fic: get you through the night
Apr. 14th, 2006 06:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violaceaAnyone who read this under friends lock last night can skip. :) I just decided to get over my nervousness and go public!
Anyway ... Supernatural fic. I'm officially lost, kids.
Title: Get You Through The Night
Rating: R, for het sex
Spoilers: "Provenance"
Pairing: Sam/Sarah
Disclaimer: Not mine, of course.
Summary: Sarah's nights are conflicted. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Sarah's phone rang a week after Sam left. Well, a week, a day, and about three hours. Not that she was counting or anything. She felt a little pathetic for looking at the phone so often, but hell, the universe decided to give her an obscenely sexy guy and a crazy creepy murderous (holy shit real!) ghost in the space of a few days. And, at the end of it all, she didn't even get laid. She could be forgiven for being a little out of character, she figured.
But, the phone finally rang, and she could barely hear Sam's voice above the noise in the background - a truck stop, he said, where he was waiting in the car while Dean raided the snack aisle. "I think he's paying for it all," he said, sounding doubtful. Sarah laughed. Somewhere, she was surprised that shoplifting was suddenly funny in her world. Even as a pretentious artist, she'd still called her parents twice a week and turned down the ecstacy her roommate brought to her birthday party. Maybe this was delayed rebellion.
She'd thought her dad would have a heart attack when he walked into the alley out back and found the guys torching the painting - when he found out Sarah was responsible, he'd screamed about value and responsibility and stupidity until she realized that "blue in the face" wasn't just an expression. A week later, he still barely spoke to her, but Sarah found she couldn't really feel bad about that when Sam was laughing, low and ironic, on the other end of the phone. Yep, she should have just dragged him inside the door and locked it behind him. His brother would have waited.
Somehow, her final thought made it through her natural filter between brain and mouth and suddenly Sam was laughing louder. "Dean would have tossed a box of condoms through the window and gone out for lunch," he added. Sarah allowed herself a brief moment of imagining the situation - her, Sam, the doorway, sweat and skin and his fantastic mouth - before remembering that she was in her office and some personal activities probably weren't a good idea when her dad could walk in at any moment.
"Next time," she said, "send your brother out for lunch first, will you?"
She could almost hear the blink that separated her comment from his reply. "Maybe I will," he said slowly.
Sarah remembered the exact pitch and undertone of those four syllables for the next four months. The lust helped, quite frankly, when she found herself too freaked out to walk home from work by herself at night. The shadow of a tree looked a little too much like a small hand carrying a blade, and before she could stop herself, she was running and sobbing and banging her knee on the door frame on her way into the house. The bruise lasted a week. The nightmares lasted more than a month. She reached for the phone sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she had her pillow clutched to her chest and three lamps lit in her bedroom. But, a 3:00am phone call was just a little too intimate for a guy who'd barely kissed her, even if he did sort of save her life.
Once, she actually did bring a guy home - a setup, courtesy of a friend from college, and Sam's voice was in her head, making her all warm and crazy, and somehow battery-operated fun wasn't doing it for her - but when she woke up shaking and turned the lights on, he left, and didn't call again. She wasn't too disappointed.
When she saw the Impala parked outside of a bar just a few blocks from home, Sarah thought she might melt into the sidewalk with relief. Lust. Relief. It was all the same thing, right?
Later that night, in her bed, there was skin and wet kisses and Sam's impossibly long body covering hers, things she'd imagined for months while laying there alone. Somehow, his kisses seemed so intimate, as they laid side by side, like he was pouring all his secrets into her mouth while his hands slipped lower and drove her brain completely from her head, all the more room to hold his thoughts and dreams and oh, god, if he ever moved that hand right there she might fall through the bed and die. There was a moment of awkwardness - yeah, missionary just wasn't going to be that fun with someone so tall - before she finally took charge and straddled him and had the exquisite pleasure of watching his face change with every movement of her hips.
"It's been so long," he murmured into Sarah's hair when they were tangled together later. At least, that's what she thought he said. She was too busy imprinting the sense memory of his body on the back of her brain, something to revisit if the nightmares ever came back.
He left without promising anything, even though his eyes told her part of him wanted to. She couldn't figure out if the pressure in her chest was a breaking heart or just her usual loneliness, but she smiled up at him and said, "Come back when you can." He promised that much, and she believed him.
