b e g g a r s . w o u l d . r i d e

Beggars Would Ride
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: He tells himself that the line he's crossing can be redrawn, slightly over the edge into fucked up, and isn't that where they've been living anyway since Mom died?

Spoilers: None

Notes: AU. Sam is and always has been a girl.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for enabling and brainstorming and handholding and betaing and everything else, far above and beyond the call of duty. I'd blame her for this, but I'm pretty sure it's mostly my fault (only mostly though). Thanks also to mousapelli, for taking on the monster and coming up victorious, to amberlynne, who put up with a lot of wibbling while I wrote, to Signe and Minim Calibre for giving it a good looking over, and to Fleur and Gail for previewing and encouraging.

Word count: 46,050

Date begun: November 18, 2006
Date posted: February 28, 2007

The glass of the windshield is warm against Dean's back, holding the heat from the day, and the May air is humid against his skin. He crosses his ankles carefully, making sure not to scuff his heels against the paint, and links his hands behind his head, getting comfortable.

Sam lies next to him, filmy white skirt tangled up around her thighs, long legs bare in the moonlight, feet flexing and pointing in time with whatever crappy pop song she's humming softly, like she's dancing even when she's flat on her back. She doesn't wear skirts often, and it makes seeing her legs now kind of weird, because he feels like maybe he shouldn't--it's more intimate somehow, which is stupid, because he's seen her in less more times than he can count. He looks up instead, so he doesn't have to think about it.

"Shooting star," he says, pointing. He doesn't believe in wishes, but sometimes he wishes he did, wishes he could give her whatever it is she wants and can't seem to find. Irony, he thinks, is a bitch.

"Ah," she breathes, eyes fluttering closed.

He shifts onto his side to look down at her--she's smiling so it lights up her face, dimples and all.

She opens her eyes and squirms a little, and he knows he's making her self-conscious. He remembers sixteen being full of the discomfort of people suddenly watching you when they'd never noticed you before. And knowing what he knows about teenage boys, it's got to be worse for girls.

"What?"

"What'd you wish for?" He doesn't know why he bothers to ask, braces himself for the litany of Why can't we be normal? and I hate hunting and every other complaint she's made since she was old enough to realize that their family's not like everyone else's.

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Can't tell."

"Come on, Sammy, you can tell me."

"Telling's against the rules," she says, shaking her head, as if she doesn't break the rules when it suits her. Or maybe it's just Dad's rules she doesn't worry about breaking, because she knows he'll always cover for her. "The wish won't come true if I tell."

It won't come true anyway, he almost says, but stops himself. She's old enough to know that, and stubborn enough not to care. Instead, he says, "Yeah, but telling me is just like telling yourself, right? You and me, we're two of a kind. No rules against that."

He can see her thinking about it, brow furrowed and mouth turned down, and then she says, "I'm sixteen and I've never been kissed."

He stares at her for a long moment, fiercely glad on the one hand, because she's too good for the grubby boys she goes to school with--and he knows what those boys want and what they'll do to get it--but shocked on the other, because she's Sam, and how can they not see how beautiful she is, how she shines like a light in the darkness?

She takes his silence and surprise the wrong way, words tumbling nervously out of her mouth. "We move around so much, I never get a chance to get to know anybody well enough--"

He doesn't even think about it, which is where his problems usually start. He just knows he's good at this, and he can teach her, make sure she knows what she's doing, make sure she learns to do it right. It's what he does, after all. He's taught her all the necessary things over the years, like how to read, how to pick a lock, how to bring down a werewolf from thirty yards away with one shot. Kissing really isn't any different--damn useful skill to have, really. And obviously, all the boys she knows are morons and can't be trusted with something this important.

And he hates to see that anxious look on her face, like she's done something wrong and isn't quite sure what it is or how to fix it, and he does whatever he can, whenever he can, to make sure she never feels that way at all.

So, he leans in and presses his lips to hers, which are warm and slightly parted. He doesn't do anything else at first, just breathes in her startled gasp, her sudden smile. She doesn't push him away, so he sucks gently at her lips, teasing them open, and she lets him in. He puts a hand on her cheek, can feel her trembling slightly as he licks into her mouth, sucks lightly at her tongue, which still tastes of chocolate from the Hostess cupcakes they had for dessert.

She reaches up, slides her fingers through his hair, holds him to her as she gets the idea, kissing him back with an eagerness that should surprise him, but doesn't.

He eases away, the voice in the back of his head that sounds remarkably like Dad yelling at him to protect his sister, that what he's doing now is wrong, but she cups his face and pulls him back down to kiss her again, and this time, she knows what she's doing. She's always been a fast learner, when she's interested in what he's got to teach. He nips at her lower lip and she makes a desperate little sound in the back of her throat, which sends a jolt of heat through him, changing this from an odd but pleasant experience into something more intense, something he wants.

She presses up against him and he can feel her heart beating like the wings of a caged bird trying to break free; his heart is doing the same. He kisses her back, tongue moving roughly over hers, learning the taste and texture of her mouth, because he's never been able to lie to her, never been able to say no, and now he wants it as much as she does, wants it in a way he's never wanted anything in his life.

He slides his mouth away from hers to kiss along her jaw, then down her throat as she tips her head back, dipping his tongue into the hollow between her collarbones, tasting sweat and soap and soft girl-skin, adding to his store of knowledge. He's the world's foremost expert on Sam Winchester, or so he'd thought until this moment, which is teaching him all sorts of new things about her, like the low moan she makes when he sucks on the spot just below her ear, and the supple, satiny feel of her skin beneath his fingers.

It's warm and soft and a little sloppy, and it's the most perfect thing ever, because it's him and Sam, and they go together like the twin barrels of his old shotgun. But when he runs his hand under her skirt and up her thigh, feeling the soft skin and the light down of hair she hasn't bothered to shave, hears her gasp at the touch, he realizes he has to stop, because it's him and Sam, and they're acting like something out of Flowers in the Attic.

"Sam," he says, his mouth against her ear, her name nothing more than a breath, because he's barely breathing, and he can't make himself move away just yet.

"It's okay." It's supposed to be reassurance but it sounds like a plea, and it burns.

"It's really not." His voice is low and rough. He swings his legs down, leans against the car with his back to her, trying to catch his breath.

"Dean, please. I wanted to." Her hands are on his shoulders, warm and strong, the nails trimmed neatly and painted bright blue. He can feel the humid warmth of her breath on the nape of his neck, ragged like she's just been out running, but he doesn't turn around. She huffs in exasperation. "You don't have to be such a girl about it," she says after the silence has started to make him itchy, and he's grateful for it, because a few more seconds of her quiet reproach, and he'd have had her spread out on the hood beneath him, and he needs to not think about that ever again. "It was just a kiss."

But they both know that's a lie, and the words sink like stones between them, ready to drag them under. He's almost willing to drown, and that scares him the most.

She sighs again and pulls away. He can hear her slide down off the hood and head back into the house.

Dean misses the weight of her hands on his shoulders, and the feel of her tongue in his mouth.

She sulks for three days, fighting with Dad over every little thing and treating Dean to sullen silence. She's vicious when they spar, but smart about it, so he can't really complain, and he can only shrug and make a crude joke about PMS when Dad asks him what her problem is.

But when Sunday rolls around, and Dad takes them out to Waffle House for breakfast, she's all sunshine and smiles again, and Dean breathes easier. He tells himself she was right, it was just a kiss, and he lets himself believe the lie. It's easier than facing the truth.

She doesn't let him off the hook that easily, though. They've always been touchy, relying on physical contact more than words to show how they feel, but now she's sly about it, and pointed, pressing her breasts to his back when she reads the paper over his shoulder, her mouth too close to his ear and her hands lingering a little too long on his chest or hip to be innocent.

He knows he should ignore it, ignore her, but that's the one thing he can't ever do. And maybe there's something wrong with him, because it's not only that he can't ignore her, it's that he doesn't want to, even though he knows he should, knows the feel of her skin under his fingers or the memory of her tongue in his mouth shouldn't make him hard, but it does, and she knows it, too, and won't leave him alone.

Lucky for him, Dad announces they're moving soon, and Sam transfers all her attention to making him miserable, and stops playing games with Dean that neither of them can win.

They pull out of Ashland early in the morning, two days after the end of the school year, and head east. Dean dozes in the passenger seat for a while, his crankiness at being relegated back to passenger status in his own car soothed by the silence now that Sam's shouting about having to leave has settled into a quiet pout.

When he wakes a couple hours later, she's curled up in the backseat, nose buried in a book, frown of concentration on her face.

He looks out the window, and when he finally spots what he's looking for in the light traffic pacing them on the highway, he reaches back and slaps her on the leg. "Punch buggy, black," he says, before she can complain. "No punch backs."

She curls her lip at him in the sneer he taught her that time he'd been obsessed with Elvis. "What are you, seven?"

"Passes the time, Samantha." He twists to look at her. "What are you reading?" She holds up the book so he can see the cover. "Flu: The Story of the Great Influenza Pandemic of 1918 and the Search for the Virus That Caused It. Well, that's cheerful."

"Bite me."

He sighs, rubs his forehead, and tries again. "So, what's so interesting about the flu?"

"It's not so much the flu in general as this strain of flu in particular," she says, leaning forward, open book pressed to her chest, over her heart. "It killed between twenty-five and one hundred million people--nobody knows for sure." Dean lets out a long, low whistle, and Sam smiles, getting her geek on, sulk forgotten for the moment. "It was especially deadly to the young and strong, which isn't usually how the flu works; so many soldiers and sailors died, people thought it was germ warfare, that the Germans had concocted the virus to win World War I. But they were probably just worn down from the fighting, and vulnerable.

"Nowadays, scientists think maybe it was a bird flu that migrated to humans." She chatters on for a bit, talking about genetic sequencing and epidemiology, and Dean holds his breath, hoping Dad doesn't say anything about how she should be putting her big brain to work researching ways to improve their hunting techniques, instead of wasting time on a disease from a hundred years ago.

For once, Dad stays quiet. Dean glances over, and he's wearing this proud look Sammy should get to see, but won't, because this has nothing to do with hunting. So Dean turns to her again and smiles, because if Dad can't give it to her, he will.

"That's pretty cool, Sammy."

Her mouth quirks again, this time in a half-smile. "Yeah."

He turns to face forward, pleased with himself.

After that, she starts quoting random statistics at them, her voice soft and interested, in counterpoint to the world-weary tones of Johnny Cash playing on the tape deck, and Dean listens, even after he's pulled out the latest issue of Popular Mechanics and is trying to read about advances in jet propulsion.

And then, she whacks him on the back of the head.

"Hey!"

"Punch buggy, green. No punch backs."

Dad glances over at him, mouth curving in a rare grin. "She's got you there, son."

Dean laughs. "I guess she does."

Dean shifts in the chair, trying to ease the crick in his neck. Dad had sounded genuinely regretful when he explained that there was only one room left at the motel, and Sammy had sunk back into the sulk she was treating them to for having to move again, but it was easy for them. They each got to sleep in a bed, even if it was a creaky, saggy motel room bed. The clerk had manfully refrained from laughing when Dean asked about a rollaway, which Dean figures is about the response he deserves for thinking a place like this would even have one.

The rattle and buzz of Dad's snoring is making him crazy after months of actually having his own room, and he's trying really hard not to listen to the slide of Sam's legs underneath the sheets as she tosses and turns, trying not to remember the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. In the weeks since he kissed her, he's stopped thinking about it whenever he has a free second to think, but now they're all living in the same room again, and it's hard not to, when she's walking around in nearly nothing all the time, skin tanned golden from spending all day in the sun when they're not driving from one place to the next.

It's too goddamn hot in the room, with the windows painted shut and the ancient air conditioning unit chugging asthmatically in the corner. He gathers up the sheet he'd kicked off earlier and levers himself out of the chair in frustration, shoving his feet into his boots. He grabs the extra pillow from the floor where it landed when he'd tried to find a comfortable sleeping position, and opens the door.

Dad stirs, murmurs, "Dean?"

"Going out to the car," he answers softly, and with a grunt Dean takes for permission, Dad's snoring away again.

Dean stomps out to the car and flings himself into the backseat, the leather so cool and good against his bare legs and chest after the itchy, warm brocade of the chair. He cranks open the windows to let the light summer breeze in, and settles down, breathing easily for the first time all night.

He's drifting over the line into sleep, the cool familiarity of the car lulling him like nothing else can, when the door to the room opens with a creak, waking him. He looks up to see Sammy scrambling across the gravel, barefoot.

