When the Rain Washes You Clean, You'll Know (The Lovers' Reprise) (SPN/BtVS; Sam/Dean/Buffy; adult)
When the Rain Washes You Clean, You'll Know (The Lovers' Reprise)
Supernatural/Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Buffy/Sam/Dean; adult; warning: ghosts make them do it; 2,975 words
"Let's get out of these wet clothes."
Remix of Blame It On the Rain by amara_m/phantisma, written for
remixredux09. Thanks to luzdeestrellas and mousapelli for looking it over.
~*~
When the Rain Washes You Clean, You'll Know (The Lovers' Reprise)
It's raining the evening Sam and Dean pull into the parking lot of the Red Carpet Inn in Milford, Pennsylvania. According to the news reports that brought them here, it's been raining for seventeen straight days. The sky is gunmetal gray, the air is heavy with water, and the ground is saturated. As he steps out of the car, Dean can feel the dampness on the back of his neck and in between his toes, even through his steel-toed, waterproof boots.
Before Dean can tell him to stay in the car--no need for them both to get wet--Sam is unfolding himself from the passenger seat and stepping out into the rain. Sam glances up at the sky--the rain has slowed to a trickle for the moment, the kind of lazy spitting that usually happens at the beginning or end of a storm--and the humidity makes his hair frizz in a halo around his head. Even after everything, it suits him more than any of the actual angels Dean's met. He gives Dean an apologetic half-smile, the kind that makes him look about six, and shrugs a shoulder.
The lady behind the reservation counter gives them a look that's a combination of hopeful and resigned. Dean can't think they're getting much business with the weather the way it is. He's not sure they get much business even when they're not reenacting the flood without the ark, but Sam will probably tell him the area's popular with retirees or antiquers or something.
"Two queens or a king?" the lady asks.
"Two queens," Dean says at the same time Sam says, "A king." Dean feels the flush climb his neck and sting the tips of his ears.
She eyes them indulgently. "Lovers' spat?"
"Something like that," Sam says, fingers curling into Dean's waistband, knuckles warm against the skin of his back. "We'll take the king." He gives the lady a grin and hands over a credit card before Dean can protest, and Dean knows he should protest, even though he doesn't want to. Maybe because he doesn't want to.
The room is boring, utilitarian; the huge king bed with its red and white striped comforter dominates the space, making Dean shift uncomfortably. Sam's grin widens into something sharp, something predatory, and Dean swallows hard, turns away. He can feel the heat of Sam's body behind him even before Sam puts his hands on his shoulders, presses the lean, hard length of his body against Dean's back.
They stand there for a long moment, breathing in time, and Dean wants to let himself melt back into Sam, to just sink to the ugly red and grey carpeting and lie there tangled together until the rain stops, but even if he weren't still slightly freaked out by the whole sex with Sam thing, they have a hunt to work.
"So," he says, and he has to clear his voice so it sounds less like he's propositioning Sam and more like he's getting down to work, "six dead people in twelve days, huh?"
The warm gust of Sam's sigh on the back of his neck makes Dean shiver, and he regrets the loss of Sam's body heat as Sam moves away. "Yeah. And in a town this small, it's kind of noticeable." Sam sits down at the desk, pulls out the laptop. "They died in two sets of three."
"Two guys and a girl, right? Was there a pizza place?" The look Sam shoots him could singe his eyebrows off. "What? You like that guy. He was Captain Tightpants."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, and Dean knows it's not the humidity giving him a headache. He should feel bad about that, because he knows Sam has pretty much wrapped this hunt up with a bow for him, a simple salt and burn completely unrelated to the apocalypse bullshit they've been dealing with for months.
"Tony Schwartz came home early from work one night and found his wife in bed with their accountant. The neighbors say there was a screaming fight and then Schwartz killed the wife, the accountant, and himself."
"While I'm sure the fine, upstanding people of Mayberry--"
"Milford."
