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spn fic: record skip (girl!sam/girl!dean; nc17)
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skullage, for betareading.
Record Skip
Supernatural. girl!Sam/girl!Dean. NC17. Warning: incest, 2nd person POV, canon death. Spoilers for 3x11. Written for SPN Femslash Week.
Missing scenes from 'Mystery Spot'. ~1200 words
On the fifty-seventh Tuesday, you think okay, you think fine. You watch your sister dance to the bathroom singing Asia and you think about how she's going to die, or how she has died, several times. You're not sure. The difference is getting blurry for you, and you are tired. You are wrecked.
Dee sings, "Heeeat of the moment showed in your eeeyes," and smacks her ass at you before twirling through the bathroom door.
You wait one-mississippi two-mississippi before shuffling after her, and you hover in the doorway, watching her brush her teeth. You slip your arms around her waist and she says, "What's up," so casual and breezy, sounding miles away from how you feel, and it gives you equal parts and frustration and relief. She has no memory of the past fifty-six deaths; you are their sole carrier. You are alone in this, as usual, but maybe it's better that way because you like it when she smiles.
You kiss the back of her head. She relaxes against you, leaning her head back against your shoulder. How have you grown so tall? You remember the summer of your growth spurt and tossing your sister to the bed, winning the ensuing wrestling match, the pride that shone in her eyes. You won legitimately for once instead of Dee pretending she's weaker. You still don't understand why she does that, softening herself for others. It makes you sad. You've yelled at her for it, and then to your irritation, she softened for you too.
"You okay?" she asks, but you're not, so you just kiss her temple and let her pull her own conclusions.
+
On the fifty-eighth Tuesday, you grab her before she waltzes into the bathroom, and you toss her to the bed. You fall on top of her.
"Oh, it is on," she giggles, and starts wrestling back, but this is not a game to you right now.
You kiss her.
It's not a thing. It's not a big deal, not really. You've gotten each other off before, and you've kissed more times than that. There were things that happened between you that you're not sure what to call because in the end it's just you wrapped around Dee and Dee wrapped around you, business as usual, come what may. It's just a natural extension of your intimacy, for a specific definition of 'natural'. Family comes first and girls gotta stick together, right, Sammy?
Dee was your first kiss when you were thirteen because she wanted to give you kissing lessons. Induct you into the wonderful world of womanly wiles or whatever. "It's gonna be part of your arsenal just like any gun," she said, and you rolled your eyes. You said, "It's not a bullet, Dee," but she just did that thing she does where she dotes on you and dismisses you at the same time. You let her wipe gloss on your lips with her pinkie, and you can still recall the giddiness in her voice when she told you to close your eyes. A couple of years later, you kissed her again, without the gloss this time. The stuff was sticky and felt gross anyway. But Dee, she felt perfect.
She feels perfect.
Dee has been slipping through your fingers all year and you kiss her as if you can keep her here. You can feel her surprise at your aggression. This isn't how it usually happens, but she takes it in a stride. She parts her lips.
You want to say I love you because you can't remember the last time you said it, but you don't because the words feel trite, redundant. You let Dee roll you over, and she mouths at your neck. Love is the least of your problems.
+
"Rise and shine, Sammy!"
+
On the sixty-third Tuesday, you're in the shower together and she leans back against you as you work your fingers between her legs. You palm one breast and rub your thumb over her nipple, and she arches against you, her moan wanton.
The shower is cut short. You lead her to the bed.
She has her legs over your shoulders and you're holding her open with your hands as you press the flat of your tongue against her clit, teasing her with small nods, small flicks of your tongue licking into her. You don't usually do this, but if Dee notices anything off, she keeps it to herself. She tangles her fingers in your hair and makes little hitching sounds in her throat, and you can't help but feel a little flash of victory that you can still make her fall apart like this.
+
On the sixty-fourth Tuesday, you convince her to stay in and order pizza and end up arguing over which channel to watch. You don't really do much of anything except snuggle with each other under the same blanket and heckle Richard Gere on TV until Dee gets up to pee, then she slips on the bathroom tiles and breaks her neck.
+
Is this hell? Are you dead? Have the hellhounds already collected your sister, and you tried to follow after? Isn't there a special place in hell for those who refuse to accept death?
It is Tuesday morning and Dee is smiling at you, all teeth and bright eyes. She gyrates her hips and sings into her toothbrush.
"Come on," she says, "you love this song and you know it."
+
Sometimes after sex, Dee gets quiet. She chews a fingernail and stares at nothing in particular, and sometimes she will say something, but other better times she will move on as if nothing happened. Pull her pants back up, fix her hair, paste that grin on or cock a gun, sometimes both at the same time.
Now's not one of the better times.
It's Tuesday #94 and Dee's sitting back against the headboard, still naked, and you're lightly dozing against her side, head on her lap.
"Do you ever stop and think about how weird this is?" she asks. "How weird we are?"
"We're not that weird."
"We're plenty weird."
"But we have charming personalities."
Dee smiles at that, but it is a brittle smile, the kind you don't have the heart to analyze these days. She runs her fingers through your hair, and you wonder if you can make it to the diner today before death comes calling. Waffles would be nice.
+
"Rise and shine, Sammy!"
You rise, you don't shine, you watch your sister dance to bad eighties music and try not to remember the multitude of deaths you bear alone. The blood soaking into your jeans, the gasping breaths that will always haunt you, and worst of all, the sudden silence.
You're going to find whatever is responsible for this and you're going to rip its throat out.
