fic: Let the water hold me down (Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; adult)
Let the water hold me down
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; adult; 2,905 words
Same as it ever was.
Sequel to trying in vain to breathe the fire we were born in, though I believe it can stand alone. Title, cut-text and summary from Talking Heads. Many thanks to angelgazing for looking it over.
~*~
Let the water hold me down
Sam doesn't remember much about the weeks after Jess died. She remembers the blood, sticky on her skin, the smell of charred flesh, and the feel of Dean's strong arms around her as he carried out of the burning apartment. Everything else comes in flashes--the cops and firefighters, Jess's parents, the familiarity of Dean's scent and voice and presence as he dealt with the details of her life gone up in smoke.
She lets him carry her, metaphorically if not physically, through the first couple of months after, all her energy focused on finding Dad, finding the thing that did this to Jess, to Mom. To her.
It's only after she almost loses Dean, too, that she snaps out of it. Dean's the only thing she has left and she's not letting him go without a fight.
*
It's weird being in the car like this, like they've always been, without some kind of homework assignment or test to study for. She remembers doing her practice SATs in the front seat with her feet up on the dash, Princeton Review book perched precariously on her lap while they rolled down some two-lane blacktop in the driving rain; writing her Stanford application essay while they were stuck in traffic on I-95, her left arm in a sling after she'd been flung through a door by an angry spirit.
She does a different kind of homework now, spends her time reading Dad's journal on the long rides from town to town. She pays close attention to the entries at the beginning, the memory of the first time she read it hazy after so many years. She understands now, in a way she couldn't have then, the grief and rage and bewilderment Dad must have felt when Mom died.
She waits until she's alone in the motel room to read about the weeks after she left--brief entries about a nixie in Bangor, a vengeful spirit in Kalamazoo, a fire elemental in Santa Fe. Sketched out with one or two lines of Dad's cryptic prose and cramped handwriting, she learns that, outside of necessary communication for hunting, Dean didn't speak to Dad for almost two weeks. That Dad didn't know what to do about it. She imagines the two of them in a series of motel rooms just like this one, each sunk into his own private misery, her absence hovering like a ghost that couldn't be laid to rest.
She wants to go back to school when this is over--if it's ever over--but she doesn't think she can do that to them--to Dean--again.
*
Falling back into life on the road with Dean is both the easiest and the hardest thing she's ever done. Easiest, because it's her and Dean, and they fit together like salt and silver, iron and fire, two cogs in their dad's well-oiled machine. He still smells of hair gel, sweat and Old Spice deodorant, and she breathes him in, all the scents of home and safe and happy clinging to his skin. Hardest, because even after everything that's happened, she still wants him, wants what they had that last summer, but she knows she gave him up when she left, and broke both their hearts. Doesn't stop her from wanting, though, the sharp sting of it like poison in her veins. She'd thought she'd been cured of it when she fell in love with Jess, but it's still there, whispering in the back of her mind, pulsing hot between her legs when she watches him fight and drive and sleep.
He acts like he doesn't notice, but she can see it in his eyes, the way his gaze lingers on her tits, her hips, her legs. She doesn't make it easy on either of them. She knows she's playing with fire. Story of her life.
With Dean, she only ever wants to burn.
*
Mississippi in June, and Sam thinks about shaving her head. She lifts up the heavy mass of her hair and twists it into a messy bun she secures with one of the black bands she's always got around her wrist. She needs to get it cut before Dean makes an issue of it; once he does, she won't, just to be difficult. Dad always said she'd cut off her nose to spite her face, and she hates that he's right. Hates that she knows it and yet can't seem to break the habit.
She shifts, feeling the vinyl pull at her sweaty thighs, and scowls when Dean laughs at the obscene sound it makes.
"And that is why I never wear shorts," he says, but his gaze lingers on her thighs, where the blue and white threads of her cutoffs lie against tanned skin.
She laughs, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks, and puts her feet up on the dash. "You don't wear shorts because of your crazy bowlegs."
"If that's what you need to tell yourself." He reaches over and wraps his fingers around her ankle. Her breath catches at the unexpected touch, and his fingers tighten as if in response, though his voice is steady when he says, "Get your feet off there."
"Pay attention to the road."
He lets her go and she drops her feet to the floor, curling her toes around the warm rubber of her flip-flops. She can still feel the warmth of his fingers on her skin, remembers the puka shell anklet he'd bought her the summer she was eighteen, the summer they'd finally given in to the inevitable. She'd left the anklet behind, along with almost everything else, when she'd left for Stanford, and missed the sharp-smooth feel of it on her leg for longer than she'd like to admit.
