If u ever want to elaborate on the sam/deanna d/s 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
Sam doesn't say much, Michigan City to Joliet to Rockford. Fine with Deanna, who doesn't have much she could say back. She drives fast but not fast enough they'd get pulled over and she stops for gas when they need it. When she's dealing with the gas cap Sam asks if she wants anything from inside and there's a space in her throat where words should be but nothing comes out. She shakes her head. She doesn't look at him but she can imagine Sam's face. The so-slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his jaw goes a harder shape. His boots crunch on the gravel into the c-store and she's left with the empty space. Except it isn't empty, is it.
Mark looked small in the hospital bed. Sat beside it Ben had looked smaller, more like the eight year old birthday boy he'd been when she met him. Cas had done his job. Mark watched her in the doorway, curious and then surprised and then vaguely forgiving, and his eyes were the same soft brown they'd always been and his smile came just as easy, and there wasn't a fleck of recognition. Ben was just puzzled—faced with some woman, who apparently couldn't drive, babbling some dumb apology—and nowhere in him was the kid she'd tucked in at night, or the kid she'd shown how to jump a battery and change a tire, or the kid she'd picked up from school after her shift at the diner and kissed absently on the head and said she'd look out for him, she'd keep him safe, no matter what. Another lie to stack on the pile. After the life she'd had, you'd think she'd know better by now.
A motel in Freeport. Yellow blankets and bad carpet. They drop their bags and Deanna looks at the two beds and the last thing in the goddamn world she wants to do is sleep. Sam picks up the keys, says, "I'll get food," and the door closes quietly behind him, and she's alone finally, and if she were another kind of person it'd be space to cry. It'd make sense to. A boy she'd loved and a man she could've stayed with, maybe gotten old with even though getting old is something she thought she'd never be able to do—gone. Permanently, this time. No doors left half-cracked, no maybe-somedays on the horizon. An entire year of her life, longer, cut out like a failing liver. Better for everyone to have it cleaned out and gone.
In the shower she's slow, thorough. A week straight of hunting didn't leave a lot of time for hygiene. She shaves, careful, and washes everything, and with her hair in a knot of conditioner she cleans the telltale rime of blood from under her fucked-up nails and remembers the last demon laughing at her even with it coughing up the ruined salt-shredded lining of its throat and how it said Crowley was right about you, wasn't he? Pathetic bitch even can't give up second-rate dick. Didn't think it'd be this easy.
Sam's back when she's out. "Got Chinese," he says, through the half-open door, and she says thanks but sits on the edge of the tub, wrapped in the yellow towel, keeps working on her nails. Two of them tore while she was killing the demons outside where they'd chained Mark. She doesn't know why she ever tries to grow them out. One cracked, almost to the quick, when she was ripping Mark's arm away from Ben's throat when the demon had filled him, when it had smiled at her with bloody teeth and black eyes and said god, you're a dumb cunt. You think he isn't glad you're gone? He wishes he'd slammed the door in your face when you came crawling with the sob story about your dead bro. Well—maybe after a blowjob. Might as well get some use out of the slut.
In the room the television turns on, loud at first and then Sam curses and it's quieter. Evening news. Rain in the forecast, next week. Construction on I-90 starting soon. Deanna files her nails smooth, even repetitive scrapes of the emery board, and listens while the report turns somber, an unsolved murder a few towns over—a dead wife, a shocked and mourning husband—and the police have leads but no answers, and if anyone has any information, please call the tip line. Please help. She rubs her thumb over her middle fingernail, feels a burr that needs correcting, and applies the file there again and sees Mark gouting blood into the warehouse floor and Mark pushing her hair back from her face in their bed and Mark opening that door that night in May, when she'd truly felt like a cannon had been shot right through her center and all the organs were gone, and Mark lifting his chin, brave despite everything, when she said she had to go with her miraculously-returned brother, and how he knew, maybe, then. He wouldn't say it, not ever, but. She thinks maybe then.
