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obstinatrixfic: through a semi-precious stone
rating: NC-17
pairing: Sam/Dean, Claire/Dean, Claire/Sam, Sam/Claire/Dean
word count: ~3,000
summary/notes/warnings: this follows on from nancy wore green stockings. AU from 701/702. After Cas swallows Purgatory, the Leviathans swallow everything else -- except two lone Winchesters and the other few remaining dregs of humanity still standing. As in the previous fic, this is in the second person; as in the previous fic, Claire is 17. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brokentoy, and also for reasons of utter self-indulgence.
"I saw you," you tell him. "In the junkyard."
"What?" Dean's hand is broad and strong at the small of your back, thumb riding the jut of your hipbone as he fucks you, hard and slow. "Saw me what?" He's breathless, the freckles stark and ruddy on his cheeks. The sky outside is grey as the heart of a storm, now and always. The endurance of Dean's freckles is a miracle in itself.
He doesn't stop to look at you. That is the difference between Sam and Dean, the biggest difference: the way Sam kisses with his eyes open, every twist of his hips a secret confided, and Dean is all gentle touches and soft hands and averted gaze. Dean is pretending, that is the thing. Dean is a hunter, should know better, but sometimes you think he thinks the monsters stay unreal until you look at them.
"I saw you," you tell him, "with Sam." You work your pelvis in a slow figure eight and he catches his breath, but whether for your words or your cunt, you don't know. You lean in until your mouth is damp against his forehead, lips at the place where his hair starts soft and blond, sweaty and vulnerably fine. "Have you always fucked your brother, or only since the world went to hell?"
"Jesus, Claire." His hand flexes on your waist and his cheeks are pink, but he is in you, and he can't hide the way his dick twitches, deep in the slippery clutch of your body. "You weren't -- weren't supposed to see that."
His lashes cast a shadow on his cheekbones and you kiss him, his forehead, his nose; span his skull between your hands and push with your thumbs at his temples till his head comes up on a gasp of surrender. His eyes are hot and green when they fix on yours and you tell him,"I see everything, Dean. Sam and me, we see everything."
He bites his lip and his breath comes hard through his nose, his fingers slipping in the sweat at the base of your spine. His hips are working faster now, head falling back, but it seems unconscious, his eyes on yours and his dick like a piston inside you, measured, as if he is nervous of breaking you. "We're fucked up," he says, "me and Sammy. I know. I'm sorry."
You fuck down onto him wet and hard, punishing, and he cries out, fingers clenching. "It's just," he pants, "you don't understand. He needs -" and you cut him off with your mouth on his, the kiss pressed deep and rough and ferric till he's panting, body thrashing under yours.
"I know," you tell him, when he's close, "and you need, too, Dean. Sam, and me, and -- Cas."
He comes like a punch, nails raising bloody crescents in your skin, and you go on rocking, cradling his head, stroking his hair.
**
"He's ashamed," Sam says, matter-of-fact and mild. "Pass me that wrench?"
You pass it and watch Sam's long fingers as they close around it. You think about those fingers wrapped around Dean's throat, Dean's thigh. Dean's dick. You think about Sam's fingers fucking his brother open and you say, "Aren't you?"
"No." Sam never was a whiz with machinery before, but they've all had to learn new skills. "I wasn't ever, really. And now, with Him around..." Sam shrugs. "What's the point in shame when all it does is feed Him?"
Sam doesn't talk about Lucifer in front of Dean, not where you can hear. You lean in, say, "What does He think of me?"
"He likes your little-girl tits," Sam says, one corner of his mouth quirking. You smack him with the flat of your hand and he laughs, ducking away, and you see for a second a glimpse of the boy he once was, all white teeth and dimples.
"Oh," you say, "really. And you don't?"
"Don't put words in my mouth," Sam says, and then the wrench is on the floor and he takes your hand, puts your first two fingers in his mouth instead. His eyes are dark, narrowed, and you catch your breath as he slides his lips down the length of your fingers, lets them fall. "I like your tits. I like all of you." He takes you by the shoulders and pushes, and you let him, falling back against the side of a '64 Ford that will never see a road again. "You're alive, Claire."
"So're you," you tell him, breath hitching as his palm finds the inside of your knee and slides upward, flattening against you where you're hot and empty.
