Spn_holidays fic: 13 Bound Avenue, Hamistagan
Title: 13 Bound Avenue, Hamistagan
Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Dean/Jo, Dean/Jo/Sam, Dean/Sam.
Warnings: Explicit Sex, both Het and Slash, and a threesome, Explicit m/f/m. Interpretation of hell, ect. Pleasantville. Spoilers for Season Three, in general, but not beyond the US.
Prompt: For Spn_holidays's recipient montisello. Prompts were "A fic with Dean/Jo [...] Write me a fic with Dean/Jo and Sam not a third wheel, maybe working on a case together. Can be het or gen. Also, don’t tell anyone, but I’m curious about a threeway with Jo/Sam/Dean. I mean, WOW." and "A fic with Sam and Dean reenacting the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice." This is a rather creative interpretation of both of those things, I'm sure, but I hope it was worth the wait, and that your new year is as awesome as your last.
Summary: Dean has a wife, a house, a steady job, a brand new ride and a charmed life. And he realizes he's not in control of any of it.
Thursday and Friday are here, Saturday and Sunday are here.
Thursday
Nothing to think of, nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.
It's just another day at the office. Dean fixes his tie, adjusts his glasses and picks up his pen again. Signs the lease, stamps his number, closes the folder and lets it fall into the ‘out' pile.
He opens the next loan file with an idle sigh, pulling off the jacket, rolling up his sleeves. He raises his hand, itching the chafe on the back of his neck from starched linen. He twirls the fountain pen in his right hand, tapping it against his lips, every iota of this uncomfortable. Lists, endless reams of data, names and faces, collateral and everything else. Check it all, make it sure it's good. Dean's good at this job; he's good at this life, his house, his car. His wife.
Sign on the line, stamp the number.
He's good at this.
On his most efficient days, he can review them and crank them out seventy-five deep without even thinking about it. He knows the things he has to look for, the people he has to deny; he knows the risks the bank will take and the ones that are simply too much. In those times, he imagines all the people he's giving a chance, new houses and cars and babies, university scholarships for books, bankrolling people for new starts He lets Hamistagan National give these people a life.. It's all hope, all optimism and sublime prosperity, like a high every time he signs his name and closes the folder, slipping it back into the ‘out' pile and moving on to another.
Today, though? Today he's stuck, and he's bored. It's Thursday afternoon, and he feels listless, desperate to get home to Jo. Desperate for days of sleep, hours out of this suit. He feels like he's on pins and needles, and has denied about fifty loan proposals for the afternoon. Soon, he'll have to stop, go over his ‘outbox' , arranging his offers in alphabetical order, walking back to the vault, re-filing all of them himself. They don't pay him enough, but it's not like he gets money for nothin', after all. Lips in a tight line, he finishes his filing, shuts off the light in his little office and walks down to his car, cherry red '59 Impala, box fenders and white top and all, fresh off the line and every time he looks at it, he can hear Jo's squeals in the back of his head, all sweet and perfect. He can't wait to hear that sound already.
Keys in the car, start the ignition, and he's off.
Dean hates the evening commute back home. Downtown Hamistagan is always gridlocked, and he hates how he can't take off this suit, not even now after work. Route 5 is backed up, as always, and route 3 has an accident, and Dean knows he could be back at the office clocking in overtime in signing and stamping, but it's been a long and boring day. Chicken salad for lunch, cup of coffee and chocolate bar in the afternoon. Don't speak about the Soviets, don't look deviant.
Dean's cracking at the seams, and his buttons won't let themselves be undone. He can't breathe in this tie, readjusts it again before honking the horn in vain. He can feel the lines of tension in his back, soaked into him. He's on the open road in a world of optimism and yet, he's a worker bee, a slave, meek and horrible. He started working at the bank and since, things may have been looking up financially, but it's times like these when his life slips through his fingers, eternal and seamless like water.
Dean doesn't know what he's doing in this life, but he knows he's going back to her. He needs her hands on him, needs her to take these clothes off of him.
He licks his lips, and straightens up in his seat, hand gripping the wheel tight like he's trying to hold onto the last of his sanity before the 5:30 rush.
It's not until he gets home that the tension in his back slides away; he hunches over, typical optimism of the bank completely evaporated as he turns into the driveway of 13 Bound Avenue. The house is modest, but Dean loves it as much as he did when they bought it a few months ago. It’s his shelter, it makes him a responsible man.
She stands outside, watching with her hands clasped behind her back, crinoline dress hidden by the ruffles of a linen apron, feet pushed into heels as her perfectly groomed hair licks at her shoulders.
"And how was your day?" she asks as Dean arises from the car, pulling his briefcase along with him.
"Dreadful. Long and endless and frustrating." Dean sighs. He walks up to her, giving her the leather bag and taking her face into his hands, kissing her long and loving. "And how was yours, Jo?"
"Problematic. My heel broke today and it was the devil's claws trying to repair it," she says. "Dinner's almost ready, and your beer's already open."
"Good, because I'm itching to get out of this suit," he smiles, reaching for the door and holding it open for her like a gentleman as she shuffles inside. "And I'll buy you a new pair, how about that?"
"You're too good to me," she sighs, as he kisses her again, leading her hands up to his tie, fingers falling effortlessly into her hair before the door even falls closed.
"Please," he whispers, as her nails pick at the knot of his tie, unbutton his suit gently as if it's the only one he has. "Want you so bad."
"Shh," she hisses. "I know. You'll have as much of it as you want, later."
Dinner is quiet, easy as you please in a dining room too big for the two of them, on chairs and china that are too grandiose for them. They're silent, calm after what feels like eons of talking about nothing down at the bank, signing and stamping.
After, they curl up on the couch, sharing another beer as Dean watches the game, spread toes and stolen kisses. If you had to ask him, Dean would give up everything in the world for this, everything he could fathom, every part of himself for this, to never work a day again, never pick up that pen again, never wear those glasses. Dean laughs to himself, thinking ‘if only' and realizes that out of all the things he'd give up, this life is something he'd trade for whatever he left behind, no matter what that is, no matter the fact that he's been here so long that he's forgotten, or they've made him forget, or whatever it is, he doesn't even know. It's hard to even remember what he was, who he was before he woke up in his bed, wife wrapped around him and a ring on his finger, but he knows that this world of safety and security isn't his.
All Dean knows is this. But he imagines that it could be much, much worse.
Jo nudges him, hand careful on his shoulder. "You're sleeping, c'mon, we need to go to bed."
Dean looks at her, bleary and red-eyed, nodding silently as she helps him off the couch, following her upstairs with his hands on her shoulders, maintaining contact as they walk into the master bedroom, where he spins her around, shutting the door and slamming her wide across it.
"What the fuck am I doing here?" Dean hisses. "I mean, I just…"
"You're about to fuck me, that's what," she barks, bringing her lips down on his, inhaling as he grabs onto her slim waist, clinging to her as he unzips her dress, peeling her away from polyester and nylon and pulling back to appraise her, lacy lingerie and simple garters. She presses against him, neck bared, whole body begging to be taken. He kisses her again, long and deliberate and sweet.
He throws her against the bed and climbs on top, aware of the control she's giving him. He licks at her, pulling at the cups of her bra so her breasts spill over the top, shimmying her underwear down her legs and unpinning stockings from her garter belt, spreading her legs to open her, and leaning down to address her clit, French kissing her lips, giving her the time and attention she can't get outside of this room simply because she's a girl.
She grabs onto him, sighing his name as he slips fingers into her skillfully, the same fingers he uses to drive his car, sign his name, stamp his number, collate his files in alphabetical order. He lays his head on her stomach, taking his time with her like he's building her orgasm like a house of cards. She's eager, writhing and looking down at him, well-manicured hand passing through his short hair. She looks on, prim, until he rubs at the spot inside her and she freezes, begging him in.
He doesn't use a condom with her, just pumps himself to full hardness and slides inside, one hand on her hip, the other in her hair. He kisses her, knowing that he's feeding her her own taste, and even though they're half asleep, she tells him to go hard inside her and he does, goes as hard as they both can stand. She comes first, pulsing around him like she's trying to eat him alive, he's bottoming out inside her and can feel every twitch, every raw jolt.
And when he comes? When Dean comes inside her, he knows more about this situation than he ever imagined. He's aware of how far deep in hell he is, he's aware of how he's doing dirty work for demons who had no qualms about exploiting his tolerance for physical pain, until seeing him die over and over had become dreadfully boring. He sees and knows how many demons he's sent to possess innocent people and walk the earth: hundreds, thousands. He knows everything there is to know about it. He knows everything he can know when he's inside her, inside this bed, inside this room.
