fic: Verse falls to soul.
SPN is on tonight, two hour season premiere! Lazarus Rising and Are You There God? It's Me, Dean Winchester AT ONCE.
Verse falls to soul.
[Sam/Dean/Jess, nc17, 3,560wds - which is long for me. shut up.]
Even though it’s your bed he crawls into at the end of the night, calling jessie jessie jess into your ear, you don’t think you’re winning. For un_love_you prompt #2 i was wrong about you.
Notes: for joans23 for making me artwork and being all-round awesome. I’m not very good at porn, so I’m just posting this now before I get all neurotic about it, and then it’ll never see the light of day. I know it’s not my best, but I kinda just wanted to get it done :)
This fic owes a creative debt to Interpol for naming a song There’s No I in Threesome, and the title’s from Pablo Neruda. It has nothing to do with the story, I just thought it was pretty. Also, this is in second person. Sorry.
He’s not the Sam you knew. He leaves knives under your pillow, sheets of Latin next to your greasy containers of fast food, and he greets his brother with wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave a burn between your thighs.
They think you don’t know, at first. They think you don’t see Sam pushing his brother against the car, hot black chrome against Dean’s back while you peek out from behind the curtain of your motel room.
They think you can’t hear when Dean whispers please please i missed you against the razor of Sam’s hip, but you know the sounds Sam makes when there’s a mouth on his cock.
Even though it’s your bed he crawls into at the end of the night, calling jessie jessie jess into your ear as his fingers trace your folds, you don’t think you’re winning.
////
He stands too close when he teaches you to shoot, his palms sweaty where they grip yours, showing you how to position your fingers. Your boy is sitting a few feet away, sharpening his favorite knife on a whetstone, and the first time you hit a bullseye, Dean’s hands take too long to fall from your hips. His chin rests on your shoulder, and he breathes good job, jessie into your ear. It’s the first time he’s called you by that name.
////
Dean’s not one for human contact, but sometimes you’ll see it out of the corner of your eye.
A flash of Dean’s hand on Sam’s hipbone, one finger against the warm skin underneath Sam’s t-shirt. You know what his skin feels like there, the smooth flesh pulled taunt by muscle, and you hate that Dean knows too.
Most of the time, Dean doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. But sometimes, he’ll catch you staring, and he’ll drop his hand to his side, clenching it uselessly into a fist like he already misses the contact.
When Sam comes into your bed, you press your palms over where Dean laid his hands, you let him fuck your ass while you’re spread over the motel bed.
You love Sam, so much, but you don’t know if you can share.
////
It’s a Black Dog in Wisconsin that puts Sam down. You’re left with blood running down your arm, a smoking gun in your hands, and the Dog’s last exhale of fetid breath clogging your throat.
The Black Dog whines, shudders, goes limp, and you scream as you tear its teeth from your shoulder.
Dean is standing over Sam’s prone body. “Help me get him into the car,” Dean snaps, but you stand frozen until Dean’s botched attempt at lifting Sam by himself causes Sam to fall heavily on the ground.
////
By the time you and Dean carry Sam from the Impala into the motel room, he’s barely regained consciousness, moaning as you maneuver him through the door.
Dean lays him face-down on the bed, strokes a finger down Sam’s back and into the wound. Sam passes out again.
“His spine’s intact,” Dean says, his mouth a grim straight line. His freckles stand out on his pale skin.
You don’t need to be asked. You boil the water, set out the needle and thread, hand Dean the motel towels. The red blooms into the white, a crimson ink blot on a waxen piece of cardboard, and you almost expect Dean to hold up a shape and say what does this look like to you?
You get sicker every time you pour a bowl of bloody water down the sink.
You collapse the second after Dean puts down the needle.
////
When you wake, Dean’s sitting over you, a hand soothing your hair away from your face. You’re sweating, burning up, and it’s too hot, there’s too many blankets, but trying to struggle out of them is like trying to swim through cotton.
shhhh, shhhhh, you hear. don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear me? never.
His lips are cool against your forehead.
////
When you wake again, Dean’s propped up in Sam’s bed, watching the infomercial channel on mute.
Sam’s still asleep, deathly pale, and for a moment you’re a little scared that it’s more serious than you thought.
Dean looks over and smiles. “He’s already woken up for a little bit. I gave him some soup, and he dropped right off again.” He nods towards the pills on the nightstand next to your bed, and you grasp at them with clumsy and uncooperative hands. You hiss when you rotate your shoulder, and look down at the bandage that’s covering your upper arm.
