Supernatural fic - Five Time Sam and Jess made out, and the last time they didn't
For some reason, I was consumed by a het bunny. Tis Sam/Jess. Hugs and heartfelt thanks to lonelybrit and bethynyc for the insightful betas. *hugs*
TITLE: Five times Sam and Jess made out, and the last time they didn't
RATING: Mostly PG, but with one R ficlet
CHARACTERS: Sam/Jess
SPOILERS: For the pilot
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Just playing.
NOTES: Six 300 word ficlets. Jess POV. Jess gets to know Sam Winchester.
1
Thing is, he’s so very very pretty.
And God, she’s had too much tequila, but since he was already way cute when she sat behind him in Bio 102, she figures maybe this isn’t the biggest mistake of her life so far.
No matter what Trina says.
Holden Caulfield, much? God, Jess, guy’s a walking psych class. Did we learn nothing from the Daniel disaster?
And she can’t argue, because Trina was there to help her pick up the pieces after Daniel’s spectacular breakdown, complete with pills and the Daddy doesn’t love me coda.
She’s pretty sure he’s not a Daniel. Okay, he’s got the quiet thing going on, and there’s a story in those eyes, which are so very shining and pretty and there’s got to be some kind of law against a guy having longer lashes than you.
And it’s like he doesn’t even know he’s gorgeous, because those pretty eyes open wide when she asks him to the party, all wide and innocent, and then he smiles, and it’s like the sun.
And maybe she doesn’t care about the baggage, because now they’re wrapped around each other in a dark corner of somebody else’s party, and it turns out Sam Winchester can kiss.
He’s salt-ice lips and lime tang on her tongue and her hand slips out from under his shirt, finds the button on his jeans. And he grabs her hand, loosely, fingers circling her wrist easily. He pulls her to him, and slides his hand over hers, cradling it protectively.
She knows she’s falling, because, the whole pretty thing aside - though right now she’s having trouble seeing past that, what with those dark eyes just glowing at her.
But it’s the way he holds her, so carefully, like he knows they’re going to have time.
2
“Jess, turn it off.” Sam cringes at the CD changer’s selection. It’s one of hers, Sarah McLachlan. Music to emote by, he calls it.
“Make me.” She pokes her tongue out, tastes popcorn in Sam’s mouth. “Mm, salty.”
He shifts position, to reach around her, and her hip presses hard against the car door.
She squeaks his name softly, makes her eyes go wide, and his hand leaves the radio instantly.
“Sorry.” He murmurs it against her mouth, and she slides her lips away, up to his ear.
“Better be.” Bites down on his lobe, then suck-kisses inside his ear, hard.
Sam moans softly. “Jess…” He hisses the end of her name like it’s a plea, like a prayer.
“Sam,” she whispers. He shudders, holds her hips in a loose grip, fingers splayed wide.
Then they’re moving slowly, she’s got his jeans open, working the zipper down, rocking in time to Possession. He’s got this big goofy grin on his face, and she reaches in and slides her hand around him.
“Jesus, Jess.”
The grin’s gone, and Sam looks down at her hand, then up again, meets her eyes. And she sees it for a moment. That dark flash in his eyes, a naked hunger that tightens her grip, and suddenly his hand’s wrapped around hers, and he’s guiding it over his cock.
She lets him, loves it when he takes charge, because Sam’s pretty easy going most of the time, and she has to push to get him this far. She scoots back a little, leaning against the steering wheel, so she can watch. He looks up at her through heavy-lidded eyes, and he’s so goddamn beautiful it makes her chest hurt.
The CD switches to one of Sam’s, and the band’s screaming Highway to Hell when he comes.
3
“Seriously?” Sam’s eyes are wide, like she’s told him she was raised by wolves or missing a toe.
“Sam. It’s not unusual.” She rolls her eyes at the look of distressed sympathy in his. “And keep it down. My Dad’ll freak if he catches us.”
