Sam/Dean. R. ~2600 words. Illustrated by ponderosa121.
Standing up, Sam pulls a cloth out of his back pocket and cleans off the knife.

Emma’s a smart girl. She files her taxes, saves for a rainy day and remembers to indulge in an overpriced pair of shoes every now and then. Looking for trouble, even the safe kind of trouble, isn’t what she does.

Those two guys in the back, playing pool? The ones with the long legs, killer smiles, sparkling eyes? They radiate this careless, devilish lust for life that kicks her pulse up a notch and makes her seriously re-evaluate her position on what type of attention she’s here to attract.

One leans into the other, up on his toes because sure, he’s tall, but the other guy’s tall, and there’s a shockingly bright boom of laughter over the Top Ten at Ten blaring from the speakers. It ripples down her spine like winter sunshine, warm and biting at the edges. A few seconds later, it’s followed by a wildly happy shout of, “Dean!”

She orders another drink when the bartender looks her way, a simple rye and coke. There was a guy that she dated up north who had gotten her hooked on them, called it a real cowboy’s drink and wouldn’t drink anything else. He was an investment banker from Alberta.

Leaving the cosy spot near the heating vent that she’d claimed, Emma weaves her way through the tables to one a little closer to the back. She flips open her phone, sees no messages waiting, and tries to look like she’s free for a chat while straining to catch an opening in the guys’ conversation.

She isn’t shy, not by a long shot. But she likes to make a smooth entrance. There’s an anticipatory flutter in her gut that makes her hang back, too. Nerves, because these guys are so far from her usual type that she’s in whole new timezone.

Dean, the one with the short hair and dazzling eyes that crinkle at the corner when he smiles–and he’s not lacking for smiles, slinging pleased, lazy ones at his friend every other minute–claps the other on the shoulder when he sinks three balls in a row.

“Atta boy, Sammy!” he crows, whiskey-rough, and something else that Emma can’t quite catch, but now she’s got a name along with an urge to hear that voice up close.

She’s still gathering up her courage–she’s not afraid of a letdown so much as the alternative; what is she going to do with the one she manages to land aside from hope the ride’s as good as it looks–when a familiar face swings into view.

“Emma,” Mark says, inviting himself to take a seat. “Wow, it’s been awhile. Christina’s party, maybe?”

Now, Mark’s a nice guy. Nice looking, nice house, nice family, nice job. Nice. With her eyes on tall, dark and sexy Sammy over there, lining up take a shot while his cohort beelines for fresh beers at the bar, nice doesn’t seem so nice anymore.

“Wow, yeah,” she says, tracking Dean’s progress and wondering how quickly she can shake Mark off to get her hot little butt over there and introduce Sammy to it. “You look good.”

“You too,” Mark says. “Listen to me, not good, great. You look great. Can I get you a drink?” He glances down at her full glass and smiles charmingly through a faint blush.

“That’s sweet, Mark, but-”

Crap. The guy’s heading back their way with a beer in each hand. a girl on one arm and every last scrap of Sam’s attention. She’s almost sure she’s still got a shot until the girl sidles right on up to him, Dean at her back, and taps one slender finger against his lips.

Emma blows out a breath. “How about you buy me another after you tell me what you’ve been up to lately?” she asks, and the way Mark brightens isn’t entirely unattractive at all.

Mark talks animatedly, leaning in close attentively like she remembers from the night at Christina’s when she has something to add. It’s flattering to have someone that engaging focused all on her, but every now and then she’ll glance up, see Dean with his hand low on the girl’s hip, Sam watching them like he’s thinking of all the things he could do to her. From the smouldering look the girl shoots back, she’s got no problem with that at all.

Obviously, Emma had set her sights too low when she thought about a potential hook up with just one.

“So,” Mark says, bringing her back from daydreams of damp sheets and acres of bare, sun-kissed skin, “are you still with that marketing firm?”

Time ticks quickly by. From the lingering way Mark looks at her, she knows he’s hoping for more, but she’s not really sure she’s got it in her. He makes a better friend than lover, which she hopes she’ll never have to tell him outright.

A little after midnight, eons later than Emma meant to stay out, Dean and Sam and the lucky girl saunter towards the side exit, all low laughs and crackling tension. As they walk by, it’s like a static shock racing along her bare arms.

