fic: The Dwarf Index (SPN; Pam/Dean/Sam; adult)
The Dwarf Index
Supernatural; Pam/Dean/Sam; adult; 3,555 words
The problem with being Snow White is that there's always a poisoned apple.
Thanks to angelgazing for all her help.
~*~
The Dwarf Index
Everyone in their line of work has heard of the Winchesters--bad luck follows them around like a lost puppy, and people who get involved with them usually end up dead. That doesn't deter Pam, though, when Bobby calls and tells her they need her help.
They're everything she expected and more, and she's a little disappointed when Dean shoots down her invitation to Sam. She pushes out with her senses--she doesn't so much read minds as pick up impressions, feelings, flashes of things to come--but there's too much going on between them, secrets all wrapped up in lies, and she doesn't have time to unravel the threads. It's not really any of her business, either, except in the way that everything that comes through her door is her business, and she likes to minimize the danger as much as possible these days.
Afterwards, when she's in the ICU with her eyes burned out of her skull, she wishes she'd taken the time to figure them out, or maybe been a little less willing to help.
The Winchesters visit her once, and she can feel the regret pouring off them even without the awkward conversation and the cheap flowers they've brought. From what she can tell, Sam insisted they bring them, but he made Dean pick them out; she has an impression of pink and orange tinted carnations, the kind she used to get from classmates in grade school on Valentine's day. She wonders if he stole them from some poor schmuck's wake, but doesn't bother to ask, even though listening to him stammer out some ridiculous story in place of the truth would be amusing.
She's back on her feet, testing out her new fake plastic eyeballs, when Dean shows up at her door. He's had a couple of beers and he probably shouldn't have been driving, but she doesn't scold him.
She lets him in, lets him think he's seducing her with his lame pickup lines and his unabashed appreciation for her body, and maybe he is, a little, but mostly she's just glad he still finds her attractive, plastic eyes or not. He's exactly the kind of guy who'd think he could get away with a pity fuck, and Pam wants no part of that.
They make out on the couch for a little while before she leads him back into the bedroom, not needing to feel her way in the familiar surroundings. She picks up echoes of his regret, compassion, but not pity, and knows she's made the right decision. She pulls her shirt off over her head and shucks her jeans and then lies back against the pillows.
"Come on, lover boy," she says when he doesn't join her. He still doesn't move. She reaches out with her other senses; he's thinking of something--someone--else and she knows it happens (has been guilty of it herself on occasion), but if they're doing this (and she's pretty sure they are), then she wants him to be doing it with her. She gets a flash of something that might be guilt before he pushes it down. He's got a lot of stuff shoved down inside where he never talks about it, and she doesn't have any desire to be the one who pries the lid off that tinderbox. She kicks out a foot in his direction, rubs it up the inside of his thigh, the denim soft and worn against her instep. "Or are you suddenly shy? Maybe I should call you Bashful."
She hears the rasp of his jeans being unzipped, and then he's on the bed, hips cradled between her thighs. He laughs against her jaw, and a quick check shows his attention is focused on her now.
"Isn't there one called Horny? I swear there was in the version I saw."
Her groan turns into a purr when he sucks a nipple into his mouth and grazes it with his teeth. She runs a hand through the soft brush of his hair, breathes in the scent of his shampoo and hair gel, pictures him behind her eyelids, all slick, bee-stung lips and freckles. "I think I'm gonna call you Dopey."
"As long as you don't call me late for dinner." His fingers curl into the slick ache between her legs, thumb finding her clit, and she arches up into the touch. She grabs him by the short hair on the nape of his neck and pushes her tongue into his mouth, only partly to stop the bad jokes, which she won't admit to finding endearing.
He slides down the bed, kissing his way down her body and then adding his mouth to his fingers. She presses up against him, pleased he seems to know what he's doing without too much instruction. The pressure is building inside of her, radiating out from her pussy through her whole body, and then it breaks, more quickly than she expected, and she comes with a, "Holy fuck," that surprises both of them.
He laughs again, wipes his slick chin on his arm and then says, "Condom?" She waves at the bedside table and hears him fumble with the drawer.
