(no subject)
So I had to do something while I was waiting for the election results. This is weirdly experimental. More Sam/girl!Dean, for sazzlette. (This one isn't in the same 'verse as the other stuff, though.)
Uh, Sam's kind of a slut. So fair warning for, um, a hell of a lot of het. It seemed like a good idea at the time! I was just kind of messing around with musings on Sam and how he really likes women and then vinylroad started encouraging me and who the hell knows, really. Pre-Stanford, whatever.
Varsity, Sam/girl!Dean, Sam/OFCs, NC-17, 1720 words.
Sam likes girls. It's not some big thing, not anything he has to tell everybody. He just does. He likes the way they offer to lend him their notes when he misses class, how they huddle in groups by the drinking fountains, the ones who wear heels and the track stars. He likes the girl in the front of his geometry class, the one who knows the answer to every problem set, and he likes the departmental secretary, two years out of college with button down shirts that don't close all the way. Sam likes white lace bra straps and cinnamon chewing gum and the way they look in the back of the Impala, spread out and flushed underneath his hands.
They're soft and sweet and easy, and it doesn't take Sam that long to figure out how to play the game. Dean thinks he has study groups, extra projects, TA sessions after school; in reality, Sam's learning something else entirely between three-thirty and five, spread out underneath patterned quilts in suburban houses he spends his weekends saving. His junior year of high school, Sam switches schools four times and learns how to go down on girls, their hips pressing up against him, hot and slick against his mouth. Sam knows how to slide his fingers into them to make them beg, loves to watch them shift underneath his tongue, figures out fast how to pull up skirts in empty classrooms, how it feels to shove a girl up against the teacher's desk and take her, feeling her pulse slam against his stomach, in deep.
Sam doesn't have girlfriends, doesn't bother with a date to prom, just lets his lab partner push up her dress and slide down onto him in the passenger seat of the Impala, rocking up against him until he feels her jerk and go still. After, she presses him back against the car door and kisses him, slow and wet and dirty, her lipstick all over his mouth.
"Aw, Sammy," Dean says, when he gets home, channel surfing in the middle of the night, "did you actually manage to get a girl to kiss you?"
"Shut up," Sam says, drinking milk right out of the carton, warm and satisfied, and lets her think she's right.
He doesn't want to lay claim to anybody or let them have anything of him, so Sam just goes with things that come his way. Summer is slow, lazy heat, bikinis and suntan lotion and too much lemonade. He gets drunk and fucks one of the cheerleaders on a beach towel by her parents' pool, slow, strong thrusts that have her shivering underneath him even though it's the middle of June, panting against his mouth. When John announces that they're moving the next week, Sam doesn't even care - she blows him while he's supposed to be packing up his bedroom, his fingers against her jaw, watching the head of his dick slide against the inside of her cheek, and not even Dean bitching him out for not putting the boxes in the trunk can ruin the afterglow.
In July, on the road, Sam fucks a waitress in a restaurant bathroom while Dean's mapping out the next hundred miles, presses her on her toes up against the sink and clamps a hand down over her mouth to muffle her moan.
"Jesus, try jerking off in the shower next time," Dean says, irritated, when he comes back, and Sam just orders an extra piece of apple pie and falls asleep in the passenger seat.
Bars are easy, but it's a little hard when he's sharing a bedroom with his sister, so mostly, it's the back of the car, hot and deep against the leather, making out the whole time. Dean almost catches him, once, when she comes out in the middle of the night to get an extra gun out of the trunk, but it's dark and Sam lets his hips jerk up, comes thinking about what it might be like if she saw.
In October, they find a house in Michigan for a long-term job, just in time for the leaves to start turning, and Sam joins the football team just to piss his father off. Dean doesn't speak to him for a week, but Sam figures he's putting in the miles anyway; wind sprints are worse than anything his father could come up with. Two weeks after they move in, he's leaving the parking lot after a late practice when he sees the hood go up on a slightly beat up pick up. There's a girl underneath it, arms wrapped around herself, pretty obviously cold, and so Sam stops the truck and climbs down. She's got brown hair and bright blue eyes and Sam's varsity jacket is way too big across her shoulders, but she shrugs into it anyway.
