(no subject)
Camouflage
by whereupon
Sam/ofcs, NC-17, no spoilers, 3,785 words.
He is not the kind of person who does this.
For girlmostlikely.
i.
They're in the courtyard of this office complex, towering architecture, the shadow of which would be cast out across them if the sky were clear. Instead, it's about to rain and Sam has his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill. He looks up and she's looking at him, blond woman with her hair pulled back, standing on the stairs that lead up to that great glass building. Something sharp, when he meets her eyes, though she's too far away for him to tell if she is, in fact, looking directly back at him. The cut of her suit is elegant and severe, and for a moment he feels a burn of something dangerously akin to jealousy, is envious of everything he could have been, this world in which he could have belonged.
The woman turns, goes inside, and the glass door glimmers, reflecting storm-dark clouds and a warped view of the street, as it closes behind her.
Dean elbows him, flash of red flannel, brighter than the world of shadow and grey around it, but faded all the same. "Dude, are you even listening?"
"What?" Sam says. "Yeah."
He looks down and Dean's frowning at the building. Worried crease between his eyes, and then Dean says, abruptly because he knows what Sam's thinking (he thinks he knows what Sam's thinking), "C'mon, it's gonna start raining any minute."
--
Four hours later, an hour past sunset, and they're walking up those stairs. They're FBI agents, now, looking for information that might explain why a senior partner fell, or was pushed, from a tenth-story window last week. It's late enough in the day that most of the building is empty, which will make it easier for them to attract attention. There are still interviews, though, potential witnesses, and so they split up. There are too many leads and there is too little time.
If Dean's right about the identity of the ghost, the senior partner won't be the last victim.
She's the second person Sam interviews; the first was the janitor, who spoke more German than English. Sam knocks on the door and waits until she says, "Come in," before entering. Dark-stained floor, the walls mostly bare, and he recognizes her instantly, this blond woman behind the desk, the same woman who'd watched him that afternoon. Behind her, the city glitters, yellow-red glow against the blackened sky.
"Can I help you?" she asks, and he feels himself starting to blush. He squares his shoulders, suddenly incredibly aware of the stains on his suit jacket, of the way the fabric pulls a little too tightly across his shoulders.
"I'm Agent Tyler," he says, holding up his badge.
She raises one eyebrow. "And how can I help you, Agent?"
"I'm looking into the death of your partner, Aaron Caroll," he says.
"I've been out of town for the past week," she says. "I wasn't here when it happened."
"Do you know if he had any enemies?" Sam asks.
"Enemies who would throw him out of a tenth-floor window, you mean?" she says. "No, I don't."
"Okay," he says. "Thank you for your time."
She nods, once. He takes a breath, unsure, and she says, "I saw you this morning."
"I remember," he says. "I saw you, too."
"You were dressed differently. A stake-out, I imagine."
"Yeah," he says. "My partner and I."
"Really," she says.
"Really," he says. His mouth is dry. He wonders if he should run, or if he should excuse himself gracefully. It doesn't seem like he's been away long enough to have forgotten how to act in situations like this.
Situations like this. Situations in which the danger comes not from the horror and the wrath of the supernatural, but from the possibility of being discovered for who he is, of being held accountable for the laws he's currently breaking; situations in which he's fairly certain that he's being hit on, that he's being objectified, and in which he's not entirely sure that he minds.
She gets up from her desk. He doesn't move. She's wearing heels and she comes up past his shoulder. Her blouse is very crisp and very white, and he cannot help but watch the way it lifts when she breathes. "Should I give you a call if I think of anything, Agent Perry, was it?" she asks.
"I'd appreciate that," he says. He hands her one of his cards and hopes to God that the ink hasn’t smeared; they were freshly printed when he shoved them into his wallet.
She looks at the card, looks back up at him. "What are you doing this evening?" she asks.
"Working," he says, maybe too quickly. "This case, I’m not sure how long it'll take."
"That's a pity," she says.
"Why's that?"
"I'd like to take you out," she says. "If you have the time."
"I'll give you a call," he says.
"Do that," she says. She crosses her arms, left over right, and he nods.
He makes it halfway down the hall before turning back. He tells himself it's a bad idea, that it's a mistake. He tells himself that he is not the kind of person who does this, that he's not the kind of person who does anything remotely like this, but he's not sure that's true. He's not sure that it's ever been true. He thinks that perhaps a consequence of having so many aliases and identities, of lying to everyone he's ever known, everyone not related to him by blood, is that maybe he's not sure what kind of person he is.