"--were scandalized, it doesn't sound like our kind of thing." Dean settles on the edge of the bed and contemplates taking his boots off and changing into dry socks, but he's pretty sure they're just going to be heading out again in a few minutes, and he only has one pair of clean socks left.
"Right. Until it happened again, six days later. Dave Muller accused his wife of having an affair with his brother, Steve, and killed them both and then himself."
"Dude, sleeping with your brother's wife is pretty low."
"Steve Muller was out and proud and in a committed relationship. He and Rose--the wife--were planning Dave's surprise fortieth birthday party when Dave killed them."
"Huh." It's not that he doesn't trust Sam's judgment that there's a case here, and it's not that they haven't gone over the details already--it's more that Dean finds the back-and-forth rhythm of these conversations comfortable, familiar. Dean clings to the comfortable and familiar these days, because everything else is weird or awkward, and while he's kind of an expert on weird, he hates awkward with a passion.
"So what's with the six days in between? Some kind of pattern?"
"Don't know yet." Sam pushes a hand through his damp hair; Dean's gaze snags on his long fingers and his own fingers itch with the recollection of how Sam's hair feels sliding between them.
Dean grabs the newspaper article that alerted them to the case and checks the date. "Midnight tonight makes it six days since Dave Muller went nuts and killed his wife and brother."
"Yeah." Sam leans back in the chair and laces his fingers together, smug look on his face.
"You wanna let me in on the secret, smart guy?"
"Forty years ago, there was a similar scandal. Girl named Susan Werner was involved with two brothers--Robert and Brian Dowd. Apparently, Robert discovered what was going on and, well, it didn't end well for any of them."
"So the question is, where are the bodies buried?"
"Milford Cemetery, on Federal Road. They're all in the same plot." Sam grins. "Feel free to tell me how awesome I am at any time."
Dean wishes he'd taken his socks off just so he could throw them at Sam right now.
:::
The brief reprieve from the rain is over by the time they head out to the cemetery, and the rain is coming down in buckets. They're soaked before they even manage to get all the gear out of the trunk, but at least it's warm, Dean thinks.
They trudge through the muddy cemetery towards the grave holding Susan Werner and her boyfriends, which is where they run into the first problem.
"I knew this was going too well," Dean mutters, staring at the yellow police tape cordoning off the creek-side area of the cemetery. The mud is churned up; the graves are gaping like open wounds and the headstones tilt like drunk college kids at the end of a long night of binge drinking.
"At least now we know what set them off."
Dean grunts in agreement and is in the process of ripping down the tape when an arrow zings out of nowhere and buries itself in the nearest tree.
"Just so you know, I meant to do that."
Dean whirls to see a tiny blonde chick aiming a crossbow at him. Her hair is slicked dark by the rain, but her jaw is set in a determined line. Sam steps up beside him and Dean edges a shoulder in front of him, ignoring the annoyed frown Sam shoots at him.
"Lemme guess. It was an evil tree?"
"Dean." Sam's voice is a low warning.
The girl moves closer and Dean doesn't see anything resembling fear on her face. "I was expecting vampires," she says. "Grunge is so 1993, don't you think?"
"Hey," he says, ready to defend his thrift store flannel, but Sam elbows him in the back, so he doesn't. Dean doesn't really like to deal with other hunters these days--Bobby, Ellen and Jo are family, but the rest of them haven't been much use in the war against heaven and hell; half of them are gunning for Sam and the other half can't quite seem to grasp that heaven doesn't mean them any better than hell. But he's not going to run her off. He's pretty sure a tiny thing like her is no match for him and Sam, even on their worst days.
"It's not vampires, it's ghosts," Sam says, holding his hands where she can see them.
She frowns. "Because the graves were disturbed by the flooding?"
"Yeah."
"I hate ghosts." She lowers the crossbow. "There's nothing to beat up."
"No, but you get to set shit on fire, and that's always good for a laugh." He heads towards the open graves carefully, the mud sucking at his boots and the rain softening the stench of decay just a little.
"You really think you can get the bodies to burn in this?" the girl says, though now that she's closer, Dean can see she's around his age. Not really a girl anymore.