She wants the file to be the demon knife, and she wants the black-eyed fuck that was in Mark on her personal table, strapped still, and she wants to make it slow, to make it hurt. Wants to skin it down to black flensed bone and pare open its fears and make herself one of them. Whether in the body of Mark or not, really. Wants to see its eyes blister wide and know the rot is in her too but it didn't matter because she was making it hurt the way she was hurt and it would mean she wasn't thinking about the ways she'd pulled this kind man down into her undertow. Just some dentist, with a kid she could look after, who'd opened his house for her not knowing the poison death that rippled in her wake. He'd known there were things wrong with her but not the extent. When she'd lost what really mattered, she followed orders like she always goddamn did and she went to his house and hadn't told the full truth of how her spine had been ripped out of her body and how she'd never really be the same—she'd said hi, and that she was sorry to interrupt dinner, and he'd taken her in his arms and he'd cupped his hand around the back of her head and it hadn't been right, his smell was wrong and his clothes were too nice and he wasn't tall enough. He was soft and he was careful and she didn't want either.
Sam's on the bed closer to the door, stripped down to grey t-shirt, grey boxer-briefs. White boxes with the pagoda logo on the table; he left her both fortune cookies. She ignores them and goes to her bag, finds the bottle of rye she hasn't quite killed—mostly uppers, last week, staying awake to extract information out of as many demons as she could—and necks a swallow, straight. It burns, and burns hotter on an empty stomach. In another mood she could get very, very drunk.
That first night she made Mark fuck her. He didn't want to but she knew how to make a man use her to her purpose. She'd ended up on her belly with his hand over her mouth so she wouldn't make noises Ben could hear, but he'd been gentle and he'd said, quiet against the back of her ear, I've got you, Deanna, and even if it was almost the shape of what was lost it wasn't enough, it wasn't nearly enough, but it was a bandage at least. She didn't expect to still be bleeding.
"Are you gonna eat," Sam says. Without much expectation.
He's got his eyes on the television, a line between straight brows. He was pissed at her earlier; now she doesn't know what he is. Normally that'd tear at her, especially after these months of fretting over the wall, but right now she just needs him—here. Whether he likes her is secondary.
Deanna kneels up quick on the bed, throws her thigh over both of Sam's. He startles, like he wasn't tracking how she moved. "Sloppy," she says, holding out the bottle.
He takes it but doesn't drink, that line still right there between his eyebrows. He's gonna get wrinkles before her, at this rate. "We've got to head to Bobby's in the morning," Sam says.
Like she's stupid. Well, maybe she is. Deanna folds her hand over the knot of towel anchored over her left tit and that place is still bleeding and she doesn't know any other way to stanch it, really. She puts on a smile. Not the five hundred dollar a night one but close. "That's in the morning," she says, and settles more comfortably in his lap, her thighs splaying wider and her hips canting forward. These shitty motel towels aren't that big and there's a shadowed split below that draws Sam's eyes straight down. Predictable. Even after this awful weird year. Could almost make her smile real. "C'mon."
Unfortunately Sam's more of a grown-up than he was when her best teasing wheedle could get him to do almost anything, when the mood was right. Though the mood now's not exactly—"Dee," Sam says, sighing, and that's—Sam when he's pretending like he's the older one, when he's pretending like he's the one with all the answers. Like they haven't both been blundering in the dark since they weren't tall enough to see over the steering wheel.
