First of all, a shoutout to my fellow fanfic writers, Franki3Winchester, vrskaandrea and Blondie2000. Read their stories! They've got long ones and also one shots. Some fabulous quickies.
Speaking of quickies...Or maybe not? Dean and Isolde, alone for the first time in ten years! Onward and upward! (So to speak.)
Chapter Nine
When the door burst open (predictably, all things considered), I was still a delicacy to all things supernatural. Not for lack of trying. Mostly, it was due to a lack of expediency on Dean's part.
I mean, I was all systems go, let's get this ride going, but he was all about long, slow kisses, and caresses, and this thing that he did with his tongue that made me squirm and squeeze whatever part of him I could squeeze with my thighs. I even made some experimental tongue explorations of my own. I was far less practiced (that is to say, not at all) than Dean, of course, but I guess what I lacked in experience I made up for in enthusiasm because he seemed to like whatever I was doing. There was one moment when I was afraid I might have used too much teeth, but after a short pause to access the damage, we were all systems go again, and the ball was nearing the end zone. We just needed to make that final drive, and we were looking for some deep penetration—once Dean donned his helmet.
Okay. Look. Cut me some slack. It's easier to talk in metaphors, okay? Plus, it was my first time (sort of), not yours, so if I want to describe it using NFL analogies, it's my prerogative. My apologies to those of you who aren't familiar with American football. But if the metaphor works...I think you get what I'm trying to say, even if you're not into the sport.
Sadly, (and to continue the metaphors to their conclusion) the clock got stopped at the goal line when Bobby and Sam threw a flag by busting the door off its hinges. (That last bit isn't a metaphor; they really did break the door off its hinges when they kicked it open. It slammed against the wall, showering us in bits of wood and plaster.)
Dean had been confident we were hidden (in plain sight or otherwise), but Bobby and Sam were Hunters, and in retrospect…seriously. What did we expect? And Dean? He really underestimated them. Or maybe he was just more focused on us than them. In the end, they rushed into the room like it was on fire.
To be honest, it kind of was.
Still, with all the instincts of a trained hunter, Dean rolled off the mattress and to his feet, crouched in a fighting stance as soon at the door banged against the wall.
"All right! Stop whatever you're doing and—oh! Holy Mother of Hell, boy. Put that away!" This from Bobby, of course.
For those of you who may be curious, I thought Dean looked pretty impressive even though he was naked-except for his socks. However, even as much as I enjoyed the sight, mostly it was just awkward. I'm sure Dean would have gotten dressed even without the comment. It was kind of amusing to see the war waging on Bobby's face, where curmudgeon and embarrassment fought to claim his expression. Curmudgeon won, finally, after a fierce battle. He pointed his finger to the door. "Dean! Get back up to the room and stay there."
I noticed Sam, standing off to the side with an almost blasé expression; it occurred to me this wasn't the first time he'd been treated to the sight of his brother sans flannel.
Or pants.
As for me, I had pulled the sheet up to my neck as soon as I heard the crash of the door. Bobby appeared to notice me, after he'd dealt with Dean. He stabbed his index finger my way. "And you—" Stab, stab— "Are gonna go to the adjoining room with him—" he jabbed his thumb in Sam's direction—"and you're not moving. And, for the love of Mike, put some clothes on. Got that?"
Dean was by now hop-stepping into his jeans. "Who's Mike?"
"Idjit. You shut up." He grabbed Dean's shirt from the floor by the door where it had been tossed shortly after he and I had entered the room and he shook it in Dean's direction. "Put this on and move. Now!"
As I watched Dean make his slow way across the room, I was distracted by a flash of fuchsia overhead, and realized it was my bra, dangling from a loop draped over one of the ceiling fan blades. It rotated overhead, cups in, cups out.
I wondered where my panties had gone.
"Aw, c'mon, Bobby—" Dean protested, but after giving me a flirty bat of his green eyes, he let the older man push him out of the room, yanking his T-shirt over his head after he went. "What about my boots?"
Sam moved from his place by the door, scooped them up and then casually tossed them outside. There was a popping noise, and Dean's voice. "Ow. Thanks, Sammy."