Here, Dean knows, is the only place where he's aware. Everywhere else, he's asleep, unaware, in a daze and doing what is asked of him by some invisible force. Everywhere else, the false memory that Hamistagan offers is too good a temptation to pass up. Here, though?
Here he can be Dean Winchester, and he doesn't know which demon architect decided to allow him that grace, but he's sure as fuck thankful for it. He’s under someone else’s control, but at least he realizes how much of a peon he is.
He rolls off her, and she doesn't cuddle into him the way she would in the rest of the house. She just shimmies between the sheets, mindful of the fact that she's brimming with his come, and yawns. "Tomorrow's another day, Dean."
He forages for boxers, sliding them on and walking into the bathroom, mindful to keep his eyes down as he brushes his teeth. He slides in behinds her, pulling her naked body against his, and nods, nuzzled into her shoulder.
"Yep. Yeah it is."
They're little children, here. Little pawns in a demon's dollhouse. That knowledge, Dean thinks, may be just as painful as any torture his body would have endured.
He sleeps dreamlessly.
Friday
Jo gets up early, opening the door from the master bedroom and walking out, shutting the door behind her. She becomes quicker, lighter on her feet as she plucks her silk robe from the hook near the staircase, wrapping it around her body and cinching it tight around her waist. She scurries downstairs, fluttering around the kitchen as she puts water in the kettle for her tea and packs the coffeemaker for Dean's coffee. It's 6 o'clock and she has nowhere to be once she ferries Dean out of the house and off to work.
She doesn't even know where she gets the energy from in the kitchen, managing open fires and pans of eggs and bacon, toast in the toaster. She doesn't know if Dean likes this kind of thing, doesn't really know what he eats in the first place, but it doesn't matter after a while, the voice in the back of her head tells her. She's got to be a good housewife. Nobody likes a widow, whatever that means. And besides, Dean needs her, needs this, they both need each other.
Her first cup of tea is warm and slides down her easy, like something she doesn't recognize until it's already gotten its claws in her.
Dean tumbles down the stairs and pads into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. "Morning, sweetheart."
"Morning!" she chirps, pouring him a cup of coffee and handing it to him easily. "I'm almost done. Sit down."
"Of course, honey," he says, caressing her hand before stepping back and letting her finish. "I'm going to try to finish early, today. I'm feelin' particularly energetic today."
"That's good, Dean. I'm going to the market, but otherwise, I don't think there's anything else I need to be doing today. I'll be here." She says, placing the plate carefully in front of him. "I don't want to get out of bed at all with you, tomorrow. Want everything out of the way so we can sleep in late, have a nice, long bath? Everything."
Dean pulls her next to him, fingers sliding into Jo's hair, his lips pressing into hers. His smile is dazzling, "We'll do it."
They eat quick and in silence, knowing that Dean needs to go to work as soon as possible if he's expecting to get home early this afternoon and beat the rush, scurrying back upstairs in order to make sure Dean's day starts smoothly.
They're quiet inside the bedroom, this time. It's like a ritual for them both, putting that suit on him, trapping him in the restraints that hell gives him. It's ugly, pinstriped and cut big to make Dean look smaller, something he'd never wear if he were back on earth, not even for a con. Dean's eyes drip with realization that only affects him here in this room, his body broken and spirit weakened, and she knows he wants to go back to sleep, go back to solving problems, go back to anything but this.
Jo doesn't blame him, she misses it too, and she knows more about how she died than he does, the battle at the Roadhouse cramming her down here like so many of the others. She hasn't seen Ellen, yet, but hunter's hell is wide and deep, and she knows that even if she did see her mother, it's not like they'd remember each other until it was far too late.
"You alright?" Dean asks her, brows furrowed in a way that they never are on the outside and she looks down, smiling.
"You called me sweetheart, out there," she says, fondly. "I almost believed it."
He has no words for that.
"I'm sorry," he offers.
"I am, too," she says, somber before she cinches his tie tighter and does up the buttons on his suit. He kisses her, this time, and it's of his own accord; it feels like him in every detail, heavy handed but prepared, her knight in shining armor.
If only he could be the person he is in here outside.
He zips her into her dress easily and she stands obediently on the front porch kissing him on the lips and handing him the keys to the car before watching him pull out of the driveway and off to work.
She smiles, waving him off before she huddles back into the house, barefoot on primly vacuumed carpet, shuffling into the kitchen to erase the fact that breakfast even happened there. It's a quick smile and tiny yawn before she goes back into the bedroom, piling back under the sheets in her dress, going back to sleep. The house is in order, like it always is, and she has no real reason to be caring about the state of the world around her.
Jo always makes her shopping lists in bed because she knows she'll forget everything she wants if she doesn't write it down here. Like when they need to condition the leather of Dean's shoes, or when they're all out of lube, or anything else that's considered rather ‘taboo' here. It's the only reason why they have some of the things they always keep in the house, like the KY or the whetstone, or the Latin version of the Bible that's sitting on the desk in the corner, or the nice top shelf scotch and two crystal glasses that sit next to it. It's the reason why she has pants, even if she can only wear them in this room without feeling the burn of them, the startling need to take them off as if nudity would be better than assuming the place of a man and insulting Dean's masculinity.
Today, it's rather simple. Pick up gas for the truck and some normal staples: milk and eggs, steak and ground chuck, flour and sugar. They're almost out of soap, and they're on their last strands of lube, which is never good when Dean Winchester's fucking her. She needs another screwdriver; she broke the last one fixing the dryer door yesterday, and she's going to need to figure out a way to get gas into the lawn mower, soon enough.
Feh.
It's weird, how things work sometimes. She knows going down to the Piggly Wiggly isn't this much of an affair, especially when she's going in Dean's old truck instead of the brand new and fancy Impala, but some part of her urges her to fit on her best. The wrinkles have fallen out of her dress and her hair has been righted in the steps between the bed and the coat closet downstairs, like some fucked-up sardonic tendency of this demonic house. Her list tucked easily in her pocket, she plucks her coat from the rack and slips it on, buttoning it up but ignoring the urge to slip on better heels, gloves, a hat. It's times like these when she really, really needs to be strong, no matter what that actually should mean.
All in all, Piggly-Wiggly may be the height of today's efforts, but Jo doesn't do very much there but shop. Several people stop and talk with her, about the news or how she and Dean need to have children already and properly consummate their marriage, or how they need a bigger television set, or how they eat too much red meat, but she just shrugs it off. The height of the trip is coercing the extremely suspicious pharmacist to open up the case for lube, flashing her wedding band and engagement ring with modest diamond.
"Where does he work?" The clerk asks.
"Hamistagan National," she sighs, genuinely. "We're in love."
"Let's hope you stop buying this and start buying diapers sometime soon, then."
She picks up a journal at the checkout counter, but can't for the life of her figure out why, when she thinks about it.
She has to strain herself to remember things in this place, unless she writes them down ahead of time. It's kind of heartbreaking, seeing as she always thought she wasn't just a pretty trophy wife, dim and lost. Her mother wasn't that, and she didn't want to be, either. Didn't care about nothin' else, in her day.
So when there's a tall man waiting on the porch in work clothes who's very much not her husband, a tight feeling seizes up in her chest. She's read about suburban rapes, a rash of them in this area for about three weeks, she searches for her knife for the first time since she's been here outside of the master bedroom, and when she can't find it, she cracks her knuckles and settles that if she's going to have to fight him, believing she can is half of the battle.
She carefully plucks the keys out of the ignition and lumps it into her hand as she puts on her best smile. "Why hello, there!"
The man blinks at her owlishly, as she carries her bags from the truck bed to the door. "Jo?"
"Do I know you?" She asks. She's leery of opening the door with him around, but he takes her bags, helpfully, and smiles at her. He reminds her of someone, but she can't remember who.
"I…" The man looks honestly surprised. "I'm Sam. Y'know, Dean's brother?"
"Oh," Jo says, guardedly. "He never seems to talk about you."
"Really?" Sam says, with soft eyes and a sweet smile. "Are you sure?"
"I'd expect to remember if my husband told me about any brothers of his, Sam," Jo hisses through her teeth. "Do you have a picture of you two, or at least some identification?"
"I'm sure you recognize me, Jo," Sam chirps, every bit an angel. "I'll help you with your bags, if you need it."
"Why sure, Sam, after you tell me something about my husband you do know," She smiles. Begrudgingly, he pulls out a knife and she freezes, sheer terror until he hands it over to her hilt first.
