nobody knows this more than us for little_missmimi.
Author/Artist: austen
Recipient: little_missmimi.
Rating: R
Warnings: Brief language and some sexual content.
Pairing: Dee/Sam (girl!Dean/girl!Sam)
Summary: Set during season one. Things aren't exactly the way they used to be.
Notes: For little_missmimi; I tried to incorporate most of what you requested in your likes/etc., so I hope you enjoy this! Title taken (and slightly adapted to fit my own needs) from Pearl Jam's "Just Breathe".
Dee Winchester's a hunter's hunter, the kind who could drink you under the table and then gank a demon in the same breath.
She drives a car that any man in his right mind would open-mouthed drool over; it's no secret that she enjoys the stares and whistles she gets when they pull up to a mostly-abandoned gas station. She's an entertainer at best, bending down just a few extra inches to flash cleavage and leg as she runs a hand over the coat of fresh black painted over the Impala's hood. She calls it her baby. It's the only time Sam ever hears her use a pet name - and mean it.
Sam isn't Sam, or Samantha even - she's Sammy, something Dee started up when they were three and six, respectively.
Nineteen years later, the nickname has yet to drop.
It's like a routine: the exchange of hair-ruffling and eye-rolling, the way they fall back into those habits those first few months back out on the open road again. Dee eats like a pig and calls Sam out on her healthier choices; Sam reaches over to turn the volume down on the Impala's stereo and Dee slaps her hand away. It's the kind of cycle that's almost too easy to get trapped in, town after town, ghost after ghost. It's getting to the point where Sam's beginning to wonder if Stanford, if Jess, was all just some weird dream that she would've had to wake up from eventually.
If this is where she's really meant to be.
Soon we'll find Dad, Dee keeps saying, alternating between that and the Zeppelin lyrics she belts at the top of her lungs, loud and off-key.
Sam just turns her gaze out through the Impala's passenger-side window and lets her eyes relax and unfocus until the tall trees lining the highway blur into a stream of black.
-
Things aren't exactly the way they used to be, though.
For one thing, Sam's sprouted up - a lot.
There was a time when she was both Dee Winchester's little sister in age and in height. But somehow, between the day she turned her back on their dad and the moment Dee showed up at her apartment in the dead of night, she's the one towering overhead now, long-limbed and slender curves. She's chopped off her long hair, too, neglecting any and all rituals of femininity to let it dry wild and messy. But even without make-up, she's a primo hottie, a name Dee calls her once and then frequently after the fact just to see the blush that springs up on Sam's cheeks, turning the tips of her ears pink. She always leans over to gently ruffle the dark, short strands then, her fingertips momentarily resting along the back of Sam's neck, and wonders if she's just imagining the shiver she feels travel along Sam's spine from bottom to top.
The third week on the job, they wind up sharing a queen in a motel with barely any vacancies left, and Dee struggles not to even bat an eyelash when Sam shucks off her jeans, the plaid button-down shirt she usually wears to sleep in riding up over her hips when she stretches her arms over her head. Dee swallows and wonders when it was that Sam managed to get that much sun - and on her legs, more importantly.
She hurries to the bathroom with a bullshit excuse - too many drinks, shouldn't have mixed that beer with those shots - and splashes three good handfuls of cold water onto her face.
"What the hell are you doing?" her reflection asks her, near-whispering, a small trail of mascara running down a cheek already dusted with freckles.
Dee doesn't answer.
By the time she comes back out, Sam's rolled over and half-asleep. Dee doesn't bother undressing, just lies on top of the covers and turns her back and tries not to flinch every time Sam shifts her weight.
-
Dee's fast.
She'll have you on the receiving end of a shotgun barrel full of rock-salt before you can remember to breathe, throw a punch seconds before the real fight actually starts. And that's not even counting the kind of moves she pulls off behind the wheel of the Impala.
But every now and then, some demon or ghost gets the slip on her. This time, she's wound up taking her own blade across her arm - not deep enough to do any real damage, but Sam pulls out their makeshift kit just the same, handing over a bottle of whiskey they've been saving for occasions such as these. Dee grits her teeth and hisses after the first few sips, drinking straight from the bottle, and Sam waits until she's got enough in her system before she sterilizes the needle and readies the thread. Dee never makes a sound when Sam stitches her up, only takes the occasional swig from the bottle from time to time. She never watches. There's something about seeing it for herself that almost makes it worse. Sam's hands are steady, practiced, moving as quick as she's able to without doing a sloppy job, concentrating all her energy on the task in front of her.