He wonders if he will ever find out, if he will live long enough to do so.
This time, she opens the door when he knocks. "I'm not sure how long I'll be in town," he says, and she smiles fractionally. She doesn't look surprised.
She waits until he's closed the door before leaning in.
"You're not an FBI agent," she says, whispering against his neck. She sounds more like she's conspiring with him than like she's threatening him, but he steps back, all the same.
"Do you want to see my badge?" he asks, and his voice is casual, is amused, might as well be someone else's entirely. Maybe he hasn't forgotten how to do this, after all.
"No," she says. "I'm sure it's very realistic. You're very young to be an FBI agent, however," she says, "and you don't seem the type. I'm a very good judge of character."
"I'm new," he says. "It's my first time in the field."
"I'm sure," she says, and there's something wry in her tone. He kisses her, then, lifts her chin and fits his mouth against hers. There are lines around the corners of her eyes and her lipstick tastes faintly waxy. She nips at his lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, and he is very aware of his heartbeat, of the scent of her perfume. This is a stupid thing to do, he thinks. This is a Dean-like thing to do, but right now, he could care less.
He turns them easily, puts her back to the door, and she lets him. Her fingernails are polished and they glint when she grips at the black of his jacket. He doesn't know her at all, but his tongue is in her mouth and she's sighing against him, is shifting so that she can wrap one leg behind his knee, insistent.
He goes to his knees, for her. He runs his hands up her legs, stopping where the hem of her skirt hits just below her knees. He looks up at her, then, his breath coming fast, some part of him still amazed that he's doing this. She licks her lips, and she nods, once, again.
He pushes up her skirt, slides his hands up her legs, to the tops of her lace-edged stockings. He doesn't know her name, and her manicured fingernails are digging into his shoulders, pressure even though his jacket, even though his shirt, and maybe that's why he sighs against the black of her underwear, his head spinning. That's why he slips two fingers beneath the fabric and then lowers it, pushes it out of the way.
She slides one of her legs over his shoulder, as though she trusts him to take her weight, to support her, and there's no reason that she shouldn't. The world is reduced to her skin, to the scent of her, and the taste. He is entranced, caught up in the moment, caught up in her; everything else seems distant, unimportant, hardly worth considering. She gasps, and it is as though the world has gone soundless, when he slows and pulls back to watch her shudder, to watch the line of her chest, the hitch of her throat.
She comes back to herself slowly. Her face is flushed and he is swallowing hard, desperate, but she only pulls down her skirt, adjusts her blouse, and says, "Good luck solving your case, Agent."
He knows that he will not see her again. It was never a question. He does not see anyone in the hallway, a fact for which he is glad, but he keeps his head down all the same.
There's a restroom at the end of the hall. Beneath the fluorescent lights - because some things never change; his life might very well be cast in this fluorescence, in halogen glow and gunpowder burst, and overwhelming amounts of darkness - he jerks off, one hand braced on the wall. He licks his lips and he tastes her, and he does not think of other women. He does not think of Jess. He does not think at all.
He's the kind of person who knows what it's like to bury the people he loves, and to have caused their deaths. He's the kind of person who every night relives what must be hell, and who might do so for the rest of his life.
He has to pass by her office again in order to reach the elevators. Her door is closed, and he does not pause, does not falter.
In the silver reflection of the elevator doors, he adjusts his tie again, and then he checks his watch. He was meant to meet Dean three minutes ago.
--
They burn fragile bones in the belly of the building, in the basement furnace. They've stripped to shirtsleeves, their jackets a mess of crumpled cloth on the basement floor. "So, that was easy," Dean says.
"Yeah," Sam says. "A nice change."
Outside, when they've retreated to the safety of the shadows and the wide-open world, Sam looks back up at the windows. He doesn't imagine that she's looking back down. He doesn't imagine that she's thinking about him at all. He looks away and catches Dean watching him.
"C'mon," Sam says, because it's getting late and the air is heavy with expectance, tinged with rain.
Scant hours later, and already it seems like a fever dream, like it happened to somebody else. He remembers a world in which he wouldn't have dared, before he'd lost so much so that maybe it didn't matter.