She's still trembling a little when he pushes inside with his dick, slow and easy. He drops little kisses on her neck and jaw, and even though she wraps her legs around him and presses her heels into his ass to spur him on, he keeps moving slow, like she's fragile or something, just because she's blind now. That's not working for Pam, though, so she uses her legs to roll them over, grabs onto his shoulders, and rides him hard.
Her fingers brush over the handprint on his shoulder and she gets flashes of his time in hell--blood, screaming, and bright hot lights that never dim, scouring every inch of every soul, the better to highlight their sins.
She jerks her hand away, rhythm lost for a few moments, heart racing with fear instead of desire. She can feel his gaze heavy on her face, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips (she'll find marks later, ten half-moon gouges from his fingernails, stinging when she runs her loofah over them). She closes her eyes, forces the memories away with a hummed chorus of "The Blitzkrieg Bop."
He laughs shakily and takes up the refrain, murmuring, "Hey, ho, let's go," against her tits when she leans forward.
He comes with a rough snap of his hips and slips a hand between them to finger her clit until she comes, too, slower and deeper this time. She collapses onto the bed next to him, presses a kiss to his unmarked shoulder, a silent thank you.
She dozes for a little while, and when she wakes up, he's getting dressed. "Gotta get back to work," he says. She smiles and waves goodbye. It's all right. She never expected him to stay.
*
After that, he stops by every few weeks for a fuck, so when her doorbell rings late one Tuesday night, Pam's not surprised. She's just glad she shaved her legs.
She is surprised when she opens the door and it's Sam standing there, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched awkwardly.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey, Grumpy. Come on in and close the door. You're letting all the heat out." She hears the door snap shut behind him, the locks click home. "Everything all right? Dean--"
"Dean's fine. Bobby's fine. I'm fine."
She can feel the lie in those last, bitten-off words. She doesn't call him on it. He's harder to read than his brother, locked down tighter than a drum, but confusion and frustration bleed through the cracks. She offers him a beer and he catches her up on the latest broken seals. She lets him talk, feels him relax a little, enough for her to figure out why he's here.
He confirms her suspicions when he stands up, stops her from going back into the kitchen for another beer. His hands are large and warm, one on her arm, the other on her hip. She could get loose if she wanted to. She tips her face up, presses her mouth to his, sharing the taste of beer and heat. He winds a hand through her hair, uses his other hand to pull her against him and hold her there. She's not used to feeling small, but Sam dwarfs her. It's an interesting sensation. He doesn't treat her like she's delicate, though, and she appreciates that.
He's more aggressive than Dean, and once they've started, he doesn't do a lot of talking. He likes to bite, his teeth sharp against the thin skin of her neck, the flesh of her earlobe. He licks away the sting, holding her while she shivers and returns the favor.
She tells herself to stop comparing them, tries to let her mind go open and focus on the moment, but when she does, she realizes she's not the only one who's been thinking of Dean.
Underneath the haze of Sam's desire, there's jealousy and frustration, and as he bends her over the back of the couch and pushes inside her, she gets flashes of him doing this to Dean, shot through with a sense of fierce possessiveness. She remembers Dean's distraction the first time he came to see her, and bites her lip to keep from laughing at herself for not figuring it out sooner. She doesn't know what the hell they've got going on (and to be honest, she doesn't really care what they do with each other, unless they're going to let her play, too), but she doesn't like feeling like the other woman. She doesn't like being used.
She reaches down, wraps her hand around Sam's wrist, feels it flex as he rubs against her clit. "Sam," she says. He doesn't respond, so she says it again. "Sam."
His breath is hot and ragged against her neck. "What?"
"Just want to make sure you're here." She tightens around him and grinds down against his hand.
"Yeah," he says. He thrusts harder, skims her shoulder with his teeth. "I am."
All his attention focuses on her now; the speed of his thrusts increases as he lets himself relax into fucking her, into getting both of them off. She pushes back against him, aching heat inside her rising higher, making it hard for her to breathe. She grunts and curls her nails into the afghan thrown over the back of the couch, arching her back as his hand tightens on her hip, his fingers working rough and slick against her clit.
He bites down on the tender spot where her neck meets her shoulder and Pam comes with a low moan. Sam fucks her through it and comes with a grunt, his fingernails digging into the flesh of her hips.
