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This entry is part 5 of 6 in the series Knight Moves

"No, and I don't wanna talk about it," Dean said, shifting in the driver's seat and looking nervously over at the little convenience store attached to the gas station. Sam was just accepting his change for the snacks, and he brought his head up, meeting Dean's eyes through the window as if he'd sensed that he was under discussion.

The Impala thrummed sulkily around Dean as Sam headed back to them. When Dean hit play on the tape deck, she stopped the music before even two notes of Kashmir had played.

"C'mon, baby, don't be like that," Dean pleaded while Sam slid himself back into his seat.

"What'd he do?" Sam asked her, looking as he always did at the iPod, even though Dean could have told him that wasn't her, just where her voice came from. She didn't answer and Dean didn't bother to defend himself.

Dean took them back on the road. She was too good a girl to fight him on the driving; they slid back into the highway traffic like a well-honed knife.

The tense silence grated on him, but he didn't try the tape deck again, didn't trust her not to ruin one of the tapes. There was no replacing most of them.

This was why he didn't date. But if he said that she'd probably send a spring popping up right between his thighs. He wasn't sure she could really do that, but it'd be a hell of a way to find out. Dean gritted his teeth and squeezed the steering wheel until his fingers ached.

"Okay," Sam said after about fifty miles, "what's up with you two?" He was wearing that dammit-Dean frown that meant he wasn't going to shut up any time soon. Great. Dean couldn't deal with both of them ball-freezingly mad at him.

He sighed and checked the rear-view mirror, rolling his head on his neck to delay the inevitable. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam open his mouth.

"She wants to do a ridealong with you instead of me," he said, forestalling renewed bitching.

"Why?" Sam asked, automatic as breathing. Though the temptation to point out Dean's expertise in handling other people's bodies was severe, Dean didn't answer, watching sidelong with grim satisfaction as Sam went white, then red, nostrils flaring as he figured it out and struggled to compose himself.

See, the thing was, Sammy was just a little bit of a control freak. Dean thought it was kind of cute, Sam thinking that he could really control what happened if he just angsted hard enough, but also it would be sad if Sam ever lost that confidence. Anyway, there was that, and also—and he thought Dean didn't know this—Sam got off on the idea of putting it to the Impala while Dean was hanging out in the background. An exhibitionist, but only where Dean was concerned. Bottom line, he'd just hate giving his body over to her, letting Dean fuck her while Sam only watched, and felt.

"… Okay," Sam said.

"What?" Dean fought not to stamp on the brakes or otherwise crash.

Sam shrugged, obviously pretending calmness.

"Thank you, Sam," the Impala said, and even though the tone was as even as ever, courtesy of the audio dictionary she used to talk, Dean could just tell that 'thank you, Sam' meant 'I'm still mad at you, Dean.' Which raised the question of why she even wanted to get into Sam's body if she didn't feel like doing it with Dean.

She'd get over it. The real problem was that, afterwards, Sam would be unable to pretend he didn't know just how aware Dean was even when she was in charge of Dean's body. Sure Dean wanted to try sex with her, not just sharing the experience in one body but doing it like a real couple. And he got that it would be cool to be able to switch off, fucking her and being part of her by turns. But Sam wasn't like them, and if he reacted badly that could seriously fuck with the usual routine, which wouldn't make any of them happy.

But for some reason, if he tried to explain all of that using words, they'd be mad at him, like saying it out loud was the problem.

Well, no point in crying over shit he couldn't stop. And it could be pretty awesome to have a wild night with the Impala. If she had inhibitions, he hadn't run up against any of them yet. He chewed on his lower lip, thinking about how to take care of his baby.


Once they checked into the night's motel, Sam only took a couple of hours of practice to figure out how to use the talisman to let her have control of his body while Sam remained conscious and able to communicate with her. Sam smirked triumphantly, because it had been a couple of days before Dean had really got the hang of it. But then Sam had the benefit of Dean's careful instruction, so all that meant was that Dean was a great teacher, though good luck getting Sam to admit anything of the kind.

When she settled into Sam's body, Dean could recognize the change now that he knew what to look for—a touch of awkwardness, Sam's gigantic body a little harder to manipulate, but also a relaxed attitude that probably came from spending most of her time as two tons of practically invulnerable steel.

She seemed a little put out when Dean suggested that she go pick up some dinner, but eventually he convinced her that it made more sense for her to drive around and scope out the local joints, since she was the one who was getting to try out Sam's tastebuds.

As soon as she'd peeled out of the parking lot, Dean hotfooted it down the street in the other direction, towards the tiny grocery store he'd spotted on the way into town, about a mile away.