He thinks about a world in which he would have belonged, in which he wouldn't have been transparent, in which the things he said to her might have been true. He touches his hand to his mouth for a moment and thinks that maybe it was never a choice at all. He would never have been able to escape this, not really; it might as well be in his blood, in his bones, in a very literal sense.
"You hungry?" Dean says, jarring and out of place in the quiet, above the engine noise and the slap of the wipers across the windshield. "I could use a burger."
"Sure," Sam says. He turns his face to the window, the rain-dappled glass, and lets Dean decide where they're going.
ii.
He's never been very good at picking up girls in bars. That's always been his brother's thing, and maybe because of that, Sam's never really bothered to try. It takes a certain kind of confidence, of bravado, to make the lines work, to lean in and come across as charming instead of awkward or desperate or just plain creepy, and maybe Dean doesn't care about falling flat sometimes (most of the time), but Sam does. He wants to be able to live with himself the next morning, and he thinks there would be something decidedly humiliating in having half a glass of stale beer tossed in his face.
At the other end of the bar, Dean is blinking like he has no idea why this sort of thing happens to him. "I was just asking," he says, and then he says something else, but Sam doesn't catch it through the background chatter, the music on the jukebox. The woman Dean was hitting on grabs her purse, tosses her hair back over her shoulders and stomps off towards the ladies' room. Dean mutters something and then yanks a napkin out of the nearest dispenser and uses it to dry his face before leaning back against the counter and saying something to the bartender. Sam rolls his eyes and ducks his head right before Dean glances over at him suspiciously.
"You know him?" the girl next to Sam asks. He looks up and Dean's glaring at him. Sam glances hastily over at the girl.
"Uh," he says. "Kind of?"
She smirks, pushes her hair behind her ears. She's pretty -- blonde, but her hair's cut short, curling just above her shoulders, and Sam is weirdly, desperately grateful for that. "Please tell me you're not gonna try something like that."
"The thought never crossed my mind," Sam says, and the girl raises her eyebrows. "Oh God, no," Sam says. "Not that you're not, I mean. I just, I'd rather not end the night wearing what's left of your drink."
"I wouldn't throw my drink in your face," she says. "Scout's honor."
"That sounded suspiciously like an invitation," he says, and she grins.
"It's a limited time offer," she says. "I'll come to my senses any minute now."
Sam tries, he does, but he can't make himself say it. He can't do it without laughing, awkward and embarrassed and genuine, but it's okay, because she's laughing, too. "I’m sorry," he says. "It’s not that I don't agree with the sentiment, but I think we'd both be better off if I didn't say it."
"That's a good sign," she says. "I don't sleep with guys I don’t respect."
"Yeah, me, neither," Sam says. "It's important to have standards."
"And funny, too," she says. "I'm Emily, and you are?"
"Sam," he says.
"Good to meet you, Sam." She smiles, takes a sip of her drink. "You from around here?"
"No," Sam says. "Me and my brother are just passing through."
"So you're brothers in addition to being talent scouts," she says. "Family business?"
"Can you keep a secret?" he says. "We're not really talent scouts."
"And here I thought I had a shot at fame," she says.
"Sorry to disappoint you."
"I'll live," she says. "You know, you could always make it up to me."
"Buy you a drink?"
"That's a start," she says, and he grins. He buys the next round, and when they've drained their glasses, he looks around for Dean, but his brother's gone. Sam hopes that's a good sign.
"So," Emily says.
"So," he says.
"You staying around here?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says. "There's a motel down the street. It's, uh. It's got character. It's sort of a lawsuit in waiting."
"My apartment's a block away," she says. "I'm not gonna say that thing about how I don't normally do this, but I don't."
"Me, neither," he says.
"Okay," she says. "Now that we've got that out of the way, you wanna come home with me?"
"Yeah," he says, and he's a little surprised to hear himself say it.
She grins. He looks for the Impala in the lot, but it's not there. She tucks her hand into his pocket as they walk and he pulls her close, his arm around her shoulder, hot girl-body against his. They walk beneath the streetlights, keep away from the unlit alleys, and he wonders what they look like to the people they pass, if they look like a happy couple, like they've known each other for longer than an hour at most.
At her front door, he steps back while she twists the key in the lock. He feels invasive, suddenly, as though he's overstepped his bounds, but when she turns and says, "Come on in," he follows her. He stands in the doorway while she flicks on the lights, and when she steps out of her heels, he bends down to untie his boots.
