry, and possibly, you need to brush your teeth, but instead she kisses him back. This time it isn’t angry or hard, but desperate and full of bitter need, their hands searching, his landing in her hair and on her stomach, hers on his face, his hair, his neck.
They both know it is the beginning of the end.
Jo moans when they finally disconnect, his taste still on her lips, their breath coming in uneven gasps, hands still roaming, foreheads connected, exhausted from the wait of it, from the weight of it.
She can see through the thin material of his pajama pants that he’s already hard for her but she doesn’t touch him yet because she’s not sure he wants her to and she’s not sure she can stop once she starts. But then he tugs at the hem of her shirt and she lifts her arms so he can pull it over her head. The light in the room is white, almost sterile, and it’s mid-afternoon so the sun is shining through the curtains and is reflected in her hair as he drops her shirt to the floor beside the bed. The way he looks at her in that moment, those green eyes of his so filled with urgency, is all the answer she needs.
She’s on top of him then, straddling him on the edge of the bed, and this time when their lips collide, there is no finesse in it at all. It reminds her of the last time, only different. His hands connect with her skin, first at her waist, then up her back to her shoulders, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of his calloused hands on her, finally on her, and she bites down on his bottom lip, plush and soft beneath her tongue. And now she thinks she needs this more than he does.
She grinds her warmth onto his hardness and smiles into his mouth when he moans softly at the sensation. He falls back when her inner thigh bumps roughly against his wound. The sound elicited from his lips is not one of pleasure. He brings one hand to his side where the sutures are exposed below the hem of his t-shirt. “Shit. I can’t,” he says, but he doesn’t really mean that. He wants to, does he ever, but he’s not sure his body will let him.
Jo just closes her mouth over his and moves her hands to his chest, pressing him down onto the bed. She smoothes her hand down to his abdomen, careful of his side, lower still, dipping her fingers below his pajama pants and wrapping her fingers around the thickness of his cock. He bucks his hips, thrusts into her hand, and groans again, pleasure and pain all rolled into one.
Dean knows he won’t last long, and screw the pain, he needs this now, right fucking now, so he grabs for her waist, yanking at the top of her jeans, fumbling for the button, hastily ripping it open and then the zipper. She steadies his hands with her own and moves away from him for a minute, just long enough to tear out of her jeans and then they connect again, hips and pelvises and hands and lips.
She pulls his shirt over his head, yanking and fighting with the material, parting and panting just long enough to discard it and then reconnect, stomach to stomach, breathing into one another, and rocking into one another even though they’re not quite there yet, not quite connected, still separated by the thin material of her white panties.
She can feel him solid beneath her, can feel his hands cupping her ass, her thighs, moving to pull back the wet fabric between her legs. His unsteady fingers graze the flesh underneath that aches with want and she thinks there’s time but there isn’t and then Dean’s inside of her and she arches her back, kneading into him as she bites back a scream, because she wasn’t quite ready.
Jo doesn’t move, just for a second, feeling him hard inside of her, allowing herself to completely envelop him. When she opens her eyes, she sees the urgency in his, asking her if she’s okay. She gives a quick nod and then feels him trying to start; but he can’t because the hurt is too raw, but the need is even greater and he leans up off the bed and into her and gives a little nudge as he kisses her mouth, lifting her just slightly and then pulling her hips down hard again.
“Dean,” she whimpers into his mouth, saying his name for the first time and it dawns on him he hasn’t heard her voice in weeks and just the sound of it makes him buck into her, her soft tight walls squeezing his cock firmly. He groans, pleasure and pain in the sound in his voice, and she tries to focus on that, rocks her hips back and forth, thinking of all the things they’re forgetting, her whole body aching at the thought.
Their movements turn frenzied as she lifts herself off of him and back down again, the silence in the room now replaced with the sound of their panting, skin against skin, the bed sagging and creaking beneath them.
It’s only another minute and a few more thrusts, pushes, pulls, and then his hands dig into her thighs and then she’s clutching his back. She shudders hard when she comes and bites into his shoulder, pulling him a little too roughly because he groans and pulls back, his stitches coming undone. But he’s not yet done, and she knows the wound will need tending, so she grinds down on him and back up again - quick motions, one, two, three, and then he comes, spilling himself inside of her, grunting and gasping for air.
She finds his mouth, warm and wet and drunk from her despite the pain and lays him back, her hand covering his side where he’s bleeding again, and collapses on him, spent and sweaty and out of breath. And even in this post-coital fog, even then, she knows it’s over.
Jo helps him clean up, sews up the wound, gives him some pills, and they don’t even kiss again before he falls asleep. Sam will be back soon, and he’ll wonder where she’s gone. She could stay, talk to Dean, but she already knows this conversation. She’s had it with herself a thousand times.
He can never know, he’d say, and she would agree.
And we can never…, he wouldn’t finish that sentence, too painful for the both of them. And she would say, I know, and then collect her things. So she decides to skip right to the end, but before she goes, she leaves Sam a note.
I’m sorry, is all it says, and it’s as much of the truth as she can give him.
Coming Soon. The 4th and Final Chapter!
If Not Yet of the Flesh