Archive of Our Own ^beta

God, his pecs are firm. But also soft. Like... pillows. Big, manly pillows. How can a man be so strong and so yielding at the same time?

Becky drops her head and sighs. Sam Winchester really is perfect.

“Becky, Becky, listen to me. You don’t want to do this.”

Even his voice is perfect. Unbelievable. That’s probably why he’s so tall. It’s the only way to contain the whole package.

“Becky—”

The vial’s heavy in Becky’s hand. Fancy. Very witchy. Not really her aesthetic but so very authentic. She thought it made up for the fact the potion sort of smells like ass. She’s been trying out words like ’earthy’ or ’musky,’ but no. It’s like ass. And not, like, sexy ass. Just ass-ass. And she’d know. Chuck swore he wouldn’t freak when he agreed to try stuff in bed but—

Ugh. Now is not the time to be thinking of her ex. Ever. Even if he is a genius.

Sam’s ass probably smells like roses.

“Becky, are you listen—”

“Sam,” Becky says throatily. God, she hopes she doesn’t start crying. She’s an ugly crier. Something Chuck always felt the need to point out—

Argh. Stupid brain!

She pulls herself together. She has to stay strong. For Sam. “Sam, can you promise me one thing?” The vial, still deceptively reassuring despite its lies, goes on the nightstand.

Sam sighs and it’s like a whole mountain heaving. A soft-but-firm mountain. “Uh... sure, Becky.” He keeps his eyes on the vial.

Becky sniffles. She hopes her nose doesn’t drip. If she gets snot on Sam Winchester she’ll just die. Simply lay down and die. And then it’ll be like that one Stephen King book someone on the message boards told her to read and then where would Sam be?

(Though, admittedly, there’s something very romantic about an emaciated Sam tied to a bed; she really needed to get around to uploading the manuscripts she yoinked from Chuck; people are just going to die over When the Levee Breaks.)

“Sam, I want you to promise—” She chokes on her words. This is so much harder than she imagined. Mostly because she never imagined it. Not after Guy gave her the first dose of potion anyway. “Promise me you’ll never love anyone else like you loved me?”

A rumble emerges from beneath her head, a sound that could be disbelief or shock but... Becky’s not dumb. She knows she’s being mocked. But Sam’s so warm and her whole stupid world’s falling apart, so she keeps her her head on Sam’s chest.

“Uh, yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” Sam mutters. “Ever.”

Oh, well, that response certainly has, um, layers. “I’m serious,” Becky insists. “What we had was—”

“Coerced,” Sam finishes flatly. “Seriously, Becky, are you going to untie me or...?”

“Right, right,” Becky mumbles, lifting her head. There goes her Everest. “Just, uh...” She tugs hard at the ropes. “Oh, wow. Wow. Huh. These are... these are tight. Guess I absorbed more of Uncle Gus’s knot lessons than I realized. He was an Eagle Scout...” Sam stares at her. She melts a little (unfortunately, not in a good way). “I’ll, uh, get some scissors.”

“Why don’t you do that?” Sam agrees dryly.

In the end, the scissors remain elusive, so Becky settles for the bread knife instead. She sniffles again before starting at the rope twined around Sam’s perfect ankle. She must have been cutting onions with this thing. “So, um, no hard feelings?”

Dead silence. Oh, this. This is not going well. Becky wipes her nose and continues to saw. Damn if Uncle Gus didn’t buy a good rope. “I, uh, also want you to know something else. I know you would never have loved anyone else like me—”

“Roofie,” Sam reminds her sourly.

Becky’s sawing hand slows. “I really did think he was telling the truth. A-About the potion,” she whispers. “Really, Sam. I thought it meant you loved me deep down. Honest.”

It would be easier if she was one of the nefarious villains in Chuck’s books. If she was a master manipulator like Meg or Ruby. If having Sam Winchester tied up in her parent’s cabin was all part of some world-ending plan. But instead, she’s just dumb. And naive. And desperate.