"Nah," he says. He shakes his head, and his hair falls into his eyes, overlong. Fox eyes, they look to you; alternately hazel, grey, blue. Sometimes, he'll glance up in a shaft of light and you'll see the yellow there. Now, he looks at you the way Dean never does, and the sharp eyes in his gaunt face are bottle green, like his brother's.
"Does Dean look at you?" you ask. The words come out of nowhere, but he doesn't look thrown. He runs a thumb along the seam of your jeans, riding your slit through cotton and denim and tugging at the button.
"What?"
"When you fuck," you say. You let your thighs go wide, giving him room, and he works his hand easily between your underwear and your skin, two fingers crooking into your wetness. "He never looks at me."
Sam laughs, fists one hand in your hair and hauls you in for a kiss that's rough and short, little fucks of tongue its punctuation. "I can't believe we're having this conversation," he says, and you bite your lip, cant your hips up into his hand.
"At all, or 'cause you've got two fingers in me?" you bait him, breathless, and he hums and twists his wrist, pushing at your inner walls.
"You're filthy, Claire," he says, and for a second he's grinning until a shadow falls across his eyes, deepens the green. "You shoulda been at school right now, with a mom and a dad and a life. Christ." He pulls out, fucks back in roughly, and you cry out, clutch at his arms.
"Well," you tell him, panting, "none of us are going to get what we should have had, Sam. Might as well take what we want."
"I want to fuck you," he says, and you groan approval, cunt fluttering around his fingers.
"Yeah," you say, "okay."
**
You walk in on them on purpose. It wasn't planned, wasn't discussed, but when you push open the door and Sam's eyes meet yours, you see no surprise there.
"Dean," Sam whispers. He flexes his feet, toes curling reflexively, and Dean's head moves rhythmically between his thighs. The ragged motions of Dean's elbow confuse you at first, to-and--fro jerks of his arm, until Sam cries out and you realise Dean is fucking him with that arm, those fingers. You stand in the doorway and you watch Dean fucking his brother and your stomach turns over, dirty-hot with want.
"Claire," Sam says, holds a hand out, and Dean freezes, then, arm stilling on the instroke.
"Claire?" He lifts his head, turns towards you. His mouth is kiss-bitten and pink, wet with spit and the shine of Sam's precome. He's naked, the freckles making constellations on his shoulder blades, and the look in his eyes is nothing short of panic.
You know at once what you must do. Your own clothes have long since gone to pieces, most of them, and the shirt you're in now is Sam's, belted at the waist so it makes a sort of tunic dress, serviceable if hardly fashionable. Now, as your hands go to the belt buckle, you are grateful for the freedom it affords you. Grateful for how easy it is to let the belt fall, pull the shirt over your head and stand there in nothing but your panties, baring the body they have both mapped separately, in hopes that they will chart it now together.
For a long second, Dean does nothing but look at you, and you feel your pulse pound between your legs, tightening your nipples. You swallow, and then you hear his voice -- "Do you..." and you're moving before he can finish; moving so he doesn't have to.
"Yes," you say, "let me," you say, and you clamber onto the bed with them, seize Dean by the jaw and lick the taste of Sam from his lips.
After that, things dissolve. Somebody's hand finds its way between your legs, pushing your panties aside to reach you, and you think it's Dean until you register his fist clenched in your hair, his dick hard against your hipbone, his other hand still working in Sam. You hiss into his mouth, roll your body down onto Sam's fingers, and Dean pulls away, half-smiling, to look at you.
"This what you want, Claire?" He holds your eyes as his fingers move, jagged little thrusts, and you watch Sam's body where it's stretched pinkly around them, clutching at Dean as if to pull him home, keep him. "Because this is what we are, sweetheart. Fuck-ups, me an' him. My kid brother's got Lucifer in his head like the freakin' consumption, and I'm the sick fuck who screws him. That what you want?"
He wants no, you know that. Wants it, expects it, but the look on Sam's face says he's waiting for your yes and the look in Dean's eyes says he needs it, and you're happy to oblige. "Yes," you say, one hand descending to grip Sam's wrist, hold it there as you rocks down onto him, fucking yourself on his fingers. "Yeah, Dean, I want it. I want to watch you fuck. You're beautiful." You watch the way his jaw goes slack and you smile, a wry little twist of a thing. "Not much is, these days."