"Might be the battery," she says, "but I don't actually know," and that's how Sam ends up with his first girlfriend.
She likes calculus and vanilla ice cream dipped in chocolate, and Sam gets hard watching her eat it, teeth up against the candy shell, licking her fingers off after. They watch football games on Monday nights, and she runs her palm over his stomach until Sam can't take it any more and rolls her over underneath him, laughing. She hasn't had sex before, but she doesn't say no when Sam slides her underwear off and pulls her hips up against the edge of the bed, on his knees, and the startled noise she makes when he puts his mouth on her almost makes him come right there. There's somebody to meet him at his locker, somebody to bring him extra cake at lunch, and she never asks to go home with him, just shares stupid math jokes and does his biology homework.
They win homecoming 56-0, a complete shut out, and Sam's coming off the field when he stops short; Dean's standing by the water cooler, her hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket, and she grins when she sees him, like she's got some kind of secret, cheeks red in the cold.
"Go shower, kiddo," she says, when Sam's a couple feet away. "I figured we could do hamburgers and one of those fucking terrible action moves to celebrate."
"Actually," Sam says, and watches Dean's face change as he ends up with an armful of girl.
"You were so good," she says, arms wrapped around his neck, and the way she kisses him makes Sam's stomach flip, his hands going tight on her hips, hard already from the endorphin rush and the way her breasts are pressed up against his chest, her hips locked into his.
"I think we're going to the movies," Sam finishes, knowing it's not going to be good enough, and Dean stares then forces a smile, one he knows she doesn't mean.
"Have - uh, fun," she says, backing up fast, and Sam knows he should go after her but he's never been able to chase Dean down, and she's already in the car and pulling out of the parking lot, faster than she should be.
Sam skips the locker room in favor of the truck, wanting to be off the goddamned field. Her parents are gone for the weekend, and Sam knows he should feel better when she pulls him up the stairs and into the bathroom, shower already running on full heat.
"That block was amazing," she says, peeling off her jeans, her sweater already on the floor, and it takes her hands on him for Sam to realize where this is going. He presses her up against the shower wall and rubs off against her stomach, sliding his cock over the hollow of her hip, fingers pressed up inside of her until she shudders and comes around them, face pressed against his neck, warm and damp.
Sam's pretty sure he could have it all if he wanted, that he could press her up a little further and get her legs locked around his waist, push into her and take it slow, but he knows better, because something's not right. He makes sure she's asleep before he lets himself out.
The lights are out by the time he gets home, but the television's on, glowing in the soft dark of the living room. Dean's sitting on the sofa, tense even though there's half a bottle of whisky next to her, and Sam settles in beside her, waiting, because ignoring Dean when she's been drinking is never a good idea.
"Did you fuck her?" Dean says, finally, flipping through the channels like she doesn't care.
"Not tonight," Sam says, pulling the remote away, and Dean's laugh is sharp enough to hurt.
"Nice," she says. "Sneaking around. Got any other girlfriends you want to tell me about?"
"Doesn't matter," Sam says, just as sharp back, because the truth is that it doesn't - he knows they're moving as soon as Christmas rolls around, that it's predictable, that there's only one person he can trust to stick around.
"Sure," Dean agrees, and Sam's so busy thinking that he misses it when she slides over into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, nose a couple inches from his. "Because it's not happening again."
"Yeah?" Sam says, because jesus, she's drunk.
"Yeah," Dean says, softly. "The only girl you're allowed to take to the movies is me," and Sam realizes in a stupid rush that she's jealous, that the feeling in the pit of his stomach all night has been, just maybe, the realization that this is what he's been playing at all along, that it's her attention he's been after.
"Yeah, okay," Sam says, kind of breathless, and when she kisses him, it's not soft or perfect or hot, just the press of her mouth over his, warm. Dean tastes a little like chapstick and a little like whiskey, and it's good in a way Sam's never felt before.
After, when Dean's almost falling asleep between kisses, Sam carries her to their bedroom and curls up against her back, figuring out how to break up when he was never really dating in the first place, and maybe, he thinks, he'd be okay with settling on just one person, after all.