Pathetic.

Sam sighs again. “I believe you, Becky.”

Oh, thank God. Yeah, she may have read some fanfiction that was, you know, kind of dark, but the idea that she might have... It’s skeevy. She is skeevy.

No time to think about that now. Therapy is a problem for Future Becky. “Thank you,” she manages, then gets back to work. They always made stuff like this sound so easy in the books. Her arm’s already getting tired. “So, uh, what I was saying—”

“Becky, I don’t think—”

“If what we had was, you know, real,” she continues loudly. Sam groans and she can almost hear his eyes rolling in his head. Ouch. But some things just had to be said. They couldn’t stay buried. Like her feelings probably should have. “I know we would have been great and I could fulfill every desire you’d ever have—”

“Y-You know a sharp knife would probably work better than—”

“But I had no intention of cutting Dean out of your life!”

“...I’m sorry, what?”

Finally! The rope around Sam’s ankle snaps. Becky flexes her hand—jeez, this is tough work—then rounds the bed, attacking the opposite side.

“Once Dean had gotten the chance to, you know, get used to the idea of my being in your lives—” This time she’s found the groove for it, going at where the rope is taught and not against the grain as much. “We were going to, you know, work something out.”

“Work something out?” Sam echoes.

Becky rolls her eyes, nudging his knee with her elbow. Imagine, Sam Winchester being coy! If nothing else, she knows this is a side of him no one else on planet Earth would ever, ever see—except Dean, of course. “You know, work something out.”

“I don’t follow.”

Becky sighs, lowering the knife (“No, no, no, Becky, c’mon, you gotta keep—”) and props her chin up in her hand. “Sam. We’re married.”

“Duress,” Sam grumbles.

“And that means no secrets,” Becky continues. He should know that she meant her vows. Until death (or even the literal Death!) do them part! Or inconvenient revelations about the actual effects of shady love potions, anyway. “So you know I’ll always be supportive of you and Dean.”

“Of me and... Dean.”

She must have hit him harder than she thought. Then again, he does take an awful lot of blows to the head... “Yeah, silly. You and Dean. You know, Sam-and-Dean. You two. Together.”

“To... gether.”

“Yeah. I figured there’d be some kind of... arrangement. After Dean got used to things, of course.”

“Of course,” Sam repeats faintly. “Um, Becky—”

“I know you said you two have been having problems lately,” Becky says. Almost there! The knife twists and frays under her frantic fingers. “But I’m sure you’ll have it all patched up in no time. And back doing the, hehe, Winchester thing.”

She can’t help the giggle-snort that escapes her. Her grandmother used to call her Piglet for that laugh. She used to love it. It became slightly less endearing around age thirteen. Grammy, of course, refused to give up the nickname until the day she died. Last year.

“I don’t... I don’t know what that means.”

“You don’t have to hide anything, Sam. I’ve read all the books, even the ones that haven’t been published,” she reminds him. Sam’s leg suddenly goes strangely stiff. She gives it a reassuring pat. “Those later books haven’t really been edited per se—”

Sam makes a strange noise that gets Becky’s insides all... messy. Unhappy messy. “Oh, no no no,” Becky soothes. “Oh, Sam, don’t worry! I mean, I know you and your brother have an unconventional relationship but you really have read between the lines to—”

The second rope snaps. Sam makes another weird noise like a... a gut punch (Uncle Gus punched Dad once, so she knows what it sounds like; total accident, but Dad makes sure to bring it up every New Years). “But I never said anything!” Sam blurts.

Becky stares at Sam. Sam stares back.

The Fangirl Squeal. That’s what Chuck called it, anyway. Grammy preferred Piggy Comes to Market. Either way, she’s completely incapable of halting the sound that comes out of her mouth.

“I knew it,” Becky shrieks. Sam’s beautiful kaleidoscope eyes get big and round.