She pokes her head through the open window. "You couldn't sleep either?"

"Insomniac little brat," he mutters in response.

"Hey!" She opens the door, crawls onto the seat and stretches out beside him, wriggling under the sheet and fitting herself into what little space is left.

This, he thinks, even as he automatically wraps his arms around her to keep her from falling, is a really bad idea.

She's wearing a tank top and a pair of his old boxers, and as they fit themselves together, shifting so he's on his back and she's lying on top of him, he can feel the rough brush of stubble against his shins and the soft curves of her breasts against his chest. The chubby twelve-year-old is gone, replaced by a young woman with a sleek, toned body that fits against his perfectly. He can't decide if it's the best thing or the worst thing ever that he didn't stop to pull on a t-shirt before he came out to the car.

"Sammy?"

"It's okay," she murmurs, and brushes a hand through his hair, the way he does to hers when she has nightmares. She shimmies again, trying to get comfortable, and he sucks in a deep breath, willing his body not to respond, and failing. "It's okay. I want to." She leans in, and he can feel her breath--sleep-stale but still edged with the scent of toothpaste--on his chin before she takes his lower lip between hers and sucks on it, sending a shock of pleasure right to his dick.

There are things he knows he should say--we shouldn't or stop or no--but she steals the words from his mouth with her tongue, and the only one he has left when she pulls back is, "Sam."

She smiles at him, eyes and teeth shining dark in the moonlight, and whispers, "Dean," before kissing him again, deep and slow and sleepy, like they have all the time in the world and nothing better to do than make out in the backseat of the car.

He didn't teach her this, but she hasn't been out of his sight long enough to learn it anywhere else since summer started and they've been on the road. Maybe it's just some secret Sam-thing she knows, like the way she knows how to get under his skin with her endless questions about everything, and the way she knows how to get him to do what she wants by giving him that lost puppy-dog look. And it's just like her to make a choice and throw herself into it completely, determined to have her way and refusing to bend until she gets it.

He can't really think too much about it with her tongue in his mouth, sliding slick-rough against his, soft and warm as velvet. He wraps one hand around the nape of her neck, fingers trailing up into the tangled curls there, making her shiver. He slips his other hand under her worn cotton tank top to trace circles on the smooth skin of her back, and the light, strong bones of her spine.

It's been a while since he's done this with anyone, making out for the fun of it instead of in a frantic rush to get laid, and in the wet heat of their kisses, he nearly forgets why they shouldn't be doing it. The only thing he can think is Sam, Sam, Sam, each staccato beat of his heart echoing with the sound of her name.

She rubs against him like a cat, hands stroking over his chest and shoulders, making him shiver with need, then brushing through his hair, feather-light on his face, learning him the way he already knows her, strengths and weaknesses, needs and wants.

He smiles at the way she gasps, "God, Dean," when he finally touches her breasts, thumbing the hard little nipples as she arches into his hands. He drags her up his body so he can take them into his mouth, one at a time, sucking hard enough through the soft, thin cotton that tastes of Sam-sweat and Tide to make her moan. He slides a hand down her back to grab her ass as she rocks against his hard-on, and she freezes, as if she's just realized what she's doing.

"Dean?" Her voice is hoarse and slightly shaky, and she says his name the way she used to, like he can make everything better, make the monsters in the closet go away.

"Sammy," he says, trying to get his breathing under control, suddenly aware that not only is she his sister, she's a sixteen-year-old girl whose only sexual experience has been with her brother, and this is even more fucked up than anything they've ever done, and given some of the shit they've done, that's saying something. He swallows hard, brushes her hair out of her eyes. "Go back to bed, Sammy." She opens her mouth to protest, and he says, "Dad can't find us like this."

She's smart enough to know he's right, but she leans in to kiss him one last time before she goes, tongue thrusting into his mouth quick and hard like a promise.

After he hears the deadbolt slide home behind her, he slips a hand into his boxer-briefs and wraps it around his cock. He tries to remember the last girl he fucked, tries to imagine Playboy's Miss July, but when he comes, all he's thinking of is Sam.

Dad, he thinks, is going to kill him. And Dean won't do a thing to stop him.

When Dean comes into the room in the morning, Sam's sitting in front of the television, shoveling Cheerios into her mouth. She watches him, eyes wide and wary, and he sucks in a startled breath when he sees the hickey he left on her throat. Stupid, stupid, amateur mistake, he thinks.

Dad looks up from his journal and says, "You look like you got bit, too, Dean."

Dean nearly chokes, but he manages to keep his cool, turn it into a cough. "Mosquitoes were a bitch last night," he says when he's able to speak again.

"I wouldn't be surprised if this place has bedbugs," Sam says. "Maybe I should spend tonight in the car with Dean."

Dean glares at her, but she's still looking at Dad, challenge in her eyes.

"Or maybe you should spend the day helping Dean do laundry," Dad answers. "You can strip the beds and wash the sheets if it's bothering you that much."

"Maybe if we went back to the bug-free house in Ashland--"

"School's out and we have responsibilities."

"Maybe you do, but I don't see why Dean and I have to come along." She thins her lips and raises her chin in defiance.

"Don't start," Dean interrupts. He can feel the headache beginning just behind his left eye. "Just...don't, okay? Not today." He grabs clean underwear out of his duffel bag, stalks to the bathroom, and slams the door shut behind him. He listens for a moment, but they seem to have settled down--the only thing he hears is the drone of the weatherman's voice predicting ninety-five and humid again, and thunderstorms at night.

Dean drops Sam at the laundromat and heads to the nearest coffee shop, looking for coffee and some information on the rash of mysterious deaths plaguing visitors to the town.

When he comes back, she's sitting on one of the empty dryers, long, bare legs dangling down the front, one flip-flop on the floor, the other hanging precariously from her brightly-painted toes, on its way to joining its mate. She's leaning back on her palms, and the straps of her tank top are slipping down her shoulders, revealing strips of pale skin untouched by the sun. She's not wearing a bra--says she doesn't need to, but he's starting to think she's wrong. She looks like seven different kinds of sin all rolled up into one tanned, toned package, and he's never been good at resisting temptation.

She lights up like an EMF meter in a haunted house when she sees him, makes him feel like a hero. Sometimes, he feels like she's the only right thing he's ever done in his life, and he's so close to fucking it up completely, if he hasn't already, that he almost turns around and walks out.

He thinks about it sometimes--not very often, but occasionally, and more now than when Sammy was younger and needed him like breathing--when she and Dad start yelling at each other and her voice scrapes like nails on a chalkboard against his ears, all the words she uses worse than curses (hate this and normal and why? why? why? all the time, like she's still four, and doesn't like the answers they give her), he thinks about walking down to the train station, buying a ticket to anywhere, and starting over again, without a backwards glance. But he knows he'll never do it, not when she looks at him like this, like he's Batman and Santa Claus all rolled into one.

He holds out the iced mochaccino she didn't ask for but he knows she wants, but she doesn't jump off the dryer like he expects; instead, she raises one hand and crooks her fingers at him. She's got another think coming if she thinks he'll go for that. He drops into one of the bright yellow, molded-plastic seats opposite the machine she's sitting on, leans back, one arm draped along the seatbacks, and smirks.

She cocks her head, considering, and then slides down off the dryer. He supposes she means to be smooth, but there's an awkward coltishness to her, and she stumbles a little over the discarded flip-flop. She reminds him of Bambi, learning to walk on the ice, spindly legs flying out in all directions, but just for a second. She's got training and reflexes, and she's getting used to the new shape of her body; when she does learn to control it (and the day's not far off; he can tell), she'll be deadly, in more ways than one.

She takes the plastic cup from him, wraps her full, pink lips around the straw and sucks, hollowing out her cheeks, holding his gaze, mischief in her eyes. The guy behind the counter, who's been pretending he's not staring at her for as long as Dean's been there, gives her a lingering once-over, and Dean wants to knock the guy's teeth down his throat.

"Cut it out, Lolita," he says, elbowing her, and when she laughs, loud, open-mouthed, and genuine, he says, "It's not that funny."

"I'm not twelve," she answers. "And you're not--"

"Responsible? Your brother? What? What can you possibly say--"

"I love you." She says it like she's said it to him every day of her life, and she has, but almost never in words. It's not something they say, avoiding the words because saying them is like painting a target on their backs; they are more aware of the power of words to invoke, to hurt, to soothe, and those words are powerful magic they're too superstitious to call on overtly. It hits him now like a punch to the gut. He thinks vaguely that he should be proud--he's the one who taught her to fight dirty, to take every advantage, and to always hit the enemy's weak spots hardest, and it's clear she's taken his lessons to heart.

"Fuck you." He gets up, shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn't grab her and shake her and make her take it back.

She stares up at him for a long moment, then looks down at her hands, and he hates that he can't tell which way she's going to jump. Time was, he'd have known exactly what she was thinking from the set of her lips, the curve of her spine, but that seems to have disappeared the day she got her first period, sprouted breasts when he wasn't paying attention. The breasts don't look like much, small and high and bound flat when they're hunting, but now he knows the weight of them in his hands, the sounds she makes when he touches them, and it's a whole different language from the one they used to speak. He turns away, hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails digging into his palms as if he can dig the memory out of his skin.

A washing machine buzzes, and she starts unloading the washer and loading the dryer, her arm brushing against his, warm and familiar, the Sammy he knows, not the stranger she's becoming.

"What'd you find out?"

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and tells her.

The summer rolls by in a series of dusty towns and miles of highway, white lines and black asphalt scrolling like an endless set of veins across the body of the world: redcaps in Lexington, a nest of pixies in Fayetteville, a cranky old ghost in Buckhannon.

They eat breakfast in roadside diners, Dad and Sam doing the crossword together--in Latin, sometimes, or with runes, to make it more interesting--while Dean reads the sports pages to keep up with the Cubs, their futile quest for a championship inspiring loyalty the way winning teams never have with him. Sometimes, he imagines going to Wrigley, or Fenway, seeing if there really is a curse keeping the Cubs or Sox from winning, and if there is, trying to break it.

Dad buys a hibachi, sets it up in the parking lot of whatever motel they're staying at, and grills dinner for the three of them each night. Sometimes they sit out under the stars and listen to a ballgame on the radio, or play cards until it's too dark to see, Sam sneaking sips of beer from Dean's bottle while he and Dad pretend not to notice.

It's as close to normal as they get, and Dean thinks he would be happy living this way for the rest of his life.

There are long days of training, honing Sam into a stronger fighter now that she's done growing. Their sparring is edged with tension that sends Dean out at night, looking for a fight or a fuck, and not too picky about which he finds, just so long as he doesn't have to go back to the motel and see the invitation in her eyes, and the hurt when he turns it down and climbs into his own bed.

"I think we should give her some privacy," he says one afternoon while she sleeps in the backseat, loose-limbed and sprawling, pillow clutched in her arms like the teddy bear she lost somewhere in South Dakota when she was ten, and she spent the week after crawling into Dean's bed to use him as a replacement. Their boundaries have always been fluid--he can count on one hand the times she's locked him out of a room--and maybe that's the problem. The look Dad gives him makes him say, "I can stay with you. I don't need my own room. I just think--"

"She doesn't sleep well when you're not around."

He nods, forcing himself not to feel guilty about being out all night the last few nights, with pretty college girls slumming it on their summer vacations, and the big-breasted bottle-blonde from the local coffee shop.

"I get that, I do. But she's going to have to learn sometime." He shifts, unused to arguing with his father and unsure of how to approach what he wants to say. "People notice. She's not a little kid anymore, Dad, and, well, people notice."

Dad nods once, his mouth tight. "People are always willing to think the worst, Dean. But right now it's safer for her if you're there. She's strong, she's well-trained, but she's always going to be," he doesn't say, younger, your responsibility, Sammy, but he doesn't need to, "vulnerable in ways you're not. When we settle in the fall, she can have her own room again."

Dean's not sure he can hold out that long, but he says, "Yes, sir," because he knows the conversation is over.

Another town, another haunting, another salt and burn, lather, rinse, repeat. Dean's only way of keeping track these days is the length of time between Sam's awkward attempts at seduction, which are harder and harder to dodge, and her sulks afterward, when she's unsuccessful.

Dad doesn't notice much difference--she still complains when he makes her help dig graves, though she never learned from either him or Dean that women aren't capable of everything men are (and more, but Dad will never know about the supplementary sex talk Dean gave her when she was thirteen and too embarrassed to ask Dad)--but Dean could fill volumes on the vast varieties of Sam's sulks, and this one is directed at him, and is sort of a cross between, I'm not a kid anymore, and who needs you anyway? It makes his head hurt when they're together for too long, and lately, it seems like they're always together, but never in the way they really want to be.

