Title: "Fell in Love with a Girl"

Author: Lila

Rating: PG-13

Character/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC

Spoiler: "Provenance"

Length: Part II of IV

Summary: When Dean falls in love, Sam gets a life

Disclaimer: I own only Lily. If you'd like to borrow her, let me know and we'll negotiate.

Author's Note: This story is progressing quite nicely, and thank you to all who've left feedback. I appreciate the support, especially regarding Lily because it's always worrisome that an original character will end up a Mary Sue and that's about my worst nightmare. Enjoy.

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"She's in love with the world…"

Lily lives in an ancient looking house at the end of a long drive. When you pull up in front of her place you offer to salt the yard for her, but she just rolls her eyes and mumbles something under her breath about men never quite getting it. Her eyes are soft and unfocused and they have a dreamy quality to them as she gazes at the back of Dean's head.

"It isn't haunted, Sam," she giggles. "Just old. It's a fixer up, and I got a really great deal on it. When you're a single woman – "

"Yeah, yeah, we've heard it before," Dean interjects and he has the same loose set to his shoulders, the same fuzzy look in his eyes, but he isn't making a move and remains in the driver's seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes locked on the hers in the rearview mirror. You glance from her, to him, and the looks they're giving each other are enough to keep a family warm through a Minnesota winter. Your own cheeks feel hot just watching them.

An awkward silence fills the car as all three of you wait for someone to make a move, and Lily's the first to break the silence. "Well, this is me. Thanks again, for everything." She pauses, but when no one stops her she opens the door, filling the car with a blast of cold air that it feels good on your flushed skin. You nudge Dean when the car shifts as it loses her weight, but he's paralyzed in place, not moving, not doing anything.

"Dean," you hiss. "What is wrong with you? Go after her."

His eyes are focused on the long line of her back as she makes her way to her front porch. "We're leaving in the morning, Sam. It's not worth it."

You have never seen your brother turn down sex, so you employ a line out of his personal playbook. "I'm not talking about marriage, Dean. You like her, she likes you, you're both consenting adults."

Something flickers in his eyes, something aching and foreign, and he refuses to back down. "Let it go, Sam. Just let it go."

You're about to have a chick flick moment and you're vaguely aware Dean might shove your head through the windshield if you don't back off, but you press forward anyway. "She isn't Cassie, Dean. You can have fun and care too."

There's a tap on the windshield and Lily is standing beside Dean's window. She looks nervous, but she takes a deep breath and fixes Dean with a heated stare. "So…are you coming?"

The air hangs painfully around you and you're tempted to answer for him, because you're not sure how much longer you can sit still with the tension and the memories surrounding you before you explode. His voice is rough when he answers, but it's insistent, resolute. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

She comes to your window while he gets out of the car, rests a forearm on the frame, leans in a little and peers into your eyes. You can't see the flecks of green in hers, but they're as knowing as they've ever been, concerned and worried, and she asks even though she knows the answer. "I have a guest room, Sam. Would you like to stay here for the night? I – we – don't mind the company."

Dean's hand is on her waist and his touch is light, but it says mine. You smile, because it's the right thing to do, and decline. "Thanks, but I'm gonna take advantage of having a night to myself." You glance at Dean, and his fingers are tightening around Lily's waist, his jaw clenching like he's about to burst. You need to get away from them. You gun the engine, turn the radio to another station. Snow Patrol fills the car and Dean winces at the melodramatic whining. You shrug your shoulders. "Driver's choice, right?"

Neither of them press the subject further, but Dean bites off a list of instructions before he lets you go: salt the room, lock the car up tight, sleep on-guard. You don't tell him the last one won't be a problem because you haven't slept, really slept, in months.

Dean's hand is sliding down and around Lily's waist and inching towards x-rated territory. You need to get out of here. He tells you goodnight and you expect Lily to do the same, but she surprises you when she leans in and cups your face in her hands. Her palms are soft, smooth, with calluses on the pointer fingers from gripping her pen too hard. They're gentle, comforting, familiar, and you wrack your brain to remember what Jess' hands felt like on yours. "Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite," she singsongs, and her lips press feather-light to your forehead like a mother's kiss. "Sweet dreams, Sammy."

You should correct her, because you just met her and she has no right to call you by your brother's nickname, but you're still reeling from the feel of her lips against your skin. When you close your eyes, and when you don't, you can feel the phantom burn of Jess' blood against your forehead, a constant reminder of your mistake, your crime, your sin. The mark of Lily's mouth is cool against your hot skin, and you half expect it to sizzle, but it doesn't, and the ache seeps out of your body with each passing second.