“No, no, no, Becky, that’s not what I meant—”

Then, the front door explodes open and Dean-frickin’-Winchester (and... some guy?) is waving a gun in her face. “Back the hell away from him, you Annie Wilkes wannabe!”

Becky screams, throwing her hands in the air, bread knife and all. “I didn’t deflower your brother, I sweaaaar,” she wails. The tears she’d managed to hold back for ten minutes finally spring forth. Killed by Dean Winchester. Just like Ruby! At least she’d die for love.

Dean, however, doesn’t pull the trigger. He mostly just looks confused. A little disappointing, to be honest. “Deflower?”

“Aw, Sam,” says the weird, lanky interloper behind Dean. “I had no idea! Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a choice.”

“Somebody kill me,” Sam groans quietly. They really were meant to be; Becky feels the exact same way.

*~*

It’s more than a little awkward explaining her... mistake.

“Mistake?” Dean had said sharply. “A mistake is spilled milk. A mistake is mixing your colors and whites at the laundry mat. A mistake is—”

“Let it go, Dean,” Sam sighed, nobly defending her honor. He didn’t seem to notice her batting her eyelashes on him, though. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

Bigger problems. Bigger problems named Guy. Becky doesn’t understand how she could have missed it. Then again, Guy’s the first person who’s called her back before she could in, what, ten years? Yeah, that’s pretty sad. Pretty sad, Yecky Becky. Pretty sa—

Future Becky’s problem. Future. Becky’s. Problem. God, she hopes her insurance covers therapy. This is not gonna be cheap. Especially not after...

She killed a demon. Becky Rosen, the Purity Princess of Pike Creek (not a compliment; it took her three weeks of notes on her locker to figure that one out), managed to gank a demon. By herself even! Or, at least, really got in there with the assist. She’s a hero! She saved Sam Winchester! By the transitive property, she’s totally saved the world!

Wait, demons possess people. That was just some... guy. She’d killed some guy! What if he was awake when she stabbed him? What if he could have overpowered the demon inside him, like John Winchester did with Yellow-Eyes or Bobby Singer did in Sympathy for the Devil if only she’d given him a chance? Wait, Guy is just some guy, too. What if—

Being Future Becky is gonna suck.

At least she got to meet Crowley, even if he is shorter than she was expecting. Honestly, she’d been imagining more of a David Tennant-type.

The drive back to her apartment is awkward mostly because they have to stop at the courthouse on the way back and they can’t sign the... the... the annulment papers there for some reason (something to do with a robbery? she doesn’t really watch the news). Plus, she has to sit in the back with their weird hunter friend who keeps smiling at her for some reason. He’s not even in the books. They’re not even in the Impala. It’s all pretty lame.

Becky hides her face on the way in and out of the courthouse (the Winchesters aren’t the only ones who stand to have their lives ruined if anyone, namely Jocelyn Carver, sees her) and the clerk has to ask her to repeat herself three times before getting the papers she needs. Sam doesn’t even hesitate when signing the papers, which, ouch. He’s acting like they didn’t even have anything between them.

Which... technically they didn’t. Thank God though, right? Because if they did, she’d definitely be going to Hell.

...Oh, God, is she going to hell? They didn’t consummate anything, but what about the kiss at the chapel? Did that count? Oh, God, that probably counts. And Hell’s a real place, not a metaphorical punishment for historical cultural guilt architected by orthodox religious figures in positions of power used to manipulate the masses like Auntie Jean used to say (no relation to Uncle Gus; other side of the family). Hell is real real! Not even Dean Winchester survived in Hell, she’ll crack like an egg! She couldn’t even handle the time she got stuck in detention back in eighth grade! She had a panic attack and passed out so they sent her home early! There’s no being sent home early in real-life Hell!

Future Becky is probably going to be a problem much sooner than she thought.

At least Sam doesn’t think she’s a loser. And they’ll always have Paris. Well, Vegas.

