h o t . c h i l d . i n . t h e . c i t y

Hot Child in the City
[by victoria p.]

Rating: adult

Summary: Sam's just going to have to fuck it out of her system.

Spoilers: None

Notes: AU; Sam has always been a girl, though this isn't part of the big girl!Sam AU surrounding "Beggars Would Ride;" instead, it's actually the first one of the Five (or Possibly Seven) Ways Dean Winchester Slept with His (Non-Existent) Sister thing I will be posting from time to time. *facepalm* luzdeestrellas, stop laughing. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.

Word count: 2,890 words

Date: October 25, 2007

Dean's not sure yet what it is they're hunting; he just knows that three women have turned up dead in the last two weeks, and all of them started out at this club. The music is ridiculously loud and godawful, some kind of techno shit with deep, pounding bass Dean can feel in his chest, rumbling up through the soles of his feet. The only good part is watching the half-dressed women rub up against each other on the dance floor, and he can't really let himself get distracted by that, not when they're using Sam as bait.

He leans against the carpeted wall and watches as guys chat her up, and if he has to fight back the urge to beat the crap out of them all, well, she's his sister, and she's showing way too much skin, and he knows exactly what those guys want from her. The guy talking to her now is some kind of skanky Eurotrash motherfucker, dark hair slicked back off his forehead and shirt unbuttoned just a little too far. He traces the line of her throat, finger skimming over the deep V of her cleavage, and Dean shoves away from the wall, because there's looking, which he doesn't like but has to put up with, and then there's touching, which is completely off-limits while he's around.

He works his way through the crowd, but the guy is gone when he gets to Sam's side. She's flushed and sweating under the lights and amid the press of bodies, and her red-painted lips are wrapped around the mouth of her beer bottle in a way that makes Dean want things he tells himself he doesn't; unfortunately, he totally knows he's lying.

She smiles when she sees him, lights up like the strobes flashing overhead. "Dean," she says, leaning into him. "I think that was our guy."

"What?" He curls his fingers around the soft skin of her upper arms to keep her from pressing up against him.

"He knew who I was. Said he was gonna do me a favor, wanted me to keep him in mind." She looks at him with wide, confused eyes and puts a warm, sweaty palm to his cheek. "Dean, can we go now?"

He nods. "Come on." He wraps an arm around her waist and she leans heavily against him, as if she's had too much to drink, and that scares him, because he was watching and she only had that one beer. If she's been roofied, he's going to hunt that guy down, cut his balls off, and feed them to him. But first, he has to take care of Sam. She slings an arm around him and dips a hand into his back pocket, and he has to bite back a yelp of surprise when she squeezes his ass. "Not funny, Samantha."

"Not trying to be," she answers, her mouth close enough to his ear that her warm breath brushing his skin makes him shiver.

When they get in the car, she slides along the seat to press up against him, and the ride's short enough that he allows himself to keep his arm around her shoulders, the scent of her hair tickling his nose.

Once they're back at the motel, he sits down on the edge of the bed to take off his boots, but before he can do more than untie the laces, Sam kicks off her sandals and climbs into his lap, her knees pressing down into the old mattress on either side of his hips.

"It's hot in here," she announces. It's really not, because they left the AC on high when they left, but she's still flushed and sweating, and her skin is warm to the touch.

She grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it off, dropping it to the floor in a heap of black fabric. She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts are high and firm and pink-tipped, and he has to remind himself all over again that she's his sister, and he most definitely does not want to lean in and lick her peaked nipples.

Dean swallows hard and tries to push her away, but she wraps her arms around his neck and runs her mouth along his jaw, and his hands sort of settle on her waist and stay there, thumbs making small circles on warm, soft skin.

"Sam?"

"I need you to fuck me," she says, grinding down against him. "I, oh, God." Her eyes--bright and dark and feverish--widen as it all clicks into place. "It was an incubus, Dean. He touched me and--"

She's still moving, and he has to close his eyes and make himself focus because his body just wants to go along for the ride. "Okay," he says, and has to clear his throat before he says it again. "Okay." It's awkward and he doesn't want to do it, but he manages to wriggle out from under her and drop her onto the bed by herself. He stands, turns so he doesn't have to look at her as she touches herself, one hand coming up to play with her nipples while the other slides along her belly and down beneath the elastic of her underwear. "You--take care of yourself, and I'll call Bobby and see if there's anything we can do."

