
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/35181.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Sam_Winchester/OFC
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Penny_(OFC)
  Additional Tags:
      Cunnilingus, First_Kiss, First_Time, High_School, Mutual_Masturbation,
      Library_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-12-21 Words: 5125
****** Unclassifiable ******
by athenejen
Summary
     There is Sam. There is girl. There is lust and porn in their high
     school library.
Notes
     Profound thanks to
     [[info]]
marinarusalka for the wonderful beta, and to [[info]]eowyns for early (and
enthusiastic) audiencing. Written almost entirely during [
[info]]mini_nanowrimo, which was a fabulous experience. Constructive criticism
and general feedback is much appreciated. Originally posted here on 12/11/07.
He's the only person who spends as much time in the library as she does. At
first she thought she must be imagining it, because what would a boy like him
want with the library? But apparently she should work on not judging books by
their covers or whatever, because no, it's definitely him, over and over again.
Flipping through the ancient card catalogue, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes
frantic. Wandering through the stacks, tapping his pencil against the spines of
the books as he goes. Hunched over one of the tables in the corner, the one
with the microfilm machine. She's thinks she's even heard the flap-flap-flap
the film makes when it gets to the end of the reel, so it seems like he might
even be using it. If so, he's probably the first student to do so voluntarily
since they installed the damn thing in the 1960s.
She'd like to say she barely notices when he's around, but the fact is, he's
pretty hard to ignore. Maybe it's the broad shoulders, she thinks, sitting at
the front desk during second period (listed on her class schedule as study
hall, but she always spends it here, helping out), idly stickering barcodes to
the books they just got in. She usually prefers her boys (and maybe her girls?
She hasn't quite decided about that yet) on the slender and androgynous side,
feels the world could use a lot less jock masculinity in it than it seems to
have, at least if the rest of the world is anything like her disgustingly
stereotypical suburban high school. But she has to admit they really are very
broad, his shoulders, especially for someone with such slim hips. Not that
she's watched his sweatshirt ride up his stomach when he stretches after an
hour of poring over a stack of books or anything. Nor has she thought much
about how he could really use a haircut. Whenever she catches glimpses of his
ears (if he spends so much time in the library reading, shouldn't he at least
cut his bangs enough to not have to push them out of his eyes every five
minutes? Even if she likes the way they brush his eyebrows) she always wonders
what they'd look like naked.
Um. Okay, maybe not always. Sometimes she gets distracted by the nape of his
neck. Not that she's actually looking or anything. It's just, when shelving
books you have to go where the books go. Dewey decimal system and all that.
(Though she thinks they should switch to the Library of Congress – more
flexible and specific and not owned by some litigious asshole, and that's what
most colleges use these days, anyway. At least, any college that she'd want to
go to. Maybe that's what she should tell the guidance counselors next year when
called in to talk about applying to colleges. As long as they use Library of
Congress, it's okay by her. Ahem. Anyway.)
He's been doing this for four weeks (when he transferred in from… somewhere)
before they ever have anything resembling a real conversation. She knows he's
talked to Mr. Grunberg, the actual librarian – a nice old man, surprisingly up
on new electronic research tools, given his age – but never when she was
around. Given that she spends every homeroom, lunchtime, and free period in the
library, as well as a couple of hours every day after school? Exceedingly
strange.
She can't tell if he's just really focused and preoccupied, or avoiding her, or
what. She's pretty sure she's caught him watching her check out books to other
students a couple of times, and once she looked up from recommending Love in
the Time of Cholera to her friend Janice to find it sitting on the edge of the
desk, though when she glanced back over to his corner he was still just sitting
there with his back to them, steadily taking notes like he had been for the
last half-hour.
~
When it finally happens, she's standing behind the desk watching Mandy Lavoy
stalk out of the library without paying her fine, having flipped her russet-red
curls and thrown the magazine she'd wanted to the floor in annoyance when told
she couldn't take it out. She can't resist muttering under her breath, "Wonder
if she's from Thessaly," as she goes 'round the counter to pick it up.