"We have a lot of lighter fluid," Sam answers, offering her a helping hand that she probably doesn't need but takes anyway. "I'm Sam, by the way, and this is my brother, Dean."
"I'm Buffy," she says, grinning through the rain. "Nice to meet you."
Lightning splits the sky and Dean only manages to count to two before the thunder roars. The EMF meter in his pocket gives a whine, and the temperature drops about twenty degrees.
"Shit." Dean grabs the shotgun and tosses it to Sam, and then picks up his own gun. The ghosts are hard to spot in the driving rain, but Dean feels the chilly touch of ghostly fingers against his wet skin and shivers. They're too close together to shoot, and the ghosts swirl around them like fog, herding them away from the graves. Dean's ears ring from the thunder and he's momentarily blinded by another flash of lightning.
"The office," Sam says, pointing. "We can hole up there, wait for the rain to let up."
They slip-slide their way through the mud and grass to the office, the ghosts swirling around them as if this is what they want. Dean can hear soft whispers and cries through the white mist, but the only words he can make out are please and yes, like the muffled soundtrack to some softcore porno.
Sam says, "Dean?" and Dean can hear something dark and needy in his voice.
Sam picks the lock on the office door easily, and they tumble inside, the stuffy air warm against Dean's wet skin.
"Let's get out of these wet clothes," Dean says, his voice a low rumble of suggestion he isn't even sure he intends as he strips off his flannel.
"I can help you with that," Buffy says, agile fingers opening the buttons on Sam's shirt and helping him slide it off his shoulders and down his arms.
"Salt," Sam says, and Dean nods, thinking, I have to lay the salt lines, but then Buffy is kissing Sam, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifts her, and all thoughts of salt slip away.
Dean steps closer to get a better look--it's better than porn any day--and one of Buffy's hands reaches out blindly and curls into his t-shirt, pulling him into the embrace. She smiles at him, lips red and slick from Sam's kiss, and one of Sam's hands comes up and cups the back of Dean's head, drawing him even closer. Dean feels like there's something he's forgetting, but the ghostly chill feathering over his skin is lost in the heat of Sam's mouth, which tastes of coffee and cinnamon gum.
Sam pulls back and Dean chases after him, only to be intercepted by Buffy, who twists between them to kiss him hard and deep.
"I want," she whispers against his jaw, and, "please."
"Please, Dean?" Sam adds his plea to hers, eyes dark with desire and hope, and Dean has never been able to resist that look on Sam's face.
"Yeah," he says, leaning in to give Sam another hungry kiss, heat and need spiraling through him, mingled with a curious sense of relief that's edged with a sadness he knows is not his own. "Yeah."
He unzips Buffy's pants and helps her strip them off while Sam undoes his own jeans and shoves his boxers down over his hips. When Buffy's done, she turns to help Dean, her eyes lit with mischief and her fingers curling around his dick for a couple of quick strokes before Sam demands her attention again. He's backed up against the closed door and Buffy climbs him easily, her thin, strong arms and legs wrapped around him like vines.
Sam strokes himself, cock already hard and slick with pre-come, and Dean reaches down to slide his fingers over the wet folds of Buffy's cunt, opening her up so Sam can push inside. Dean thumbs her clit while Sam fucks her, his own dick rubbing the tight cleft of her ass, hips thrusting in time with the rhythm Sam's set up. Their kisses are a messy, wet tangle of lips, tongues, and teeth--Dean knows Sam's a biter, but apparently Buffy is, too, and Dean's lower lip feels swollen and bruised.
Dean uses his hands on both Buffy and Sam--teasing Buffy's nipples and circling her clit, and then moving lower to rub Sam's balls--earning him desperate, encouraging growls from both of them. One of Sam's hands snakes around Dean's hip and grabs his ass, urging him on as they all hurtle closer to orgasm. Buffy tenses between them, and then her whole body trembles; she throws her head back, the ends of her wet hair tickling Dean's shoulder and chest as she comes, Sam's mouth on her tits. Sam raises his head when she goes soft and boneless between them, and Dean kisses him, swallows down his moan when he comes.
