ultraviolet9a | to mouth unto my veins

ultraviolet9a

>> to mouth unto my veins

TITLE: to mouth unto my veins

AUTHOR:

ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: season 2 finale spoiler, Heart spoiler

GENRE: het

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester/OFC, references to Dean, Jess and Madison and Sarah.

SUMMARY: Sam’s fucked up. That simple. And things…are kind of different.

RATING: NC17

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own them. Still. Dammit.

NOTE: I had a plot donkey and three different roads. This is the path it chose to walk on willingly. (For the other paths I’ll try a whip. And a carrot.)

Also, ties in nicely with

found_fic_spnchallenge nr 13, as well with And Then She Appeared challenge of

spn_het_love, even though, yet again, it’s all about Sam (and Dean), not the OFC.

Big thanks to

hiyacynthwho’s like, the Batman of beta, and also an expert on the Sam sex. (Mockingbird. That’s all I’m saying. There’s never been a Sam like that before. Nor a pool. Keep a chocolate handy when reading.)

.::::.

“So good,” she whispers, and her hands move from shoulders to the small of his back down his ass, kneading muscle and bone in a too-solid touch, head arching back, taking in all the heat he’s giving her, cock buried deep inside as he thrusts and it’s good, so good it’s

(wrong)

so good it’s

(wrong)

like cold water after a long hot day and he’s tired, he’s so tired and he can’t understand how his brother can always walk such straight and narrow paths with all that burden on his shoulders, he thinks he’s going to crack, melt, fade to fog right into her arms cradling him, anchoring him fiercely to something that should make more sense than just

(connecting)

fucking, because all he can think of is

(weight)

the here and now and sinking in her cool core, taking him all in, too fragile

(too solid)

This is good, so good

(so wrong)

It’s been so long, had been so long since Jess

(oh love)

then Madison

(I want you to do it)

third time’s the charm they say and he’s afraid, he’s so afraid, and Dad’s gone, then Dad’s free and the Demon dead

(I was dead)

and Dean

(trapped)

and he’s got to find a way, he’s got to make everything all right again, it’s Sam’s turn and he can’t lose Dean too

(everything I touch turns to ashes)

he’ll follow him to Hell if he has to. This is their life, and for the first time Sam embraces it fully, hunting down the demon army, hunting down a way to cancel Dean’s deal

(stupid, Dean, stupid, why do you love me more than yourself)

and Sam will deal with it. No more repression or right or wrong

(or ashes)

and when their chase leads back to New York and a lot of bashing but that son of a bitch went out, one more demon down for the count, Sam goes to find Sarah and ends up in bed with her and all should have been really smooth except…he can’t. He wants it as much as anything, but his cock won’t cooperate even when she’s going down on it with her nimble mouth and he thinks maybe he’s tired or it’s the meds he took for the gashes

(so afraid)

and it will go away, so when they drive off for South Dakota the next morning, Sam doesn’t tell Dean about it and doesn’t plan to in the near future either, despite Dean waggling his eyebrows so much during their long trip back to Bobby’s it’s a miracle they don’t fall off.

But it doesn’t go away, not with Annie and Sally and Jodi and all the barmaids he’s hit on as Dean frowned and asked him if he had at last seen the light and seriously, Sammy? Should I say Christo cuz this is so not you, and Sam just shrugs and smiles all loop-side and he’s thinking he needs to get laid, he needs to fuck, fucking will make the fear go away

(Dean swallowed by darkness)

and his balls will explode, his dick will shrivel and die if he doesn’t get a release other than his left hand in the bathroom, because oh yes, in the bathroom his dick is its happy old self, but apparently it has an allergy against pussy or whatever and Sam just…Sam wants to hit something anything, wants his cock back the way it was, wants to fuck every pretty girl he sees into the mattress and probably through the floor too

(volunteers plenty but oh you stupid cock)

and dear God, that should have been the least of his problems, he shouldn’t have to worry about that right now, but at least it’s nothing physical, it’s

(everyone I touch turns to ashes)

psychological, he needs no fucking degree to know that he’s past grief and mourning and tears now

(fire on a ceiling)

now he’s sailed on to deep fear

(shot rang so loud in her apartment as the tears kept falling)

that no woman will ever be safe around him

(ashes)

and he needs to keep them safe.