"Bedroom's this way," she says, and she takes him by the hand.
"Wait," he says, and he kisses her, deeply but not possessive. She pushes up against him, grinds in close and leaves him gasping.
"Bedroom," she says. "Come on."
This time, she kisses him, and she turns it into something more, pushing him back onto the bed and climbing into his lap.
He presses his face against her throat, kisses his way down her neck. He lifts her hair so he can kiss her shoulder, and then he helps her raise her shirt over her head. As he reaches behind her to undo her bra, he notices that the window is open, looking out onto the sky, though it's interrupted temporarily by the brief flash of headlights. When he skins off his shirt, she slips off of his lap, onto the bed, waiting.
He pushes her back, kisses his way down her stomach, and undoes the button of her jeans, slides them down. He presses one palm to the heat between her legs, the dampness, and meets her eyes. She's watching him, waiting, and he thinks that he could do anything right now, that she should not have invited a stranger into her home, that she should be more careful. The mere thought is frightening, dangerous, and he kisses her thighs in apology, moves his way up. Her hands trail small rasping noises across the blankets.
He slips her underwear down, off, and kisses her thighs again, and then he lowers his face to the shadow between her legs.
She twists and writhes and he tastes her on his tongue. Her feet slip against his back, her thighs against his shoulders, her heels digging hard, and oh, the noises she makes, the breath and the pulse and the slick against his face, the press and shift of her body.
She's still breathing hard when she pulls him up, fingers twisted in his hair, and kisses him.
He's hard, aching, and her fingers work at his belt buckle. She unzips his jeans and tugs at them until he slides out of them. There's a condom in his wallet, cliché; he fumbles with it while she watches, patient and maybe amused.
She pulls him close and her hands wrap around his cock, guiding him into her. She grips at his shoulders, slides her hands along his sides as he pushes in, again and again, until his own breath comes hard and he's wrapped up in the fit of her body, the heat of her skin, the crush of their movements. They don't talk, which isn't to say that they don't speak, but that their words could hardly be construed as conversation. Her hips move and he shakes, bracing himself above her, pushing into her until he loses track of time, place, his position in the universe.
His movements slacken; her breath slows. He opens his eyes, not having realized that he'd closed them, and she smiles at him.
He moves off of her and she slips against him, curls against his side. They don't talk, but perhaps there's not much that could be said, or that needs to be.
He thinks she's asleep when he starts to get up, but she opens her eyes. "You don't have to go right away," she says. "Stay for a few hours, huh?"
"Okay," he says, and she closes her eyes again, oddly trusting.
It feels strange to lie beside someone he doesn't know. She could be anyone, could do anything, could turn dangerous in a second, and he sleeps lightly. He wonders if she does the same. When he wakes, the light has changed, is the grey of early-morning, and the air is very cold as soon as he slips out from beneath the blankets. He dresses quickly, as quietly as possible, and wonders what he'll say to her, if he should wake her.
When he turns around, he sees that she's already awake. She's watching him, the blankets drawn up to her neck. "I have to go," he says awkwardly, his hands held loosely at his sides. "Thank you for, um."
"Yeah," she says. "You, too."
"Okay," he says, and she smiles.
She doesn't get up to let him out of her apartment, but he imagines that she stays awake until she hears the door close behind him. He makes sure it's locked, before he leaves.
The morning's cold, the sky at the horizon a very faint shade of blue. He walks the block back to the motel and lets himself in. Dean's there, asleep, alone. He wakes up when Sam enters, and he says something that might be good morning, half-mumbled into the pillow.
In the shower, Sam lets the water warm his skin like it might be burning something away, though he's not sure what. Maybe it's the realization that he's never going to see her again, and he remembers that once it would have bothered him much more than it does now. He might have let it break his heart, then, but he's older now, and he knows better.
Perhaps the water erases nothing more than the chill of the morning.
When Sam steps out of the bathroom, Dean's awake, is repacking, cramming clothes into his duffel. He looks up, smirks at Sam and says, "So I guess you had a pretty good night, huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes and steps past Dean, and as he says something in response, you're the one who took off, disappeared, he thinks that maybe this is what it comes down to, that this is his constant, his brother fumbling the punchline of a dirty joke and grinning at him, and maybe that's all he really needs.
This is not the life that he'd once imagined for himself, but maybe that's okay.