He wishes Dad would settle on a new car, so he could ride alone in the Impala sometimes, Zeppelin cranked up loud and the wind in his hair, instead of riding shotgun in his own car because Dad's picky, and the last truck he had got mauled by a pissed off spirit bear up in Vancouver. He doesn't say anything, though. It's not his place.

Sam unbends a little when Dad starts up this annoying variation on the memory game they play sometimes; it was originally designed to teach her and Dean the names (in both English and Latin) and functions of the herbs and spices they use in hunting. It works better than flashcards and is a break from license plate bingo and punch buggy, but Dean stopped finding it fun when he was nine. He doesn't understand how they can spend so much time rattling off lists of obscure herb combinations, trying to stump each other--he'd never thought Dad was a geek, but Sammy must get it from somewhere--but at least when they do it, they're not fighting. Dad looks downright smug the first time Sam actually wins, turns to Dean and says, "Your sister is one smart cookie," while Sam preens in the backseat like she's just won the lottery. Listening to them play that stupid game is almost worth it, just to see them both smiling at the same time.

"Come on, Dean! Race you!" have been Sam's favorite words since she could walk and talk, and that's one thing that hasn't changed with the onset of puberty and teenage rebellion. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, flushed from the heat, hair out of her face for once, held back with an old red bandana.

He scrubs a hand through his sweaty hair and grins. "You think you can take me?"

Her answering grin is just as cocky. "I know I can."

"Goal post to goal post," he says, pointing down the field. "Loser has to clean the winner's weapons."

"You're on." They finish stretching (he's not watching the way she bends and twists, though he can feel her watching him, skin prickling under her regard), and then she says, "Ready, set, go," and takes off, arms and legs pumping.

She's tall for a girl, with long legs that eat up the ground when she runs, and she loves it, the one part of training Dad almost never has to order her to do. She's begged to run track at every high school she lands at, but so far, Dad's said no every time. Dean thinks he might have to take her side next time she asks, convince Dad it's a viable alternative to the wind sprints and PT they do for him.

Dean's never been a big fan of running for its own sake--he can run with the best of them, for his life or the ninety feet between bases on a baseball diamond, but he doesn't get the big Zen high from it that Sam does. He gets that from shooting, from hunting, from looking down the sights and pulling the trigger on some evil thing that needs killing, from knowing he's saving some family from the hell his has been through. But he runs now, for exercise, sure, but also for Sam, pushing her the way Dad pushes him, giving her something to strive for, someone to beat.

And now it gives them both a way to work out some of the tension built up between them.

Lately, she's been winning as often as he has, and this time it's by more than a few inches, which makes her unbearable.

"Again," he says, sucking down a few breaths, cutting her off in mid-boast. She nods and sets herself. He can smell her, vanilla lotion and sweat and Flex shampoo. It's distracting, and he doesn't get a good jump, knows he's lost thirty yards in, comes in a full five yards behind her this time.

"You didn't get a good start," she says, rubbing beads of sweat off her upper lip with the back of her hand, and he has to stop himself from leaning in and licking at her mouth. She grabs her left ankle, then her right, stretching her quads, lean muscle shifting under smooth, tanned skin, and he licks his own lips, looks away. "Again."

He forces himself to concentrate this time, locks in on the in-out of his breathing, the furious, methodical pumping of arms and legs, the slap and push of his feet against the grass. This time, he wins by an arm's-length, and he grins at her, triumphant.

"Can't win 'em all, Sammy."

She's panting now, chest heaving with exertion, and the rueful disappointment on her face twists into anger at his words. She steps closer, laying her hands flat against his sweat-soaked t-shirt, and shoves him.

"Did you let me win?"

"What?"

She shoves at him again, against the goalpost, the metal hot against his back, her breasts warm and soft against his chest, though the rest of her is stiff with anger, her fingers fisted in the damp material of his shirt.

"Did. You. Let. Me. Win?"

He straightens up, looks down at her from his four-inch height advantage. "I stopped letting you win at anything when you were ten, Sammy."

He grabs her shoulders, planning to shove her away, but he doesn't. Runs his thumbs along the soft skin of her upper arms instead, then moves his hands up to trace her collarbones, brushing at the drop of sweat sliding down her neck.

All the fight goes out of her; she melts against him, hands uncurling and sliding up to clasp around the back of his neck, drawing his head down to hers. The kiss is soft, tentative, brush of lips and whisper of breath, and it still sets heat sparking under his skin, fierce and hungry and so different from the humid press of air or the tight burn of exercise.

He runs his fingers through her sweat-damp hair, sending the bandana fluttering to the ground, forgotten, tightens his hold to dip her head back so he can kiss her again, teasing her with the quick flick of his tongue against her lips. She presses closer with a needy little whimper that makes him ache.

"Hey, you two, get a room."

They spring apart, still breathing heavily. Sam's face is flushed with embarrassment, lust, and anger, which is, thankfully, directed not at him but at the kid with the soccer ball who's just interrupted them.

"Are you done?" the kid asks, tossing the ball from one hand to the other as his friends join him.

She reaches down, picks up her bandana, and shoves it into her pocket. "It's all yours," she says, walking away, head held high.

One of the older boys lets out a wolf whistle, and Dean glares at him before he follows.

They jog back to the motel in silence, cooling down, though Dean's still wound tight, need skittering through his veins like spiders on the bathroom wall when the lights go on. The car's not in the spot in front of Dad's room, and he barely has time to close the door before Sam's pushing him up against it, all exploring hands and hot, wet mouth on his skin, hungry in a way he shouldn't understand but does, completely, down to the soles of his feet and the marrow of his bones. He wraps her hair, dirty blonde bleached pale gold by a summer in the sun and now dark with sweat, around his fingers, tugs her head back so he can lick her throat, tasting salt, skin, and lotion--not the Johnson's baby lotion he still buys for her when he does the shopping, but some vanilla stuff she started wearing when she started caring about girl things.

She grabs hold of his hair, tight, nails scraping bluntly across his scalp because there isn't a lot to grab, yanks him back up for a hard, hot kiss, all teeth and tongue, not gentle at all. She's shaking a little in his arms as he walks her back to the bed, desperate and gasping when he breaks the kiss, pupils blown and voice ragged when she says, "Dean, please." And there's no way he can resist that.

He skates his hands over her arms, her breasts, the toned muscles of her legs. He finds the smooth, untouched skin on the inside of her thigh, then slips his fingers beneath the soft material of her running shorts, the elastic of her underwear. She doesn't give him time to hesitate, arches up into his touch and says it again, "Dean, please."

She's wet and hot and responsive to every brush and thrust of his fingers, panting harder than she did during the races they just ran, muscles tensing as she gets close. He leans back so he can watch her face, flushed and intent, mouth slack as she gasps out soft little noises that make his cock ache in anticipation of what she might sound like when he's buried deep inside her. Her eyes flutter closed, though she keeps trying to open them.

"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning close again, mouth against her ear, free hand brushing her cheek gently. "It's okay, Sammy. It's all gonna be okay." It's not a lie if he believes it, and right now, he does, he has to. "Just come for me now."

And then he hears it, just barely hears it over the fucking hot sounds Sam's making, the rumble of the Impala, so familiar as to not even stand out.

"Oh, fuck." He jumps up, and Sam's eyes snap open in protest. "Dad."

"Oh, fuck!" She bolts into the bathroom on shaky legs, and slams the door, leaving him to face Dad alone.

Dad bangs into the room a few seconds later, rare smile on his face. He must have found something new to hunt.

"Pack it up, Dean. We're heading out as soon as you're done."

He keeps his back turned, tries to will his erection away, though he can hear the shower running and he knows, he knows, she's in there finishing what he started. He wishes he were, too.

Instead, he forces himself to pay attention as Dad tells him about the possibility of a phantom train in Harpers Ferry. He snaps, "Yes, sir," at the right moments, absorbs the information almost without thinking about it, second nature to file away everything the man says, knowing it will appear in his mind when he needs it most. He doesn't seem to have anything filed away regarding wanting to fuck his own sister, though, can't even imagine Dad's white-hot fury if he ever found out Dean had even thought about thinking about it, let alone laid hands or lips on her. Knows he'd be dead and buried, bones salted and burned, if Dad ever caught wind of what he's thinking, what he's doing. What he's already done.

He's packing, trying to ignore how his right hand still smells of Sam, when she comes out of the shower, flushed and clean, her hair already forming into frizzy ringlets around her head from the humidity. She's wrapped in a tiny, threadbare motel towel, which barely covers her from armpit to ass, and practically scampers across the floor to the dresser. She digs around in the drawer for a second and finds what she's looking for, then grins at him, cruel and mocking, lacy scraps that pass as girl's underwear clutched in her fingers, and when the fuck did Dad start allowing her to wear that stuff instead of the big old granny panties he'd been buying five to a pack at Wal-Mart for years?

It's his turn to slam into the bathroom, which is still steamy and smells of Sam's vanilla lotion. He takes a lukewarm shower and jerks off, resolutely not thinking about her, though the smell of the soap and shampoo makes that difficult, because everything in there--everything everywhere--reminds him of Sam.

It's not particularly satisfying, because it's not what he really wants, and what he wants, he can't have, shouldn't even be thinking of, and he can't ever escape from it, from her. Wouldn't want to even if he could.

Basically, he thinks, as he slides into the front seat of the Impala, he's fucked.

For once, Sam doesn't complain at all about leaving, curls up in the backseat with her book--something about the Black Plague this time--and hums happily to herself until Dean jams Motorhead into the tape deck.

She's asleep when they arrive in Charles Town, but it's not that late, just after eleven. He half carries her to the bed, buries his face in her hair for a brief moment, then tucks her in, kisses her forehead when he's sure she's out of it enough not to know. He stops at the door to toss her flip-flops, which had fallen off in the car, into the room.

He looks at his father, doesn't even ask this time, just tips his head towards the door. Dad nods, lets him go to find the nearest bar, the nearest pool game, the nearest girl who isn't related, and he laughs thinly to himself at the jokes he used to make about West Virginia weddings.

He knows exactly what he needs and he finds it pretty quickly. One beer, one shot of Jack, and one tiny, stacked blonde bent over in the ladies room, bracing herself against the ugly yellow sink while he fucks her. Doesn't bother to learn her name, because he won't remember it in the morning. All that matters is that she's not Sam. The world is full of girls who aren't Sam, girls who say yes (yeah, sugar, yeah, just like that), and it's okay, not like Sam, who says yes to him when she shouldn't, knowing that to her he can't ever say no.

He makes it back to the motel by two, can still smell the blonde--Lucy? Lacey? Fucked if he knows. Fucked anyway, good enough to make him sleepy, make him forget for a while, and that's what he'd gone out for, so consider this mission a success, Winchester.--on his skin.

He's sitting on the bed, unlacing his boots, when Sam says, "Dean?" He looks over to see her sitting up in bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them.

"What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep." She shrugs. "Slept in the car too long, I guess."

He nods, but the guilt is already starting. She doesn't sleep well when you're not there.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy."

She huffs, and he can tell she's annoyed--it's like a knot of tension at the base of his skull when she's angry at him, only loosens when she finally wears out, gives up, gets mad at Dad, which is a knot of tension in his left shoulder, up high, steady on since she turned twelve and decided she wanted to be normal, whatever the fuck that means.

Even in the darkness he can see the stubborn set of her jaw, the tight line of her lips, holding back questions she wants to ask but won't. Maybe she's reading the answers in the loose-limbed way he moves, the scent of whatever her name was on his skin.

"Fuck you," she answers, yanking the covers to her chin and turning her back to him.

He closes his eyes, because hurting her is the last thing he wants to do, but this is a cleaner kind of hurt than the other, isn't it? Fucked if he knows that, either. He's too shagged out to deal with it all now.

"Whatever."

But he lies awake until she goes back to sleep. The even sound of her breath finally lulls him to sleep, too, as the sky begins to lighten.

The phantom train turns out to be some local teenagers having a laugh, scaring the crap out of the late-summer tourists, one last big prank before school starts again. Dad growls about wasted time, wasted money, slams out of the room like he's going to hunt those brats down and salt and burn their bones instead, though Dean knows he's just going to the bar across the street.

The last thing Dad says before walking out the door is, "Look after your sister," and Sam grins at Dean in a way that makes his belly clench in fear, scarier than any ghost or ghoul he's ever faced. She doesn't complain about having a babysitter anymore, and on some level it makes him want to laugh, because it's not like he wouldn't have tried seducing a hot babysitter if he'd ever had one, and as much as she'd like to deny it, Sammy's just as much a Winchester as he is.

