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Sugar No Ingredients

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The morning after Sam's first slumber party when she's fourteen, she comes home with a face full of make-up, a belly full of popcorn and pierced ears.

It takes John approximately three seconds - two seconds longer than it had taken for Dean - to notice the little glinting gold hoops impaled through her sore-red earlobes.

“Take those out. Right now.” Not a request.

Sam's face falls and it almost makes Dean wince to see it. Any left over enjoyment from the squealing, giggling party dropping right out of her. But then her skinny, sun-browned arms are folding over her barely-there chest and she's setting her chin high, looking their father in the face.


“Excuse me?” Giving her a chance to take it back. Redeem herself. Do as he tells her, and there'll be no further consequence. A chance Dean knows he wouldn't have gotten. It's like watching tennis, his eyes snap back to his sister and wait for what he can already tell, from the arch of her newly shapen eyebrow, is coming.

“No, sir.” Spat out, making a mockery of it. The offered second chance sneered at and thrown straight back in her father's face.

She gets yelled at. -And wash that shit off your face, too. Ranted at. Grounded 'til she decides to take her earrings out. A harsh punishment that hurts and Dad knows it, 'cause she's actually made a couple of friends here.

Had them over to the apartment after school. Smelling like candy, twittering and conspiring in her bedroom about god knows what and driving Dean up the fucking wall 'cause he was usually the one who had to clean up the kitchen after their baking experiments.

He takes her some supper and she promises she'd rather starve than eat it. He pretends not to notice how swollen her eyes are, how she's scribbled angrily all over her calender, inked out the next two slumber parties they all must have girl-planned together.


The grounding ended up too impractical and wore off after a few weeks. They moved a month later anyway and Sam never did take her earrings out.


She bought bigger, brighter ones that Dean would notice, twinkling at him all the time like something unusual. Catching the light and drawing his gaze away from whatever grey thing he'd been doing. She wore her hair up to show off her victory whenever she could.



If he thinks back, it's easy to recall that it started after the incident in the bathroom when Sam was sixteen and laced all to shit with the succubus venom. That might be the easiest way to explain it. But then he thinks about it harder and realises that incident was just the grain of rice that tipped the scale, and there probably was no 'start'. They'd always been a little too close with each other.

Close. So that any onlooker who knew they were siblings might privately think it creepy or weird, which might've been fair 'cause maybe it was. Close, so that anyone who didn't know them might just assume they were dating. Eyeing and flirting with each other, quiet inappropriate sly jokes over greasy diner tables while their father studied the latest local newspaper, non-the wiser.

John never made any indication that he noticed anything untoward, and he was the thing that Dean gauged everything by. He was his children's 'normal' counter for a long time.


Maybe 'cause he was too close as well. Maybe if he'd ever stepped out of their little Winchester bubble, blinked hunting out of his eyes and looked at his kids clearly, he might have noticed that they had a different dynamic than other siblings.


But he never did.


Dean thinks he and Sam are both grateful for it.





He mutters a curse, what the fuck is she screeching about now? She's so loud. Present, even when she's not doing anything.

“'M'in the shower,” he yells back, which is usually good code for 'you'll just have to wait' or 'leave me alone'. Not today though, apparently, 'cause Sam just comes banging in and rips the shower curtain back, all blustering fifteen year old girl hot temper. Dean jumps, resists the urge to cover himself up.

“-The fuck, Sammy? I'm in the fuckin' shower!”

“Did you use all my tampons?” she bursts out, throwing a small empty pink box at his chest. Dean's mouth drops open, it's so ridiculous. He barks a laugh, is about to tell her to get lost... But then he remembers that actually, yes. He may have used all of her tampons.

“Shit, yeah, used a couple when I was patching up Dad's leg. From that fucker with the scythe?” Tampons are handy. Sterile, easily accessible if you know where your little sister keeps hers and excellent for soaking up blood. Who'da thought?

“So, you just decided to put the empty box back when you were done and didn't even bother to tell me, you asshole?” she seethes, way too fast and high-pitched.


Dean shrugs, watches her jaw where she's grinding her molars. Her eyes flicker down his body then skitter away, bashful, like she's only just noticing he's naked. And sure, he's already jerked off, but he still feels a familiar stirring low in his belly; rushing to his dick when she looks at it again. He angles away from her.

“You wanna get the fuck out of here now?”

“No! What the hell am I supposed to do now, Dean, huh? I'm already late for school!” Her face is getting kind of red. Dean shrugs again, kicks the soggy box down towards the plughole.