"Claire." Dean's voice is weak, thready, a capitulation. "God, Claire." He sits back, lets his hand slip free, and Sam groans softly, spreading his thighs. You watch the way his empty hole clenches and reach past Dean easily, pushing two fingers into Sam to echo the two he has in you, biting your lip as his body grips you.
"Fuck, Claire," Sam breathes, lifting his hips for you, grinding down onto your fingers. "Yeah, God. Fuck me."
"Holy Christ." Dean's trembling, now, shock and arousal and love burning deeper in him than his fear. His hands slip on the lube bottle as he watches you, you and Sam with your hands inside each other, and he's messy and ruthless as he slicks himself up, kneeling in close behind you, between Sam's legs. "Come on, baby; lift up, lemme in." His hands are on your ass, now, half lifting you, urging you forward. "Sit on Sam's dick for me, sweetheart, c'n you do that? Can't do him with your fingers in the way."
"Oh, God." Beneath you, Sam twists and groans, and then his hand slips wetly out of you, trailing messy down the inside of your thigh. "Yeah, Claire, come here." He tugs. "Let Dean -- you said you wanted --"
"To see," you finish for him, and your voice sounds fucked out already, dazed with want and disbelief and the tightness in your belly. You let them push you, pull you; you spread your legs so you can straddle Sam's waist and then pivot over him so your face is towards Dean, towards Sam's knees; towards where Dean is settling between Sam's thighs and rubbing the slick head of his cock against the hole you stretched for him.
"You fuck him bare?" you say, noticing the absence of a condom, and they both laugh. Behind you, Sam's hands come up, settle on your waist, urge you down.
"He's my brother," Dean tells you, and, just for a moment, you see a flare of something in his eyes that isn't shame or guilt, isn't even anything as straightforward as want. He pushes then, slow, spearing Sam open as Sam fucks up into you like a knife through butter, and Dean looks prideful, defiant. The look in his eyes is possession.
They're different people, the Winchesters. You've always known it, but the fusion of their bodies like this confuses your sense of them, Dean's eyes shining with an open want you've only seen in Sam before, Sam moving deep and slow inside you like his brother does, when you're alone. Sam's strong beneath you, one hand reaching easily over your thigh to rub at the place where you're stretched around his dick, and then Dean's hand is there, too, his thumb working your clit as he fucks Sam with practised snaps of his hips.
"Fuck," you bite out, cunt clenching around Sam and, God, he's big but it isn't enough, somehow, to fill all this space inside of you. "God, please!"
"Hey," Sam gentles you, "ssshhh." Then his finger is circling the rim of you, pushing in alongside his dick, and you moan, swallowing the stretch, head tipping back.
"Christ," Dean chokes, "little thing like you, Claire." He's moving faster, now, sex flush spreading across his collarbones as he rolls his hips in Sam, fucking him deep and so hard the bed is shaking with it, and beneath you, Sam cries out, clutches at your waist with his free hand.
"Dean," he manages, "fuck, yeah, Dean, fuck me, God," and then the hand on your waist is tightening, lifting you, every thrust of Dean's dick sending Sam's pulsing upward into you, Sam hauling you down into the invasion.
"Sammy," Dean breathes, but you're between them, sweat-slicked and full of them and tingling all over the surface of your skin with it, and Dean gets a hand in your hair to pull you in, licks his brother's name into your mouth as he seizes up, tenses, comes.
"Sammy," Dean breathes, and you hear yourself keening with how close you are, clenching every muscle in your abdomen and pelvis and thighs around Sam's dick as he fucks up and stills. Dean's thumb is still working on your clit, sending little flashes of heat darting through you, and then Sam's coming and you're coming and your back is arching, your arms splayed out like wings.
**
"Thank you," Sam says. His mouth is soft at your temple. Behind you, Dean is sleeping with an arm thrown casually across your waist, the weight of it sweet and warm and more relaxed than you've felt Dean in all the time you've known him.
"Thanks?" You laugh a little. "For what?"
"The fuck?" Sam bites his lip to show he's joking, and you smile and rub yourself against him so he knows you're not.