The air is cold on her sweaty back when he pulls out and moves away. She can hear him cleaning up and getting dressed. She sinks down onto the couch, pulls her jeans up over trembling legs, and tries to figure out what to say. She can't get a good read off him. She wishes she could see his face. Maybe then she'd know what he needs, how she could help.
She lays a hand on his arm. "Sam?"
He cups her cheek, gives her a surprisingly soft kiss. "Thanks," he says, awkward and rueful in a way he probably thinks she doesn't understand. "I should go."
"Take care of yourself, Sam."
"I will."
Pam's not sure she believes him.
*
The next time Dean comes to her door, he's got some crazy plan to go walking on the astral plane and he needs her help.
She already knows she's going to say yes--she wouldn't have come all this way with him if she weren't--but she's going to take advantage of the leverage they're giving her with the request.
"On one condition," she says after Dean wraps up his spiel.
"What?"
She stands up and walks over to him, cups his face with her hand, the stubble rough against her palm. She turns to face Sam over her shoulder. "I get the threesome I asked for the first time we met."
"What? No," Dean says again, pulling back.
"Okay," Sam says at the same time.
They're so predictable. She can't see it, but she's sure they're having a silent conversation over her head, all raised eyebrows and quirked lips.
"You really are Bashful, huh?" she says, her words as much of a dare as the grin on her face and the tone of her voice.
Dean scoffs. "And you're supposed to be Snow White?"
"Maybe. You ain't much of a Prince Charming, though."
"You got that right, sister."
Pam laughs. "I'm happy with Grumpy and Dopey."
"Dopey's a step down from Bashful," Sam says. Pam pictures him shaking his head and grinning.
"Shut up, you." Dean sounds amused, though he's trying to hide it. "We can't--We don't have time for this." He continues to bluster, but the lack of heat in his voice tells her he's already given in. "This is blackmail."
She nods and smiles. "Yeah." She reaches for the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping along the warm skin of his waist, enjoying the way his muscles jump when she touches him. She can feel Sam step up behind her, his hands easing her leather jacket down.
"I'm not--" Dean starts, and Pam feels the huff of Sam's breath on the back of her head.
"It's not like I haven't already fucked both of you," she says before Sam can speak.
Dean's mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and not for the first time (or the last), Pam wishes she could still see, because she's sure his incredulous expression is priceless.
"Sam?" he asks.
"Uh, yeah," Sam says, sounding distracted, because he's already gotten rid of her jacket and has his hands up under her shirt, large warm palms cupping her tits, nipples hard points against the lace of her bra. She arches into the touch, rubbing her ass against his crotch and tossing her head a little bit, enough to shift her hair out of the way so Sam can lick a long, wet stripe up her neck.
Dean makes a strangled noise, and Sam laughs. "Come on, Dean." His voice is low and gravelly, all teasing come on, and Pam's pretty sure nobody could resist it. Her cunt, already wet and aching, clenches in anticipation at the sound. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of Dean's jeans and tugs. He huffs against her mouth and before he can say anything, she kisses him. His hands land on her hips and he kisses her back, slick and wet, his tongue fluttering along the roof of her mouth the way she likes.
"Boots off," she says when he pulls away. "Jeans, too." She raises her arms, lets Sam tug her t-shirt off over her head, and reaches out to do the same to Dean.
She feels another pang of regret that she can't watch them strip, and pushes it away, lets the memories of their bodies under her hands fill in the details as she undresses, concentrating on the wet heat pulsing between her legs. The air is cool against her naked skin, but she doesn't have time to shiver--Sam lifts her up and drops her onto the bed, which creaks under her weight.
Pam laughs and reaches her arms up. "Come on, boys, let's fuck."
The bed isn't really big enough for two people, let alone three, but they make themselves fit. She lies between them and makes out with Sam while Dean plays with her tits. He licks and sucks at her nipples, sending shocks of pleasure to her pussy. She moans into Sam's mouth, reaches down to grab at their cocks, and for all of Dean's skittishness at the original suggestion, his body's totally on board. She jacks them both slowly, a little clumsy with her left hand on Dean. He laughs, a humid puff of air against her breastbone, and twines his fingers with hers, speeding the pace.