Sam responded by setting the onto its hinges and closing them out. Then he turned, leaned against the wall with his arms folded, and fixed me with a smirk. "Well?"
"Turn around," I ordered. He did so, obediently and with a great show of chivalry. It was all for nothing; though I found my new (ish) pink lacy panties on the floor near the nightstand, (I'd left the giant, white cotton ones in a dumpster shortly after we left the Salvation Army) there was no way I could get my bra down without standing on a chair. So I wrapped myself back up in the sheet and started dragging the chair across the room. Sam heard the noise, turned, raised a brow, then reached up and grabbed the scrap of fabric down as casually as a guy picking a low-hanging apple. "Need this?" He held it out to me, hanging at the end of his index finger. He grinned, and showed his dimples.
"Shut up." I spun my finger at him in a turn-around gesture. Again. As he did so, I said, "I don't see what the big deal is. Other people have sex. Why can't we do it?"
He shrugged. "Bobby knows something, but he's not talking."
"Knows something? Like what?" I pulled on my clothes, then had to look for my boots. I found them in the bathroom, of all places, and then I remembered kicking them in that direction in some imitation of stripper which—in retrospect—seemed pretty lame. But at the time, the arc of those clunky boots as they flew off my feet had seemed sexy. Or something. Maybe the sexy part came from just getting naked with Dean.
"Who is he? The King of the Bombshells? God only knows what he's going to say next."
"Bobby knows all the Lore. Can I turn around now?" Sam turned, without waiting for me to say yes.
"Like Magda, I guess. For us, she's the Queen of Lore. Come to think of it...she's leads the Elders, too." I frowned. And yet, she had Kieran. Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes.
Sam appeared disinterested. "Want some lunch? I bet I can convince Bobby to let me take you out for pizza or something."
"What about Dean?" I couldn't help but ask.
Sam wrinkled his nose. "He'll be all right. Don't worry about him." He paused. "Listen. About Dean. Maybe it's best you guys don't...you know. Things are complicated enough."
"Because he's going to Hell?" I frowned. I couldn't help it.
"We're working on getting him out of the contract. But if I were you, I wouldn't plan on much more than-you know. A relationship is the last thing he's going to pay attention to. And you-well, you'll get hurt. Is it worth it?"
He lifted the door open, gestured for me to go through. I stood on the sidewalk while he placed it back on its hinges and pulled it completely closed from the outside. He gave it a gentle pat, as if to say, There. All fixed. Then he turned to me. "Is it?"
I couldn't answer.
Sam was true to his word—he took me back to the room. He didn't even knock on the door when I got into the shower and started to cry, long and hard. Discharging estrogen, maybe? Fear, for Dean? Disappointment? Or maybe even guilt? Who knew? Sensitive Sam did, and he gave me some time to myself with no interruptions.
When I got out of the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and realized—duh—I had no fresh clothes to put on. Awkward. So I cracked the door a bit.
"Sam?"
He was sitting at the kitchenette table with his laptop—of course—and didn't have to move to see me there. "Hey. Feel better?"
"Uh huh. Except I have nothing to wear."
"Oh!" He pushed the chair back and got up; he moved out of sight (with the bathroom door cracked, that is—it's not like I was about to fling it open). I heard him knock on the door that adjoined our two rooms, but there was no answer. "I'll have to jimmy it—they said something about hitting up the liquor store. I guess they're still out." He came back into view.
I sighed. "Never mind. It's not important. I'll just wear what I had on, I guess." I closed the door and redressed, feeling like I hadn't solved any of my problems at all. It wasn't that the clothes weren't clean—Lord knows I could zap them clean if I wanted to anyway. It's just…I needed to hit the reset button, and a new set of clothes would have helped with that.
I emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam.
Sam looked up. "Want to switch shirts?"
"What?" I almost took a step backward. Was he psychic? "Are you—how did you…?"
