Wordcount: 2,800 (11,275 total)
Summary:Amelia's fucked up. The creepy drifter isn't scaring her off.
Sam's barely holding. His choices are terrible or epically terrible.
Together, they're . . . no, still really fucked up.
Chapter notes: Whew! Sorry it has taken me such an extremely long time to finish this story. Huge thanks to nomercles for betaing this chapter and repeatedly telling me she liked it. Hope you enjoy!
There's a little residual Amelia PoV at the beginning of this chapter, mucking up the neat turn-taking schematic. She's rude like that, what can I say?
Link to fic on AO3
Chapter Six: Changing Point of View (Sighting Shore)
Amelia thought that their sex life might plateau at some point. Maybe after that time he put a twitching, humming dildo in her and then took her dancing. She was sweating and shaky, half out of it, long before they'd danced an hour, and when he crowded into the restroom behind her and pulled the knobbly thing out, pushed in with his cock, fucked her up against the sinks with her elbows braced on the counter—staring at their reflections in the mirrors as sweat dripped down her cleavage, darkening the fancy deep red dress she wore…
Well, it was hotter than hell. She tried to protest about the unlocked door, uselessly: she couldn't put weight behind the words and Sam ignored her except to grin and shove her dress up even farther on one side, baring and framing their hips like a picture to anyone who might come in the door… she shuddered and got even wetter.
And if later, after they were done, she found a doorstop kicked against the door from the inside that Sam must have used to keep anyone from disturbing them before they'd even gotten started, well, it didn't really need to be mentioned.
Another time he dragged her up the deserted flight of stairs to the roof access door, only instead of going out, he set her on the railing, her back to the open drop down to the main floor, and proceeded to fuck her as she shrieked and wrapped her legs around him, then her arms. Her yells bounced echoing around the closed stairwell. She wondered if it was more or less soundproofed here than in her room, then decided it was a little late to start worrying about that. It was a shitty motel; loud sex could just fucking be part of the ambiance.
So what if an extremely disproportionate amount of ambiance came from her? Other fuckers could just fucking deal with not getting fucked this good, she decided muzzily. She shared this thought with Sam, or tried to, and he tucked his face into her neck, chortling. The sudden shift in weight as he crunched forward threatened to nearly overbalance her, send her plummeting down over the rail, until he yanked her back up away from the fall. A crazy laugh bubbled in her throat.
So Sam was more than attentive as an inventive lover. But she couldn't help wondering how long it could last.
Sam had a lot of free time while Amelia was at work. She was still the night-shift vet, so he got used to sleeping when she did and puttering around the motel while she went off to her gainful employment. A lot of the motel handyman work he did in the early morning, but he couldn't do anything noisy during the wee hours if there were sleeping guests, which there usually were. He started taking Dog for longer walks, after he got strong enough. He cleaned the apartment, and he skimmed the Internet and newspapers without really delving deep. He didn't want to see a hunt.
Okay, so he got a little bored. Stir-crazy, maybe, even. He'd always been a reader, a book-lover; it was just that the stuff to hand had mostly always had to do with hunting, or with keeping up in school. Pure escapism seldom passed muster when he had always had so much to accomplish.
And Amelia—or Amelia's pared-down motel room belongings, anyway—had two kinds of books, piled carelessly on the table by the bed: hefty veterinary textbooks and lurid romance novels.
He held out for a while. But by the first time Amelia came home in the middle of her shift because the clinic had to be closed for fumigation, it was to find him guiltily trying to shove Prince of the Underworld back into the middle of the pile.
He could see her trying not to laugh. She was taken aback for a moment, first, and then her expression shifted into a suspiciously blank and rigid cast. He gave up on hiding the book and just scowled at her.
But just like whenever Dean used to catch him in an embarrassing moment, she wasn't at all discouraged by his scowl. Instead unholy delight broke over her face. "Just a little light reading, Sam?"
"Shut up," he grumbled. "Don't make me beat you."
She wasn't much impressed by this threat. "Is this how you've been spending all your time? How many of those have you read so far?"
He could feel—damn—a flush creeping up his face. "Not like you had anything else to read around here…" he muttered defensively.
"No, it's not like you've got the entire internet at your fingertips, of course…" she needled him, not showing mercy. Suddenly her eyes went wide. "Oh my god. On top of the stairs last week… You were totally going for that scene on the Sightless Cliffs in Plummeting Towards Love!"
Sam looked, if possible, even guiltier, for a moment. He shrugged, not quite casually enough. "The spine was pretty creased there. Your favorite part?"