"I'm sure we'll have fun," she says as Dad swings the door shut.

Dean braces himself, but she just pulls out a deck of cards.

"Poker?"

He pops open a Rolling Rock and sits down cross-legged on her bed. "Okay. I'll deal first."

She grins and snags a sip of his beer before handing over the deck of cards.

They play for a couple of hours--seven card stud and five card draw, matchsticks and silver bullets standing in for chips, which stand in for money they don't have.

He wins pretty steadily, though she scores a nice hand or two along the way, and he lets her drink some of his beer when she does.

"I'll see your silver bullets," she says when he's on his third beer, "and raise you..." She looks down at the small pile of matches she has left, and smiles. "A shirt."

"What?" He can't have heard that right.

"A shirt." She pulls her t-shirt over her head, drops it into the pot. Her plain cotton bra--and thank fuck she's wearing one today--is very white against her tanned skin, and her hair is tousled and shining gold like a halo around her head. There's a light pink flush in her cheeks that could be from the heat or from embarrassment or, probably, both. "If I win, I get my shirt back, and you have to take yours off. If you win, well, I've already taken my shirt off, so I'd say it's pretty much a win for you either way, isn't it?"

He swallows hard. "That's not how it works."

She shrugs, and he forces himself to keep looking at her face. "House rules," she says.

She's got a full house, queens over sevens, to his straight, and she grins at him when he pulls his t-shirt off.

"Dude. That's more like it."

He throws the shirt at her and it hits her in the face. She holds it there for a second, inhales, and he freezes at the soft sound of her breath catching.

"Aren't you going to put your shirt back on?" he asks, voice hoarse.

Her smile is slow and predatory, and it makes his belly clench again, but this time, not in fear. "I'm comfortable like this."

He knows he should argue, should tell her to get dressed right the fuck now, Samantha, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to.

Two more hands, and she's undoing the buttons on her jean shorts, peeling them down long, tanned legs before he can stop her.

"I call," she says, dropping them into the pot. Like the bra, her bikini bottom is plain white cotton, nothing intentionally seductive about it, but he can see the shadow of her cunt, the faint line of hair trailing down her abdomen leading to it. He swallows hard, keeps his eyes on his cards.

"This is a really shitty idea."

"I've shown you mine, big brother. Time for you to show me yours."

He lays down his cards, trying to pretend that's all she means. "Two pair--aces and eights." Dead man's hand, and ain't that the truth?

She fans her cards out slowly, grin curling over her face. "Four nines. Read 'em and weep. Or strip, as the case may be." When he doesn't move she says, "Don't punk out on me now, Dean." He clenches his jaw, because she knows exactly how to push his buttons, and okay, that's a line of thought he wants to cut off before it goes places it shouldn't, but he can't when she continues, "I'd be happy to help if the concept of undressing is giving you trouble." She's already moving across the bed, those long fingers so good at picking locks easily flicking open the buttons on his fly, and he forces himself to hold still under her touch.

"Sam." He means it as a warning, but his voice is low and raw, full of everything he wants from her and shouldn't have.

She looks up at him, the sheer need in her eyes making his breath catch in his throat. She reaches up and presses her thumb to his lower lip, pulling it down slightly.

The moment stretches out endlessly, and he tells himself that he can control this, can make it into another lesson for her. Tells himself that the line he's crossing can be redrawn, slightly over the edge into fucked up, and isn't that where they've been living anyway since Mom died?

Slowly, he darts out his tongue to taste the pad of her thumb, salt and Sam, as familiar and strange to him as she is. He sucks her finger into his mouth, watching as her eyes widen, and listening as her breath hitches. With a soft wet sound, he releases her thumb, and reaches out to cup her cheek gently, tip her face up to his so he can kiss her.

He tastes beer and heat as he slides his tongue over hers, need firing in his veins as she climbs into his lap without breaking the kiss. He can feel how wet she is, and it makes his dick, half-hard since she took off her shirt, twitch.

She's all awkward movement, unsure where to put her arms and legs, and he soothes her wordlessly, strokes his hands down the soft skin of her arms, pressing forward so she's on her back against the pillows, legs wrapped around his hips, the cards scattering beneath them, forgotten.

She traces a path over his skin with blunt fingernails, laughing with breathless delight when the muscles of his stomach jump under her touch, and looking at him with wide-eyed awe that turns into calculation when he growls low after she presses her palm to his cock before he moves her hand away.

He doesn't bother to unhook her bra, just shoves it up so he can touch her breasts without any fabric between them, loving the way they feel, small and warm and firm in his hands.

"I know you like big tits," she whispers, "and I'm not--I don't--"

He cuts her off with a ruthless kiss, then dips his head down to lick at her peaked nipples. "Don't need more than a handful," he murmurs into the soft skin between her breasts, though his hands look too large and alien on her body as he touches her. "Perfect just the way you are, Sammy."

She looks skeptical, so he spends some time showing her just how much he likes her breasts, licking and sucking until she's shaking and begging for more. She arches beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders and her nails digging into his skin, her breath coming in short stuttering gasps that sound like his name.

She moans softly in protest when he finally moves on, sliding his lips down the smooth plane of her stomach to dip his tongue into her bellybutton, kiss the mole beside it. She giggles then, and runs her fingers through his hair.

He moves down the bed, fingers tracing words he'll never say on the soft, unmarked skin of her thighs, following with his lips, his tongue. He can smell her, breathes in deep and exhales onto sensitive skin, but doesn't even make a move towards taking her underwear off yet. He teases her with kisses and nips along the soft flare of her hip, the tender flesh of her belly.

"Dean, please," she says, squirming. "I want--" She tries to maneuver herself into position, tries to direct his kisses with her hands in his hair.

He swallows hard, trying to keep control, and laughs against her belly. "You can't say it, you're probably not old enough to do it."

"Bastard," she mutters, hands tightening in his hair, enough to cause a short burst of pain. "Lick me," she says, and he looks up, meets her gaze, smiles at the way she's blushing, proud of the way she doesn't look away when she's asking for what she wants. "Can't stop thinking about it," she whispers, and he almost loses it right there, has to reach down and squeeze the base of his cock for just a second, because he's been thinking of it, too. "Your mouth, and--"

He hooks his fingers under the elastic and pushes her panties down and off, then slides his hands up the length of her legs, thumbs coming to rest in the creases where they join her body. He licks his lips at the sight of her, dark hair curling over swollen pink flesh, and strokes his fingers over the wet folds of her cunt, hungry to touch and smell and taste. Every sound and movement she makes hits his bloodstream like whiskey; he pays close attention, learning this the way he's learned everything else about her, because it's his job to make her happy, and this is just one more way to do that.

He flicks his thumb across her clit and she moans, hands clenching in his hair hard enough to sting.

"Wait," he says, sitting up. "Wait."

She raises herself up on her elbows, eyes wide and dazed but mouth twisting in annoyance. "What the fuck?"

He slides down off the bed to kneel at the foot of it, and eases his jeans down over his hips a bit to get comfortable and still be able to stroke his dick if he needs to. Then he wraps his hands around her knees and pulls until her ass is at the edge of the bed and her legs are draped over his shoulders.

"Better this way," he tells her with a grin.

"But now I can't see you," she answers, pouting.

That surprises him even as it sends another jolt of heat to his dick. "You want to watch?"

"I told you, I've been imagining it forever."

He has to take a deep breath before he can answer, and his voice is ragged when he says, "Stay up on your elbows, just like that."

He uses his thumbs to spread her open, and even that touch makes her gasp and shimmy. When he dips his head to lick her, she moans again and presses up against his mouth. He's surrounded by her--her taste in his mouth and her scent in his nose, and the feel of her under his tongue and his fingers. She's the only thing he can see, the whole of his horizon--she's the ocean and he's drowning in her. It's the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he wants to make it the best thing that's ever happened to her.

She's a talker, though she's not making much sense at the moment, and the sound is muffled anyway, but he knows what she means, knows when she's close, and knows how to make it good for her, her whole body shaking as she comes under his mouth, her body clenching hard around his fingers, and then he gets her off again before she's even finished coming down from the first time.

"God," she breathes, and he laughs. He loves the surprised, satisfied look on her face; it amazes him that he can do this to her, make her feel like that.

He licks his lips, thinks he'll be tasting her forever, already wants to taste her again. "No, just me." He slides back up onto the bed to kiss her, and she makes a face.

"What are you--" Her voice is slow, hazy, and he shakes his head and smiles.

"Trust me," he whispers against her mouth, and she does. Of course, she does, though he knows she shouldn't, not after what he's just done. But she lets him kiss her, learns the taste of herself on his tongue.

"Huh," she says when he eases back.

He grins. "Yeah."

She curls up against him, and he can see the fact that he's still mostly dressed register on her face. She reaches down to touch him, and he knows he should stop her, shouldn't let her do it, but when her warm hand curls around his cock, draws him out of his briefs, he can't help thrusting into it.

She's tentative at first, and her exploration nearly kills him, fingers sliding up and down, learning the feel of him.

"Sam," he growls, wrapping his hand around hers, holding it still.

"Show me," she says, more interested than she's been in anything he's had to teach her in ages, looking at him like he's one of her books, or some kind of equation to be solved, frown of concentration between her eyebrows.

"We shouldn't," he manages, because fuck, he really wants to.

She laughs, whole body shaking with it. "We already did, dumbass." She starts stroking him again, harder now, learning what he likes from how his body responds, from his hand guiding her instead of stopping her. She's always been a quick study. It doesn't take long, tension building and breaking as he comes, spurting over their hands and bodies, pearly white against the sleek, tanned skin of her belly.

"Wow," she says when he's done, running her fingers through the mess he's left on her skin and then putting them in her mouth, curious. He swallows hard, knowing that image will be featuring in his fantasies from now on. She opens her mouth to say something else, but he leans in, kisses her instead, long and slow, everything a goodbye kiss should be, because they can't do this again, even if they'll never really say goodbye, the two of them entangled like the taste of his come and hers now on his tongue.

He pulls away, brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek, and she grabs his hand.

"Whatever stupid thing you're about to say," she says, "don't."

He jerks his hand free. "Sam--"

"Just don't, okay." Her face is stormy, and he turns away so he doesn't have to see her get upset, reaches for the box of tissues on the night table between the beds and starts cleaning her off, as if he can wipe away what they've done, but she grabs his hand again and squeezes tight. "You're the one person I trust, the one person who's never going to hurt me. So don't give me some stupid bullshit about how you're sorry, and we shouldn't have, and can't ever again, because you're not, and we did, and we can."

He shakes his head. "You keep saying you want to be like other people--"

She doesn't let him finish. "And you keep telling me we're not, and I just have to suck it up." She takes a deep breath and shoves her other hand through her tangled hair, holding his gaze with wide, serious eyes. "Well, if I have to suck it up and accept that, then you have to accept this, and stop pretending. Don't lie to me like I'm one of the skanks you fuck and leave, who doesn't even know your real name. I'm your sister, and I know you, and all I have right now is what you give me." Her voice is low, serious. Heartbreaking. "So, please, Dean, give me this."

Her face is all scrunched up like she's trying not to cry, and he's never had any defense against her anyway. He pulls her into his arms and strokes her hair. Her head is pressed against his chest, and he hopes she can hear his heart beating, because he has no other response. It's not true, and he, at least, knows it, but because she believes it is, he does, too. He can feel her breath on his skin, warm and moist, in time with his own, and silently asks for forgiveness.

He doesn't know how long they sit there like that, but finally she pushes away and says, "Okay, ew. I really need to take a shower."

He laughs, a little shaky, and lets her go.

While she's showering, he cleans up the room, putting the matches and bullets back in their boxes. He's on his hands and knees, reaching for the queen of hearts that's wedged beside the night table, when he realizes the cards are marked. He sits back on his heels and starts laughing again. She's definitely a Winchester to the bone.

It becomes another game they play, something fun to while away the time, and more dangerous than the games they played as kids.

Dad takes them with him more often than not these days--Sam isn't enthusiastic, but she keeps her complaints to a minimum, too busy trying to grope Dean whenever she can get away with it to fuss at Dad about hunting.

If it weren't so weird, it'd be almost unbearably sappy, the kind of thing they show in montages in the chick flicks she makes him watch with her, but Dean doesn't complain. He loves the feel of her body beneath his hands and mouth, the sounds she makes when he's got his fingers sliding in and out of her, the taste of her on his tongue, the way she says his name when she comes. And he loves holding her afterward, curling his body around hers and keeping her safe in the darkness, feeling her heart beat under his hand, though she isn't much for cuddling, and tends to squirm away when he's asleep.

