“Saaaam,” Gabrielle calls, slumping against the wall by the bathroom door. “Sammy! Come the Hell
, woman, are you fucking ready yet?”
“Just a second, Gabi!” comes the response — for the fiftieth time in the past forty-five minutes. When they should’ve been out the goddamn door, at the latest, twenty minutes ago.
Gabrielle grimaces at the door, wrinkling her nose like she’s just caught a whiff of dog shit and frowning like she has a thousand merry little Christmas elves digging lines into her face. She tries the doorknob, but once again: the damned thing’s locked. Because her fuck-stick, prissy-ass girlfriend is putting way too much thought and effort into her outfit for their New Year’s Party. …Well, Bela’s New Year’s Party, technically, but to Hell with the technicalities — Gabrielle helped Bela buy all the decorations, and she was over there this morning helping set up, and she baked for this shenanigan.
She dug Mom’s old book of recipes out of its hiding place in the library and made Bela a homemade cheesecake . …And a chocolate pudding pie. And an apple spice one, on top of it, because Sam thought it’d be nice if Gabrielle at least tried to make something Deanna would like, because (in her words), my sister thinks you’re trying to kill her or something, and… I just. Gabi, please? That’s why Deanna’s always such a jerk to you, y’know — she’s scared, like you’re stealing me from her or something and she thinks you are going to kill her. Just… make her favorite kind of pie as a peace offering? Please?
And, naturally, she made some of Sammy’s favorite brownies — the double-chocolate chip kind, the ones that Mom made up herself — because Sammy’s finals week was rough, and Christmas with Deanna and their family was rough, and if Gabrielle’s girl wants to do a little stress-eating, then fuck all, Gabrielle doesn’t see the problem with that. It’s better than depriving herself on rabbit food like she did back in around October. And it means Gabrielle gets to stress-bake without getting bitched at about how Sam’s on a diet, can’t Gabrielle have some respect for that.
So, really, there’s no call to be splitting hairs or shit over who’s “properly” hosting the party or not — and doing so doesn’t keep Gabrielle from nibbling at her nails in frustration. Or from checking her watch and pointedly sighing , hoping that her ridiculous moose of a girlfriend hears her and hurries the Hell up already. Gabrielle didn’t take that long putting her outfit together: it’s just her tight, black cashmere sweater, her old plaid skirt from her high school days at Sacred Heart, black tights, the boots that Cas says make her look like a prostitute (but what does she know? They only go up to Gabrielle’s knees), and a couple sprigs of the plastic mistletoe that Mom hung up for her Christmas party.
They’re dangling off her belt from shimmery golden string, bouncing around and dancing right around her pussy. Sammy’s bound to be scandalized, if she ever opens this damn door … Gabrielle huffs and checks her watch again. Seven-fifteen — the party’s started already, even if Alexandra, Cas, and Deanna are probably the only ones there with Bela, so Crowley and Bels are probably just… drinking wine, and giving Deanna judgmental glances, and trying to make sure she’s good enough for Cassy. Screwing up her face again, Gabrielle kicks the door, then punches it for good measure.
“Samantha Joanne Winchester, I swear to God , if you don’t open this door in the next five minutes, I’m breaking in!”
“I told you, Gabi — I’m almost ready to go, I just need a few minutes—”
“You’ve had more than a few, lady! Right about now, we’re sort of edging out of ‘fashionably late’ and into, ‘I’m going to miss this party and any sex you get tonight’s going to be of the angry persuasion’ — I mean, Jesus, it’s not like you’re getting gussied up in some fancy-schmancy, fifty-layer Disney wedding cake dress, Sam!”
The next thing Sam says comes out in a small voice, which creeps out from behind the door like the words themselves just want to crawl under the bed and hide: “Like I’d even fit in one …”
Oh, that’s just the last straw — not because of the way Gabrielle’s lungs writhe a little inside her chest, and definitely not because of the way she gets goose-flesh all up and down her arms, chilling with the concern that Sam’s words shove down her throat. Definitely not because of that. Gabrielle’s just at the end of her fucking rope with this, and Sam made the mistake of locking a door that Gabrielle’s picked open since she was eleven. With a sigh, she breaks her ATM card out of her purse. She crouches by the door and, after a few moments of toggling around, jimmies it open. And she’s greeted by two things, neither of which make her go back to smiling, like she’d like to do.
First of all, Sam gasps, and follows that up with whining, “No, Gabi — I’m sorry it’s taking so long, just don’t come in here, I mean it!”
