(no subject)
Random sections from pieces I'm working on. It's gotten to the point now where I'll get an idea for a section and write something, and then have to figure out which fic it goes with and where in that fic it belongs. Everything's getting tossed together, so if something happens with possessive Wincestual sex between Dean and Girl!Sam somewhere in Vegas or maybe a snowstorm, I take no responsibility.
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“The wolf,” Connor says eventually. “How’d it hit your radar?” Sam gets dizzy for a moment as a vision crosses his eyes, and he takes a swig of the beer to cover it, watching curiously as Connor’s eyes slide over Sam’s face, neck, mouth. “I caught wind of it last month. Wanted to make sure before I did anything, but it was headed to maul its ex-girlfriend. If he’d been willing to calm down, wait out the night and then talk to me tomorrow,” he says, shakes his head, and Connor says, “You waited a month?” like he almost can’t believe it.
“I was raised to hunt and I can, but I don’t like killing humans, furry or not,” Sam says with a shrug, taking another swallow of beer. That makes Connor laugh and he raises his own bottle in Sam’s direction before downing half. “Raised to hunt?” Connor asks. “I’ve never heard of you before.” It’s Sam’s turn to laugh and he does, leaning back in his chair, spread out and sprawling. “Average, under-the-radar hunter. We didn’t want anyone remembering us once the job was done and we left town.” Connor asks, “We?” but then his expression clears, shoulders relaxing as his eyes get narrow, dark. “John’s son, the one who went to college. Fuck me, I didn’t recognise it. You don’t act anything like your father.”
--
--
Dean doesn't know what to expect, but he hasn't gotten this far in life by being scared. He takes a deep breath, looks at Sam, sitting across the table from him, picking at her toast, and says it slowly, carefully. "Restituěre."
The change is instant.
The toast drops out of Sam’s hands, back on to the plate, and something in her posture changes, small but it makes such a big difference. Her shoulders relax, fall back, and she lifts her head, chin upraised, eyes focused on Dean. It’s been a while since Sam looked anyone square in the eye, and that’s strange enough to see now, but when Dean meets Sam’s gaze, he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it’s not Sam looking back at him.
“Dean?” Sam whispers, but it’s not Sam’s voice, not Sam’s tone. That’s not Sam, sounding awestruck, like she wants to cry. Dean hasn’t seen his sister cry in months.
Dean nods, but doesn’t say anything back, watches as Sam gets out of the chair and walks around to where Dean’s sitting, pulls out his chair and drops to one knee in front of him. Fingers graze his cheek, Sam’s eyes taking in every aspect of Dean’s face, and when Sam’s lips part in a breathless, “Oh, my baby,” Dean flinches backwards, stands up and puts as much as space between him and Sam as he can in the small kitchen. Sam stands, as if she’s been struck, and Dean looks her over, the way she’s standing, loose and easy, hands uncurled at her sides, skinny but as if she’s made to be slender, feet too close together. It’s not the way a trained hunter would stand, not the way Sam would stand, but it’s a posture he remembers, vaguely.
“Mom?” he asks, and Sam’s face breaks out in a smile. Dean’s stunned, the way Sam’s smiling, as if it actually is his mother. That smile… “Mom?” he asks again, and Sam tilts her head, smile breaking slightly, eyes welling with tears.
“You’re all grown up, Dean-o,” Sam says, and Dean’s jaw drops. “I’m so, so sorry, I wasn’t there to see it, baby.” Sam steps closer, until she’s finally right in front of Dean, and then her arms are around him, and Dean drops his head onto her shoulder and cries.
After he stops, wipes off his face on his sleeve, he looks at her, and the concerned frown on Sam’s face. Sam’s face, but that’s his mother inside, how is that even possible?
“Dean, where’s your father?”
Dean’s blood runs cold, and he pulls away from Sam, his mother, whoever’s in that body, staring at him with too-wide eyes. “Christo,” he says, and Sam shakes her head, doesn’t flinch but steps back, maybe to give Dean space.
“That won’t work, Dean. I’m not a demon. Where’s your father?” Sam asks, and then she takes her eyes off of Dean and looks around, starts heading for the hallway and the stairs.
It’s a mistake, because Dean whispers, “Restituěre,” and catches his sister’s body when she falls, limp and boneless, to the floor.
Sam’s eyelashes flutter, eyes closed apart from one narrow line she’s looking out of, and Dean doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she says, “Dean?” and he knows his sister’s back.
--
--
"Shhh," and then Sam's kissing him, soft and lazy. "Just try it," Sam murmurs, words against Dean's lips. "Let me do this, okay?"
There's really only one answer he can give, but Sam's offering him a choice and that's more than pretty much everyone else does. It's the choice that means so much to Dean, enough so that he wills his muscles to relax and says, "Yeah."
Sam smiles against his neck, then nibbles a path down to Dean's collarbone.
--
--
Still, it feels as if there’s something wrong, so he leans over to whisper in Sam’s ear, only to realize that Sam’s not in bed. That explains the chill-Sam’s like a furnace radiating heat once all those layers are peeled back-and half of the quiet, because Sam snores even though he’d deny it.
