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You'll No Longer Burn

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The Monday before Sam's high school graduation, John is off hunting a coven of witches the next town over.

Deanna's gone on more hunts with John than not since she turned eighteen, but she's sidelined for the moment. Two weeks ago she sprained an ankle (new moons, dense forests and ghouls are poor bedfellows) and she's still a little off her game. So for the near future, she's stuck playing house, slaving over the proverbial hot stove and all that.

That Monday, Sam gets home at just after four in the afternoon. He lets the screen door slam on the way in.

"You're gonna bust the frame out," Deanna calls over her shoulder.

"Haven't yet," Sam shouts back.

"Come on, cut the 'tude."

Sam snorts as he tosses his backpack onto the kitchen floor and drops into a chair. "Shit, it's hot."

"Language." Deanna grins.

"Bite me. Dad call?"

She looks down at the pot of simmering oil on the stove. "Yeah."

Deanna thinks of the missed Christmases, birthdays, school plays, field trips, and every other time she's broken this same news to her brother. She would take any of them over this.

She doesn't look at Sam when she breaks it. "He says he's pretty sure he won't be home till next Thursday."

One by one, Deanna drops four chicken breasts in the pot, matter-of-factly rinses her hands in the sink, and gets herself a beer from the fridge. On second thought, she gets two.

Sam takes a beer without looking and nods his thanks.

"Look, I'll be at the damn thing, alright?"

Sam doesn't look up.

"Pictures and everything. I'll be a bigger pain in the ass than any damn cow shit-shoveling farm mom."

Sam sort of half-smiles at that, which is something.

"Wait, do I have to dress up for this circus act? You know I dumped that nice dress. All I got left's skanky bar getups, and while your friends—"

"Come on, Dee. They're in high school. That's gross."

She grins and waggles her eyebrows. "What can I say, Sammy; I'm a cougar-in-training."

He wrinkles his nose. "You're disgusting."

"You love it."

Sam sticks his tongue out.

"So! Fried chicken for dinner, Die Hard on TV. Good night all around."

After they've washed up, Sam races to the living room and takes the armchair.

"Uh-uh." Deanna pushes it over until Sam slides off and onto the floor.

Sam sticks out his tongue and swipes a bag of chips off the end table.

Deanna throws a cushion at his head and plops down into the chair. "Take your consolation chips. I've got a chair."

Sam leans against her legs. Deanna's tall, but Sam's got at least six inches on her. Sitting the way they are, her in the chair and him on the floor, Sam's chin comes to just above her knee. Deanna reaches down and musses his scruffy hair.

"Hey," she says. "You done good."

Sam swallows and nods. "Thanks."

"We'll get a cake and everything. It'll be great."

"What, no pie?"

"Hey, it's your party, not mine. I'll get you one of those little graduation teddy bears with a cap."

Sam snorts.

"Hey, grab me the remote. I wanna watch Bruce Willis blow shit up."

Throughout the movie, Sam gradually relaxes. By the time Hans Gruber falls off the building, his head has come to rest on Deanna's knee. When the credits roll and she leans down to push him off, she realizes he's out cold. Deanna knows all she has to do is shove his head off her leg and say his name and he'll blink awake.

Instead, she picks up the remote and changes the channel. Nowhere better to be right now.


On Tuesday, the AC breaks.

Deanna strips down to a sports bra, tank top, and cutoffs. Sam doesn't even bother getting dressed and just lies spread-eagle on the bed in his boxers. Deanna calls the landlord and gets the answering machine. After cussing up a blue streak about the pitfalls of towns with no hotels and the kind of landlord who offers shitty month-to-month leases, she takes the repair job upon herself.

When Deanna pries open the ancient window unit, a cloud of dust and mold billows into the air. She buries her face in her elbow and swears.

"Do you even know what you're—"

"Fuck off, Sammy."

She can't be bothered to find a rag, so she strips off her tank top and uses it to wipe down the inside of the AC. She peers inside.

"Fuck. The fan's rusted in place."

"So? Elbow grease and sandpaper."

"Bitch, it's about fifteen degrees too hot for me to even think about making a Home Depot run."

Sam shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Deanna keeps poking around, just for curiosity's sake. The whole thing looks pretty beat. Most worryingly, the compressor looks dubious. Deanna's no professional, but she's spent enough time with her head under the hood of the Impala to know what a freon leak looks like. That's an expensive, lengthy repair. Too expensive and lengthy for them.

"God damn it." Deanna slams the front of the AC unit back into place and tumbles onto the bed beside Sam, flinging her filthy tank top-turned-rag in the direction of her duffel. "Fuck it. And fuck this town. The entire state of Wyoming can go fuck itself. It's supposed to be cold here."

"Nah. Seasons."

"God damn mother fucking piece of shit ass-end of nowhere town. I cannot wait till Dad ices those witches and we can get the absolute hell out of this shithole."

"Hey, it's not that bad."

"Stupid podunk bumfuck country town," Deanna mutters. It's mostly out of her system. "I'm gonna sit in the shower with my clothes on."

Sam laughs at her, but his heart's not in it.

She strips her shorts off. Wet denim is not fun, no matter how hot it is. The shower spray is freezing. Deanna shrieks when the water hits her back, but after a minute of shivering, she relaxes. The water sluices over her back and soaks her sports bra and underwear. She breathes a long, vocal sigh of relief.

Once she's well and truly soaked, Deanna shuts the water off and climbs out. She doesn't bother toweling off.

Sam is taking up every available inch of space on the bed. He's shut his eyes and thrown his limbs out to all four corners. Deanna snorts.

"You look like Wile E. Coyote after falling off a cliff."

Sam turns his head and sticks out his tongue. But when he opens his eyes, he stops. His mouth falls open a little. Deanna's about to tease him when she realizes he's looking at her, all soaking wet, in nothing but a sports bra and underwear, scanty fabric clinging and water beaded on her skin.

She flushes hot despite the cold shower. The air sizzles between them. The moisture on Deanna's skin already feels more like sweat. Neither of them moves. There's something between them, something undone and undoable.

Sam turns away. "Put something on. We can go out to eat someplace."

Deanna grabs her duffel and digs through it for some clean clothes. "Uh. Yeah."