“I dunno. Stuff your panties with toilet paper or somethin'?”

Dean expects her to scream at him, call him a fucking pig or another choice foul name that she likes to insult him with when Dad isn't around. He tenses his muscles for a dig from her bony little knuckles. Gets ready to jump out of the shower spray if she flushes the toilet as revenge.

He doesn't expect her chin to start trembling and her eyes to fill up 'til they overflow. He hates surprises, and this is the fucking worst. Sam covers her face with her hands, suddenly sobbing helplessly and all he can do is watch, dumbstruck for a second.

“Jesus. Hey, Sammy? Hey... Look, I'll go out and get you some more fuckin' tampons, okay?” he tries, but that just makes her cry louder; awful ragged sounds that are making him panic like nothing else can, like he never does, wrenching his spine rigid. Breaking his fucking heart.

By the time he clambers out of the shower and tightens a towel around his middle, Sam's gone. He tracks her down in the their bedroom. Mostly it's her bedroom, 'cause he sleeps on the couch, but all his shit is in here, too. She's stuffing books into her school bag furiously, still hiccupping mini-sobs between deep breaths. Trying to get control of herself.

“Hey... Stop it, you can't go to school like this... Sam?” He takes the bag out of her white-knuckled grip and catches her when she lets herself crumble against him, wraps both arms around her shaking bones as they sit down on the bed. He sits still, holds her, lets her get his neck all clammy with tears and snot for a minute.

“You gonna tell me what's going on with you?” He tries to push her back a little, get a look at her face, but she just twists into him further, burrows her face under his jaw where she used to sleep when they were kids.

“No.” A hot puff of air on his neck.

“Why not?” But he's pretty sure she doesn't even know herself. He's glad he can't remember much of his fifteenth year.

“'Cause you're just a fuckin' jerk.” But she doesn't let go. Sighs and brushes her nose and then her damp lips over his pulse, again and again. When she finally gets up to use the bathroom, he gets dressed, feels her hot hand prints tingling on his skin for at least an hour under his clothes...

She doesn't go to school that day, and Dean calls in sick to the crummy restaurant he's supposed to be working at, less concerned than he should be over his bosses threats: this is the last strike, Winchester, one more an you're out. After Dean gets back from the store they draw the curtains in the living room so nobody can spy in, play ancient SEGA and eat dry cereal. He makes her up a hot water bottle and tries to pretend the grateful way she sighs and kneads the back of his neck after she shoves it under her sweater isn't turning him to jelly.

They grouse at each other over stupid shit that has as little to do with hunting as possible. Neither of them mention the elephant in the room, that their dad should've been back yesterday. They eventually fall asleep amongst crumbs and game controllers and each other on the couch.

When Dean wakes up, it's the middle of the night. Sam's awake too, looking right at him but so still he gets a split second jolt of shock, imagining wide-eyed corpses.

“I had a dream about you,” she says, like it's been inconvenient for her, having to wait for him to wake up so she could tell him. “We were showering together at that outdoor pool from the last town... You said my boobs were too small.”

“Too small for what?” he asks groggily. She has the weirdest dreams sometimes. Dean doesn't dream, or if he does he can't remember them. He watches, fascinated, as her hand feels over one of her tits. Usually nothing but faint dull lumps under her clothes, but now, all of a sudden, they're tits. And she's touching them.

“You didn't say.” She sits up, pulls off the sweater she'd fallen asleep in, undoes the button on her jeans. Fuck knows where the hot water bottle went. She stretches out her arms and legs as much as a sitting position will allow. Yawns like a hippo.

“You should go to bed 'cause you're sure as hell not skipping school again,” he says, as her yawn spreads to him. Feels her get up, hears her pad around, clicking off lights that they'd forgotten about.

He's already halfway to sleep again when she climbs back onto the couch. Jutting elbows and a shoulder in his chest, and she's covering them both over with her quilt. Kissing his mouth with a warm palm on his cheek; too wet but gone again too fast for him to be concerned enough not to fall the rest of the way into sleep.




“I don't like this,” Sam says, pushing her plate away. Dean looks up at Dad, wearing his patented 'told ya so' expression. She's so picky with food it's unnatural.

“Sam, you ordered it. Just eat it.” She's too skinny as it is. Dad says it's just 'cause she's growing, stretching out. Gonna be tall and thin like a model. Insubstantial, Dean thinks sourly. Might blow away in a gust of high wind one day.