"You liked that," you say, wondering, slow. "My fingers in you."
He blushes, but to his credit, he doesn't look away. "Well, yeah. Your fingers, my fingers, Dean's cock. It's just sex, Claire."
"It isn't, though," you correct him, soft. "Not with you two, is it? Not with us, either." Behind you, Dean shifts a little in his sleep, and you reach a hand back to cover his, your eyes still on Sam's. "Not any more."
"No," Sam agrees, and there's something of Lucifer in his smile, something enigmatic and ambiguous. "Like I said. Thank you."
"He looked at me," you realize suddenly. "He looked at me that time, when we fucked. You think he's not ashamed any more?"
Sam's laugh is soft and rough, a little sad. "Oh, he's always going to be ashamed. That's Dean. But...I don't know." Sam shrugs. "Maybe he's run out of energy for pandering to it, now you know." He smiles a little. "Now it's too late." He reaches up, cards a hand through your hair where it's stuck to your forehead, darkened with sweat. "Speaking of which."
You sigh, smile. "Yeah. Places to go, zombies to kill."
"Bedtime," Sam agrees, and throws an arm over yours, placing his hand atop yours where your fingers cover Dean's. "Night, Claire."
You close your eyes. "Goodnight."
Outside, in the dark, something rumbles, some distant explosion, another little piece of the world falling down around your ears, but it's far away. Inside, you have Winchesters with you -- have had them in you, as Castiel once was. Sam in you and Dean in Sam and Castiel walking into hell in your father's skin, dismantling humanity. It is all too big for you, for comprehension, and you're tired, eyes prickling with it.
Sam's hand is warm on yours, Dean's beneath it. Quietly, almost furtively, you curl in towards them, and wait for sleep.
rating: NC-17
pairing: Sam/Dean, Claire/Dean, Claire/Sam, Sam/Claire/Dean
word count: ~3,000
summary/notes/warnings: this follows on from nancy wore green stockings. AU from 701/702. After Cas swallows Purgatory, the Leviathans swallow everything else -- except two lone Winchesters and the other few remaining dregs of humanity still standing. As in the previous fic, this is in the second person; as in the previous fic, Claire is 17. For
brokentoy, and also for reasons of utter self-indulgence. "I saw you," you tell him. "In the junkyard."
"What?" Dean's hand is broad and strong at the small of your back, thumb riding the jut of your hipbone as he fucks you, hard and slow. "Saw me what?" He's breathless, the freckles stark and ruddy on his cheeks. The sky outside is grey as the heart of a storm, now and always. The endurance of Dean's freckles is a miracle in itself.
He doesn't stop to look at you. That is the difference between Sam and Dean, the biggest difference: the way Sam kisses with his eyes open, every twist of his hips a secret confided, and Dean is all gentle touches and soft hands and averted gaze. Dean is pretending, that is the thing. Dean is a hunter, should know better, but sometimes you think he thinks the monsters stay unreal until you look at them.
"I saw you," you tell him, "with Sam." You work your pelvis in a slow figure eight and he catches his breath, but whether for your words or your cunt, you don't know. You lean in until your mouth is damp against his forehead, lips at the place where his hair starts soft and blond, sweaty and vulnerably fine. "Have you always fucked your brother, or only since the world went to hell?"
"Jesus, Claire." His hand flexes on your waist and his cheeks are pink, but he is in you, and he can't hide the way his dick twitches, deep in the slippery clutch of your body. "You weren't -- weren't supposed to see that."
His lashes cast a shadow on his cheekbones and you kiss him, his forehead, his nose; span his skull between your hands and push with your thumbs at his temples till his head comes up on a gasp of surrender. His eyes are hot and green when they fix on yours and you tell him,"I see everything, Dean. Sam and me, we see everything."
He bites his lip and his breath comes hard through his nose, his fingers slipping in the sweat at the base of your spine. His hips are working faster now, head falling back, but it seems unconscious, his eyes on yours and his dick like a piston inside you, measured, as if he is nervous of breaking you. "We're fucked up," he says, "me and Sammy. I know. I'm sorry."
You fuck down onto him wet and hard, punishing, and he cries out, fingers clenching. "It's just," he pants, "you don't understand. He needs -" and you cut him off with your mouth on his, the kiss pressed deep and rough and ferric till he's panting, body thrashing under yours.
