She idly scratches a mosquito bite behind her left knee; what started off a tiny raised bump now feels more like a welt, wide as a quarter. She digs her nail in, making an “x” in the center, hoping it will curb the itch at least for a few minutes. It’s an old trick she learned a long time ago, and it doesn’t really work, but she’s done it for as long as she can remember – old habits and all. She’s not sure what she’s doing here with them, now, because there’s no real reason to be. There isn’t anything on her radar for now, and they don’t have a job that needs her kind of help. If she’s honest with herself, she’s here to be near them, mostly Sam, but she’s never been good with honesty, anyway.
Dean left hours ago for the nearest bar. Even to a stranger the tension between them is palpable. For a while, she’s content to sit there and not be noticed while Sam does research, or watches television, but even she’s only patient for so long. They don’t really talk – about this, or anything else – she just shuts the T.V. off and waits. She goes willingly when he pulls her into his lap.
They fuck like they haven’t in a long time – since Dean’s been back – and it’s good, with one leg over Sam’s shoulder. He pushes in deep, bottoms out, and she keens high in her throat. He bites at her neck, pulls her hair, and fucks her too hard, but she wouldn’t change it. As good a liar as she is, she can’t lie about missing this.
She comes first, back arched, nails in Sam’s skin, and he follows; he comes with his face buried in her neck, gasping and sweating.
The thunderstorm rolls in on a Thursday, and doesn’t roll out again until the next Saturday. They stay put, because even they can’t pass under the radar forever. She watches these boys argue, spit curses and accusations at each other while she pretends not to care, until someone reaches a boiling point and storms out. This time it’s Sam, slamming the door with too much force. If she didn’t know his temper, or what he was capable of, the strength with which he slammed the door would have made her flinch.
She’s on thin ice with Dean to begin with, regardless of the help she’s given. He doesn’t trust her, and even she can understand that. When he looks at her she sees the same hatred as when he sees his own reflection in passing; she wants to tell him that it doesn’t ever go away, to toughen up and get used to it, but she’s smarter than that. Instead, she lets Dean yell like she knew he would.
“This,” he says “all of this is because of you.”
“Sam had already changed by the time I came by,” she said. “You were dead and he was alone. You’re not stupid enough to think he’d be unaffected.”
“You got your demon hooks into him,” Dean says.
“I didn’t make him do anything,” she says honestly. “He chose to learn.”
They don’t look at each other for a long time, until she finally crosses the room to lean against the table, next to the chair he’d dropped into. He looks up at her and what she expects to see is hatred, the anger that he’d had in his voice reflected in his eyes, but she doesn’t see any of that. “I know,” she says. “I know what you’re going through.”
“Don’t compare us,” Dean says. “We’re not the same thing.”
“We used to be,” she says. “I remember, going into the pit, the things I had to do. I didn’t get out as quick as you did, and this… this is what I got for it.” He looks up at her again and her eyes bleed to black; he looks away. “Sam’s trying to understand, Dean, but he hasn’t been where we have.”
She slides forward smoothly, settling in his lap, facing him. “I understand,” she says softly.
“I did enough damage in Hell,” he says. “I’m not adding rape to the list.”
“There’s no one else in here,” she says. “It’s just me.”
It’s like he and Sam share the same thought processes, because saying that is enough. He pulls her head down and kisses her. He kisses softer than Sam, but just as demanding. He slips his hands under her thighs and stands up, walking them over to the bed without letting her feet touch the floor.
He mouths at her neck and over her breasts, down her stomach and over her panties. The black silk is already wet and slippery. He starts to bring them down and she lifts up, letting him pull them down over her hips, her legs, and he drops them at the end of the bed. The first touch of his tongue sends electric sparks down her spine and she shivers, scratching her short nails through his shorter hair. The second touch of his tongue is a pointed press against her clit and she gasps. He presses his tongue into her and two fingers, working the heat in her belly up until she feels like she’s boiling all over. When she comes, it’s too loud not to be heard in the next room.
She watches him roll the condom on and he doesn’t wait. He pushes into her roughly and sets up a quick rhythm; she got hers, and now it’s his turn. He hitches her thigh up onto his hip, searching for a better angle, and finally – like Sam – pushes her leg up onto his shoulder. He pushes in as deep as he can go and shudders. He fucks her hard, then, nothing more than a means to an end, trying desperately to get off. She tips her head back and closes her eyes, listens to the wet sounds of them fucking, until Dean gasps and shudders from head to toe, giving a few sharp thrusts before stilling completely.
She dresses without talking to him, back turned, and sleeps in Sam’s bed.
They know that she doesn’t need sleep, but the body does; it’s human and needs rest or it will burn out. It’s dark in the room but she doesn’t have trouble seeing. Sam uses his keycard and opens the door quietly, closing it just the same. He toes off his shoes and shrugs out of his jacket. She’s not sure what she was expecting, but maybe she was hoping he’d climb into bed with her like he has when he’s too tired to care. Instead, he undresses, leaving his clothes hanging on the back of a chair, and pads over to Dean’s bed in nothing but his underwear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his face into Dean’s neck, and then sliding into bed with him.
“Don’t,” Dean says, turning to face Sam.
Sam nods and inches closer, pressing his mouth to Dean’s. They don’t talk about it, but it’s obvious this isn’t something new. Dean pushes Sam onto his back and hovers over him a moment before kissing him again. “What about Ruby?” Sam whispers.
“Said the body needed rest. She’s been sleeping for hours.”
Sam nods and Dean leans over the side of the bed. She assumes his bag is right there because he comes up with a bottle of lube. She listens more than she sees him prepping Sam, listens to the sounds of them kissing and breathing. She knows the moment Dean slides inside of Sam, because she knows the look on his face. She has a loose set of morals, but even so, she feels like an intruder here. This is something she wasn’t meant to see, wasn’t meant to ever know about, and she almost wishes she could just get up and leave.
She listens, and watches, while Dean fucks Sam. The way they touch is a separate language in and of itself. Dean slips his hand under the blankets and Sam gasps. “God, Dean,” he whispers, burying his face in the curve of Dean’s neck. “Please…”
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers.
She can hear Dean jacking Sam’s cock, can hear Dean fucking into Sam; she can hear Sam’s breathing hitch, the telltale sign that he’s coming, and watches as he digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulders. When Dean comes it’s with his mouth pressed to Sam’s sharing his breath.
When they settle she lies awake. She feels an ache in her chest that’s anything but demonic and everything human. She hates herself for thinking that, maybe, when it was all over, she wouldn’t get left behind.