“It's got onions on it!” she whines.

“You like onions,” Dad says, exasperated, rubbing his temples, losing his patience. They've been driving for what feels like weeks, from motel to motel and sometimes just spending days in the car, washing in rest-stop bathrooms. Dad's chasing something he won't give Dean any details about. Stopping in the middle of the day to stretch their legs and swap seats. Sleeping in disjointed shifts and never soundly enough that it quenches their bodies' needs for it.

Sam's done nothing but keep up a constant stream of reminders and warnings that a new school year starts in a couple of weeks and so they'd better be settled somewhere by then. It's the only thing she cares about.

“Not these onions,” Sam mutters, peeling the lamination off the menu. Dean'd offer her what he's got left, but his has onions on it too.

“You know what Sam? I'm getting tired of this attitude problem, you -”

“- Well, I'm getting tired of being dragged across the country!”

Dean slides out of their booth. So completely not interested in hearing this same argument again when he knows from experience that neither of them are gonna listen to a thing he says if he tries to diffuse it. He goes to the bathroom, looks at his itchy stubble in the mirror and wants a hot shower more than just about anything.

Sam comes in while he's taking a leak and levers herself up onto one of the sinks, he watches her watch his back in the scratchy eye-level mirror.

“This is the little boy's room,” he tells her unnecessarily when he turns around to wash his hands. Hell, he knows she knows that already, if there's one thing Sam can do, it's read.

She sighs like she's weary of his predictability, hops down from her perch and slithers in behind him. Pressing her limp weight onto him like a blanket, interlacing her fingers over his sternum. She rubs her forehead between his shoulder blades tiredly, inhales him. For the first time in days Dean feels like his shoulders relax, like someone pricked a hole and the stress is just escaping out of it.

“When are we gonna stop?” She sighs again. He's not sure what she means so he doesn't answer, wary of starting another argument with his own tongue. He watches the mirror 'til her face appears by his shoulder to watch it with him, frowning, not used to silence from him in the face of her inquiries.

Then her hands slide down his stomach and he thinks his heart might actually stop as she zips up his fly for him. He feels every bump of the zip-teeth through his cock, watches her hands in the mirror as they linger there, smoothing over the swelling in his jeans, pressing herself snugger against his back.

The door swings and an old guy comes in, scowls at them where they're frozen, clearly not approving.

“Young lady, this is the men's-” he starts.

She interrupts, holding up her hands placatingly, already moving towards the exit that the guy is expectantly holding open for her, “- I'm going. See you in the car, Dean.”



The only reason Sammy was even there was 'cause they thought she was safe from the get-go. All the research said succubi only attack men. Men in their own beds. Though, turns out if one gets pissed enough, interrupted during feeding or cornered, it'll attack just about anybody it can reach with those hellish talons.

It's down to pure, undiluted chance that Sam doesn't get her throat ripped out. Tripping over a big crease in the rug as the thing lunges at her. Takes three thin gouges out of her shoulder instead and Dean's the one who starts shaking and doesn't stop. Dad takes one look at his face and sends them home, says he'll take care of the salt and burn on his own.

Dean yells at her during the ride back to the motel, things he can't even remember five minutes later, and he knows it's not her fault but he can't stop.

“Are you done?” she asks when he pauses for a breath. It's soft, unexpected; makes him take his eyes off the road and turn the overhead light on in the car so he can see her.

“Not fuckin' nearly. Keep pouring Holy water on it.”

“I think... It's not making any difference, Dean. I'm too hot...” It's a whine that turns into moan, then she's squirming in her seat, pulling impatiently at her clothes like they're strangling her, unmindful of her wound like she can't even feel it any more.

She rolls her head on the back of the seat, looks right at him. They both breathe the same word at the same time.



He cranks the old cold tap on the bath up as high as it'll go, 'til it's shooting out water like an explosion. Dumps what's left of the Holy water into the tub too, for good measure. Tries to remember what to do in this situation but he doesn't think Dad ever briefed him for this inparticular.

And he's alternating between wishing Dad was here and being insanely glad he's not around to see this. To see Sam like this, 'cause the things she's saying are making him blush. Christ, she's sixteen, where the fuck did she get a mouth like that from?

He's amazed that she's exactly where he left her when he skids back into the main room. She's managed to yank her shirt off, still breathing hard on one of the beds, writhing in her own skin, whining and praying for things that she thinks she needs. That she needs him to do for her, things she promises he can give her if he'd just let himself.