"I know," you tell him, when he's close, "and you need, too, Dean. Sam, and me, and -- Cas."
He comes like a punch, nails raising bloody crescents in your skin, and you go on rocking, cradling his head, stroking his hair.
**
"He's ashamed," Sam says, matter-of-fact and mild. "Pass me that wrench?"
You pass it and watch Sam's long fingers as they close around it. You think about those fingers wrapped around Dean's throat, Dean's thigh. Dean's dick. You think about Sam's fingers fucking his brother open and you say, "Aren't you?"
"No." Sam never was a whiz with machinery before, but they've all had to learn new skills. "I wasn't ever, really. And now, with Him around..." Sam shrugs. "What's the point in shame when all it does is feed Him?"
Sam doesn't talk about Lucifer in front of Dean, not where you can hear. You lean in, say, "What does He think of me?"
"He likes your little-girl tits," Sam says, one corner of his mouth quirking. You smack him with the flat of your hand and he laughs, ducking away, and you see for a second a glimpse of the boy he once was, all white teeth and dimples.
"Oh," you say, "really. And you don't?"
"Don't put words in my mouth," Sam says, and then the wrench is on the floor and he takes your hand, puts your first two fingers in his mouth instead. His eyes are dark, narrowed, and you catch your breath as he slides his lips down the length of your fingers, lets them fall. "I like your tits. I like all of you." He takes you by the shoulders and pushes, and you let him, falling back against the side of a '64 Ford that will never see a road again. "You're alive, Claire."
"So're you," you tell him, breath hitching as his palm finds the inside of your knee and slides upward, flattening against you where you're hot and empty.
"Nah," he says. He shakes his head, and his hair falls into his eyes, overlong. Fox eyes, they look to you; alternately hazel, grey, blue. Sometimes, he'll glance up in a shaft of light and you'll see the yellow there. Now, he looks at you the way Dean never does, and the sharp eyes in his gaunt face are bottle green, like his brother's.
"Does Dean look at you?" you ask. The words come out of nowhere, but he doesn't look thrown. He runs a thumb along the seam of your jeans, riding your slit through cotton and denim and tugging at the button.
"What?"
"When you fuck," you say. You let your thighs go wide, giving him room, and he works his hand easily between your underwear and your skin, two fingers crooking into your wetness. "He never looks at me."
Sam laughs, fists one hand in your hair and hauls you in for a kiss that's rough and short, little fucks of tongue its punctuation. "I can't believe we're having this conversation," he says, and you bite your lip, cant your hips up into his hand.
"At all, or 'cause you've got two fingers in me?" you bait him, breathless, and he hums and twists his wrist, pushing at your inner walls.
"You're filthy, Claire," he says, and for a second he's grinning until a shadow falls across his eyes, deepens the green. "You shoulda been at school right now, with a mom and a dad and a life. Christ." He pulls out, fucks back in roughly, and you cry out, clutch at his arms.
"Well," you tell him, panting, "none of us are going to get what we should have had, Sam. Might as well take what we want."
"I want to fuck you," he says, and you groan approval, cunt fluttering around his fingers.
"Yeah," you say, "okay."
**
You walk in on them on purpose. It wasn't planned, wasn't discussed, but when you push open the door and Sam's eyes meet yours, you see no surprise there.
"Dean," Sam whispers. He flexes his feet, toes curling reflexively, and Dean's head moves rhythmically between his thighs. The ragged motions of Dean's elbow confuse you at first, to-and--fro jerks of his arm, until Sam cries out and you realise Dean is fucking him with that arm, those fingers. You stand in the doorway and you watch Dean fucking his brother and your stomach turns over, dirty-hot with want.
"Claire," Sam says, holds a hand out, and Dean freezes, then, arm stilling on the instroke.
"Claire?" He lifts his head, turns towards you. His mouth is kiss-bitten and pink, wet with spit and the shine of Sam's precome. He's naked, the freckles making constellations on his shoulder blades, and the look in his eyes is nothing short of panic.