She wonders if he remembers that, if he regrets it. If he thinks she does. If she'll get the chance to tell him she doesn't.
*
He stops to gas up the car, and while he's using the men's room, she slides behind the wheel, moves the seat up, and starts adjusting the mirrors. He gives her a long hard stare when he comes out, but hands over the keys with nothing but a muttered, "Brat." She gives him her best big grin, and he grins back like he can't help himself, just like she'd hoped--known--he would.
She relaxes once they're back on the road. No one else is around; they're alone on the two-lane blacktop in the middle of the night, nothing but their headlights guiding their way. The signs pass by in a blur, campground eight, six, four miles away, and she takes the turn-off into the woods, the scent of honeysuckle lush in the humid air, and when she snaps off the radio, the hum of katydids rises up to replace it.
"What are you doing, Sam?"
"We camped here once, when I was fourteen." The last time Dad had made them camp out on a hunt; she'd been miserable with cramps and hormones, and had made him and Dean suffer for it.
"Dude, you hate camping."
She flashes him a grin, all her focus on the dark, twisty road in front of her. "We're not camping." She pulls the car into the gravel parking lot. "We're swimming."
She throws the car into park, but leaves the headlights on to play across the calm, dark surface of the lake.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Don't leave the lights on," he says as he gets out of the car. "Don't wanna drain the battery."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah." She grabs the blanket, a couple of threadbare motel towels that aren't covered in mud, blood, or entrails, and the big Maglite, just in case.
Dean stands with his arms crossed over his chest, and she doesn't need the flashlight to see the skeptical tilt of his eyebrows, the disbelieving crease of his forehead. She shakes the blanket out and lets it waft gently down onto the damp sand on the shore, anchoring it with her flip-flops and the flashlight.
She takes a deep breath, tries to stop her heart from pounding right out of her chest as she pulls her tank top over her head. It's so loud she's surprised Dean can't hear it. She can feel his gaze on her, though, and she wishes she had a set of the pretty matching underwear she used to wear for Jess, black lace or pink flowers or something. All of that was lost in the fire, and since then, all her clothes have come from Target, including the white cotton granny panties she's wearing tonight. That's what she gets for letting Dean do the shopping. Another deep breath and she shoves her shorts down, skin heating up from the way he's watching her, though she doesn't look over at him yet.
She thumbs her bra straps, ready to slide them down, and stops, suddenly self-conscious. If she's reading him wrong, this will only make things awkward again, when they've finally settled into a comfortable, familiar rhythm.
"Sam." Dean's voice is rough, pleading, but she's not sure if he's asking her to stop or to go on.
Heat and anxiety uncoil in her belly, and she draws the straps down her arms, reaches around to unhook the bra and let it slip to the blanket. She feels exposed, even in the darkness, but it feels good to be free of her clothes.
Dean makes a strangled noise, and she finally looks over at him. His hands are at his sides now, fingers curling and uncurling, shoulders squared and tense.
She grins at him again, nervously this time, and drops her panties. She steps out of them carefully and forces herself not to cover up.
"Come on," she says, walking towards the water. "You're not going to let me swim alone, are you? What if there's a giant killer squid with a taste for nubile young women in there?"
He laughs at that, easing some of the tension between them. "I won't let the giant squid kill you, even if you are stupid enough to go swimming at night in an unknown lake."
She clasps her hands to her chest and sighs loudly. "My hero."
"Shut up."
"You shut up." She turns her back on him and walks into the lake.
*
The water is cold, but bearable, especially in the heat, and it laps gently at her legs. She can hear Dean grumbling behind her, the rasp of his zipper loud as he gets undressed. She takes another deep breath, tries to ignore the flutter in her belly, sudden hot pulse between her thighs. She ducks under the surface, lets the dark water hold her in its smooth, cool grasp for a few seconds before she comes up gasping.
As she tosses back her wet hair, she can see Dean wading in. His shoulders are broader than they were four years ago, his body more muscular. She swallows hard and shivers.
She braces herself for his attack, but she still shrieks when he grabs her and tries to dunk her under. They wrestle for a little while, splashing back and forth, and with the mud squishing between her toes and Dean's laughing threats ringing in the air, she forgets how much time has passed, how things are different now. She wraps her legs around his hips and presses her mouth to his. His arms come up around her automatically, but he doesn't kiss her back.