“Hey, um, Sam?” Becky calls. Hunter-guy’s already out the door and Dean is following suit; except the minute she says Sam’s name Dean whips around and gives her the patented Dean Winchester Death Glare. God, he’s so possessive. It’s super hot. She only pees herself a little bit.

“Yes, Becky?” Sam sounds the same way her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Banks, sounded during Open House when she told her parents that she was “excessively enthusiastic and should probably be on some kind of medication.” Never did say what kind, though.

“Um, can I have a minute?” Becky drops her voice low. “Alone?”

“Oh, hell no,” Dean snaps. “If you think I’m leaving my brother alone with you—”

“It’s a... a private matter,” Becky says urgently, trying to lock eyes with Sam, willing for him to hear her thoughts, to understand her...

She sees the moment Sam understands what she’s trying to say and feels their... she knows that he... she gets that he’s just that good at reading people. It’s a big part of his job, after all. No special moment about it. It’s a bitter pill to swallow (but doesn’t hurt as much going down as she thought).

“No, it’s okay, Dean,” Sam says, his stare unnervingly unwavering. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Dean looks between them, frown deepening—but eventually, he shrugs. “Your funeral. Or wedding. Whatever.” For a minute, though, his gaze gets hard. “I’m not buying another waffle iron,” he warns. Becky thinks it’s probably a good thing he doesn’t know what she did with the first one.

Sam closes the door as soon as Dean leaves. “Listen, I told you. If this is about earlier, you misunderstood,” Sam says sharply before Becky can get a word in. “Whatever you or your weird friends on the internet think you read—”

“I know you’re afraid to love again!” Becky interrupts. If there’s anything the crazy, mixed-up fandom she’s a part of can agree on (incredibly combative, overly invested fandom... whatever), it’s that. “Because of, you know, all the dead girlfriends... a-and I get it! I was almost put on that list, too, after all. Not to mention the physical and mental trauma. But Sam, what you said to me is true for you, too.”

“Becky—”

“You’re a good person! And you’re already doing your thing, so the right guy will find you. Except I think we both know he already has.”

“Becky.”

Wow, is that what he sounds like when he’s murderous? Her legs feel... quivery.

“Look, all those girls died and that’s terrible. And so did Dean. But Dean came back, right? And, look, I know you’re the main characters and all—”

“This isn’t a story, Becky, it’s real life!”

“—so I don’t think you can ever really die, but who knows how many chances you’ll get at happiness? I mean, believe you me, Sam Winchester, happiness is rare in this world, even if you don’t know about all the demons and monsters everywhere, and if you find happiness you need to grab him! With both hands!”

Sam’s beautiful eyes had gotten large again. Becky realizes moments too late that her voice has climbed to a preacher’s shout. She shrinks back into herself with an embarrassed shuffle.

“Um, you know, without selling your soul or whatever,” she mumbles. “Sorry, I uh, got excited again.”

When Sam loved her (When he was under my spell, she unhappily corrects), he said he found her enthusiasm endearing. Now he just looks freaked out.

“Okay...” Sam says with a cocked eyebrow. “Just one little detail you forgot, Becky. The guy you’re talking about? Is my brother. Not exactly a fairy tale romance.”

Honestly, she had forgotten. Not that Sam and Dean were brothers, obviously (she’d been paying for the morethanbrothers.net domain name for years and she wasn’t stopping now), but that it was a real-life issue not just a plot bunny or a category on porn websites.

“Oh, that,” Becky says blankly. “Well, i-it’s not like you’re having any mutant babies or anything right? Unless... No, ABO’s not real, Chuck told me that a million times.” She shook her head as he blinked at her. “Right. And, come on, Sam. You and Dean are the most important people in the world to each other already. Closer even than marriage. And you can’t get something like that annulled, even I know that. So is it really that much of a stretch to think you shouldn’t take it a step further? After everything you’ve already been through together?”