She steals the remote and turns off the TV. Then she takes the bottle back out of his hand and he watches her, still fucking frowning like she doesn't know he disapproves of everything she's ever chosen to be—but she takes a deep swallow, anyway, cocking the bottle high and watching him right back while she does it, and she fucks her lips off the bottle like it's a cockhead and she licks her lower lip like it was Dom and Sam might think he's better than this but his pupils go big and he tracks the flash of her tongue like it's a werewolf they're coursing through the woods and he's not that high-and-mighty, now, is he. Deanna leans forward, obvious, to set the bottle down on the bedside table, and she comes in close enough that her tits push against Sam's chest and his head's right over the curve of her shoulder—she can hear it when he takes a deep quick breath—and she takes her time sitting back up, smelling him, too. That end-of-the-day Sam smell that's the most comforting thing in the world. A little sweaty, a little gross. Blood and gunsmoke and this salty warm separate thing that goes straight to her hindbrain. Thousands of shared motel rooms, and in good times shared beds too, and it's what has always meant, to her, morning. When things were okay.
When she sits up straight she makes sure she's really close. Sam can probably see the clogged pores in her chin that she hasn't had time to straighten out. She lays her hands on his chest, drags them down to feel his ribs expand with his breath. "Been a minute," she says. Has the benefit of being true. They haven't since—shit, since before Sam proved Cas was lying to them? Weeks, at least. "C'mon, you aren't all blue-balled?"
"Blue balls aren't a thing," Sam says, and Deanna slips a hand down between them to where he's thick and obvious in the boxer-briefs and clutches warm over all that good and says, "Liar," and Sam finally, finally touches her. Grips her arms, hard.
Deanna wants it harder. She rolls her fingers under the heavy weight of his nuts and he squeezes her triceps, eyes tightening, but he doesn't move more than that. "God, you're a lot of work."
"Takes one," he says, and she huffs even if something's going hard and painful in the pit of her stomach. Why does it make her pussy clench, too.
She pushes up, between his legs into the thick muscle of his taint, and his chest heaves for that one, a deep steadying, warning. Her tongue flicks against her lower lip, not even intentionally—she notices only when she sees his eyes have gone to her mouth again. Her thumb slips over the thickening weight of his dick and she looks down, where it's heavy and starting to strain the thin grey fabric, and she says, not meaning to be honest, "It's been a shitty week." Makes Sam's hands go lighter on her arms. Not what she wants, not at all, and she swallows and is honest again when she says, "You six months ago would've already fucked me by now," and—
Huge hands on her waist, then, hard and gripping. "That what you want?" Sam says, deeper—that pissed-off tone she hardly ever surprises out of him, anymore—and Deanna says, "Don't ask me what I fucking want," and leans forward and mashes her mouth against his, demanding and with none of the skills she could've brought and actually a really shitty kiss, if they were trying to make this a good time, but that's not what's in the cards, tonight. Sam opens up and grabs the back of her head and fucks his tongue into her mouth and she gives as good as she's getting, biting his lip, getting her hands in his hair, pulling, demanding. Begging, but at least he's not making her do it out loud.
It works, finally. Sam tears the towel open, gets a hand on her left tit and squeezes. Hard and it hurts, fuck, but her hips squirm in, too, her pussy clenching again. Deanna fucks her tongue against his and then he pulls away, drops to her throat, biting. Breathing deep, scraping his teeth over the tendon. She raises up on her knees, makes it easier, but he just ducks his head and bites the top curve of her tit instead, right over the tattoo they share. When she hisses he smiles and then he goes slower, drags teeth against the stupidly-excited bullet point of her nipple, flicks his tongue there, makes her drag in shaky air like a nervous kid. The towel unspools away. For a minute he settles in, there, lipping and carefully lapping, first-boyfriend-sweet except that Deanna's had her little brother's cock blocking her airway until she actually honest-to-god blacked out and she knows that Sammy's sweet comes with all the salt she could ever want. She grips his shoulders and shivers and he squeezes her ass, bruise-tight and pulling the cheeks apart, and god, she wants him. Every part of him. She wasn't joking about the soulless self but even that, raw and furiously terrible as it turned out to be, it didn't come close. Closer than Mark had, but—
Mark's gone. That's the whole point. "Sammy," she says, panting already, and he pulls off her nipple and kisses the soft inside where he bit and the center of her breastbone and then drags his chin up that skin. He hasn't shaved in a few days and it scrapes, tingling. "Sam, come on."