"I figured you might want a change of outfit. Sort of a fresh start. Here." He shrugged out of his voluminous plaid flannel shirt, leaving him in a tight-fitting t-shirt. (It fit like a second skin, and yes, it became hot enough in our room to evaporate the steam still roiling out of the bathroom and evaporate any remaining moisture in the air. I don't know what he did to make himself look that way, but—damn, the boy had a physique. I may have been in love with Sam's brother, and tenderhearted about my cousin, but I'd have to be dead not to be affected by Sam Winchester's...Samliness. At least, a little.)
He tossed his giant flannel shirt my way and it flapped toward my head like an escaped plaid circus tent. I managed to catch it, which surprised me. Because really, I wasn't paying attention to anything but shoulders and biceps, a trim waist, and slim hips. Par for the course, I decided. The hazards of having a male Winchester in the room.
Meanwhile, and oblivious to my perusal, he sat back down and started tapping away at his laptop, all nerd-like but sexy in a plain white tee. I looked down at my own plaid shirt, buttoned over my own tee. "Um…I don't think mine will fit you."
"That's okay." He didn't look up from the screen. "I'm fine."
I'm not. I don't think. "Don't you have another shirt you could put on?" His physique was killing me. I felt like some kind of-I don't know what. I lusted Dean, dammit, not his brother. This couldn't-shouldn't!-be happening.
"Nope," he answered, and shrugged those shoulders. My heart fluttered. My skin tingled. What the hell! Damn.
I took my shirt off and put his on; it fell to my knees. And the sleeves hung past my wrists by a good five inches. But, at least it felt so much better than my other shirt, which still smelled like Dean: part-apple pie and part gun-oil and part-something indescribable but familiar and endearing. Good. Much better. This was the Winchester I desired.
My heart ached. Who was I kidding? Sam was right. Dean would never be mine. And I could never be his. Now that we'd almost but not quite done "the deed", it seemed harder than ever to walk away. But I had to try...I pulled the shirt closed and began to button it. The soft flannel shirt smelled clean, of no-name detergent and hotel bar soap; there was another scent there and I breathed deeply, trying to identify it. L'Essence du Sammy. Not as heady as L'Air de Dean, but pleasant all the same.
Shit!
It kind of reminded me of Kieran, someone whom I'd forgotten during the excitement. Guilt punched me then, right in the gut. My eyes suddenly filled with tears. I was supposed to be with him, I knew that. He was my intended, according to the Clan, and I'd betrayed him. Even though I knew I was going to be Banished and it didn't matter anyway. Sadness fell over me in waves. As hard as it was to believe, this was the reason I'd cried in the shower. The same overwhelming sadness welled up from my soul-fickle as it was. I fought tears, again.
Oh, man up, I told myself. Really. This is better for Kieran, really, because you know you'll make a lousy wife. You'll always be telling him to stop being such a dork. You're not an exemplary Cleaner wife by any stretch. Kieran deserves better. He's not a bad guy. He's just annoying. And...and he's...I sighed again.
"I think I found a job." Sam turned the laptop toward me; I grabbed the opportunity to think of anything but Dean. Or Sam. Or-especially-Kieran.
"Is it a messy one?" I moved close to him and leaned toward the screen to read the story. Sam's breath touched my cheek and the side of my neck, but he didn't answer. So I turned to peer at him. He didn't meet my eyes. Instead, he stared at my mouth. And licked his lips.
Uh-oh.
Damn these Winchester men! Was it even possible not to be physically affected by them? They threw off sexy vibes like clouds dropped rain. I wondered if-now that I knew-if Kieran would-NO! Absolutely not. Never. I was a Dean-girl through and through. Always had been, always would be. Beside me, Sam shifted. His arm and his shoulder brushed against mine, and the heat of his body wafted over me through the flannel.
I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the headline of the article he'd showed me. Woman Accuses Ben Franklin of Sexual Harassment on Ghost Tour. Well, that was different. "You're kidding me, right? What site is this? Are you serious?"
He raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. But I've seen your lingerie, and I think you might be Ben's type."
"Dude!" I gasped.
Sam just grinned, and I realized with finality that Dean wasn't the only Winchester who could make a woman feel all tingly in her naughty places. Son of a bitch!
Sorry kids. No sex this chapter. Wnah-wnah. Although, at this rate, we're going to end up with a menage a Winchester...but first! A case!