Sam's hand slides down between her thighs to finger her clit, and Dean's mouth follows. She hears him thump down onto the floor and gets a flash of him looking up at her and Sam that she's not sure she's just imagining.
"How are we doing this?" he asks.
"I know you two are--whatever you are," she says. "You don't have to pretend for me."
They both fall silent, a sudden chill in the room, and then Dean says, "What?" like he can't believe what she just said.
Sam says, "How'd you know?"
"Psychic, remember?" She shakes her head. "It's--" She can't say it's no big deal, because clearly to them it is, but, "You're both consenting adults, right?" She waves a hand. "I really don't care."
She gets the sense that they're having another one of those silent conversations, and then Sam says, "Okay."
"Dean?"
Dean's hands circle around her ankles, thumbs rubbing into the hollows there. "Whatever."
"Who's Grumpy now?" Sam says, and that seems to deflate the tension in the room enough that Dean laughs.
"All right," he says, fingers moving up her calf to tickle the back of her knee. "Let's get this party started."
"Condom?" Sam asks, pressing a line of kisses to her jaw.
She shakes her head. "I'm good. And I know where you've been." He hesitates at that and she bites back a sigh. Stupid men and their stupid complications.
She pulls her legs out of Dean's hands and kneels up, reaching back to draw Sam up, as well, bring his attention back to the matter at hand. He fits himself in behind her, one hand teasing at her nipples, the other skating over the curve of her ass.
"Couple of boy scouts like you have your own lube, right?" she says when his thumb presses against her asshole.
Sam's laugh is warm against the nape of her neck. "Yeah. We'll get to that."
"Sam's an ass man," Dean says, his hands slipping up the insides of her thighs as Sam pushes into her from behind. Her pussy tightens around the thick, hard length of his cock and she moans, thrusting back against him, trying to get him deeper inside.
She's so busy concentrating on the awesome feel of Sam's cock thrusting in and out of her cunt that she gasps in surprise when Dean's tongue finds her clit.
They don't talk much after that, and that's okay with Pam--she doesn't think she could form words at the moment. She holds tight to Dean's hair, arching up into the slick heat of his tongue, reaches around with her other hand to grab Sam's ass and squeeze. He laughs and bites her shoulder, then licks away the sting.
The pleasure spirals higher and tighter inside her as they fuck, warm waves of it rising up choke her. She holds her breath, trying to make the moment last, and thrusts back against Sam, who pushes her forward into Dean's mouth. Pam comes with a low, hoarse moan. She's still pulsing with it when Sam comes deep inside her. It's warm and sticky between her thighs when he pulls out and falls back onto the bed, drawing her down with him.
She can hear the rustle of the bedspread as Dean crawls up onto the bed and settles between her legs, his cock painting wet circles on her belly. He kisses her hard, the taste of her own come and Sam's on his tongue. She licks it from his mouth, ridiculously turned on. He shifts and the head of his cock nudges at her cunt.
"This okay?" he asks against her mouth.
She nods and curls an arm around his shoulder. "Yeah, please."
He thrusts hard and fast, for once forgetting to be gentle. She wraps her legs around his hips and bucks up against him, enjoying the ride. He doesn't last long, but that's okay--she doesn't need a whole lot to put her over the edge again. She's still floating on the high of orgasm when she hears the wet sounds of kissing above her. She pretends she doesn't, to make Dean feel better.
They don't spend a lot of time basking in the afterglow.
"We have a ghost to interview," Dean reminds her as they clean up and get dressed, as if she's forgotten why they brought her here.
"But when the hunt is done, we're totally doing this again," Sam says, "so make sure you keep our bodies safe."
She tosses off a mocking salute and doesn't argue about how crazy their plan is, how leaving a blind woman to guard their bodies in a town where demons have kidnapped a reaper is the dumbest thing she's ever heard. She does the spell and feels their spirits waft past her and out of the room, then settles back into a chair to wait.