She folded her arms. "That's a wild guess. Prove it in a court of law, mister."
He stretched his arms up over his head and rolled up to his feet. "Yeah? You sure we can't reach some other kind of a settlement?"
He could hear her breath catch. He leered at her a little.
Then she laughed, breaking the mood, unexpectedly. "How about we eat something, Don Juan? I don't know about you, but I could go for some of that quiche?"
Amelia was fairly quiet, as Sam watched her make a salad for a side dish. She watched him back, thoughtfully, as they moved about the tiny kitchenette, getting food out. The space wasn't really big enough for two people; they brushed up against each other every so often. The mood wasn't uncomfortable, precisely, just a little different. It had shifted—the frisson that meant they were a hairsbreadth away from jumping into bed was barely there at all. Instead they watched each other. They took their time setting the table, and sitting down, and eating.
Amelia toyed with her fork after her plate was empty. Sam couldn't tell what she'd been thinking, but it looked like she might be ready to spit it out. She set the fork down and propped her elbows on the table. "Can I ask…? Um. What was it like, the last time you were with… with a woman?"
Sam sat back. Of all the questions… he hadn't been prepared for it, but surprisingly, he thought it was one he could answer. "It was half a year ago, maybe close to a year now. I'd met her a few times before; she was, um, intensely interested, but I wasn't. So she showed up when Dean and I were in Vegas—I'm pretty sure she was just pretending to run into me 'on accident,' considering—and bought me a drink, and slipped a roofie into it."
He looked up, warily, waiting for Amelia's reaction: it didn't disappoint. "What? You're kidding," she spluttered, incredulously. "She didn't!"
"Oh, yeah," Sam continued, with the grim humor of someone sharing a disaster story too absurd to be immediately believed. "Within half an hour, I thought she was the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen. I was falling all over myself, declaring undying love, asking her to marry me, the whole nine yards…" Sam's mouth twisted, reminiscing.
"What kind of roofie makes you want to marry somebody?" Amelia asked, scowling.
Sam shrugged. "We were in Vegas. It seemed like we should do it," he said, evading the roofie question, awkwardly.
"It didn't really go that far!" Amelia protested, still disbelieving, laughing. "You did not get Vegas married to some crazy chick who drugged you!"
"To be fair," Sam said, faux-thoughtfully, "I think her original plan was just to get me to be her date to her high school reunion. I kind of pushed the whole marriage angle pretty hard, once I was under the influence: told her life was too short and uncertain, we should grab happiness where it was offered, all the most saccharine stuff you could imagine. I'm not proud of it," he told her, sardonically. "There may have been tears involved. It's entirely possible she mostly agreed just to make it stop.”
"And I repeat: what the fuck kind of roofies were those?" Amelia asked, more seriously now.
"Expensive," Sam said, darkly. "Stuff she shouldn't have been screwing with." He shrugged again, hopefully conveying that that was all the answer he had to give. "Anyway, long story short, after the wedding we drove across the country, and then when she ran out of her supply, she brained me with a waffle iron and tied me to the bed."
Amelia was looking really alarmed. "…A waffle iron?" she repeated faintly.
"Dean figured it was what people were supposed to give someone as a wedding present," Sam explained, fully aware that he wasn't explaining anything. He couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching at the memory of Dean's bewildered consternation.
Amelia saw it, and furiously cried, "Oh! Sam Winchester, you are so full of bullshit!"
Sam held his hands up, grinning. "I swear, every word of this is the truth," he protested, pouring sincerity into his eyebrows. "I was just remembering Dean trying to figure me out when I sprung our surprise wedding on him. His face—I still wish I had a picture of that moment." He was laughing, he couldn't help it. There had been nothing funny about it at the time, but in hindsight, telling the story out loud, to another person, for the first time—there was just something so absurd about the entire affair.
"Anyway, I got free from the bed, and Dean and I talked a little more sense into Becky than she'd had before, we dealt with her dealer, filed an annulment of the marriage, and everybody went home happy."
Amelia's brow was furrowed. "Becky?" She murmured, like the name was familiar. She shook her head, obviously filing it away for later. "I'm surprised you aren't massively angry at this woman," she told Sam.
Sam thought about that. "I was angry, I guess, at the time. But, well…" he rolled his shoulders a bit, "life really is too short for crap you don't mean. It was a lot less traumatic, in the end, than most of my other relationships."
She shook her head and pointed at him. "That is a profoundly terrible thing to say."