Emma lifts her drink, downs the dregs in a salute to the incredibly good time that girl’s about to have and makes a tiny wish that it could’ve been her instead.

Though Mark takes the letdown well, she gets the feeling he’s not giving up. That isn’t a bad thing. Being perused is sometimes better than being caught, and who knows, Mark might surprise her. It’s not as if she knows everything about the guy, and like Christina told her, he’s not bad looking.

Emma leaves through the front, debating calling a cab or hoofing it the six and a half blocks back to her place. In this town, she’s not worried about trouble on the main thoroughfares she travels, but it is late.

On the warm wind stirring her hair, Emma catches the sound of a low, muffled moan. She pauses, listens; it comes again, a man’s voice, and it certainly doesn’t sound like she needs the cell she’s got clutched tight in her hand.

What she should do is continue on her merry way. But she knows the side door those three had left through leads into that alleyway straight ahead, and if she wants to be honest about it, she’s madly curious to see if they’re doing it right there.

Careful to balance on the balls of her feet so the click of her heels won’t give her away, Emma moves to the mouth of the alley. It’s pretty dim down there, but after a moment, she sees them.

Boy, can she see them.

Dean’s pressed flat against the wall, jeans down around his thighs and the girl up against him. There’s a hand on his cock, big and knuckly. Her gaze jumps to the other guy, because that’s his hand on Dean, and he’s plastered to the girl’s back, hips rocking steadily, though as far as she can tell, both him and the girl are still fully dressed.

Now she knows she should vamoose. It’s not like they’re demanding privacy or anything, but the illicit, squirmy thrill in Emma’s gut says plain as day she’s doing something not quite right.

Dean tosses his head back, his rough moan drifting up the alleyway on the soft night air. Biting her lip, Emma eases closer to the wall and hopes the breeze is enough to push the clouds above away from the moon.

Sam practically crushes the girl between them as he goes for Dean’s mouth. Somehow, that’s worse–better–than Sam’s hand on his cock. She might’ve grown up in a small town but she’s not unworldly by far, and still, the sight of them kissing like that, all teeth and tongue, seems more intimate, more… dirty. Like Sam all-out tonguefucking him like that is a pale imitation of what he really wants to do, if only that girl weren’t in the way.

The girl doesn’t seem to mind at all. As soon as Dean falls away from the kiss, throat stretched long and gorgeous in the dim streetlight, she goes right for it. Dean visibly jerks, cries out sharply, and Emma’s gaze zooms down, sure he just lost it all over Sam’s fingers.

She can’t quite tell. Sam hasn’t moved his hand and maybe there’s not enough light to see. When she looks back up, it takes her a brain a couple of minutes to figure out what her eyes are seeing.

Dean’s hand is on his neck, gingerly pressed down as dark red leaks out from between his fingers. There’s a giant silver handle, glinting in the moonlight, protruding from the back of the girl’s neck, right at the base of her skull. Sam’s hand is covering her mouth as her body jerks violently, bloody froth spilling down her throat and snarling animal noises echoing against the brick.

Sam steps back and yanks the knife free, the bloodied blade wickedly long as he flips it over. The girl, still convulsing, falls in the dirty puddle near their feet, and Sam crouches over her.

The head, blank eyes on the sky, rolls away.

Standing up, Sam pulls a cloth out of his back pocket and cleans off the knife. He says, “Dean,” like a warning.

Dean’s grin turns into a grimace as he pulls his hand from his throat. “Had to sell it, didn’t I, Sammy?”

Movements quick and angry, Sam shoves the knife away, pulls a bottle out of his jacket and shakes water over his hands. He scrubs them clean on a fresh cloth Dean hands him, eyes locked on Dean’s face.

“Well,” Sam says, “she bought it. Literally.” Casually, he toes the headless corpse, pieces of it flaking away like ash on the still water. It’s shrivelled to almost half its size, twisted and curled in on itself. “Let me see your neck.”

Brushing him away, Dean says, “It’s fine,” but when Sam grabs his shoulders, shoves him roughly back against the wall, he relents, grinning.

Emma can’t understand why her feet won’t move. She just witnessed a murder for fuck’s sake, but that thing on the ground doesn’t look like the pretty, vibrant girl she saw inside. It doesn’t look like anything.

“What do you want to do about her?” Dean asks, and Emma realises with a sick lurch that Sam’s not looking down, he’s looking straight up the alley at her.