“But how did you…?” Sam’s shaking his head, propped above her on his elbows. “Who did you…?”
She pushes him off her, and not that gently. She wasn’t kidding about Dad. “Will you shut up? My Dad keeps a shotgun downstairs.”
Sam rolls onto his back in the guest room bed, and cracks up, shaking with silent uncontrollable laughter. “Jesus, Jess, I think I love you.”
“You better.” She warns him sternly, but she’s having a hard time not being sucked into his giggle fit.
Eventually the hysteria subsides, and Sam brushes his hand across his eyes, sighs deeply. “So, how come you never told me?”
“About Dad’s shotgun obsession?”
That almost sets him off again, and she punches his chest reasonably hard. “Shh.”
He snorts softly. “I mean, about the only child thing.” And there’s pity in his voice.
“Hello, pot.” She rolls onto her side, reaches over to place her hand on his stomach. “Have you met kettle?” But she doesn’t say it with any bitterness.
Sam turns to face her, settles his hand on her hip, pets her abstractedly. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
“My mom died when I was a baby.” He says it quietly, his voice steady.
She nods. “I thought maybe that was it.”
He keeps looking straight ahead, up at the ceiling. “And I have a big brother.”
“Okay.” She tilts her face to his, and he kisses her cheek gently, curls her into the crook of his arm, nestles her there; where it’s warm, and safe.
4
This is so not right.
He’s supposed to be her sunny Sam, all bright eyes and wide smiles. She’s not sure what to do when he’s like this.
He tosses deliriously, legs twisting around the sheets, binding him tight against the bed. His skin glistens with sweat-slick heat, the air around him shimmers.
“It’s just the flu.” The doctor on the Med Center’s emergency line sounds condescendingly patient. “Keep his fluids up; give him Tylenol to control his temperature.”
In the end she gives up trying to coax him, because Sam flat out refuses to drink anything.
“I want popsicles. You always have popsicles.” His voice is croaky, with a kind of whine in it that is pure little boy.
“Sam, I haven’t got popsicles,” she reasons with the little boy.
“Go to the store.” It sounds like he’s chewing on gravel. “Please?”
She touches his forehead and god; surely it can’t be good that he’s this hot. “I can’t leave you like this.”
He flinches at the coolness of her palm. “Please? I won’t tell Dad, promise.”
So she gets him popsicles, and has to hold them to his mouth as he flops against the pillow and babbles deliriously about horror movies she’s never heard of.
But as much as hallucinating regressed Sam freaks her out, she’d rather have him than this Sam; huddled under the quilt, silent and shaking.
She slides off her jeans and t-shirt, lifts the quilt enough to slip into bed. His body is ice; it hurts physically to wrap herself around him. After a moment the trembling eases, and Sam turns to her, begins to burrow into her embrace, then -
“No!” He shoves her away blindly. “Jess, you’re burning.”
She draws him back to her, and then he clings desperately, like they’re falling.
5
“Leave it on.”
His voice is rough, and she looks at him in the edge of the mirror as she unbuttons the costume. Sam’s splayed on the bed, shirt off and his jeans undone, his hands resting behind his head. He gives her this look, up and under his lashes, barely controlled heat burning there.
She falls for it for all of two seconds.
“You are such a dork, Sam Winchester.” She shakes her hair out of the nurse’s cap and gives him the evil eye in the mirror as he giggles helplessly.
“God, the panic in your eyes, Jess.” He does the voice again. “Leave it on.” Then slaps his thigh in unrestrained glee. “You were so freaking out.”
“Bastard.” She swipes the cleanser over her face, tries not to crack, but Sam’s doing puppy eyes now. She slips the tight dress off, unclasps the back of her bra.
“I changed my mind. Definitely take it off.” Sam’s got this grin on his face, like he just won the lottery, and she can’t help the answering smile that tickles at the corners of her mouth.
“Such a dork.” She grabs her nightshirt, pulls it on over her head.