She pulls away, her hands cupping his face, palms sliding down the strong, clean lines of his jaw, thumbs tracing his cheekbones.
"Sam?"
She hates that he sounds confused, uncertain. Hates that she's the reason. "I know," she says, holding his gaze, answering all the questions he won't ask.
He leans in, kisses her softly, tentatively, and she slides her hands around to grip the nape of his neck, let his short hair tickle her palms. He tastes of cinnamon gum and lake water, and she drinks him in, presses closer. He moans into her mouth, easily carries her out of the water, lays her down gently on the blanket and settles himself between her splayed thighs.
"Sam?" he says again, and in response, she draws him down into another kiss, reveling in the way his body fits against hers. She cants her hips, rubs up against him, swallowing down his gasp. She lets go of him for a second, gropes around for his jeans, finds the condom in his wallet.
"Come on," she whispers against the cool, stubbled skin of his cheek, "come on, Dean." She gets the condom on him without fumbling, her fingers trembling from nerves and the chill of the night air on her wet body. She closes her eyes when he pushes inside her, tips her head back and moans at how good it feels. When she opens her eyes, the stars spin dizzily overhead, the constellations dancing above them. He presses his face into the crook of her neck, and she feels the humid puff of his breath and then the warm velvet of his tongue as he licks his way down her throat.
He fucks her slowly, gently, like he can't believe they're doing this again, like she'll cut and run if he goes too fast or pushes too hard, and she hates that she's done that to him, but she doesn't know how to fix it, how to make him believe she's going to stay, except by staying.
He hooks a hand behind her knee, draws her leg up so he can go deeper and she tightens her grip on his shoulders, short nails digging into his skin. She surges up to meet his thrusts, rubs her aching nipples against his chest and gasps at the jolt of pleasure arcing down to her cunt, which she tightens around him. He growls and speeds his pace, uses his teeth against her jaw, her lower lip, licking the sting away with his tongue.
"Sam, Sam, Sammy," he whispers into her mouth, his voice low and dark, one hand slipping between them to tease her clit. "Come on, baby. Come for me."
The pleasure rises in her, heating her from the inside out, making it hard to breathe, and she wants to do what he says, give him what he's asking for. She gasps when she comes, makes soft choking noises that she thinks might be his name, but she can't think clearly enough to tell. He smiles against her mouth, breathes into her when she feels like she can't get enough air, and fucks her through the aftershocks, the rhythm of his hips stuttering and jerking when he comes inside her.
He collapses on top of her, the sand beneath the blanket redistributing itself as their weight shifts, and presses sloppy kisses to the side of her face until she finally shoves him away, laughing. They kiss and cuddle (though she's pretty sure Dean would die before using the word) under the towels until the sky starts to lighten. Then they slip back into the car and find a motel. Dean holds her hand when they carry the stuff into the room, and she can't help feeling stupidly happy when they fall into bed together, even if they're just going to sleep.
*
Dean is always twitchy after a hunt that involves the car, so after they get rid of the phantom hitchhiker trawling Interstate 110, they settle in for a couple of days so he can detail the car.
Dean's singing along with Tom Petty and washing the floor mats, shirt already tossed aside because of the heat. Sam enjoys the view while she cleans out the trunk--it keeps her mind off wondering what the hell he was thinking when he shoved the lump of towels covered in some sort of monster guts into the corner of the trunk and left them there for weeks. She holds her breath as she tosses them into the nearest dumpster, and discovers a small box tucked away next to the wheel well.
She opens it, finds some pictures of them as kids, a handwritten copy of the Rituale Romanum, and a few paperbacks--To Kill a Mockingbird, which she remembers reading along with Dean when he was in eighth grade and she was in fourth; In Cold Blood, which she wrote a paper on in 20th Century American Lit junior year at Stanford; and her old copy of Absalom, Absalom, which she'd loved despite herself. The pages are dogeared, which she knows is her fault, and the spine cracked, which is all Dean.
She feels a tight ache in her chest--she's not sorry she left, really, but she's sorry about how, and this is a sharp reminder. Her nails dig into the flimsy cover, and she's tempted to ask Dean what he thought of it, but there's no need to bring it up. It's always there between them.
She repacks the box and puts it back where she found it.
"I need a drink," she says, dusting her hands off and heading back into the motel room. She's got two beers open when Dean comes into the room, dirty and glistening with sweat.
He takes a long sip from the bottle she hands him, and then backs her into the cabinets, his mouth hot and beery over hers.
She wraps her arms around his neck, and loses herself in his kiss.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/64423.html.
people have commented there.