--
end
by whereupon
Sam/ofcs, NC-17, no spoilers, 3,785 words.
He is not the kind of person who does this.
For girlmostlikely.
i.
They're in the courtyard of this office complex, towering architecture, the shadow of which would be cast out across them if the sky were clear. Instead, it's about to rain and Sam has his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill. He looks up and she's looking at him, blond woman with her hair pulled back, standing on the stairs that lead up to that great glass building. Something sharp, when he meets her eyes, though she's too far away for him to tell if she is, in fact, looking directly back at him. The cut of her suit is elegant and severe, and for a moment he feels a burn of something dangerously akin to jealousy, is envious of everything he could have been, this world in which he could have belonged.
The woman turns, goes inside, and the glass door glimmers, reflecting storm-dark clouds and a warped view of the street, as it closes behind her.
Dean elbows him, flash of red flannel, brighter than the world of shadow and grey around it, but faded all the same. "Dude, are you even listening?"
"What?" Sam says. "Yeah."
He looks down and Dean's frowning at the building. Worried crease between his eyes, and then Dean says, abruptly because he knows what Sam's thinking (he thinks he knows what Sam's thinking), "C'mon, it's gonna start raining any minute."
--
Four hours later, an hour past sunset, and they're walking up those stairs. They're FBI agents, now, looking for information that might explain why a senior partner fell, or was pushed, from a tenth-story window last week. It's late enough in the day that most of the building is empty, which will make it easier for them to attract attention. There are still interviews, though, potential witnesses, and so they split up. There are too many leads and there is too little time.
If Dean's right about the identity of the ghost, the senior partner won't be the last victim.
She's the second person Sam interviews; the first was the janitor, who spoke more German than English. Sam knocks on the door and waits until she says, "Come in," before entering. Dark-stained floor, the walls mostly bare, and he recognizes her instantly, this blond woman behind the desk, the same woman who'd watched him that afternoon. Behind her, the city glitters, yellow-red glow against the blackened sky.
"Can I help you?" she asks, and he feels himself starting to blush. He squares his shoulders, suddenly incredibly aware of the stains on his suit jacket, of the way the fabric pulls a little too tightly across his shoulders.
"I'm Agent Tyler," he says, holding up his badge.
She raises one eyebrow. "And how can I help you, Agent?"
"I'm looking into the death of your partner, Aaron Caroll," he says.
"I've been out of town for the past week," she says. "I wasn't here when it happened."
"Do you know if he had any enemies?" Sam asks.
"Enemies who would throw him out of a tenth-floor window, you mean?" she says. "No, I don't."
"Okay," he says. "Thank you for your time."
She nods, once. He takes a breath, unsure, and she says, "I saw you this morning."
"I remember," he says. "I saw you, too."
"You were dressed differently. A stake-out, I imagine."
"Yeah," he says. "My partner and I."
"Really," she says.
"Really," he says. His mouth is dry. He wonders if he should run, or if he should excuse himself gracefully. It doesn't seem like he's been away long enough to have forgotten how to act in situations like this.
Situations like this. Situations in which the danger comes not from the horror and the wrath of the supernatural, but from the possibility of being discovered for who he is, of being held accountable for the laws he's currently breaking; situations in which he's fairly certain that he's being hit on, that he's being objectified, and in which he's not entirely sure that he minds.
She gets up from her desk. He doesn't move. She's wearing heels and she comes up past his shoulder. Her blouse is very crisp and very white, and he cannot help but watch the way it lifts when she breathes. "Should I give you a call if I think of anything, Agent Perry, was it?" she asks.
"I'd appreciate that," he says. He hands her one of his cards and hopes to God that the ink hasn’t smeared; they were freshly printed when he shoved them into his wallet.
She looks at the card, looks back up at him. "What are you doing this evening?" she asks.
"Working," he says, maybe too quickly. "This case, I’m not sure how long it'll take."
"That's a pity," she says.
"Why's that?"
"I'd like to take you out," she says. "If you have the time."
"I'll give you a call," he says.
"Do that," she says. She crosses her arms, left over right, and he nods.
He makes it halfway down the hall before turning back. He tells himself it's a bad idea, that it's a mistake. He tells himself that he is not the kind of person who does this, that he's not the kind of person who does anything remotely like this, but he's not sure that's true. He's not sure that it's ever been true. He thinks that perhaps a consequence of having so many aliases and identities, of lying to everyone he's ever known, everyone not related to him by blood, is that maybe he's not sure what kind of person he is.