On Wednesday, Deanna nearly gets laid.

The only people you'll find in a small-town dive bar on a Wednesday night are alcoholics and sluts. Deanna's not sure which she is. She's definitely there to drink, but she's also dressed to get fucked: tight skirt the size of a napkin, halter top, black, shiny bitch heels, and lacy red panties. She isn't wearing a bra. The soft brush of the halter top over her nipples is a persistent tease, making her pull her shoulders back and cross her legs in a way that's visibly, undeniably sexual.

Deanna scans the room from the bar and weighs her options. No way is she going home with a girl tonight, not in Meeteetse, Wyoming. None of the gay girls from this place are gonna get their lady-lovin' on till they get to college. That's if they get to college, and once they get out they don't come back.

Not that there's any girls in the place worth going with. Or boys. No Tuesday-night man-sluts or alcoholics under forty in this town, it seems. Deanna sighs, takes a long swallow of her whiskey sour, and is just about to give up when the door swings open.

A tall, dark-haired boy in his late teens or early twenties saunters in wearing tight jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. From the single up-and-down Deanna gets in, she's pretty sure he works some farming job that demands a lot of heavy lifting and not a lot of brainpower. She can live with that.

He catches her looking and grins, the sort of cocky grin that usually gets kids whatever and whoever they want. Deanna grins right back.

"You're new," he says as he sidles up to the bar. Lord, that accent is a joke.

"Just passing through," she says. Deanna finishes her drink and licks her lips. Slowly. He follows the path of her tongue and she smirks. "Here tonight, though."

Half an hour later, she's dragging him backwards towards her car. Her ass hits the hood and Farmboy's mouth hits hers. Mm, yeah.

"You're renting the Darbigers' old place, right?" he says.

Deanna's freaked for a second—how the hell does this kid know where I live—but then she remembers: Meeteetse, population 300. Jesus, small towns are creepy. She smiles and shakes her short hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah. You?"

"Parents," says...Jimmy? Jesse? Something with a J. Or maybe Charlie.


Farm Boy looks put out. "It's nuthin'."

Deanna weighs her options. She's not driving the Impala anywhere for a hot minute, given the vaguely swimmy quality to her vision, and she's definitely not letting some eighteen-year-old backwater farm boy drive her baby. There's always the bathrooms in a real pinch, but she's not that desperate.

"Hey, old cars, roomy back seats," she says. "We can take it to the car for a minute and if things…carry on, I'll drive us to my place."

Farm Boy—Jack!—looks unsure. "Ain't you got a brother?"

"Sammy? Nah. I ignore him, he ignores me. Now look, pretty boy, are you good to go?"

Jack grins, grabs her by the shoulders, and kisses her. He's a little rough, lips clumsy and hands too tight. Deanna puts her hands on his waist and tries to guide him through. He picks it up quick. She squeezes his waist appreciatively. Good muscles. Abs for days, she'll bet. She thinks of watching them flex as he pounds into her. Her clit throbs at the image, and she lets out the breathy little moan she knows guys go apeshit over.

"Yeah, baby," Jack says. "Can you—"

"Car. Yeah. Let's."

Deanna drops the keys twice before she gets them into the lock. She tosses them onto the front seat and slides in, dragging Jack after her.

Jack cages her in and and kisses her. Too much weight on her, mouth too sloppy. Deanna winces and tries to push him up a little and coax him into a better kiss. He doesn't quite get the hang of it, but he's close enough. She spreads her thighs, hooks her feet around the backs of his knees, grabs him by his fine, squeezable butt, and grinds up into the bulge in the front of his jeans.

She sighs and tips her head back. Her skirt's rolled up around her hips, so it's just her thin lace panties and the fly of his jeans between them. He gets a hand between them and gropes at her tit. Too hard. Deanna winces, but then Jack gets a few good humps in and she gets back into the groove of things.

She's just thinking this might be pretty good when Jack's face spasms and he lets out a strangled shout.

Oh no.

Deanna stares. "Did you just…?"

Jack blinks guiltily.

Something snaps inside of Deanna. She pushes him up. He backs up onto his knees. She twists backwards and opens the door.


"Come on, I can—"

"Nope. Out."

To his credit, he recognizes defeat. Jack climbs out, still red-faced and apologetic.

"Can I get your—"

Deanna shuts the door.

She climbs into the driver's seat and peels out of the parking lot, trying not to think about her damp underwear sticking to her swollen clit.

Normally she'd stick around and guilt the boy into going down on her. But she doesn't have anywhere close to the patience tonight. She hasn't even got the patience to sober up before making the drive home. What-the-fuck-ever. It's not as if there's any cops out here. It's not as if there's anybody out here.

Pissed off as she is, Deanna would like to slam the door and let loose with a full-blown bitch fit. But Sam didn't turn out to be a useless jackass and deprive her of what could have been a great night out. No point punishing him for the sins of his entire sex. So she shuts the door quietly, kicks her shoes off by the door and sneaks upstairs barefoot.

Deanna hears something before she opens the door, a sort of rhythmic raspy sound. She recognizes it just before she pushes the door to their room open and stops cold.

Sam's jerking off. In the bed. The only bed, the one they share.

Deanna whirls away and flattens against the wall. She'd shut her ears too if she could.

On the other side of the door, Sam moans. Something warm and hot flows into Deanna's gut. She squeezes her eyes shut and her thighs together.

And she wouldn't do it, but she's still so fucking wet and her pussy so fucking empty and she just needs something, anything.

She pulls up her skirt and pushes her panties aside.

In the bedroom, Sam is making these soft grunting noises. Deanna gets her hand into the leg hole of her underwear, spreads her lips, catches her clit between two fingers and rubs. She pushes two fingers into her mouth to muffle her gasp.

It doesn't last long. It can't, not with her all buzzed and keyed up and coming off of months of abstinence. All the same, there's a long minute when she's just on the brink of orgasm and she thinks she's never going to make it. But then Sam lets out a long, shaky groan, and Deanna knows he's coming, and it sends her over the edge.

When it's over, she slumps to the floor and laughs.

Sam takes a minute to emerge. When he does, he's only wearing boxers and a t-shirt. She knows they're fresh out of the drawer because there's not a damp spot on them, and feels a little sick at her disappointment.