It's harder once the school year starts up again. Dad buys himself a truck and finds them a decent apartment in a not-bad part of town not too far from Sam's high school, though it only has two bedrooms; Dean is supposed to be sleeping on the pullout couch in the small living room, but he ends up in Sam's room whenever Dad's away. Dean offers to go with him, but even though Sam is perfectly capable of taking care of herself for a few days, Dad rarely takes him up on it, says she needs someone around, just in case. Dean hates the words just in case, tries to throw them back in Dad's face, says he wants to be at his back, just in case, but Dad shakes his head.

"If something happens, it's better for you to be with Sam. She can't lose us both, Dean."

And he can't argue with that.

Just like he can't argue with Sam, though he has it all mapped out in his head, the territory he's allowed to trace with fingers and lips and tongue--using everything he's learned since the first time he kissed Lisa Figueroa when he was thirteen to make Sam come apart in his arms--and the things he's not going to do, and not going to let her do for him, the spots on his mental map marked "here be monsters," and not the kinds of monsters that can be killed with silver or salt.

She wakes him with kisses, mouth moving hot and wet over his neck and chest, making the muscles in his belly jump. He stops her when she gets to the waistband of his boxer-briefs, though, wraps his fingers in her hair and pulls her up for a long, lazy kiss. He lets her jerk him off, the pleased concentration on her face making him feel as good as the firm strokes of her hand and the laughing, open-mouthed kisses she presses to his face.

It's still all so new to her, so it takes her a while to realize that he distracts her whenever she brushes against his boundaries, but she does figure it out--she's always been the smart one--and their game takes on a competitive edge, same as every other game they've ever played, and this time, he's not so sure he's going to win.

By early October, they're settled in Mobile. Sam's fitting in pretty well, already has a few friends, and has made the varsity track team. It was harder to convince Dad to let her try out than it was for her to make the team, but he finally caved when Dean pointed out it could replace early morning PT sessions none of them really enjoyed.

She heads out for school early and comes home late, and since she seems fairly content (Dean's not looking forward to the first time a hunt conflicts with a meet, but so far things have worked out in their favor, and he isn't one to look for trouble, at least, not within the family), Dad doesn't kick up a fuss. He and Dean are both working shifts at the local mechanic's, a friend of a friend of Bobby's, who was willing to take them on without too many questions once they proved they knew their way around cars.

The weather is still warm when Dad gets a call from Pastor Jim about a mysterious house fire in Valdosta. He refuses to take Dean with him, says it's only a few hours' drive each way and he doesn't want to leave Sam alone, or take her anywhere near the place if it is the thing they've been hunting for so long. He heads out early on Wednesday morning, promising to be back by Friday.

His last words, as always, are, "Look out for Sammy."

Dean nods. "Of course, Dad." He doesn't have to be told--hasn't had to be told since he was a kid; the words are carved into every molecule of his being--but this is yet another Winchester routine that's hardened into ritual over the years.

That night, he comes home after work and gets in the shower, washing sweat and grease away, too tired to cook and wondering if they should order pizza or Chinese.

He's washing the shampoo out of his hair when Sam slips around the curtain, goes right to her knees before he can say anything, water already slicking her hair back from her forehead and sliding down her skin in rivulets, making him want to follow its path with his tongue. Her hands are sure--she's learned what he likes well enough now, firm and fast and a little rough, with a twist on the upstroke--but her mouth is tentative. She swipes her tongue along the head of his cock and he can't bite back a soft grunt of pleasure, because he's imagined this for a while, even as he's stopped her every other time she's tried.

She's sloppy, obviously doesn't know what she's doing, and he feels a fierce thrill of possession he wants to believe is relief, but he's always been shitty at lying to himself. He's glad he's the first to do all of this with her, wants to mark her as his and keep her safe from the rest of the world, from guys like him who will only use her and forget her name the next morning. The irony is not lost on him, even as he drops his head forward so he can watch her full pink lips slide up and down the length of his cock, brow furrowed in concentration, like going down on him is another puzzle to solve, and the answer will make her happy, ease those lines away.

He smoothes back her hair and cups her cheek, trying hard not to give in and fuck her mouth the way his body wants to, but he can't help thrusting a little into the wet heat of it. She makes a small gagging sound, and he says, "Breathe through your nose." His voice is rough, even as he tries to be gentle.

She hums in response, and he feels the vibration shiver down his spine and echo in his bones, hips jerking again, pushing him deeper. It feels so good, as good as he'd imagined, all those times he promised himself he wouldn't let her do this--be this--for him, heat and need spiraling high and tight inside him. He tries to warn her, pull her off when he knows he's going to come, but she smacks his hand away and swallows what she can before she lets him slide out of her mouth and spatter her with come as the shower washes them clean. He wants to pull her up, lick the inside of her mouth, maybe return the favor, but as soon as she's clean, she slips away, satisfied smile curving her lips.

He leans back against the cool tile and thinks about redrawing the lines on his map.

When he gets out of the shower, she's on the phone ordering pizza as if nothing's changed, but then she turns and gives him that smile again, her hair damp and frizzing around her face, and he wonders if he should just throw out the map altogether, because he's in unknown territory now--has been for a while, if he's honest about it--and there's no going back.

"I missed the track meet for your stupid hunt, and I didn't even complain," (much, Dean thinks), "and now you won't even let me go to Allison's sweet sixteen? That is so unfair," Sam shouts.

Dad clenches his jaw and says, "I told you, if it was just a regular party, that'd be fine, but we can't afford a fancy dress and shoes, plus a gift, Sam. Stop asking."

"You commit credit card fraud all the time, Dad. So don't tell me we can't afford it."

"That's for hunting, not frivolous crap like a dress you'll never wear again and an expensive gift for some girl you hardly know."

"That is such bullshit! You never let me do anything fun. I hate you!" She storms out of the kitchen and slams the door to her bedroom.

Dad rubs his hand over his eyes, jaw tightening, and Dean says, "She doesn't mean it."

Dad gives him a look that can't mean anything good. "She can go to practice," and Dean holds in a sigh of relief at that, because it means he won't have to get up extra-early to run with her, "but you pick her up every day and bring her straight home right afterwards. No stops at the library or the pizzeria or anything else. No hanging out with her friends." He gets up, stands outside her bedroom door, and raises his voice. "Nothing but practice, homework, and chores for a week, Samantha." There's a muffled thump from behind the door. "You wanna push me, young lady? 'Cause I can make you way more miserable than you can make me." Which is a lie, of course, and Dean knows it, even if Sam doesn't. "Now come out of there and set the table. It's time for dinner."

There's another thump, and then the bedroom door swings open and Sam shoves past them, jaw set and eyes bright. "It's not fair," she mutters, slamming mismatched silverware and glasses onto the table. Dad goes into his own bedroom, shuts the door.

"Life isn't fair, princess," Dean says, dumping dry pasta into boiling water.

"Easy for you to say. You get to do whatever the hell you want."

"Being older has its privileges. When you're my age--"

"I'll be in college, and far away from here." She says it like it doesn't mean anything, like it's an established fact, like the sky is blue and water is wet, but it makes his heart stop for a second, and when it starts again, the world's tilting on its axis in a way it never has before. "I don't know why you didn't go, get out while the getting was good." She shakes her head and sucks her teeth. She has no fucking clue what she's talking about.

"Yeah, right," he says when he's sure he won't say anything too revealing. "I suppose college might have its good points. Lots of beer and hot chicks looking to get laid." The plate clatters on the table as if she's dropped it, and he turns to look. She's glaring at him, angry and hurt, and he tries to look innocent. "What?"

"You're disgusting," she says, practically snarling, and she looks like she's ready to stomp off again when Dad comes out of the bedroom and sits down at the table.

"Stop teasing your sister," he says, with that you're older and you ought to know better tone Dean's been hearing for as long as he can remember.

"Yes, sir," he answers, perky enough to be offensive, but Dad lets it go. Sam scowls at him, face all scrunched up unhappily. He stirs the macaroni as Dad quizzes Sam on Latin, and things are normal, or as normal as they ever get.

Dean knows it can't last though.

He picks Sam up each day after practice, sits in the car and watches her stretch and run, listens to her laughter floating on the cool breeze when one of the other girls says something to her, and she glances over and catches sight of him. She waves, and he nods in acknowledgement, and the girls start laughing again, shooting him assessing glances. There are one or two he definitely wouldn't mind getting to know better, but Sam doesn't bring any of them over when she comes to the car. Instead of going around to the passenger side, she bends over and kisses him, hand cupping his cheek and tongue slick and sweet in his mouth.

He pulls back, startled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She scoots around to the passenger side and gets in. "I told them you were my boyfriend."

"Sam." He manages to fit a lot of this is the worst idea ever into his voice.

"No, no, Dean, it's cool. This way we can do whatever we want and nobody has to know." She curls her fingers in his shirt and leans in to kiss him again, hot and wet, and he can't stop himself from kissing her back hard, hungry for her mouth.

A wolf whistle reminds him that no, it really is a terrible idea to make out with his sister in public (in private, too, a little voice in the back of his head whispers, but he ignores it), even if people don't know she's his sister.

He pulls back, licking his lips, which now taste like cherry lip balm, and why do girls always do that? "You got a lot of homework?"

She shrugs. "I did most of it in study hall. I still have some reading for AP History, and a bunch of translations for Spanish, but that's it."

"You'll get it all done?" He doesn't know why he asks--he knows she will. She always does. He'd done his homework in school grudgingly, with Dad standing over him arms folded, immovable, ready to come down like the wrath of God if he didn't toe the line and get decent grades and keep people from noticing there was anything weird about the Winchesters. Sam does it all like it's a gift someone's given her; sometimes she even asks for extra, though why a girl who's never gotten anything but straight As needs extra credit, Dean can't understand. But he has to ask, and she has to say yes, because that soothes a tiny bit of the guilt he feels at disobeying Dad and not taking her straight home, just another ritual to ward off the bad things he knows are going to come out of this. Nothing really eases the guilt of what they do together, but he's gotten good at ignoring that when she's warm and soft in his arms.

Her voice is breathless when she answers, "Yeah."

He nods and eases the car into the shady area behind the track, and he's barely got the car in park when she climbs into his lap. She twines her arms around his neck and kisses him again. He runs his hands up under her shirt, brushes his fingers against the underside of her breasts, frustrated by the tight fit of the sports bra she wears for running; he tugs the straps down her arms so she can wiggle free of them, giving him access to her skin, warm and still damp with sweat from practice, nipples peaking under his palms.

She grabs his hand, puts it between her legs, and he can feel how hot and wet she is through her shorts. He rubs at her through the slick material and she moans into his mouth, grinding down against his fingers. She's flushed and beautiful like this, and it's so easy to forget why it's a bad idea, and so hard to stop, to push her away before he slides his cock inside her and fucks her the way he wants to, skin on skin and nothing in between--fucks her, and fucks everything up for good.

She comes with a soft sigh against his neck, body going stiff and then boneless, and he slides her off his lap, still hard and aching for his own release.

She reaches out, palms his erection through his jeans. "Come on, Dean, let me do this for you." Her voice is soft, breathless, seductive.

He swallows hard, pushes her hand away. "We have to get home. We're already late, and Dad--"

"He's not going to be home for another two hours."

"But he's expecting you to be home now."

"You act like everything he says is the word of God."

"He's trying to protect you. It's not the easiest job in the world."

She huffs, crosses her arms over her chest. "Whatever."

They ride home in what would be chilly silence, except Dean cranks the radio when "Pour Some Sugar On Me" comes on, feeling a small moment of triumph when Sam snorts and rolls her eyes. She glares out the window at the tract housing, and he wonders if she really wishes she lived in one of them, normal family with a normal life, college in two years, and a perfect boyfriend, and then forty years working nine-to-five. He can't even imagine it, mainly because he knows how easily it can all be taken away.

When they get home, she pushes past him into the house. She does her homework with a lot of huffing and sighing and slamming of textbooks.

He locks himself in the bathroom and jerks off, replaying their time in the car over again, and comes imagining what it would feel like to be surrounded by the slick heat of her body.

He thinks he knows a little something about wanting what he shouldn't have, and how it can only end badly, but that's not the kind of lesson Sam is willing to learn.

Sammy's just like Dad, can hold a grudge forever, and she holds this one for the rest of the week. They snipe at each other when they have to speak, and spend the rest of the time in cold silence. Dad gives him the whatever it is, work it out look, but Dean thinks anything he does will make it worse, one way or the other.