"Don't tell me what to do," Sam says. For a second he really sounds like he had six months ago and she digs her fingers into his shoulders, clenching stupid fistfuls of his undershirt—but then he grabs her, shoves, and she goes over backwards on the bed, her head bouncing against the wrong end by the foot and her legs sprawling open. Undignified, unsexy, but Sam doesn't seem to care because he kneels up between her knees, drags his shirt off over the back of his head so his hair scatters messy and she can see him. Fuck, he's big. Bigger than her, obviously, has been ever since he turned sixteen and shot up ten inexplicable inches, and then a few more at college just for fun—but bigger than anyone else, too, bigger than all those other inadequate assholes who'd never managed to be enough. She drags her heels up on the bed and cups a hand over her pussy and Sam says, "Yeah," and she grabs the tit he'd marked up and squeezes it and he says, "Yeah," again, lower. His dick really pushing out the front of his briefs now, massive and caught in this sideways angle over his hip, distending the fabric enough that the waistband's pulled down and she can see the start of his bush. He always used to keep it tidier, before this year. The difference is making her mouth water.
"What'd you do?" Sam says. Hard, like he's asking if she made another trip down to the crossroads. Deanna shakes her head, doesn't get it. Rolls her fingers over the mound and dips between her lips—jesus, she's wet. Syrup she slicks through, testing. Sam grips the inside of her right thigh and presses it flat down to the mattress so she's tipped open to the lamplight and blood flushes through her whole body, feels like, even after all these years. "Tell me. What'd you do with him?"
Nothing that mattered is the answer but that's cruel and Sam isn't—since he's reassembled he isn't—"Jealous?" she says, thinly, this queasy weird thing dumping down from the top of her spine. She's not a bit less hot for him and that's something maybe to look at another day, or week, or never. She scrubs over her pussy lips all fat with blood and then pushes in two fingers, knuckle-deep all at once, distracting herself and him, hopefully. Sam's eyes are black, practically. Another too-hot thing. She gulps air, curls her fingers, says, "Don't we have something better to do?"
Sam gets closer, leans over her. His hand hurts on her inner thigh and she flexes and he doesn't give an inch. "Like you ever spared me a detail," he says, dry. His eyes skip from her crotch to her tit to her face. He teases soft at the underside of her other breast, tracing the way it tips out to the side, electricity coursing straight from there to her cunt. She clenches around her own fingers, shudders. "Not allowed to remember. Tell me."
Deanna blinks, lips dry. Oh—not Mark, not that tender stupid pointless year, but he means—when his hands were harder and his eyes flat as a snake's and even so she'd been so sore and dumb and helpless with wanting him that she'd bent over, gone to her knees, really had begged, shock-drunk at how much she'd missed everything that being Sam's sister had meant. When finding out the truth had hurt ten times as much as leaving Mark in that hospital room had. He draws a ticklish little circle around her nipple and she abandons her other tit, pushes up on her elbow, rolls her hips on the bed. Sam's eyes on her mouth, now. "No," she says.
His jaw goes hard. "Fine," he says, and jerks her fingers out of her cunt and flips her onto her belly, fast enough that she bounces again. He grabs her hips and yanks her bodily back onto her knees, her ass shoving up into the cradle of his hips and feeling, oh fuck yeah, feeling the fat curve of his cock pressing against her, ready.
Deanna rocks back against him, on her elbows on the slick comforter, helps him grind where he's wanted. "Get your fingers back in," Sam says, and she gives up stability to do it, reaching between her thighs and the angle's worse but she hooks in, pulls, her palm grinding against her clit, and Sam groans finally. He pulls her ass open again, getting a better view. She pulls out, rubs her fingers around, clenches empty and pushes her fingers back in with an actual squelch, and Sam spanks her ass, sharp, grabs the spot he hit and squeezes hard enough that it aches.