"Night, Sammy," Dean says and turns away from the car, Lily pressed up against him like a second skin. You watch them until they disappear inside the house, and back out of Lily's driveway with the last chords of "Chocolate" keeping you company.

It's peaceful, this town, this place, and even when a streetlight flickers in and out of consciousness as you make your way to the motel and your gut coats itself in ice for a second, you tell yourself that sometimes a streetlight really is just a streetlight. You're tired, too damn tired, to worry about this stuff tonight. Not without Dean, not on your own.

You collapse in bed fully dressed, remembering to kick off your shoes right before you drift into oblivion. You sleep, a real, deep sleep, and it's the first time you dream of Jess and your forehead doesn't burn.

---

You've only spent one night by yourself since you started this adventure or hunting trip or family bonding experience or whatever fancy term you want to call it, and you'd spent it huddled under the covers, fingers wrapped around your brother's knife, waiting for daylight while he took out years of pent up frustration on Cassie. You hadn't cared about the who or the why, and while it hadn't been fun seeing your brother with a broken heart, you'd appreciated how it had made him a real live, grown up boy, even if for only a day or so. It was the what that had bothered you, not Dean getting laid and dumping you in a motel room with "TV Land" reruns for company. You hadn't cared about any of that stuff. It was Dean leaving you alone with nothing but your memories for comfort. When Dean was there the dreams were bearable, because you knew he'd never hurt you and never leave you and never let it – any of it – happen again.

When you'd closed your eyes that night all you'd seen and heard and smelled was Jess. Jess bleeding and Jess screaming and Jess burning while you'd done nothing. Not a single thing. Just laid on that bed, paralyzed and terrified, while the love of your life went up in flames. Literally. It wasn't an experience you'd wanted to go through again, but you'd gone through it every night, like demonic clockwork, until Dean would shake you awake and whisper in the dark of the motel room, "Shhh, Sammy. It's okay. It's okay." The night he'd spent with Cassie you'd faced it alone, and you'd woken up shaking and sweating, your body aching and your soul bleeding with endless regret.

This morning, when you open your eyes and wake up, the sun is shining bright and bold through the curtains and you push them aside to greet the morning spreading fresh and new before you. The bed next to yours is empty and the room feels too big without Dean in it, but somehow, it's okay. You feel fit and rested, and your forehead doesn't hurt, it doesn't burn.

The sunlight was comforting but the florescent lights of the bathroom hurt your eyes, and you brace a hand against your forehead to block it out. Your fingers come back sticky and when you check yourself in the mirror you see the imprint of Lily's mouth against your forehead, painted in rosey gloss. Your father never kissed you goodnight. Never. Not once in the entire eighteen years you lived with him. You know your mother did, because no one could die as sainted as Mary Winchester and refuse to kiss her sons goodnight. Lily isn't your mother, she's not your friend, she's not even Dean's girlfriend, but even after you wet a washcloth and scrub at your skin, and even after the marks are gone, you can still feel the lingering presence of her kiss. It's something you could get used to.

You take a shower and use all the towels and half expect to open the door in a billow of steam and find Dean sprawled on the spare bed, hands propped behind his head, bitching about how you used up all the hot water. But his bed is still empty and there's no Greek chorus shouting suggestions to your conscience as you dress and prepare to greet the day. There's no one in the room but you. Somehow, it's still okay.

---

Lily's house is less imposing in the daylight, almost charming, and you can ignore the chipped paint and creaking porch because the mat in front of the door is decorated with daisies and there are fresh flowers in the window boxes and curtains blowing through the open windows and it feels like a home. An honest to god home. You try the handle and the door is unlocked and you're greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs as you step inside. You find her in the kitchen, hair falling in tangled curls down her back and glowing red and alive in the sunlight. She's wearing Dean's t-shirt and humming a song you don't recognize as she flips the bacon and stirs the eggs. She doesn't turn, but she smiles, you know she does, and calls a greeting over her shoulder. For a moment you wonder if she was lying when she said she wasn't one of your kind, that she'd never danced with the supernatural until you and Dean had shown up on her doorstep.

"Morning, Sam," she says and turns long enough to wink at you. "There's a loose step on the porch. I heard you coming." The bacon hisses on the stove and your stomach rumbles and you realize without Dean pestering you, you'd forgotten to eat the night before. "I'm glad you're hungry," she laughs. "I made enough food to feed an army."