"Jesus, Deanna, you're drunk."

Deanna giggles. "I'm really not."

"Did you drive like this? Jesus, Dad would kill you."

"I'm fine, Baby's fine, we're all fine." She waves a vague hand.

Sam catches her hand and her fingers close around his wrist. To her horror, she realizes it's the hand she just had in her panties. Her fingers are still sticky. Sam frowns, and for a moment Deanna's terrified that the jig is up. But he just hauls her to her feet and leans her against him.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

As he's manhandling her into their room and pulling the covers up, she wonders if he changed the sheets. Just before she falls asleep, she wonders if she hopes he didn't.


On Thursday, Dad calls.

The family phone rings as they're finishing up breakfast. Deanna picks it up while she's doing the dishes.

"Hello, Dee Winchester speaking."


She clutches the phone tighter and straightens. "Yessir?"

"Everything going alright?"

Across the table, Sam sits up, looking murderous. "Is that—"

Deanna makes a "cut it out" gesture at him. "Uh-huh. Everything's fine. AC's busted, but we're okay. How's the hunt?"

"Boring, but nothing too dangerous. Coupla idiot kid witches in over their heads."

"Gimme the fucking phone, Deanna," Sam hisses.

It's looking more and more like Sam's only gonna get more annoying. Better to pass him off now than deal with the fallout of him grabbing the phone. She grimaces. Damn it.

"Speaking of idiot kids, I'm gonna pass you to Sam."

"Alright. I'll call again Sunday."

Sunday. Graduation is tomorrow. Deanna feels a sudden, vicious stab of rage, and hopes it doesn't show when she says, "Yessir."

She passes the phone. Sam holds it to his ear and leans back in his chair.

"Hey, Dad."

His shoulders and face are winding tight. Deanna is instantly on guard. When Sam looks like that and Dad's in the room, someone's about to get hit.

"Yeah. Sure."

His jaw is so tense Deanna's surprised she doesn't hear teeth crack.

"Oh yeah. No biggie."


"No sir, I'm not talking back." He's jiggling his foot, shaking the table. "Oh, I'm definitely disrespecting you. Just not talking back."


Sam explodes out of the chair and storms down the hall. Deanna doesn't follow. She can let them hash it out over the phone. Nobody ever broke anybody's nose over the phone.

She gathers up their plates and gets back to the dishes.

"How the hell am I supposed to respect you as a father when you don't do the job? You don't have the basic decency to show up to my fucking graduation. I worked for this, Dad. I know you don't understand things like—you know what? No, I'm not gonna watch my goddamn language."

Deanna turns on the garbage disposal to drown it out. She switches it off when she can hear Sam shouting over it.

"—isn't a family, Dad, it's emotional entrapment."

There's a beep and a clatter as Sam ends the call and throws the phone across the room. Something thumps—a kick to a wall, probably—and then there's his footsteps pounding up the stairs and their bedroom door slamming shut.

Deanna gives him five or ten minutes to cool off while she makes them both coffee. There's only one mug in the cabinet, so Deanna pours hers into a cereal bowl. She climbs the stairs and knocks on the door with her foot.

"Hey, Sam. I brought coffee."

No response.

"Look, you're an evil son of a bitch with no coffee in you. Lemme in?"

The door unlocks and swings open. Sam is inside, red-eyed and red-faced. He takes the mug.

"You're welcome," Deanna says.

Sam sets the coffee on the end table and sits on the edge of the bed. "You're the only good I've ever gotten from this fucking family," he says. "The only thing."

Deanna shifts uncomfortably. "Come on, Sam, it's not—"

"No," he says. "I need you to know that. It's important."

"Uh…okay." Deanna feels warm in a way that's almost cloyingly sweet. She's struck with the urge to let it out somehow, so she reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair. He ducks his head and smiles, and the warmth spreads hopelessly through her and blooms into a wide, fond smile.

"No homo," she says, to break the tension.

He snorts out a laugh. "You're gay, Dee."

She grins. "Only half."

He shakes his head. "Go away. I've got a graduation rehearsal to go to. I need to put on pants."

"I'll drive you."

"You sure?"


Sam smiles, wide and genuine and grateful. "Thanks, Dee."

Deanna looks away. "Yeah. No problem."


On Friday, Sam gets his high school diploma.

Deanna puts on a decent dress and gets to the school two hours early to get a decent seat. There's only twenty or so kids in his graduating class, so "Winchester" is the last name called. Deanna whoops and hollers when Sam crosses the stage in his cap and gown and pretends that the cheer for the end of the ceremony is for him. When he comes out of the back of the gym with the other graduates, Deanna's there to meet him.

"You fuckin' made it!" she hollers, clapping him on the back and hugging him.

Sam laughs and hugs back. He's still not quite used to his height, so he nearly knocks Deanna in the face before he gets his arms around her. She ducks away and punches him in the arm.

"C'mon, I'll take you to lunch."

"Uh, yeah," Sam says. He shifts uneasily. "There's gonna be a party out at Jack's place for the whole graduating class. He asked if I'd like to come over and help set up."

Deanna's smile tightens. "Yeah, sure. I'll give you a lift."

"Um, actually, he offered me a ride."

"Oh!" Deanna forces out a laugh. "Look at you, with friends and all."

Sam laughs too. It doesn't sound any more comfortable than Deanna's.


Deanna hustles a game of poker at the local watering hole and fleeces a batch of pensioners out of $200. She looks at the ice cream cake in the freezer with the graduation hat and "Class of 2001" frosted on it. It's not a total loss. They can eat it for breakfast.

She cleans the house, tinkers with the AC unit some more, showers, eats a bowl of leftover mac and cheese, gets her PJs on, and switches the TV on. At some point she falls asleep, because she wakes to a loud thump followed by a fit of giggles.

She sighs, rolls off the couch, and pads over to the door. Sam is sitting on the floor and laughing at himself. Deanna rolls her eyes.

"Wow, Sammy."

"I just," he gasps, tears in his eyes, "went down!"

"You fucking baby. Come on, I can't pick your giant moose ass up off the floor. Move it." She nudges him with her toe.