There's nothing in the world she wants more than his dick. Peace between earth heaven and hell and monsters gone and the beloved dead risen—none of it matters more than this. She pushes her gasping mouth against her bicep and forces her eyes open, sees the room blurred. Whiskey bottle on the bedside table, yellow lamplight casting a murky amber curve on the water-damaged veneer. The yellow curtains with their gross stains. The other bed, and why'd they even bother with it. Why aren't they tangled like this all day, all the time.
"Tell me," Sam says, low. He leans down over her, kisses her shoulders, holding her hips again. His dick rolls against her ass and she could almost come, like this. "Say it."
Like it's a challenge. "Please," Deanna says, immediately. "Sammy, c'mon. Please."
"Dee," he groans, and his hand slides around her hip, covers where she's masturbating for real, now, fucking her fingers inside and squeezing, needing him. Her fingers so wet. Blood spilling, thick and viscous, coating her to the wrists.
Her eyes screw shut and she yanks her hand away, reaches back, grabs him where she can. "Fuck me," she says, forehead against the bed, chest down against the blanket, a world of muffled dark—"Please, Sammy, I need—can you fuck me, please, I need it, I need—"
His hand snakes over her mouth, huge, covering half her face. She puffs air through her nose and it makes this stupid whimpering sound and she's down in the pit, now, she's gone, she's ready to cry for it if she has to but he just needs to—
Snap of elastic, warm skin against her ass finally instead of cotton. She struggles to spread her knees wider, slip-sliding on the polyester, but Sam doesn't need her help and never has. Thick push of the heavy pole between her thighs, a heavy teasing saw through her pussy lips and up against her clit, so good her back lurches and she grabs back at his hip, finding a twist of pushed-down fabric, pulling stupidly and desperate—but then, thank god, he pulls back, and pushes, in.
A frozen second in the black world. There's always this moment every time where she's split wide, this shock. How big he is. Even when she's this hot for it. A shock, queasy, and she remembers being on her belly on a table in a world of hot iron shadow and the line stretching, she was promised, all the way up to heaven—her eyes open against the blanket, seeing nothing at all—and then Sam breathes out hard against her shoulder and he gets her hand off his hip and presses her wrist down to the blanket and he says, "Like that," soft, and she's with her brother where she belongs, doing exactly what she's meant to, and the sound she lets out would wake half the motel if it weren't muffled behind his hand.
He fucks her hard. Always does, when they get like this. Churning his hips at first, testing rocks, but he doesn't need to go easy with her and she doesn't want him to. Deanna yanks at her wrist and he holds it harder, and she gasps and then bites against his palm and he grips her face hard enough to bruise, and then slides his hand down her throat, holding her in this underhand grip across her chest that keeps her exactly where she's wanted. She fights just long enough to prove she can't win. Then he nails her hard enough that he knocks her cervix, painful and sharp and knifing its way through her belly, and she half-screams into the mattress and then relaxes, all at once, her muscles jelly in the cage he's made of his body, her thighs giving up.
"God, yeah," Sam says, fervent. He lets go of her wrist—she leaves her hand there, loose and shocked—and shoves her legs together, resettling with his knees on the outside of hers, and when he grinds back in it's tighter, wilder. His dick thick as a country. Her other arm's trapped between her belly and the mattress and she manages enough control to slip down just enough to press light against the top of her mound, the close-trimmed hair prickling, sweat slicking everywhere, what thought arrives from some distant place that isn't occupied with the pounding rhythm inside and his chest broad and hot over her back and his balls clapping against her thighs, god—thinking, she should be able to feel it there, too. Like in dreams. His dick curving up inside and through and pushing places it should never go, but if it carved out a space just for itself, maybe it wouldn't leave. Maybe they'd be locked together. Maybe he'd stay.