“You could have been in serious risk of infection, you know.” Dean sounds like he’s trying too hard to be nonchalant.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed; swallow the pills as you haul yourself into the bathroom to piss.
You finger the scar dissecting your stomach. “I’ve had worse,” you say.
////
It’s Sam that teaches you hand-to-hand. You’re tall for a girl, almost as tall as Dean, and Sam teaches you how to use it, how to lash out with a closed fist, or with your fingers curled intimately around a blade.
Sam loves his knives, twirls one in his fingers just to watch your eyes widen. You always knew his hands were special, you knew that they were different the first time he slipped three fingers inside of you, twisted and flexed, made you come over and over until you couldn’t tell one orgasm from the next.
You had wondered about him, spent hours teasing him about his family - Russian KGB spies or exiled circus folk from Utah - but you never imagined this, wouldn’t have believed it even if he told you. But then you got pinned to the ceiling by a man with yellow eyes, and you really don’t have an excuse for denial now.
Usually Sam’s good enough to stop whenever you don’t block or parry his thrusts. But one time he overestimates, cuts you deep, and Dean props you up as Sam wraps a bandage around your arm with shaking hands. Dean’s chest is warm against your back.
You’re getting quite a collection of scars.
////
That night he doesn’t go to Dean at all, he curves around you in the king-sized bed, his hand pressed tightly into your stomach.
You try to feel triumphant as you think of Dean in the other room, alone among the soiled sheets, but you know what it feels like to be the one on the other side of the wall. Sam’s fingers squirm past the waistband of your boxer shorts, murmuring jessie jessie jess into the shell of your ear, but you slap them away.
His fingers feel like betrayal against your skin. He doesn’t belong to you anymore.
////
You thought there’d be a build-up to when you finally kissed Dean. You thought you’d be drunk, or dying, or under a curse that made you do it. You thought something would happen to strike you down for your infidelity - and you think it’s funny you still think of it that way. After all, Sam hasn’t shown you the same respect. You know there’s got to be consequences - that’s what you were taught. Bad deeds always catch up to you in the end, but you’ve had to relearn a whole new life with the Winchesters and you’re not sure the same rules apply.
You didn’t think it’d happen when Sam went inside to pay for the gas, and you’d lean forward from the backseat to press your lips against his. You then settle back into your seat, a small smile flitting across your mouth.
Dean smirks, and you think for a second he’s about to say something smart, callous or downright insulting, but you catch sight of Sam walking back across the dirty concrete.
He just faces the front, buckles his seatbelt, and turns Blue Oyster Cult up loud when Sam gets back into the car.
He knows it’s your favorite of all his tapes.
////
But when you kiss him for the second time, you are a little bit drunk.
Dean unlocks your room for you because you spent too long fumbling for the right key. He laughs in that irritating, easygoing way of his, and follows you through the doorway with his hand on the small of your back.
As soon as you’re through, you whirl around and pin him to the wall, crushing your lips to his. His head hits the wall with a satisfying thump, and you can feel the imprint of your teeth inside your lips.
Sam steps into your peripheral vision, and you can hear him gasp. Dean pushes you away.
“What,” you spit, “don’t want anyone’s mouth on you but a man’s? Don’t want anyone’s mouth on you but your brother’s?”
Sam starts forward, you can hear his breath hitching in his chest. jessie, he says, but he stops. He goes to take your arm, but you wrench it away. Suddenly, you feel like crying, you feel like collapsing on the floor and letting the world become someone else’s problem.
“I would like it,” you say, and your voice only shakes a little, “if you both left now.”
Dean leaves immediately. You think he murmurs something to Sam on his way past, but you don’t catch it.
You turn your back on Sam before he can do the same to you, and you crawl into bed fully clothed.
You don’t hear anything through the wall that night.
////
i’m sorry, you say to Dean the next morning, a coffee cup in one hand and M&Ms in the other. You hand them both over.
He nods, and you don’t say anything to Sam at all.
////
You manage to avoid the confrontation for longer than you thought you could.
no chick flick moments, hey jessie, Dean winks. But his eyes are tight at the corners, his mouth sewn in a straight line from the effort of keeping himself on eggshells.
One day, all three of you are in the library researching a case that’s bound to uncover an ancient Indian burial ground - it’s always an ancient burial ground - and you look up and Dean’s gone.