Secondly: once Gabrielle’s recovered from that (and the sneaky glimpse she gets of Sammy’s purple boy-short panties, the ones that have Hello Kitty dressed up like a pirate screenprinted on the ass), she gets to see what the fuss is all about — and that Sam’s half-seated on the counter, between the two sinks and right next to Anna’s first aid kit, and she’s barely even half-ready for tonight. Her makeup’s minimalist, as ever, only noticeable because she hasn’t worn any since she got here on Boxing Day. Her hair’s as primped as it ever gets. Sam’s modus operandi there is always, “wash, condition, run fingers and a brush through, then let the chin-length, finely polished oaken coffee table-colored beast do whatever it wants.”
(It’s cute, the way Sam styles her hair by not styling it — and it's refreshing, when they’re stuck on a campus full of stuck-up, strung-out rich girls who, unlike Bela (who is cool), seem Hell-bent on making Gabrielle feel like crap for not spending her mornings in the bathroom, primping. Were they not running late , Gabrielle would grab her lady by that mop of hers and work out their frustrations sexually — always the best way possible.)
Clothing is another story. Sam’s got a nice over-shirt on, sure — the blue-and-green checked number that her Aunt Ellen got her for Christmas — but she hasn’t buttoned it, and the black t-shirt she has on looks dangerously close to ripping. Not just around her tits, either. Sam’s shirts are probably used to the strain of her chest-melons. (In the back of her mind, Gabrielle hears Sam snapping at her for that word, something or other about respecting her and not blatantly checking out her boobs in the middle of conversations or something, but come on — that’s so not Gabrielle’s fault. Her girlfriend’s hot . Why does Gabrielle have to be the bad guy for appreciating that her girlfriend’s hot?)
No, no, in addition to Sam’s chest, the shirt’s having a spot of trouble with Sam’s stomach. The black doesn’t do much in the way of slimming when it’s easily a size too small, stretched tight against a pudgy tummy that definitely looks bigger than Gabrielle remembers it looking the last time she saw it.
Which… doesn’t compute, since the last time she saw it was last night, when she coaxed Sam into Mom and Dad’s hot tub. Wrinkling her nose and tilting her head in utter confusion, Gabrielle looks Sam up and down, searches for anything else she’s missed about her girlfriend’s appearance. There’s Sammy’s baby-sized spare tire, pooching out into her lap in a way that just makes Gabrielle want to bite it — And her hips look a little more curvaceous than before, or at least, it looks like there’s more of them to grab onto — Her position on the counter keeps Gabrielle from checking out (and thereby assessing) her ass — And then there are her jeans, all bunched up around the middle of her thighs and already looking ready to go popping off her. If Sam’s shirt’s a size too small, then her jeans have to be two sizes short of what she need. And just guessing by the wear-and-tear along their inseams, Gabrielle’d bet anything Sam’s owned them since high school.
(…For that matter: are Sam’s thighs softer? Well… they jiggle a little when Sam startles, blushes, and rushes to hug herself around the stomach, but… Gabrielle still can’t tell. For all the times she’s had her face between them, she ought to have some kind of idea, but… no. She still can’t tell. She can’t remember whether or not there’s been too much extra padding on Sam’s legs since they first hooked up in July, either — which also isn’t Gabrielle’s fault. She’s an attentive girlfriend when she eats Sam out, which means focusing on Sam’s pussy and her clit, not on her thighs and whether or not they look like some airbrushed centerfold’s.)
“Huh,” Gabrielle says, head tilting further to the left, squinting because she’s wearing neither glasses nor contacts and she just needs to be sure that she hasn’t missed anything because her vision’s playing tricks on her. “Not to be rude or anything, babe, but I think you should’ve left those jeans in eighth grade.”
She glances up at Sam just in time to see her girl’s face flush the same, dark shade of red as Anna’s pomegranate body wash. Staring intently at the tiles and the bathmat, Sam mumbles something so quietly that Gabrielle has to ask her to repeat it. And she sighs , pulling Patented Bitch-Face Number Twelve: the why don’t you listen to me when I’m talking to you, I hate repeating myself Bitch-Face, complete with furrowed brow, exasperated frown, and a glint behind her eyes that just begs, if you REALLY loved me, you wouldn’t make me admit this twice, Gabi.
Not that Gabrielle loves Sam — cares about her, sure; is fond of her, sure; but… love is a special word. It means something — something important — and people throw it around too regularly. They cheapen it, the way they say that they love this thing or that one or some person that they just met… Gabrielle’s not putting that fucking L-word out there just yet, not when they've only been dating for a few months. Or maybe ever.