He wonders if he will ever find out, if he will live long enough to do so.
This time, she opens the door when he knocks. "I'm not sure how long I'll be in town," he says, and she smiles fractionally. She doesn't look surprised.
She waits until he's closed the door before leaning in.
"You're not an FBI agent," she says, whispering against his neck. She sounds more like she's conspiring with him than like she's threatening him, but he steps back, all the same.
"Do you want to see my badge?" he asks, and his voice is casual, is amused, might as well be someone else's entirely. Maybe he hasn't forgotten how to do this, after all.
"No," she says. "I'm sure it's very realistic. You're very young to be an FBI agent, however," she says, "and you don't seem the type. I'm a very good judge of character."
"I'm new," he says. "It's my first time in the field."
"I'm sure," she says, and there's something wry in her tone. He kisses her, then, lifts her chin and fits his mouth against hers. There are lines around the corners of her eyes and her lipstick tastes faintly waxy. She nips at his lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin, and he is very aware of his heartbeat, of the scent of her perfume. This is a stupid thing to do, he thinks. This is a Dean-like thing to do, but right now, he could care less.
He turns them easily, puts her back to the door, and she lets him. Her fingernails are polished and they glint when she grips at the black of his jacket. He doesn't know her at all, but his tongue is in her mouth and she's sighing against him, is shifting so that she can wrap one leg behind his knee, insistent.
He goes to his knees, for her. He runs his hands up her legs, stopping where the hem of her skirt hits just below her knees. He looks up at her, then, his breath coming fast, some part of him still amazed that he's doing this. She licks her lips, and she nods, once, again.
He pushes up her skirt, slides his hands up her legs, to the tops of her lace-edged stockings. He doesn't know her name, and her manicured fingernails are digging into his shoulders, pressure even though his jacket, even though his shirt, and maybe that's why he sighs against the black of her underwear, his head spinning. That's why he slips two fingers beneath the fabric and then lowers it, pushes it out of the way.
She slides one of her legs over his shoulder, as though she trusts him to take her weight, to support her, and there's no reason that she shouldn't. The world is reduced to her skin, to the scent of her, and the taste. He is entranced, caught up in the moment, caught up in her; everything else seems distant, unimportant, hardly worth considering. She gasps, and it is as though the world has gone soundless, when he slows and pulls back to watch her shudder, to watch the line of her chest, the hitch of her throat.
She comes back to herself slowly. Her face is flushed and he is swallowing hard, desperate, but she only pulls down her skirt, adjusts her blouse, and says, "Good luck solving your case, Agent."
He knows that he will not see her again. It was never a question. He does not see anyone in the hallway, a fact for which he is glad, but he keeps his head down all the same.
There's a restroom at the end of the hall. Beneath the fluorescent lights - because some things never change; his life might very well be cast in this fluorescence, in halogen glow and gunpowder burst, and overwhelming amounts of darkness - he jerks off, one hand braced on the wall. He licks his lips and he tastes her, and he does not think of other women. He does not think of Jess. He does not think at all.
He's the kind of person who knows what it's like to bury the people he loves, and to have caused their deaths. He's the kind of person who every night relives what must be hell, and who might do so for the rest of his life.
He has to pass by her office again in order to reach the elevators. Her door is closed, and he does not pause, does not falter.
In the silver reflection of the elevator doors, he adjusts his tie again, and then he checks his watch. He was meant to meet Dean three minutes ago.
--
They burn fragile bones in the belly of the building, in the basement furnace. They've stripped to shirtsleeves, their jackets a mess of crumpled cloth on the basement floor. "So, that was easy," Dean says.
"Yeah," Sam says. "A nice change."
Outside, when they've retreated to the safety of the shadows and the wide-open world, Sam looks back up at the windows. He doesn't imagine that she's looking back down. He doesn't imagine that she's thinking about him at all. He looks away and catches Dean watching him.
"C'mon," Sam says, because it's getting late and the air is heavy with expectance, tinged with rain.
Scant hours later, and already it seems like a fever dream, like it happened to somebody else. He remembers a world in which he wouldn't have dared, before he'd lost so much so that maybe it didn't matter.
