This was written in a caffeine induced stupor, binging on twenty-two hours without sleep and nothing to eat but Wheat Thins. It's strange, and totally off the random. Do not say I didn't warn you . . . Much love for you viewers, you guys are amazing, your comments make me smile like a schoolgirl, and I love every single one of you like I love my fluffy pillow that is calling my name! :D

Unfortunately, I do not own Supernatural. It is property of Eric Kripke, who I shall forever hate for getting me Cult addicted to his beautiful masterpiece that is the fucked-up lives of Sam and Dean Winchester. (Add the swoon and/or wink here.)

He looks different.

You can't place it, but you just know there's somethin' off about him. Maybe it's his appearance, or his stride, or his tone, but this ain't the Sam Winchester that you're used to. Most of the time the man exudes comfort as unthreatening a presence as they come despite the could kill you with one look kind of demeanor. You've always kinda thought of him as a friend, in some unusual way. Wants the opposite of what he's been told to do; a kindred spirit of some kind.

Not now though. Now he's different. Kinda like he's tryin' to pretend he's his brother, but isn't doing such a great job at it.

"Well . . . Guess I'm full of surprises," he's saying. "So, can I get that beer?"

You study him a moment, run your eyes down broad shoulders and long legs. Still looks like himself, has the same soft tone when he talks too. But if it look like a Sam and talks like a Sam, it's probably not a Sam. So maybe it's a good thing you've got your daddy's knife on you plus three others, because you've figured out by now you're not as tough as you pretend to be. All those lessons in fighting you got behind the Roadhouse from passing by Hunters aren't as useful as they should be.

"Sure. One beer," you say, eyeing him as he sits down on a barstool.

You're noticin' not for the first time just how beautiful the man is, how much you want him to bend you over the bar and fuck you senseless because you know he'd make you feel amazing, tell you what you want to hear because he's always been the sweet brother, the caring one. You've always liked that about him.

He makes himself right at home in the backwater joint you've been workin' in for the last month while tracking a pattern of unusual killings. (You're learning the enemy as best as you can so this time you won't get your overconfident ass thrown into another crypt that smells like Ash after he's been holed up in his room for a couple of days.)

You head around the counter and grab the kind of beer you remember him hating, set it down in front of him and ask, "So, how'd you find me?"

He takes a sip, doesn't grimace at the taste like usual. "Well, uh, it's kind of what we do, y'know?" He's too cocky to be Sam. You remember him always being softer, gentler, kinder. He was the one you felt like you could go to if you ever wanted to talk about your problems. Not like you ever would.

"Speaking of 'we,' where's Dean?" you ask, because it's odd enough the way he's actin', let alone that he's here without his older brother.

They're inseparable you realized that the moment you watched them step out of that beauty of a car and walk up to the Roadhouse's front door before you took off to grab the shotgun. After the second drop by you surmised a chance with Dean is slim to none. His brother comes first, always has, always will. And hell, you're okay with that; great with that because it's what family does. But hey, didn't stop you from getting feelings for the eldest Winchester. After all, girls grow up to pine for men like their daddies, right?

"Couldn't make it," he answers you after a minute, lifts an eyebrow like he's aksin' you a question. You shift your hip against the bar and feel comfort in the fact there's a blade there against your skin.

You lick your lips, shiver at the way his stare lingers there. "What are you doing here, Sam? We didn't exactly part on the best of terms."

"Right, um . . . that's why I'm here. I kind of I wanted to see if we could square things?"

You tilt your head at his suggestion, notice the burn peeking out from under his shirt, stark red against tanned skin. "That looks like it hurts."

He chuckles, rubs you off as he strips out of his jacket all the way and ignores your steady glare. "No,. Just had a run-in with a hot stove." He's lyin' through his teeth.

Practice makes perfect, your mama always said. There isn't enough time in the world to practice taking on Sam Winchester. If it comes down to it, you're probably dead. Just one of his hands could wrap around your throat, kill you in a matter of minutes because you're so small and can run out of air so easily. It gives you an adrenaline rush just thinking about it. Hey, you weren't lying when you told Dean that you're a little twisted too.

"So, you were saying something about squaring things?"

"Yeah, um . . . look, I know how you feel about my dad. And I can't say I blame you." His words are warm all of a sudden, kinda like you're used to. It makes you settle down a bit, wonder if maybe you're just being paranoid and you don't know him as well as you'd like to think you do. "He was obsessed, consumed with hunting. And he didn't care who got caught in the crossfire. And I guess that included your dad. But that was my father. That's not me."