You know at once what you must do. Your own clothes have long since gone to pieces, most of them, and the shirt you're in now is Sam's, belted at the waist so it makes a sort of tunic dress, serviceable if hardly fashionable. Now, as your hands go to the belt buckle, you are grateful for the freedom it affords you. Grateful for how easy it is to let the belt fall, pull the shirt over your head and stand there in nothing but your panties, baring the body they have both mapped separately, in hopes that they will chart it now together.
For a long second, Dean does nothing but look at you, and you feel your pulse pound between your legs, tightening your nipples. You swallow, and then you hear his voice -- "Do you..." and you're moving before he can finish; moving so he doesn't have to.
"Yes," you say, "let me," you say, and you clamber onto the bed with them, seize Dean by the jaw and lick the taste of Sam from his lips.
After that, things dissolve. Somebody's hand finds its way between your legs, pushing your panties aside to reach you, and you think it's Dean until you register his fist clenched in your hair, his dick hard against your hipbone, his other hand still working in Sam. You hiss into his mouth, roll your body down onto Sam's fingers, and Dean pulls away, half-smiling, to look at you.
"This what you want, Claire?" He holds your eyes as his fingers move, jagged little thrusts, and you watch Sam's body where it's stretched pinkly around them, clutching at Dean as if to pull him home, keep him. "Because this is what we are, sweetheart. Fuck-ups, me an' him. My kid brother's got Lucifer in his head like the freakin' consumption, and I'm the sick fuck who screws him. That what you want?"
He wants no, you know that. Wants it, expects it, but the look on Sam's face says he's waiting for your yes and the look in Dean's eyes says he needs it, and you're happy to oblige. "Yes," you say, one hand descending to grip Sam's wrist, hold it there as you rocks down onto him, fucking yourself on his fingers. "Yeah, Dean, I want it. I want to watch you fuck. You're beautiful." You watch the way his jaw goes slack and you smile, a wry little twist of a thing. "Not much is, these days."
"Claire." Dean's voice is weak, thready, a capitulation. "God, Claire." He sits back, lets his hand slip free, and Sam groans softly, spreading his thighs. You watch the way his empty hole clenches and reach past Dean easily, pushing two fingers into Sam to echo the two he has in you, biting your lip as his body grips you.
"Fuck, Claire," Sam breathes, lifting his hips for you, grinding down onto your fingers. "Yeah, God. Fuck me."
"Holy Christ." Dean's trembling, now, shock and arousal and love burning deeper in him than his fear. His hands slip on the lube bottle as he watches you, you and Sam with your hands inside each other, and he's messy and ruthless as he slicks himself up, kneeling in close behind you, between Sam's legs. "Come on, baby; lift up, lemme in." His hands are on your ass, now, half lifting you, urging you forward. "Sit on Sam's dick for me, sweetheart, c'n you do that? Can't do him with your fingers in the way."
"Oh, God." Beneath you, Sam twists and groans, and then his hand slips wetly out of you, trailing messy down the inside of your thigh. "Yeah, Claire, come here." He tugs. "Let Dean -- you said you wanted --"
"To see," you finish for him, and your voice sounds fucked out already, dazed with want and disbelief and the tightness in your belly. You let them push you, pull you; you spread your legs so you can straddle Sam's waist and then pivot over him so your face is towards Dean, towards Sam's knees; towards where Dean is settling between Sam's thighs and rubbing the slick head of his cock against the hole you stretched for him.
"You fuck him bare?" you say, noticing the absence of a condom, and they both laugh. Behind you, Sam's hands come up, settle on your waist, urge you down.
"He's my brother," Dean tells you, and, just for a moment, you see a flare of something in his eyes that isn't shame or guilt, isn't even anything as straightforward as want. He pushes then, slow, spearing Sam open as Sam fucks up into you like a knife through butter, and Dean looks prideful, defiant. The look in his eyes is possession.
They're different people, the Winchesters. You've always known it, but the fusion of their bodies like this confuses your sense of them, Dean's eyes shining with an open want you've only seen in Sam before, Sam moving deep and slow inside you like his brother does, when you're alone. Sam's strong beneath you, one hand reaching easily over your thigh to rub at the place where you're stretched around his dick, and then Dean's hand is there, too, his thumb working your clit as he fucks Sam with practised snaps of his hips.
"Fuck," you bite out, cunt clenching around Sam and, God, he's big but it isn't enough, somehow, to fill all this space inside of you. "God, please!"