Pam can't see the future, but she doesn't need to be clairvoyant to know this is going to end badly for someone, and that someone is probably her. The problem with being Snow White is that there's always a poisoned apple.
end
~*~
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~*~
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Supernatural; Pam/Dean/Sam; adult; 3,555 words
The problem with being Snow White is that there's always a poisoned apple.
Thanks to angelgazing for all her help.
~*~
The Dwarf Index
Everyone in their line of work has heard of the Winchesters--bad luck follows them around like a lost puppy, and people who get involved with them usually end up dead. That doesn't deter Pam, though, when Bobby calls and tells her they need her help.
They're everything she expected and more, and she's a little disappointed when Dean shoots down her invitation to Sam. She pushes out with her senses--she doesn't so much read minds as pick up impressions, feelings, flashes of things to come--but there's too much going on between them, secrets all wrapped up in lies, and she doesn't have time to unravel the threads. It's not really any of her business, either, except in the way that everything that comes through her door is her business, and she likes to minimize the danger as much as possible these days.
Afterwards, when she's in the ICU with her eyes burned out of her skull, she wishes she'd taken the time to figure them out, or maybe been a little less willing to help.
The Winchesters visit her once, and she can feel the regret pouring off them even without the awkward conversation and the cheap flowers they've brought. From what she can tell, Sam insisted they bring them, but he made Dean pick them out; she has an impression of pink and orange tinted carnations, the kind she used to get from classmates in grade school on Valentine's day. She wonders if he stole them from some poor schmuck's wake, but doesn't bother to ask, even though listening to him stammer out some ridiculous story in place of the truth would be amusing.
She's back on her feet, testing out her new fake plastic eyeballs, when Dean shows up at her door. He's had a couple of beers and he probably shouldn't have been driving, but she doesn't scold him.
She lets him in, lets him think he's seducing her with his lame pickup lines and his unabashed appreciation for her body, and maybe he is, a little, but mostly she's just glad he still finds her attractive, plastic eyes or not. He's exactly the kind of guy who'd think he could get away with a pity fuck, and Pam wants no part of that.
They make out on the couch for a little while before she leads him back into the bedroom, not needing to feel her way in the familiar surroundings. She picks up echoes of his regret, compassion, but not pity, and knows she's made the right decision. She pulls her shirt off over her head and shucks her jeans and then lies back against the pillows.
"Come on, lover boy," she says when he doesn't join her. He still doesn't move. She reaches out with her other senses; he's thinking of something--someone--else and she knows it happens (has been guilty of it herself on occasion), but if they're doing this (and she's pretty sure they are), then she wants him to be doing it with her. She gets a flash of something that might be guilt before he pushes it down. He's got a lot of stuff shoved down inside where he never talks about it, and she doesn't have any desire to be the one who pries the lid off that tinderbox. She kicks out a foot in his direction, rubs it up the inside of his thigh, the denim soft and worn against her instep. "Or are you suddenly shy? Maybe I should call you Bashful."
She hears the rasp of his jeans being unzipped, and then he's on the bed, hips cradled between her thighs. He laughs against her jaw, and a quick check shows his attention is focused on her now.
"Isn't there one called Horny? I swear there was in the version I saw."
Her groan turns into a purr when he sucks a nipple into his mouth and grazes it with his teeth. She runs a hand through the soft brush of his hair, breathes in the scent of his shampoo and hair gel, pictures him behind her eyelids, all slick, bee-stung lips and freckles. "I think I'm gonna call you Dopey."
"As long as you don't call me late for dinner." His fingers curl into the slick ache between her legs, thumb finding her clit, and she arches up into the touch. She grabs him by the short hair on the nape of his neck and pushes her tongue into his mouth, only partly to stop the bad jokes, which she won't admit to finding endearing.
He slides down the bed, kissing his way down her body and then adding his mouth to his fingers. She presses up against him, pleased he seems to know what he's doing without too much instruction. The pressure is building inside of her, radiating out from her pussy through her whole body, and then it breaks, more quickly than she expected, and she comes with a, "Holy fuck," that surprises both of them.
He laughs again, wipes his slick chin on his arm and then says, "Condom?" She waves at the bedside table and hears him fumble with the drawer.