Sam twines his fingers with Dean's around Dean's cock, and with a few quick strokes, Dean feels the tension crest and break, pleasure rushing down his spine and out, painting the delicate lines of Buffy's back white with come.
They slump together, breathless and sticky and warm, and that's when Dean feels it again, the ghostly chill against his skin and the soft whisper of thank you. He looks up to see the ghosts dissipate into fine mist that glimmers in the darkness. The rain drums on the roof, louder now than the pounding of blood in his ears, and he sighs, trying to hold onto the post-orgasm afterglow that makes him feel more relaxed than he has in ages.
It only lasts a few minutes, though. Buffy starts to shift between them, and Dean backs away, worried now at what her reaction will be.
With a murmured, "Awkward," she gathers up her clothes and disappears into the bathroom, leaving him alone with Sam.
"I like that girl," he says as they clean up, more to make conversation than anything else.
Sam huffs a laugh. "I wouldn't have guessed."
It's only slightly less awkward when they're all dressed again.
"Well, that was--what it was," Buffy says, brushing her hair out of her eyes and looking at a point somewhere beyond Dean's left shoulder.
Dean's trying to figure out how to ask when Sam says, "Are you sure you're all right?"
Buffy's smile is rueful but not regretful. "Yeah, I'm," she gives a soft, surprised laugh, "I'm good." She meets Dean's gaze briefly in reassurance, and picks up her crossbow. "And now I've got vamps to slay and people to save, so, uh, I'll be seeing you." She takes off, and Sam laughs again, a nervous laugh that makes Dean nervous, too.
"So, what," Dean says, deciding to go on the offensive before Sam can put him on the defensive, "these people never got to have their hot threesome, so they decided to make us do it for them?"
Sam scratches the back of his neck. "Something like that."
"Did you know?"
"When I found the hunt?" Sam shakes his head. "No. I mean, I figured there was some kind of unfinished business, but I never expected it to be, uh, that."
"You think it was enough, or should we--" He tips his head towards the cemetery, where the disturbed graves of Susan Werner and the Dowd brothers remain.
"I think it should be okay, but salting and burning never hurt."
Dean nods and rubs a hand over his jaw. He's heading for the door when Sam grabs his arm, long fingers warm against Dean's skin. "Look, I know you're still--I want you to be okay with this, Dean." He rubs his thumb gently over the thin skin of Dean's wrist, and Dean shivers, heat pooling low in his belly even though he just got off five minutes ago. "I don't want to end up like the Dowds." Sam makes a vague gesture with his free hand, and gives Dean his sincere eyes.
"It's okay, Sam. I'm good." He means it, though he can tell Sam doesn't believe it. He looks up into Sam's eyes and smiles goofily. "Seriously." He reaches up and cups Sam's cheek, pulls him down into a kiss that leaves both of them breathless.
When they're done, they're both wearing goofy smiles, and Dean knows his message has been received. He doesn't even mind going back out into the rain.
end
~*~
This was a pinch hit, and the first remix I wrote this year. The majority of the original author's stories are not generally things I am comfortable or good at writing, but I found this and two Firefly drabbles I thought I could work with, and once I decided to add the plot to what was basically a PWP, it was pretty easy to write.
There was actually going to be more about the original three people whose ghosts were looking for closure, about how the younger brother had been in love with the older brother and the girl Susan had been in love with both of them, and how they'd tried to convince the older brother to go for a threesome and he'd responded badly, but it didn't really fit. It was enough for Sam and Dean to figure this was the unfinished business once it had happened, and the fact that they were already involved sexually with each other is pretty much the reason it doesn't end in another three deaths. And Buffy is, well, she's seen weirder, you know?
I also really like the title I came up with. Thank you, Fleetwood Mac. *g* It'd been on my list of titles for a long time, and I thought it was fitting for this story, so I was happy to use it.
