SPN FIC: Bloodlust Interlude
Title: Bloodlust Interlude
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Lenore
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Bloodlust
Summary: Cross too many lines, and there's no getting back. That's been the theme of the day. But then her gaze flicks up at him, and she's not Jess, but that doesn't stop him from sliding his hand along the curve of her face...
Note: moonlash_cc had this idea, and, honestly, how could I resist? *g*
***
Bloodlust Interlude
by Lenore
She doesn't remind him of Jess. Sam keeps reminding himself of this, an easy sell really, since they are in fact nothing alike, one light, one dark, one human, one...not. Still, the way Lenore slumps in the seat next to him, so pale she looks almost gray in the dappled light, forehead shining with sweat, too weak even to keep her eyes open, it brings Jess rushing back to him, the night he had to run her to the emergency room, a fever and belly ache that turned out to be appendicitis, her arms around his neck as he carried her into the hospital like Lenore's when he'd rescued her from that house, birdlike and grateful.
"Hey, you all right?"
No answer, and he darts another anxious glance over at her. The sun glistens sickeningly on her wounds, and an image of Gordon, his cruel emptiness as he kept cutting, flashes behind Sam's eyes. There's no real decision-making, no careful weighing of pros and cons. Just suddenly he's turning the wheel, the car coming to a sharp stop, kicking up dust on the country road. Lenore's eyes flutter open, and the expression in them is as old as the world itself. There's nothing you can do that will surprise me.
"Here." He reaches for her, and she's not cold the way he imagined, just kind of still, none of the throbbing, pulsing, creaking biological machinery that's always at work inside the living. He pushes back his sleeve, dark and stiff with blood, and guides her toward his arm.
A shudder runs through her, and she quickly turns her head. "No."
"It's all right," he says gently. "I'm offering. That makes it-- different."
He's not actually sure this is true, but she needs something to fight off the poison. Her back hitches, what would be a tortured little sigh of capitulation if she were something that breathes. The first touch of her tongue is tentative, a cat's whisper, and Sam shivers, not the way he probably should, with fear or loathing. Lenore's lips move on his arm, working him, softly lapping up his life. He strokes a hand through her hair, and it's so soft, and he probably shouldn't linger, shouldn't rub the strands between his fingers. Cross too many lines, and there's no getting back. That's been the theme of the day. But then her gaze flicks up at him, and she's not Jess, but that doesn't stop him from sliding his hand along the curve of her face, his thumb stroking in circles over her cheekbone, feeling her body starting to pulse with his own borrowed warmth.
By the time she pulls away, the cuts are gone, the only remaining evidence of violence the knife slits in her clothes. She pulls a handkerchief out of her pocket and winds it around his arm. "Why?" As quiet as death, and for a moment Sam doesn't even register the question.
Because saving other people is the best I can ever do.
He looks away. "I figured we owed you after-- everything."
"You couldn't know I'd stop."
He can feel her watching, and he shrugs. "You did before."
"Why take the risk?"
Her stark curiosity is as mesmerizing as any actual power, and he gives in to it, twists in his seat so he can look her in the eye. "It's hard to fight against your own nature."
The words don't measure up to what he's trying to say, but understanding lights its way across Lenore's features, and she's nodding, and he's leaning in. It takes her mouth, soft and warm beneath his, to make him realize his own intentions, and by then he's already lost to the inevitability of it, his lips moving on hers, each touch more demanding than the last. He kisses her neck, and her skin smells like nothing, but when he presses his face into her hair, there's the sweet cleanness of shampoo. It fills him with a strange, pained happiness, that she does something so ordinary, just like everyone else.
"Sam." She tugs roughly at the buttons of her shirt and pulls him down to her breasts. The way she sounds is anything but ordinary, like gravel and light and nothing on earth. It belies the innocent cotton and lace Sam has to push out of his way to get at flesh. Her nipple pebbles under his tongue, and he delicately skims his thumb around the other, making that nipple hard too. He feels her growl vibrate in her chest as he kisses her soft curves.
She forces him back across the seat with a flick of her wrist, another reminder that she isn't what she looks like. He gulps down a shaky breath, and her hand moves to his fly, making quick work of the buttons. When she bends her head, he feels the need to blurt out, "You don't have to."
She reaches into his underwear. "It's hard to be hungry for so long."
Her eyes glow as she licks around the head of his cock, and Sam wilts back against the seat, as if there's no strength in him. "God."
He sinks his fingers into her hair, and she takes his erection all the way into her mouth, and he tightens his hold, even knowing that he doesn't have any power over her. So when she lets him have control, lets him cup her head in his hand and push up into her mouth, he almost comes, just from that.
Lenore has other ideas, though. She kicks her jeans off, swings her body across his, eyeblink fast, and then a groan is rattling Sam's chest, his cock surrounded by hot and wet and tight. She starts to move over him, and he stares up at her almost helplessly. It's only then that it hits him: he hasn't, not since Jess. Lenore traces a finger around his mouth, and she looks like she invented sadness, like she understands him, everything, or maybe she simply has grief of her own, an eternity furrowed by sorrow. They kiss, sloppy and desperate, and Sam cups her ass in his hands, pulls her down onto him roughly. "Take everything," she whispers. "You can't hurt me."
He can't save her either, not really, but he isn't going to think about that now.
Sam doesn't really understand how she's possible, or what she can experience, such a contradiction, the living dead, but he circles his thumb around her clit, angles for that place inside that lights women up, just in case. When he wiggles his fingers in a certain way, her eyes go wide, and her body stutters. She makes a strangled little noise, and her pussy clenches around him. He comes hard and fast, hips driving up against hers.
Afterwards, she slips back into the passenger seat, and they straighten their clothes, and Sam puts the car in gear. He keeps his eyes carefully on the road.
"Turn left up here," she directs him.
At the end of a long driveway is a battered, rusted out trailer.
"So--" Sam shifts on the seat, darting a glance at her, more confused than he can remember.
Lenore smiles. There's a flutter against his lips, and he wonders idly if the wind will always feel like a vampire's kiss after this. Then the air goes still, and he's alone. He sits there a moment, head pressed against the steering wheel, until the first rush of questions he'll never be able to answer quiets down in his head.
He takes a breath and turns the car around and heads back to his brother. His arm throbs the whole way, not hurting exactly, but like it's missing something.
***