(no subject)
So because I am head over heels for vinylroad and her many charms, I told her I would write her large quantities of anything she wanted. I really should have known better, because her response was - obviously - "Het!" I guess my genderswap wasn't good enough for her.
Therefore: Dean/girl!Sam, featuring dictionaries, springtime, and the sort of girl who knows how to drive the Impala in heels. I think this is what you all call winsister, and I even refrained from maligning Jess. Goddamn it, Kat. You are a bad influence. Thanks to jamesinboots for preventing me from abusing hyphens.
Lexicon, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 1850.
The year she turns sixteen, Sam's Christmas list to her father has exactly three things on it: a house, a real Christmas tree, and the OED. Her list to Dean is a little better, offered up at three am, half asleep against his shoulder as they're driving through Ohio. She wants, her breath warm against the window pane, ice crystals out over the highway, books, maybe, or some real jewelry, or a boy who likes her. Dean doesn't bother to tell her that boyfriends don't work when you move twice a month, just turns down the radio and edges up the heat, keeping her warm. Christmas morning, just outside of Moline, John goes in to get a cup of coffee and Dean leans over to where Sam's reading in the back seat. He drops a package into her lap - birthday wrapping paper, but jesus, she'd better not care - and doesn't watch her face as she opens it.
"Dean -" she starts, and he turns around to look at her, the way she's got her thumb pressed up against the edge of the jewelry box, which makes it worth hunting through six separate pawn shops for a reasonable pair of diamond earrings.
"They're not stolen," he says, flipping through a road map, messing with the radio dial, hoping that's the end of it, and Sam gets the hint and shuts up.
She doesn't take them off for two years, though, and when she knocks him over with a baseball bat in Palo Alto, her hair's shorter and her mouth is a little more full, but she's still wearing those goddamned earrings, familiar enough that they might be a part of her face.
A couple of years later, in a library outside of Ocala, he ends up looking something up in a twenty-volume dictionary, and it's right there across the cover, up against more words than he knows what to do with. He walks out with volume S and keeps it in the trunk for a couple of months, next to the Remington and a canteen of holy water, and somewhere between sabra and saw-whet, he thinks he might be able to find his sister, a whole person condensed into a couple of paragraphs and the fact that he's walking wounded, because when he turns to ask her what she wants at a drive through in Seattle, Sam isn't there.
Dean's never bothered with college, but he understands the concepts, majors and minors and advanced degrees. He's taken classes in black coffee and the sky out over the Florida turnpike, turned around and open, but Dean figures that he'd never need to write a thesis, because he knows Sam the way most people know chemistry or physics, like a dissertation in French literature, like poster presentations and assigned reading, magna cum laude and high honors and the high ceilings of lecture halls, sun washing in through picture windows.
He knows that Sam's first word was book, and that she broke her wrist when she was eleven, falling down a flight of stairs. She wears her hair behind her ears when she's nervous but she's a better shot than he is. Sam's never lost a hand of poker, never owned a cocktail dress. Dean was her date to senior prom, and he let her pretend that she wasn't his sister for the whole night, at least until after, getting milkshakes and hamburgers at the drive-through, because jesus, the chicken had been awful.
"So," he said, keeping french fry grease off the sleeves of his tux, "are you going to put out?" and Sam threw her head back and laughed, just right.
He's her first kiss, I just want to know what it feels like, will you, two blocks down from their motel, her hand pressed up against the side of his face, delicate, and three years later, there's a girl whose lipstick tastes the same. Dean goes down on her in the back of the Impala, slow touches and steady pressure with his tongue, the kind of nice he isn't with anybody, but after, she just lights a cigarette and lets herself back into the bar.
The first month she's back with him, warm in the passenger seat, she wears Dean's shirts more often than her own, with the sleeves rolled up three times against her wrist bones, warding off grief, and he lets her, because he knows that Sam's learning the sharp edges of loss, and there isn't any other comfort he can give.
The night before she died, their mother took off her wedding ring to wash the dishes and forgot to put it back on. The kitchen didn't burn, and when they were finally allowed back inside, after, it was right there in the soap dish, something ordinary, like she might come back to claim it. Sam has it now, a gold band she keeps in the glove compartment, and sometimes, when it's easier to make people see things a certain way, she slides it on her left hand and leans up against him a little differently. Sam's wearing it when she dies, and after, when they're barely speaking, fighting all the time, she keeps it on, gun metal warm against his skin every time she touches him.