She’s had this exact same argument a thousand times with a thousand fans on boards. The accusations of “sicko” or “freak” weren’t an uncommon reply, though mods were usually pretty good about kicking people who made too big of a stink over in the shipping corner. To hear it come out of the actual Sam Winchester’s mouth would probably break her, a little, but at least she has a bit of armor built up against that particular retort. Becky braces herself.

Except... Sam just blinks at her a few times, mystified. “Okay, um. Wow. Did you roofie me again, because that almost made sense.”

For the first time in her life, Becky nears speechlessness. She always thought people were exaggerating when they said that. “Really?!”

Her fangirl voice must have come through because Sam’s face immediately sours. “Almost,” he clarifies firmly. “Look, Becky, I’ve gotta go.”

“Dean’s waiting,” Becky guesses. Sam smirks, maybe a little ironically, and nods. “Sam and Dean, on the road again. That’s... where you belong.”

She knew that. She’s always known that.

“I, uh, wish you the best, Becky. Really.”

Then Sam... offers her a handshake. Like they’re... business partners or something. Or hunting partners. That’s pretty good... right?

“Same to you. Keep, you know. Saving the world.”

Becky takes his hand. His big, big hand. It’s like sticking her hand in a bear’s mouth but, you know, good. He’s willingly touching her!

Sam lets go. Eventually. She just needs a second longer—

He yanks away. Becky clutches her hand to her chest and sighs. Sam wipes his palm on his pants. “I’m, gonna—”

He shuffles awkwardly towards the door. Opens it. Steps out. And there goes Sam Winchester. The most perfect man she’s ever met, gone from her life.

Forever.

C’est la vie.

Becky rushes to the window. One last peek won’t hurt.

Thankfully, her apartment has a great overlook of the alleyway, a feature she never appreciated until now. Sam and Dean stand beside the blue not-Impala (she has no head for cars), obviously having one of their post-case chats—classic. They’re smiling and laughing (good sign, good sign) but then Sam gets in the car, and Dean’s... frowning?

“No, no, no, what are you doing?” Becky cries at the scene. If the Winchesters had a dog, Dean looked like somebody just shot it. “Come on, Sam, I gave you a pep talk and everything!” Surely her words were enough to—

Dean shakes his head and gets inside the car. It starts up with a rumble that even Becky can hear on the third floor.

“Noooo...” Becky whines. This is literally the worst. Yes, real-life relationships are complicated (why she prefers fanfiction if she’s honest) but they were Sam and Dean! The emotionally constipated thing’s supposed to be a joke! They cry and confess their feelings all the time! What are they doing?

The car rolls a couple of feet and then stops. Becky has to crane her neck to see anything now, climbing up on the dining room table to get a better look. All she can see are their shoulders through the car’s back window. Leaning closer... closer...

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “It’s happening. It’s happening, it’s happening, it’s happening, it’s happening—”

Becky’s knee slips. A glass goes flying. Her face smacks against the window—hard!—and she falls off the table. By the time she pulls herself off the ground, wrist and cheek throbbing, the blue car is gone.

“I saw that,” Becky tells herself. “That was real. Wincest is real! I saw!” Eat that, Chuck, you lying jerkwad! “If it doesn’t happen on the page it doesn’t matter” her butt!

Then she hears her mother’s voice in her head. Mrs. Banks’s voice. Even ever-patient Uncle Gus’s voice, who said she’d become a fisherman who would put Captain Ahab to shame:

Take a breath, Becky.

Becky takes a breath. Then, she grabs a broom and sweeps up the shattered mug on the floor. Time to put her life back together. Or maybe just get it started.

*~*

(An hour later, she gets a text from an unknown number:

You were right, he did find me already. Thanks.

- SW

The resulting scream has the neighbor from two doors down banging on her front door hard enough that her wedding photo rattles off the wall, sending glass all over the freshly-swept floor. Becky doesn’t notice. She’s way too excited.)