She's still trembling a little when he pushes inside with his dick, slow and easy. He drops little kisses on her neck and jaw, and even though she wraps her legs around him and presses her heels into his ass to spur him on, he keeps moving slow, like she's fragile or something, just because she's blind now. That's not working for Pam, though, so she uses her legs to roll them over, grabs onto his shoulders, and rides him hard.
Her fingers brush over the handprint on his shoulder and she gets flashes of his time in hell--blood, screaming, and bright hot lights that never dim, scouring every inch of every soul, the better to highlight their sins.
She jerks her hand away, rhythm lost for a few moments, heart racing with fear instead of desire. She can feel his gaze heavy on her face, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips (she'll find marks later, ten half-moon gouges from his fingernails, stinging when she runs her loofah over them). She closes her eyes, forces the memories away with a hummed chorus of "The Blitzkrieg Bop."
He laughs shakily and takes up the refrain, murmuring, "Hey, ho, let's go," against her tits when she leans forward.
He comes with a rough snap of his hips and slips a hand between them to finger her clit until she comes, too, slower and deeper this time. She collapses onto the bed next to him, presses a kiss to his unmarked shoulder, a silent thank you.
She dozes for a little while, and when she wakes up, he's getting dressed. "Gotta get back to work," he says. She smiles and waves goodbye. It's all right. She never expected him to stay.
*
After that, he stops by every few weeks for a fuck, so when her doorbell rings late one Tuesday night, Pam's not surprised. She's just glad she shaved her legs.
She is surprised when she opens the door and it's Sam standing there, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched awkwardly.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey, Grumpy. Come on in and close the door. You're letting all the heat out." She hears the door snap shut behind him, the locks click home. "Everything all right? Dean--"
"Dean's fine. Bobby's fine. I'm fine."
She can feel the lie in those last, bitten-off words. She doesn't call him on it. He's harder to read than his brother, locked down tighter than a drum, but confusion and frustration bleed through the cracks. She offers him a beer and he catches her up on the latest broken seals. She lets him talk, feels him relax a little, enough for her to figure out why he's here.
He confirms her suspicions when he stands up, stops her from going back into the kitchen for another beer. His hands are large and warm, one on her arm, the other on her hip. She could get loose if she wanted to. She tips her face up, presses her mouth to his, sharing the taste of beer and heat. He winds a hand through her hair, uses his other hand to pull her against him and hold her there. She's not used to feeling small, but Sam dwarfs her. It's an interesting sensation. He doesn't treat her like she's delicate, though, and she appreciates that.
He's more aggressive than Dean, and once they've started, he doesn't do a lot of talking. He likes to bite, his teeth sharp against the thin skin of her neck, the flesh of her earlobe. He licks away the sting, holding her while she shivers and returns the favor.
She tells herself to stop comparing them, tries to let her mind go open and focus on the moment, but when she does, she realizes she's not the only one who's been thinking of Dean.
Underneath the haze of Sam's desire, there's jealousy and frustration, and as he bends her over the back of the couch and pushes inside her, she gets flashes of him doing this to Dean, shot through with a sense of fierce possessiveness. She remembers Dean's distraction the first time he came to see her, and bites her lip to keep from laughing at herself for not figuring it out sooner. She doesn't know what the hell they've got going on (and to be honest, she doesn't really care what they do with each other, unless they're going to let her play, too), but she doesn't like feeling like the other woman. She doesn't like being used.
She reaches down, wraps her hand around Sam's wrist, feels it flex as he rubs against her clit. "Sam," she says. He doesn't respond, so she says it again. "Sam."
His breath is hot and ragged against her neck. "What?"
"Just want to make sure you're here." She tightens around him and grinds down against his hand.
"Yeah," he says. He thrusts harder, skims her shoulder with his teeth. "I am."
All his attention focuses on her now; the speed of his thrusts increases as he lets himself relax into fucking her, into getting both of them off. She pushes back against him, aching heat inside her rising higher, making it hard for her to breathe. She grunts and curls her nails into the afghan thrown over the back of the couch, arching her back as his hand tightens on her hip, his fingers working rough and slick against her clit.
He bites down on the tender spot where her neck meets her shoulder and Pam comes with a low moan. Sam fucks her through it and comes with a grunt, his fingernails digging into the flesh of her hips.