He thinks about a world in which he would have belonged, in which he wouldn't have been transparent, in which the things he said to her might have been true. He touches his hand to his mouth for a moment and thinks that maybe it was never a choice at all. He would never have been able to escape this, not really; it might as well be in his blood, in his bones, in a very literal sense.
"You hungry?" Dean says, jarring and out of place in the quiet, above the engine noise and the slap of the wipers across the windshield. "I could use a burger."
"Sure," Sam says. He turns his face to the window, the rain-dappled glass, and lets Dean decide where they're going.
ii.
He's never been very good at picking up girls in bars. That's always been his brother's thing, and maybe because of that, Sam's never really bothered to try. It takes a certain kind of confidence, of bravado, to make the lines work, to lean in and come across as charming instead of awkward or desperate or just plain creepy, and maybe Dean doesn't care about falling flat sometimes (most of the time), but Sam does. He wants to be able to live with himself the next morning, and he thinks there would be something decidedly humiliating in having half a glass of stale beer tossed in his face.
At the other end of the bar, Dean is blinking like he has no idea why this sort of thing happens to him. "I was just asking," he says, and then he says something else, but Sam doesn't catch it through the background chatter, the music on the jukebox. The woman Dean was hitting on grabs her purse, tosses her hair back over her shoulders and stomps off towards the ladies' room. Dean mutters something and then yanks a napkin out of the nearest dispenser and uses it to dry his face before leaning back against the counter and saying something to the bartender. Sam rolls his eyes and ducks his head right before Dean glances over at him suspiciously.
"You know him?" the girl next to Sam asks. He looks up and Dean's glaring at him. Sam glances hastily over at the girl.
"Uh," he says. "Kind of?"
She smirks, pushes her hair behind her ears. She's pretty -- blonde, but her hair's cut short, curling just above her shoulders, and Sam is weirdly, desperately grateful for that. "Please tell me you're not gonna try something like that."
"The thought never crossed my mind," Sam says, and the girl raises her eyebrows. "Oh God, no," Sam says. "Not that you're not, I mean. I just, I'd rather not end the night wearing what's left of your drink."
"I wouldn't throw my drink in your face," she says. "Scout's honor."
"That sounded suspiciously like an invitation," he says, and she grins.
"It's a limited time offer," she says. "I'll come to my senses any minute now."
Sam tries, he does, but he can't make himself say it. He can't do it without laughing, awkward and embarrassed and genuine, but it's okay, because she's laughing, too. "I’m sorry," he says. "It’s not that I don't agree with the sentiment, but I think we'd both be better off if I didn't say it."
"That's a good sign," she says. "I don't sleep with guys I don’t respect."
"Yeah, me, neither," Sam says. "It's important to have standards."
"And funny, too," she says. "I'm Emily, and you are?"
"Sam," he says.
"Good to meet you, Sam." She smiles, takes a sip of her drink. "You from around here?"
"No," Sam says. "Me and my brother are just passing through."
"So you're brothers in addition to being talent scouts," she says. "Family business?"
"Can you keep a secret?" he says. "We're not really talent scouts."
"And here I thought I had a shot at fame," she says.
"Sorry to disappoint you."
"I'll live," she says. "You know, you could always make it up to me."
"Buy you a drink?"
"That's a start," she says, and he grins. He buys the next round, and when they've drained their glasses, he looks around for Dean, but his brother's gone. Sam hopes that's a good sign.
"So," Emily says.
"So," he says.
"You staying around here?" she asks.
"Yeah," he says. "There's a motel down the street. It's, uh. It's got character. It's sort of a lawsuit in waiting."
"My apartment's a block away," she says. "I'm not gonna say that thing about how I don't normally do this, but I don't."
"Me, neither," he says.
"Okay," she says. "Now that we've got that out of the way, you wanna come home with me?"
"Yeah," he says, and he's a little surprised to hear himself say it.
She grins. He looks for the Impala in the lot, but it's not there. She tucks her hand into his pocket as they walk and he pulls her close, his arm around her shoulder, hot girl-body against his. They walk beneath the streetlights, keep away from the unlit alleys, and he wonders what they look like to the people they pass, if they look like a happy couple, like they've known each other for longer than an hour at most.
At her front door, he steps back while she twists the key in the lock. He feels invasive, suddenly, as though he's overstepped his bounds, but when she turns and says, "Come on in," he follows her. He stands in the doorway while she flicks on the lights, and when she steps out of her heels, he bends down to untie his boots.