“C'mon Sammy, bathroom. Can you walk?” She can walk, barely, but she's really not trying. More happy to use Dean as her own personal chauffeur from room to room, anything to get closer, to touch him and scratch at his body heat and breathe him in. Smear herself all over him.

When he puts her in the bath she gasps, starts shivering instantly, too shocked from the sudden cold to keep up the ribbons of filthy commentary on whatever red hot scene she'd been imagining. It's a relief.

Dean kneels, keeps her head above water and wills his hard-on away with thoughts of fresh road kill and stitching up wounds, fire, burning houses. Sam's babbling starts up again, and she's switched tactics. Not trying to seduce with tall tales any more. Begging now, and it's so, so wrong.

“Dean? Dean, please... I just need -- I need you to touch me, please?” She's had her own hand stuck down the front of her jeans since he dragged her out of the car but apparently it's not enough. He shakes his head. Doesn't look at her.

“I think about you all the time, you're so gorgeous, Dean. You don't even know -- girls look at you sometimes and you don't even notice, 'cause you're too busy lookin' at me. I see you looking... I want you to look, though, I like it, it's okay. Please? Dean, I like it.”

“Shhh. Shut up, Sam. You don't know what you're talking about, okay? You're drugged, you're gonna be fine in a little while.” He still doesn't look at her, a weird swelling sense that watching her like this and being turned on by it would be the worst way to betray her.

“I'm fine now, Dean. I know what I'm asking for, please? Please, I just want you, I always do-” He feels her cold wet hand on his cheek, his neck, and he opens his eyes. Her bra's gone see-through. “- It hurts, Dean, God, please? Just -- your hand, please? I can't do it by myself, I need you.”

He can't stand it, the way she's whimpering for him. Never could say no to her. He'd challenge anybody to look at her face and then deny her anything.

“Okay, Sam... Shhh, it's okay, I got you...” She finally goes quiet, arches up into the flat palm he puts on her stomach. Brown and rough and taking over her soft porcelain skin.


When he makes her come, it's long and sweet and he feels it in his bones. She goes limp afterwards, passes out like she's drifted off, somewhere else.



She's asleep when Dad gets back. Dean tells him she got feverish, said one or two embarrassing things, but the claw marks are already healed. Won't scar. They chuckle about it.

She comes and finds him while he's working on Dad's truck the next morning. He'd gone out early deliberately, to avoid this. Sam doesn't like to be ignored though. Doesn't like things to be ignored and unresolved, so of course she's gonna make him talk about it.

“Dean. It's not like... It didn't make me want something that I didn't already want. Just made me want it more. Made me forget that it wasn't okay to say it.” He knows she's nervous, which is strange for her. Taking a chance by even bringing it up. Can see her hands shaking before she tucks them in her pockets.

He knows what she's doing. Putting this out there, placing it out in no-man's land so he has a chance of his own to pick it up and play around with it. Decide whether he likes the feel of it or not.

“It wasn't okay.” It just trips out of his mouth, automatic and true. Sam nods once, almost smiling, a grim expression full of dark amusement like that's exactly what she was expecting him to say.

“Yeah, okay Dean.” She turns and disappears back into their room wearing the poker face that he taught how to perfect before he has a chance to take it back.


She avoids him after that. Doesn't talk or look or smile at him, especially doesn't touch. It starts to last days and he starts to miss it. He misses the way she bugs him.

That way she'll drape herself all over him, her arms or legs or head seeping over into his space.

The way she'll tuck her cold toes under his leg when they're sitting on the couch and he'llgrumble that she should put some fucking socks on, let her believe that it's chore for him. Like giving her comfort is something he has to endure, rather than something that he thrives on.

The way she'll just lean on him, throw her weight at him or on him at any given moment, always confident that he'll be able to bear it. It surprises him how much he misses that confidence. He yearns for it back again.



“Geez, what crawled up your ass today?”

“Here's an idea; Why don't you go eat shit?”

“Why don't you blow me?”

“Why don't both of you knock it off, or you can wait in the car,” Dad hisses at them. They're waiting in the front of some guy's pawn
shop. Jefferson, an old buddy of their Dad's. Cheap ammo supplier extraordinaire.

Dean knows what this is all about. She's been an über bitch since he got back this morning. Punishing him for spending the night away from her. Been a month since the since the succubae attack and everything is different now. It's down to him, she reminds him all the time, with little brushes of her feet against his ankles under tables. Flicks and twists of her hair and tops that droop too low on her chest.