Sam’s groan of dismay isn’t completely faked, but he starts humming something under his breath.
“When you’re feeling blue…”
She shakes her head, and flops down on the bed beside him. “Okay, that’s just sad.”
Sam holds his hands up in mock innocence. “What? I love the smurfs!” He lowers his eyes to her tee-shirt, holds out his hands. “Come to Papa Smurf.”
“Sam!” She’s laughing and smacking his hands away, and collapsing onto him.
And then they’re rolling together, hands hungry for touch, mouths searching and finding, and Sam whispers fiercely, “Love - love - love you,” like it’s a secret.
The Last Time
She burns her wrist on the oven, not bad, but it aches for ages after, even when she’s not thinking about it. She runs it under the tap, watches the thin red line swell and darken under the water.
She’s not completely sure where the cookie idea came from, feels only a little guilty that it might be a declaration of war.
But it hadn’t taken more than ten minutes with him to send Sam away on some mad hunting trip in the wilds of god knows where. He walked into their home and snapped his fingers and just like that Sam was packing an overnight bag.
It’s like she’s skipped a whole chapter in the book of Sam, and it’s called Dean. She remembers the way Sam draped his arm over her shoulder, and introduced her to him.
“Dean, this is my girlfriend Jessica.”
Because it really matters to him what Dean thinks. She gets that, and somewhere deep inside it hurts.
So she makes cookies. It’s the first salvo in her offensive, because she sure as hell isn’t going to lose him without a fight.
She arranges the cookies on the plate, with the note on top. Subtle, Jess.
Shakes out the smurf tee, then tosses it into the laundry. Finds the white silk baby doll slip Sam got for her birthday. Fuck subtlety.
She lies on the quilt and waits. It’s past ten. He’s got to be back soon. He won’t miss the interview. She knows how much this means to him.
There’s a soft noise, the sound of the apartment door opening. He’s home. He comes to the door of their bedroom, head down, hidden in shadow.
“Sam?” She smiles at him.
Something flashes in his eyes as he puts his finger to his lips.
“Shh.”
TITLE: Five times Sam and Jess made out, and the last time they didn't
RATING: Mostly PG, but with one R ficlet
CHARACTERS: Sam/Jess
SPOILERS: For the pilot
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Just playing.
NOTES: Six 300 word ficlets. Jess POV. Jess gets to know Sam Winchester.
1
Thing is, he’s so very very pretty.
And God, she’s had too much tequila, but since he was already way cute when she sat behind him in Bio 102, she figures maybe this isn’t the biggest mistake of her life so far.
No matter what Trina says.
Holden Caulfield, much? God, Jess, guy’s a walking psych class. Did we learn nothing from the Daniel disaster?
And she can’t argue, because Trina was there to help her pick up the pieces after Daniel’s spectacular breakdown, complete with pills and the Daddy doesn’t love me coda.
She’s pretty sure he’s not a Daniel. Okay, he’s got the quiet thing going on, and there’s a story in those eyes, which are so very shining and pretty and there’s got to be some kind of law against a guy having longer lashes than you.
And it’s like he doesn’t even know he’s gorgeous, because those pretty eyes open wide when she asks him to the party, all wide and innocent, and then he smiles, and it’s like the sun.
And maybe she doesn’t care about the baggage, because now they’re wrapped around each other in a dark corner of somebody else’s party, and it turns out Sam Winchester can kiss.
He’s salt-ice lips and lime tang on her tongue and her hand slips out from under his shirt, finds the button on his jeans. And he grabs her hand, loosely, fingers circling her wrist easily. He pulls her to him, and slides his hand over hers, cradling it protectively.
She knows she’s falling, because, the whole pretty thing aside - though right now she’s having trouble seeing past that, what with those dark eyes just glowing at her.
But it’s the way he holds her, so carefully, like he knows they’re going to have time.