He manages to lurch to his feet and lean against the wall. Deanna gets an arm around him and guides him to the bedroom. He falls onto the bed and starts stripping.

Deanna's heart jumps into her throat. She can feel her face heat up. Thankfully, he stops at his boxers, but he's still naked from the waist up. Deanna tears her eyes away from the corded biceps and starkly outlined abs.

He flops out a hand. "C'mon."

Deanna swallows. "I don't—"

Sam pouts. "Deeeeee," he whines.

Deanna strips off her shirt. She considers digging around for her sleep shirt, but goes with just the bra. It's too hot. She climbs in, curls up and shuts her eyes.

At first, she's willing to lie there with her eyes closed and savor the warmth radiating from Sam's body. But then her eyelids flicker briefly, just a half-blink, and she sees he's looking at her. So she looks back.

He's not smiling anymore. Instead, he looks…tired. Not sleepy, but old. It makes Deanna feel old in comparison.

"I love you," Sam says suddenly.

He reaches out, takes her hand, and presses a kiss to it. Deanna's pulse throbs. She snatches her hand back. Her knuckles are tingling where his lips touched them.

"Yeah," Deanna whispers.

She has to do something. She means to give him a little peck on the forehead, like when they were littler. But his forehead is farther away now, and in the time it takes her to get there Sam moves forward and kisses her.

It's nothing big—two pairs of lips only just touching—but it's not the kind of kiss you give your brother. No one moves, except to breathe. With an increasing sense of despair, Deanna realizes that she will never be free of Sam Winchester, and that she is grotesquely glad about it.

After a minute, or possibly a year, Sam settles back onto his pillow with a happy sigh. Deanna rolls over and tries to smother the ache in her chest.


Deanna wakes up first.

For a minute, she feels the thinly-clothed bulge against her ass and assumes she's still dreaming. It all feels too soft and surreal to be happening in real life. She parses through the sensations slowly. That's definitely a cock, riding her ass through her undies and his boxers. That's a hand on her waist and another cupping her breast. That's a mouth against the top of her head, breath harsh and hot against her scalp.

Deanna doesn't know exactly when everything really clicks—when she really comes to and figures out exactly who cock and hands and mouth belong to—but it doesn't matter. She doesn't stop him.

Sam rocks his dick into Deanna's ass. She reaches down, covers his hand with hers and presses it harder into her tit. He responds enthusiastically, kneading and squeezing and moaning into her hair. Deanna bites down on a whimper.

Their uneven humping coalesces into a rhythm. Deanna claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the gasps.

So good, so fucking good. She's so turned on she could combust. If she could just get a little more, just a little—she could have this, just this, and then forget it, and Sam would never have to know—

Heart hammering, Deanna rolls over, pushes Sam onto his back, straddles his waist, and grinds down. Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake up. When he bucks up with an unabashed shout, Deanna's terrified he's woken up. But then his hands settle on her hips, and it's obvious he's still out cold. She relaxes down onto him and surrenders to the relentless pace of their bodies.

The change in position means Sam's driving his cock straight up against her clit. Deanna bites down on the base of her thumb. She means to let herself have the one pleased sigh, but it comes out longer and louder and needier. He's definitely still asleep, but on some level, Sam processes the noise, groans in sympathy and moves that much faster and harder.

Deanna knows she should be keeping her voice down, but it's just so good. She braces her hands against the headboard and rides, panting out broken exhalations. Her panties are sticking to her sopping cunt. She bites her lip and whines. The friction on her clit combined with the pressure of Sam's dick is just shy of unbearable. Heat is building low in her gut, warming her face and forcing her breath out in noisy little sighs. She drops her head forward and gulps in one good breath as her whole body draws inwards. Oh yeah, here we go.

Sam blinks once, twice, three times.

Deanna can see his vision clearing as consciousness comes into focus. She's not sure if it's the shock or the orgasm shuddering through her limbs that makes her mouth drop open and has her finally gasping loud enough to hear, and she doesn't want to think about it. She shuts her eyes and pretends Sam does too.

As soon as she gets her legs under her again, Deanna hurls herself sideways, throws the covers aside and gropes around for the oversized t-shirt she sleeps in. "Shit. Fuck. I'm—I'm so fucking sorry, Sammy, I'll just—"

Sam is sitting up and running a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the bedhead. He looks devastated, which is wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Deanna, oh my God, I'm sorry, did I—"

"Shouldn't have—fuck, a lot—"

"God, Dee, don't hate me, please, I didn't mean to—"

"Just please don't—"

"—tell Dad—"

Deanna halts and sits up.

Sam bites off a word mid-sentence and forces her into eye contact. He doesn't touch her or anything, just tracks her gaze with his when she tries to look away.

"Hold up," Sam says. "Are you saying—you—did you—"

Deanna laughs a little and nervously ruffles the back of her hair. "Sammy, I was on top of you. I...I came."

She doesn't miss his little hiss of breath in. Oh, Jesus, if he couldn't tell—has he never—


He squirms. "Yeah?"

"You've never—you're a virgin?"

Sam blushes. "Gotta be," he says softly. "Nobody else compares."

Deanna swallows.

He's looking down at his knees now, and Deanna tries not to look at the damp patch on his boxers where he's still hard. "And you—you're always going with other guys, and with girls, and I've tried, I have, but I can't. It's you, Dee. It's always been."

Deanna's chest feels tight.

Sam scratches the back of his head and still won't look at her. "God, I'm so fucked up. I'm sorry. Just...forget it. I'll...I'll leave. It'll be okay. Nothing has to change. Just—forget it ever happened."

His face is a mess, all anguish and pain and self-hatred—everything Deanna's been trying to choke out of herself for years mirrored back at her, and she's tired.

So fuck it. Just this once, she's getting what she wants. Everything she wants.

"When you were jerking off the other day," she says, low and fast, "I was rubbing one out in the hall."

She spends a moment cherishing Sam's gobsmacked expression before it changes, going dark and determined, and he moves.

Kissing Sam is a revelation. He doesn't quite know what he's doing, but the enthusiasm is good, and she coaxes him into a good, sweet give-and-take. He gasps out a breath, pulls her into his lap, and kisses down her neck and to her chest.

"You—wanted—" Deanna gasps out.