"What about Dean?" Maybe you sound like some stupid little girl with a crush, but hell, you kinda are, and you're dyin' to know about him.

"Well, Dean's more like my father than I am, but . . ." he trails off, noticing the disappointment setting at the corners of your mouth. His words are cold again when he says, "Boy, you're really carrying a torch for him, aren't you?"

You scoff, because what else is there to do when you're caught?

"I'll take that as a yes."

Frowning, you look this way and that, lick your lips and settle on moving to gather the empty beer bottles on one of the dirty tables nearby instead of socking him in the mouth for being right.

Your pride has always been on a high level, growing up in a bar full of Hunters who always told you you're the spittin' image of your daddy; you've got potential. You're not vain about it or anything, just take pride in the acknowledgement you're not some naïve little girl. (It's all you've really ever wanted.) When someone knocks you down a notch, it doesn't sit well. You feel weak, and hate that inferior ache in your chest, wanna kill whoever's the cause of it.

He's talking again, as you bend forward and grab the neck of a bottle between your fingers. "It's too bad. 'Cause, see, Dean– he likes you, sure, but not in the way you want. I mean, maybe as kind of a little sister, you know?"

You get back to the bar, set the bottles down and stare at him as he keeps talking. "But romance . . . that's just out of the question. He kind of thinks you're a schoolgirl, y'know?"

You wince, just a little, but he notices, gives a brief flash of a smirk before he becomes all soft in his features, looks like some kind of male model posing for a shoot about grievances. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Jo. I'm telling you because I care."

You look away, lick your lips defensively and say, "That's real kind of you, Sam."

"I mean it," he says, covering your hand with his on the bar, and god his skin is like fire, hot and intense against yours. You're panties are soaked through just from the one touch, the dark look in his eyes when he says, "I could be more to you Jo," and stares down at your lips.

He'd never be this forward.

"Sam, what's going on?" you ask, try and move from his reach but he grips your hand hard. Shows you just how easily he can overpower you with one little yank of your body toward his, fits you in the crook between his knees, and you're eyein' the bulge in his blue jeans as hungrily as he's eyeing your mouth but tellin' yourself at the same time that this isn't Sam.

"I could be more to you, Jo," he breaths, voice velvet and rough like sex, sweet like the beer he was drinking and warm against your lips. And you're aching for it. But Momma didn't raise an idiot.

"I think you should leave," you say, and watch as his hungry expression turns from lust, to shock, to anger in an instant. Turning down Winchesters seems to be one of your special talents.

He pauses, says, "Okay," and throws your hand to the side, looks at you with this predatory glance that has you dripping down your thighs.

You rub 'em together to get some momentary friction as he leaves, sigh heavily and turn around, ready to clean up in a hurry and go back to your apartment for a long stay with a bottle of Jack, cheap x-rated romance novels, and your hand down your pants.

You shake your hair from your eyes Suddenly he's on you, arms around your waist and mouth against the back of your skull. You let out a scream as he spins you to face him, pins your body back against the bar with his so tight you're gonna have bruises all over your ass and back and hips. "Sam, get off me! Sam, get off me! Let go!" you yell, because your momma taught you to when a man grabs you without permission.

He grips you by the hair anyways, smoothes it away from your face, forces your head back and mouths at the corner of your lips, your jaw, your neck, hand still in your hair. It makes you moan for it, hate the smirk he gives you because he just knows.

But his lips are too hot, hands too rough as one restrains you, the other grabs at your tits through the thin fabric of your shirt, cups you through your jeans and has you whining under your breath as he presses himself rock hard against the inside of your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye you see a beer bottle, reach for it in defense because there's something not right about this. Even if you're wetter then you've ever been, and it's Sam's body doing it to you, it isn't Sam steering it.

"Jo, Jo, Jo," he says just as you grab the bottle, clasps your wrist in his painfully, sharp pain to the point you think he's breakin' it.

Together your hands slam the bottle against the counter, send glass flying as he spins you around and pushes your stomach up against the bar. He presses himself between your thighs, and you can feel it through your jeans, how hard he is. He grinds against you, holds your wrists against the countertop as he breathes all sweet against your ear and licks your neck.

"Sam no, please, no!" And there's panic and excitement in your voice as he bites at your collarbone, grunts as you struggle and rub against him harder.

"Shh," he syas to you like a lover would, all soft and tender.

The next thing you know, your head is slammed hard against the bar, and you're limp in his arms. He lifts you near effortlessly, sets you down on the countertop as your eyes close and you lay in half sleep, half wake. Large, hot hands smooth your hair from your face, fingertips tracin' your lips and makin' you taste sulfur on your tongue.