Uh, Sam's kind of a slut. So fair warning for, um, a hell of a lot of het. It seemed like a good idea at the time! I was just kind of messing around with musings on Sam and how he really likes women and then vinylroad started encouraging me and who the hell knows, really. Pre-Stanford, whatever.
Varsity, Sam/girl!Dean, Sam/OFCs, NC-17, 1720 words.
Sam likes girls. It's not some big thing, not anything he has to tell everybody. He just does. He likes the way they offer to lend him their notes when he misses class, how they huddle in groups by the drinking fountains, the ones who wear heels and the track stars. He likes the girl in the front of his geometry class, the one who knows the answer to every problem set, and he likes the departmental secretary, two years out of college with button down shirts that don't close all the way. Sam likes white lace bra straps and cinnamon chewing gum and the way they look in the back of the Impala, spread out and flushed underneath his hands.
They're soft and sweet and easy, and it doesn't take Sam that long to figure out how to play the game. Dean thinks he has study groups, extra projects, TA sessions after school; in reality, Sam's learning something else entirely between three-thirty and five, spread out underneath patterned quilts in suburban houses he spends his weekends saving. His junior year of high school, Sam switches schools four times and learns how to go down on girls, their hips pressing up against him, hot and slick against his mouth. Sam knows how to slide his fingers into them to make them beg, loves to watch them shift underneath his tongue, figures out fast how to pull up skirts in empty classrooms, how it feels to shove a girl up against the teacher's desk and take her, feeling her pulse slam against his stomach, in deep.
Sam doesn't have girlfriends, doesn't bother with a date to prom, just lets his lab partner push up her dress and slide down onto him in the passenger seat of the Impala, rocking up against him until he feels her jerk and go still. After, she presses him back against the car door and kisses him, slow and wet and dirty, her lipstick all over his mouth.
"Aw, Sammy," Dean says, when he gets home, channel surfing in the middle of the night, "did you actually manage to get a girl to kiss you?"
"Shut up," Sam says, drinking milk right out of the carton, warm and satisfied, and lets her think she's right.
He doesn't want to lay claim to anybody or let them have anything of him, so Sam just goes with things that come his way. Summer is slow, lazy heat, bikinis and suntan lotion and too much lemonade. He gets drunk and fucks one of the cheerleaders on a beach towel by her parents' pool, slow, strong thrusts that have her shivering underneath him even though it's the middle of June, panting against his mouth. When John announces that they're moving the next week, Sam doesn't even care - she blows him while he's supposed to be packing up his bedroom, his fingers against her jaw, watching the head of his dick slide against the inside of her cheek, and not even Dean bitching him out for not putting the boxes in the trunk can ruin the afterglow.
In July, on the road, Sam fucks a waitress in a restaurant bathroom while Dean's mapping out the next hundred miles, presses her on her toes up against the sink and clamps a hand down over her mouth to muffle her moan.
"Jesus, try jerking off in the shower next time," Dean says, irritated, when he comes back, and Sam just orders an extra piece of apple pie and falls asleep in the passenger seat.
Bars are easy, but it's a little hard when he's sharing a bedroom with his sister, so mostly, it's the back of the car, hot and deep against the leather, making out the whole time. Dean almost catches him, once, when she comes out in the middle of the night to get an extra gun out of the trunk, but it's dark and Sam lets his hips jerk up, comes thinking about what it might be like if she saw.
In October, they find a house in Michigan for a long-term job, just in time for the leaves to start turning, and Sam joins the football team just to piss his father off. Dean doesn't speak to him for a week, but Sam figures he's putting in the miles anyway; wind sprints are worse than anything his father could come up with. Two weeks after they move in, he's leaving the parking lot after a late practice when he sees the hood go up on a slightly beat up pick up. There's a girl underneath it, arms wrapped around herself, pretty obviously cold, and so Sam stops the truck and climbs down. She's got brown hair and bright blue eyes and Sam's varsity jacket is way too big across her shoulders, but she shrugs into it anyway.