Anyway, I like how it turned out. The original author appears to have liked it, too, so I guess it's a success. Thank you to the people who've commented. I really appreciate it.
~*~
Supernatural/Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Buffy/Sam/Dean; adult; warning: ghosts make them do it; 2,975 words
"Let's get out of these wet clothes."
Remix of Blame It On the Rain by amara_m/phantisma, written for
remixredux09. Thanks to luzdeestrellas and mousapelli for looking it over.
~*~
When the Rain Washes You Clean, You'll Know (The Lovers' Reprise)
It's raining the evening Sam and Dean pull into the parking lot of the Red Carpet Inn in Milford, Pennsylvania. According to the news reports that brought them here, it's been raining for seventeen straight days. The sky is gunmetal gray, the air is heavy with water, and the ground is saturated. As he steps out of the car, Dean can feel the dampness on the back of his neck and in between his toes, even through his steel-toed, waterproof boots.
Before Dean can tell him to stay in the car--no need for them both to get wet--Sam is unfolding himself from the passenger seat and stepping out into the rain. Sam glances up at the sky--the rain has slowed to a trickle for the moment, the kind of lazy spitting that usually happens at the beginning or end of a storm--and the humidity makes his hair frizz in a halo around his head. Even after everything, it suits him more than any of the actual angels Dean's met. He gives Dean an apologetic half-smile, the kind that makes him look about six, and shrugs a shoulder.
The lady behind the reservation counter gives them a look that's a combination of hopeful and resigned. Dean can't think they're getting much business with the weather the way it is. He's not sure they get much business even when they're not reenacting the flood without the ark, but Sam will probably tell him the area's popular with retirees or antiquers or something.
"Two queens or a king?" the lady asks.
"Two queens," Dean says at the same time Sam says, "A king." Dean feels the flush climb his neck and sting the tips of his ears.
She eyes them indulgently. "Lovers' spat?"
"Something like that," Sam says, fingers curling into Dean's waistband, knuckles warm against the skin of his back. "We'll take the king." He gives the lady a grin and hands over a credit card before Dean can protest, and Dean knows he should protest, even though he doesn't want to. Maybe because he doesn't want to.
The room is boring, utilitarian; the huge king bed with its red and white striped comforter dominates the space, making Dean shift uncomfortably. Sam's grin widens into something sharp, something predatory, and Dean swallows hard, turns away. He can feel the heat of Sam's body behind him even before Sam puts his hands on his shoulders, presses the lean, hard length of his body against Dean's back.
They stand there for a long moment, breathing in time, and Dean wants to let himself melt back into Sam, to just sink to the ugly red and grey carpeting and lie there tangled together until the rain stops, but even if he weren't still slightly freaked out by the whole sex with Sam thing, they have a hunt to work.
"So," he says, and he has to clear his voice so it sounds less like he's propositioning Sam and more like he's getting down to work, "six dead people in twelve days, huh?"
The warm gust of Sam's sigh on the back of his neck makes Dean shiver, and he regrets the loss of Sam's body heat as Sam moves away. "Yeah. And in a town this small, it's kind of noticeable." Sam sits down at the desk, pulls out the laptop. "They died in two sets of three."
"Two guys and a girl, right? Was there a pizza place?" The look Sam shoots him could singe his eyebrows off. "What? You like that guy. He was Captain Tightpants."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, and Dean knows it's not the humidity giving him a headache. He should feel bad about that, because he knows Sam has pretty much wrapped this hunt up with a bow for him, a simple salt and burn completely unrelated to the apocalypse bullshit they've been dealing with for months.
"Tony Schwartz came home early from work one night and found his wife in bed with their accountant. The neighbors say there was a screaming fight and then Schwartz killed the wife, the accountant, and himself."
"While I'm sure the fine, upstanding people of Mayberry--"
"Milford."
"--were scandalized, it doesn't sound like our kind of thing." Dean settles on the edge of the bed and contemplates taking his boots off and changing into dry socks, but he's pretty sure they're just going to be heading out again in a few minutes, and he only has one pair of clean socks left.