"Hey," Sam gentles you, "ssshhh." Then his finger is circling the rim of you, pushing in alongside his dick, and you moan, swallowing the stretch, head tipping back.
"Christ," Dean chokes, "little thing like you, Claire." He's moving faster, now, sex flush spreading across his collarbones as he rolls his hips in Sam, fucking him deep and so hard the bed is shaking with it, and beneath you, Sam cries out, clutches at your waist with his free hand.
"Dean," he manages, "fuck, yeah, Dean, fuck me, God," and then the hand on your waist is tightening, lifting you, every thrust of Dean's dick sending Sam's pulsing upward into you, Sam hauling you down into the invasion.
"Sammy," Dean breathes, but you're between them, sweat-slicked and full of them and tingling all over the surface of your skin with it, and Dean gets a hand in your hair to pull you in, licks his brother's name into your mouth as he seizes up, tenses, comes.
"Sammy," Dean breathes, and you hear yourself keening with how close you are, clenching every muscle in your abdomen and pelvis and thighs around Sam's dick as he fucks up and stills. Dean's thumb is still working on your clit, sending little flashes of heat darting through you, and then Sam's coming and you're coming and your back is arching, your arms splayed out like wings.
**
"Thank you," Sam says. His mouth is soft at your temple. Behind you, Dean is sleeping with an arm thrown casually across your waist, the weight of it sweet and warm and more relaxed than you've felt Dean in all the time you've known him.
"Thanks?" You laugh a little. "For what?"
"The fuck?" Sam bites his lip to show he's joking, and you smile and rub yourself against him so he knows you're not.
"You liked that," you say, wondering, slow. "My fingers in you."
He blushes, but to his credit, he doesn't look away. "Well, yeah. Your fingers, my fingers, Dean's cock. It's just sex, Claire."
"It isn't, though," you correct him, soft. "Not with you two, is it? Not with us, either." Behind you, Dean shifts a little in his sleep, and you reach a hand back to cover his, your eyes still on Sam's. "Not any more."
"No," Sam agrees, and there's something of Lucifer in his smile, something enigmatic and ambiguous. "Like I said. Thank you."
"He looked at me," you realize suddenly. "He looked at me that time, when we fucked. You think he's not ashamed any more?"
Sam's laugh is soft and rough, a little sad. "Oh, he's always going to be ashamed. That's Dean. But...I don't know." Sam shrugs. "Maybe he's run out of energy for pandering to it, now you know." He smiles a little. "Now it's too late." He reaches up, cards a hand through your hair where it's stuck to your forehead, darkened with sweat. "Speaking of which."
You sigh, smile. "Yeah. Places to go, zombies to kill."
"Bedtime," Sam agrees, and throws an arm over yours, placing his hand atop yours where your fingers cover Dean's. "Night, Claire."
You close your eyes. "Goodnight."
Outside, in the dark, something rumbles, some distant explosion, another little piece of the world falling down around your ears, but it's far away. Inside, you have Winchesters with you -- have had them in you, as Castiel once was. Sam in you and Dean in Sam and Castiel walking into hell in your father's skin, dismantling humanity. It is all too big for you, for comprehension, and you're tired, eyes prickling with it.
Sam's hand is warm on yours, Dean's beneath it. Quietly, almost furtively, you curl in towards them, and wait for sleep.
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Date: 2012-06-26 06:37 pm (UTC)Dean won't ever recover from loss and Sam won't ever be the same but at least they can play make believe with her and change their roles and reinvent each other for her sake; try to believe they can be a new, fucked up kind of family in the wincester way.
Also the mention of how small Claire is and the fact that she's undeniably still a kid tickled my own personal size kink with the way the boys must have looked looming all around, above and underneath her (Sammeh!).
Thank you for writing this, it is beautiful <3
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Date: 2012-06-30 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-26 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-26 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-26 11:48 pm (UTC)*Gosh*, this is great.
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Date: 2012-06-30 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 01:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 02:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 02:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-27 11:14 am (UTC)I have the overwhelming urge to break out in a rousing chorus of
"You Are My Sunshine" for you. ?? I have no idea....but I do know
that this is my favorite thing like ever!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-30 08:55 pm (UTC)