"In case you're worried," Sam reassures, as he holds his hands up to signal he's not armed. He reaches into his back pocket pulling out his wallet and giving her a picture of him and Dean, huddled into a photo booth somewhere when they were decidedly younger, grinning and yet so heartbreakingly them.
"I'm sorry I doubted you," she flips the hilt and offers the knife back, reaching with her other hand to help open the door. "You mind givin' me a hand, Sam?"
"Of course," He grins.
"You'll have to excuse the mess," Jo says, sweetly, leading him into the house. Here, she's on auto-pilot, scurrying about to put away the groceries as quickly as possible, dropping her coat to put on an apron and leading the bags into the kitchen.
"Oh, no. Not at all, Jo." Sam speaks as if he knows her, and she still doesn't remember him at all. She wants Dean here, knows Dean would know what to do if this guy is a fraud, and hopes that she can do the same.
She cowers into the refrigerator, "Do you know where you'll be staying tonight?"
"Not yet. I was expecting to come, find the house, hitchhike downtown," Sam replies. "You seem…I dunno. Different."
"Well, your brother has made an honest woman out of me," Jo grins, presenting Sam with her wedding ring. Sam almost looks sad. "And don't speak of hitchhiking. I always keep the guest room upstairs prepared for occasions like these."
"Really? You don't think Dean will mind?" Sam asks, biting his lip.
"I don't think he'll mind at all. I think he'll be happy to see you, Sam," she says, picking up the bag of things that she planned on bringing upstairs and leading him to the staircase. "Come with me and we'll get you set up."
Sam's glass of scotch is filled too high, but it's fine because the shaking in her hands stops the minute she gives it to him. They're in the master bedroom, now, and Sam sits back in Dean's chair.
"How'd you do it?" she asks, clawing out of her dress, walking into the bathroom. She fits herself into one of Dean's dress shirts, wiping off her lipstick and undoing her stockings.
"How'd I get here?" he asks, surprised, "What's happened to you, Jo? You're shaking, and outside you didn't even…"
"Sam," she says, levelly. "You're in Hell. I thought you kne-"
"I know that, Jo," he says, annoyed. "Pastor Jim and I found a ritual, but I was prepared for suffering, not…"
"Not this, huh?" she asks, sucking at her teeth as she goes and sits on the bed. She can tell the tone of her voice has turned cold, and wishes she weren't as annoyed as she is. "After the torture, they throw the hunters here, Sam. They throw us here to live little Pleasantville lives where we do their dirty work, and we can only realize it when we're in our beds. It keeps Dean up at night, going to work, realizing that he's not in control anymore. That’s Hamistagan for you. Kiss your normal life goodbye, along with the comforts you had when you were just getting killed repeatedly. It's not like you even remember what they do to you, you jut remember the pain."
Sam leans forward in his chair, "What are they making him do, Jo?"
She laughs, low under her breath. "Why Sam, you don't still think demons escape from Hell on their own whim, do you?"
"You mean he lets them out?" Sam asks, breathless.
"Even Hell has bureaucracy, Sam," she shrugs. "They have to get approval. Some do, some don't. Dean works as a gatekeeper. He keeps the lower ones in and lets the higher demons out. Doesn't even realize what he's doing until he comes back here; the farther we go away from here, the more he forgets himself, the more they brainwash him into doing their work for them. Our free will, our memories? Everything?"
"They're in this room," Sam whispers, bringing the scotch to his lips.
"You bet," Jo says. "So you'll have to excuse me if I do anything that seems out of character, Sam, because all of my character is trapped in here. Outside, I'm a good wife, I want a baby, I tend to this house like it's a living thing and when Dean's around, I orbit around him. It's...nobody else matters when I'm out there. Nobody else even remotely matters."
"I don't know what to say, Jo…"
"You expected fire and brimstone," she laughs, softly. "You expected it, and I did, too. It's not like anybody comes out of Hell to tell people what it's like, you know."
He takes another long drink of scotch, brows furrowing as he tries to digest all of this. She interrupts him, softly.
"Why are you here, Sam? Why would you find a ritual to get here, of all places? Why would you bother, when you could be ending the war up there?" Jo asks. "You died, didn't you, Sam."
"No, I didn't. I wouldn't be here if I were dead," he says, getting up to sit next to her on the bed. She doesn't ask why, doesn't think she really wants to know. "I came for Dean."
"You mean you're not here for me?" Jo says, sarcastically, smiling when Sam laughs quiet and warm. "You want to find a way to bring him back with you, right?"
"I wish I would have thought of that beforehand, but yeah. We need to find a way to get out, Jo," He asks. "I thought I could do this without him and leave well enough alone, but really? That's impossible. Absolutely impossible. I need him back. I need to break this open, Jo."
"Sam," Jo says, leery. "You're planning something he's not going to like. But…I know he doesn't belong here. He doesn't, you know. He misses you so much he can't even bring himself to speak of you, much. When we first tried, when he first got here, it was even more torturous than the pain they put him through in the regular hell. Even now, I think if they just tortured him, ripped him apart physically, he'd be happier than he is here."
"How long has it been since…"
"It's not like I know," Jo shrugs. "We don't get any older, here, but it's been a few years since I showed up, here, and it's been maybe six months since I woke up and he was next to me in bed."
"And that was it?" he asks.
"It was," she nods. "Ring on my finger, husband in my bed, that was it. What more could a girl ask for?"
"Freedom, but this is a good semblance of it regardless," he sighs, "Do you ever get tired of it?"
"I got tired of it a long time ago, but I suppose there's not much I can do about that, can I? Not without your help."
"What?"
"I know of a way for you to get back, Sam. If you just…stop for a second," she says, but she's pulled up onto her feet by some unknown force, going up onto the balls of her toes as she looks around for her shoes and slips into them, the heel fitting under her just right. She doesn't turn back, but she knows that Sam has the most panicked look on his face, but she's focused on other things, like how she's not wearing anything other than Dean's shirt and some panties. The clock says it's 3:30, and she smiles, flying down the stairs and blazing past the front door to the porch with Sam behind her.
"You're home!" She grins, all perfect wife and ready lover when Dean gets out of the Impala.
"Sweet ride," Sam says. She knows it's sarcastic but she nudges him with her hip anyway.
"I remember the day he brought it home. Cherry red's my favorite color, ya know," She says, as Dean readjusts his glasses and takes a good look at Sam.
"Dean," Sam breathes.
"There are only two people I know of that say my name that way," Dean starts, rubbing his eyes on his way around the car and brings his glasses back up to his face. Time slows down, and Jo watches them both look at each other like hell's trapping them in this moment like flies in amber. She likes amber, now that she thinks about it. "My wife and my brother."
"Yeah," Sam says, softly. He reaches out to shake Dean's hand formally, and Dean takes it, shaking politely like he has no belief that Sam's real.
"How'd you get here?" Dean asks, still standing in his own front yard. Jo wants to move them away from the curious eyes of nosy housewives, but stays quiet.
"Well, Dean, you know me," Sam says.
"Always gettin' into trouble," Dean shakes his head. "You're staying here, I presume."
"I hope it's not too much trouble."
"If Jo's said it's okay, then I don't see why not."
Dinner passes by quick and quietly. Jo can sense the strain in the house, and hopes the food will put some of it to rest. Nonetheless, she scoots them into the bedroom and administers whiskey as social lubricant afterward, and leaves them to talk as she washes the dishes.
When she comes back, it's like they've said all they needed to say without her around, and they're just looking at each other silently. There's tension thick in the corners of the room, and Dean still hasn't acknowledged Sam by his name in front of her. If they've remotely uttered anything at all, then she isn't aware of it one bit. She needs to get them talking, get them feeling, get them close again. It's only then that she remembers the rumors about the two of them, the two of them sleeping together and maybe, she thinks, maybe if she starts it, they'll take it from there.
She goes into the bathroom, into the shower, and stands there in the stall, still clothed, the water off. If they're at each other's throats, then fine, she'll get them at each other's throats in another way. She's a woman. She knows how to get things out of men they don't even think they'll be divulging, old tricks from the few women who would breeze through the roadhouse like a hot breeze in winter.
She walks out girlishly, going to sit near Dean's feet because Sam's taken the other free chair. She caresses Dean's free hand, looking up at him with wide eyes, and biting her lip as she pushes herself forward into his hands, sitting up on hands and knees.
"I can lea-" Sam says, breaking the silence in the room but Jo turns around and smiles.
"You'll regret it," Jo snaps.
Sam's eyes float to Dean's face, and she knows Dean looks at him, voice warm but short. "It never was my decision to begin with, Sammy. She gets what she wants in here."