The bottle's nearly empty by the time she finishes, and she dabs a cotton ball loaded with antiseptic over the neatly stitched wound. Dee turns toward her then, her grin lazy and mischievous.
"Gonna have a pretty sick scar when it's healed, right, Sammy?" Dee's eyes follow her closely, pupils dilating wildly, and she reaches out with her free hand before Sam even gets the opportunity to answer, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her in until their foreheads are pressed together. Sam inhales shakily, breathing in the combined scent of gunsmoke and whiskey, and Dee licks her lips, still grinning that same damn grin. Her eyes are more than brown this close, Sam realizes; up close, she can see the flecks of other colors in them, green and the faintest traces of gold.
"I think you've had enough of this," she answers, trying to pry the bottle out of Dee's fingers.
"C'mon," Dee murmurs, tilting her head and leaning in. "Girls love scars with stories, don't they?"
Sam bites the inside of her cheek - hard - and lets go of the bottle, tossing the bloodied, dirty fabric into the trash can.
"I'm gonna take a walk," she announces, and might slam the door a little too hard behind her.
She doesn't return until she sees the lone light in their motel room go out.
-
They've only been on the road for a little over an hour when Dee spots the sign for a rest stop and pulls off with a sharp turn on the wheel and squealing brakes.
"Dee, what - "
It's all Sam can get out before Dee's grabbing her face in both hands and kissing her hard, desperate, her lipgloss smearing over Sam's mouth and cheek with the force of it. Sam's hands rise to Dee's shoulders and push, strong enough to put some space between them, looking at her with an expression Dee can't exactly read. They're both breathing hard, and it's otherwise silent for a moment apart from the soft purr of the Impala's engine and the quieter sound of cars whizzing by every so often.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks, low and even.
"Sam," Dee whispers, and then, gentler: "Sammy, please." Her hands are already beginning to wander to the hem of Sam's plaid shirt, toying with the lowest button. Sam doesn't nudge her hand away, her gaze softening, and Dee coaxes her to lay back against the seat, swinging a leg over her to straddle her thighs, lowering her head to kiss her again. Their hands move and touch everywhere: Sam cups Dee's breast in her palm while Dee sucks a mark into the curve of her neck, Dee slides a hand underneath the waistband of Sam's jeans to rub fingertips over her clit and Sam bucks her hips up and moans around the nipple she pulls in between her lips. Sam gets her on her back over the front seat soon after she comes, hoisting Dee's denim skirt up over her hips and nudging her panties to one side to lick and lap at her until Dee's grabbing a fistful of her own hair and accidentally nudging the Impala's horn with her elbow.
Dee's still trembling when Sam slides up to lay over her, covering her in her weight, her scent, their hands finding their way between each other's legs, fingers thrusting hard and beckoning just enough to hit the sweet spot that sends them both over the edge with cries muffled against necks and hairlines. Sam sprawls over her afterward, wrapping those gorgeous long limbs of hers around Dee's half-naked, shuddering frame, and Dee tenderly combs fingers through her hair.
"How many people got a show just now, you think?" she asks, smirking against Sam's forehead. She can feel her sister rolling her eyes by the way she shifts her weight, props herself up on her elbow to look down at Dee with a raised eyebrow and a completely sated version of her trademark bitchface.
"You're so gross," Sam groans, and straightens up to sit, fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt.
"I'm gross? You're totally the one who made my baby smell like sex," Dee points out.
"Shut up. Jerk," Sam counters.
"You love me, bitch," Dee answers affectionately, and tips fingers underneath Sam's chin to kiss her, slow and sweet.
"Whatever," Sam says, but she can't hide the way the edges of her mouth turn up when they pull out onto the highway again. Dee rolls down her window, breathing in the heady scent of earth outside and Sam in the Impala's interior. Her hand reaches for the volume dial on the stereo, and right on cue, Jimmy Page goes into a trademark shredding guitar solo.
"Let's get something to eat," Dee shouts over the music. By the tone of her voice, Sam knows it's not something that's up for debate. "I'm fucking starved."