"Fuck, Dee, wanted you since I was fourteen," Sam says, panting into her cleavage. "It's always been you. Nobody else compares."

Deanna moans and covers his mouth with hers. Her hands roam over his chest as she gives in to the aching desire to touch, to feel. Sam reaches behind her and fumbles at her bra for a second. With a little snick, it comes undone. Deanna shimmies it off and throws it aside. Sam buries his face in her chest and mouths at her tit.

"Fuck yeah," she groans. She tips her head back. "This is gonna be so goddamn good."

Sam groans and catches her nipple between his teeth. Deanna gasps and squirms. He's going at her hard, harder than anybody's ever dared to, but of course Sammy knows how much she can take. She grits her teeth and pushes his head away. He whines and tries to fight it, but she shoves him back.

"Calm your tits. I've got something better," she says, and wriggles out of her panties.

He takes a minute to stare open-mouthed. Deanna grins. She knows the picture she makes—cheeks flushed, eyes heavy-lidded, pupils dilated, hair loose and wild around her face, taut nipples bitten red and wet, beige-gold skin underlaid with muscle and stretched over lines of collarbone and sharp hips, light dusting of dark blonde hair between her legs.

"You were right, by the way," she says.

He blinks heavily. "What?" Jesus, he looks fucking concussed.

"Nobody compared, and nobody's ever gonna," she purrs, and shucks off Sammy's boxers.

Deanna can't help it. Her eyebrows hike up her forehead, and she's pretty sure her jaw drops a little. Feeling it through boxers was one thing, but...

"Son of a bitch," she breathes, and squeezes her thighs together. "Oh, God, you're big. You fucking would be, you little shit."

Sam lies back and lets his knees fall open. "Condom?" he says.

Deanna shakes her head. "On the pill." And he's a virgin, so they're fine.

He takes hold of the base of his cock and doesn't stroke, just squeezes. His eyes soften and his lips part, wet and pink. "Please, Dee."

"If I come first, I'll blow you after," Deanna says. As if sucking that off would be charity. Just looking at it makes her mouth water. Dick that big? That's a goddamn challenge.

Sam just pants and gives himself one long stroke. "Yeah. Come on, Dee, please, I can't stop wanting it."

Deanna shivers. Fuck. She gets her knees underneath her and straddles Sam's waist. He's got one hand still at the base of his shaft. Steadying. Aiming. Deanna swallows.

"Gonna go slow," she says. "Don't you dare come til I do."

Sam nods.

Deanna gets a good grip on the headboard. She's gonna need the support, because taking that cock is gonna be work. "It's easy." Jesus, what is happening to her voice? "Done it loads of times. Just aim and slide on in. Well. You aim, I'll handle the rest. You good?"

Another nod, a little less frantic. Deanna lets out a long breath.

"'Kay. Gonna do it."

She sinks down, knees folding on both sides of Sam's hips.

Bless him, the boy can follow directions. The fat head of his dick slips in. Deanna can't help but whimper. He's thicker than he looks, and if it's this much already—

She works her way down slowly, easing back up and then a little further down each time, until she's stuffed full and there's still some left. She reaches down to feel and gasps out loud.

"Jesus," she whispers.

Sam pulls her down and kisses her again. "Is it good?" He sounds so concerned, even out of his mind and dick-deep in pussy for the first time. Deanna laughs in spite of it all.

"Yeah. 'S good."

Reassured, Sam combs his fingers through her hair. "Keep going?"

"Mm. Gimme a second."

She lies there for a minute, rocking back and forth a little, trying to get used to the girth and the fullness. Sam combs through her hair and kisses whatever he can get to—forehead, cheeks, lips, jaw, throat, neck, collarbones, the upper swell of breasts, cleavage, nipples. Deanna shifts. Sam sighs. Deanna whimpers and moves again, working her hips into a smoother, circular motion. Her head lolls back.

"Yeah, that's the stuff."

Sam cups her ass and pushes up. Deanna doubles over with a gasp.

"Shit, did I—"

"Sammy, shut up. I'll tell you if—ohh, yeah."

The boy is learning. He's getting the hang of her pace, thrusting up in counterpoint.

Breath saws in and out of her mouth. "Oh. Fuck. Sammy."

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and pulls her into a long kiss. "God you're so good," he whispers. "Feel so good."

Deanna swallows down a knot of guilt and moves faster.

There's still a thread of hysteria (fuck fuck what are you doing this is wrong wrong wrong) running through the back of her head, but the heat and sensation is drowning it out. Sam is feeling her body out like it's a revelation making these sounds, all longing and satisfaction and gratefulness. Deanna drops one hand from the headboard and combs her fingers through his hair.

He's so obedient. She'd never have imagined, not from the way he fights her and Dad tooth and nail the rest of the time. Shit. Dad, what's Dad gonna do when he—oh, yeah, right there, Sammy, that's it. She's never had a virgin like this before. Her baby brother's fucking her with that monster of a cock so good and slow and deep that she's seeing stars. It's like he's focused entirely on her, and even if Deanna's calling the shots Sam's gonna pay her back with the most catastrophic orgasm of her life.

"Make me come, Sammy?" she says, and feels her face flush at her brother's gasp. "Make me come again."

He grimaces hard, twisting his whole face up in a brief struggle for control. "What do you need?"

"Touch me."

He takes his hand from her hip and feels for her clit. She takes hold of the headboard again and pants out the tension.

"Yeah—oh, a little more to the—yeah, right there." He's right on it, thumbing tenderly, jolting pleasure up into her body. "Harder. I can take harder. Need it." He presses down and rubs. Deanna sobs.

"Wanted you so long, you wouldn't believe," Sam blurts out, punching his hips up as he catches Deanna's clit between thumb and the knuckle of his first finger.

Noises are bubbling up in Deanna's throat, fragments of moans and fractured gasps. She's not normally a screamer, she's not, can't be, but there's something about this time that's different. Heart pounding, she leans back to widen the angle and plunges down with a calculated shimmy. At the resulting burst of sensation, she tips her head back and lets out a full-throated cry. Sam risks another good, hard rub at her clit, and with a deep gasp, Deanna's coming.