2
“Jess, turn it off.” Sam cringes at the CD changer’s selection. It’s one of hers, Sarah McLachlan. Music to emote by, he calls it.
“Make me.” She pokes her tongue out, tastes popcorn in Sam’s mouth. “Mm, salty.”
He shifts position, to reach around her, and her hip presses hard against the car door.
She squeaks his name softly, makes her eyes go wide, and his hand leaves the radio instantly.
“Sorry.” He murmurs it against her mouth, and she slides her lips away, up to his ear.
“Better be.” Bites down on his lobe, then suck-kisses inside his ear, hard.
Sam moans softly. “Jess…” He hisses the end of her name like it’s a plea, like a prayer.
“Sam,” she whispers. He shudders, holds her hips in a loose grip, fingers splayed wide.
Then they’re moving slowly, she’s got his jeans open, working the zipper down, rocking in time to Possession. He’s got this big goofy grin on his face, and she reaches in and slides her hand around him.
“Jesus, Jess.”
The grin’s gone, and Sam looks down at her hand, then up again, meets her eyes. And she sees it for a moment. That dark flash in his eyes, a naked hunger that tightens her grip, and suddenly his hand’s wrapped around hers, and he’s guiding it over his cock.
She lets him, loves it when he takes charge, because Sam’s pretty easy going most of the time, and she has to push to get him this far. She scoots back a little, leaning against the steering wheel, so she can watch. He looks up at her through heavy-lidded eyes, and he’s so goddamn beautiful it makes her chest hurt.
The CD switches to one of Sam’s, and the band’s screaming Highway to Hell when he comes.
3
“Seriously?” Sam’s eyes are wide, like she’s told him she was raised by wolves or missing a toe.
“Sam. It’s not unusual.” She rolls her eyes at the look of distressed sympathy in his. “And keep it down. My Dad’ll freak if he catches us.”
“But how did you…?” Sam’s shaking his head, propped above her on his elbows. “Who did you…?”
She pushes him off her, and not that gently. She wasn’t kidding about Dad. “Will you shut up? My Dad keeps a shotgun downstairs.”
Sam rolls onto his back in the guest room bed, and cracks up, shaking with silent uncontrollable laughter. “Jesus, Jess, I think I love you.”
“You better.” She warns him sternly, but she’s having a hard time not being sucked into his giggle fit.
Eventually the hysteria subsides, and Sam brushes his hand across his eyes, sighs deeply. “So, how come you never told me?”
“About Dad’s shotgun obsession?”
That almost sets him off again, and she punches his chest reasonably hard. “Shh.”
He snorts softly. “I mean, about the only child thing.” And there’s pity in his voice.
“Hello, pot.” She rolls onto her side, reaches over to place her hand on his stomach. “Have you met kettle?” But she doesn’t say it with any bitterness.
Sam turns to face her, settles his hand on her hip, pets her abstractedly. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
“My mom died when I was a baby.” He says it quietly, his voice steady.
She nods. “I thought maybe that was it.”
He keeps looking straight ahead, up at the ceiling. “And I have a big brother.”
“Okay.” She tilts her face to his, and he kisses her cheek gently, curls her into the crook of his arm, nestles her there; where it’s warm, and safe.
4
This is so not right.
He’s supposed to be her sunny Sam, all bright eyes and wide smiles. She’s not sure what to do when he’s like this.
He tosses deliriously, legs twisting around the sheets, binding him tight against the bed. His skin glistens with sweat-slick heat, the air around him shimmers.
“It’s just the flu.” The doctor on the Med Center’s emergency line sounds condescendingly patient. “Keep his fluids up; give him Tylenol to control his temperature.”
In the end she gives up trying to coax him, because Sam flat out refuses to drink anything.
“I want popsicles. You always have popsicles.” His voice is croaky, with a kind of whine in it that is pure little boy.
“Sam, I haven’t got popsicles,” she reasons with the little boy.
