Summary: Written for the latest blindfold_spn to the prompt of Post-7.12, Jodie Mills stays one more night in the house with them.Sam and Dean have holy-shit-I-almost-lost-you-again sex and the walls aren't exactly thick. She hears every sound and word.
Author's Note: So, unlike a lot of my other fills for Blindfold, I'm reposting this because Blindfold is no more (sniff) and I haven't completed anything in ages and feel it is time to post something. Also, I have to mention that the title sucks for this. I know it does. Every time I tried to think... okay, so what do I calll a fic about Sheriff Mills listening to Sam and Dean having sex in a tumbledown house?... my stupid brain would start humming hold tight we're in for nasty weather, there has got to be a way, burning down the house... which are the only two lines I actually know from that song, but no matter, my brain wouldn't let it lie.
Jodie awoke with start and blinked, trying to get her bearings. Where the hell was she? This definitely wasn’t her bedroom, and that wasn’t her big, comfortable bed underneath her. She stared up at the cracked ceiling, the moonlight flooding through the large, uncovered windows, casting eerie shadows around the room.
Of course, that hunt, Chronos, the God of Time. She was still in the dilapidated, abandoned house, squatting with the Winchesters. They’d all gotten good and drunk after Sam and Dean had buried the former god in the backyard of this dump while she’d gone out to get food. They’d managed to finish off that bottle Bobby’d had stashed away plus something extra Dean had transported all the way from 1944, and then she’d decided to stay the night instead of taking a chance on a DIU ticket, or even worse, ending up as another RTA statistic somewhere between here and South Dakota.
Sam and Dean had kindly agreed to let her take the bedroom without the hole in the floor, and so she’d gotten her sleeping bag and air mattress from the trunk of her car and bunked down here. She'd been a girl scout; she could rough it for one night. Besides, there was nothing at home apart from a big empty house and an even bigger emptier (though definitely more comfortable) bed. This was almost fun by comparison; except for the vicious hangover she could feel building behind her eyes. Still, if she could just get a good night's sleep...
A groan rippled through the silent room followed by another groan – a long, breathy sort of a groan, the sort of a groan that sounded like two people having one helluva good time. If she wasn't mistaken, the groans were coming from the room next door, and not just groans but creaking floorboards, harsh, panted breaths, some impressive moaning and the slippery, fap-fap sound of flesh on flesh.
Oh, ohhh. Evidently, the boys had gotten lonely at some point during the night while she’d been passed out and gone out to get themselves some company, or at least one of them had. Maybe the other had been relegated to the backseat of the car.
That wasn’t a girl’s voice.
"Oh God, Dean, please… want it, more, c’mon, you gotta–"
That was Sam’s voice.
She jerked up, sleeping bag catching around her shoulders, imprisoning her in its material cocoon. She fumbled with the zipper, shuffled onto the floor still in the bag, eyes riveted to the really very thin partition wall between the two bedrooms.
"Sammy, God, you feel so good, so hot, so tight."
They were – they were. There was no woman in there, no other person. It was just them, just the two of them. Just Sam and Dean.
She raised her hand to her mouth, fingers pressed against her lips. Her heart was beating fast, a bolt of heat thrumming in her chest.
“I thought I’d lost you, I thought you’d gone.”
“Never gonna lose me, Sam, you know that.”
A long, drawn-out moan and then the soft, slurpy sound of kissing, followed by a panted breath, a low, scratchy chuckle, intimate and soft.
"Mmm, love how you taste."
Shit. She thought about the look on Sam’s face when Dean and Chronos had reappeared. She remembered how Sam had sunk to the floor in front of Dean, oblivious to Chronos’ smoking remains, how Sam had grasped his brother’s biceps between his enormous hands and heaved him to his feet, eyes running over him the whole time.
"Please, Dean, need you, need you so bad, I can take it…"
More soft chuckles and smacking kissing sounds and Dean’s voice: "I know you can, Sammy, always so fuckin’ desperate for me, for my cock. Such a slut for my cock, my little brother."
Holy shit. Her breath caught and she felt a tingle deep down in her stomach. She felt hot all over, her face burning red, a thin sheen of sweat all over her body. She shuffled up against the wall, still in the sleeping bag. She pushed down the open flaps to her waist and sucked in gulps of the cold air, feeling like she was burning up from the inside.
She was eavesdropping; she knew that. She was listening in on something intensely private and intimate, something she knew both Sam and Dean would never want anyone else to know. She wondered suddenly if Bobby had known, if he’d had any kind of inkling what his two boys were up to together. They acted so normal, so brotherly together, and yet.
She closed her eyes, pressed her palm up against the cold, clammy wall and let her imagination go to work. They were fucking, that was unmistakable, and Sam had to be underneath, Sam had to be the one taking it, taking his older brother’s cock. The thought should make her shudder, make her feel sick to her stomach, after all, they were brothers. And her stomach was churning, her chest was tight, but it wasn’t with disgust, definitely not disgust.