Dean sits up, looks around. Everything’s where it was when he fell asleep: runes on the door and windows, salt at every entrance, two bags of clean clothes on the other bed, a trail of dirty clothes from the middle of the room to the bed.
--
“The wolf,” Connor says eventually. “How’d it hit your radar?” Sam gets dizzy for a moment as a vision crosses his eyes, and he takes a swig of the beer to cover it, watching curiously as Connor’s eyes slide over Sam’s face, neck, mouth. “I caught wind of it last month. Wanted to make sure before I did anything, but it was headed to maul its ex-girlfriend. If he’d been willing to calm down, wait out the night and then talk to me tomorrow,” he says, shakes his head, and Connor says, “You waited a month?” like he almost can’t believe it.
“I was raised to hunt and I can, but I don’t like killing humans, furry or not,” Sam says with a shrug, taking another swallow of beer. That makes Connor laugh and he raises his own bottle in Sam’s direction before downing half. “Raised to hunt?” Connor asks. “I’ve never heard of you before.” It’s Sam’s turn to laugh and he does, leaning back in his chair, spread out and sprawling. “Average, under-the-radar hunter. We didn’t want anyone remembering us once the job was done and we left town.” Connor asks, “We?” but then his expression clears, shoulders relaxing as his eyes get narrow, dark. “John’s son, the one who went to college. Fuck me, I didn’t recognise it. You don’t act anything like your father.”
--
--
Dean doesn't know what to expect, but he hasn't gotten this far in life by being scared. He takes a deep breath, looks at Sam, sitting across the table from him, picking at her toast, and says it slowly, carefully. "Restituěre."
The change is instant.
The toast drops out of Sam’s hands, back on to the plate, and something in her posture changes, small but it makes such a big difference. Her shoulders relax, fall back, and she lifts her head, chin upraised, eyes focused on Dean. It’s been a while since Sam looked anyone square in the eye, and that’s strange enough to see now, but when Dean meets Sam’s gaze, he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it’s not Sam looking back at him.
“Dean?” Sam whispers, but it’s not Sam’s voice, not Sam’s tone. That’s not Sam, sounding awestruck, like she wants to cry. Dean hasn’t seen his sister cry in months.
Dean nods, but doesn’t say anything back, watches as Sam gets out of the chair and walks around to where Dean’s sitting, pulls out his chair and drops to one knee in front of him. Fingers graze his cheek, Sam’s eyes taking in every aspect of Dean’s face, and when Sam’s lips part in a breathless, “Oh, my baby,” Dean flinches backwards, stands up and puts as much as space between him and Sam as he can in the small kitchen. Sam stands, as if she’s been struck, and Dean looks her over, the way she’s standing, loose and easy, hands uncurled at her sides, skinny but as if she’s made to be slender, feet too close together. It’s not the way a trained hunter would stand, not the way Sam would stand, but it’s a posture he remembers, vaguely.
“Mom?” he asks, and Sam’s face breaks out in a smile. Dean’s stunned, the way Sam’s smiling, as if it actually is his mother. That smile… “Mom?” he asks again, and Sam tilts her head, smile breaking slightly, eyes welling with tears.
“You’re all grown up, Dean-o,” Sam says, and Dean’s jaw drops. “I’m so, so sorry, I wasn’t there to see it, baby.” Sam steps closer, until she’s finally right in front of Dean, and then her arms are around him, and Dean drops his head onto her shoulder and cries.
After he stops, wipes off his face on his sleeve, he looks at her, and the concerned frown on Sam’s face. Sam’s face, but that’s his mother inside, how is that even possible?
“Dean, where’s your father?”
Dean’s blood runs cold, and he pulls away from Sam, his mother, whoever’s in that body, staring at him with too-wide eyes. “Christo,” he says, and Sam shakes her head, doesn’t flinch but steps back, maybe to give Dean space.
“That won’t work, Dean. I’m not a demon. Where’s your father?” Sam asks, and then she takes her eyes off of Dean and looks around, starts heading for the hallway and the stairs.
It’s a mistake, because Dean whispers, “Restituěre,” and catches his sister’s body when she falls, limp and boneless, to the floor.
Sam’s eyelashes flutter, eyes closed apart from one narrow line she’s looking out of, and Dean doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she says, “Dean?” and he knows his sister’s back.
--
--
"Shhh," and then Sam's kissing him, soft and lazy. "Just try it," Sam murmurs, words against Dean's lips. "Let me do this, okay?"
There's really only one answer he can give, but Sam's offering him a choice and that's more than pretty much everyone else does. It's the choice that means so much to Dean, enough so that he wills his muscles to relax and says, "Yeah."
Sam smiles against his neck, then nibbles a path down to Dean's collarbone.
--
--
Still, it feels as if there’s something wrong, so he leans over to whisper in Sam’s ear, only to realize that Sam’s not in bed. That explains the chill-Sam’s like a furnace radiating heat once all those layers are peeled back-and half of the quiet, because Sam snores even though he’d deny it.
Dean sits up, looks around. Everything’s where it was when he fell asleep: runes on the door and windows, salt at every entrance, two bags of clean clothes on the other bed, a trail of dirty clothes from the middle of the room to the bed.