Not only does she not speak to him for three days, she avoids touching him, too, and he misses it--not the sex stuff (though if he's honest with himself, he does miss that), but the regular Sammy-stuff, like ruffling her hair and punching her arm, and all the shit she pretends she's too old for, but still secretly loves, like curling up together under the blanket with a bowl of popcorn and a bag of M&Ms and watching The Little Mermaid--he leers at the mermaids, and she sings along with the songs--when her homework is done.

Maybe this thing they've been doing has run its course, and he tells himself that's probably for the best, and now they can get back to how they used to be. She has enough shit to worry about hiding from the rest of the world without having to deal with this, too. Dean's never run from the truth in his life, but he still can't bring himself to name what they're doing. What they've done. Words--names--have power, and that's one word that can't be erased once it's said, one betrayal that can't be forgiven, so he tries to believe it's no betrayal at all.

He's at work that Friday afternoon, flirting with the hot blonde owner of a sweet little silver anniversary seventy-eight Corvette he's going to be working on, and she's saying, "Yeah, I inherited it from my Dad last year. He loved this car like it was his own flesh and blood, you know?" when his phone rings.

"Where the hell are you?" It's Sam, and she sounds pissed.

Fuck. He covers the phone with his hand and smiles at the blonde. "I'm sorry, Chrissy. I have to take this call. It's my kid sister." She gives him a sweet smile and leans back against the hood of her car, long legs crossed at the ankle. "I'm still at work, Sammy. Things have been a little hectic here since Dad left this morning." Dad's investigating rumors of a haunted shrimp boat in Bayou La Batre, and seemed relieved to escape the Forrest Gump jokes Dean's been making since he heard the news. He said he'd call for backup if it turned out to be more than a prank on the tourists. "I think I can wrap things up here in about half an hour. Can you hang around?"

Sam huffs and he can just imagine the expression on her face. "Whatever. I'll just catch a ride with Evan."

"Who the hell is Evan?"

"Allison's brother. It'll be fine."

"I don't know, Sam. I--" As usual, Dad's last words had been, Look out for Sammy, and that generally doesn't include letting her ride in cars with strange boys. And Dean knows that whatever Sam might think, her punishment is technically still in effect, even with Dad away. "Maybe you should wait--"

"Okay, he's here. Gotta go. Bye." And there's nothing but silence in his ear.

He turns and smiles at Chrissy, but his enjoyment in flirting with her isn't quite the same now. "Let's get a look at what you've got under the hood."

She leans forward, giving him a nice view of her tits, and puts a hand on his arm. "That sounds great."

"She's a beauty," he says when he's done checking out the engine. "Doesn't need much work at all."

"Why don't you buy me a drink, and we can talk about the kind of service I'm going to need?"

And he's going to say yes, is already picturing what she'll look like with his dick in her mouth, and resolutely not thinking about Sam, when his phone rings again.

Chrissy's mouth twists in amusement. "Little sister again?"

"Yeah." He flips open the phone, annoyed. "Hold on a second, Sam." He smiles at Chrissy, and maybe it's petty, poking Sam when she's already riled up, but he can't resist. He says, loud enough for Sam to hear, "Can I get a rain check on that drink?"

"Sure thing, sugar."

"Sugar?" Sam says when he puts the phone up to his ear. "You're so predictable. She's blonde, right? Big tits? Wants to fuck you?" Her voice is as corrosive as holy water. Score one for him this round.

"Watch your mouth, Sammy."

"Whatever. I'm home. I'm doing my homework. Nothing big and scary is going to get me while I'm here by myself so you can go f--"

"Hey, look at that, Sammy, you're breaking up. I'll be home in twenty minutes, and you better not be up to anything you can't explain to Dad when I get there, you hear me?"

She's sitting at the table, books spread out around her, when he walks in.

"Hey, it's Friday night. You don't have to do that shit tonight."

"If Dad calls and we have to go, I won't have time to do it before Monday morning, and I have a test to study for."

He nods. "Okay, that's true." He picks up the phone. "Pizza or Chinese? I'm starving."

"You could have just gone out with Chrissy." She spits the name like a curse. "I'm perfectly capable of spending a night by myself without being attacked by monsters or burning the house down."

He stares at her, surprised, and she seems to have realized what she's just said because she looks away, can't meet his gaze. She gathers up her stuff and mutters, "I'm not hungry," before going to her room and slamming the door.

He shakes his head, ends up making himself a meatloaf hero for dinner, and dozes on the couch, watching reruns of Law & Order.

After a couple of hours, he's bored and starting to feel guilty. He should have been there to pick her up, or should have called her, at least. He should have checked out that Evan guy, made sure he isn't the kind of guy who puts the moves on his kid sister's friends.

If things hadn't been so weird this week, he would have done all of that. He would have dropped everything and brought her back to the garage. Something.

He gets up and goes to her room, knocks on the door. "Hey, you wanna play some Nintendo?" he says. She doesn't say anything. "Or we could get some ice cream or something." Still no answer. "Sammy? You okay in there? Just having a little private time?" He knocks again, worried now, and raises his voice. "Sammy?" When she still doesn't answer, he discovers she's actually locked the door. He forces it open, flimsy lock breaking easily under the weight of his foot.

The window is wide open, and Sam's not there.

"Son of a bitch."

He sticks his head out the window, but she's long gone. He does a quick survey of the room, fear nearly choking him, but her duffel is still in the closet, and everything--her clothes, her Walkman, her goddamn books--is still in place. So, not running away. He lets out a relieved breath.

Sneaking out to meet friends, then. Or that guy, Evan.

Fear resurfaces, and anger replaces relief, and he shoves at the pile of schoolbooks on her desk, knocking them to the floor with a crash.

It doesn't make him feel better.

"Think," he mutters. "Where do sixteen-year-old girls go on Friday nights?" The mall, or the movies, or their friends' houses. Shit. This is going to take hours.

He squats down to rifle through her books, hoping she's got a list of names and phone numbers somewhere, trying to remember the names of the girls she talks about, though she talks so much he tends to tune her out after the first few minutes, trusting the rise and fall of her voice to tell him how to respond, and when he should tune back in.

He flips through each book quickly, methodically, scanning her small, cramped handwriting for clues. And tucked in the back of her history textbook is a flyer, printed in garish color: Party at Darnell's, it screams in purple and green ink.

"I'm gonna kill her," he mutters, crinkling the paper in his fist. He smoothes it out, folds it up, and shoves it into his pocket.

He spends another twenty minutes driving around looking for the address, which is about twenty minutes too long, long enough to allow him to start imagining all the ways this can end badly for her. The place is down by the docks, an old warehouse in a neighborhood even he would think twice about walking around in after dark. So he's got the Glock hidden in his waistband when he pushes his way into the no-longer-abandoned warehouse.

The crappy music is turned up so loud he'd heard it as he'd turned the corner onto the block, and it's brain-melting once he's inside. He makes a mental note to add earplugs to his pockets for possible future use. Never know when they might come in handy. There's almost no light, just strobes and glow-sticks and black lights, scent of pot and cigarettes and sweat heavy in the humid air, smoke curling like ribbons in the darkness. There are kids all over the place, dancing, drinking, making out, and not just kids. He spots people who look his age, and older, which makes him even more nervous.

He pushes his way through the crowd, shaking free of the occasional hand that tries to stop him, ignoring the drinks offered as he passes, and that cranks his level of fear up another notch, even as he tells himself Sam's smart enough not to take a drink from someone else at one of these things.

When Dean finds her, she's leaning against the back wall of the cavernous room, hips canted and head tipped back, laughing up at some guy who's whispering in her ear, his arm braced against the wall by her head. Once Dean sees she's okay, his fear transforms completely into anger.

"Sam," he growls, reaching out and yanking her arm. She stumbles into him, and he wraps an arm around her waist, looks down to see she's wearing boots that come up just past her knees, with high, skinny heels. "Jesus fucking Christ." He glares at the guy, says, "Don't even fucking think about it."

He drags her into the nearest empty room, which is some kind of office, full of dusty bookshelves and old file cabinets, and slams the door behind them. The whole place is practically vibrating with bass, and he has to lean in and shout in her ear to be heard.

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Fuck you, Dean. I'm just trying to have some fun," she answers, shoving at him. He can smell beer on her breath. "I'm not a little kid. And you're not Dad."

He ignores that, because it's true, and yet Dad's not here and his words--Watch out for Sammy--are burned into Dean's soul like a brand, and he can't fail at it any more than he already has. "You didn't drink anything you didn't pour yourself?"

"One Coors Light, right from the bottle." She shrugs one shoulder. "Only bottled beer they had. Opened it myself."

"You know what can happen to girls like you at parties like this, Sam?"

She rubs against him, like a cat looking to be petted, and wraps her arms around his neck. "Why don't you show me?" she says in a husky tone that goes right to his dick.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" But this time when he says it, his lips are against her ear, and it's easy, it's so easy, to suck her earlobe into his mouth, slide his lips down the length of her neck when she tips her head back to give him access, soft gasp escaping her lips, breath warm and beer-scented on his skin.

She laughs. She fucking laughs like it's no big deal. "I was thinking of you."

Anger and fear and need pulse through his veins like blood, and he pushes her up against the door, hands already sliding up under the short black skirt that leaves so much of her long, strong thighs bare. She gasps and arches into his touch when he cups her, hot and wet against his palm, tiny scrap of her underwear not interfering at all.

"C'mon, Dean," she says against his lips, then slips her tongue into his mouth to flutter along the roof of it, wrap around his tongue, make him forget who he is, and where, and why this is a bad idea. "You told me to ask for what I want, and I want you to fuck me," she says when he pulls away, hooks her left leg around his hip and tries to pull him closer, hands yanking his shirt out of his waistband. She finds the gun and raises her eyebrows.

He grabs it from her and shoves it into his jacket pocket. "This place is more dangerous than Dad's haunted shrimp boat."

Her fingers tighten on his shoulders. "You've got some nerve, lecturing me, after some of the shit you've pulled."

"It's different for girls."

"Don't hand me that bullshit. You taught me--"

He wants to shake her until her teeth rattle for being such a stubborn little brat. "It is, and you know it, too. I know it sucks, but it's true. You're the prey here."

"I can protect myself."

"Can you?" He shoves her back against the door again, harder this time, grinding into her, and the whimper she makes isn't about pain at all--her pupils are blown wide, and he can feel her nipples brushing hard and tight against his chest with each ragged breath she takes. He growls into her mouth, biting and sucking at her lips, her tongue. It's a brutal kiss, and she gives it right back to him, teeth and tongue meeting his in a way that makes his nerves sing with need.

He pushes at the stretchy material of her tank top to get at her breasts. She's not wearing a bra, which is good, because he doesn't think he has the patience to deal with one at the moment. He dips his head to lick and suck at her nipples, and she arches into his mouth, holds his head tight against her, nails digging into his scalp. She's talking. He can't hear her words because the goddamn music is too loud, but he can feel her chest rise and fall, the muffled hum of her voice vibrates through him, and he knows she's saying, Dean, please, Dean, because he'd know his name on her lips anywhere, at any time.

He slides a hand under her skirt again, yanks at the cheap thong that passes for her underwear. It comes off in his hand, no doubt leaving angry red marks on her skin. They both stare down at it until he shoves it into his pocket, on top of the gun. He kisses her again, breathing in her laughter, but it's not funny. He thinks of all the different things that could have gone wrong tonight, if he hadn't gotten here in time, if she'd taken a drink from a stranger, if...

Her hands on his fly abruptly derail that train of thought, and then she's shoving his jeans and his underwear down, curling her fingers around his cock. He thrusts into her hand; she thumbs the slit, then licks the precome off the pad of her thumb. He sucks in a breath, fumbles for the condom in his wallet like he's fifteen again and finally getting the chance to fuck Mary Alice Bradshaw on the ugly plaid sofa in her basement.

Sam's a step ahead of him, pulling a small foil packet out of the purse thing dangling from her shoulder, and he growls again, bites down hard on the flesh where her neck meets her shoulder, marking her, jealous of whoever it was she'd planned to use it with before he showed up. She moans a little, breathless, grinding against his thigh.

"They were giving them out at the door," she manages, tearing it open and rolling it on him with trembling, inexpert fingers. "Seemed rude not to take one."

He snorts in disbelief. "I see."

He hoists her up, wrapping her other leg around him, and pushes forward, the head of his cock sliding along the slick folds of her cunt, and she gasps. "Fuck, Dean." She shoves her hands up under his shirt, scrapes her nails down his back.