Sam’s sitting opposite you, his knees only a whisper away from yours. You can feel the air they displace every time he shifts. He looks lost, his cheeks drawn tight and shadows under his eyes, and he looks so much like he did when you first met him, a lonely boy on his first trip from home. For a moment, he looks so much like your boy that your heart aches a little for all he’d ever lost.
“Jess, I’m sorry,” he says, broken. His palms are splayed open over the tabletop, resting on the copies of old newspapers.
no chick flick moments, you hear Dean say in your head.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t make me choose.”
You punch him in the nose.
it’s not that, you asshole, you want to scream. You can see the innocents - because that’s what you’ve taken to calling them now, the innocents, for God’s sake - ducking between the bookshelves, staring at Sam with his hands clapped over his face. you could have told me that there was someone else. when you fucked me in our bed - were you thinking of him? did you ever love me at all?
But that’s not what you say.
“Maybe you don’t have to,” you tell him, right before turning on your heel and walking out of the place. You wonder how he feels about sharing.
////
It’s Dean who makes the first move after that, no matter how disguised.
It’s just you and him, sitting on the ancient lawn chairs outside your adjoining motel rooms. You’re both watching the sunset, and it seems to be a particularly ugly shade of mottled blue.
“You know, I kinda like you, Jessica Moore,” Dean hedges, like he’s twenty-six and never learnt how to speak to a woman.
“I kinda like you too, Dean Winchester.”
////
The third time you kiss Dean Winchester, he’s right in the middle of asking you sure?-, when you clap your lips to his. He makes a surprised sound, his hands automatically framing your hips, and it takes him a few seconds to grip you tighter and press himself against you.
He pushes you backward until you hit warm flesh, and then Sam’s mouthing at your jawbone, taking the lobe of your ear into his mouth and tugging gently. You’re frozen between them, your chest heaving as Sam’s hands roughly cup your breasts, tripping down to the hem of your singlet top where his fingers bunch the material, pushing it up over your chest so your breasts fall free.
Dean immediately releases your lips, kissing down the line of your throat. He take your nipples between his teeth, leaving them hard and sensitive before he goes to his knees, his nose pressed under your belly as he fumbles with the belt on your jeans.
Sam rumbles in your ear, you should see what he can do with his tongue, jessie. he’ll make you pant ‘til you can’t breathe, he’ll keep on edge until your pussy drips on the sheets, won’t let you come ‘til you scream.
Dean groans below you, but he’s got your zipper undone and you help him peel off your jeans, flinging them into a corner.
Sam’s fingers dive down, combing though the dark hair at the top of your thighs, peeling you open so Dean can lick a stripe up the center of you. One hand at your cunt, one at your hip, he holds you steady so Dean can smear your slick over his chin, his mouth grinning obscenely.
fuck, he loves it, Sam whispers, his fingers tightening on your hip so hard you hope there’ll be bruises in the morning, small blue-black marks spread over your skin so you won’t forget the rush.
You can feel Sam shifting at your back, rubbing himself over you, small movements like he can’t help himself, and he groans as you shift backward, leaning into him, making Dean chase you with his tongue.
Dean shoves two fingers inside you, so hard it hurts, but then he knocks your knees wider, spreads your legs, and he twists and thrusts and curls his tongue around your clit, rubbing it with wide, flat strokes. His fingers piston in and out of you with wet, thick sounds and you come shortly after Dean takes your clit between his lips, scraping against sensitive flesh with a hint of teeth. Your hips stutter against his mouth as you crumple against Sam, limp and boneless and gasping for breath, and he pushes you forward until you can collapse on the bed.
You can hear Dean fumbling at his clothing, cursing at pull of his zipper over his cock, and Sam lays down beside you, half his body covering yours, and thrusts a hand into the heat of you. You can see his fingers tease the red lips of your cunt, circling your clit and moving down to spread the wetness over your rosy flesh.
He’s panting in your ear, can smell how turned on you are, fuck jessie, don’t you know how much we want you, want to make you sore.
You need more than just Sam’s fingers circling your clit for a second orgasm, but when Sam pulls way, the coldness along your side leaves you gasping, your cunt clenching for contact.
“Move,” Sam rasps, and you push yourself into the center of the bed, your head lying on the pillow. “Want you to watch me finger Dean open, watch me fuck him while he sinks into you.”