Supernatural; girl!Sam/Dean; au; adult; 2,905 words
Same as it ever was.
Sequel to trying in vain to breathe the fire we were born in, though I believe it can stand alone. Title, cut-text and summary from Talking Heads. Many thanks to angelgazing for looking it over.
~*~
Let the water hold me down
Sam doesn't remember much about the weeks after Jess died. She remembers the blood, sticky on her skin, the smell of charred flesh, and the feel of Dean's strong arms around her as he carried out of the burning apartment. Everything else comes in flashes--the cops and firefighters, Jess's parents, the familiarity of Dean's scent and voice and presence as he dealt with the details of her life gone up in smoke.
She lets him carry her, metaphorically if not physically, through the first couple of months after, all her energy focused on finding Dad, finding the thing that did this to Jess, to Mom. To her.
It's only after she almost loses Dean, too, that she snaps out of it. Dean's the only thing she has left and she's not letting him go without a fight.
*
It's weird being in the car like this, like they've always been, without some kind of homework assignment or test to study for. She remembers doing her practice SATs in the front seat with her feet up on the dash, Princeton Review book perched precariously on her lap while they rolled down some two-lane blacktop in the driving rain; writing her Stanford application essay while they were stuck in traffic on I-95, her left arm in a sling after she'd been flung through a door by an angry spirit.
She does a different kind of homework now, spends her time reading Dad's journal on the long rides from town to town. She pays close attention to the entries at the beginning, the memory of the first time she read it hazy after so many years. She understands now, in a way she couldn't have then, the grief and rage and bewilderment Dad must have felt when Mom died.
She waits until she's alone in the motel room to read about the weeks after she left--brief entries about a nixie in Bangor, a vengeful spirit in Kalamazoo, a fire elemental in Santa Fe. Sketched out with one or two lines of Dad's cryptic prose and cramped handwriting, she learns that, outside of necessary communication for hunting, Dean didn't speak to Dad for almost two weeks. That Dad didn't know what to do about it. She imagines the two of them in a series of motel rooms just like this one, each sunk into his own private misery, her absence hovering like a ghost that couldn't be laid to rest.
She wants to go back to school when this is over--if it's ever over--but she doesn't think she can do that to them--to Dean--again.
*
Falling back into life on the road with Dean is both the easiest and the hardest thing she's ever done. Easiest, because it's her and Dean, and they fit together like salt and silver, iron and fire, two cogs in their dad's well-oiled machine. He still smells of hair gel, sweat and Old Spice deodorant, and she breathes him in, all the scents of home and safe and happy clinging to his skin. Hardest, because even after everything that's happened, she still wants him, wants what they had that last summer, but she knows she gave him up when she left, and broke both their hearts. Doesn't stop her from wanting, though, the sharp sting of it like poison in her veins. She'd thought she'd been cured of it when she fell in love with Jess, but it's still there, whispering in the back of her mind, pulsing hot between her legs when she watches him fight and drive and sleep.
He acts like he doesn't notice, but she can see it in his eyes, the way his gaze lingers on her tits, her hips, her legs. She doesn't make it easy on either of them. She knows she's playing with fire. Story of her life.
With Dean, she only ever wants to burn.
*
Mississippi in June, and Sam thinks about shaving her head. She lifts up the heavy mass of her hair and twists it into a messy bun she secures with one of the black bands she's always got around her wrist. She needs to get it cut before Dean makes an issue of it; once he does, she won't, just to be difficult. Dad always said she'd cut off her nose to spite her face, and she hates that he's right. Hates that she knows it and yet can't seem to break the habit.
She shifts, feeling the vinyl pull at her sweaty thighs, and scowls when Dean laughs at the obscene sound it makes.
"And that is why I never wear shorts," he says, but his gaze lingers on her thighs, where the blue and white threads of her cutoffs lie against tanned skin.
She laughs, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks, and puts her feet up on the dash. "You don't wear shorts because of your crazy bowlegs."
"If that's what you need to tell yourself." He reaches over and wraps his fingers around her ankle. Her breath catches at the unexpected touch, and his fingers tighten as if in response, though his voice is steady when he says, "Get your feet off there."
"Pay attention to the road."
He lets her go and she drops her feet to the floor, curling her toes around the warm rubber of her flip-flops. She can still feel the warmth of his fingers on her skin, remembers the puka shell anklet he'd bought her the summer she was eighteen, the summer they'd finally given in to the inevitable. She'd left the anklet behind, along with almost everything else, when she'd left for Stanford, and missed the sharp-smooth feel of it on her leg for longer than she'd like to admit.