He slams into the bathroom and locks the door, trying to blot the image of her on the bed, the sensation of her writhing around in his lap, out of his mind. He doesn't need Bobby to tell him that there isn't anything to do but get Sam laid, that jerking off isn't going to do anything but make her more desperate, and of all the words he wishes he'd never heard Bobby say, Sam's just going to have to fuck it out of her system are right at the top of the list.

He hangs up and spends a couple of minutes trying to compose himself. He can hear her now through the flimsy door, soft moaning noises that make his dick ache. He gives it a stern talking to, and a brief squeeze, and then heads back out into the bedroom.

Sam's got her underwear off now--kicked to the floor with her dress--and her hands between her legs. "Dean, please," she says, grabbing his hand and pressing it to the hot, slick flesh of her cunt.

"I know you have a vibrator," he says. He's heard the electric hum in the middle of the night, held still and pretended to sleep so he could listen to her, and then replayed the sounds in his head in the morning when he jerked off in the shower. Now, he sits on the bed next to her and forces himself to look away, even as he thumbs her swollen clit and feels her shiver and gasp in response.

"You know as well as I do that this isn't going to work," she snaps, pressing up against his hand. "I have to--Oh, God...." Her eyes flutter closed and her fingers tighten around his wrist as she comes.

"Is that--Did that take the edge off, at least?" he asks when she's done, trying not to watch the way her tits bounce as she catches her breath.

She shimmies and closes her eyes and bites her lower lip, and Dean thinks it's really fucking unfair that women get multiple orgasms and men don't. "Not even close," she says finally, bringing his hand up to her mouth. She sucks each finger into her mouth slowly, licking them clean. He knows he should pull away, but he can't do it.

"We should find someone for you to--" he says.

"I want you."

"Sam, you've been whammied by an incubus. You don't even know what you're saying."

She yanks him down onto the bed and climbs on top of him, long fingers already flicking open the buttons on his shirt. "I haven't had sex since Jess died," she says.

He nods. He doesn't think that's the healthiest thing, but he also isn't particularly interested in seeing her hook up with random strangers he might have to shoot afterwards for hurting her. "And is this really the way you want the first time since then to be?" he asks gently.

She leans forward, sucks his earlobe into her mouth, sending another jolt of need through his body. "Yes," she whispers. "I've always wanted this, Dean. For as long as I can remember."

As fucked up as that is, he wants it to be true. But he's pretty sure it's just the influence of the incubus. "Sam--"

"My whole life, I've watched you fuck your way through the female population of this country," she says, pushing his shirt open and pressing hot open-mouthed kisses to his chest and belly. He shivers under the heat of her mouth, and puts a hand in her hair, cradling her head tenderly, the way he had when she was a baby. "And I've been wishing it was me since I was old enough to understand what sex was." She gets his jeans unzipped and curls a hand around his dick, which is aching for the touch. "I just thought you'd never go for it." She runs her thumb along the slit, and he sucks in a surprised breath. Her smile is a weird combination of shy and mischievous. "Until now."

He grabs her wrist, gives her one last out. "You sure about this?" He knows he should do more to talk her out of it, knows he's fucking everything up by giving in, even if she's telling the truth (and maybe she is--there's always been something between them, but he's always told himself it's wishful thinking), but he can't resist her, not when she's telling him what he's always wanted to hear.

"I am." Her breathing is ragged and her body is gleaming with sweat, but she pushes herself up and away from him. "And even if I weren't, do you think I would trust anyone but you right now, Dean? Seriously?" He shakes his head, because when she puts it that way, it almost makes sense. "I mean, if you're really freaked out, if you don't want to--" She gives him the wide, innocent eyes, which shouldn't work when she's buck naked and got a hand on his dick, but somehow, it does.

"Okay," he says, holding her gaze. He knows he'll regret it in the morning, when she wakes up free of the demon's influence and freaks the fuck out, but for now, he's going to take what he wants, what he's wanted for a longer time than he'd like to admit. At least tonight, they can blame the incubus.

He raises his hips, helps her slide his jeans down his legs and off, and then she's on top of him again, all hungry mouth and eager fingers, and hot, wet cunt grinding down against his thigh. Her tongue in his mouth is slick and sweet, better than he could have imagined.