"Not like I can get it anywhere else," she says, leaning up into Dean's ear. "Fuck. And you know what I want you to do?"
"What?" Dean asks. Jo places his hands on her hips and leans into Dean's ear, lips hidden from Sam's view with Dean's face.
"I wanna suck you until you're hard and I want you to pull me into your lap and slide right in, fuck me as hard as you want, like you did last night and the night before, and I want you to beckon him over to lick me clean. I want you to tell him to bend me over and fuck my ass and I want you to tell him when he can come. I want you both inside me, Dean. I want you both on the same page, and the only way that I've ever seen you both on the same page is when you're working together. So you can work together, and fuck me. That should be a good enough fit for anybody," she whispers, even voiced and quiet before she slithers back down into the floor and undoes his pants.
"Love it when you tell me what you want," Dean grins.
"Love it when you actually listen," She snorts, fishing him softly out of his pants, licking her lips and opening her mouth over the head. Dean's already half-hard, and she uses her tongue until he's got his hands wrapped into her hair, back arched up as she relaxes her jaw and lets him slip in to the hilt, throat working softly around him as she bobbles back and forth. She feels Sam sit behind her, hands splitting her knees open, touching her where she's wet, fingers sinking into her flawlessly.
"I thought I told you to watch," she says, backing away to turn and kiss at Sam's lips.
"I don't like having to look and not touch," Sam whispers. "And besides, you're so devoted to him right now, what about you, huh?"
She takes Dean back into her mouth again, and Dean scoots closer, arching up as she swallows him down. Sam's fingers lace together and slip into her, thick and wide and then she clenches around him. His other hand rests low on her neck as Jo slips all the way down on Dean's cock, lips pressed against her throat as it expands and contracts. Sam's tongue comes out to tease at the seal of her lips around Dean's cock, languidly. She moans, low in her throat as Sam's fingers flick in and out of her, heel pressed against her clit, her hips bucking up and against Sam's hand.
She pulls back, reaches up to stroke at him while she turns and captures Sam's mouth, sharing the taste of Dean's precome between them, her other hand coming up to hold him still by the hair. Dean's moaning, trying to stretch in the chair to get a chance for their mouths, too, and she realizes how in control of this she is, rubbing against Sam's hardened cock in his weathered jeans.
"Fuck," she hisses, pressing her face back into Dean's crotch as Sam pulses into her faster, his fingers jerking her quick and pressing against her back.
"I'm gonna…" Dean warns, but Sam pushes her forward even deeper on him, until her lips are sealed around the base.
"Come, then, Dean," Sam whispers. It's a dare, and from the way that Dean comes hard at the back of her throat, it works so well, Jo knows they hadn't said much of anything in this room until she offered to do this for them. Her orgasm surprises her, as she groans low and shakes to completion.
And suddenly, she realizes how it all slips into place.
Seeing Dean stalk down to kiss her, and press around her to yank at Sam, pulling him by the jacket, kissing him fiercely is better than Jo imagined.
"Sam," Dean groans. Their kiss goes on forever, even though she's squished between the two of them, still warm with orgasm. They kiss like they've been lovers for years.
Jo hangs her head, grinning low. Mission accomplished.
If she were outside this room, she knows what would come out of her lips right now, and maybe at times like these it's true. 'Within every girl is a tramp, a hussy begging for a taste of bliss.' Now that they've peeled her out of Dean's shirt and spread her thin on the bed, she realizes how true that is. It's funny, how enthusiastic the two of them are to her, fingers and tongues licking at the very core of her, the two of them spreading her open and devouring her hungrily.
"We want to fuck you," Dean whispers, softly. "We want to do it together. I call dibs on your ass."
"Brat," Sam says, simply. He throws her around like a little doll, pressing her down onto her back as he slides into her slow, fills her pussy up right, spreading her deep and shifting her hips on him, opening her legs deeper and turning her over so she's on top. She thanks God for the fact that her delusional housewife self is into yoga like all the rest of the housewives in this place. "You're gonna be so full when we're through with you, stay up in you all night. Switch places so you don't get tired until you're loose and fucked out. You wondered, right? How it would be like with the both of us?"
"I don't remember much of my life up from up there," she whispers, groaning softly. Dean comes up behind her, lubing her up softly before he pushes her forward a little bit, and shifts forward. It's been a long time since she's done it this way, but Dean's slow, sensing how much she wants it but knows he has to give her the time she needs to adjust. Dean kisses her neck, sitting her up just a little, and she groans with the feeling of his slick heat.
"So tight," Dean whispers low in her ear, slick lips sucking on her lobe.
The moment between the three of them throbs, swells with heat and she manages to sit up, leaning back into Dean's arms, sighing deep, trying to keep the feeling tight between them. She doesn't know why Dean and Sam won't talk much to each other, but it probably has something to do with the way that Sam's looking right past her, looking right into Dean's eyes and telling him everything he wants to hear without saying a thing.
"Go," she whispers, and Sam lifts her breast from her bra, curls up to lick at her nipple, lips flicking at her areola and bearing her further down onto the both of them, shifting them both inside her as they shift up, making them hiss. "Fuck me. Go!"
"Are you…are you sure, Jo?" Sam asks, licking at her lips. "I don't want to hurt you."
"C'mon, fuck me. It's okay, really, please," she begs. When they give her no reprieve, she starts fucking herself, desperate for friction, desperate to let them have her, fuck her. "Please, please! Don't make me beg. Don't make me…"
"But you do it so well," Dean smiles against her collarbone, caressing her breasts as they shift, her back, pushing her into Sam, pushing them back for leverage as he moves inside her, slipping all the way out before pushing blind all the way in, making both her and Sam moan in what could be harmony in a perfect world, and while Dean's strokes are long and measured, perfect like everything else he does in this life because that just makes living here all the harder, Sam's hips are reactionary, spontaneous and impossible.
"Oh, God," Jo gasps, clutching at Sam's hair. "Fuck me. Fuck me so good, please! Please! Like that! Please."
Sam's hands fly up to frame her face, and she slams her hips down hard on him while he kisses her softly, whispering words lovingly in a language she can't understand, crying out wet and soft as she tries to find the words to announce to them that she's gonna come. Dean's still pumping in and out of her ass, grunting to himself and promising her that they're gonna get her off before taking turns on her tight little hole until it's slack and accommodating, using words that he'd never even think to use anywhere else than in this room. She turns to kiss him too, if nothing else then to shut him up as she clamps down around him and Sam reaches wet fingers down to address her clit, rubbing it softly in one direction, then in the other.
That's all she wrote, Jo thinks, coming hard enough that her own wetness is smearing down over Sam's thighs, proof of where he's been and how long he's been there.
And there's that moment of clarity, that part where she feels like she could probably walk right into heaven if she reached out quick enough to the light teasing her in the back of her head. She looks down at Sam, and sees something off. Her skin prickles with naïveté, like it did the last time she saw him and almost died because of it. She doesn't know what's wrong, but she knows she'd rather be away from it than up close. She knows she wants it out of here, out of her thoughts, out of her bed, out of her house, out of her hell. The feeling fades away, smoothly, as she comes out of her orgasm, and she almost completely forgets it.
They keep fucking into her, hitting her buttons just right so little sparks ride out of her as long as they can, time slowing down with every second of this orgasm, clutching and sucking and eating at the both of them as they fuck her. She wants that as much as they do. She wants to help.
She shakes through the rest of it, screaming and squealing, and they fuck her through it. They're insistent up to the point where it begins to hurt for the three of them, right into their own orgasms inside her: Dean's first, then Sam's as Dean bottoms out inside her and pushes her down onto Sam as well.
They're paralyzed because of her. The both of them look at her a little differently, after they pull away, sated and sleepy and messy-wet. Sam gets up to go back to his room, but she pulls him back as she and Dean yawn, ready to sleep.
"Come back to bed, Sam," She says, softly. "Come back to bed and I'll tell you how to get out of here tomorrow. How about that?"
"You sure you alright with this, with…" Sam starts, pointing at Dean's unconscious form, "With me taking him away from you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"But what about the neighborhood and all?" Sam asks, quickly.
"Like they'll realize anything," she snorts.
Slick lips float over hers in a graze of a kiss, so soft she might well have imagined it. "You're an angel."
"Tell that to the people keeping me here."
"I'll see what I can do," he says, determined and that moment of clarity comes back to her like déjà vu, Sam's body pinning her down, fingers tearing into her with possession in more ways than one. It sends a chill down her spine and she rebels, fingers itching for her father's knife, for the comfort of it twirling between her fingers.
She bites her tongue. "Go to bed, Sam."