She wonders if he remembers that, if he regrets it. If he thinks she does. If she'll get the chance to tell him she doesn't.
*
He stops to gas up the car, and while he's using the men's room, she slides behind the wheel, moves the seat up, and starts adjusting the mirrors. He gives her a long hard stare when he comes out, but hands over the keys with nothing but a muttered, "Brat." She gives him her best big grin, and he grins back like he can't help himself, just like she'd hoped--known--he would.
She relaxes once they're back on the road. No one else is around; they're alone on the two-lane blacktop in the middle of the night, nothing but their headlights guiding their way. The signs pass by in a blur, campground eight, six, four miles away, and she takes the turn-off into the woods, the scent of honeysuckle lush in the humid air, and when she snaps off the radio, the hum of katydids rises up to replace it.
"What are you doing, Sam?"
"We camped here once, when I was fourteen." The last time Dad had made them camp out on a hunt; she'd been miserable with cramps and hormones, and had made him and Dean suffer for it.
"Dude, you hate camping."
She flashes him a grin, all her focus on the dark, twisty road in front of her. "We're not camping." She pulls the car into the gravel parking lot. "We're swimming."
She throws the car into park, but leaves the headlights on to play across the calm, dark surface of the lake.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Don't leave the lights on," he says as he gets out of the car. "Don't wanna drain the battery."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah." She grabs the blanket, a couple of threadbare motel towels that aren't covered in mud, blood, or entrails, and the big Maglite, just in case.
Dean stands with his arms crossed over his chest, and she doesn't need the flashlight to see the skeptical tilt of his eyebrows, the disbelieving crease of his forehead. She shakes the blanket out and lets it waft gently down onto the damp sand on the shore, anchoring it with her flip-flops and the flashlight.
She takes a deep breath, tries to stop her heart from pounding right out of her chest as she pulls her tank top over her head. It's so loud she's surprised Dean can't hear it. She can feel his gaze on her, though, and she wishes she had a set of the pretty matching underwear she used to wear for Jess, black lace or pink flowers or something. All of that was lost in the fire, and since then, all her clothes have come from Target, including the white cotton granny panties she's wearing tonight. That's what she gets for letting Dean do the shopping. Another deep breath and she shoves her shorts down, skin heating up from the way he's watching her, though she doesn't look over at him yet.
She thumbs her bra straps, ready to slide them down, and stops, suddenly self-conscious. If she's reading him wrong, this will only make things awkward again, when they've finally settled into a comfortable, familiar rhythm.
"Sam." Dean's voice is rough, pleading, but she's not sure if he's asking her to stop or to go on.
Heat and anxiety uncoil in her belly, and she draws the straps down her arms, reaches around to unhook the bra and let it slip to the blanket. She feels exposed, even in the darkness, but it feels good to be free of her clothes.
Dean makes a strangled noise, and she finally looks over at him. His hands are at his sides now, fingers curling and uncurling, shoulders squared and tense.
She grins at him again, nervously this time, and drops her panties. She steps out of them carefully and forces herself not to cover up.
"Come on," she says, walking towards the water. "You're not going to let me swim alone, are you? What if there's a giant killer squid with a taste for nubile young women in there?"
He laughs at that, easing some of the tension between them. "I won't let the giant squid kill you, even if you are stupid enough to go swimming at night in an unknown lake."
She clasps her hands to her chest and sighs loudly. "My hero."
"Shut up."
"You shut up." She turns her back on him and walks into the lake.
*
The water is cold, but bearable, especially in the heat, and it laps gently at her legs. She can hear Dean grumbling behind her, the rasp of his zipper loud as he gets undressed. She takes another deep breath, tries to ignore the flutter in her belly, sudden hot pulse between her thighs. She ducks under the surface, lets the dark water hold her in its smooth, cool grasp for a few seconds before she comes up gasping.
As she tosses back her wet hair, she can see Dean wading in. His shoulders are broader than they were four years ago, his body more muscular. She swallows hard and shivers.
She braces herself for his attack, but she still shrieks when he grabs her and tries to dunk her under. They wrestle for a little while, splashing back and forth, and with the mud squishing between her toes and Dean's laughing threats ringing in the air, she forgets how much time has passed, how things are different now. She wraps her legs around his hips and presses her mouth to his. His arms come up around her automatically, but he doesn't kiss her back.
She pulls away, her hands cupping his face, palms sliding down the strong, clean lines of his jaw, thumbs tracing his cheekbones.