"That's the plan, Sammy." He knows, with the crystal clear certainty he gets when he's sighting some monster down the barrel of his gun, that if he does this now, there will be no going back, and if he doesn't, there's no going forward, no escape from this scenario playing out again and again until she finally sets her eyes on someone else. And as much as he'd like to believe that's what he wants for her, the sharp jolt of possessive anger he feels at the thought forces him to admit, if only to himself, that it's not.

He isn't gentle. He pushes inside her and doesn't stop until he's all the way in, ignoring her surprised gasp and the way she goes still in his arms.

"God, baby, you're so tight," he murmurs, thrusting into the tight, slick heat of her cunt, "so wet."

"All for you," she answers, pressing him closer with her feet against his ass, those heels digging into the backs of his thighs, edging the almost unbearable pleasure with just enough pain to make it sharpen into focus. He knows they're going to leave a mark, welcomes it. "Just for you."

His hands are tight on her ass, fingers digging into firm flesh like she's the only thing anchoring him to the earth, and he fucks her hard against the door, in time with the bass still pounding through the walls, his mouth hot and wet against her neck and jaw, and for one quick second he thinks this is the only way he can keep her safe, make sure she never leaves him.

She clings to him, nails scraping against his skin, teeth sharp against his neck, his jaw, before latching onto his lower lip, biting into soft, sensitive flesh and then licking the sting away.

Pleasure bursts like lightning under his skin, shivers down his spine and then out, as he loses his rhythm and thrusts erratically, whole world going white behind his eyes as she clenches her body around him, drawing him in deeper, her voice in his ear, shouting, "Dean, Dean, Dean," as he comes shuddering inside her, her name on his lips.

He presses his face to her neck, breathes in sweat and Sam and sex, and when he recovers, he realizes--"Fuck, Sam. You didn't--Christ, I can't believe I didn't make you come first."

She runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and laughs--he can feel it all the way down to his toes. "Man, I am never ever letting you forget that, either." She lowers her legs slowly, unsteady on her feet, but he's not ready to let her go just yet. They cling to each other for a few moments that feel endless and much too quick at the same time. He cups her cheek briefly, presses a warm kiss to her forehead and another to her lips, and then he pulls away.

He tosses the condom away and cleans himself up, the tips of his ears burning as he realizes she's watching him, fascinated, pink tip of her tongue poking out between red, saliva-slick lips.

"Nice boots," he says, to cover his embarrassment. "Where'd you get 'em?"

"Daphne lent them to me. I don't think I like the heels, though. They'd be a bitch to run in. I can barely walk in them."

"Boots like that are not made for walking."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, God. You're so lame."

He grins at that, and slips an arm around her waist because she's wobbly on those heels, or maybe because she's just had sex for the first time, and he can't think about that right now, though he wants nothing more than to do it again, slow, this time, gentle, and oh God, how could he have--

She stumbles and grabs onto him, warm and soft at his side, looks up and gives him a grin, bright enough to light their way out of this place.

His ears are ringing and his clothes stink of pot and sex and he hopes fervently that he hasn't missed Dad's call, but when he checks his phone, there are no messages.

He walks her back to the car, one hand steady on her hip, the other in his jacket pocket, tight on the grip of his gun, but they make it without incident. He actually opens the door for her before going around to the driver's side, and she looks up at him in grateful surprise, but doesn't say anything.

They ride in silence for a few minutes, and he keeps glancing over at her. She's fidgety, and he realizes two things at once: her underwear is still in his pocket, and she's probably sore as hell.

Then she turns and grins at him, like she just got one over, and he says, "I'm not gonna tell Dad about you sneaking out, but don't think you're getting away with this."

"If that was your idea of punishment," she says, still grinning, "bring it on. It's way better than wind sprints or push-ups."

"I'm not joking."

"Neither am I." She shifts again, pulls at her skirt, which is made of some stretchy material that rides up when she moves, and he can see the long, strong muscles of her thighs. The memory of those legs wrapped around his hips, of coming deep inside her body, floods his veins with heat, and it's his turn to shift uncomfortably. The endless loop of streetlights washes over her face as they drive, and he can see the redness on her neck and chest where his stubble scraped her skin, the bruises blossoming where he marked her, had his mouth and hands and cock where no one else has ever been, and he was never meant to be.

His hands tighten on the wheel, and he takes a deep breath, tries to regain some control. She must sense the change in his mood, because she reaches out to touch him, and he flinches away.

"Don't--don't freak out on me, Dean. Please. I know it's weird, but that's us, right? Who we are. We do all the weird shit that normal people freak out about. This isn't any different."

She won't stop talking, throwing his own words back in his face, and he just wants her to shut up, wants her to leave him alone. Wants to pull over and fuck her again, until she's screaming his name like it's the only word she's ever known, feeling it the way he felt her name, her body, before.

He can't--won't--do that, so he takes refuge in anger, though even that isn't safe anymore. "What were you thinking?" he asks her for the third time, and they both know this time she has to answer. Rituals must be observed, and even Sam respects that.

"I wanted to make you mad. Make you jealous." She smiles. "And I did."

He shakes his head. "Jesus, Sam. What we did--what I did to you--"

"Not to me, Dean. With me. It's not wrong. I wanted it, I was right there with you all the way. Well, maybe not all the way." She smirks at him and he knows she's never going to let that go. But she's serious when she says, "You didn't--whatever you're thinking, you didn't hurt me. You'd never hurt me."

He wishes he could believe that the way she does. Makes himself believe it, because she does. Ain't that a change, he thinks, from when they were kids and she'd believed everything he told her with wide eyes and an eager smile and a Dean says like she was quoting the Bible.

When they get home, he tosses his jacket over a chair and helps her to her room. She looks at the busted lock on her door and the books scattered on the floor the way he left them, says shrilly, "You kicked down my door and went through all my stuff?"

It's easy enough to fall back into their natural rhythm; he lets their version of normality wash over him like a warm bath. "You snuck out of the house to go to a party in an abandoned warehouse. Don't even think you have the moral high ground here, princess."

She sinks down onto the bed, all fight gone out of her, unzips the boots, and kicks them off.

"Remind me to call Daphne and Allison in the morning, tell them I didn't get roofied and kidnapped or something," she says, pulling her socks off and rubbing at the arch of her left foot.

"Here, let me--" He sits down next to her, and she swings around, rests her feet in his lap. "Not like they were paying attention. If that's what your friends are like, maybe you should find some new ones. And don't roll your eyes at me."

"They didn't mean to--"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to hear it." He presses his thumbs into the ball of her foot, working slowly and surely to ease the pressure there from the heels she's not used to.

She sighs and flops onto her back, letting him take care of her. She wriggles a little when he brushes a particularly ticklish spot.

"God, that feels good," she murmurs as he rotates her ankle, slides his hand up her calf, half-hard from the feel of her skin under the pads of his fingers.

He shoots her a grin. "I'm the foot fucking master, and don't you forget it."

She giggles and scoots down the bed a bit, though the material of her skirt doesn't move with her, and now her legs are bare nearly to the tops of her thighs.

He swallows hard, fingers tightening on her calf. "You okay?" he asks, voice gone hoarse.

"Little sore," she answers, not even pretending not to know what he means. She leans up on her elbows now, straps of her tank top sliding down her arms, and smiles at him in invitation, sliding her foot along his thigh. "Wouldn't mind doing it again."

He clears his throat, tries to joke. "You need to be able to walk tomorrow."

"You really think that's gonna be a problem?"

"Hold on a sec."

He goes to the bathroom, wets down a washcloth with warm water, grabs a towel, and goes back to the bedroom, and stops dead in the doorway for a second, has to remind himself to start breathing again, because she's got her skirt off now, is sitting up and touching herself, curious. There's no blood on her thighs, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief about that.

"Hey," he says, "let me." He holds up the washcloth. He tries to be detached, the way he is when he cleans her wounds from hunting, or rubs her strained muscles from running, but he can't quite manage it, not when she's laid out before him like an undiscovered country, his own new world ready to be explored. Her hands open and close, fingers curling in the sheets, and she makes all sorts of hot little noises while he cleans and dries her off.

"Dean," she says, trapping his hand against her cunt with her own and thrusting against it, all slick warm heat and the promise of happiness. "Dean, please." And there's no amulet, no salt line or chalked sigil that can protect him from that. He doesn't want one that could.

He touches her softly, gently, everything he wasn't earlier, presses teasing little kisses down her body, swirls his tongue in her bellybutton while she giggles and squirms, her hands now stroking through his hair and over his neck like a blessing, her voice murmuring his name like a benediction.

"Gonna make it good for you this time, so good for you, baby," he whispers against the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she makes this broken, whimpering sound that sends a jolt of heat right to his dick.

He goes slow, using lips and tongue and fingers to make her moan and gasp, hips arching off the bed. When he looks up, she's got her shirt shoved up and is palming her breasts, eyes closed and face screwed up in intense concentration, taking what he gives her and begging for more with soft choking sounds that never quite spell out his name. He brings her to the edge and then over it, and she shakes and shudders and moans until she's spent, sprawled bonelessly, shamelessly, across her bed.

He brushes her sweaty hair back from her forehead, kisses her softly, every touch an apology, a request for the forgiveness she holds back from everyone else and finds so easy to give him, who deserves it least.

She curls into him, hands tangling in his shirt to keep him close, whispers, thank you against his neck, and something that might be love you over his heart--he's not sure, and she doesn't say it again, but he's not going to ask.

He holds her until she falls asleep, blissful, fucked-out smile on her face, and then goes back into the bathroom, jacks himself until he comes. He's slow to wash, wants to keep her scent on his skin as long as he can.

He's restless, last vestiges of adrenaline burning off now that he knows she's home and safe and asleep, that the biggest danger to her now--always--is him, and no one else. He's not used to sticking around after sex, but there's no place for him to go, and he wouldn't go even if there was. He's made his bed, and he's got to lie in it.

As he pulls the gun out of his jacket pocket, still wrapped in the ripped remains of Sam's underwear, he thinks, once again, that irony is a bitch.

He's not sure what time it is when he finally falls asleep, but he wakes to the shrill ring of the phone, and on the other end, Dad's voice weary and excited at the same time, barking directions to Bayou La Batre and lists of supplies for them to bring him when they come.

Sam comes out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in a towel and her old pink bathrobe pulled tight around her waist. She presses a kiss to his forehead while Dad's still talking in his ear.

When he hangs up, she says, "I made coffee," and then, "I have a trig test on Monday, so this better not take too long." Everything is the way it should be, and Dean breathes out in relief, feeling like he's dodged one more bullet.

After the haunted shrimp boat--and Dean doesn't think he'll be able to face a plate of scampi for months--Dad's restless, eager to move on, find something else to hunt. He pulls Sam out of school at the holidays; they pack up and are on the road in less than a day, leaving the warmth of the Gulf Coast behind as they head north and west, chasing rumors of ghosts and danger.

Dad still makes them share a room when they stay at motels, and Dean doesn't complain again, lets himself be surrounded by Sam and what she's giving him, trying not to think about it as what he's taking from her.

It should be weird, and in some ways it is, because she's Sammy, and he remembers holding her the day she was born, remembers carrying her out of the house the night of the fire, remembers singing her to sleep, kissing her scraped knees, and now he knows what she looks and sounds like when she comes, what she tastes like. He's never stuck around long enough to know anyone the way he knows her, to let anyone know him the way she does, and he knows there's no easy out for either of them when this ends--and it will end, because she wants so much more from life than hunting and fucking her brother, and the thing is, she deserves it, and he's afraid that when she gets it, she'll leave him behind altogether, one more relic of a life she doesn't want. And he's afraid that if she doesn't get it, she'll end up hating him for keeping her with him, for betraying her trust and using sex to hold her close.

He's not sure which he's more afraid of, so he pushes it away, loses himself in the smooth skin of her belly and the silky weight of her breasts in his hands, under his tongue.

In some ways, though, it's as normal as anything else in their lives, because it's Sam and Dean, curled up under the ugly polyester covers, bad eighties cop shows on television, warm and safe from the world outside, better protection than any salt lines or chalk symbols could ever be.

They spend Christmas with Pastor Jim, New Year's with Bobby, and land in Ames, Iowa when Sam reminds them that she's still got school to finish and could they please settle until June this time?

They rent a small house not too far from the university, and Sam trades in her flip-flops and jean jacket for snow boots and a parka, complaining the whole time about the cold and how showing up in January makes it hard to get on the track team, even with a glowing reference from her old coach in Mobile.