Her knees go out from underneath her as she shudders through orgasm and she sinks down onto Sam's dick. He bucks up and shouts.

"Dee, gonna—"

"Mm," she sighs as her body relaxes. "Yeah, Sammy."

He pulls her close and kisses her wildly, punching his hips up with abandon. She's stuck making these soft little sounds at the way her insides are still churning with pleasure.

"Oh," Sam gasps. "Dee. Dee."

Her mouth slants into a slack, open-mouthed grin. "Yeah, come on. Give it to me."

Teeth clenched and eyes shut, Sam does.

After, Deanna can't muster the lower body strength to really climb off, so she just lets herself fall forward and a little to the side. Sam's softening dick slides free with a wet noise that's equal parts disgusting and hot as hell. She nestles into his side. He scoots down the bed and tucks his face into her neck.

"Don't fit anymore," he mumbles, already half-asleep again. "My head. 'm too tall."

There's another flash of hysterical guilt as she remembers when she's held him like this before—all the quiet tears in their hotel room after leaving behind another friend, the nights he just wouldn't sleep unless Deanna read to him until her voice went hoarse, the late-night fights when he crawled in close after and whispered that he was sorry, the hotel rooms where they fell asleep in front of the TV and woke up entwined.

Oh, God, I'm a fucking pervert. I'm going to hell for sure. This isn't what Dad meant when he said to take care of Sammy. God, he's gonna beat the tar out of me or worse, what have I done, what did I DO—

She's about to choke out, "I'm so fucking sorry, Sammy," but before she can say it he whispers, "Love you, Dee," into her chest.

Deanna shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed to quell the hysteria welling up. "Yeah," she says quietly. "Me too."

She listens to his breath and watches the rise and fall of his chest.


On Saturday, Deanna wakes tangled in Sam.

It feels good. It should feel repulsive. She wants him to wake up with his fat dick in her mouth. She should want to throw up.

She settles for curling in closer and shutting her eyes.

"Hey," Sam murmurs. "You awake?"


He nuzzles at the back of her head. It's warm and cozy and domestic and not entirely comfortable. Deanna rolls over to face him and lets herself kiss him. She wrinkles her nose.

"Morning breath."

"Yeah, and yours smells like wildflowers."

Deanna grins. "You bet, baby brother."

She should feel sick calling him that when she's thinking of sucking him off. She considers it, but she's too stuck on the image of wrapping her lips around the head of his cock.

Deanna pushes Sam onto his back and kisses him again. They're both still naked. He's hard against her bare thigh.

"Good morning to you too," he says.

"Made you a promise last night, didn't I?" Deanna says.

Sam frowns for a second, trying to remember. Deanna can see the moment he does. She grins and bites her lip.

"That work for you?" she says casually.

Sam's eyes go wide. "Uh. Yeah. That's—definitely good."

She crawls down the bed and parts his legs. Sam looks down, sees her bending over him and looking up at his face through her eyelashes, and drops his head back into the pillows with a quiet curse.

"Give me a heads-up before you come," she says. "And don't fuck my face."

Sam nods fast and doesn't meet her eyes.

She starts easy, getting her hand on the base of his shaft and licking most of the head into her mouth. Sam inhales quickly and harshly. The musky taste in her mouth sharpens.

He can't stop himself from rocking up a little. This is his first, after all. It gives her a little thrill of victory, but she pins his hips down all the same. She's not up to deep-throating that beast just yet.

"Dee," he's saying, soft and high and pleading. "Oh, oh Jesus, Dee, feel so good."

Deanna hums around her mouthful and Sam gasps.

She's getting into a rhythm now, going nearly as far as she can and back, just quick enough to feel like it's really going somewhere. Sam balls his hands up in the sheets. Deanna draws back, tongues under the head and sucks a little harder. Sam pants in a few high breaths.

She lets his cock fall, bouncing a little off her lower lip. Sam makes a noise like he's been punched in the gut.

"Put your hands in my hair," she says.

Sam nods. His eyes are dark and there's two spots of color high on his cheeks. Deanna lets out a shaky breath.

She lowers her head, and this time Sam threads his fingers through her hair. Warmth ripples down the length of her spine. She sucks harder, bobs her head faster, and moves her hand in counterpoint to her mouth. Sam's practically incoherent, reduced to little cries of "oh, oh, oh." Deanna moans encouragingly. And, good boy that he is, he remembers.

"I'm—I'm gonna—gonna come—"

She slides her hand to the root of his cock, reaches back, and brushes her fingertips against his balls. Sam shudders, cries out, and starts to come. She pulls off with a wet pop and strokes him through it, letting it stripe across her cheek and lips and chin. It feels good. Filthy. Permanent.

When he sees what he's done, his mouth falls open in a look of dumbstruck awe. He reaches out and smears his thumb through a streak. Her eyelids soften and her lips part.

"Wow," Sam whispers.

Deanna hums her agreement.

Sam's eyes slide sideways. "Would you—d'you want me to—"

"If you're down," Deanna deadpans.

She scoots up the bed and rolls over onto her back, pulling Sam over with her. He blushes.

"I, uh...I don't…"

Deanna smirks. "It's just a pussy, Sammy."

He blushes. "That's not—it's just...I don't know what to…"

Oh, fuck. That should not be as hot as it is. Deanna sucks her lower lip behind her teeth. There's a bit of semen at the corner. She catches it with her tongue. Sam's eyes go heavy and dark as they track it.

"We've got time," she says. "Explore. I'll let you know what's good."

Sam nods and licks his lips. Deanna nearly comes just watching that, but then Sam's bending and kissing up the inside of her thigh, slow and careful and gentle. He kisses the outer lips of her pussy and she lets out a whimper. She can't remember anyone ever doing that before. Can't imagine why. Feels fucking great. So Sam does it again, slower and deeper and wetter, like he's Frenching her cunt. And there's his tongue, parting her folds and lathing over her wet gash with no finesse, just pure and simple greed. Deanna pants and hooks her foot over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Like that. Oh, yeah, Sammy, that's good."

He spreads her open with his thumbs and really goes to work. When his tongue first drags over her clit, Deanna jerks down into his mouth with a gasp.

"Ah, fuck. Little easier. For now."