“Oh my god,” slips out of Emma’s mouth before she can stop it.

“I don’t think she’s interested in us anymore,” Sam says. He glances back down, tilts Dean’s head up and to the side with a thumb curved over Dean’s chin to remove the cloth pressed to Dean’s neck. “If she was going to do anything, she’d have done it by now.”

“She’s kinda cute.” Dean sighs, nuzzles absently at Sam’s palm while Sam doctors his throat. “Too bad.”

Emma should run. Should’ve already ran. She doesn’t understand why she can’t move.

“I don’t think we have to kill her.” Sam spares her a short glance as if he’s expecting an answer. When nothing comes out of Emma’s mouth but a frustratingly weak, female noise, he goes back to Dean. “The guy that liked the car, Mark, he was with her tonight.”

“Mark,” Emma finally breathes. Their attention zeros in on her like a slap to the face, knocking her back a step. She takes another, relief at finally being able to make her body do what she wants loosening her tongue. “I don’t- I don’t know what I saw. I didn’t see anything. That’s not-” she looks back down at the crumbling mess at their feet, jerks her gaze back up when she tastes bile. “I didn’t see a girl.”

“That’s right,” Sam says conversationally, as if he doesn’t have a bloody rag in one hand and the other pushed low on Dean’s bare belly. He’s shifted his thigh just enough so Dean’s hidden from view, but Emma knows Dean’s still hard. Can’t convince herself otherwise as Sam’s shoulder flexes and Dean shudders. “That wasn’t a girl. Wasn’t even human.”

Dean snickers, “Serial killer vamp. Who comes up with this shit?” and Sam smiles down at him like he’s just said the cutest thing in the world.

Emma takes another step back. Then another. Dean strains upwards for a kiss and she breaks, runs across the street in an all out panic and most of the way home, heels clutched in her hand and bare feet pounding the rough sidewalk.

She keeps going, tossing worried glances over her shoulder, walking quickly between quick sprints. She’s winded from the mad dash up the stairs of her building when she finally turns the lock in her door, slamming it behind her and throwing both bolts.

Windows locked, shutters drawn, she goes for the modest supply of liquor she keeps in the kitchen for friends. And apparently times like this. An abrupt laugh bursts out of her, shaky and weird, and dies abruptly when she looks down at the bloody footprints she’s left on the linoleum.

Her feet don’t start to hurt until after she’s peeled away the ruin of her hose, soaked and cleaned and coated them with Neosporin, wrapped them in towels. She sits on the toilet lid, pinkish water swirling down the tub’s drain, holds the empty glass against her face and wonders why she’s not crying.

She wakes at dawn, not sure how she managed to fall asleep at all. Hobbling out to the living room, she drops onto the couch and braces herself. Her cell phone’s in her lap in case she needs it.

There’s nothing on the morning news about a murder. Or the ten minute, mid-morning report. At noon, she flicks to another station, then another, but there’s nothing.

No dead girl, no baffled police asking for anyone with any information, any at all, to please step forward.

At first she thinks maybe no one’s found the body. She falls asleep listening to the midnight weather forecast and wakes a few hours later. She keeps watching, waiting, until the sun’s high in the sky the next day. Sunday.

Emma digs some gauze out of the sparse first-aid kit in the bathroom. She puts more salve on her feet, rewraps them, carefully pulls on the softest, fluffiest pair of socks she owns and her runners.

When she leaves, she doesn’t bother to take anything but her keys.

The alleyway looks pathetic in broad daylight. None of the menacing shadows from her memory remain, nothing but the empty dumpster, a few damp cardboard boxes and dirt.

Taking a long, careful look around, Emma creeps into the alley. Her feet ache dully.

She gets to the spot she knows they were. There’s no blood on the wall, none smeared on the ground, not even a scrap of evidence that there ever was. There’s just dirt and the stink of old urine.

For a long time, Emma just stands there.

When she makes it back to her apartment, she turns off the news. Friday night, all she’d done was go out, meet up with Mark, have a few drinks and a chat with a good friend.

There wasn’t this guy named Sam, dark-eyed and smooth as he handled a cue, or his buddy Dean, shining bright, eager for life. There wasn’t any bold, lucky girl for her to be jealous of.

There’s no dead girl.


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