When her phone rang three days later, Sarah smiled. Maybe it was enough. For now.
Tags: writing
Anyway ... Supernatural fic. I'm officially lost, kids.
Title: Get You Through The Night
Rating: R, for het sex
Spoilers: "Provenance"
Pairing: Sam/Sarah
Disclaimer: Not mine, of course.
Summary: Sarah's nights are conflicted. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Sarah's phone rang a week after Sam left. Well, a week, a day, and about three hours. Not that she was counting or anything. She felt a little pathetic for looking at the phone so often, but hell, the universe decided to give her an obscenely sexy guy and a crazy creepy murderous (holy shit real!) ghost in the space of a few days. And, at the end of it all, she didn't even get laid. She could be forgiven for being a little out of character, she figured.
But, the phone finally rang, and she could barely hear Sam's voice above the noise in the background - a truck stop, he said, where he was waiting in the car while Dean raided the snack aisle. "I think he's paying for it all," he said, sounding doubtful. Sarah laughed. Somewhere, she was surprised that shoplifting was suddenly funny in her world. Even as a pretentious artist, she'd still called her parents twice a week and turned down the ecstacy her roommate brought to her birthday party. Maybe this was delayed rebellion.
She'd thought her dad would have a heart attack when he walked into the alley out back and found the guys torching the painting - when he found out Sarah was responsible, he'd screamed about value and responsibility and stupidity until she realized that "blue in the face" wasn't just an expression. A week later, he still barely spoke to her, but Sarah found she couldn't really feel bad about that when Sam was laughing, low and ironic, on the other end of the phone. Yep, she should have just dragged him inside the door and locked it behind him. His brother would have waited.
Somehow, her final thought made it through her natural filter between brain and mouth and suddenly Sam was laughing louder. "Dean would have tossed a box of condoms through the window and gone out for lunch," he added. Sarah allowed herself a brief moment of imagining the situation - her, Sam, the doorway, sweat and skin and his fantastic mouth - before remembering that she was in her office and some personal activities probably weren't a good idea when her dad could walk in at any moment.
"Next time," she said, "send your brother out for lunch first, will you?"
She could almost hear the blink that separated her comment from his reply. "Maybe I will," he said slowly.
Sarah remembered the exact pitch and undertone of those four syllables for the next four months. The lust helped, quite frankly, when she found herself too freaked out to walk home from work by herself at night. The shadow of a tree looked a little too much like a small hand carrying a blade, and before she could stop herself, she was running and sobbing and banging her knee on the door frame on her way into the house. The bruise lasted a week. The nightmares lasted more than a month. She reached for the phone sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she had her pillow clutched to her chest and three lamps lit in her bedroom. But, a 3:00am phone call was just a little too intimate for a guy who'd barely kissed her, even if he did sort of save her life.
Once, she actually did bring a guy home - a setup, courtesy of a friend from college, and Sam's voice was in her head, making her all warm and crazy, and somehow battery-operated fun wasn't doing it for her - but when she woke up shaking and turned the lights on, he left, and didn't call again. She wasn't too disappointed.
When she saw the Impala parked outside of a bar just a few blocks from home, Sarah thought she might melt into the sidewalk with relief. Lust. Relief. It was all the same thing, right?
Later that night, in her bed, there was skin and wet kisses and Sam's impossibly long body covering hers, things she'd imagined for months while laying there alone. Somehow, his kisses seemed so intimate, as they laid side by side, like he was pouring all his secrets into her mouth while his hands slipped lower and drove her brain completely from her head, all the more room to hold his thoughts and dreams and oh, god, if he ever moved that hand right there she might fall through the bed and die. There was a moment of awkwardness - yeah, missionary just wasn't going to be that fun with someone so tall - before she finally took charge and straddled him and had the exquisite pleasure of watching his face change with every movement of her hips.
"It's been so long," he murmured into Sarah's hair when they were tangled together later. At least, that's what she thought he said. She was too busy imprinting the sense memory of his body on the back of her brain, something to revisit if the nightmares ever came back.
He left without promising anything, even though his eyes told her part of him wanted to. She couldn't figure out if the pressure in her chest was a breaking heart or just her usual loneliness, but she smiled up at him and said, "Come back when you can." He promised that much, and she believed him.
When her phone rang three days later, Sarah smiled. Maybe it was enough. For now.
Tags: writing