He's gentler on his next pass, and flicks his tongue lightly over the exposed gland like licking sugar off your fingers. She sighs.

"Ah! Yeah."

The long, lazy strokes make Deanna's face flush and her thighs tense, but she's starting to plateau. Sometimes she stays there for ages and never comes at all, and the sex is none the worse. She might this morning. But then Sam nudges her legs the tiniest bit further apart and works a fingertip into Deanna's pussy, and the possibility of orgasm comes into focus.

"Harder," she says. "More." And Sam obeys.

He twists two fingers into her straight off, and she practically convulses. And, good boy that he is, he hooks his fingers as he pulls out, brutally working her G-spot as he sucks and tongues her clit.

Deanna can't withstand much of this. She has just enough time to look at Sam looking at her before her vision whites out and her head knocks back into the pillow with the force of the orgasm rolling through her body. She clenches and releases, pulsing around Sam's fingers, feeling wet and used and fucking ecstatic.

She's barely gotten her breath back when Sam climbs up the bed, pins her down, and kisses her with bruising force. She kisses back lazily. He twists his head to the side and licks her jaw, and she realizes—he's licking his come off her.

She laughs breathlessly. "Does it for you, huh? Your own jizz? Gross, Sammy."

He actually fucking growls. If Deanna hadn't just come, she'd swear something twitches down south.

"Watching you come with—that all over your face," he grunts. "Fuck, Dee, you can't imagine."


Suddenly she's very aware of her skin and the pleasant goosebumps peppering it. God, he's hard again already? Can't beat teenaged boys for enthusiasm.

"Gotta fuck you," he murmurs, and her hair stands on end.

"Yeah," she breathes. "Alright. You're gonna have to be on top," she says. "I'm bushed."

Sam doesn't even acknowledge it, just latches onto her neck and pushes her legs apart.

At the first nudge of his cock against her cunt, Deanna moans into Sam's mouth. Even wet and fucked open, it's intimidating. He's so big, and she's still sore all the way up into her stomach from last night.

All the same...

"Go rough," she tells him.

Sam's eyes practically roll back in his head. He pushes in with a sharp kick of his hips. Deanna cries out, arches her back and winds her legs around Sam's waist.

"Yeah," he snarls, and does it again.

Oh God. She's so sensitive right now she could burst. Her entire body feels like an overblown balloon, chest tight and muscles tense. Shocks of pleasure jolt through her and make her whole body twitch helplessly under her brother's control. He snaps his hips over and over and bends to catch her mouth in a bruising, biting kiss.

She's not going to come again. She doesn't think she can, possibly ever again, but God is it good. Sam's bent over her like a jockey kicking up lather, fucking her with venom and grunting with every thrust. Deanna's half out of her mind, mantras of "please Sam oh God yeah oh oh oh Sammy yes" bubbling from her mouth outside of her control. Then Sam gets a hand between them and rubs her clit with his thumb and it turns out she can come again after all. It ripples through her and leaves her weak and shaky and vocal as Sammy pushes in hard once, twice, three times, and shouts into her shoulder. She hums like a little pleased cat.

Sam rolls over and pulls her in. He chuckles. "You're the little spoon."

"Go to hell."

He nuzzles at the top of her head. "Smell nice."

Something rises in her throat, a lump of panic catching in her gullet. "It's just shampoo."

"'s nice," he insists.

Deanna tries to breathe slowly and deeply, but it's like there's not enough space in her chest. Her face feels hot.

She feels Sam lift his head and frown. "Deanna?"

She shakes her head and hide her face in her shoulder.


"What are we doing?" she blurts out. "Jesus, Sam, you're my brother. What the hell is wrong with us?"

"Hey, hey, easy," he says, alarmed. "It's fine, Dee, it's fine."

"It's not fine." She laughs. It comes out high and hysterical. "This isn't what Dad meant when he told me to take care of you."

"Fuck Dad," Sam says venomously. "Fuck him. This isn't about him, it's about us."

Deanna swallows and shakes her head. It's all too much all at once.

"He's not here. He's never here. And when he is…you know."

Deanna winces. She knows.

"Anyway," Sam continues, "it's fine. We're not like other siblings. We never have been. And we love each other."

Deanna gulps. "But like—this?" She gestures at the mess of the bed. "This isn't like hunting. This is okay?"

Sam touches his forehead to hers and pulls her in. Her forehead presses against his. It's comfortable. Secure. "Honestly? I don't know," he says. "But when I hold you like this, and when we made love, it didn't feel sick. It felt...right. Like the last piece of a puzzle. Was it...the same for you?"

Deanna swallows.

If she's being honest, it's not until after, when her brain kicks back in, that she realizes what she's done and remembers to feel bad about it. When she's touching Sam, she can't even fathom how what they're doing could be wrong.

They murder for a living. What the hell does "wrong" even mean?

 "Yeah," she says quietly, and kisses Sam.

There's a promise in the kiss, but not a demand. It draws something warm up from Deanna's chest and into her face and head. She strokes his cheek and gives in.

After, she curls up against Sam and tucks her face in next to his. He pets her hair and she hums in satisfaction.

Suddenly, Deanna giggles.

Sam sighs. "Okay. What is it."

"Making love."


"You called it 'making love,' you big girl."

He shoves her. "You are a girl."

She punches him in the arm. Things devolve from there. They end up rolling onto the floor and taking half the sheets with them. Sam gets her pinned and covers her mouth. She licks his hand and he grins.

"Come on, Dee, you can't think your spit still bothers me."

Fair enough. After all, the rules have changed. So she reaches around his back and cups his balls. Pretty tight, too.

Sam goes stiff. He lets her mouth go. She smirks.


"Truce," Sam squeaks.


From Sunday through Wednesday, they don't leave the house.

Now that they've opened this new world of experiences to themselves, they can't seem to leave it. Sam takes her from behind in the shower and then again on the living room carpet. Deanna blows him on the kitchen table and he eats her out while she's sitting on the bedroom dresser. He fucks her against the wall, holding her up so she can wrap her legs around his waist. She comes like a rocket and thrashes so hard she knocks them to the floor and they laugh and laugh.

They eat the ice cream cake for breakfast on Sunday. Sam smears some on her face and licks it off. 