Saturday and Sunday are here.
Rating/Pairing: NC-17, Dean/Jo, Dean/Jo/Sam, Dean/Sam.
Warnings: Explicit Sex, both Het and Slash, and a threesome, Explicit m/f/m. Interpretation of hell, ect. Pleasantville. Spoilers for Season Three, in general, but not beyond the US.
Prompt: For Spn_holidays's recipient montisello. Prompts were "A fic with Dean/Jo [...] Write me a fic with Dean/Jo and Sam not a third wheel, maybe working on a case together. Can be het or gen. Also, don’t tell anyone, but I’m curious about a threeway with Jo/Sam/Dean. I mean, WOW." and "A fic with Sam and Dean reenacting the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice." This is a rather creative interpretation of both of those things, I'm sure, but I hope it was worth the wait, and that your new year is as awesome as your last.
Summary: Dean has a wife, a house, a steady job, a brand new ride and a charmed life. And he realizes he's not in control of any of it.
Thursday and Friday are here, Saturday and Sunday are here.
Thursday
Nothing to think of, nothing to worry about.
Nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.
It's just another day at the office. Dean fixes his tie, adjusts his glasses and picks up his pen again. Signs the lease, stamps his number, closes the folder and lets it fall into the ‘out' pile.
He opens the next loan file with an idle sigh, pulling off the jacket, rolling up his sleeves. He raises his hand, itching the chafe on the back of his neck from starched linen. He twirls the fountain pen in his right hand, tapping it against his lips, every iota of this uncomfortable. Lists, endless reams of data, names and faces, collateral and everything else. Check it all, make it sure it's good. Dean's good at this job; he's good at this life, his house, his car. His wife.
Sign on the line, stamp the number.
He's good at this.
On his most efficient days, he can review them and crank them out seventy-five deep without even thinking about it. He knows the things he has to look for, the people he has to deny; he knows the risks the bank will take and the ones that are simply too much. In those times, he imagines all the people he's giving a chance, new houses and cars and babies, university scholarships for books, bankrolling people for new starts He lets Hamistagan National give these people a life.. It's all hope, all optimism and sublime prosperity, like a high every time he signs his name and closes the folder, slipping it back into the ‘out' pile and moving on to another.
Today, though? Today he's stuck, and he's bored. It's Thursday afternoon, and he feels listless, desperate to get home to Jo. Desperate for days of sleep, hours out of this suit. He feels like he's on pins and needles, and has denied about fifty loan proposals for the afternoon. Soon, he'll have to stop, go over his ‘outbox' , arranging his offers in alphabetical order, walking back to the vault, re-filing all of them himself. They don't pay him enough, but it's not like he gets money for nothin', after all. Lips in a tight line, he finishes his filing, shuts off the light in his little office and walks down to his car, cherry red '59 Impala, box fenders and white top and all, fresh off the line and every time he looks at it, he can hear Jo's squeals in the back of his head, all sweet and perfect. He can't wait to hear that sound already.
Keys in the car, start the ignition, and he's off.
Dean hates the evening commute back home. Downtown Hamistagan is always gridlocked, and he hates how he can't take off this suit, not even now after work. Route 5 is backed up, as always, and route 3 has an accident, and Dean knows he could be back at the office clocking in overtime in signing and stamping, but it's been a long and boring day. Chicken salad for lunch, cup of coffee and chocolate bar in the afternoon. Don't speak about the Soviets, don't look deviant.
Dean's cracking at the seams, and his buttons won't let themselves be undone. He can't breathe in this tie, readjusts it again before honking the horn in vain. He can feel the lines of tension in his back, soaked into him. He's on the open road in a world of optimism and yet, he's a worker bee, a slave, meek and horrible. He started working at the bank and since, things may have been looking up financially, but it's times like these when his life slips through his fingers, eternal and seamless like water.
Dean doesn't know what he's doing in this life, but he knows he's going back to her. He needs her hands on him, needs her to take these clothes off of him.
He licks his lips, and straightens up in his seat, hand gripping the wheel tight like he's trying to hold onto the last of his sanity before the 5:30 rush.
It's not until he gets home that the tension in his back slides away; he hunches over, typical optimism of the bank completely evaporated as he turns into the driveway of 13 Bound Avenue. The house is modest, but Dean loves it as much as he did when they bought it a few months ago. It’s his shelter, it makes him a responsible man.
She stands outside, watching with her hands clasped behind her back, crinoline dress hidden by the ruffles of a linen apron, feet pushed into heels as her perfectly groomed hair licks at her shoulders.
"And how was your day?" she asks as Dean arises from the car, pulling his briefcase along with him.
"Dreadful. Long and endless and frustrating." Dean sighs. He walks up to her, giving her the leather bag and taking her face into his hands, kissing her long and loving. "And how was yours, Jo?"
"Problematic. My heel broke today and it was the devil's claws trying to repair it," she says. "Dinner's almost ready, and your beer's already open."
"Good, because I'm itching to get out of this suit," he smiles, reaching for the door and holding it open for her like a gentleman as she shuffles inside. "And I'll buy you a new pair, how about that?"
"You're too good to me," she sighs, as he kisses her again, leading her hands up to his tie, fingers falling effortlessly into her hair before the door even falls closed.
"Please," he whispers, as her nails pick at the knot of his tie, unbutton his suit gently as if it's the only one he has. "Want you so bad."
"Shh," she hisses. "I know. You'll have as much of it as you want, later."
Dinner is quiet, easy as you please in a dining room too big for the two of them, on chairs and china that are too grandiose for them. They're silent, calm after what feels like eons of talking about nothing down at the bank, signing and stamping.
After, they curl up on the couch, sharing another beer as Dean watches the game, spread toes and stolen kisses. If you had to ask him, Dean would give up everything in the world for this, everything he could fathom, every part of himself for this, to never work a day again, never pick up that pen again, never wear those glasses. Dean laughs to himself, thinking ‘if only' and realizes that out of all the things he'd give up, this life is something he'd trade for whatever he left behind, no matter what that is, no matter the fact that he's been here so long that he's forgotten, or they've made him forget, or whatever it is, he doesn't even know. It's hard to even remember what he was, who he was before he woke up in his bed, wife wrapped around him and a ring on his finger, but he knows that this world of safety and security isn't his.
All Dean knows is this. But he imagines that it could be much, much worse.
Jo nudges him, hand careful on his shoulder. "You're sleeping, c'mon, we need to go to bed."
Dean looks at her, bleary and red-eyed, nodding silently as she helps him off the couch, following her upstairs with his hands on her shoulders, maintaining contact as they walk into the master bedroom, where he spins her around, shutting the door and slamming her wide across it.
"What the fuck am I doing here?" Dean hisses. "I mean, I just…"
"You're about to fuck me, that's what," she barks, bringing her lips down on his, inhaling as he grabs onto her slim waist, clinging to her as he unzips her dress, peeling her away from polyester and nylon and pulling back to appraise her, lacy lingerie and simple garters. She presses against him, neck bared, whole body begging to be taken. He kisses her again, long and deliberate and sweet.
He throws her against the bed and climbs on top, aware of the control she's giving him. He licks at her, pulling at the cups of her bra so her breasts spill over the top, shimmying her underwear down her legs and unpinning stockings from her garter belt, spreading her legs to open her, and leaning down to address her clit, French kissing her lips, giving her the time and attention she can't get outside of this room simply because she's a girl.
She grabs onto him, sighing his name as he slips fingers into her skillfully, the same fingers he uses to drive his car, sign his name, stamp his number, collate his files in alphabetical order. He lays his head on her stomach, taking his time with her like he's building her orgasm like a house of cards. She's eager, writhing and looking down at him, well-manicured hand passing through his short hair. She looks on, prim, until he rubs at the spot inside her and she freezes, begging him in.
He doesn't use a condom with her, just pumps himself to full hardness and slides inside, one hand on her hip, the other in her hair. He kisses her, knowing that he's feeding her her own taste, and even though they're half asleep, she tells him to go hard inside her and he does, goes as hard as they both can stand. She comes first, pulsing around him like she's trying to eat him alive, he's bottoming out inside her and can feel every twitch, every raw jolt.
And when he comes? When Dean comes inside her, he knows more about this situation than he ever imagined. He's aware of how far deep in hell he is, he's aware of how he's doing dirty work for demons who had no qualms about exploiting his tolerance for physical pain, until seeing him die over and over had become dreadfully boring. He sees and knows how many demons he's sent to possess innocent people and walk the earth: hundreds, thousands. He knows everything there is to know about it. He knows everything he can know when he's inside her, inside this bed, inside this room.