Dean’s naked now, cock curving up toward his belly, lube in hand. He’s always been a regular boy scout.
Sam pushes Dean onto the bed before he slicks up his fingers, arranges him over you on his hands and knees. You can’t see Sam circle Dean’s hole, can’t see his fingers slide in to the second knuckle, but Dean’s breath catches in his throat and he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, and you can just imagine Sam’s fingers slipping in and out of Dean, shining wet with spit and lube.
Sam keeps doing whatever he’s doing - he’s had a lot of practice, you think, not without bitterness - until Dean’s a shuddering mess, until he’s not even kissing you anymore, just groaning against your mouth, every thrust of Sam’s fingers sending him forward so his cock smears across the crease of your thigh, leaving a sticky-wet mess.
“Jesus, Sam,” he says, and you can feel the rasp of his lips against you as he talks, rough skin against your cheek. “Just do it, fuck. Now.”
You know the moment Sam pushes into his brother, you can see Dean’s eyes fly open, the half-gasp caught in his throat, the bunch of his muscles under your hands. Just over Dean’s shoulder, you can see Sam, his hair damp with sweat, his hips flexing as he slowly pushes in.
Then Sam bottoms out, and you sneak a hand underneath to feel Sam’s balls resting against Dean. Sam hisses, drawing out and thrusting back in. Dean’s pushed against you, his cock leaking all over your stomach, the smell heady and ripe.
“Dean,” you say, no more than a whisper, grabbing his hand and thrusting it into your pussy. You figure that’s invitation enough.
Dean shifts over you, muttering cursewords as Sam’s cock moves inside him, and slides through the slick mess dripping down your thighs, slides inside quick and fast, a hard thrust so you can feel every inch of him, can feel your cunt opening around his cock.
“Jesus fuck,” Dean moans, nearly incoherent. With every thrust, Dean’s pushed deeper inside you, his hips pressing against yours. Sweat slides over your body, and all three of you are smooth with it, a mess of sweat and come, your skin slapping together with harsh, muted sounds.
In that small space inside of you that’s still removed from what’s happening, you know you’re being loud, your moans and Dean’s grunts and Sam’s hands against the headboard, the bed rocking with the three of you entwined together on top of the sheets.
You try to keep your eyes open, try to watch where Dean slides into you like you’re glazed with honey, your fingers linked with Sam’s where you clench into Dean’s skin, the marks on Dean’s neck shaped like Sam’s teeth because that boy has got a bite fetish -
- and Dean’s coming, you can feel him filling you up, his come leaking around his cock and out of your pussy, and then his fingers are sliding through the mess because your hips are jerking helplessly, searching for release and you’re almost there, but his fingers find your clit and press down as he pulls out.
You’d never admit to whimpering, even under threat of death, but you’re left empty, aching, itching under your skin. Sam’s cock is still swollen and red and you’re caught unaware when he thrusts inside and he’s bigger than Dean, stretching your cunt around his cock, you’d forgotten what it felt like when Sam laid over you, talking in your ear, god, bet you wish you could know what it feels like to have dean on your cock, and fuck jess i’ve missed this, missed you.
You’ve lost Dean, don’t know where he’s gone, but Sam keeps your attention on him, snapping at your jaw, and his hand moves to rub at your clit, no finesse, just his fingers sliding through come to circle flesh in quick, unforgiving movements.
You want this to last forever, sweat stinging your eyes, the sweet sharp pain of Sam holding you open as he thrusts, fuck, but your skin’s tightening and you lift your knees up, spread them wide and Sam’s shuddering over you, losing his rhythm and he’s grunting into your neck fucking come, jesus, now, and you do, couldn’t stop it now even if you wanted to, your toes curling as you gasp helplessly into Sam’s hair.
“Fuck,” Sam says from where his face is buried in your chest and really, you couldn’t have said it better yourself.
////
Dean’s shadow falls over you, illuminated from behind by the bathroom light.
“Don’t go, Jessie,” he says, interrupting your gentle attempts to detangle yourself from Sam. He’s got one hand in your hair, and the other stretched over your stomach, his palm resting in the dip of your hipbone. He always did like to cuddle.
You should never have let it get this far, you know this thing with you and Sam and Dean - whatever it is - isn’t healthy, you know that you’re the outsider, but then Dean’s licking your cunt clean, his tongue swirling inside you until you come again, your thighs clenching around his head, and yeah. Okay. You’re not going anywhere just yet.