“Go to the store.” It sounds like he’s chewing on gravel. “Please?”
She touches his forehead and god; surely it can’t be good that he’s this hot. “I can’t leave you like this.”
He flinches at the coolness of her palm. “Please? I won’t tell Dad, promise.”
So she gets him popsicles, and has to hold them to his mouth as he flops against the pillow and babbles deliriously about horror movies she’s never heard of.
But as much as hallucinating regressed Sam freaks her out, she’d rather have him than this Sam; huddled under the quilt, silent and shaking.
She slides off her jeans and t-shirt, lifts the quilt enough to slip into bed. His body is ice; it hurts physically to wrap herself around him. After a moment the trembling eases, and Sam turns to her, begins to burrow into her embrace, then -
“No!” He shoves her away blindly. “Jess, you’re burning.”
She draws him back to her, and then he clings desperately, like they’re falling.
5
“Leave it on.”
His voice is rough, and she looks at him in the edge of the mirror as she unbuttons the costume. Sam’s splayed on the bed, shirt off and his jeans undone, his hands resting behind his head. He gives her this look, up and under his lashes, barely controlled heat burning there.
She falls for it for all of two seconds.
“You are such a dork, Sam Winchester.” She shakes her hair out of the nurse’s cap and gives him the evil eye in the mirror as he giggles helplessly.
“God, the panic in your eyes, Jess.” He does the voice again. “Leave it on.” Then slaps his thigh in unrestrained glee. “You were so freaking out.”
“Bastard.” She swipes the cleanser over her face, tries not to crack, but Sam’s doing puppy eyes now. She slips the tight dress off, unclasps the back of her bra.
“I changed my mind. Definitely take it off.” Sam’s got this grin on his face, like he just won the lottery, and she can’t help the answering smile that tickles at the corners of her mouth.
“Such a dork.” She grabs her nightshirt, pulls it on over her head.
Sam’s groan of dismay isn’t completely faked, but he starts humming something under his breath.
“When you’re feeling blue…”
She shakes her head, and flops down on the bed beside him. “Okay, that’s just sad.”
Sam holds his hands up in mock innocence. “What? I love the smurfs!” He lowers his eyes to her tee-shirt, holds out his hands. “Come to Papa Smurf.”
“Sam!” She’s laughing and smacking his hands away, and collapsing onto him.
And then they’re rolling together, hands hungry for touch, mouths searching and finding, and Sam whispers fiercely, “Love - love - love you,” like it’s a secret.
The Last Time
She burns her wrist on the oven, not bad, but it aches for ages after, even when she’s not thinking about it. She runs it under the tap, watches the thin red line swell and darken under the water.
She’s not completely sure where the cookie idea came from, feels only a little guilty that it might be a declaration of war.
But it hadn’t taken more than ten minutes with him to send Sam away on some mad hunting trip in the wilds of god knows where. He walked into their home and snapped his fingers and just like that Sam was packing an overnight bag.
It’s like she’s skipped a whole chapter in the book of Sam, and it’s called Dean. She remembers the way Sam draped his arm over her shoulder, and introduced her to him.
“Dean, this is my girlfriend Jessica.”
Because it really matters to him what Dean thinks. She gets that, and somewhere deep inside it hurts.
So she makes cookies. It’s the first salvo in her offensive, because she sure as hell isn’t going to lose him without a fight.
She arranges the cookies on the plate, with the note on top. Subtle, Jess.
Shakes out the smurf tee, then tosses it into the laundry. Finds the white silk baby doll slip Sam got for her birthday. Fuck subtlety.
She lies on the quilt and waits. It’s past ten. He’s got to be back soon. He won’t miss the interview. She knows how much this means to him.
There’s a soft noise, the sound of the apartment door opening. He’s home. He comes to the door of their bedroom, head down, hidden in shadow.
“Sam?” She smiles at him.
Something flashes in his eyes as he puts his finger to his lips.
“Shh.”