Work Text:
Addie wakes up and her butt's off the bed. She probably would've fallen off the bed already, except for Sam's arm oak-tree strong around her middle, familiar and strange at the same time. The last time they were in this position, Sam's arm wasn't nearly so well formed.
She needs to pee but she scoots and snuggles a little closer anyway. She's still so angry, thunderous lightning filled clouds in her heart and brain that confuse everything, confuse her. Dean…it's different with Dean. He and Sam are different. And Dean can never stay angry at anyone that he loves. She, on the other hand… If there's anything that she inherited from John, it's her temper, long-ranging and illogical, deep rooted to the core of her. Dean's asked her. Dean's asked and she can't make herself do it. She can't make herself forgive him.
But she still loves him. It wouldn't hurt so much if she didn't. And this, curled up in a bed with her brothers…this is good.
Then Sam's arm tightens around her back. Addie's head tips back and Sam's head comes down so she can see his dull, bloodshot eyes.
"Hey," she says finally, when it seems like the staring contest will never end otherwise.
Sam's eyes crinkle. "My head is killing me."
"Yeah, your breath stinks too."
Sam huffs quietly through his nose. Neither one of them wants to wake Dean. "That's because something died in there."
Addie snorts and for a minute, she can see sunlight through the cloud.
Then Sam's head dips, his lips fumbling across hers and Addie jerks back sharply, again only saved from falling by Sam's arm. Her heart is hammering like drums in her chest but for once her mind is perfectly blank. "Sam." She licks her lips and then blots them together because they feel strange. She feels strange, suddenly pushed out of her own skin. "Sam, no."
"Isn't that what you want?" Sam's face is as red but he meets her eyes steadily. "What you both want?"
"No. God, is that what you think?" She doesn't know whether to be angry or horrified. Maybe she's both. She throws herself backwards sharply, uncurling his arm, slithering away, off the bed. "Jesus, Sam." She takes a step and the ache feels like someone booted her in the crotch. She thinks maybe she underestimated how desperate deprivation made her and Dean. It feels like there are bruises.
She'd gone to bed in one of Dean's shirts and her panties; she's hard pressed not to tug it down and hide the tops of her thighs. Raised by three men, she's never had much in the way of modesty, in the way of shame. This impulse to hide, this feeling of nudity, is new.
She doesn't like it.
"Addie—" Sam sits up, Dean's arm sliding sluggishly down Sam's torso. Dean mutters, turns over and starts to snore. And that's just like him.