Dean's twenty-first birthday sneaks up on them--Dad's picking up shifts as a security guard at the hospital, and Dean's pumping gas during the day and hustling pool at night, trying to make the rent and keep them in food and clothes and ammo. He comes home that night to Sam beaming at him over a heavily decorated cake (she's more enthusiastic in the kitchen than capable, because she tends to get absorbed in her reading and forget she's cooking) and Dad pulling him into a one-armed hug and inviting him out for a drink, since he's legal now.

After dinner and cake, Dad gives him a new shotgun, which is more than he expected--when he turned eighteen, Dad gave him the Impala, and he's only gotten small gifts since then, doesn't really need anything else.

Sam hands him a small box wrapped in bright paper. "It's not much," she says, looking anxious.

"I'm sure it's great." She's taped it up so tightly he has to pull out his pocketknife to get it open. When he finally manages it, he sees three leather bracelets resting on that white cottony stuff they put in jewelry boxes.

"They're elephant hair bracelets," she says, leaning forward and sliding them onto his right wrist, fingers warm as a kiss against his skin. "The knots represent earth and nature, and the strands represent the seasons. They're supposed to provide protection from illness and accidents."

"Thanks, Sammy." He smiles, honestly touched at the thought she put into the gift.

She's still holding his hand in hers when Dad pulls on his jacket and says, "Come on, Dean." Sam pouts, and he almost gives in to her when she asks to come along--it'd be the least of the things he's given in on--but Dad laughs and ruffles her hair, easy with her in a way he rarely is lately, and says, "You'll have your turn, Sammy. Your brother will be so busy warning away your potential boyfriends that he won't have time to enjoy himself."

The idea of some asshole picking Sam up in a bar makes Dean feel a little sick, but he pushes it away, brushes a hand down her back and drops a kiss on the top of her head to say thank you.

"Dad, please?" she says. "My homework's all done, and I promise I won't complain when you're ready to leave."

Dad looks at Dean, and Dean shrugs. "It's fine by me."

Dad rubs a hand over his jaw and says, "Okay, but we're not staying long. And don't even try to order anything but Coke, Sammy."

"Diet Coke."

Dad smiles. "That, too."

She throws her arms around him, gives him a quick squeeze, and he rests a hand on the top of her head for a second, as always looking as startled by her spontaneous shows of affection as he is by her constant questioning of his authority.

She grabs her coat and bumps her hip against Dean's as they walk out, her hand skimming under his shirts and over his belly like a promise, making him stumble. She spins away from him, laughter ringing through the cold night air like a bell.

The bar is like a hundred other bars he's been in since he was sixteen and old enough to stare down bouncers with his fake ID--hard wood floors and scarred wood tables, darts and pool in the backroom, a jukebox heavy on Skynyrd and Zeppelin, and a cute blonde waitress dressed in a short skirt and belly shirt despite the cold.

"Midnight Rider" is playing when they slide into a booth, and the waitress saunters over, eyes and smile bright.

"I'm Annette, and I'll be your waitress tonight. What can I get you folks?" she says, never looking away from Dean.

"It's my boy's birthday," Dad says, "so we're doing a little celebrating."

It doesn't seem possible, but Annette's smile gets wider and she leans in, giving him a whiff of her flowery perfume. "Happy birthday."

He can feel Sam tense next to him, so he puts a hand on her knee and squeezes. "I'll have a bottle of Bud and a shot of Jack."

"Make that two," Dad says. "And a Coke for the young lady."

"Diet Coke." Sam's smile is tight and false, and he wonders if she regrets coming.

"Happy birthday, son," Dad toasts him, and they knock back the shot, warmth of it in his chest welcome after the cold outside. Sam sips her diet Coke and fidgets until Dad hands her a bunch of singles and sends her off to commandeer the jukebox. "Don't forget to play some Johnny Cash," he says, and she waves her hand, promising nothing.

The liquor doesn't taste any different now that Dean's legal, but he likes not having to worry about getting tossed out, about having his ID confiscated (there was this town down the Jersey shore where the bouncers got fifty bucks for every fake they found, and Dean tried three different clubs before he gave up; he's looking forward to going back to Jersey someday and walking in like he owns those places), because those things can be a bitch to replace, and even though he's gotten good at it over the years, it's still time and effort he could be spending on something else.

"Thanks, Dad."

They drink in silence for a couple minutes, and Dean hums along with the jukebox, which has switched to "Baba O'Riley," and grins at the waitress when she goes past, a little extra swing in her hips, just for him.

Another beer, another shot, and Dad's slouching against the back of the booth a little, small smile on his face. "Sammy's settling in pretty well, don't you think? She seems happier lately."

He looks over to see her bent over the jukebox, face scrunched up in concentration. "Yeah." He takes a sip of beer, forces himself to stay calm, because Dad doesn't know, can't ever know, what's putting a smile on Sam's face these days. "I think the track thing--I think it's good for her. Girls who play sports--" He has some vague recollection of a Nike commercial about it that used to enthrall her. He fumbles for words, can't find any that won't lead to trouble, so he settles for repeating himself as if he's said something profound. Dad'll blame the Jack if he even notices how lame Dean sounds. "It's good for them. Keeps her out of trouble." He takes another sip of beer. "Looks good on her college applications, too." Not that he wants her to go, or to go away, anyway. Which is what it means--it's not like they're going to stay in one place, so no matter where she goes, it will be away.

Dad nods. "I wish we could let her go. I wish it was safe. But it's not, Dean. You understand that, right?"

"I--Yeah, of course." He hates that it's not safe, hates that he's grateful that keeps her with him, but he's not sure, in the end, that she's going to stay.

"Don't encourage her. It'll only break her heart when she can't go."

"Dad, I'm not--"

Dad gives him a look, because he knows how Dean crumbles like a Ritz cracker when Sam pushes him.

"Any boys I should know about?" Dean chokes on his beer, and Dad laughs. "I know, it's...difficult to think about. But she's a beautiful girl, and they're bound to come sniffing around, probably sooner rather than later."

Dean clears his throat, manages to find his voice. "I know. I'm on it." It's not technically a lie.

"Don't be afraid to show 'em your new shotgun." Dad clinks his bottle against Dean's, and this time, they both laugh, though Dean's is edged with nervousness he hopes his father can't hear. "Your sister is a special girl. I'm sure every father thinks that about his daughter, but Sammy...Sammy is..."

"Yeah, Dad. I know." He takes another swallow of beer, signals the waitress for another round. "I'm sure she'd like to hear that, too." It's as close as he's come to criticizing his father in a long time. Possibly ever.

Dad looks away for a second, shakes his head. "She'd probably turn it into some kind of argument. Never saw a kid who liked to argue so much. Stubborn as hell, too."

"Gee, I wonder where she gets that from."

Dad points a finger at him in warning. "Watch yourself, buddy." But there's no heat in it.

Alanis Morrisette's sharp, angry voice blares out of the speakers, and they both wince.

"That and her god-awful taste in music."

"That I can't take any credit for." He shakes his head. "At least she's grown out of that boy band shit."

"Yeah, even this angry chick rock is a step up from that." Dean shudders, remembering the Backstreet Boys poster she'd carried from crappy apartment to cheap motel to crappy apartment, fished it out of the garbage every time he'd tried to get rid of it. And then one day, it'd disappeared as if it'd never been there at all, and she curled her lip disdainfully at her old tapes, left them behind somewhere between Tallahassee and Atlanta. "If she'd kept it up, I was gonna suggest disowning her."

Dad laughs again. "So you let her play the angry chick rock in the car?"

"God, no! Same rules as always. Driver picks the music." Though Dad had bent that sometimes for them, let him listen to Metallica's new albums the day they came out, let Sam play Nevermind until the tape damn near snapped once she'd discovered Nirvana.

"She's gonna be taking Driver's Ed this semester." Dad takes the new bottle of beer from the waitress, who leans in to clear the empty shot glasses off the table and gives Dean a look down her shirt. Dean grins appreciatively, lets his gaze slide down her body like he's already got her undressed and on her knees. She walks away with a smile, and he thinks they're going to have to leave her a nice tip, either way. "Been thinking you should take her out driving."

"Wait, what?" Dean snaps out of his daze, sits up straight. "You want me to let Sammy drive the Impala?"

Sam slides back into the booth next to him, sullen glare at the waitress replaced with an eager look. "You learned to drive in the Impala."

"Yeah, but that was me. Dad taught me to drive when I was tall enough to reach the pedals." He hadn't done it but once or twice then, in emergencies, but knowing how to drive when other kids his age were still riding around on bicycles, had been the coolest thing--cooler than the first time Dad had handed him a beer after a hunt (at fifteen) or the first time Dad let him drop a book of lit matches into a grave (at thirteen, and that's still pretty fucking cool at twenty-one)--because even as a kid he'd known the Impala was pretty much as cool as things ever got, and he'd hit that peak at twelve and never come down.

Dad reaches out and squeezes Sam's hand. "Well, Sammy's certainly tall enough for that."

"Dad--"

"Dean."

There's no arguing with that tone of voice, and Dean knows it. "Yes, sir."

"It's not like I haven't taught her the basics."

"And I'll be taking Driver's Ed," she adds.

Dad nods. "You'll just be helping her practice." He must still look skeptical, because Dad says, "I'm counting on you, Dean."

"Yes, sir."

"I mean it." He leans forward, gets that focused look only hunting puts on his face. "I heard from Caleb this afternoon. He's tracking a pack of werewolves. Next full moon, we're going after 'em. We're gonna need every gun we've got on this one, and I need to know I can count on you and Sammy both to be prepared for anything."

Dean nods, head spinning. They've taken down lone werewolves on occasion, and there was that time with what turned out to be a married couple outside Three Forks, but a whole pack is something else, something big. The thought of depending on Sam to drive in an emergency is kind of scary, but she'll be safer waiting in the car than tramping through the woods with him and Dad and Caleb, and Dad knows what he's doing--he's kept them all alive so far.

"We will be, Dad. Don't worry about it."

"Good man." Dad claps him on the shoulder, smiling, and that's all Dean's ever asked from him, best present he could have gotten. The only dark spot is the way Sam tenses next to him, but he kicks her before she can complain about hunting again, and she bites her lip and looks away.

One more round, and Dean's just getting into the swing of the night, eyeing the pool table with interest, but Dad's ready to pack it in. He glances at the waitress and gives Dean a knowing grin. "You can stay if you want--it's your birthday party. I'll leave the chain off, but try not to stay out too late."

Dean nods. "I won't."

Dad tosses a couple of twenties onto the table and stands, pulling his jacket on. "Come on, Sammy, let's motor. You've got school in the morning."

She slides out of the booth and gives him a look that's hurt and angry all at once. He grabs her hand, squeezes it--to reassure her? To apologize for something he hasn't done yet, but they both know he's thinking of doing? He's not sure, and she obviously doesn't get it, or, more likely, she doesn't want it, because she jerks away, lips quirking in a frown. She's generally got a good poker face, and it's getting better as she gets older, but her mouth always gives her away--he's been reading it for years, like a second language she doesn't even know she's speaking.

"I didn't even get to hear all my songs," she starts, but one look from Dad stops her. She promised, and even in something as small as this, they all take that seriously. "Happy birthday," she says instead, and lets Dad lead her away.

Dean gets up, goes to the pool table, and puts his money down for next, offering to play the winner. Turns out the guy owns a red sixty-nine GTO, and they get to talking about cars and engines, the possibility of some part-time work in a garage. Dean grins wide, surprisingly warmed at the oddness of maybe making a friend. Annette keeps the drinks coming, and now that he's alone, she's even more flirtatious, and he shows his appreciation.

He thinks about it as he plays, not even trying to hustle tonight and still winning enough to at least cover his tab and still have cash left over, thinks about dyed blonde hair ghosting over his skin, the weight and feel of her tits in his hands--she's at least a C-cup, if not a D--and lips painted bright pink wrapped around his dick. He wonders if she'd let him fuck her in that tight little ass, if she'd giggle and pretend she'd never done it before, or if she'd be proud of her ability to give him whatever he wanted.

Nirvana segues into Johnny Cash as he sinks the eight ball again, pockets his winnings, and leans a hip against the table to watch her as she takes off her apron and drops it on the bar.

"Going on my break," she says when she walks past, hips swaying like an invitation.

Dean thinks of Sam, all the promises he's made her, and all the ones he hasn't, the things he shouldn't give her, and the things he always will.

"Have a good night," he says. When she pouts, he says, "I've got to be at work early in the morning," and she walks away, knowing reje