Sam's duffle bag has jeans and shirts, two knives and an unloaded Beretta, a flask of holy water and a couple of photographs in a copy of Pride and Prejudice, and the jacket Dean wore all through high school, one of John's, way the hell too small for him now. After Dean bargains his soul back with a carefully placed Devil's Trap, the Colt steady in his hands, she takes the book and the jacket, and leaves everything else at a truck stop, tucked back into one of the booths in the diner.
"I want," she says, coming out of the shower that evening, "to start clean," and Dean loans her a shirt and wraps an arm around her waist when she falls asleep. His hand fits over her hip, easy, and it's the first time he's really slept in longer than he can remember.
Hunting is a hard thing to give up, the sort of mindset you have to ease out of, and they're both hungry for something stable, but it's a hard sort of addiction to give up. Dean finds slow jobs, the kind that take time. In December, too cold for anything to move, Sam tends bar at the Roadhouse and Ellen gives them a room in the attic, a double bed with a pile of quilts, a window that spills dusty sunlight across the bookshelves.
Sam bakes six apple pies before she learns better than to burn them, and Dean puts a new transmission in the car.
"I found something," Sam says, a couple of times, and Dean doesn't bother to fight it, just lets the open road back in. A salt and burn, a poltergeist, a black dog - it's nothing hard, but it's good, the steady burn of hard work, like patching the roof and cutting wood. It's washing her blood off his hands.
Sam comes to meet him at the door in March, pulling in from a hunt with Bobby, hands tucked into her pockets, boots leaving tracks in the snow, and they walk down the highway to the woods, Sam a couple of paces ahead, Ellen's dog - a shepherd mix, loyal to Sam's steady stride and Jo's heels - keeping time. Dean throws a stick, down along the riverbed, and Sam shuts up and puts her hands beneath his jacket, cold against his back, her head against his chest.
"Welcome home," she says, with the spring thaw pushing in against their backs, clean through the river and the crocus underneath the oak trees, purple and gold in the snowmelt.
Two days later, the sun comes out for the first time all winter, bright against everything, and they stay outside all afternoon, Sam's face warm in the dull glow of the sunlight, the most beautiful woman he's ever known, still. Later, she falls asleep in the backseat of the Impala, her book falling out of her fingers, and Dean slides in behind her, warm leather against his back, air clear as glass up against a bright blue sky, and after four o'clock, when the shadows from the trees are running long, he curls a hand around the edge of the rolled down window and kisses her awake, like it's nothing different.
She curls a hand against the back of his neck, fingers cool against his skin, and opens her eyes, their foreheads together, noses, lips, cheeks.
"Dean," Sam says - like she means it, or maybe like she doesn't - and it's the steady warmth of mouth against mouth, her breath against his, simple, and he presses his hands against the curve of her back and stops thinking.
After that, it's easy, even if Dean's not sure it should be, and she slides into bed with him after dinner, feet quick on the stairs.
"I haven't, with," she says, pulling the quilt over them, and Dean licks the water from her shower out from underneath her collarbones and kisses her, deep and warm.
Sharing Sam with Jess, with Madison - he gets liking women. Anyone else, though, and he'd have said no long before now, spread his hands out across her skin earlier, because Sam's just right with him, off center with anyone else.
She makes a low noise, startled, when he slides his fingers into her, and Dean learns: that she flushes all the way across her stomach when he kisses her, in close, that she likes it when he presses her hips down, licking up against her, slow, and how her face opens up when she slides down onto his cock, knees spread wide, a hand balanced against his stomach.
It's not complicated and it's not perfect - he comes too fast, pushing up into her, and Sam's unsteady - but it's good, better sex than Dean has ever had, and after, he wraps a hand around her wrists above her head and kisses her until she comes again against his fingers, flushed and laughing.
After, she falls asleep against his stomach and he lets go of the last of their history, stroking the shadows out of the soft fall of her hair.
In May, Dean finds an apartment, month-to-month in a city big enough to hide in, and Sam grows tomatoes and reads on the balcony until the sun goes down. Their kitchen fills with houseplants and papers, textbooks and parts to repair the leaky sink, when he gets around to it, and they own two encyclopedias and one dictionary, in French. The salt on the windowsills might be to keep the ants away from Sam's rosemary, and they kiss washing the dishes, his hands warm on her hips.