Here, Dean knows, is the only place where he's aware. Everywhere else, he's asleep, unaware, in a daze and doing what is asked of him by some invisible force. Everywhere else, the false memory that Hamistagan offers is too good a temptation to pass up. Here, though?
Here he can be Dean Winchester, and he doesn't know which demon architect decided to allow him that grace, but he's sure as fuck thankful for it. He’s under someone else’s control, but at least he realizes how much of a peon he is.
He rolls off her, and she doesn't cuddle into him the way she would in the rest of the house. She just shimmies between the sheets, mindful of the fact that she's brimming with his come, and yawns. "Tomorrow's another day, Dean."
He forages for boxers, sliding them on and walking into the bathroom, mindful to keep his eyes down as he brushes his teeth. He slides in behinds her, pulling her naked body against his, and nods, nuzzled into her shoulder.
"Yep. Yeah it is."
They're little children, here. Little pawns in a demon's dollhouse. That knowledge, Dean thinks, may be just as painful as any torture his body would have endured.
He sleeps dreamlessly.
Friday
Jo gets up early, opening the door from the master bedroom and walking out, shutting the door behind her. She becomes quicker, lighter on her feet as she plucks her silk robe from the hook near the staircase, wrapping it around her body and cinching it tight around her waist. She scurries downstairs, fluttering around the kitchen as she puts water in the kettle for her tea and packs the coffeemaker for Dean's coffee. It's 6 o'clock and she has nowhere to be once she ferries Dean out of the house and off to work.
She doesn't even know where she gets the energy from in the kitchen, managing open fires and pans of eggs and bacon, toast in the toaster. She doesn't know if Dean likes this kind of thing, doesn't really know what he eats in the first place, but it doesn't matter after a while, the voice in the back of her head tells her. She's got to be a good housewife. Nobody likes a widow, whatever that means. And besides, Dean needs her, needs this, they both need each other.
Her first cup of tea is warm and slides down her easy, like something she doesn't recognize until it's already gotten its claws in her.
Dean tumbles down the stairs and pads into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. "Morning, sweetheart."
"Morning!" she chirps, pouring him a cup of coffee and handing it to him easily. "I'm almost done. Sit down."
"Of course, honey," he says, caressing her hand before stepping back and letting her finish. "I'm going to try to finish early, today. I'm feelin' particularly energetic today."
"That's good, Dean. I'm going to the market, but otherwise, I don't think there's anything else I need to be doing today. I'll be here." She says, placing the plate carefully in front of him. "I don't want to get out of bed at all with you, tomorrow. Want everything out of the way so we can sleep in late, have a nice, long bath? Everything."
Dean pulls her next to him, fingers sliding into Jo's hair, his lips pressing into hers. His smile is dazzling, "We'll do it."
They eat quick and in silence, knowing that Dean needs to go to work as soon as possible if he's expecting to get home early this afternoon and beat the rush, scurrying back upstairs in order to make sure Dean's day starts smoothly.
They're quiet inside the bedroom, this time. It's like a ritual for them both, putting that suit on him, trapping him in the restraints that hell gives him. It's ugly, pinstriped and cut big to make Dean look smaller, something he'd never wear if he were back on earth, not even for a con. Dean's eyes drip with realization that only affects him here in this room, his body broken and spirit weakened, and she knows he wants to go back to sleep, go back to solving problems, go back to anything but this.
Jo doesn't blame him, she misses it too, and she knows more about how she died than he does, the battle at the Roadhouse cramming her down here like so many of the others. She hasn't seen Ellen, yet, but hunter's hell is wide and deep, and she knows that even if she did see her mother, it's not like they'd remember each other until it was far too late.
"You alright?" Dean asks her, brows furrowed in a way that they never are on the outside and she looks down, smiling.
"You called me sweetheart, out there," she says, fondly. "I almost believed it."
He has no words for that.
"I'm sorry," he offers.
"I am, too," she says, somber before she cinches his tie tighter and does up the buttons on his suit. He kisses her, this time, and it's of his own accord; it feels like him in every detail, heavy handed but prepared, her knight in shining armor.
If only he could be the person he is in here outside.
He zips her into her dress easily and she stands obediently on the front porch kissing him on the lips and handing him the keys to the car before watching him pull out of the driveway and off to work.
She smiles, waving him off before she huddles back into the house, barefoot on primly vacuumed carpet, shuffling into the kitchen to erase the fact that breakfast even happened there. It's a quick smile and tiny yawn before she goes back into the bedroom, piling back under the sheets in her dress, going back to sleep. The house is in order, like it always is, and she has no real reason to be caring about the state of the world around her.
Jo always makes her shopping lists in bed because she knows she'll forget everything she wants if she doesn't write it down here. Like when they need to condition the leather of Dean's shoes, or when they're all out of lube, or anything else that's considered rather ‘taboo' here. It's the only reason why they have some of the things they always keep in the house, like the KY or the whetstone, or the Latin version of the Bible that's sitting on the desk in the corner, or the nice top shelf scotch and two crystal glasses that sit next to it. It's the reason why she has pants, even if she can only wear them in this room without feeling the burn of them, the startling need to take them off as if nudity would be better than assuming the place of a man and insulting Dean's masculinity.
Today, it's rather simple. Pick up gas for the truck and some normal staples: milk and eggs, steak and ground chuck, flour and sugar. They're almost out of soap, and they're on their last strands of lube, which is never good when Dean Winchester's fucking her. She needs another screwdriver; she broke the last one fixing the dryer door yesterday, and she's going to need to figure out a way to get gas into the lawn mower, soon enough.
Feh.
It's weird, how things work sometimes. She knows going down to the Piggly Wiggly isn't this much of an affair, especially when she's going in Dean's old truck instead of the brand new and fancy Impala, but some part of her urges her to fit on her best. The wrinkles have fallen out of her dress and her hair has been righted in the steps between the bed and the coat closet downstairs, like some fucked-up sardonic tendency of this demonic house. Her list tucked easily in her pocket, she plucks her coat from the rack and slips it on, buttoning it up but ignoring the urge to slip on better heels, gloves, a hat. It's times like these when she really, really needs to be strong, no matter what that actually should mean.
All in all, Piggly-Wiggly may be the height of today's efforts, but Jo doesn't do very much there but shop. Several people stop and talk with her, about the news or how she and Dean need to have children already and properly consummate their marriage, or how they need a bigger television set, or how they eat too much red meat, but she just shrugs it off. The height of the trip is coercing the extremely suspicious pharmacist to open up the case for lube, flashing her wedding band and engagement ring with modest diamond.
"Where does he work?" The clerk asks.
"Hamistagan National," she sighs, genuinely. "We're in love."
"Let's hope you stop buying this and start buying diapers sometime soon, then."
She picks up a journal at the checkout counter, but can't for the life of her figure out why, when she thinks about it.
She has to strain herself to remember things in this place, unless she writes them down ahead of time. It's kind of heartbreaking, seeing as she always thought she wasn't just a pretty trophy wife, dim and lost. Her mother wasn't that, and she didn't want to be, either. Didn't care about nothin' else, in her day.
So when there's a tall man waiting on the porch in work clothes who's very much not her husband, a tight feeling seizes up in her chest. She's read about suburban rapes, a rash of them in this area for about three weeks, she searches for her knife for the first time since she's been here outside of the master bedroom, and when she can't find it, she cracks her knuckles and settles that if she's going to have to fight him, believing she can is half of the battle.
She carefully plucks the keys out of the ignition and lumps it into her hand as she puts on her best smile. "Why hello, there!"
The man blinks at her owlishly, as she carries her bags from the truck bed to the door. "Jo?"
"Do I know you?" She asks. She's leery of opening the door with him around, but he takes her bags, helpfully, and smiles at her. He reminds her of someone, but she can't remember who.
"I…" The man looks honestly surprised. "I'm Sam. Y'know, Dean's brother?"
"Oh," Jo says, guardedly. "He never seems to talk about you."
"Really?" Sam says, with soft eyes and a sweet smile. "Are you sure?"
"I'd expect to remember if my husband told me about any brothers of his, Sam," Jo hisses through her teeth. "Do you have a picture of you two, or at least some identification?"
"I'm sure you recognize me, Jo," Sam chirps, every bit an angel. "I'll help you with your bags, if you need it."
"Why sure, Sam, after you tell me something about my husband you do know," She smiles. Begrudgingly, he pulls out a knife and she freezes, sheer terror until he hands it over to her hilt first.