"Right. Until it happened again, six days later. Dave Muller accused his wife of having an affair with his brother, Steve, and killed them both and then himself."
"Dude, sleeping with your brother's wife is pretty low."
"Steve Muller was out and proud and in a committed relationship. He and Rose--the wife--were planning Dave's surprise fortieth birthday party when Dave killed them."
"Huh." It's not that he doesn't trust Sam's judgment that there's a case here, and it's not that they haven't gone over the details already--it's more that Dean finds the back-and-forth rhythm of these conversations comfortable, familiar. Dean clings to the comfortable and familiar these days, because everything else is weird or awkward, and while he's kind of an expert on weird, he hates awkward with a passion.
"So what's with the six days in between? Some kind of pattern?"
"Don't know yet." Sam pushes a hand through his damp hair; Dean's gaze snags on his long fingers and his own fingers itch with the recollection of how Sam's hair feels sliding between them.
Dean grabs the newspaper article that alerted them to the case and checks the date. "Midnight tonight makes it six days since Dave Muller went nuts and killed his wife and brother."
"Yeah." Sam leans back in the chair and laces his fingers together, smug look on his face.
"You wanna let me in on the secret, smart guy?"
"Forty years ago, there was a similar scandal. Girl named Susan Werner was involved with two brothers--Robert and Brian Dowd. Apparently, Robert discovered what was going on and, well, it didn't end well for any of them."
"So the question is, where are the bodies buried?"
"Milford Cemetery, on Federal Road. They're all in the same plot." Sam grins. "Feel free to tell me how awesome I am at any time."
Dean wishes he'd taken his socks off just so he could throw them at Sam right now.
:::
The brief reprieve from the rain is over by the time they head out to the cemetery, and the rain is coming down in buckets. They're soaked before they even manage to get all the gear out of the trunk, but at least it's warm, Dean thinks.
They trudge through the muddy cemetery towards the grave holding Susan Werner and her boyfriends, which is where they run into the first problem.
"I knew this was going too well," Dean mutters, staring at the yellow police tape cordoning off the creek-side area of the cemetery. The mud is churned up; the graves are gaping like open wounds and the headstones tilt like drunk college kids at the end of a long night of binge drinking.
"At least now we know what set them off."
Dean grunts in agreement and is in the process of ripping down the tape when an arrow zings out of nowhere and buries itself in the nearest tree.
"Just so you know, I meant to do that."
Dean whirls to see a tiny blonde chick aiming a crossbow at him. Her hair is slicked dark by the rain, but her jaw is set in a determined line. Sam steps up beside him and Dean edges a shoulder in front of him, ignoring the annoyed frown Sam shoots at him.
"Lemme guess. It was an evil tree?"
"Dean." Sam's voice is a low warning.
The girl moves closer and Dean doesn't see anything resembling fear on her face. "I was expecting vampires," she says. "Grunge is so 1993, don't you think?"
"Hey," he says, ready to defend his thrift store flannel, but Sam elbows him in the back, so he doesn't. Dean doesn't really like to deal with other hunters these days--Bobby, Ellen and Jo are family, but the rest of them haven't been much use in the war against heaven and hell; half of them are gunning for Sam and the other half can't quite seem to grasp that heaven doesn't mean them any better than hell. But he's not going to run her off. He's pretty sure a tiny thing like her is no match for him and Sam, even on their worst days.
"It's not vampires, it's ghosts," Sam says, holding his hands where she can see them.
She frowns. "Because the graves were disturbed by the flooding?"
"Yeah."
"I hate ghosts." She lowers the crossbow. "There's nothing to beat up."
"No, but you get to set shit on fire, and that's always good for a laugh." He heads towards the open graves carefully, the mud sucking at his boots and the rain softening the stench of decay just a little.
"You really think you can get the bodies to burn in this?" the girl says, though now that she's closer, Dean can see she's around his age. Not really a girl anymore.