He cups her ass, squeezes the firm flesh the way she'd done to him earlier, and she laughs into his mouth, but she follows his unspoken directions and shifts, rising up and then sinking slowly down onto his cock. She goes slow at first, and he can feel the strain in her thighs as she moves, her fingers digging into his shoulders for leverage. He slips a hand between them to finger her clit, and she moans his name, low and dirty and full of need. She's hot and tight and wet, and she moves over him like a dancer, strength and grace in the sleek curve of her spine, the demanding roll of her hips.

It never ceases to amaze him how good sex makes him feel, and how good he can make other people feel, how good he can make Sam feel right now, when she needs him to. It's the closest he comes to believing in God when her cunt tightens around his dick, her breath hitching for a moment before she comes again. He watches her this time, takes in the look of bliss on her face before his own orgasm hits him like a lightning strike, white light and white heat and sheer pleasure rolling through his body and out into hers.

She slumps against him, and he rolls them over easily so he can cover her, press kisses to her face and throat, lick away the sweat slicking her skin and gathering along her collarbones.

She thrusts up against him, and he sighs into her neck, pulling out so he can slide down the bed and lick her clean. The combined taste of his come and hers is pungent, sharp and salty on his tongue, and he wonders vaguely if that's what breaks the spell, and then he can't think at all. He loves this, the heat and mess of it, the way he knows he'll be tasting her for days in sudden flashes of memory when he least expects them. She pushes up against his mouth when he sucks on her clit, the long, soft hiss of her breath saying more than the words she can't manage to choke out when he fucks her with his tongue and two fingers, his senses full of her, the only thing in the world that really matters. She comes with a low, hoarse noise that might be his name and a rush of wet warmth against his face, and he licks his lips and laughs.

He flops down beside her and she grins, already half-asleep. He curls himself around her, presses a kiss to the nape of her neck, a soft hope that neither of them will regret this in the morning.

He wakes up alone, though her side of the bed is still warm. She's sitting at the desk, wearing one of his old t-shirts, pulled down to cover her knees, which are drawn up against her chest, so only her feet peek out; the chipped red polish on her toenails looks black in the darkness of the room. Her hair is wet and combed back off her face, which means she's already showered, already washed him away.

"Hey," she says.

"You okay?"

Her mouth curves in a half-smile. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

She laughs. "Yeah, Dean. I really am."

He sits up, waits for a cue, something to let him know how they're going to play this. He doesn't want to talk about it, but he also doesn't want her to hate him for taking advantage, for betraying her trust.

When she doesn't say anything, just keeps smiling at him long enough to make him twitchy, he says, "Look, Sam, we can totally pretend this didn't happen."

At the same time, she says, "I meant everything I said last night."

"You...did?" He scrubs a hand through his hair, not sure he believes her--not sure he even wants to, in the cold light of morning, and the reality of what they've done, what they're thinking of doing, staring him in the face. "You said a lot of shit last night."

She unfolds herself from the chair, and he can't pretend anymore that he doesn't notice how long her legs are, and how they lead to a really nice ass. She laughs again, like she knows exactly what he's thinking, and crawls onto the bed, leaning over him on all fours, her mouth right up against his ear. "And I meant all of it." She kisses him, soft and sweet. He cups her cheek, her skin warm but not overheated the way it was last night. She's not under any compulsion at the moment, which makes the kiss sweeter.

When she lets him up for air, he says, "The incubus--"

"He said he was doing me a favor. I think maybe he was right." She leans back, sits on his thighs (she's not wearing any underwear, which is distracting), runs her thumb over the arch of his cheek, his nose, his lower lip. The touch makes him shiver, makes him want more. "I never would have--I mean, let's face it, it is pretty fucked up."

"I know," he says. "Believe me, I know."

"I can't guarantee that I won't freak out at some point."

It's his turn to laugh. "Oh, I pretty much guarantee you will. It's kind of what you do, isn't it?"

She swats his shoulder playfully. "Shut up. Like you're not freaking out a little right now."

And okay, he maybe is a little, but he's really more interested in a repeat performance, if she's up for it. "I think as long as we both don't freak out at the same time, we should be okay." Thing is, he believes it's true.

She nods. "So, if you want to--" She lets her head fall forward, hiding from him.

"I do," he says, cupping her chin and tipping her face up so he can kiss her.

"Me, too," she says, smiling against his lips.

Dean's never thought he'd be grateful to a demon--and it's not like he's not going to waste him if they meet again--but he thinks a fleeting thanks to that skanky Eurotrash motherfucker right before he leans into Sam's kiss.

end

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