Verse falls to soul.
[Sam/Dean/Jess, nc17, 3,560wds - which is long for me. shut up.]
Even though it’s your bed he crawls into at the end of the night, calling jessie jessie jess into your ear, you don’t think you’re winning. For un_love_you prompt #2 i was wrong about you.
Notes: for joans23 for making me artwork and being all-round awesome. I’m not very good at porn, so I’m just posting this now before I get all neurotic about it, and then it’ll never see the light of day. I know it’s not my best, but I kinda just wanted to get it done :)
This fic owes a creative debt to Interpol for naming a song There’s No I in Threesome, and the title’s from Pablo Neruda. It has nothing to do with the story, I just thought it was pretty. Also, this is in second person. Sorry.
He’s not the Sam you knew. He leaves knives under your pillow, sheets of Latin next to your greasy containers of fast food, and he greets his brother with wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave a burn between your thighs.
They think you don’t know, at first. They think you don’t see Sam pushing his brother against the car, hot black chrome against Dean’s back while you peek out from behind the curtain of your motel room.
They think you can’t hear when Dean whispers please please i missed you against the razor of Sam’s hip, but you know the sounds Sam makes when there’s a mouth on his cock.
Even though it’s your bed he crawls into at the end of the night, calling jessie jessie jess into your ear as his fingers trace your folds, you don’t think you’re winning.
////
He stands too close when he teaches you to shoot, his palms sweaty where they grip yours, showing you how to position your fingers. Your boy is sitting a few feet away, sharpening his favorite knife on a whetstone, and the first time you hit a bullseye, Dean’s hands take too long to fall from your hips. His chin rests on your shoulder, and he breathes good job, jessie into your ear. It’s the first time he’s called you by that name.
////
Dean’s not one for human contact, but sometimes you’ll see it out of the corner of your eye.
A flash of Dean’s hand on Sam’s hipbone, one finger against the warm skin underneath Sam’s t-shirt. You know what his skin feels like there, the smooth flesh pulled taunt by muscle, and you hate that Dean knows too.
Most of the time, Dean doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. But sometimes, he’ll catch you staring, and he’ll drop his hand to his side, clenching it uselessly into a fist like he already misses the contact.
When Sam comes into your bed, you press your palms over where Dean laid his hands, you let him fuck your ass while you’re spread over the motel bed.
You love Sam, so much, but you don’t know if you can share.
////
It’s a Black Dog in Wisconsin that puts Sam down. You’re left with blood running down your arm, a smoking gun in your hands, and the Dog’s last exhale of fetid breath clogging your throat.
The Black Dog whines, shudders, goes limp, and you scream as you tear its teeth from your shoulder.
Dean is standing over Sam’s prone body. “Help me get him into the car,” Dean snaps, but you stand frozen until Dean’s botched attempt at lifting Sam by himself causes Sam to fall heavily on the ground.
////
By the time you and Dean carry Sam from the Impala into the motel room, he’s barely regained consciousness, moaning as you maneuver him through the door.
Dean lays him face-down on the bed, strokes a finger down Sam’s back and into the wound. Sam passes out again.
“His spine’s intact,” Dean says, his mouth a grim straight line. His freckles stand out on his pale skin.
You don’t need to be asked. You boil the water, set out the needle and thread, hand Dean the motel towels. The red blooms into the white, a crimson ink blot on a waxen piece of cardboard, and you almost expect Dean to hold up a shape and say what does this look like to you?
You get sicker every time you pour a bowl of bloody water down the sink.
You collapse the second after Dean puts down the needle.
////
When you wake, Dean’s sitting over you, a hand soothing your hair away from your face. You’re sweating, burning up, and it’s too hot, there’s too many blankets, but trying to struggle out of them is like trying to swim through cotton.
shhhh, shhhhh, you hear. don’t you ever scare me like that again, you hear me? never.
His lips are cool against your forehead.
////
When you wake again, Dean’s propped up in Sam’s bed, watching the infomercial channel on mute.
Sam’s still asleep, deathly pale, and for a moment you’re a little scared that it’s more serious than you thought.
Dean looks over and smiles. “He’s already woken up for a little bit. I gave him some soup, and he dropped right off again.” He nods towards the pills on the nightstand next to your bed, and you grasp at them with clumsy and uncooperative hands. You hiss when you rotate your shoulder, and look down at the bandage that’s covering your upper arm.