"We have a lot of lighter fluid," Sam answers, offering her a helping hand that she probably doesn't need but takes anyway. "I'm Sam, by the way, and this is my brother, Dean."
"I'm Buffy," she says, grinning through the rain. "Nice to meet you."
Lightning splits the sky and Dean only manages to count to two before the thunder roars. The EMF meter in his pocket gives a whine, and the temperature drops about twenty degrees.
"Shit." Dean grabs the shotgun and tosses it to Sam, and then picks up his own gun. The ghosts are hard to spot in the driving rain, but Dean feels the chilly touch of ghostly fingers against his wet skin and shivers. They're too close together to shoot, and the ghosts swirl around them like fog, herding them away from the graves. Dean's ears ring from the thunder and he's momentarily blinded by another flash of lightning.
"The office," Sam says, pointing. "We can hole up there, wait for the rain to let up."
They slip-slide their way through the mud and grass to the office, the ghosts swirling around them as if this is what they want. Dean can hear soft whispers and cries through the white mist, but the only words he can make out are please and yes, like the muffled soundtrack to some softcore porno.
Sam says, "Dean?" and Dean can hear something dark and needy in his voice.
Sam picks the lock on the office door easily, and they tumble inside, the stuffy air warm against Dean's wet skin.
"Let's get out of these wet clothes," Dean says, his voice a low rumble of suggestion he isn't even sure he intends as he strips off his flannel.
"I can help you with that," Buffy says, agile fingers opening the buttons on Sam's shirt and helping him slide it off his shoulders and down his arms.
"Salt," Sam says, and Dean nods, thinking, I have to lay the salt lines, but then Buffy is kissing Sam, her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifts her, and all thoughts of salt slip away.
Dean steps closer to get a better look--it's better than porn any day--and one of Buffy's hands reaches out blindly and curls into his t-shirt, pulling him into the embrace. She smiles at him, lips red and slick from Sam's kiss, and one of Sam's hands comes up and cups the back of Dean's head, drawing him even closer. Dean feels like there's something he's forgetting, but the ghostly chill feathering over his skin is lost in the heat of Sam's mouth, which tastes of coffee and cinnamon gum.
Sam pulls back and Dean chases after him, only to be intercepted by Buffy, who twists between them to kiss him hard and deep.
"I want," she whispers against his jaw, and, "please."
"Please, Dean?" Sam adds his plea to hers, eyes dark with desire and hope, and Dean has never been able to resist that look on Sam's face.
"Yeah," he says, leaning in to give Sam another hungry kiss, heat and need spiraling through him, mingled with a curious sense of relief that's edged with a sadness he knows is not his own. "Yeah."
He unzips Buffy's pants and helps her strip them off while Sam undoes his own jeans and shoves his boxers down over his hips. When Buffy's done, she turns to help Dean, her eyes lit with mischief and her fingers curling around his dick for a couple of quick strokes before Sam demands her attention again. He's backed up against the closed door and Buffy climbs him easily, her thin, strong arms and legs wrapped around him like vines.
Sam strokes himself, cock already hard and slick with pre-come, and Dean reaches down to slide his fingers over the wet folds of Buffy's cunt, opening her up so Sam can push inside. Dean thumbs her clit while Sam fucks her, his own dick rubbing the tight cleft of her ass, hips thrusting in time with the rhythm Sam's set up. Their kisses are a messy, wet tangle of lips, tongues, and teeth--Dean knows Sam's a biter, but apparently Buffy is, too, and Dean's lower lip feels swollen and bruised.
Dean uses his hands on both Buffy and Sam--teasing Buffy's nipples and circling her clit, and then moving lower to rub Sam's balls--earning him desperate, encouraging growls from both of them. One of Sam's hands snakes around Dean's hip and grabs his ass, urging him on as they all hurtle closer to orgasm. Buffy tenses between them, and then her whole body trembles; she throws her head back, the ends of her wet hair tickling Dean's shoulder and chest as she comes, Sam's mouth on her tits. Sam raises his head when she goes soft and boneless between them, and Dean kisses him, swallows down his moan when he comes.