Trying to put that whole mess out of her mind, Gabrielle shrugs and points out, “Sammy, it’s kinda hard to have a conversation when I can only hear myself talking here, y’know?”
Unfortunately, wise-cracking doesn’t get Sam’s blush to subside (all it does for her embarrassment is make her wrap her arms around herself that much tighter) — but, on the plus, it gets her to look back up at Gabrielle. Which is good. Even if she’s moved onto the Patented ‘kicked, orphan puppy standing outside in the rain’ Face, pulled out the big, sad eyes and everything. (She’s an emotionally manipulative bitch sometimes, but… fuck it, she’s Gabrielle’s emotionally manipulative bitch — and besides, it’s adorable, the way her eyes seem to wobble a little bit, like they can’t decide whether or not to mist over, and right in synch with Sam’s lower lip going all pouty.)
“I said ,” she mutters (audibly, thank God), “that they’re not from eighth grade — they’re… they’re supposed to be my sexy jeans. I only got them last year , you know… buying new clothes as a freshman?”
Much as she’s not following where the Hell Sam thinks she’s going, Gabrielle nods. “Okay… so you should’ve left them in last year, then. Come on, you’ve got jeans that fit—”
“That’s just the point , though!” Sam groans and shuffles further back onto the counter, enough to actually get her feet off the ground. Probably unwittingly, she nudges her too-small jeans down closer to her knees. For just a moment, Gabrielle can see it: Sam’s thighs are definitely chubbier; that jiggle they have to them is unmistakable. She can’t appreciate the view for too long, though, because Sam goes on: “They didn’t fit after first year, but I was this close to getting back into them in October, and then…” She pauses, and blows a raspberry. (Clearly, she’s spending too much time with her sister, and picking up Deanna’s ideas of what does and doesn’t constitute a decent explanation of anything.)
“Midterms happened, and finals happened, and Christmas happened — and next thing I know, I’ve totally freaking blown up!” When Gabrielle scoffs at that assertion, Sam’s blush finally disappears… but only because she pales and throws on the why don’t you believe me, idiot Bitch-Face (Number Seventy-Three, if Gabrielle’s not mistaken). Groaning, thumping her hands on the counter, she snaps, “I’ve been in here, sucking and tugging and doing everything , and these stupid jeans don’t fucking fit .”
Advancing slowly, just in case Sam decides she wants to explode or throw the toothpaste container at Gabrielle’s head or something, Gabrielle starts ambling up to the counter. “Yeah, because like I said , you should’ve left them in first year where they belonged and gone for jeans that do fit you. What about your black ones? Go on, get those on — they make your ass look great—”
“Come on , Gabi — I’ve put on about twenty-five pounds this semester, it’s probably gonna get to thirty, soon — and y’know, it’s not even in this semester , it’s only been since mid-October — you just… you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed that!”
“You’re six-foot-four , for Christ’s sake. What the Hell was I supposed to notice ?” Rolling her eyes and crossing her arms makes Sam’s face fall back into the kicked-puppy pout — which, for the first time in a couple weeks, gives Gabrielle that sinking feeling in her stomach like, maybe, she’s just about the worst person in the world. Sighing, she runs her fingers back through her hair and says, “…okay, that was insensitive or whatever, but… I swear, Sammy: all I noticed was you having a shit time of things, not… whether or not you were getting chubby, or whatever.”
She pauses, and waits for Sam to say anything in response to that, but all she gets is the wide eyes and wrinkled nose that shout Sam Winchester is confused by your shenanigans, might you possibly be speaking Greek . Gabrielle shakes her head and (barely) manages to bite back a derisive snort. “Besides,” she says, “you know what kind of people tell their girlfriends not to eat when they’re hungry? Douchebags — and sure, I’m no fucking angel here, Sammy, but… I’m not that kind of dick.”