She clenches, her ass tipping up. This curving heat. "That's it," Sam says, while she gasps. "You want more?" Deanna nods blind and Sam grunts, nails her harder but no faster, rhythm shoving slick into the pit of her. Somehow above her he tips, his chest flat against her back and his free hand finding one tit, gripping. Hair prickling against her shoulderblades. Her throat hurts and she realizes she's making some kind of noise but that's distant to what's happening inside, winding this tighter knot, but she can't—she's not quite—until Sam's hand clamped over her collarbones slides up, squeezes, and the dark world goes hazier, stranger. She hauls in thin air and he grips around the column over her throat and everything's strange shimmering dizziness, collapsing around her until it's just the jolt inside and the clench as he shoves everything into her and his lips open wet against the back of her neck and her body, his.
Stubble against her shoulder. A kiss on the round joint, and then on the curve of her neck. Sweat's broken out over every inch of skin and it kind of stinks. Not in a bad way. She takes a careful breath and feels it open her chest and around her throat Sam's hand is careful, soft. His thumb stroking repetitive little stripes over her slowing pulse. Deanna hums, tickling his palm, and he huffs out against her skin and lets go, cautious, sliding his fingers down her chest, her side. Her hip, which hurts for some reason. Probably something to do with asking for it to hurt.
Another kiss against her neck and then he's turning her over, keeping her close and laying right back down over her and kissing her throat and her jaw and then her temple, where—oh, it's wet, and she reaches up and grasps his arms and he says shh and he says okay? and the answer is yes, of course it's okay, because it's Sam and her and Sam and her is all that's ever okay. In the whole world it's the only thing she knows is true. She turns her head and he pushes the damp waves back from her face and puts his forehead to the angle of her jaw and breathes out this long slow breath, tickly hot against her sweaty throat, and she plumbs some immensely deep well and manages to get the wherewithal to slip a hand into his hair, fingers tracing the funny bump at the back of his skull, the one he's had ever since he was a baby. She used to feel over it when she snuck into his crib, after the fire. In beds they shared when they were six and ten, and he was so small, and she thought she'd have to keep him safe from every monstrous thing there ever was.
When he lifts up she opens her eyes. Frowning, again. No surprise. "Your face is gonna stick that way," Deanna mumbles. Hoarse.
He's watching her, very close. "I'll take my chances," he says. His hand slides over her side, careful. His mouth opens and then closes, lips tightening.
"I don't wanna talk." His chin ducks but she tugs on the little tangle of hair she's made and he looks up at her. "Don't ask, okay? I can't…"
What goes there? Number of things she can't do could fill a book. A library. Sam doesn't say anything but just pulls her in, rolls her closer, and she tucks her head down against his bicep and her nose touches his chest and she's just—warm, all the way from the top of her head to her toes, and she's throbbing so many places it's not worth counting, and there's this fuzzy place in her hindbrain that doesn't suck. Miracle of miracles. She slips a hand between her thighs and cups where it's wet, where it hurts. Slick mess. The one thing she never got, all that year. Always careful, because even if it was a point-oh-one percent chance the ramifications would've been impossible. They're impossible anyway. But there's still a second, sometimes, where she thinks…
"I'll get—" Sam starts, but before he can get far she grips his arm.
"It can wait." He pauses, uncertain, half-tense until she pulls and he gives in, draping his arm heavy over her side and letting his dumb pointy nose touch her hairline. She ducks down and kisses his tattoo and he sighs, but not in that hard-done-by way of before. Not much to smile about the last month or five but that gets her nearly there.
Deanna stretches against him, aching. The world outside the bed, still waiting. Past their vague reek of sweat and pussy and jizz commingling is a tempting waft of Chinese food. Soy and garlic. A drink or two, left in that bottle. In the morning, a drive, and impossible choices after.
Sam kisses the top of her head. "It'll wait," he says, soft. With her eyes closed and his skin against hers she can almost bear it.