"In case you're worried," Sam reassures, as he holds his hands up to signal he's not armed. He reaches into his back pocket pulling out his wallet and giving her a picture of him and Dean, huddled into a photo booth somewhere when they were decidedly younger, grinning and yet so heartbreakingly them.
"I'm sorry I doubted you," she flips the hilt and offers the knife back, reaching with her other hand to help open the door. "You mind givin' me a hand, Sam?"
"Of course," He grins.
"You'll have to excuse the mess," Jo says, sweetly, leading him into the house. Here, she's on auto-pilot, scurrying about to put away the groceries as quickly as possible, dropping her coat to put on an apron and leading the bags into the kitchen.
"Oh, no. Not at all, Jo." Sam speaks as if he knows her, and she still doesn't remember him at all. She wants Dean here, knows Dean would know what to do if this guy is a fraud, and hopes that she can do the same.
She cowers into the refrigerator, "Do you know where you'll be staying tonight?"
"Not yet. I was expecting to come, find the house, hitchhike downtown," Sam replies. "You seem…I dunno. Different."
"Well, your brother has made an honest woman out of me," Jo grins, presenting Sam with her wedding ring. Sam almost looks sad. "And don't speak of hitchhiking. I always keep the guest room upstairs prepared for occasions like these."
"Really? You don't think Dean will mind?" Sam asks, biting his lip.
"I don't think he'll mind at all. I think he'll be happy to see you, Sam," she says, picking up the bag of things that she planned on bringing upstairs and leading him to the staircase. "Come with me and we'll get you set up."
Sam's glass of scotch is filled too high, but it's fine because the shaking in her hands stops the minute she gives it to him. They're in the master bedroom, now, and Sam sits back in Dean's chair.
"How'd you do it?" she asks, clawing out of her dress, walking into the bathroom. She fits herself into one of Dean's dress shirts, wiping off her lipstick and undoing her stockings.
"How'd I get here?" he asks, surprised, "What's happened to you, Jo? You're shaking, and outside you didn't even…"
"Sam," she says, levelly. "You're in Hell. I thought you kne-"
"I know that, Jo," he says, annoyed. "Pastor Jim and I found a ritual, but I was prepared for suffering, not…"
"Not this, huh?" she asks, sucking at her teeth as she goes and sits on the bed. She can tell the tone of her voice has turned cold, and wishes she weren't as annoyed as she is. "After the torture, they throw the hunters here, Sam. They throw us here to live little Pleasantville lives where we do their dirty work, and we can only realize it when we're in our beds. It keeps Dean up at night, going to work, realizing that he's not in control anymore. That’s Hamistagan for you. Kiss your normal life goodbye, along with the comforts you had when you were just getting killed repeatedly. It's not like you even remember what they do to you, you jut remember the pain."
Sam leans forward in his chair, "What are they making him do, Jo?"
She laughs, low under her breath. "Why Sam, you don't still think demons escape from Hell on their own whim, do you?"
"You mean he lets them out?" Sam asks, breathless.
"Even Hell has bureaucracy, Sam," she shrugs. "They have to get approval. Some do, some don't. Dean works as a gatekeeper. He keeps the lower ones in and lets the higher demons out. Doesn't even realize what he's doing until he comes back here; the farther we go away from here, the more he forgets himself, the more they brainwash him into doing their work for them. Our free will, our memories? Everything?"
"They're in this room," Sam whispers, bringing the scotch to his lips.
"You bet," Jo says. "So you'll have to excuse me if I do anything that seems out of character, Sam, because all of my character is trapped in here. Outside, I'm a good wife, I want a baby, I tend to this house like it's a living thing and when Dean's around, I orbit around him. It's...nobody else matters when I'm out there. Nobody else even remotely matters."
"I don't know what to say, Jo…"
"You expected fire and brimstone," she laughs, softly. "You expected it, and I did, too. It's not like anybody comes out of Hell to tell people what it's like, you know."
He takes another long drink of scotch, brows furrowing as he tries to digest all of this. She interrupts him, softly.
"Why are you here, Sam? Why would you find a ritual to get here, of all places? Why would you bother, when you could be ending the war up there?" Jo asks. "You died, didn't you, Sam."
"No, I didn't. I wouldn't be here if I were dead," he says, getting up to sit next to her on the bed. She doesn't ask why, doesn't think she really wants to know. "I came for Dean."
"You mean you're not here for me?" Jo says, sarcastically, smiling when Sam laughs quiet and warm. "You want to find a way to bring him back with you, right?"
"I wish I would have thought of that beforehand, but yeah. We need to find a way to get out, Jo," He asks. "I thought I could do this without him and leave well enough alone, but really? That's impossible. Absolutely impossible. I need him back. I need to break this open, Jo."
"Sam," Jo says, leery. "You're planning something he's not going to like. But…I know he doesn't belong here. He doesn't, you know. He misses you so much he can't even bring himself to speak of you, much. When we first tried, when he first got here, it was even more torturous than the pain they put him through in the regular hell. Even now, I think if they just tortured him, ripped him apart physically, he'd be happier than he is here."
"How long has it been since…"
"It's not like I know," Jo shrugs. "We don't get any older, here, but it's been a few years since I showed up, here, and it's been maybe six months since I woke up and he was next to me in bed."
"And that was it?" he asks.
"It was," she nods. "Ring on my finger, husband in my bed, that was it. What more could a girl ask for?"
"Freedom, but this is a good semblance of it regardless," he sighs, "Do you ever get tired of it?"
"I got tired of it a long time ago, but I suppose there's not much I can do about that, can I? Not without your help."
"What?"
"I know of a way for you to get back, Sam. If you just…stop for a second," she says, but she's pulled up onto her feet by some unknown force, going up onto the balls of her toes as she looks around for her shoes and slips into them, the heel fitting under her just right. She doesn't turn back, but she knows that Sam has the most panicked look on his face, but she's focused on other things, like how she's not wearing anything other than Dean's shirt and some panties. The clock says it's 3:30, and she smiles, flying down the stairs and blazing past the front door to the porch with Sam behind her.
"You're home!" She grins, all perfect wife and ready lover when Dean gets out of the Impala.
"Sweet ride," Sam says. She knows it's sarcastic but she nudges him with her hip anyway.
"I remember the day he brought it home. Cherry red's my favorite color, ya know," She says, as Dean readjusts his glasses and takes a good look at Sam.
"Dean," Sam breathes.
"There are only two people I know of that say my name that way," Dean starts, rubbing his eyes on his way around the car and brings his glasses back up to his face. Time slows down, and Jo watches them both look at each other like hell's trapping them in this moment like flies in amber. She likes amber, now that she thinks about it. "My wife and my brother."
"Yeah," Sam says, softly. He reaches out to shake Dean's hand formally, and Dean takes it, shaking politely like he has no belief that Sam's real.
"How'd you get here?" Dean asks, still standing in his own front yard. Jo wants to move them away from the curious eyes of nosy housewives, but stays quiet.
"Well, Dean, you know me," Sam says.
"Always gettin' into trouble," Dean shakes his head. "You're staying here, I presume."
"I hope it's not too much trouble."
"If Jo's said it's okay, then I don't see why not."
Dinner passes by quick and quietly. Jo can sense the strain in the house, and hopes the food will put some of it to rest. Nonetheless, she scoots them into the bedroom and administers whiskey as social lubricant afterward, and leaves them to talk as she washes the dishes.
When she comes back, it's like they've said all they needed to say without her around, and they're just looking at each other silently. There's tension thick in the corners of the room, and Dean still hasn't acknowledged Sam by his name in front of her. If they've remotely uttered anything at all, then she isn't aware of it one bit. She needs to get them talking, get them feeling, get them close again. It's only then that she remembers the rumors about the two of them, the two of them sleeping together and maybe, she thinks, maybe if she starts it, they'll take it from there.
She goes into the bathroom, into the shower, and stands there in the stall, still clothed, the water off. If they're at each other's throats, then fine, she'll get them at each other's throats in another way. She's a woman. She knows how to get things out of men they don't even think they'll be divulging, old tricks from the few women who would breeze through the roadhouse like a hot breeze in winter.
She walks out girlishly, going to sit near Dean's feet because Sam's taken the other free chair. She caresses Dean's free hand, looking up at him with wide eyes, and biting her lip as she pushes herself forward into his hands, sitting up on hands and knees.
"I can lea-" Sam says, breaking the silence in the room but Jo turns around and smiles.
"You'll regret it," Jo snaps.
Sam's eyes float to Dean's face, and she knows Dean looks at him, voice warm but short. "It never was my decision to begin with, Sammy. She gets what she wants in here."