It's his fault things changed. He doesn't know what to do. How to get things back to the way they were.

He watches her gazing out of the window, looking at two boys her own age playing soccer with a Coke can in the street. She glances at him, knows he's looking, raises her eyebrows like a challenge then shakes her head, disappointed, when Dean doesn't do anything. Just keeps being her brother.



Dad goes out of town for two weeks, misses her seventeenth birthday and Sam runs wild. Pushing and pulling and winding Dean up to the point where he wants to either cry or hit her. He does neither, suppresses it instead. She knows, knows him and how he copes. Loves and laughs at him for it. Only means she has to try all the harder to break him.

“Remember when we were kids and I used to make you play Sleeping Beauty with me?” She's drunk. A little stoned, maybe. Got back four hours later than her already generous curfew. Dean pretends he's asleep, doesn't trust himself to open his mouth. He's so mad at her, for being so stupid, lying to him. Told him she was going over there to study, had him drop her off outside.

“You were the prince and you had to come and rescue me. Kiss me awake... It was my favourite game and you hated it, didn't you?” She chuckles. He hears the slip and rustle of clothes, being put on or taken off, her bed squeaks when she sits down on it.

He hadn't hated it. It was one of his favourites, too. That and Pirates, where they'd board each other's ship-beds and the carpet was full of snapping crocodiles, sharks or giant squids. Sea monsters.

But that was before they'd seen real monsters. Those kinda games aren't very fun after you're eleven and you've had to shoot at a real monster.

“You always were a stick in the mud, Dean,” she mumbles, trying not to laugh. He doesn't know why she's bothering to hide it. It's not like he isn't already well aware that she's doing all this just to mock him.

“Hey, Dean?” She's closer, must be standing over his bed. He feels his mattress dip a little when she kneels on it. “Remember last year, when that succubus got me, and you -”

“- Shut up, Sam. Jesus.” He flips onto his back, glares up at her. Her eye make-up is all smudged, not washed off properly and she's wearing one of his t-shirts even though he's warned her not to. She wears them once then folds them back into his duffel. He can't wear them and get anything done when they smell so much like her.

She smirks at him, throws one leg over his waist and brackets his head with her hands.

“You put your hand down my jeans, you remember?” Of course he remembers. The way she trembled when he stroked aside her sodden panties, hair prickly and soft at once, how hot she was, the silky wet feel of her sliding under his finger tips. Cold bathwater everywhere, but then inside, a different consistency of hot and wet altogether. He remembers how perfect she felt, how much she wanted it.

She's kissing him the next second. Her weight pressing onto him like her knees have given out. Black curtains of her long hair falling in his face and her tongue scraping across his. He's still angry, but he gives in to it anyway, and it's as simple as that, easier than he'd ever imagined.

Sam gets bolder when she realises that he's not gonna stop her. Tries to nudge the sheets out of the way, get her hands up under his t-shirt, moans unabashedly while she rubs her crotch against him through the layers. It's nowhere near enough, so he flips them over, her body bounces underneath him and she nods against his neck, shoulder, breathless agreement when he covers her. Crosses her ankles over his ass and pulls him in further, won't let him escape.

He doesn't fuck her. Won't, despite the way she groans for his dick, grabs and tugs at it artlessly. But she's more than satiated when he starts eating her out; the only thing he can think of, gives him something to concentrate on so he doesn't die, trapped between her legs like that.

She keeps encouraging him to lap at her harder, telling him how good he is, how hot is mouth is, how she thinks about his mouth like this all the time. He slips a thumb inside her and that's it, glides like she's made of satin and her muscles clench on it, over and over.

She giggles and hums while she comes down, pets his hair where he's resting on her stomach, uses the t-shirt she stole from him to wipe up her mess off his mouth and chin and nose. She falls asleep like that, forgets all about him and his stiff aching cock.


Sam remembers these encounters are supposed to have certain etiquette the next morning, though. It's how he wakes up, with her hand on his dick, her teeth grazing across his throat, her nipples dragging over his ribs. Her grip is too loose and she's slurring up and down far too slow and he comes anyway, just from hearing her say his name, the smell of them mixed together on his pillow.

They can't get anything done, now that the floodgates have opened and she's got a green light to touch him whenever she wants again. Now that he's all hers again.


When he gets back from his run, she's in the motel room again, pacing back and forth.