She swallowed again, tightened her grip on the edge of the sleeping bag, the little metal teeth biting into her palm. Sam would be laid out on his back, naked and sweaty, his skin gleaming in the moonlight, his hair a rough black tangle over the old blankets, his cock– She gulped, flushed hard as she pictured it: his cock would be big, he was a big boy, she’d snuck a glance at him while they were working, seen the outline of it in those well-fitted jeans. His cock would be so big, fat and full and red with arousal, with desire for his brother. And Dean... Maybe Dean would have his hand around it, working those long capable fingers up and down Sam’s fat cock, leaning in to kiss him hard on the mouth. And Sam would crane his head up, curl one of his huge hands around the back of Dean’s neck, pull him in and puff a soft, breathy laugh against his lips before he devoured his mouth in another long, desperate kiss.
She bit back a groan, another shudder. She slid her hand down into the folds of the sleeping bag, fingers fiddling with the drawstring of her sweatpants.
Dean would be naked too, skin slick and pale, the fine tight muscles of his back moving as he jacked his brother’s cock. Sam’s legs – his long, long legs with the hard muscled thighs – would be wrapped around Dean’s hips, Dean’s firm, round ass in the air as he buried his cock deep into his brother.
Oh God. She shuddered, pressed her fingers up against her increasingly damp panties, bit her lip again to stifle her moan.
"Fuck, Dean, c’mon… Dean, more, harder, c’mon, need you."
"God, Sammy, gonna fuck you, gonna make you come so fuckin’ hard."
The floorboards were really creaking now and both of them were panting heavily. She closed her eyes tighter and with a tight catch of breath, pushed her hand into her panties. God, she was wet already. She dragged her fingertip over her clit and stifled another moan. Not that Sam or Dean would notice, they were making so much noise, sloppy kissing sounds and slapping of flesh against flesh, more groans and panting and Sam’s voice again, broken and desperate.
"Dean, I’m gonna, Dean, please…"
"It’s alright. Hey, look at me, Sam, c’mon, look at me. Wanna see your face, wanna see you come, little brother."
Someone cried out, she wasn’t even sure who: Dean, Sam, herself, though, God, she hoped not. She shuddered one last time and came, sticky and hot over her fingers. She was trembling, her skin burning up, her body clammy with it. She wiped her hand off on her sweatpants and swallowed hard, trying to get her breath back.
She shuffled back towards the air mattress, feeling her heart thud in her chest and the blood beat hard in her skull. She lifted her hand to her face, pressed it against her flushed forehead and cheeks, the places where her hair was sticking to her skin with sweat. She could smell herself on her fingers, and she felt her cheeks flush again, embarrassment and nervous excitement, disbelief that she’d done – what she’d just done, that she’d listened to them, that she’d gotten off on it.
From the other side of the wall, she heard a long satisfied exhale of breath, followed by a soft, gravelly chuckle.
"Dude, dude, I can’t believe you just came all over the goddamn blankets again. I only washed your jizz outta them three days ago."
"God, Dean, quit bitching. I’ll wash the freakin’ blankets this time. Anyway, I know you love the scent of my come in your nostrils when you wake up."
"Better than the smell of your farts, man."
There was a soft yelp, followed by another snicker, then a shuffling sound, the creak of floorboards, and Sam’s voice in a tight whisper, "Quit it, Dean, you’ll wake her."
"If the sound of you beggin’ me to fuck you harder ain’t already done the job."
"Shit. You think? Fuck, Dean."
"Nah, it’s okay, man. She was dead to the world."
Jodie flushed, pressed her lips together to swallow the laugh. She felt curiously light-headed, tingly and daring and relaxed in a way she hadn’t felt for a while, certainly not since – not since Bobby. The floorboards creaked again and there was the sound of soft, padding footsteps.
"Whatcha doing over there? C’mere."
"Just – my ass, ugh, it’s just – with the lube and your spunk-"
"Leave it. We’ll deal with it tomorrow."
"Easy for you to say, Dean, ain’t your ass."
"Fuck’s sake, Sam, c’mere. I wanna sleep."
There was a deep sigh then more padding footsteps, more creaking floorboards and another soft snicker. She hadn’t heard them laugh this much during the day. She thought again about Sam’s face when he'd gotten the note from Dean, the way the joy and relief had lit up his face, made his lips curl up into a smile and his eyes shine. She opened her eyes, rolled her head to stare at the pried-open skirting board on the other side of the room, at the letters carved into the wood, the word that had lasted 68 years: SAM.
"I thought I might’ve lost you."
"You should know better than that, dude. Takes more than an emo time lord to defeat me."
"I know, Dean, it’s just–"
"Hey, shh, it’s okay. I’m here now, right?"
"Well then. Quit angsting 'bout it. Go to sleep, Sammy."
"Yeah, okay, Dean."
Jodie swallowed hard, and stared up at the ceiling. She pictured Craig on their wedding day, smiling and disbelieving, looking almost stupid in his happiness, in his badly fitting tux. And Tommy, oh God, her Tommy, her beautiful baby boy, newborn and tiny and so, so precious, how she would hold him close and lie him down in his crib and sit beside it for so many hours just watching him sleep. She thought about Bobby how he’d looked after she’d kissed him that one and only time, how shocked and shy and pleased.
She couldn’t bring herself to judge Sam and Dean, to begrudge them this – what she’d just discovered, what they hid so well from the rest of the world – this one secret piece of happiness. She wouldn’t let them know what she knew. She’d let them go on thinking that they were okay, that their secret was safe. And she would help them out, not just for Bobby’s sake, but because they were good people, they really cared and they needed all the friends they could get.
She closed her eyes again and waited to fall asleep.