"Wake up and dance!" Dee yells at you, and you smile despite yourself. You let your sister pull you out of bed and together you boogie around the room until the song is over, for as long as you can make this last.
skullage, for betareading.Record Skip
Supernatural. girl!Sam/girl!Dean. NC17. Warning: incest, 2nd person POV, canon death. Spoilers for 3x11. Written for SPN Femslash Week.
Missing scenes from 'Mystery Spot'. ~1200 words
On the fifty-seventh Tuesday, you think okay, you think fine. You watch your sister dance to the bathroom singing Asia and you think about how she's going to die, or how she has died, several times. You're not sure. The difference is getting blurry for you, and you are tired. You are wrecked.
Dee sings, "Heeeat of the moment showed in your eeeyes," and smacks her ass at you before twirling through the bathroom door.
You wait one-mississippi two-mississippi before shuffling after her, and you hover in the doorway, watching her brush her teeth. You slip your arms around her waist and she says, "What's up," so casual and breezy, sounding miles away from how you feel, and it gives you equal parts and frustration and relief. She has no memory of the past fifty-six deaths; you are their sole carrier. You are alone in this, as usual, but maybe it's better that way because you like it when she smiles.
You kiss the back of her head. She relaxes against you, leaning her head back against your shoulder. How have you grown so tall? You remember the summer of your growth spurt and tossing your sister to the bed, winning the ensuing wrestling match, the pride that shone in her eyes. You won legitimately for once instead of Dee pretending she's weaker. You still don't understand why she does that, softening herself for others. It makes you sad. You've yelled at her for it, and then to your irritation, she softened for you too.
"You okay?" she asks, but you're not, so you just kiss her temple and let her pull her own conclusions.
+
On the fifty-eighth Tuesday, you grab her before she waltzes into the bathroom, and you toss her to the bed. You fall on top of her.
"Oh, it is on," she giggles, and starts wrestling back, but this is not a game to you right now.
You kiss her.
It's not a thing. It's not a big deal, not really. You've gotten each other off before, and you've kissed more times than that. There were things that happened between you that you're not sure what to call because in the end it's just you wrapped around Dee and Dee wrapped around you, business as usual, come what may. It's just a natural extension of your intimacy, for a specific definition of 'natural'. Family comes first and girls gotta stick together, right, Sammy?
Dee was your first kiss when you were thirteen because she wanted to give you kissing lessons. Induct you into the wonderful world of womanly wiles or whatever. "It's gonna be part of your arsenal just like any gun," she said, and you rolled your eyes. You said, "It's not a bullet, Dee," but she just did that thing she does where she dotes on you and dismisses you at the same time. You let her wipe gloss on your lips with her pinkie, and you can still recall the giddiness in her voice when she told you to close your eyes. A couple of years later, you kissed her again, without the gloss this time. The stuff was sticky and felt gross anyway. But Dee, she felt perfect.
She feels perfect.
Dee has been slipping through your fingers all year and you kiss her as if you can keep her here. You can feel her surprise at your aggression. This isn't how it usually happens, but she takes it in a stride. She parts her lips.
You want to say I love you because you can't remember the last time you said it, but you don't because the words feel trite, redundant. You let Dee roll you over, and she mouths at your neck. Love is the least of your problems.
+
"Rise and shine, Sammy!"
+
On the sixty-third Tuesday, you're in the shower together and she leans back against you as you work your fingers between her legs. You palm one breast and rub your thumb over her nipple, and she arches against you, her moan wanton.
The shower is cut short. You lead her to the bed.
She has her legs over your shoulders and you're holding her open with your hands as you press the flat of your tongue against her clit, teasing her with small nods, small flicks of your tongue licking into her. You don't usually do this, but if Dee notices anything off, she keeps it to herself. She tangles her fingers in your hair and makes little hitching sounds in her throat, and you can't help but feel a little flash of victory that you can still make her fall apart like this.
+
On the sixty-fourth Tuesday, you convince her to stay in and order pizza and end up arguing over which channel to watch. You don't really do much of anything except snuggle with each other under the same blanket and heckle Richard Gere on TV until Dee gets up to pee, then she slips on the bathroom tiles and breaks her neck.
+
Is this hell? Are you dead? Have the hellhounds already collected your sister, and you tried to follow after? Isn't there a special place in hell for those who refuse to accept death?
It is Tuesday morning and Dee is smiling at you, all teeth and bright eyes. She gyrates her hips and sings into her toothbrush.
"Come on," she says, "you love this song and you know it."
+
Sometimes after sex, Dee gets quiet. She chews a fingernail and stares at nothing in particular, and sometimes she will say something, but other better times she will move on as if nothing happened. Pull her pants back up, fix her hair, paste that grin on or cock a gun, sometimes both at the same time.
Now's not one of the better times.
It's Tuesday #94 and Dee's sitting back against the headboard, still naked, and you're lightly dozing against her side, head on her lap.
"Do you ever stop and think about how weird this is?" she asks. "How weird we are?"
"We're not that weird."
"We're plenty weird."
"But we have charming personalities."
Dee smiles at that, but it is a brittle smile, the kind you don't have the heart to analyze these days. She runs her fingers through your hair, and you wonder if you can make it to the diner today before death comes calling. Waffles would be nice.
+
"Rise and shine, Sammy!"
You rise, you don't shine, you watch your sister dance to bad eighties music and try not to remember the multitude of deaths you bear alone. The blood soaking into your jeans, the gasping breaths that will always haunt you, and worst of all, the sudden silence.
You're going to find whatever is responsible for this and you're going to rip its throat out.
"Wake up and dance!" Dee yells at you, and you smile despite yourself. You let your sister pull you out of bed and together you boogie around the room until the song is over, for as long as you can make this last.
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