Sam twines his fingers with Dean's around Dean's cock, and with a few quick strokes, Dean feels the tension crest and break, pleasure rushing down his spine and out, painting the delicate lines of Buffy's back white with come.
They slump together, breathless and sticky and warm, and that's when Dean feels it again, the ghostly chill against his skin and the soft whisper of thank you. He looks up to see the ghosts dissipate into fine mist that glimmers in the darkness. The rain drums on the roof, louder now than the pounding of blood in his ears, and he sighs, trying to hold onto the post-orgasm afterglow that makes him feel more relaxed than he has in ages.
It only lasts a few minutes, though. Buffy starts to shift between them, and Dean backs away, worried now at what her reaction will be.
With a murmured, "Awkward," she gathers up her clothes and disappears into the bathroom, leaving him alone with Sam.
"I like that girl," he says as they clean up, more to make conversation than anything else.
Sam huffs a laugh. "I wouldn't have guessed."
It's only slightly less awkward when they're all dressed again.
"Well, that was--what it was," Buffy says, brushing her hair out of her eyes and looking at a point somewhere beyond Dean's left shoulder.
Dean's trying to figure out how to ask when Sam says, "Are you sure you're all right?"
Buffy's smile is rueful but not regretful. "Yeah, I'm," she gives a soft, surprised laugh, "I'm good." She meets Dean's gaze briefly in reassurance, and picks up her crossbow. "And now I've got vamps to slay and people to save, so, uh, I'll be seeing you." She takes off, and Sam laughs again, a nervous laugh that makes Dean nervous, too.
"So, what," Dean says, deciding to go on the offensive before Sam can put him on the defensive, "these people never got to have their hot threesome, so they decided to make us do it for them?"
Sam scratches the back of his neck. "Something like that."
"Did you know?"
"When I found the hunt?" Sam shakes his head. "No. I mean, I figured there was some kind of unfinished business, but I never expected it to be, uh, that."
"You think it was enough, or should we--" He tips his head towards the cemetery, where the disturbed graves of Susan Werner and the Dowd brothers remain.
"I think it should be okay, but salting and burning never hurt."
Dean nods and rubs a hand over his jaw. He's heading for the door when Sam grabs his arm, long fingers warm against Dean's skin. "Look, I know you're still--I want you to be okay with this, Dean." He rubs his thumb gently over the thin skin of Dean's wrist, and Dean shivers, heat pooling low in his belly even though he just got off five minutes ago. "I don't want to end up like the Dowds." Sam makes a vague gesture with his free hand, and gives Dean his sincere eyes.
"It's okay, Sam. I'm good." He means it, though he can tell Sam doesn't believe it. He looks up into Sam's eyes and smiles goofily. "Seriously." He reaches up and cups Sam's cheek, pulls him down into a kiss that leaves both of them breathless.
When they're done, they're both wearing goofy smiles, and Dean knows his message has been received. He doesn't even mind going back out into the rain.
end
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This was a pinch hit, and the first remix I wrote this year. The majority of the original author's stories are not generally things I am comfortable or good at writing, but I found this and two Firefly drabbles I thought I could work with, and once I decided to add the plot to what was basically a PWP, it was pretty easy to write.
There was actually going to be more about the original three people whose ghosts were looking for closure, about how the younger brother had been in love with the older brother and the girl Susan had been in love with both of them, and how they'd tried to convince the older brother to go for a threesome and he'd responded badly, but it didn't really fit. It was enough for Sam and Dean to figure this was the unfinished business once it had happened, and the fact that they were already involved sexually with each other is pretty much the reason it doesn't end in another three deaths. And Buffy is, well, she's seen weirder, you know?
I also really like the title I came up with. Thank you, Fleetwood Mac. *g* It'd been on my list of titles for a long time, and I thought it was fitting for this story, so I was happy to use it.
Anyway, I like how it turned out. The original author appears to have liked it, too, so I guess it's a success. Thank you to the people who've commented. I really appreciate it.
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