The air is cold on her sweaty back when he pulls out and moves away. She can hear him cleaning up and getting dressed. She sinks down onto the couch, pulls her jeans up over trembling legs, and tries to figure out what to say. She can't get a good read off him. She wishes she could see his face. Maybe then she'd know what he needs, how she could help.
She lays a hand on his arm. "Sam?"
He cups her cheek, gives her a surprisingly soft kiss. "Thanks," he says, awkward and rueful in a way he probably thinks she doesn't understand. "I should go."
"Take care of yourself, Sam."
"I will."
Pam's not sure she believes him.
*
The next time Dean comes to her door, he's got some crazy plan to go walking on the astral plane and he needs her help.
She already knows she's going to say yes--she wouldn't have come all this way with him if she weren't--but she's going to take advantage of the leverage they're giving her with the request.
"On one condition," she says after Dean wraps up his spiel.
"What?"
She stands up and walks over to him, cups his face with her hand, the stubble rough against her palm. She turns to face Sam over her shoulder. "I get the threesome I asked for the first time we met."
"What? No," Dean says again, pulling back.
"Okay," Sam says at the same time.
They're so predictable. She can't see it, but she's sure they're having a silent conversation over her head, all raised eyebrows and quirked lips.
"You really are Bashful, huh?" she says, her words as much of a dare as the grin on her face and the tone of her voice.
Dean scoffs. "And you're supposed to be Snow White?"
"Maybe. You ain't much of a Prince Charming, though."
"You got that right, sister."
Pam laughs. "I'm happy with Grumpy and Dopey."
"Dopey's a step down from Bashful," Sam says. Pam pictures him shaking his head and grinning.
"Shut up, you." Dean sounds amused, though he's trying to hide it. "We can't--We don't have time for this." He continues to bluster, but the lack of heat in his voice tells her he's already given in. "This is blackmail."
She nods and smiles. "Yeah." She reaches for the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping along the warm skin of his waist, enjoying the way his muscles jump when she touches him. She can feel Sam step up behind her, his hands easing her leather jacket down.
"I'm not--" Dean starts, and Pam feels the huff of Sam's breath on the back of her head.
"It's not like I haven't already fucked both of you," she says before Sam can speak.
Dean's mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and not for the first time (or the last), Pam wishes she could still see, because she's sure his incredulous expression is priceless.
"Sam?" he asks.
"Uh, yeah," Sam says, sounding distracted, because he's already gotten rid of her jacket and has his hands up under her shirt, large warm palms cupping her tits, nipples hard points against the lace of her bra. She arches into the touch, rubbing her ass against his crotch and tossing her head a little bit, enough to shift her hair out of the way so Sam can lick a long, wet stripe up her neck.
Dean makes a strangled noise, and Sam laughs. "Come on, Dean." His voice is low and gravelly, all teasing come on, and Pam's pretty sure nobody could resist it. Her cunt, already wet and aching, clenches in anticipation at the sound. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of Dean's jeans and tugs. He huffs against her mouth and before he can say anything, she kisses him. His hands land on her hips and he kisses her back, slick and wet, his tongue fluttering along the roof of her mouth the way she likes.
"Boots off," she says when he pulls away. "Jeans, too." She raises her arms, lets Sam tug her t-shirt off over her head, and reaches out to do the same to Dean.
She feels another pang of regret that she can't watch them strip, and pushes it away, lets the memories of their bodies under her hands fill in the details as she undresses, concentrating on the wet heat pulsing between her legs. The air is cool against her naked skin, but she doesn't have time to shiver--Sam lifts her up and drops her onto the bed, which creaks under her weight.
Pam laughs and reaches her arms up. "Come on, boys, let's fuck."
The bed isn't really big enough for two people, let alone three, but they make themselves fit. She lies between them and makes out with Sam while Dean plays with her tits. He licks and sucks at her nipples, sending shocks of pleasure to her pussy. She moans into Sam's mouth, reaches down to grab at their cocks, and for all of Dean's skittishness at the original suggestion, his body's totally on board. She jacks them both slowly, a little clumsy with her left hand on Dean. He laughs, a humid puff of air against her breastbone, and twines his fingers with hers, speeding the pace.