"Might be the battery," she says, "but I don't actually know," and that's how Sam ends up with his first girlfriend.
She likes calculus and vanilla ice cream dipped in chocolate, and Sam gets hard watching her eat it, teeth up against the candy shell, licking her fingers off after. They watch football games on Monday nights, and she runs her palm over his stomach until Sam can't take it any more and rolls her over underneath him, laughing. She hasn't had sex before, but she doesn't say no when Sam slides her underwear off and pulls her hips up against the edge of the bed, on his knees, and the startled noise she makes when he puts his mouth on her almost makes him come right there. There's somebody to meet him at his locker, somebody to bring him extra cake at lunch, and she never asks to go home with him, just shares stupid math jokes and does his biology homework.
They win homecoming 56-0, a complete shut out, and Sam's coming off the field when he stops short; Dean's standing by the water cooler, her hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket, and she grins when she sees him, like she's got some kind of secret, cheeks red in the cold.
"Go shower, kiddo," she says, when Sam's a couple feet away. "I figured we could do hamburgers and one of those fucking terrible action moves to celebrate."
"Actually," Sam says, and watches Dean's face change as he ends up with an armful of girl.
"You were so good," she says, arms wrapped around his neck, and the way she kisses him makes Sam's stomach flip, his hands going tight on her hips, hard already from the endorphin rush and the way her breasts are pressed up against his chest, her hips locked into his.
"I think we're going to the movies," Sam finishes, knowing it's not going to be good enough, and Dean stares then forces a smile, one he knows she doesn't mean.
"Have - uh, fun," she says, backing up fast, and Sam knows he should go after her but he's never been able to chase Dean down, and she's already in the car and pulling out of the parking lot, faster than she should be.
Sam skips the locker room in favor of the truck, wanting to be off the goddamned field. Her parents are gone for the weekend, and Sam knows he should feel better when she pulls him up the stairs and into the bathroom, shower already running on full heat.
"That block was amazing," she says, peeling off her jeans, her sweater already on the floor, and it takes her hands on him for Sam to realize where this is going. He presses her up against the shower wall and rubs off against her stomach, sliding his cock over the hollow of her hip, fingers pressed up inside of her until she shudders and comes around them, face pressed against his neck, warm and damp.
Sam's pretty sure he could have it all if he wanted, that he could press her up a little further and get her legs locked around his waist, push into her and take it slow, but he knows better, because something's not right. He makes sure she's asleep before he lets himself out.
The lights are out by the time he gets home, but the television's on, glowing in the soft dark of the living room. Dean's sitting on the sofa, tense even though there's half a bottle of whisky next to her, and Sam settles in beside her, waiting, because ignoring Dean when she's been drinking is never a good idea.
"Did you fuck her?" Dean says, finally, flipping through the channels like she doesn't care.
"Not tonight," Sam says, pulling the remote away, and Dean's laugh is sharp enough to hurt.
"Nice," she says. "Sneaking around. Got any other girlfriends you want to tell me about?"
"Doesn't matter," Sam says, just as sharp back, because the truth is that it doesn't - he knows they're moving as soon as Christmas rolls around, that it's predictable, that there's only one person he can trust to stick around.
"Sure," Dean agrees, and Sam's so busy thinking that he misses it when she slides over into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, nose a couple inches from his. "Because it's not happening again."
"Yeah?" Sam says, because jesus, she's drunk.
"Yeah," Dean says, softly. "The only girl you're allowed to take to the movies is me," and Sam realizes in a stupid rush that she's jealous, that the feeling in the pit of his stomach all night has been, just maybe, the realization that this is what he's been playing at all along, that it's her attention he's been after.
"Yeah, okay," Sam says, kind of breathless, and when she kisses him, it's not soft or perfect or hot, just the press of her mouth over his, warm. Dean tastes a little like chapstick and a little like whiskey, and it's good in a way Sam's never felt before.
After, when Dean's almost falling asleep between kisses, Sam carries her to their bedroom and curls up against her back, figuring out how to break up when he was never really dating in the first place, and maybe, he thinks, he'd be okay with settling on just one person, after all.