"Not like I can get it anywhere else," she says, leaning up into Dean's ear. "Fuck. And you know what I want you to do?"
"What?" Dean asks. Jo places his hands on her hips and leans into Dean's ear, lips hidden from Sam's view with Dean's face.
"I wanna suck you until you're hard and I want you to pull me into your lap and slide right in, fuck me as hard as you want, like you did last night and the night before, and I want you to beckon him over to lick me clean. I want you to tell him to bend me over and fuck my ass and I want you to tell him when he can come. I want you both inside me, Dean. I want you both on the same page, and the only way that I've ever seen you both on the same page is when you're working together. So you can work together, and fuck me. That should be a good enough fit for anybody," she whispers, even voiced and quiet before she slithers back down into the floor and undoes his pants.
"Love it when you tell me what you want," Dean grins.
"Love it when you actually listen," She snorts, fishing him softly out of his pants, licking her lips and opening her mouth over the head. Dean's already half-hard, and she uses her tongue until he's got his hands wrapped into her hair, back arched up as she relaxes her jaw and lets him slip in to the hilt, throat working softly around him as she bobbles back and forth. She feels Sam sit behind her, hands splitting her knees open, touching her where she's wet, fingers sinking into her flawlessly.
"I thought I told you to watch," she says, backing away to turn and kiss at Sam's lips.
"I don't like having to look and not touch," Sam whispers. "And besides, you're so devoted to him right now, what about you, huh?"
She takes Dean back into her mouth again, and Dean scoots closer, arching up as she swallows him down. Sam's fingers lace together and slip into her, thick and wide and then she clenches around him. His other hand rests low on her neck as Jo slips all the way down on Dean's cock, lips pressed against her throat as it expands and contracts. Sam's tongue comes out to tease at the seal of her lips around Dean's cock, languidly. She moans, low in her throat as Sam's fingers flick in and out of her, heel pressed against her clit, her hips bucking up and against Sam's hand.
She pulls back, reaches up to stroke at him while she turns and captures Sam's mouth, sharing the taste of Dean's precome between them, her other hand coming up to hold him still by the hair. Dean's moaning, trying to stretch in the chair to get a chance for their mouths, too, and she realizes how in control of this she is, rubbing against Sam's hardened cock in his weathered jeans.
"Fuck," she hisses, pressing her face back into Dean's crotch as Sam pulses into her faster, his fingers jerking her quick and pressing against her back.
"I'm gonna…" Dean warns, but Sam pushes her forward even deeper on him, until her lips are sealed around the base.
"Come, then, Dean," Sam whispers. It's a dare, and from the way that Dean comes hard at the back of her throat, it works so well, Jo knows they hadn't said much of anything in this room until she offered to do this for them. Her orgasm surprises her, as she groans low and shakes to completion.
And suddenly, she realizes how it all slips into place.
Seeing Dean stalk down to kiss her, and press around her to yank at Sam, pulling him by the jacket, kissing him fiercely is better than Jo imagined.
"Sam," Dean groans. Their kiss goes on forever, even though she's squished between the two of them, still warm with orgasm. They kiss like they've been lovers for years.
Jo hangs her head, grinning low. Mission accomplished.
If she were outside this room, she knows what would come out of her lips right now, and maybe at times like these it's true. 'Within every girl is a tramp, a hussy begging for a taste of bliss.' Now that they've peeled her out of Dean's shirt and spread her thin on the bed, she realizes how true that is. It's funny, how enthusiastic the two of them are to her, fingers and tongues licking at the very core of her, the two of them spreading her open and devouring her hungrily.
"We want to fuck you," Dean whispers, softly. "We want to do it together. I call dibs on your ass."
"Brat," Sam says, simply. He throws her around like a little doll, pressing her down onto her back as he slides into her slow, fills her pussy up right, spreading her deep and shifting her hips on him, opening her legs deeper and turning her over so she's on top. She thanks God for the fact that her delusional housewife self is into yoga like all the rest of the housewives in this place. "You're gonna be so full when we're through with you, stay up in you all night. Switch places so you don't get tired until you're loose and fucked out. You wondered, right? How it would be like with the both of us?"
"I don't remember much of my life up from up there," she whispers, groaning softly. Dean comes up behind her, lubing her up softly before he pushes her forward a little bit, and shifts forward. It's been a long time since she's done it this way, but Dean's slow, sensing how much she wants it but knows he has to give her the time she needs to adjust. Dean kisses her neck, sitting her up just a little, and she groans with the feeling of his slick heat.
"So tight," Dean whispers low in her ear, slick lips sucking on her lobe.
The moment between the three of them throbs, swells with heat and she manages to sit up, leaning back into Dean's arms, sighing deep, trying to keep the feeling tight between them. She doesn't know why Dean and Sam won't talk much to each other, but it probably has something to do with the way that Sam's looking right past her, looking right into Dean's eyes and telling him everything he wants to hear without saying a thing.
"Go," she whispers, and Sam lifts her breast from her bra, curls up to lick at her nipple, lips flicking at her areola and bearing her further down onto the both of them, shifting them both inside her as they shift up, making them hiss. "Fuck me. Go!"
"Are you…are you sure, Jo?" Sam asks, licking at her lips. "I don't want to hurt you."
"C'mon, fuck me. It's okay, really, please," she begs. When they give her no reprieve, she starts fucking herself, desperate for friction, desperate to let them have her, fuck her. "Please, please! Don't make me beg. Don't make me…"
"But you do it so well," Dean smiles against her collarbone, caressing her breasts as they shift, her back, pushing her into Sam, pushing them back for leverage as he moves inside her, slipping all the way out before pushing blind all the way in, making both her and Sam moan in what could be harmony in a perfect world, and while Dean's strokes are long and measured, perfect like everything else he does in this life because that just makes living here all the harder, Sam's hips are reactionary, spontaneous and impossible.
"Oh, God," Jo gasps, clutching at Sam's hair. "Fuck me. Fuck me so good, please! Please! Like that! Please."
Sam's hands fly up to frame her face, and she slams her hips down hard on him while he kisses her softly, whispering words lovingly in a language she can't understand, crying out wet and soft as she tries to find the words to announce to them that she's gonna come. Dean's still pumping in and out of her ass, grunting to himself and promising her that they're gonna get her off before taking turns on her tight little hole until it's slack and accommodating, using words that he'd never even think to use anywhere else than in this room. She turns to kiss him too, if nothing else then to shut him up as she clamps down around him and Sam reaches wet fingers down to address her clit, rubbing it softly in one direction, then in the other.
That's all she wrote, Jo thinks, coming hard enough that her own wetness is smearing down over Sam's thighs, proof of where he's been and how long he's been there.
And there's that moment of clarity, that part where she feels like she could probably walk right into heaven if she reached out quick enough to the light teasing her in the back of her head. She looks down at Sam, and sees something off. Her skin prickles with naïveté, like it did the last time she saw him and almost died because of it. She doesn't know what's wrong, but she knows she'd rather be away from it than up close. She knows she wants it out of here, out of her thoughts, out of her bed, out of her house, out of her hell. The feeling fades away, smoothly, as she comes out of her orgasm, and she almost completely forgets it.
They keep fucking into her, hitting her buttons just right so little sparks ride out of her as long as they can, time slowing down with every second of this orgasm, clutching and sucking and eating at the both of them as they fuck her. She wants that as much as they do. She wants to help.
She shakes through the rest of it, screaming and squealing, and they fuck her through it. They're insistent up to the point where it begins to hurt for the three of them, right into their own orgasms inside her: Dean's first, then Sam's as Dean bottoms out inside her and pushes her down onto Sam as well.
They're paralyzed because of her. The both of them look at her a little differently, after they pull away, sated and sleepy and messy-wet. Sam gets up to go back to his room, but she pulls him back as she and Dean yawn, ready to sleep.
"Come back to bed, Sam," She says, softly. "Come back to bed and I'll tell you how to get out of here tomorrow. How about that?"
"You sure you alright with this, with…" Sam starts, pointing at Dean's unconscious form, "With me taking him away from you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"But what about the neighborhood and all?" Sam asks, quickly.
"Like they'll realize anything," she snorts.
Slick lips float over hers in a graze of a kiss, so soft she might well have imagined it. "You're an angel."
"Tell that to the people keeping me here."
"I'll see what I can do," he says, determined and that moment of clarity comes back to her like déjà vu, Sam's body pinning her down, fingers tearing into her with possession in more ways than one. It sends a chill down her spine and she rebels, fingers itching for her father's knife, for the comfort of it twirling between her fingers.
She bites her tongue. "Go to bed, Sam."
Saturday and Sunday are here.