Sam's hand slides down between her thighs to finger her clit, and Dean's mouth follows. She hears him thump down onto the floor and gets a flash of him looking up at her and Sam that she's not sure she's just imagining.
"How are we doing this?" he asks.
"I know you two are--whatever you are," she says. "You don't have to pretend for me."
They both fall silent, a sudden chill in the room, and then Dean says, "What?" like he can't believe what she just said.
Sam says, "How'd you know?"
"Psychic, remember?" She shakes her head. "It's--" She can't say it's no big deal, because clearly to them it is, but, "You're both consenting adults, right?" She waves a hand. "I really don't care."
She gets the sense that they're having another one of those silent conversations, and then Sam says, "Okay."
"Dean?"
Dean's hands circle around her ankles, thumbs rubbing into the hollows there. "Whatever."
"Who's Grumpy now?" Sam says, and that seems to deflate the tension in the room enough that Dean laughs.
"All right," he says, fingers moving up her calf to tickle the back of her knee. "Let's get this party started."
"Condom?" Sam asks, pressing a line of kisses to her jaw.
She shakes her head. "I'm good. And I know where you've been." He hesitates at that and she bites back a sigh. Stupid men and their stupid complications.
She pulls her legs out of Dean's hands and kneels up, reaching back to draw Sam up, as well, bring his attention back to the matter at hand. He fits himself in behind her, one hand teasing at her nipples, the other skating over the curve of her ass.
"Couple of boy scouts like you have your own lube, right?" she says when his thumb presses against her asshole.
Sam's laugh is warm against the nape of her neck. "Yeah. We'll get to that."
"Sam's an ass man," Dean says, his hands slipping up the insides of her thighs as Sam pushes into her from behind. Her pussy tightens around the thick, hard length of his cock and she moans, thrusting back against him, trying to get him deeper inside.
She's so busy concentrating on the awesome feel of Sam's cock thrusting in and out of her cunt that she gasps in surprise when Dean's tongue finds her clit.
They don't talk much after that, and that's okay with Pam--she doesn't think she could form words at the moment. She holds tight to Dean's hair, arching up into the slick heat of his tongue, reaches around with her other hand to grab Sam's ass and squeeze. He laughs and bites her shoulder, then licks away the sting.
The pleasure spirals higher and tighter inside her as they fuck, warm waves of it rising up choke her. She holds her breath, trying to make the moment last, and thrusts back against Sam, who pushes her forward into Dean's mouth. Pam comes with a low, hoarse moan. She's still pulsing with it when Sam comes deep inside her. It's warm and sticky between her thighs when he pulls out and falls back onto the bed, drawing her down with him.
She can hear the rustle of the bedspread as Dean crawls up onto the bed and settles between her legs, his cock painting wet circles on her belly. He kisses her hard, the taste of her own come and Sam's on his tongue. She licks it from his mouth, ridiculously turned on. He shifts and the head of his cock nudges at her cunt.
"This okay?" he asks against her mouth.
She nods and curls an arm around his shoulder. "Yeah, please."
He thrusts hard and fast, for once forgetting to be gentle. She wraps her legs around his hips and bucks up against him, enjoying the ride. He doesn't last long, but that's okay--she doesn't need a whole lot to put her over the edge again. She's still floating on the high of orgasm when she hears the wet sounds of kissing above her. She pretends she doesn't, to make Dean feel better.
They don't spend a lot of time basking in the afterglow.
"We have a ghost to interview," Dean reminds her as they clean up and get dressed, as if she's forgotten why they brought her here.
"But when the hunt is done, we're totally doing this again," Sam says, "so make sure you keep our bodies safe."
She tosses off a mocking salute and doesn't argue about how crazy their plan is, how leaving a blind woman to guard their bodies in a town where demons have kidnapped a reaper is the dumbest thing she's ever heard. She does the spell and feels their spirits waft past her and out of the room, then settles back into a chair to wait.
Pam can't see the future, but she doesn't need to be clairvoyant to know this is going to end badly for someone, and that someone is probably her. The problem with being Snow White is that there's always a poisoned apple.
end
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