"Bedroom's this way," she says, and she takes him by the hand.
"Wait," he says, and he kisses her, deeply but not possessive. She pushes up against him, grinds in close and leaves him gasping.
"Bedroom," she says. "Come on."
This time, she kisses him, and she turns it into something more, pushing him back onto the bed and climbing into his lap.
He presses his face against her throat, kisses his way down her neck. He lifts her hair so he can kiss her shoulder, and then he helps her raise her shirt over her head. As he reaches behind her to undo her bra, he notices that the window is open, looking out onto the sky, though it's interrupted temporarily by the brief flash of headlights. When he skins off his shirt, she slips off of his lap, onto the bed, waiting.
He pushes her back, kisses his way down her stomach, and undoes the button of her jeans, slides them down. He presses one palm to the heat between her legs, the dampness, and meets her eyes. She's watching him, waiting, and he thinks that he could do anything right now, that she should not have invited a stranger into her home, that she should be more careful. The mere thought is frightening, dangerous, and he kisses her thighs in apology, moves his way up. Her hands trail small rasping noises across the blankets.
He slips her underwear down, off, and kisses her thighs again, and then he lowers his face to the shadow between her legs.
She twists and writhes and he tastes her on his tongue. Her feet slip against his back, her thighs against his shoulders, her heels digging hard, and oh, the noises she makes, the breath and the pulse and the slick against his face, the press and shift of her body.
She's still breathing hard when she pulls him up, fingers twisted in his hair, and kisses him.
He's hard, aching, and her fingers work at his belt buckle. She unzips his jeans and tugs at them until he slides out of them. There's a condom in his wallet, cliché; he fumbles with it while she watches, patient and maybe amused.
She pulls him close and her hands wrap around his cock, guiding him into her. She grips at his shoulders, slides her hands along his sides as he pushes in, again and again, until his own breath comes hard and he's wrapped up in the fit of her body, the heat of her skin, the crush of their movements. They don't talk, which isn't to say that they don't speak, but that their words could hardly be construed as conversation. Her hips move and he shakes, bracing himself above her, pushing into her until he loses track of time, place, his position in the universe.
His movements slacken; her breath slows. He opens his eyes, not having realized that he'd closed them, and she smiles at him.
He moves off of her and she slips against him, curls against his side. They don't talk, but perhaps there's not much that could be said, or that needs to be.
He thinks she's asleep when he starts to get up, but she opens her eyes. "You don't have to go right away," she says. "Stay for a few hours, huh?"
"Okay," he says, and she closes her eyes again, oddly trusting.
It feels strange to lie beside someone he doesn't know. She could be anyone, could do anything, could turn dangerous in a second, and he sleeps lightly. He wonders if she does the same. When he wakes, the light has changed, is the grey of early-morning, and the air is very cold as soon as he slips out from beneath the blankets. He dresses quickly, as quietly as possible, and wonders what he'll say to her, if he should wake her.
When he turns around, he sees that she's already awake. She's watching him, the blankets drawn up to her neck. "I have to go," he says awkwardly, his hands held loosely at his sides. "Thank you for, um."
"Yeah," she says. "You, too."
"Okay," he says, and she smiles.
She doesn't get up to let him out of her apartment, but he imagines that she stays awake until she hears the door close behind him. He makes sure it's locked, before he leaves.
The morning's cold, the sky at the horizon a very faint shade of blue. He walks the block back to the motel and lets himself in. Dean's there, asleep, alone. He wakes up when Sam enters, and he says something that might be good morning, half-mumbled into the pillow.
In the shower, Sam lets the water warm his skin like it might be burning something away, though he's not sure what. Maybe it's the realization that he's never going to see her again, and he remembers that once it would have bothered him much more than it does now. He might have let it break his heart, then, but he's older now, and he knows better.
Perhaps the water erases nothing more than the chill of the morning.
When Sam steps out of the bathroom, Dean's awake, is repacking, cramming clothes into his duffel. He looks up, smirks at Sam and says, "So I guess you had a pretty good night, huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes and steps past Dean, and as he says something in response, you're the one who took off, disappeared, he thinks that maybe this is what it comes down to, that this is his constant, his brother fumbling the punchline of a dirty joke and grinning at him, and maybe that's all he really needs.
This is not the life that he'd once imagined for himself, but maybe that's okay.
--
end