It’s been so long and it feels so good

(so wrong)

as he tugs her head back by the hair and she gasps and her fingers bury into his flesh

(soul)

because her scent is that of autumn leaves

(so sad)

and he wants to do this for her

(him)

wants to take some of the cold and sad away

(if only)

His hands are too large on her marble thighs as he pushes them higher up his waist, splaying her more open, and her legs cross around him, her heels digging in spurring him on

(holding on)

“So good,” she says and her voice quickens, “so good. You’re beautiful. So beautiful. So good,”

(so wrong)

and his cock slides in and out in perfect cadence, as his mouth teeth tongue take in her taste

(autumn leaves and wet earth)

(so wrong)

teasing nipples neck lips chin ear, her own mouth greedy for his sweat and saliva

(warmth)

voice thick like honey saying “so good, like that, like that, Sam, don’t stop”

(stay)

and he doesn’t plan to. Wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to, his body a tight cord that’s been released, arrow finally flying, and so he thrusts and moves and buries inside of her and she wraps all she is around him and says his name over and over again, fingers and mouth marking him

(unmarked by him)

until he quickens too and comes in a big rush of release that is just so good, way better than his left hand, until there is nothing tense and tight about him except

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t, Sam. You think too much.”

She’s got a pretty mouth, all coral and rose, and long lashes around dark eyes, as dark as her hair, and he’s glad she was wearing a red dress when he saw her, bright like a poppy

(didn’t think he could deal with it if it was white)

bright like the night sky above him, ironically vibrant.

She uses nimble fingers to remove leaves from their hair as Sam pulls his pants up, T-shirt back on feeling loose after a long time

(I’m so fucked)

too loose. He sits back on the ground with a soft thud, arms on his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t… I just wanted… Why did you…”

(…have touched you…release you…touch me…)

“Shh,” she says. “Hush now. Hush, Sam.”

She has pulled her dress back right now (hem down, corsage high), and sits beside him.

“I did it for me,” she says. “I wanted to feel alive again.”

(warm)

Her arms mould around him, pull him to her embrace. Sam doesn’t resist. It’s so wrong but

(so good)

so sane somehow. Everything he touches turns to ashes, but she’s already ash and flame. And maybe it’s just fate that he needed graveyard dirt before he called it an early night, letting Dean hustle the locals, fate that of all graveyards in the world he stumbled into this, at the outskirt of this town, where his poppy girl showed up and begged him to release her, because it was lonely, so lonely here and she didn’t know where to go. As helpful a case as ever, pointing out her grave, hugging him as he set her body on fire, but her body burnt and she was still there, all puzzled and perplexed because there was no light to follow, she said, and she was so alone. And felt so real

(solid)

when she hid in his arms, so frail and

(alive)

as they talked in the lonely cemetery and watched the moon move as they tried to think of a way to release her

(release Dean)

of giving her peace.

(so pretty sane alive)

She feels cold but solid and smells like the leaves of the graveyard around him, but Sam loves her just a little, because he can’t hurt her.

Every woman he cared about

(Mum Jess Madison)

has turned to ash in his palm, but this one he can’t hurt. This one is already dead and says he makes her feel alive and it’s so fucked up

(so good)

and he’s glad

(selfish)

she’s there, glad the fire didn’t claim her, glad the salt didn’t work, glad for her loose ends.

“You think you could haunt me or something?” he asks and doesn’t know if he’s joking or not, because she’s stroking his hair.

“Hush,” she says, then sighs, lips leaving no warmth on the side of his face.

“Hush now, Sam.”

He falls asleep in the arms of a girl who shouldn’t have been there, thinking that maybe he could find a way to help her

(keep her)

because she is gentle and

(dead)

good to him, but when he opens his eyes again the moon has moved deeper in the horizon and his body is sore and curled up on the ground.

There’s no one else there.

(cold fingers on him)

He takes out his cellphone, knows Dean will kick his ass six ways to Sunday for being so late and not hearing his calls

(I was worried about you, Sam)

for trusting one of the things they’ve hunted down since they were kids

(things that go bump in the night first a werewolf now a ghost where’s the vampire and the zombie)

He packs graveyard dirt in a small pouch, puts it in his jacket. Shoves his hands deep in his pockets.

“Godspeed,” he says to the night breeze. He means it. “Thank you.”

(thank you)

If everything he touches turns to ashes, then for a while ashes is all he will touch.

The moon follows him.

There is no reply.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: Title is a line from Dylan Thomas’ poem “The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower” Awesome, isn’t it? God, how I love him.

“Everything I touch turns to ashes” is a phrase Angel has uttered in the episode Deep Down. That scene…the way the line was delivered…just…it killed me dead. It’s been a while since I watched Angel, so I wasn’t even aware I used it here, but after re-reading it felt familiar and so I googled it up.

Oh Whedon. I love you. You’ve scarred me for life, but your scars are beautiful and I’m proud to wear them.