“You could have been in serious risk of infection, you know.” Dean sounds like he’s trying too hard to be nonchalant.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed; swallow the pills as you haul yourself into the bathroom to piss.
You finger the scar dissecting your stomach. “I’ve had worse,” you say.
////
It’s Sam that teaches you hand-to-hand. You’re tall for a girl, almost as tall as Dean, and Sam teaches you how to use it, how to lash out with a closed fist, or with your fingers curled intimately around a blade.
Sam loves his knives, twirls one in his fingers just to watch your eyes widen. You always knew his hands were special, you knew that they were different the first time he slipped three fingers inside of you, twisted and flexed, made you come over and over until you couldn’t tell one orgasm from the next.
You had wondered about him, spent hours teasing him about his family - Russian KGB spies or exiled circus folk from Utah - but you never imagined this, wouldn’t have believed it even if he told you. But then you got pinned to the ceiling by a man with yellow eyes, and you really don’t have an excuse for denial now.
Usually Sam’s good enough to stop whenever you don’t block or parry his thrusts. But one time he overestimates, cuts you deep, and Dean props you up as Sam wraps a bandage around your arm with shaking hands. Dean’s chest is warm against your back.
You’re getting quite a collection of scars.
////
That night he doesn’t go to Dean at all, he curves around you in the king-sized bed, his hand pressed tightly into your stomach.
You try to feel triumphant as you think of Dean in the other room, alone among the soiled sheets, but you know what it feels like to be the one on the other side of the wall. Sam’s fingers squirm past the waistband of your boxer shorts, murmuring jessie jessie jess into the shell of your ear, but you slap them away.
His fingers feel like betrayal against your skin. He doesn’t belong to you anymore.
////
You thought there’d be a build-up to when you finally kissed Dean. You thought you’d be drunk, or dying, or under a curse that made you do it. You thought something would happen to strike you down for your infidelity - and you think it’s funny you still think of it that way. After all, Sam hasn’t shown you the same respect. You know there’s got to be consequences - that’s what you were taught. Bad deeds always catch up to you in the end, but you’ve had to relearn a whole new life with the Winchesters and you’re not sure the same rules apply.
You didn’t think it’d happen when Sam went inside to pay for the gas, and you’d lean forward from the backseat to press your lips against his. You then settle back into your seat, a small smile flitting across your mouth.
Dean smirks, and you think for a second he’s about to say something smart, callous or downright insulting, but you catch sight of Sam walking back across the dirty concrete.
He just faces the front, buckles his seatbelt, and turns Blue Oyster Cult up loud when Sam gets back into the car.
He knows it’s your favorite of all his tapes.
////
But when you kiss him for the second time, you are a little bit drunk.
Dean unlocks your room for you because you spent too long fumbling for the right key. He laughs in that irritating, easygoing way of his, and follows you through the doorway with his hand on the small of your back.
As soon as you’re through, you whirl around and pin him to the wall, crushing your lips to his. His head hits the wall with a satisfying thump, and you can feel the imprint of your teeth inside your lips.
Sam steps into your peripheral vision, and you can hear him gasp. Dean pushes you away.
“What,” you spit, “don’t want anyone’s mouth on you but a man’s? Don’t want anyone’s mouth on you but your brother’s?”
Sam starts forward, you can hear his breath hitching in his chest. jessie, he says, but he stops. He goes to take your arm, but you wrench it away. Suddenly, you feel like crying, you feel like collapsing on the floor and letting the world become someone else’s problem.
“I would like it,” you say, and your voice only shakes a little, “if you both left now.”
Dean leaves immediately. You think he murmurs something to Sam on his way past, but you don’t catch it.
You turn your back on Sam before he can do the same to you, and you crawl into bed fully clothed.
You don’t hear anything through the wall that night.
////
i’m sorry, you say to Dean the next morning, a coffee cup in one hand and M&Ms in the other. You hand them both over.
He nods, and you don’t say anything to Sam at all.
////
You manage to avoid the confrontation for longer than you thought you could.
no chick flick moments, hey jessie, Dean winks. But his eyes are tight at the corners, his mouth sewn in a straight line from the effort of keeping himself on eggshells.
One day, all three of you are in the library researching a case that’s bound to uncover an ancient Indian burial ground - it’s always an ancient burial ground - and you look up and Dean’s gone.