Her gaze catches Sam's in the rearview mirror; they share a smile.
Recipient: little_missmimi.
Rating: R
Warnings: Brief language and some sexual content.
Pairing: Dee/Sam (girl!Dean/girl!Sam)
Summary: Set during season one. Things aren't exactly the way they used to be.
Notes: For little_missmimi; I tried to incorporate most of what you requested in your likes/etc., so I hope you enjoy this! Title taken (and slightly adapted to fit my own needs) from Pearl Jam's "Just Breathe".
Dee Winchester's a hunter's hunter, the kind who could drink you under the table and then gank a demon in the same breath.
She drives a car that any man in his right mind would open-mouthed drool over; it's no secret that she enjoys the stares and whistles she gets when they pull up to a mostly-abandoned gas station. She's an entertainer at best, bending down just a few extra inches to flash cleavage and leg as she runs a hand over the coat of fresh black painted over the Impala's hood. She calls it her baby. It's the only time Sam ever hears her use a pet name - and mean it.
Sam isn't Sam, or Samantha even - she's Sammy, something Dee started up when they were three and six, respectively.
Nineteen years later, the nickname has yet to drop.
It's like a routine: the exchange of hair-ruffling and eye-rolling, the way they fall back into those habits those first few months back out on the open road again. Dee eats like a pig and calls Sam out on her healthier choices; Sam reaches over to turn the volume down on the Impala's stereo and Dee slaps her hand away. It's the kind of cycle that's almost too easy to get trapped in, town after town, ghost after ghost. It's getting to the point where Sam's beginning to wonder if Stanford, if Jess, was all just some weird dream that she would've had to wake up from eventually.
If this is where she's really meant to be.
Soon we'll find Dad, Dee keeps saying, alternating between that and the Zeppelin lyrics she belts at the top of her lungs, loud and off-key.
Sam just turns her gaze out through the Impala's passenger-side window and lets her eyes relax and unfocus until the tall trees lining the highway blur into a stream of black.
-
Things aren't exactly the way they used to be, though.
For one thing, Sam's sprouted up - a lot.
There was a time when she was both Dee Winchester's little sister in age and in height. But somehow, between the day she turned her back on their dad and the moment Dee showed up at her apartment in the dead of night, she's the one towering overhead now, long-limbed and slender curves. She's chopped off her long hair, too, neglecting any and all rituals of femininity to let it dry wild and messy. But even without make-up, she's a primo hottie, a name Dee calls her once and then frequently after the fact just to see the blush that springs up on Sam's cheeks, turning the tips of her ears pink. She always leans over to gently ruffle the dark, short strands then, her fingertips momentarily resting along the back of Sam's neck, and wonders if she's just imagining the shiver she feels travel along Sam's spine from bottom to top.
The third week on the job, they wind up sharing a queen in a motel with barely any vacancies left, and Dee struggles not to even bat an eyelash when Sam shucks off her jeans, the plaid button-down shirt she usually wears to sleep in riding up over her hips when she stretches her arms over her head. Dee swallows and wonders when it was that Sam managed to get that much sun - and on her legs, more importantly.
She hurries to the bathroom with a bullshit excuse - too many drinks, shouldn't have mixed that beer with those shots - and splashes three good handfuls of cold water onto her face.
"What the hell are you doing?" her reflection asks her, near-whispering, a small trail of mascara running down a cheek already dusted with freckles.
Dee doesn't answer.
By the time she comes back out, Sam's rolled over and half-asleep. Dee doesn't bother undressing, just lies on top of the covers and turns her back and tries not to flinch every time Sam shifts her weight.
-
Dee's fast.
She'll have you on the receiving end of a shotgun barrel full of rock-salt before you can remember to breathe, throw a punch seconds before the real fight actually starts. And that's not even counting the kind of moves she pulls off behind the wheel of the Impala.
But every now and then, some demon or ghost gets the slip on her. This time, she's wound up taking her own blade across her arm - not deep enough to do any real damage, but Sam pulls out their makeshift kit just the same, handing over a bottle of whiskey they've been saving for occasions such as these. Dee grits her teeth and hisses after the first few sips, drinking straight from the bottle, and Sam waits until she's got enough in her system before she sterilizes the needle and readies the thread. Dee never makes a sound when Sam stitches her up, only takes the occasional swig from the bottle from time to time. She never watches. There's something about seeing it for herself that almost makes it worse. Sam's hands are steady, practiced, moving as quick as she's able to without doing a sloppy job, concentrating all her energy on the task in front of her.