The table is set for three, a glass of apple juice beside one of the plates. You note the orange juice beside the other places and realize it's for you. Dean teases you mercilessly, but it's always been your favorite, and someone has gone out of her way to get it for you. A knot forms in your throat, and it's not because it's been almost a year since a woman has made you breakfast. It's that this woman, who'll most likely never see your brother again come sundown, has made breakfast and wants to share it with you. You glance at her and she's watching you carefully, and it sounds weird but feels right that you can only describe her smile as maternal. "Will you go wake your brother?" she asks. "The food's almost ready and I want us to eat before it gets cold."

You manage a nod and head upstairs, guessing your way to her bedroom. You like Lily's house. It's simple, but striking, a lot like her. It's been months, years maybe, since you've walked through a house you've been invited into, no lies, no manipulations, and you take the time to savor the moment. You don't remember the house you grew up in. Sure, you've seen it, with another family living inside its walls and suffering its legacy. But you don't remember it, not the way it was when your family was happy and together and alive. You know you lost more than your mother that November night. You lost everything. Until now, you weren't sure you'd get any of it back.

You find Lily's bedroom when you open a door at the end of the hall and your brother is sprawled face down on the bed, bare to the waist with sunlight rippling across his naked back. There are pretty curtains decorating the windows and the furniture is a warm cherry wood and the colors are cheerful and inviting, unlike the mismatched Ikea that passed for taste in college, especially different from the drab, dirty motel furniture that defined your childhood. This room is different, and even if your brother weren't in the bed, it would still feel like home. That foreign feeling prickles in your throat and you shake Dean awake rather than face everything you missed growing up with John Winchester for a father and a ghost for a mother.

When you sit beside your brother you can see his features clearly in the light, and you note the lack of shadows darkening the skin under his eyes. You can't imagine that he got much sleep the night before, but he looks well rested, at peace. You know because you feel the same way. One arm is stretched across the empty bed like he's reaching for something, reaching for her, and for half a second disappointment flashes through his eyes as he stirs and wakes up to see it's only you.

"Morning, sleeping beauty," you smirk as he groans and pulls the pillow over his head, mumbling under his breath. "Sleep well?" you tease and he slowly eases out from under the pillow.

"I was doing okay until I woke up and saw your ugly mug." His eyes are clear, and the disappointment has been replaced with amusement and smug satisfaction. "How was your night? Enjoy having the motel room all to your lonesome?"

"Lily made breakfast," you say and change the subject because you're not ready to talk about last night. You got your first decent night's sleep since your girlfriend died and you want to hold onto it, because when you leave Lily Darling behind in a cloud of exhaust, you don't think the moment will last. You look away from him, out the window at the cloudless sky. "We should head downstairs before the food gets cold."

You know he's feeling good because he fails to notice that you're avoiding his questions. "Ask and you shall receive," he says and pushes back the covers to look for his clothes, because he isn't wearing any.

"Jesus, Dean!" you exclaim and hastily rake a hand down over your face. "I won't be much help to you if I go blind!"

But he just laughs over the slide of the zipper of his jeans and the rasp of his shirt sliding down his chest and when he beckons to you from the doorway while Lily calls from downstairs, you realize you haven't seen him this happy in your entire life.

---

Lily is modest when you compliment her cooking, but you're not lying when you say it's the best meal you've ever had, because it is. You've spent the last year eating at greasy diners and gas station vending machines, and while bacon, eggs, and pancakes doesn't exactly deserve a Michelin star, it comes from the heart. You can't decide what you like more, that it tastes good, or that someone took the time to make it for you. The last time you had a home cooked meal, you'd chased Jess' chocolate chip cookies with drops of her blood. Lily is mercifully whole and alive and laughing as she dishes out food and pours coffee and asks how you slept.

Knowing the outcome of the Cassie experience, and the pills he forced you to take the night before you met Sarah, Dean watches curiously, looking guilty and a bit regretful. For once you mean the words you say and there isn't a lie among them. "I feel great," you say. "For a motel bed, I slept really well."

The guilt slips away from his face, but Dean still watches you carefully. "Dream of anything special?"

You smile when you look at him. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

A relieved smile creeps across his face and he leans back in his chair with the smug satisfaction of a man who spent the night getting some. Lily flushes a bit, her cheeks matching the color of her hair, and proceeds to dump spoonful upon spoonful of sugar into her coffee while Dean looks a little queasy. "Enjoying some coffee with your sugar?" you ask and the joke is old and lame, but she laughs anyway, her cheeks returning to their normal color.