"Sam?"
She hates that he sounds confused, uncertain. Hates that she's the reason. "I know," she says, holding his gaze, answering all the questions he won't ask.
He leans in, kisses her softly, tentatively, and she slides her hands around to grip the nape of his neck, let his short hair tickle her palms. He tastes of cinnamon gum and lake water, and she drinks him in, presses closer. He moans into her mouth, easily carries her out of the water, lays her down gently on the blanket and settles himself between her splayed thighs.
"Sam?" he says again, and in response, she draws him down into another kiss, reveling in the way his body fits against hers. She cants her hips, rubs up against him, swallowing down his gasp. She lets go of him for a second, gropes around for his jeans, finds the condom in his wallet.
"Come on," she whispers against the cool, stubbled skin of his cheek, "come on, Dean." She gets the condom on him without fumbling, her fingers trembling from nerves and the chill of the night air on her wet body. She closes her eyes when he pushes inside her, tips her head back and moans at how good it feels. When she opens her eyes, the stars spin dizzily overhead, the constellations dancing above them. He presses his face into the crook of her neck, and she feels the humid puff of his breath and then the warm velvet of his tongue as he licks his way down her throat.
He fucks her slowly, gently, like he can't believe they're doing this again, like she'll cut and run if he goes too fast or pushes too hard, and she hates that she's done that to him, but she doesn't know how to fix it, how to make him believe she's going to stay, except by staying.
He hooks a hand behind her knee, draws her leg up so he can go deeper and she tightens her grip on his shoulders, short nails digging into his skin. She surges up to meet his thrusts, rubs her aching nipples against his chest and gasps at the jolt of pleasure arcing down to her cunt, which she tightens around him. He growls and speeds his pace, uses his teeth against her jaw, her lower lip, licking the sting away with his tongue.
"Sam, Sam, Sammy," he whispers into her mouth, his voice low and dark, one hand slipping between them to tease her clit. "Come on, baby. Come for me."
The pleasure rises in her, heating her from the inside out, making it hard to breathe, and she wants to do what he says, give him what he's asking for. She gasps when she comes, makes soft choking noises that she thinks might be his name, but she can't think clearly enough to tell. He smiles against her mouth, breathes into her when she feels like she can't get enough air, and fucks her through the aftershocks, the rhythm of his hips stuttering and jerking when he comes inside her.
He collapses on top of her, the sand beneath the blanket redistributing itself as their weight shifts, and presses sloppy kisses to the side of her face until she finally shoves him away, laughing. They kiss and cuddle (though she's pretty sure Dean would die before using the word) under the towels until the sky starts to lighten. Then they slip back into the car and find a motel. Dean holds her hand when they carry the stuff into the room, and she can't help feeling stupidly happy when they fall into bed together, even if they're just going to sleep.
*
Dean is always twitchy after a hunt that involves the car, so after they get rid of the phantom hitchhiker trawling Interstate 110, they settle in for a couple of days so he can detail the car.
Dean's singing along with Tom Petty and washing the floor mats, shirt already tossed aside because of the heat. Sam enjoys the view while she cleans out the trunk--it keeps her mind off wondering what the hell he was thinking when he shoved the lump of towels covered in some sort of monster guts into the corner of the trunk and left them there for weeks. She holds her breath as she tosses them into the nearest dumpster, and discovers a small box tucked away next to the wheel well.
She opens it, finds some pictures of them as kids, a handwritten copy of the Rituale Romanum, and a few paperbacks--To Kill a Mockingbird, which she remembers reading along with Dean when he was in eighth grade and she was in fourth; In Cold Blood, which she wrote a paper on in 20th Century American Lit junior year at Stanford; and her old copy of Absalom, Absalom, which she'd loved despite herself. The pages are dogeared, which she knows is her fault, and the spine cracked, which is all Dean.
She feels a tight ache in her chest--she's not sorry she left, really, but she's sorry about how, and this is a sharp reminder. Her nails dig into the flimsy cover, and she's tempted to ask Dean what he thought of it, but there's no need to bring it up. It's always there between them.
She repacks the box and puts it back where she found it.
"I need a drink," she says, dusting her hands off and heading back into the motel room. She's got two beers open when Dean comes into the room, dirty and glistening with sweat.
He takes a long sip from the bottle she hands him, and then backs her into the cabinets, his mouth hot and beery over hers.
She wraps her arms around his neck, and loses herself in his kiss.
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/64423.html.
people have commented there.