She's startled to hear a low laugh nearby, and when she straightens up she
finds him leaning against a table a couple of feet away. "I kinda doubt she's
smart enough to be a witch," he notes casually, like these weren't the first
words beyond "Hi" and "Due back in three weeks" that they'd ever actually
exchanged.
"Point," she says, feeling herself nod and smile without conscious volition.
He's got this look on his face like he's not sure he should be doing this but
seriously doesn't want to stop, and she feels a momentary surge of triumph to
know that he's been thinking about her just as she's been thinking about him.
Then she blushes, because she doubts he's been thinking about her exactly as
she's been thinking about him, admitting it to herself only in the wee hours of
the morning, staring at the dark ceiling and panting for breath with her hand
stilled between trembling thighs.
"So, um, I'm Sam," he says, ducking his head a bit and looking at her
expectantly.
"Penny," she replies, and sets the magazine down on the table next to him.
He slants a glance at her. "Penelope?"
"Yeah. Old-fashioned, right? But my folks had a thing for The Odyssey. Not that
I have any intention of sitting at home waiting." She's never liked the
implications of being named after the first famous loyal wife in Western
literature.
"No, you don't really strike me as the waiting and weaving type." The corner of
his mouth quirks. "'Course, you don't really strike me as the adventuring type,
either."
"You don't even know me!" she protests.
He raises an eyebrow.
"You're taking AP Chem, Calc 1, the Bible as Literature, Econ, Photo, and
Concert Choir. You read a lot of science fiction, mysteries, dead white Brits
and American feminists, and have a soft spot for magical realism, existential
playwrights, and melodramatic Russians, both literary and musical. You want to
go to school on the East Coast, maybe somewhere like Smith, maybe somewhere
like Columbia. You like a variety of music – I've heard you humming everything
from Bach to Metallica to the Indigo Girls, and a bunch of stuff I've never
heard of. You drive a dark red Honda civic hatchback. And you alphabetize like
the wind, but tend to get the order of L and K confused."
She gapes at him. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or completely creeped
out right now."
He shrugs, smiles sheepishly. "I pay attention."
"I guess," she replies. "So does this mean I get to find out about you?"
"Not sure there's anything to find out. Army brat, moved around a lot. Dumbass
older brother." He shrugs again. "That's about it, really."
"… None of which explains why you spend so much time in the library."
"Well, why do you spend so much time in the library?"
"So… you're good at alphabetizing?"
"Among other things." He shoots her a full-blown grin and she finds herself
almost blinded by its sheer open joy, and can't help but beam back in return.
They stand there smiling at each other for a few moments before he seems to
come back to himself, ducking his head again and scratching the back of his
neck. "I… should probably go. But it was nice meeting you, Penny. See you
around?" That hopeful look again.
"Yeah." She gulps, nods once. "See you around."
He strides out of the library on those long legs of his, glancing back just as
he turns the corner. She tries to pretend she wasn't still watching, but knows
she's probably been betrayed by the enormous smile still stuck on her face.
At this particular moment, she thinks, giddily, it's hard to care.
~
After that, not a day goes by without at least a few minutes of conversation
between them. She quickly discovers that he may be the one person at Hillview
High School who knows more about classical mythology than she does, but is
woefully ignorant about the Science Fiction and Fantasy fiction genre that
plays with it. She presses Terry Pratchett's Witches Abroad and Soul Music on
him, thinking he might get a kick out of the twisted fairy tales and the
granddaughter of Death, and insists that he at least read Orson Scott Card's
Ender's Game even if he never touches any other SF. Something tells her he'll
sympathize with Ender, possibly too much. He looks at the little stack of books
dubiously, but checks them out anyway. He in turn recommends books on other
types of mythology for her to explore, drawing parallels and making connections
between them with captivating ease.
~
She's shelving books after school one day when Sam comes around the corner with
a determined look on his face. He hasn't been by in the last two days, and upon
taking a good look at him, her vague sense of worry deepens.
"You look like shit," she informs him. He's got these bruised circles under his
eyes and his skin has an underlying colorless cast to it, like he hasn't seen
the sun for weeks. Somehow, despite his broad (hunched, tense) shoulders and
ridiculous height, in that moment she thinks that if she just put a finger to
his chest and nudged, he'd fall right over.