"I love you," Sam says, just because he might let her get away with it, and Dean starts over.
Therefore: Dean/girl!Sam, featuring dictionaries, springtime, and the sort of girl who knows how to drive the Impala in heels. I think this is what you all call winsister, and I even refrained from maligning Jess. Goddamn it, Kat. You are a bad influence. Thanks to jamesinboots for preventing me from abusing hyphens.
Lexicon, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 1850.
The year she turns sixteen, Sam's Christmas list to her father has exactly three things on it: a house, a real Christmas tree, and the OED. Her list to Dean is a little better, offered up at three am, half asleep against his shoulder as they're driving through Ohio. She wants, her breath warm against the window pane, ice crystals out over the highway, books, maybe, or some real jewelry, or a boy who likes her. Dean doesn't bother to tell her that boyfriends don't work when you move twice a month, just turns down the radio and edges up the heat, keeping her warm. Christmas morning, just outside of Moline, John goes in to get a cup of coffee and Dean leans over to where Sam's reading in the back seat. He drops a package into her lap - birthday wrapping paper, but jesus, she'd better not care - and doesn't watch her face as she opens it.
"Dean -" she starts, and he turns around to look at her, the way she's got her thumb pressed up against the edge of the jewelry box, which makes it worth hunting through six separate pawn shops for a reasonable pair of diamond earrings.
"They're not stolen," he says, flipping through a road map, messing with the radio dial, hoping that's the end of it, and Sam gets the hint and shuts up.
She doesn't take them off for two years, though, and when she knocks him over with a baseball bat in Palo Alto, her hair's shorter and her mouth is a little more full, but she's still wearing those goddamned earrings, familiar enough that they might be a part of her face.
A couple of years later, in a library outside of Ocala, he ends up looking something up in a twenty-volume dictionary, and it's right there across the cover, up against more words than he knows what to do with. He walks out with volume S and keeps it in the trunk for a couple of months, next to the Remington and a canteen of holy water, and somewhere between sabra and saw-whet, he thinks he might be able to find his sister, a whole person condensed into a couple of paragraphs and the fact that he's walking wounded, because when he turns to ask her what she wants at a drive through in Seattle, Sam isn't there.
Dean's never bothered with college, but he understands the concepts, majors and minors and advanced degrees. He's taken classes in black coffee and the sky out over the Florida turnpike, turned around and open, but Dean figures that he'd never need to write a thesis, because he knows Sam the way most people know chemistry or physics, like a dissertation in French literature, like poster presentations and assigned reading, magna cum laude and high honors and the high ceilings of lecture halls, sun washing in through picture windows.
He knows that Sam's first word was book, and that she broke her wrist when she was eleven, falling down a flight of stairs. She wears her hair behind her ears when she's nervous but she's a better shot than he is. Sam's never lost a hand of poker, never owned a cocktail dress. Dean was her date to senior prom, and he let her pretend that she wasn't his sister for the whole night, at least until after, getting milkshakes and hamburgers at the drive-through, because jesus, the chicken had been awful.
"So," he said, keeping french fry grease off the sleeves of his tux, "are you going to put out?" and Sam threw her head back and laughed, just right.
He's her first kiss, I just want to know what it feels like, will you, two blocks down from their motel, her hand pressed up against the side of his face, delicate, and three years later, there's a girl whose lipstick tastes the same. Dean goes down on her in the back of the Impala, slow touches and steady pressure with his tongue, the kind of nice he isn't with anybody, but after, she just lights a cigarette and lets herself back into the bar.
The first month she's back with him, warm in the passenger seat, she wears Dean's shirts more often than her own, with the sleeves rolled up three times against her wrist bones, warding off grief, and he lets her, because he knows that Sam's learning the sharp edges of loss, and there isn't any other comfort he can give.
The night before she died, their mother took off her wedding ring to wash the dishes and forgot to put it back on. The kitchen didn't burn, and when they were finally allowed back inside, after, it was right there in the soap dish, something ordinary, like she might come back to claim it. Sam has it now, a gold band she keeps in the glove compartment, and sometimes, when it's easier to make people see things a certain way, she slides it on her left hand and leans up against him a little differently. Sam's wearing it when she dies, and after, when they're barely speaking, fighting all the time, she keeps it on, gun metal warm against his skin every time she touches him.