Sam’s sitting opposite you, his knees only a whisper away from yours. You can feel the air they displace every time he shifts. He looks lost, his cheeks drawn tight and shadows under his eyes, and he looks so much like he did when you first met him, a lonely boy on his first trip from home. For a moment, he looks so much like your boy that your heart aches a little for all he’d ever lost.
“Jess, I’m sorry,” he says, broken. His palms are splayed open over the tabletop, resting on the copies of old newspapers.
no chick flick moments, you hear Dean say in your head.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t make me choose.”
You punch him in the nose.
it’s not that, you asshole, you want to scream. You can see the innocents - because that’s what you’ve taken to calling them now, the innocents, for God’s sake - ducking between the bookshelves, staring at Sam with his hands clapped over his face. you could have told me that there was someone else. when you fucked me in our bed - were you thinking of him? did you ever love me at all?
But that’s not what you say.
“Maybe you don’t have to,” you tell him, right before turning on your heel and walking out of the place. You wonder how he feels about sharing.
////
It’s Dean who makes the first move after that, no matter how disguised.
It’s just you and him, sitting on the ancient lawn chairs outside your adjoining motel rooms. You’re both watching the sunset, and it seems to be a particularly ugly shade of mottled blue.
“You know, I kinda like you, Jessica Moore,” Dean hedges, like he’s twenty-six and never learnt how to speak to a woman.
“I kinda like you too, Dean Winchester.”
////
The third time you kiss Dean Winchester, he’s right in the middle of asking you sure?-, when you clap your lips to his. He makes a surprised sound, his hands automatically framing your hips, and it takes him a few seconds to grip you tighter and press himself against you.
He pushes you backward until you hit warm flesh, and then Sam’s mouthing at your jawbone, taking the lobe of your ear into his mouth and tugging gently. You’re frozen between them, your chest heaving as Sam’s hands roughly cup your breasts, tripping down to the hem of your singlet top where his fingers bunch the material, pushing it up over your chest so your breasts fall free.
Dean immediately releases your lips, kissing down the line of your throat. He take your nipples between his teeth, leaving them hard and sensitive before he goes to his knees, his nose pressed under your belly as he fumbles with the belt on your jeans.
Sam rumbles in your ear, you should see what he can do with his tongue, jessie. he’ll make you pant ‘til you can’t breathe, he’ll keep on edge until your pussy drips on the sheets, won’t let you come ‘til you scream.
Dean groans below you, but he’s got your zipper undone and you help him peel off your jeans, flinging them into a corner.
Sam’s fingers dive down, combing though the dark hair at the top of your thighs, peeling you open so Dean can lick a stripe up the center of you. One hand at your cunt, one at your hip, he holds you steady so Dean can smear your slick over his chin, his mouth grinning obscenely.
fuck, he loves it, Sam whispers, his fingers tightening on your hip so hard you hope there’ll be bruises in the morning, small blue-black marks spread over your skin so you won’t forget the rush.
You can feel Sam shifting at your back, rubbing himself over you, small movements like he can’t help himself, and he groans as you shift backward, leaning into him, making Dean chase you with his tongue.
Dean shoves two fingers inside you, so hard it hurts, but then he knocks your knees wider, spreads your legs, and he twists and thrusts and curls his tongue around your clit, rubbing it with wide, flat strokes. His fingers piston in and out of you with wet, thick sounds and you come shortly after Dean takes your clit between his lips, scraping against sensitive flesh with a hint of teeth. Your hips stutter against his mouth as you crumple against Sam, limp and boneless and gasping for breath, and he pushes you forward until you can collapse on the bed.
You can hear Dean fumbling at his clothing, cursing at pull of his zipper over his cock, and Sam lays down beside you, half his body covering yours, and thrusts a hand into the heat of you. You can see his fingers tease the red lips of your cunt, circling your clit and moving down to spread the wetness over your rosy flesh.
He’s panting in your ear, can smell how turned on you are, fuck jessie, don’t you know how much we want you, want to make you sore.
You need more than just Sam’s fingers circling your clit for a second orgasm, but when Sam pulls way, the coldness along your side leaves you gasping, your cunt clenching for contact.
“Move,” Sam rasps, and you push yourself into the center of the bed, your head lying on the pillow. “Want you to watch me finger Dean open, watch me fuck him while he sinks into you.”