He had everything set up pretty good before she got back: the store had buckets of flowers out front, including ten dozen slightly wilted roses. After he'd torn off the petals and scattered them around the room, the wilting was almost undetectable and the scent of them was sweet and thick. He'd sacrificed half of their candle collection (have to stock up at the next Wal-Mart) and turned out all the electric lights, so the warm yellow flames made the room seem even smaller, shadows dancing on the walls with every stray air current.

He'd only been waiting about fifteen minutes when she opened the door, holding a paper bag carefully in one hand. He rose from the bed as she came in and stopped in her tracks, looking around, totally confused. "Dean?"

And then he realized what a moron he'd been, because she was a girl but she wasn't a girl like that, she'd never seen all the movies or talked with her girlfriends about what a romantic evening might be like. And what was worse, Sam was watching, Sam would know just how stupid Dean was, couldn't even take proper care of his best girl.

He looked away, over at the dresser with its ridiculous line of candles and pile of petals, just another fucking mess—

"Dean," she said, different this time, thick with tears. There was a thud as she dropped the takeout to the floor, and as he made himself look at her again she was already crossing the room, grabbing him up into a kiss, her huge hands wrapped around his head.

Sam must have told her something, he realized, and wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the help or worried about how Sam was going to use this against him when Sam was back in charge of his own body. But then she opened her mouth, and Dean decided that there were other, more important matters to think about.

"What do you want?" he asked her when they took a short oxygen break. She was panting, still pressed against him from chest to knee, and he could feel her already hard against his belly.

She looked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, almost like Sam playing a role. "Anything," she breathed, and he guessed that they were going to eat the takeout after it got cold.

"Just, you know, scream my name or something when I'm doin' it right," he suggested and started slipping the buttons on Sam's top layer out of their holes. Jeez, this was like that book Sam used to make Dean read to him, where no matter how many hats the boy took off his head there were more underneath; Sam was layered to survive a nuclear winter. Fortunately the Impala didn't seem to mind, not as long as Dean kept kissing her while he worked, interrupting only to pull Sam's many shirts over her head. The talisman that let her borrow Sam's body was on a leather thong around her neck, almost like Dean's own amulet.

When she was running Dean's body, she reacted pretty much the way Dean did, which he figured meant that right now she'd like what Sam liked. So, and maybe he shouldn't be thinking of it like this, he was going to have to figure out just what exactly Sam liked. Given that Sam'd been fucking the Impala for months while Dean sat back and watched, Dean should have known more than he did. But Sam was a toppy bastard and tended to do more than he got done to, as if the longer he spent with his dick hanging out the more likely he'd have to put a name to what they were doing.

Well, Sam was going to get a good long look at all of it tonight.

Once she was stripped, he pushed her back until she sat down on the nearest bed, staring up at him with those trusting eyes. "You too," she demanded. Dean grinned and thumbed open the top button on his jeans. It was always awesome to get someone all glazed and grateful, but it turned out to be even more awesome when he actually knew and liked the person. Or, whatever, the car.

He didn't bother making much of a show of himself. She knew what he looked like, which made it even nicer that her mouth dropped open and her eyes darkened as he got down to his skin.

When they kissed, she pulled him down on top of her, using her strength casually, like she didn't even notice. Like Sam might. Her hard cock twitched against his stomach, and for a moment Dean forgot who he was with. But then she sighed into his mouth, happy and sweet, and he wrestled a hand between their bodies so that he could take care of her.

He jerked her until she was whimpering, her hands clenching and releasing on his shoulders, down his arms, over his back, her fingers pressing restless and hard against him. He pulled back enough to see her face, her eyes screwed closed, long bangs swept down to hide her further, mouth wide and panting for him. "That's it," he told her, and she tilted her head back, long stretch of neck like the perfect arc of a knife.

"C'mon, so good for me, that's it," he crooned into the side of her neck, his own breath hitting him hot and wet, the smell of the day's sweat winding him up even more. Experimentally, he slid his teeth over her skin, gently at first and then harder when she jolted up against him. She groaned and came, and he could feel each frenetic pulse through the soft skin of her dick.

It was a real fucking shame she wasn't in a girl's body, he thought. Sam had a decent enough refractory period, but Dean could do even more with a less limited instrument. Even with a hard-on, Dean was smart enough to keep from saying that, so instead he stroked her through it and brought his free hand up to cup the side of her head, turning her face so they could kiss again.

By the time he'd put his tongue on every inch of skin between her mouth and her thighs, cleaning her off and then some, she was ready again. Begging for it, even. He was careful with the lube. He hadn't managed to make himself ask Sam if this was his first rodeo, and anyway if he was as good as he knew he was it wouldn't make much difference.