His mouth twists into a wry, sad smile. "Yeah well. I've gotta admit, I've been
better." He pauses with his hand on the bookcart, looks down for a few seconds
– thinking, steadying himself, she's not really sure. She watches his green t-
shirt-clad chest expand, then subside as he exhales with a sigh. He glances up
at her from under his tangled brown bangs, and suddenly her heart clenches. She
knows, she knows… well, she's not sure what exactly she knows, but something's
up. Something's wrong.
"Sam, what is it?" She knows her voice is low with worry, but she can't bring
herself to care.
He shakes his head. Takes a step towards her. Closes his eyes, breathes. Opens
them and takes the last step, closing the gap between them and carefully
placing his warm hand over hers on the bookcart.
She can feel him trembling slightly, shaking with nerves or exhaustion or hope
or all of the above.
He reaches out with his other hand, drifting the pads of his fingers against
her cheek before gently cupping her jaw in his palm. He's looking at her so
seriously, she's sure he's about to tell her that something awful has happened,
that his grandmother died or his house had burnt down or his mom got diagnosed
with cancer or something. Strange how they've never really talked about their
families. She's seized with a sudden urge to tell him all about her younger
sisters and their family dog and how her father plays bridge with his brother
(her uncle Donny) over the internet every Thursday. But maybe not right this
second, because he's looming there in front of her, leaning in, swaying just a
tiny bit as his hand tightens on hers and his eyes slide shut, hers following
just a fraction of a second later.
Then, then, he kisses her. He kisses her like a drowning man, like a ravenous
wolf, like his life depends on it, like every other kissing cliché she has ever
heard and probably more besides.
At this point her brain kicks in and she grabs the front of his shirt, twisting
her hand into the soft fabric to pull him closer and kiss him back fiercely.
In response, he backs her up against the bookshelf and lets go of her hand in
order to clasp her waist. She can feel the heat of his hand through the thin
cotton of her Teen Titans t-shirt and holds onto his arm to keep it there,
marveling at the way it seems to raise the temperature of her entire body.
He bites tentatively at her lips, teeth scraping and holding on with an edge of
desperation. When she tilts her head and curls the tip of her tongue into his
mouth, she can feel the whine that emanates from the back of his throat all the
way down to her toes.
A minute later she hears herself make an embarrassingly similar sound when he
nips teasingly at her earlobe, breath hot against her neck. He seems to take
that as permission, and his mouth fastens eagerly onto the pulse point under
her jaw as his hands slip under her shirt, fabric sliding up her torso until it
reaches her breasts. She buries one hand in his hair, lets the other clutch at
his elbow, nails digging into his tricep as she struggles to keep breathing
through the heat.
When one of his thumbs grazes her left nipple through the cotton of her bra she
gasps hard, knocking the back of her head against the metal of the bookshelf
and sinking into it as her knees turn to water.
When she opens her eyes again, he's staring down at her with eyes blown wide
and dark and something like worshipful, muddy green gone almost black with
emotion.
She smiles shakily at him. "You… okay?"
He gazes at her for a second or two more before visibly pulling himself
together enough to answer.
"I… yeah," he breathes. "Yeah."
Slides his hand across her jaw and around to the back of her neck, leans down
to kiss her again, sweet and deep and warm.
At this point her hands seem to develop a mind of their own. A very insistent
mind of their own, as they reach down to tug the hem of his t-shirt up enough
to allow her access to the hot, supple skin of his back and abs.
He moans into her mouth as she runs her hands along his skin, and pulls back
long enough to let her push the grey hoodie off his shoulders and strip the t-
shirt over his head, leaving his hair in even more disarray than it had been.
She laughs up at him and ruffles it some more, but gets rapidly distracted by
the sight of those broad shoulders exposed to the school's harsh fluorescent
light.
She can't even describe the sound he makes when she runs her nails down his
neck and across his perfect collarbone, but she's startled when he drops to his
knees in front of her, and the hands he places on her waist are trembling.
He looks up at her beseechingly as he moves to push her t-shirt up over her
breasts. "May I?" His breath ghosts across her abdomen, and she babbles, "Yes,
yes, please, yes."