The bottle's nearly empty by the time she finishes, and she dabs a cotton ball loaded with antiseptic over the neatly stitched wound. Dee turns toward her then, her grin lazy and mischievous.
"Gonna have a pretty sick scar when it's healed, right, Sammy?" Dee's eyes follow her closely, pupils dilating wildly, and she reaches out with her free hand before Sam even gets the opportunity to answer, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her in until their foreheads are pressed together. Sam inhales shakily, breathing in the combined scent of gunsmoke and whiskey, and Dee licks her lips, still grinning that same damn grin. Her eyes are more than brown this close, Sam realizes; up close, she can see the flecks of other colors in them, green and the faintest traces of gold.
"I think you've had enough of this," she answers, trying to pry the bottle out of Dee's fingers.
"C'mon," Dee murmurs, tilting her head and leaning in. "Girls love scars with stories, don't they?"
Sam bites the inside of her cheek - hard - and lets go of the bottle, tossing the bloodied, dirty fabric into the trash can.
"I'm gonna take a walk," she announces, and might slam the door a little too hard behind her.
She doesn't return until she sees the lone light in their motel room go out.
-
They've only been on the road for a little over an hour when Dee spots the sign for a rest stop and pulls off with a sharp turn on the wheel and squealing brakes.
"Dee, what - "
It's all Sam can get out before Dee's grabbing her face in both hands and kissing her hard, desperate, her lipgloss smearing over Sam's mouth and cheek with the force of it. Sam's hands rise to Dee's shoulders and push, strong enough to put some space between them, looking at her with an expression Dee can't exactly read. They're both breathing hard, and it's otherwise silent for a moment apart from the soft purr of the Impala's engine and the quieter sound of cars whizzing by every so often.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks, low and even.
"Sam," Dee whispers, and then, gentler: "Sammy, please." Her hands are already beginning to wander to the hem of Sam's plaid shirt, toying with the lowest button. Sam doesn't nudge her hand away, her gaze softening, and Dee coaxes her to lay back against the seat, swinging a leg over her to straddle her thighs, lowering her head to kiss her again. Their hands move and touch everywhere: Sam cups Dee's breast in her palm while Dee sucks a mark into the curve of her neck, Dee slides a hand underneath the waistband of Sam's jeans to rub fingertips over her clit and Sam bucks her hips up and moans around the nipple she pulls in between her lips. Sam gets her on her back over the front seat soon after she comes, hoisting Dee's denim skirt up over her hips and nudging her panties to one side to lick and lap at her until Dee's grabbing a fistful of her own hair and accidentally nudging the Impala's horn with her elbow.
Dee's still trembling when Sam slides up to lay over her, covering her in her weight, her scent, their hands finding their way between each other's legs, fingers thrusting hard and beckoning just enough to hit the sweet spot that sends them both over the edge with cries muffled against necks and hairlines. Sam sprawls over her afterward, wrapping those gorgeous long limbs of hers around Dee's half-naked, shuddering frame, and Dee tenderly combs fingers through her hair.
"How many people got a show just now, you think?" she asks, smirking against Sam's forehead. She can feel her sister rolling her eyes by the way she shifts her weight, props herself up on her elbow to look down at Dee with a raised eyebrow and a completely sated version of her trademark bitchface.
"You're so gross," Sam groans, and straightens up to sit, fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt.
"I'm gross? You're totally the one who made my baby smell like sex," Dee points out.
"Shut up. Jerk," Sam counters.
"You love me, bitch," Dee answers affectionately, and tips fingers underneath Sam's chin to kiss her, slow and sweet.
"Whatever," Sam says, but she can't hide the way the edges of her mouth turn up when they pull out onto the highway again. Dee rolls down her window, breathing in the heady scent of earth outside and Sam in the Impala's interior. Her hand reaches for the volume dial on the stereo, and right on cue, Jimmy Page goes into a trademark shredding guitar solo.
"Let's get something to eat," Dee shouts over the music. By the tone of her voice, Sam knows it's not something that's up for debate. "I'm fucking starved."
Her gaze catches Sam's in the rearview mirror; they share a smile.