When he slid into her, she stared up at him, eyes so wide and her face so—he almost wished he'd put her on hands and knees. Sweaty strands of hair clung to her forehead and she panted as he spread his knees and adjusted the angle until her eyes fluttered closed. Dean got his hands settled on her hips and began to give it to her seriously.

"Feels good," she managed, sounding half-drunk.


She knew what he liked—figured, all the time she'd spent wrapped around him and the night's entertainment—and she just started talking, telling him how much she wanted him, how much she loved him, how she'd give him anything.

And fuck, he loved her saying it, needed to hear it so bad he thought his heart might just crack open his ribcage with wanting. But the way she was now, wearing Sam's body, it was almost like—and wanting that would kill him, slow or quick it would kill him. Because the Impala was his, but Sam had never been.

Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on his own body. He knew how to do this for himself, not polite really but once you'd already gotten the other person off it was okay to go after your own whiteout.

She brought a hand up, pressing between his shoulderblades, pushing him down. His cheek pressed against her chest and the smell of Sam was everywhere, the taste thick on his tongue. Dean bit his lip hard, seeking the familiar tang of his own blood, and let go of one hip so he could jack her off.

He didn't get why he was so close to freaking out. They'd done this plenty of times the other way, Sam in charge and Dean just providing color commentary. It shouldn't be any different, except that it was.

He planted his knees more firmly and stroked up harder, aiming to make her lose the ability to form words. She cried out and he thumbed the head of her cock, slick and big in his hand.

Her fingers tightened on him, her nails scraping down his skin. She came hot and slippery between them, bearing down on him, and if he yelled anything as he joined her it was lost into her shoulder.

After, she managed to push him onto his side and spoon up behind him. He would have pulled away, but she usually outweighed him by a ton and a half, so he figured being the little spoon wouldn't kill him. She was warm and silent behind him.

Dean's brain was filled with radio static. Despite the orgasm, his muscles still felt clenched, like there was something lurking just outside the door and the salt line wasn't going to slow it any.

He'd only wanted to be good to her, his baby, the girl who'd never let him down. But it turned out that he couldn't do what Sam could do, couldn't compartmentalize. Sam was a healthy young guy, he liked to get off; Dean could understand that. Most of the time, he felt the same way. But it was just—confusing, having Sam and his girl sharing a body but not at all sharing what they wanted.

Her big hand moved over his shoulder and down his arm, cupping his elbow. "Hey," she said. Her breath was warm against his shoulder.


"Sam's asleep," she told him. Dean hadn't known that it could work like that, but maybe when the body had just come hard, twice—no point in false modesty—the human part found it easier to shut down than the iron-souled visitor. "You gonna tell me what's up?"

Dean bit down on the innuendo. "Nothing," he said, the lie greasy in his mouth.

She squeezed his arm, hard enough to threaten a bruise.

"It's just," he said and had to stop. "You can't. Get used to this. Sam—this isn't the life he wants."

She snorted, ruffling the hair on the back of his neck. "I'm his freakin' familiar. He doesn't want to be a civilian, not any more."

Dean clenched his jaw, then forced his whole body to relax. She didn't understand just how strong Sam could be. Didn't understand why. Not that Dean did either, but he'd seen glimpses of the world that Sam wanted and ignoring reality never, ever made it go away. Just made you a tastier target. "When the time comes, you gotta let him go. You try and hang on, you'll end up hurt worse." That sounded—not pathetic, exactly, but not real pep talk material either. He tried to put the reassurance in his voice that Dad had always managed. "You and me, baby, that's what we've got."

She drew in a slow, unsteady breath. "He worries. About having a familiar. Missouri said it doesn't have to be evil. But doesn't have to be, that's not the same thing as isn't. So he worries about corrupting you. And me," she added, total afterthought that made Dean want to yell at her.

And, godfuckingdammit, he was mad that Sam'd talk to the Impala and not him about Sam's stupid-ass insecurities. Like just because Sam knew what Dean would say made it not true. "Sam's got all his smarts pointed at the rest of the world. He's not evil, so his mojo isn't. End of story."

"He was going to trade me for you, with the crossroads demon," she said in a small voice.

Dean winced, because that moment was among his all-time greatest hits on the Don't Think About It chart. "He didn't understand about you. You know he does now, right?"

"Of course," she said emphatically, and one sweet thing about his girl was that she was a terrible liar. Dean relaxed a little.

"Okay, well, no problem then." Not like another car-turned-souled-being was going to pop into their lives.

"You really believe that," she said, like it was a surprise.

Dean nodded, knowing she'd feel it.

"You don't think he needs us to keep him in line."