Sam arches an eyebrow at her until it threatens to jump off her forehead, but as quickly as she let it jump up, it falls back into place. “I hardly think that clocking in at two-fifty-two counts as chubby , Gabrielle,” Sam drawls. As she drops her hands to the hem of her shirt, tries (in vain) to tug it down and hide her stomach, the blush returns, just a little bit. Just enough to tint her cheeks a warm shade of pink. “…Deanna noticed. And Dad . Two of them spent Christmas poking at it — at me, I mean — and calling me, like… Nothing bad, I mean — their nicknames aren’t creative at all , just stuff like, ‘Big Girl’ and, ‘Plumpy,’ ‘Piglet’ — but apparently, it’s their job now to remind me I was a chubby twelve-year-old. Because, you know, I totally wanted to hear all about that…”
This time, Gabrielle lets herself snort, and loudly, at that — “Yeah, because your Dad’s opinion counts for so much . Sammy, he tried to tell Deanna that she couldn’t be a lesbian because she had a couple beards in high school. …When Cas and I came over this summer, he told her she was too pretty to date your sister because Deanna smells like engine grease half-the-time. So, y’know, you’ll forgive me if I don’t put too much stock in anything he says.”
Sam sighs , wearing a sad puppy face that can’t be intentional — the way she slouches her shoulders is too exasperated, too tired to be trying this intentionally. “He’s my dad , Gabi,” she mutters. “And, like… Sure, he’s about as accepting as he can be, but… the first thing he said when he picked us up for break was, ‘Looks like the diet’s off, huh, Sammy.’ And he kept asking me things, like if I really needed that slice of pie, or if I wanted to go see that… creepy doctor friend of his who talks like Freddy Krueger before classes start again, or if you’re some kind of chubby chaser — and, like, he means it all in fun, but it’s still… I mean, it still sucks , and he’s still my dad …”
Sam goes on like this for a while, babbling and completely oblivious while Gabrielle finally gets up close to her. From this (lack of) distance, sure, Gabrielle can admit that Sam’s put on a little weight — considering how tall she is, it doesn’t look like much at all; the whole, ‘no time to hit the gym’ part’s probably taken some kind of toll or other, made her lose the tone and pick up a tummy instead… But it’s ridiculous, that they’re back on this topic. Well, at least none of her rambling includes any kind of rubbish about ‘looking sexy for Gabrielle’ — at least, she’s gotten that through her impervious, cervine head.
“…so, I’m already planning my New Year’s resolution — this is the biggest I’ve ever been, Gabi, and I need to get a handle on it before it gets worse — I’m probably already getting love-handles, I will be soon anyway, if it keeps going like it has—” (Sam isn’t getting love-handles, not that Gabrielle can see, but at least chattering on like this keeps her from noticing when Gabrielle rolls her eyes again.) “And the two-fifty-two was what I weighed on the twenty-sixth, but I’ve just — between the Chinese take-out and the pizza and your baking, I’m probably even bigger now, I…”
Sam trails off until she goes completely silent, and almost perfectly still, she stares down at Gabrielle’s hand — the hand currently resting on her stomach, groping at the softness, gently kneading into her pudge. When they meet each other’s eyes again, Sam pales, goes from puppy to ‘deer in the headlight’ in the space of a second — she looks ready to beg for… Lord only knows what’s on her mind. And Gabrielle could use her words again, the way she has before, but all she says is, “Nope… Felt you up and you’re still sexy” — then she knots her free hand up in Sam’s over-shirt and drags her girl down into a kiss.
It’s a struggle not to just stay there, macking on Sam, grinding her lips into Sammy’s chapped ones, nipping at them and tongueing at Sam’s cheeks — that’s the only downside of having a girlfriend who kisses by the book. Gabrielle ends up twisting Sam’s over-shirt so tightly, it almost rips, because that’s just what happens, kissing Samantha Winchester. For all she puts into it, Sam puts in more: she cups Gabrielle’s jaw with one of her enormous hands, threads her long fingers through Gabrielle’s hair and brushes them around Gabrielle’s ear (one of the only accessible ticklish spots on her body). She tries to just suck on Gabrielle’s tongue and lip, but on top of those, she sucks the air out of Gabrielle’s lungs.
When she jerks away from Sam, she’s panting — her chest rises and falls in jagged heaves, and once it’s calmed a little bit, she gives Sam a brief, delicate kiss, and whispers, “You know… I’m pretty fond of breathing , Sexy — watch it or we’ll end up in the ER tonight, and believe you me, the ER on New Year’s? Sucks .”
There’s a little gleam behind Sam’s hazel eyes, the one she gets when she’s plotting something devious, or just planning to ask about this anecdote later — but Gabrielle can’t appreciate it for long. She takes another moment, tugs on Sam’s hair and steals another kiss, but there are bigger fish to get onto, other plans she has to see through. Sliding her fingers under the waistband of Sam’s panties, she says, “Lift your hips up — just get them up a bit for me, okay?” — And Sam complies, smirking because she knows what’s coming. “You know, I spoil your sexy ass, right?” Gabrielle tells her, trying (and soundly failing) to sneer up at her girlfriend, yanking her underwear down until they’re bunched up with the jeans Gabrielle’s going to throw out when Sam’s not paying attention.