"I don't wanna leave," Sam says on Wednesday morning.

Deanna kisses his neck. "Then don't."

That's apparently enough, because he grabs her by the waist and rolls her over.


On Wednesday, John Winchester gets home.

He'd said Thursday on the phone, so he catches Sam and Deanna by surprise. They don't hear the car pulling up, just the door slam shut. Deanna tears her hand from Sam's pants and shoves him off. "Shit. Shit!"

 "You go, I'll pretend like I was asleep," Sam whispers, scrambling to his feet and pulling his pants up. "Go!"

"Deanna! Sam!" John hollers up the stairs. "Need a hand."

With a sinking feeling, Deanna realizes he's drunk. Coming home from a case drunk can't mean anything good. She pulls a shirt on, flattens her hair into something presentable, and heads downstairs.

John Winchester is at the kitchen table holding a half-empty fifth of whiskey and a rag to his forehead. He slumps back in the chair.

"Thank God," he rasps. He sounds like hell. Did he get choked or something? "Deanna, come look at this. Can't tell if I need stitches or no."

"Yessir." She pries the hand from his head. He winces. Deanna looks over the gash. "Can't tell either. Too messy."

John scowls. "Damn scalp wounds."

"Hold on, I'll get the kit."

By the time she's assembled the first aid kit, they've been joined by a third party. Sam sits on the edge of the kitchen counter, drinking a Coke and glaring stony-faced at their father. John acts oblivious, but the vein in his temple is working something fierce. Deanna's stomach twists up in knots. She takes a seat across from her father and gets to work cleaning the blood off his forehead. It turns out to be pretty shallow.

"Should be gone as long as you don't pick any more fights with Harry Potter and friends."

 "No, I ain't lookin' to get into a fight," John says, looking straight at Sam.

"We got ice cream cake left in the freezer," Deanna says, studiously ignoring the frisson of tension in the room.

John grunts. "We can have it for breakfast. We're leaving by two."

"You said Friday!" Sam bursts out.

John levels a dark look in Sam's direction. "That was when I was getting back Thursday. Got a call from Leonard. Needs our help with a shapeshifter problem."

Sam unclenches his jaw. "Yeah. Whatever." He stomps down from his perch on the counter and matches upstairs.

"Sam Winchester, get the hell back down here or so help me—" John starts to get up.

Deanna blocks him and raises her hands, halting him without making contact. "Hey, c'mon."

John glowers, but he sits back down and swipes his bottle of Jack off the table. "Go talk to him. Handle it."

Deanna turns to hide her blush. "Yessir."

Upstairs, Sam is either packing or throwing a bitchfit as he rips the room apart. Maybe both. Deanna hovers by the door.

"Hey," she says. "You on the rag?"

Sam doesn't laugh. Deanna feels the lack of it like an ache. His laughter fills something in her, and right now those places are empty and hollow.

"I hate this life," Sam says. "I hate it."

Deanna crawls into bed. Sam doesn't stop digging through his pile of clothes. Deanna snuggles in. "Hey. Come to bed."

Nothing. Deanna ratchets up her game. She looks down and to the side, like she's ashamed, and bites her lip.


There's a moment's pause. Sam sighs, long and put-upon, puts down a handful of socks and gets into bed.

He doesn't get close enough that anyone would know the truth, but they're pretty cozy. Deanna sighs and tucks herself into him closer.

"We can deal with him when he sobers up, yeah?" Sam says.

Deanna swallows. "Mm. Yeah."


Sam tells them about Stanford after they've packed the car and are polishing off the last of the ice cream cake.

The floor drops out from under Deanna. She tries to hold on to the table, because ridiculous as it sounds, she's afraid she might tip straight the hell over.

John drops his fork. "What did you say?"

Sam sets his plate in the sink. "I said I'm going to Stanford," he says, very calmly. "They've accepted me on a full scholarship."

John slams his fist into the table, and that's that.

Deanna does what she can, but the fight's been too long coming. They were always coming to this, she realizes, since Sam looked around and realized he wasn't like the other kids. It was different for Deanna. She knew the score.

All the same, knowing what she knows, seeing the inevitability of it all, when John says the words—"if you walk out that door, you don't come back"—it's like ice in her soul.

She chases him outside and grabs his sleeve. He whirls around, jaw still flexing and violence in his eyes, and for a second she's really and truly afraid.

Then he sees it's her, and he softens. The violence shows its true self, the old pain and hurt and confusion, and if Deanna could just take him back inside and upstairs and kiss him—

She takes his shoulders and doesn't care if their dad sees. "Sammy," she says. "Don't leave us."

His face twists. "You can't understand, Dee," he says. "This is his life, not mine. I can't live this."

"What about me, Sammy?" she croaks. "Can you live with me?"

He pulls her in closer and brings her body flush with his. Her blood rises.

"Come with me," he says, earnest and sweet and full of more hope than Deanna's seen in years. "Come to California with me. We could get a place together, find some garage jobs, have a life. A normal life, Dee! Where nobody knows about monsters or ghosts or anything." He takes her face in his hands. "Where nobody knows I'm your brother."

Deanna closes her eyes.

She imagines California. Imagines the two of them in an apartment, sleeping in the same bed for a year at a time instead of a week. Imagines having a real kitchen and their own washing machine and sex so loud they wake the neighbors. She could work full-time while Sammy took evenings, and then they'd go home exhausted and not worry about getting up in the morning to run training.

She imagines knowing why there's that cold spot in the corner of the basement, seeing patterns in every murder on the nightly news, waking up at night and running salt lines around the bed. She imagines John with no reliable partner, running afoul of every hunter he'd ever screwed over and a hundred monsters with a thirst for vengeance and no one to watch his back.

Deanna steps back.

The step hurts something in her. It throbs in her stomach and chest and lodges in her throat so she's afraid she won't be able to say the words. She balls her hands into fists at her sides to keep herself from rushing back at him and kissing him until they can't breathe.

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

He squeezes those big, wide puppy-dog eyes shut for a second, then nods.

"I love you," he says softly.

Deanna squeezes her eyes shut and does not open them until she hears the truck pull out onto the road and she's sure she can put on a sullen face for John. The tears come later, when she goes to bed alone.