"It didn't have to be this way," he whispers against your mouth, and you smile a little when he licks at the corner of your mouth. "Or maybe it did."

You come to tied to a post, The Doors playing in the background as he finishes tying your wrists together with a cheap bar rag.

"What the hell is this? What's going on?"

"So, what exactly did your mom tell you about the day your dad died?" he asks, moves around in front of you to give you an appreciative once-over.

You glare at him. "You're not Sam."

"Don't be so sure about that. Answer the question." You don't, and he sighs, sits on the table near your legs and picks up a knife you didn't notice before, holds it over his shoulder and smirks at you. "Come on. It's me. You can tell me anything, you know that. Answer the question."

"Fine," you snap.

"Fine," he grins back, licks his lips as he looks at your tits and then the place between your thighs.

You open your mouth to talk and he leans forward, combs the knife through your hair and looks at you intently, hangin' on your every word. "Our dads were in California Devil's Gate Reservoir. They were setting a trap for some kind of Hellspawn. John was hiding, waiting, and my dad was bait."

He chuckles, pulls the knife back and says, "That's just like John. Oh, I bet he dangled Bill like meat on a hook. Then what?" He moves away from you, around the post and then back, stabs the knife into the wood above your head and stands in front of you waiting for you to answer.

"The thing showed up," you say, shiver as he leans down to mouth at your pulse point. "John got too eager. He jumped out too soon, got my dad exposed out in the open." You try to breathe when he cups you through your jeans like earlier, only this time he adds pressure and sucks on the skin of your collarbone to the point there'll be an angry red mark there later. "The thing turned around . . . and killed him."

"Mmmm," he says, licks a trail down to your exposed cleavage, "not quite."

"What?"

"What?" he smirks. Looks up at you and shoves his palm up against the denim between your legs, makes you whimper as he says, "Oh. See, it hurt him, but it didn't kill him."

He works one hand up to the fly of your jeans as the other palms you through the thin material of your shirt, his mouth hot right near yours as he pants all heavy and deep. The button on your pants pops open quick, and before you can even gasp his hand is down your front, inside your underwear and against you.

"So wet for me, aren't you, Jo?" he asks, and switches topics abruptly when you whine. "You really don't know the truth, do you? I bet your mom doesn't either."

"Know what?" you breathe as he runs one finger along you, smears wet all over his hand.

"You see, Bill was all clawed up," he says, thumb teasing at your clit. You rub back against the banister, try and keep your hiss as inaudible as possible. "He was holding his insides in his hands. He was gurgling and praying to see you and Ellen one more time. So, my dad," he pauses, looks all sad as he slides his palm down and rocks it into you while his free hand wedges into your hair and pulls your head forward so you're lookin' him square in the eye as he says, "killed him. Put him out of his misery like a sick dog."

A few tears slide down your cheeks, ones you didn't even know were starting to form in the first place. "You're lying!"

"I'm not. It's true." He smirks, pushes two fingers inside of you so suddenly you cry out when he sing songs, "My daddy shot your daddy in the head."

You come for him anyways, with pure hatred in your eyes and a moan hanging off the end of your tongue that he devours with his mouth.

"You know, Jo," he says as you pant against his chest and his arms encircle your waist, lips at your ear as he grabs your ass through your jeans. "Sammy here really does like you. He's been dreaming about making you come like that since the moment you socked old Deano in the face."

"You're not Sam," you whisper shakily, breathing in the scent you know to mean Sam. It's a trick.

He laughs, licks at your throat and grinds himself into your still sensitive cunt, makes you whimper and moan as he pulls away and looks you in the eye. "No, but I am doing what he's been aching to. Maybe you remind him of his precious Jess. Or maybe he envies your freedom, wants to get to know you so it'll rub off on him. Maybe he's mourning his daddy and looking for someone to take care of him.

"Or maybe he just likes your fire like I do, Joanna Harvelle. And trust me, baby girl, this isn't the last time you'll see me or little Sammy here. We just love you too much to stay away," he it says, Sam's eyes flashing from hazel to black.

Later, when you're stitching Dean up, you can't help but ask, "Hey Dean? I know Demons lie, but do they ever tell the truth too?"

"Uh, yeah . . . Sometimes, especially if they know it'll mess with your head. Why?"

My daddy shot your daddy in the head.

You're not Sam.

We just love you too much to stay away.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter," you say, tape the bandage in place and wipe your blood-soaked hands off on your jeans that smell of sex and Sam.