He tucks his face into her cleavage and just breathes, once, twice. She's glad
that he doesn't seem to mind her nails digging into his shoulder, because she
can't help but grip even more tightly as he noses at her left breast, then
carefully closes his mouth around her peaked nipple, tonguing it firmly through
the light blue cotton. Perhaps thinking it only fair, he then proceeds to do
the same with her right nipple, leaving her left one to chafe under the cool
damp fabric with each inhale and exhale.
"Please, Sam." She's not even sure what she's begging for, at this point, but
he seems to understand. Smart boy.
Smart boy with hands and mouth and oh… She bangs her head against the bookcase
again when he flips down her left bracup and huffs warm air over the chilled
nipple. She feels him grin against the underside of her breast, hears him
mumble, "Careful, there," before deliberately twirling his tongue clockwise
around the aureole.
She manages to gasp out, "Jesus, Sam," before being reduced to simply panting
and straining and holding on to his shoulder for dear life as her focus narrows
to nothing but his hot, wet, exploratory mouth and tongue and teeth.
He stops. His hands move to her hips, then smooth her black pleated skirt down
the outsides of her thighs. "Penny," he says, low and serious.
When she pries her eyes open this time, his hands have moved to rest on the
backs of her bare calves, tucked right behind her knees, and he's staring up at
her again with the most naked look of need she has ever seen.
Keeping their eyes locked, he slowly starts sliding his hands up the backs of
her legs until his fingers reach the edge of her black bikini underwear where
the curve of her ass meets the top of her thighs.
"Please tell me this is okay," he begs.
"Please…" she repeats, faintly.
The half-smile of slightly predatory delight that comes over his face starts
butterfly flutters going in her gut, which only get stronger as he slowly,
slowly draws her underwear down her legs. When he reaches the tops of her black
Chucks, she lifts one foot to let him slip it through the leghole, leaving the
scrap of fabric to dangle around her other ankle.
Then he runs his hands back up her legs, kneeling up to cup her ass and duck
under her skirt. He presses his face in, a deep breath turning into a full-body
shudder. Her knees buckle, and she instinctively spreads her thighs with the
movement as she settles herself to lean more sturdily against the bookcase.
He brings his right hand around to comb his fingers through her pubic hair, one
finger dipping farther in than the rest.
"God… Penny. You're so wet," he breathes. There's a pause, and she imagines him
bringing his finger to his nose, pushing it past his lips. She hears a muffled
whimper, then suddenly, suddenly, a cool wet tongue swipes velvet across her
clit, hot breath whispering against skin and heating her up straight through.
She has no way to classify the noise she makes as he applies his tongue again,
undulating, caressing, turning her nerves and blood and thoughts to liquid
fire. 800.001, perhaps. Or PSwhatever, prefera… Oh god.
"Oh god oh god oh god," she gasps, helplessly, as he finds exactly the right
spot at the very edge of the slow, steady twirl of his tongue around her clit.
The edge of the bookshelf digs into her fingers as she grips it, desperately
trying to hold herself together. "Please," she manages, "please don't stop."
He hums smugly, and the vibrations send a quiver up along her spine straight to
her hindbrain. His tongue never falters as she shakes and shivers and melts
against the end of the bookshelf, boneless and panting, metal cool against her
cheek as she moves her head restlessly back and forth with the aftershocks.
When she finally forces her eyes to open, she finds herself gazing down at a
glowingly proud Sam smiling shyly up at her through his bangs.
"C'mere," she says, hooking a hand into his collar, tugging him up off his
knees and pulling his mouth to hers for a slow, deep kiss. She's surprised at
how good he tastes, and when she breathes in to steady herself it actually
makes her a little dizzy instead. He crowds into her up against the shelf,
intertwining his limbs with hers as he kisses and kisses and kisses her.
As the intense expansive fuzziness in her head subsides a little, she becomes
aware of him pressing firmly into her thigh, pushy without meaning to be. When
the realization hits her, it nearly makes her knees buckle again, but instead
she holds onto him harder and snakes her other hand down over his hip to rub
along the hard length of him.