He shrugged again, finally, and let the silence extend; he wasn't about to take it back. But he didn't want to delve into yet more of his life's messes tonight, either. The silence drew out—comfortable, contemplative. Sam wasn't sure what Amelia had made of the story, or what she was thinking about now.
It really had surprised him how eager he'd been to get married, once the drug had gotten into him. It was difficult to be completely positive, but he thought that that was a desire that had come mostly from him. The drug had caused feelings of overwhelming love; what he did with it was still his own. He suspected that if Dean had gotten the same potion, he'd have spent the week holed up with his paramour banging their brains out, and possibly cuddling until he couldn't ignore starvation anymore. It would have been saccharine, but Sam couldn't picture Dean deciding that what he most wanted in the world was a legally binding traditional wedding complete with church bells.
No, that was all Sam. He'd been about to propose to Jess, way back when; he had thought at the time that his nightmares about her death had only been triggered by his intentions becoming serious.
Hell, for all he knew, they had been: he tried to remember whether Brady had had any hint of his plans, but it was too long ago now.
At any rate, apparently he really did have a deep-seated desire for a permanent relationship, probably some psychologically entrenched association with normal life—the storybook romance, the picket fence, the dog.
He looked at Amelia again: she happened to be looking back at him. Their gazes caught, held; he watched her come to a decision.
"I've been thinking about what you said the first day you came in here," she said. "That a motel isn't really part of the town, that it isn't part of anything. Maybe—maybe we should get a place. Something real. For us both."
He sucked in a breath. Despite filling his lungs, it still felt like he had no air. "Amelia, you don't have to—I mean, are you sure?"
It was her turn to shrug, awkwardly, glancing away before she looked into his face. "You're a good man, Sam. This whole thing could've—could've gone—I trust you." She took a deep breath, let it out. She continued almost fiercely, "You deserve a life, a real life. It's okay for us to be happy—to want to be happy, I think."
Her certainty wavered a bit at the end, and she looked at him questioningly, waiting for a response from him. He grabbed her hands in his, shoving his chair out awkwardly with the backs of his legs, so he could stand up and come around the table to her. He drew her to stand up as well.
"I think that sounds like one of the best things I've ever heard," he told her honestly.
It was funny, really. For all the kisses they'd shared up ‘til this moment, they'd never really done tender.
They did it now.
They looked at houses for the next three days, and settled on a smallish fixer-upper that was even more affordable after Sam got done pointing out all the fixing he'd have to do. Amelia's bank account covered most of the down payment, but Sam contributed a respectable chunk; the last of the dragon gold went into it. Plus, Sam had found time before taking down Dick Roman to invest a little in the stock market, betting against Sucrocorp. That had come to a nice little sum.
You had to scrounge your pay benefits where you could, living the life of a Hunter.
He hesitated a moment before signing his real name to the paperwork; they always used fake names for motels. When they were kids, of course, they used their real names, so that they could go to school. But he hadn't lived anywhere under Winchester since Stanford, unless you counted prison, which Sam didn't.
This last year had been even worse; Dean's colorful collection of aliases burned, just Smith and Smith, squatting where no one would even realize they'd been there… it was like being a living ghost, skimming through the world without a trace.
Sam was so, so sick of it. Maybe that was why he'd written his own name at the vet's office; some record that he was there, that he cared, that he'd tried to do the right thing. And now he had Amelia standing by his shoulder. Would she understand if he tried to use an alias to start their new life under?
Sam took up the pen and wrote a careful 'Sam Winchester,' then scrawled his signature underneath it and dated it. It was done. His name would get filed away, added to the county records; maybe some hunter going through them in the local library, years from now, would see it and wonder. But there had to be other people in the country with his name; it wasn't that uncommon.
He smiled at Amelia, and wrapped his arm around her as they watched the papers get shuffled away.
He should have known, he thought, bitterly, a week later, looking at the unmarked van parked across the street from their new house. A government surveillance van if he'd ever seen one, or he'd eat his jacket. He should have known better than to be so complacent; just because everyone had been drugged into insensibility in the meantime didn't mean he wasn't still on the Most Wanted List. He looked away from the van before it was obvious he'd been staring, and didn't let his stride hesitate or slow. He walked up the front steps, back of his neck prickling with the knowledge he was being watched, and forced himself not to hurry as he unlocked the door and went inside.
He did feel a little better once the door was shut between him and the van, as irrational as he knew that was. He felt even better when Amelia came up and pecked him on the lips.
"Hey, hot stuff! Good day?"
Just act normal. "Yeah," Sam said. "It's been a really good day."
He kissed her back.
A sequel is a possibility, especially if anyone encourages me. ;)