"Original, Sammy," she chides, and again, you fail to correct the nickname. You like the way it sounds when she says it, like she's been saying it your entire life. "I like what I like. My mother nags me about it constantly, says she could go into a diabetic coma just watching me."

Across the table Dean drops his fork, and two pairs of eyes land on him. "You okay, Dean?" you ask, because you never see your brother flustered. Not like this, not eating breakfast.

He smiles tightly and picks up his fork, shoots a quick glance at Lily's coffee mug. "Dad used to say the same thing about mom." He angrily spears a piece of pancake and shoves it in his mouth.

Silence falls over the room and Lily bites her lip, eyes darting nervously around the table. "So your mom," she starts, ignoring the deafening quiet. "What does she think?"

"Of what?" Dean spits out and if you weren't so shaken up by this conversation you'd kick him to remind him of his manners.

"Demon hunting, slaying vampires…" she trails off. "Whatever it is you boys do."

You look to Dean for direction, and he's put down the fork, but his jaw is clenched tight and not in a good way. "There's no such thing as vampires," he says. "And mom's dead, so she's got no say in what Sam and I do with our time."

You expect her to extend condolences, or tell you how sorry she is for your loss, but she only fixes you – both of you – with a stare and rests her chin on interlocked fingers. "Yeah," she sighs, and her there's a brittle edge to her voice. "I know how that goes."

Dean looks pissed, really fucking pissed, and you're almost sorry you pushed him towards Lily because this relationship is falling apart before it had a chance to start. "Lily, until some demon sticks your mom to the ceiling and burns her to death, I don't think you know how it goes."

She doesn't yell, doesn't protest, just looks at the ceiling for a long moment. "My father died when I was twelve. Hit and run, they never caught the driver." She turns watery eyes to close in on Dean. "I saw the entire thing happen. My mother and I, we were waving goodbye. He was going in to work early so he could make it to my play on time. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can still hear the tires screeching and the glass breaking." She pauses, breathes in deep. "I can still hear him screaming." You gulp, audibly, because this is your life and someone else is living it. Her eyes turn to you and its like they know all your secrets, the lies and mistakes and Jess. They turn to Dean and there's fear lurking in his and you know he sees the same thing. "You're not the only one who knows pain."

She glares at him and retreats to the sink, dumps her plate, and the water splashing on the dishes is the only sound in the room. "Lily," Dean breathes and you look away as he goes to her and gathers her in his arms, and her shoulders are shaking and you know she's crying. She shot a werewolf dead yesterday and laughed in the face of the danger surrounding your lives, but talking about her poor dead father is making her cry. If Dean doesn't marry her, you might.

She has her face buried in Dean's neck and all you can see is the flaming red of her hair against the dark grey of his shirt, and he's whispering in her ear and rubbing her back and soothing her with the calm, gentle demeanor you've only seen him use with children. You quietly get away from the table, because you know you should help clean up or clear dishes or something to show how much you appreciate her looking out for you and being so good to you, but this is a private moment and you shouldn't have a front row seat. You had enough trouble with roommates while trying to build a relationship with Jess. No one lives in this house but Lily. You have no excuse to hang around.

You start for the living room, the front porch, even the Impala if it means getting away from them, and you're halfway out of the room when she calls to you. "Sam?" she says and her voice is anguished, and you turn to face her. She's not a pretty crier. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and her cheeks are blotchy, but you don't care, and in that moment she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, because she's stepping away from your brother and opening her arms to you. "I know you lost someone too."

You want to know how she knows about Jess, because you didn't tell her, and judging from your conversation at breakfast, she and Dean didn't do much talking the previous evening. Really, you don't care. Because she's hurting and you're hurting, you're always hurting, and she's offering comfort no one else can. You step into her arms and she turns to face Dean, trapping herself between you and your brother, arms around you both. "It's okay," she whispers against his chest. "Together, we'll be okay."

You can feel her heart beating in time with your brother's, with yours, and when she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, just a simple gesture of understanding and comfort, you don't want to say it, don't want to jinx it, but it feels like family.

---

Lily insists on packing food for the road, and she presents lunch in brown paper bags with your names scribbled on them in black Sharpie. You peek inside and suppress a laugh at the carefully arranged peanut butter and jelly sandwich and cookies and chips. Lily smiles sheepishly. "I know it's not much, but it was the best I could do on short notice. I don't have much food in the house – "

"Single woman on her own and all?" Dean teases and Lily laughs.

