The first time they sleep together, all they do is sleep. Or, rather, Lissa sleeps; Sam only manages to doze off in between her kicks. If it were Dean, Sam would sock him in the shoulder so that at least Dean could suffer, too. But he can’t make himself wake Lissa. Her breathing is even and calm, her strong features peaceful in repose—he can’t do it. He settles in for a long night.
She wakes with the sun, stretches, turns over, and looks mildly surprised, though pleased, to see him there. “Did you sleep OK?” she asks.
This time Sam can’t stop himself. “You kick like a draft horse,” he mutters.
“Crap,” she says. “Sorry. I’m so used to having the bed to myself that I didn’t even think about that.”
To his utter shock, Sam’s next words are, “It wasn’t that bad,” which is a total lie, because his knees and shins are probably bruised. Then: “I’m used to it from Dean,” also a lie, because Sam was seven when he announced, loudly, that he would rather sleep in the bathtub for the rest of his life than spend another night with Dean’s smelly flying feet.
“Still, sorry again,” Lissa says, and rolls over to rest her head on his shoulder. Sam runs his fingers through her hair, gently working out the tangles, and Lissa adds, with uncharacteristic hesitancy, after a few moments, “I guess I better learn to keep my feet to myself, if we’re going to keep doing this.”
Sam looks down at her, but Lissa’s eyes are fixed steadfastly on the opposite wall. “Or I better learn to sleep more soundly,” he says.
“Well.” She’s smiling just a little. “That too.”
He lifts her head to kiss her. He means for it to be short, since they just woke up and neither of them have brushed their teeth yet, but it goes on for a while, long enough for her to settle on top of him and for him to slide his hands down to cup her hips. Her breasts are soft warm weights on his chest, and Sam desperately wants to push her T-shirt up and find out what her nipples feel like against his tongue, but, he reminds himself, they’re not at the point where he can do that casually. Although he wants to. Oh, God, he wants to.
“You’re hard,” Lissa whispers. He doesn’t understand how she can say something like that while observing him avidly through stormcloud eyes and yet go tense and shy at the idea that he might want to spend the night again, but that’s part of the mystery of Lissa.
“Yeah,” he whispers back, and can’t help blushing a little. “Does it bother you?”
She smiles and shakes her head slowly.
“Just because I’ve never been there before doesn’t mean I don’t know the basic layout,” she retorts.
Sam kisses her again, because he can, then says, “Bought a map?”
Lissa’s fingers are burrowing beneath his shirt, light and ticklish on his skin, and, in return, he lets one of his hands move to her ass, generous and curved like a Greek statue’s. “Anatomically correct, I assume,” Sam says.
Proving that Sam will never in his life be able to predict what comes out of Lissa’s mouth, she responds mildly, “Not all of them. My favorite is actually bright green and ridged. And about ten inches long.”
Sam is not in the right position for his mouth to hit the floor. It does its best anyway.
“Sam,” Lissa says, “please don’t tell me you’re shocked by the idea of a woman owning a sex toy.”
“No,” Sam answers, recovering. “I just wasn’t expecting ten inches long and ridged.”
“I have some that are perfectly anatomical,” she says, as though they’re discussing nothing more than the types of fabrics she stocks or what varieties of fruit are available at the farmer’s market. “But variety is nice.”
He can’t ask. He shouldn’t ask. No, he has to know. “How much variety are we talking?”
“Look in the top drawer,” Lissa tells him.
Sam raises an eyebrow. But he’s categorically incapable of turning down a dare, and Lissa shifts to the side to let him sit up and open the drawer.
This time his jaw has gravity on its side, and if it doesn’t quite hit the floor, it comes pretty close. “Lissa, this is…intent to distribute!”
She gives him a dirty look. “That was Texas, not South Carolina, and anyway the Fifth Circuit struck it down. Are you telling me your first orgasm was with somebody else?”
“Definitely not,” Sam says, but then adds, for the sake of honesty, “I lost my virginity at fourteen, though, so I hadn’t had a whole lot of time to figure out how everything worked.”
It’s Lissa’s brow’s turn to skyrocket. “Fourteen? Sam, that’s—”
“It wasn’t abuse, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nothing like that. It was a girl in my class who lived in the same complex we did. Dad and Dean were off hunting a lot, and her parents worked all the time, and she and I spent a lot of time alone together. It just kind of…happened.”
“I barely knew what sex was when I was fourteen,” Lissa says.
Sam can feel himself smiling, rueful and amused. He’s pretty sure he’ll always remember the smell of the county library, dusty and warm, and how Camilla felt tucked up next to him, poking him with sharp elbows as they hid in the back stacks, reading books that seemed terribly scandalous at the time but that now would be fairly threadbare texts on human sexuality. “We read a lot,” he says, and Lissa laughs.
“I would have guessed Dean as the early bloomer,” she tells Sam.
“I’m pretty sure he lost his the same year I lost mine. For all his talk, he didn’t really have any time that wasn’t either hunting with Dad or watching me. But when I got to be about thirteen, fourteen, Dad didn’t want me on hunts yet but was willing to let me stay by myself, so I actually had more opportunity to get into trouble than Dean did.”
Lissa closes the drawer and resettles on Sam’s chest. She’s looking at the wall again when she says, “Between sharing a two-bedroom apartment with my entire family, and then everything with my dad, I didn’t really want to and didn’t have the chance to, either. And then after that—” Sam feels her shrug. “I wasn’t going to do it just to do it.”
Sam flashes back to Baba. I do not do this for you, she’d said, gathering her mortar and pestle before her confrontation with Lilith. I like your brother, I like you just fine. But I do this for Vasilissa, not for you.
It will never not be a little terrifying to owe a life debt to Baba Yaga.
“I want to,” Lissa says, very quietly. “Not right this minute. But soon.”
“It doesn’t have to be soon,” Sam says, trying to match her tone. “It can be late.”
Lissa snorts. “It’s already late.” She’s smiling when she looks up at him. “I’m all for a change of pace.”
“You know where I’ll be,” Sam says, and she kisses him.