He moans into her mouth when she does, and throws out a hand to lean his weight
on the bookshelf. She fumbles a bit with the button of his jeans, but once she
manages to get it open she can then slide the zipper down in one smooth motion.
She hooks both thumbs into the elastic of his underwear to pull it with his
jeans down over his hips and onto his thighs. She gets caught briefly, causing
him to inhale sharply with surprise, but eventually manages to maneuver the
material over his cock without further incident. She sets one hand on his hip,
watches the other wrap delicately around him, hears him struggle against a deep
groan at her touch – and lose the battle when she takes more solid hold. Then
she deliberately raises her chin to look up and watch his expression as she
jacks him.
He's got his eyes shut tight, brow furrowed in concentration, teeth digging
deep into his bottom lip. In that moment, his face is the hottest thing she has
ever, ever seen.
Not taking her eyes from his face, she continues to fist the length of his
erection, steady rhythm, definite pressure. When she tries adding a bit of
twist at the end, he releases his lip with a gasp, and she takes the
opportunity to seal her mouth over his, licking in with her tongue in time to
each stroke of her hand. She can feel him straining, can see his free hand
flailing and shivering with tension at the very edge of her current field of
view, and she spares a moment of thought towards feeling ridiculously proud to
have pushed him into this state.
Soon he is gasping softly into her mouth more than kissing, so she nips her way
across his jaw and down his neck, her hand speeding up to match his panting.
His entire body is shaking, and when she bites down hard on his shoulder, his
breath hitches, and he groans her name out long and low as he spills over her
hand.
They lean against the end of the bookshelf for several minutes afterwards,
mostly immobile other than their gradually calming breathing and the occasional
involuntary shudder.
~
Eventually, he pushes himself up a bit in order to gaze down at her, a look in
his eyes that she hazily categorizes as "complicated wonder."
"Penny," he says.
"Sam," she replies, and she knows that same look is in her own eyes as she
reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.
He leans down to press a deep, sweet kiss to her lips, then pauses for a few
moments with his forehead touching hers, eyes closed. Opens his eyes, picks up
a book from the to-be-shelved cart. "Let me help," he offers.
She quirks a small smile at him. "Always the gentleman," she teases gently, and
starts at the other end of the cart. The two of them together make quick work
of the bookcart, but as they get close to finishing she notices that his
previous melancholy seems to be seeping back in, evident in his worried brow
and slumped line of shoulder.
He waits, brooding, as she closes up the library, but when she puts a hand on
his shoulder he smiles up at her, and even if it doesn't completely reach his
eyes she can't help the tug she feels on her heart. She slips her hand into his
as they walk out to the parking lot, and he holds on just a little too tight,
like he's afraid she might dissolve right in front of him, disappear into thin
air.
~
When they reach the car, he leans her against the driver's-side window for
another kiss, hands heavy on her hips and hair flying every which way in the
wind as she twines her fingers through it.
He pulls away to let her unlock the car and open the door. His smile turns
wistful, and for a moment they just stand there and look at each other. He
opens his mouth, probably to say goodbye, but she stops him by jumping in with,
"Do you… need a ride home?"
"I…." She can see the hesitation in his eyes, but then he smiles. "Yeah, that
would be great. Thanks."
"Great!" she beams back at him, and gets in as he goes 'round to the other side
of the car. They don't talk much during the drive, but she slips her right hand
into his left one once they've pulled out of the school parking lot, and he
covers both their hands with his right one, holds them safe and secure in his
lap.
He directs her to a residential neighborhood a few minutes' drive from school,
somewhat rundown but not terrible, and has her stop in front of a small box of
a house with a big black truck parked in the driveway. They sit for a moment,
staring out the windshield, not looking at each other, but when she feels his
hands tighten around hers she looks over at him and solemnly considers the line
of his profile, points and curves softened by messy dark hair and the tiniest
remnant of baby fat.
He glances up at her, and she recalls all of a sudden how strung-out he'd
looked at the start of all this a mere couple of hours ago. But rather than do
anything as simple as asking, she opts to just lean in to meet his kiss, both
of them melting into it, clutching at the solid comfort of the car interior.