Dean would be a liar—well, a worse liar—if he said the thought wasn't tempting, trying to convince Sammy that the darkness in him was strong enough that only Dean and hunting, constant reminders of what it meant to be a good guy, could keep it under control. But he owed Sam—Sam who had saved his soul and his life more times than he could count, Sam who'd saved the Impala too in the end—better than that.

It was good that he didn't have to see her face. Even if she'd been in a body of her own, it would have been easier like this, looking at the drawn shades and letting her curl around him. "His taste in music is crap and he's never gonna cut his hair again once he leaves, but he's gonna be fine."

"You ever think maybe what he wants is different now? Now that he really gets how amazing I am and all."

He snorted, vaguely proud of her. "Baby, you tell me one time you've seen Sam give up on something he wants."

She made a dissenting sort of noise, almost Samlike, but didn't comment further.

"We'll get along," he told her. "The jobs'll still be out there. And now I know I've got you." He thought about saying more, tried to shape the words. But she had to know even without him saying them, and that was always one of her most awesome features.

She pressed her forehead against the back of his head. "Yeah," she said softly. "You've got me."


He woke up with someone's tongue in his mouth—minty, he realized even as he flailed for the knife under his pillow. A large hand caught his wrist, and the panic drained away as he realized where he was.

They kissed for a while—Dean was impressed that she tolerated his morning breath, even though she was doing her best to share her toothpaste. Their skin slid together, warm and slick, Dean's amulet fallen back against his throat so that it didn't dig into his flesh as she pressed him down into the bed.

Dimly, with the portion of his brain that was working (smallish, what with the early morning plus the ongoing sex), Dean thought that there was something he ought to be noticing. But then she started kissing her way down his chest, and he figured it could probably wait. It was easier than it had been last night, the inherent optimism of the morning making the future seem very far away.

Afterwards, she used him as a body pillow, resting her head on Dean's stomach. Dean hesitated, then let himself pat her hair, ridiculously long and even more ridiculously soft.

"Dean," she said, and waited, tilting her head up so that her chin dug into his abs. She had Sam's frown down perfectly, that little line on his forehead that said he wasn't going to give up until he'd worn away all Dean's resistance like a hurricane against a sandbar.

He already knew he wasn't going to say no to her, no matter how sliced-up it was going to get him. It was a damn good thing she'd never make him choose between her and Sam. "Yeah, baby?"

"So, uh, remember last night when I said I was asleep?"

It didn't make any sense, and then it made way too much. Dean bolted upright, dislodging Sam, who rolled off easily and propped himself up on one elbow, smiling just a little as he watched Dean freak.

Over Sam's shoulder, he could see the talisman, resting on the night table beside the crappy motel phone. Dean dropped his head and drew his knees up, like that would make a difference.

"That first time," Sam began, twisting a fold of sheet between his fingers, "when you didn't know that she'd swapped into my body. Why did you? I mean, you thought you were fucking me, right? So why did you?"

"Sammy," Dean said, putting every plea he had into the name.

Sam sighed, the adult version of the 'Dean is so dumb' noise he'd perfected as a teenager. Somehow, now, it sounded fonder than Dean remembered it.

"It's not just you," he said.

Dean stared at Sam's hand, huge and powerful and shaking a little between them. "Kinda hard to miss that," he said.

"Apparently you managed," Sam told him, still with that near-smile in his voice. "Dean, I meant what I said. I don't want to leave and I'm not going to."

Dean felt kind of like he'd been scooped out like a carton of ice cream, what was left of him melting into nothing. "You don't have to stay," he said, because he knew what a grown-up was supposed to say. This time, he needed to give Sam permission. "We'll be fine."

Sam laughed shortly, like he couldn't believe how much Dean needed to get over himself. "Did you actually ever listen to anyone, or did Dad just tell you what you wanted to hear?" Dean winced and Sam moved on quickly. "I want to be here, with you, with both of you, and you owe me about eight thousand blow jobs for making me say I love you without even a beer in me. Is that enough? Because I don't think I've got smaller words."

Dean blinked. He felt like maybe he was still sharing the Impala's consciousness: this must be what total electrical failure felt like.

Each time he thought of something to say, he realized it was even stupider than the thing before it; he'd begun with 'Really?' and gone sledding downhill fast from there.

"Dean?" Sam asked, and now the uncertainty was ahead of the tenderness in his voice. Dean had no idea how long he'd been frozen like a busted engine. But he knew when it was time to man up, especially when it might just once get him something he actually wanted.

Dean took a deep breath, staring at his own hands. "Eight thousand, hunh?" he said, the words hardly affected by the thickness in his throat. "Guess I better get started."


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