She crouches between Sam’s legs now, and takes the opportunity to try and get a better idea of what they look like, what they feel like, on the other side of Sam’s recent weight gain. Sighing fondly, Gabrielle leans her cheek on Sam’s thigh — definitely softer, that’s undeniable. She can still feel the muscle there, but it’s padded, comfortable — it makes for the perfect pillow, really. Party or no party, Gabrielle could stay right here for the rest of the night… Sam’s leg feels warmer, too, and Gabrielle rubs up on it like a kitten, strokes her cheek up and down the length of Sam’s thigh, feeling Sam’s fingers carding through her hair…
One glance up at Sam — up at how she’s leaning back into the mirror, how she’s leaning her head back, how she’s gotten a dreamy, far-off expression and a contented smile to go with it — tells Gabrielle all she needs to know. It’s time, and while Sam’s off her guard, Gabrielle rests her hands on Sam’s knees, prods her legs further apart, slips right into her favorite part of the whole act: brushing her tongue into Sam’s clit for the first time, licking at it and nudging it around until it swells up, until Sam starts giving her the sweetest noises. A whiny gasp, here. The baby version of a moan, there. And all of them are gorgeous, just like Sam, just like the expectant smile lighting up her face.
Just to tease her, get her ready for the main event, Gabrielle ghosts one hand up Sam’s thigh… then down it again… then up again, skirting closer to the spot where Sam’s legs meet, but not going through with it… then up again — and, this time, she does let her fingers flirt with Sam’s pussy. She brushes her index and middle finger down the folds of Sam’s labia, playing more gently than usual, if only to make up for the way she catches Sam’s clit between her teeth and rolls it around between them. Gabrielle glances up at Sam as much as she can , with her bangs in the way— and when she sees the way Sam’s wrinkled her nose and gone all flushed, she smirks and nibbles at Sam’s clit that much harder.
The teasing’s effective: when Gabrielle reaches to properly finger her girl, Sam’s wet and ready for her. Gabrielle has no trouble sliding in one finger, then a second, and then her third. She lets Sam’s clit go, focuses more on digging her fingers against Sam’s walls, and on keeping her cool, slipping them in deeper when Sam gasp-moan-whines and thrusts her hips in Gabrielle’s direction… Even from her current vantage point, Gabrielle can’t help noticing the way Sam’s spare tire bobs in her lap with every rock of her hips, all soft and wobbly and fuck, she’d bite Sam there, if she weren’t busy eating the poor girl out . She snickers, blows against Sam’s clit, just to hear what kind of noise this gets out of her. (It’s high-pitched and whiny, once the initial surprise wears off.)
Once she has her fingers in, she takes her time… Ignoring Sam’s clit (and how much she loves to pay attention to it), Gabrielle maneuvers her tongue around to join her fingers, pressing wherever she can, just trying to drag this out and make Sam feel as full as possible… And maybe she loses track of time, because the next thing she knows — “Gabi… please …” Sam moans, bringing out her first proper words since they started, rocking so far toward Gabrielle that her feet drop down to the floor again and her toes curl up in the bath-mat’s pink yarn, that she’s halfway to sliding off the counter.
She catches Sam’s clit between her teeth again, puckers her lips, just so she can drag them along the bulb while she works it over with her teeth — and taking a guess of where to go, Gabrielle squeezes inside of Sam, presses all three of her fingers down against Sam, drags them down Sam’s pussy-wall — Sam gasps. Groans. Shudders so hard that her thighs tremble, that her chest heaves and that she goes white-knuckled, gripping onto the edge of the counter. When Gabrielle pulls back and removes her fingers, she finds them sticky with a job well done.
She smiles up at Sam, going for easy and angelic (and probably getting more smirking and impish). “So… you want me to get the black jeans for you while you clean up? Or do we have to have another chat about how you’re sexy and I know it, and twenty-five pounds don’t change that any?”
Sam smirks and flicks a finger into Gabrielle’s forehead. For a moment, she searches for a witty retort — and when she comes up with nothing, she just nods and says, “You’re such a freak… Least, I am too, so…” A dry chuckle. Another flick at Gabrielle’s forehead. “Guess we just lucked out and go well together.”