Sam's duffle bag has jeans and shirts, two knives and an unloaded Beretta, a flask of holy water and a couple of photographs in a copy of Pride and Prejudice, and the jacket Dean wore all through high school, one of John's, way the hell too small for him now. After Dean bargains his soul back with a carefully placed Devil's Trap, the Colt steady in his hands, she takes the book and the jacket, and leaves everything else at a truck stop, tucked back into one of the booths in the diner.
"I want," she says, coming out of the shower that evening, "to start clean," and Dean loans her a shirt and wraps an arm around her waist when she falls asleep. His hand fits over her hip, easy, and it's the first time he's really slept in longer than he can remember.
Hunting is a hard thing to give up, the sort of mindset you have to ease out of, and they're both hungry for something stable, but it's a hard sort of addiction to give up. Dean finds slow jobs, the kind that take time. In December, too cold for anything to move, Sam tends bar at the Roadhouse and Ellen gives them a room in the attic, a double bed with a pile of quilts, a window that spills dusty sunlight across the bookshelves.
Sam bakes six apple pies before she learns better than to burn them, and Dean puts a new transmission in the car.
"I found something," Sam says, a couple of times, and Dean doesn't bother to fight it, just lets the open road back in. A salt and burn, a poltergeist, a black dog - it's nothing hard, but it's good, the steady burn of hard work, like patching the roof and cutting wood. It's washing her blood off his hands.
Sam comes to meet him at the door in March, pulling in from a hunt with Bobby, hands tucked into her pockets, boots leaving tracks in the snow, and they walk down the highway to the woods, Sam a couple of paces ahead, Ellen's dog - a shepherd mix, loyal to Sam's steady stride and Jo's heels - keeping time. Dean throws a stick, down along the riverbed, and Sam shuts up and puts her hands beneath his jacket, cold against his back, her head against his chest.
"Welcome home," she says, with the spring thaw pushing in against their backs, clean through the river and the crocus underneath the oak trees, purple and gold in the snowmelt.
Two days later, the sun comes out for the first time all winter, bright against everything, and they stay outside all afternoon, Sam's face warm in the dull glow of the sunlight, the most beautiful woman he's ever known, still. Later, she falls asleep in the backseat of the Impala, her book falling out of her fingers, and Dean slides in behind her, warm leather against his back, air clear as glass up against a bright blue sky, and after four o'clock, when the shadows from the trees are running long, he curls a hand around the edge of the rolled down window and kisses her awake, like it's nothing different.
She curls a hand against the back of his neck, fingers cool against his skin, and opens her eyes, their foreheads together, noses, lips, cheeks.
"Dean," Sam says - like she means it, or maybe like she doesn't - and it's the steady warmth of mouth against mouth, her breath against his, simple, and he presses his hands against the curve of her back and stops thinking.
After that, it's easy, even if Dean's not sure it should be, and she slides into bed with him after dinner, feet quick on the stairs.
"I haven't, with," she says, pulling the quilt over them, and Dean licks the water from her shower out from underneath her collarbones and kisses her, deep and warm.
Sharing Sam with Jess, with Madison - he gets liking women. Anyone else, though, and he'd have said no long before now, spread his hands out across her skin earlier, because Sam's just right with him, off center with anyone else.
She makes a low noise, startled, when he slides his fingers into her, and Dean learns: that she flushes all the way across her stomach when he kisses her, in close, that she likes it when he presses her hips down, licking up against her, slow, and how her face opens up when she slides down onto his cock, knees spread wide, a hand balanced against his stomach.
It's not complicated and it's not perfect - he comes too fast, pushing up into her, and Sam's unsteady - but it's good, better sex than Dean has ever had, and after, he wraps a hand around her wrists above her head and kisses her until she comes again against his fingers, flushed and laughing.
After, she falls asleep against his stomach and he lets go of the last of their history, stroking the shadows out of the soft fall of her hair.
In May, Dean finds an apartment, month-to-month in a city big enough to hide in, and Sam grows tomatoes and reads on the balcony until the sun goes down. Their kitchen fills with houseplants and papers, textbooks and parts to repair the leaky sink, when he gets around to it, and they own two encyclopedias and one dictionary, in French. The salt on the windowsills might be to keep the ants away from Sam's rosemary, and they kiss washing the dishes, his hands warm on her hips.
"I love you," Sam says, just because he might let her get away with it, and Dean starts over.