“It's my lunch period,” she tells him before he asks, and then pounces on him, kissing him sloppy and hungry, uncaring that he's getting her covered in sweat. His head spins a little, lacking oxygen, he presses her up against the door he just came through, squeezes her ass and bites his lip when she manages to wriggle a hand down his shorts in the sparse space between them.



It only makes them want it more when Dad's around. Sam rides in the Impala with Dean, tailing the truck. She touches him, unzips and gets his dick out, licks at it, teases him with her feet in his lap, even. Laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever seen when he growls and begs for her to do something other than just work him up like that and then stare out of the window, or play around with the radio.

She starts wearing skirts for easier access even though she hates shaving her legs, goads him into touching her when she knows all it'll take for Dad to see is a lingering glance in his rear-view. Dean touches her anyway. Does anything she asks him to do, 'cause it makes her smile so much. She falls asleep smiling sometimes.


Dean's never been happier, or if he has, he can't remember much of it.


They get around to fucking a week before her eighteenth birthday. All three of them have been sharing a car for once, a weekend trip north to take care of a nest of harpies. They all shared a motel room too, so Sam and Dean have barely touched each other for two days.

It's a safe bet that their Dad'll go out and celebrate when they get back to the house, give them some time to themselves, but they can't wait 'til then. They can't wait, and end up in the ladies restroom at a remote gas station while Dad debates with the attendant about fuel prices.

It's dirty and it stinks, the lights are erratic, attracting dumb moths. But the door has a lock and there's running water for the clean up, so it works.

Sam knows she's supposed to be quiet, but she isn't doing a very good job, and it's all her, it's all her when she pushes them away from the wall, seats Dean on a closed toilet lid and then mounts him, crying out when she bears down, takes all of him.


She fucks herself on him, it's jerky and shallow and she clings to him, can't keep a good rhythm. But he sucks at her nipples when he can reach, thumbs her clit 'til it's enough and she shudders, stops working as soon as she's finished and goes pliable; lets him pin her up against the stall door and thrust himself home.

So it works.

They're both still shaking when they get back to the car. Sam smiles at him, pulls him into the backseat with her and doesn't let her slight tremors stop her from changing into a pair of looser jeans while they wait for Dad to finish up whatever the hell he's doing inside.

She falls asleep on him as soon as the wheels start moving again, one hand tucked between her own thighs. He covers her over with his jacket, tries to follow her example and escape to the Land of Nod.

He doesn't know if she was a virgin. He thinks she probably was, the way she walked different afterwards, stiffer. He never asked in case she said she wasn't, and thoughts like that make it hard for him to breathe.



They fuck everywhere. She has an even more than usual insatiable appetite for him once they get the hang of fucking. Just about every surface in the house, the back yard, both of the cars. Even the local library, right there on top of the copy machine.

They fuck so they don't have to talk. They both know she's been accepted to Stanford and they both know she's going, but they don't talk about it. Not even the day before she's due to leave, when she springs it on Dad, screams things hurtful enough that John slaps her face and then stands there and takes it when she slaps him back harder.

Dad slams the front door on his way out, rattles the whole old house, and Sam finds Dean out on the shed roof. Beckons him back inside the window and yells for it harder -- Fuck Dean, harder, yeah, yeah, just like that, Dean, fuck me. He does as she asks, like always, listens to her cry as he fucks deep into her.


He's barely awake when she goes the next morning, turns his face away from the sunlight and forgets what's going on until she sits down on the bed at his back, strokes up and down his spine. Leans in and smells at his hair, kisses his ear.


She whispers, “Love you. I love you, Dean.” Right against the skin of his face.

When Dean wakes up again, it's mid-afternoon. Dad's packing what's left of their stuff and Sam is long gone.



When he thinks back, he knows there was no such thing as a start for what's between them. He thinks about what she looked like when he saw her for the first time in two years. A woman, a grown, non-insubstantial woman.

She doesn't feel insubstantial when she whacks him across the back of the head with a wok and sits on his back, shouting for Jessica to hit the lights.

She's not a little girl anymore, but her dreams are still strange and six days after her apartment burns down, she crawls over into his bed to tell him all about the dream she had about him. She throws a leg over him, snuggles up under his chin and Dean feels like he's finally hit the bottom of whatever he's falling into since she started looking at him over her shoulder, brand new earrings catching the light and blinding him in little flashes.

She scratches her nails through the hair under his bellybutton. “We were in this old asylum, making out in this old doctor's office, and you had these yellow eyes," she tells.