"Yeah, something like that," she responds.

On your first day of third grade you were eight-years-old and your father sent you to school with a couple dollars in change and told you to find something in the cafeteria. You'd eaten cardboard pizza while the rest of your classmates dug into lunchboxes and paper sacks and even old plastic grocery bags, but still something packed with care. After a week, you'd asked your dad, while he sorted through obituaries and compared notes with his journal, if he wouldn't mind packing you a lunch the next morning, just so you'd fit in, and Dean had dropped the knife he'd been sharpening and your father had snapped the newspaper closed and sighed all disappointed and annoyed.

"Sammy," he'd said and showed you an article on the front page. A house had burned down the night before, the family trapped inside. "People are dying and you're worried about lunch? He showed you another article about people starving to death in Somalia. "Be happy you're eating at all."

He'd missed the point, but you'd never mentioned it again. It wasn't the food that mattered, it was the thought that went into it.

Your bag says "Sam" in neat block letters and you trace them with a finger, smile when Lily looks at you expectantly. "It's perfect," you say. "Thank you so much."

She smiles back and throws her arms around your neck. "I'm going to miss you, Sammy. Don't be a stranger, okay? Come back and see me sometime."

You glance at your brother, but he's staring at the ground and avoiding what's happening around him. "I'll try." You can feel Dean's eyes boring into your back, and you don't want to let her go, but things are about to get heavy so you pull away and press a gentle kiss to her cheek before retreating to the car.

You hate eavesdropping, and it's Dean's life and she's his girl and it's none of your business either way, but you can't help it. They're standing barely five feet away from you and their voices are growing louder as the minutes tick by and Dean's craving the road and she's craving him.

"I'll wait for you," you hear her say and she's looking right at him, blue eyes locked with green. "However long you need," she says and you note the military straight slant of her back, the fierce determination in her eyes. "When you're done and ready to rest your head, I'll be waiting."

You hear Dean laugh, but there's no humor in it, and he's looking over her shoulder, at the house rising old and feeble behind them, at the branches swaying gently in the breeze. He's looking anywhere and everywhere except at her face and you recognize the pattern. But this girl isn't Cassie; this girl isn't going to break his heart. "Lily, look," he says. "What I do, it's not apple pie and picket fences. I had a good time, you had a good time. Let's leave it at that. I don't want anything more."

Her eyes narrow and her brow furrows a bit and you're afraid for a moment that your brother has just unleashed a can of scorned woman whoop ass on himself, but she simply smiles and rests a hand on his cheek, makes him look her straight in the eye. "What are you afraid of, Dean? That I can't wait, or I won't want to?"

You barely hear his response and he sounds so unlike your brother you're not sure you hear right anyway. "No one has before."

"Yeah, well, I'm not like anyone else. I guess I'll have to prove you wrong. You'll see. I'll make you believe."

She presses up on her tiptoes and she's still wearing just Dean's t-shirt and it rides up high on her thighs and you should look away, but you don't because it reminds you too much of the night Dean blew into Palo Alto. Lily isn't wearing anything Snoopy-oriented, but it doesn't matter, it's not the point, because you know she won't end up like Jess, you won't let her.

Her hair falls across their faces like a curtain of flames, and you can't see how Dean's looking at her, but you know he is, and you have a feeling it's like the first time you kissed Jess. Like you couldn't believe a smart, beautiful girl was taking a chance on you, that a smart, strong girl is taking a chance on him, and because he's a man, but mostly because he's a Winchester, he blows it all to hell.

When they break apart Lily is running for the house and Dean's watching her like the thing he lives for is disappearing before his eyes, and it is. She is. You want to tell him to fight for her, beg her to stay, because you'd do pretty much anything to have Jess back in your life. You start when he slips into the car beside you and slumps into his seat, pulling sunglasses down to cover his eyes, but he's having none of it.

"Dean, we can stay for a few more days. It will be good for you." You try to keep the bitterness out of your voice when you continue. "It doesn't matter if we leave today or next week, we're still never going to find Dad."

"Sam," he interrupts and there's an edge in his voice, a warning not to push any harder, and you don't need to see what he's thinking to know what he wants.

You gun the engine, back out of the driveway. "Yeah, yeah," you respond. "I'll wake you up when it's your turn to drive."

You don't have to look back to see what you've lost, what you've all lost, because you push your hair off your face to keep the sun out of your eyes and your forehead burns.

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