Dean’s naked now, cock curving up toward his belly, lube in hand. He’s always been a regular boy scout.
Sam pushes Dean onto the bed before he slicks up his fingers, arranges him over you on his hands and knees. You can’t see Sam circle Dean’s hole, can’t see his fingers slide in to the second knuckle, but Dean’s breath catches in his throat and he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, and you can just imagine Sam’s fingers slipping in and out of Dean, shining wet with spit and lube.
Sam keeps doing whatever he’s doing - he’s had a lot of practice, you think, not without bitterness - until Dean’s a shuddering mess, until he’s not even kissing you anymore, just groaning against your mouth, every thrust of Sam’s fingers sending him forward so his cock smears across the crease of your thigh, leaving a sticky-wet mess.
“Jesus, Sam,” he says, and you can feel the rasp of his lips against you as he talks, rough skin against your cheek. “Just do it, fuck. Now.”
You know the moment Sam pushes into his brother, you can see Dean’s eyes fly open, the half-gasp caught in his throat, the bunch of his muscles under your hands. Just over Dean’s shoulder, you can see Sam, his hair damp with sweat, his hips flexing as he slowly pushes in.
Then Sam bottoms out, and you sneak a hand underneath to feel Sam’s balls resting against Dean. Sam hisses, drawing out and thrusting back in. Dean’s pushed against you, his cock leaking all over your stomach, the smell heady and ripe.
“Dean,” you say, no more than a whisper, grabbing his hand and thrusting it into your pussy. You figure that’s invitation enough.
Dean shifts over you, muttering cursewords as Sam’s cock moves inside him, and slides through the slick mess dripping down your thighs, slides inside quick and fast, a hard thrust so you can feel every inch of him, can feel your cunt opening around his cock.
“Jesus fuck,” Dean moans, nearly incoherent. With every thrust, Dean’s pushed deeper inside you, his hips pressing against yours. Sweat slides over your body, and all three of you are smooth with it, a mess of sweat and come, your skin slapping together with harsh, muted sounds.
In that small space inside of you that’s still removed from what’s happening, you know you’re being loud, your moans and Dean’s grunts and Sam’s hands against the headboard, the bed rocking with the three of you entwined together on top of the sheets.
You try to keep your eyes open, try to watch where Dean slides into you like you’re glazed with honey, your fingers linked with Sam’s where you clench into Dean’s skin, the marks on Dean’s neck shaped like Sam’s teeth because that boy has got a bite fetish -
- and Dean’s coming, you can feel him filling you up, his come leaking around his cock and out of your pussy, and then his fingers are sliding through the mess because your hips are jerking helplessly, searching for release and you’re almost there, but his fingers find your clit and press down as he pulls out.
You’d never admit to whimpering, even under threat of death, but you’re left empty, aching, itching under your skin. Sam’s cock is still swollen and red and you’re caught unaware when he thrusts inside and he’s bigger than Dean, stretching your cunt around his cock, you’d forgotten what it felt like when Sam laid over you, talking in your ear, god, bet you wish you could know what it feels like to have dean on your cock, and fuck jess i’ve missed this, missed you.
You’ve lost Dean, don’t know where he’s gone, but Sam keeps your attention on him, snapping at your jaw, and his hand moves to rub at your clit, no finesse, just his fingers sliding through come to circle flesh in quick, unforgiving movements.
You want this to last forever, sweat stinging your eyes, the sweet sharp pain of Sam holding you open as he thrusts, fuck, but your skin’s tightening and you lift your knees up, spread them wide and Sam’s shuddering over you, losing his rhythm and he’s grunting into your neck fucking come, jesus, now, and you do, couldn’t stop it now even if you wanted to, your toes curling as you gasp helplessly into Sam’s hair.
“Fuck,” Sam says from where his face is buried in your chest and really, you couldn’t have said it better yourself.
////
Dean’s shadow falls over you, illuminated from behind by the bathroom light.
“Don’t go, Jessie,” he says, interrupting your gentle attempts to detangle yourself from Sam. He’s got one hand in your hair, and the other stretched over your stomach, his palm resting in the dip of your hipbone. He always did like to cuddle.
You should never have let it get this far, you know this thing with you and Sam and Dean - whatever it is - isn’t healthy, you know that you’re the outsider, but then Dean’s licking your cunt clean, his tongue swirling inside you until you come again, your thighs clenching around his head, and yeah. Okay. You’re not going anywhere just yet.