Eventually, he pulls away, breath rasping in and out raggedly. Holds on to her
hands as he looks at her with eyes both clouded and clear, that underlying
sadness coming through more strongly than ever.
"Goodbye," he says, quiet but sure.
"Goodbye," she replies.
She wishes he would kiss her again, knows it's written right across her face,
but he shakes himself once, presses his lips together determinedly, and gets
out of the car. Walks quickly up the path, like if he stops he'll never manage
to start again. He unlocks the door, pushes it open. Stops. Turns. When his
eyes meet hers she feels a weight settle over her, comforting and nerve-
wracking and shivery all at once. He smiles, and even from this distance she
can see the wistfulness of it, sad and sweet and real. She smiles back, gives
just a little wave. He nods, takes a deep breath, and goes in the house.
She sits for a few minutes, gazing at the door, then bangs her head against the
steering wheel thrice before driving slowly home.
~
She never sees him again.
Whenever she closes her eyes in the following few days, she can still picture
his lanky form framed in the doorway, can feel the warmth of his hands and the
promise of his mouth. On the fourth day after, she starts to get worried in
earnest, and what flashes at the edges of her consciousness becomes instead the
tense lines around his eyes and the way his shoulders never completely relaxed,
even at his most open.
After a week, she gives in and asks Mr. Grunberg if he knows anything, but he
just shakes his head, says no one's seen him for a week and half.
She doesn't correct him.
~
Two weeks later, while they're working on magnetizing a stack of new books, Mr.
Grunberg casually says, "Oh, by the way. Sam Winchester? Has apparently
transferred. This morning the office got a request for his transcripts to be
sent to a school in Wyoming." He goes on to talk about what a pity it is, a boy
that smart having attended seven schools in three years, but she's tuned him
out in favor of sitting stock still and blank with distress. Eventually she
manages some kind of sound of agreement, and even resumes threading magnetic
strips through hardcover bindings, hands moving mechanically without the
benefit of coherent guidance from her brain.
After closing up the library that evening, she goes to the table in the corner
that's still piled high with the books he'd pulled from the shelves over the
course of the past few months.
Her plan is to just put the books on a shelving cart, shelve 'em, and be done
with it. She's glad he's not dead or anything, but it's hard to be happy about
the abruptness of his departure, about the complete lack of explanation. But
somehow, when she goes to pick up the books, she just can't let it (him) go
that easily. Instead, she finds herself pulling the pile toward her to peruse.
One by one, she takes books from the top of the stack, contemplates them, then
puts them on the cart. Hungarian folk tales, comparative shamanism, Chinese
ghost lore, Roman religious syncretism (she gets distracted by the discussion
of the Greek goddess Artemis becoming the Roman Diana and reads for a few pages
before catching herself and moving on), Paul Bunyan, advanced Latin, Angela
Carter's The Bloody Chamber (this one she sets aside to check out herself),
werewolf lore, personifications of death, herbal medicine, hell in Western
literature, Terry Pratchett's Thief of Time… slip of paper. Slip of paper?
Sitting at the very bottom of the stack is a thin rectangle of scratch paper
with three neat lines of writing at the center.
A phone number with an unfamiliar area code.
An email address – a string of random-looking numbers at yahoo.com.
And a P.O. box for some town she's never heard of in Missouri.
She sits down with a thump, staring down at the little scrap of paper sitting
so innocently on the desk.
~
She's never called him. Never sent email, never thought about dropping a letter
in the mail (thought about writing the letter, sure, about a year after he
left, but somehow when faced with a blank sheet of paper words just didn't seem
to make any sense to her anymore).
But she still has that piece of paper, carries it folded up in her wallet like
one day it will be exactly the right currency. She hardly ever thinks about it
– pretty much only every couple of years when she switches wallets – but she
knows she'll never voluntarily throw it away. The one time her wallet got
stolen she felt more panic on account of those three little rows of text than
she did for any of her credit cards or IDs or cash. When she got it back with
the cash gone but everything else intact, she'd been so relieved that she
almost dialed him up. Her cell phone was in her hand before she realized she
had no idea what she would say.
Maybe someday.
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