Sam has slept with a handful of women in his life, but this is the first time the next morning has dawned without the stomach-deep conviction of lies well-told.

Because love has never been about truth for Sam.

First there was Jess, who was his everything, but who he kept the dark fringes of his past from. Then Madison, who he thought was cured, then kept clutched in his arms until the last breath shuddered out of her. Ruby, who kept his body warm and his blood boiling. Amelia, who kept his mouth off the barrel of his own gun.

And now Charlie, who keeps on loving even though she knows everything Sam has done.

That's what makes Sam hold on a little tighter and press her face against Charlie's chest to stave off the temptation of a sob. She wants to break down, to revel in this, this blessed goodness she doesn't deserve, has done nothing to earn.

The way Charlie's fingertips ran into the grooves of the gashed scar from Jake's knife but not a word was said about it. The way she pressed close and lost herself to the give and take of their bodies, without violence or desperation or sadness. Just closeness without anything else, a communion of body (and perhaps of soul). Her quiet happiness at making Sam writhe, her shameless press toward pleasure for herself. No pretense, just generosity counterpoint to gratitude, a symphony of gasp and moan and "Yes," and "More."

It's the closest Sam thinks she's ever been to anyone, even during sex; the slip of slim fingers inside should have felt like invasion, but it didn't. It felt like the kiss of nerves, like their veins growing into each other, like being taken care of and cherished from the inside out.

Loving Charlie feels an awful lot like healing.

In Sam's experience, healing is only a precursor to more pain.

Several moments wander on as Sam holds the warm body beneath her, aware that she should have gotten up minutes ago but not motivated to move from the cradle of intimacy. Though it isn't especially comfortable— her breasts press squished against Charlie's bony hip and her arm has gone numb underneath them— she knows there is a finality to this, that they have reached a high and it can only go downhill from here. She revels in the earthy scent of the skin around her, the softness of Charlie's chest beneath her head, and knows she'd be perfectly happy if this happened to go on for another few hours.

Finally she gets up.

Charlie rolls limp and mumbling off her arm, then turns onto her side. Jaw hard, Sam watches the slow tide of the other woman's breathing, commits the wild tousle of red hair to memory. And that's probably very girlish and hopelessly romantic of her, but she's got tits and she's wearing pink underwear with a fucking bow on the waistband, so anyone who wants to blame her can taste a round of rock salt for all she cares.

It takes a few moments to round up her clothing, as Charlie took the liberty of tossing it to the four corners of the earth the night before, but soon she's back in her shirt and wandering out into the library. She crosses the threshold just in time to hear the creak of the front door, and does not realize how much she has felt Dean's absence until his presence fills the room, all smug bravado and familiarity from the top of the stairs. He crosses his arms on the railing and leans over it, smirking. A long cat-calling whistle bursts through his lips.

"Lucky night, Samantha?"

Sam scoffs as she begins to climb the stairs. "Screw you." But her mouth is loose and in danger of tumbling into a smile.

"Hey, I'm just using my observational skills," Dean says, and okay, he's right. She is in nothing but a partially-unbuttoned flannel shirt and underwear, and though she's yet to look in a mirror, she can guess that on top of her head sits a mess whose picture could be found in the dictionary under "sex hair."

She's also about 90% sure there are hickeys involved.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, Dean's smirk has evened out. There's something oddly serious in his demeanor when he asks, "Seriously, though. You and Charlie?"

At the mention of Charlie's name, Sam's fingers skip to her neck to settle against the soft, tender place that hosts the memory of the other woman's lips. Gooseflesh ripples out from the touch. "Yeah."

Dean pushes out his lower jaw and raises his brow. "My kid brother's a lesbian."

Sam elbows him in the ribs, but she's smiling. "Shut up."

"Hey, whatever, it's got my blessing." Dean's smile wavers. "Say, you didn't happen to—"

Sam pulls the vial of blood out of the front pocket of her shirt, and Dean nods at it with a low sigh.

"Right. So, we're good? Gonna gank this thing?"

The surface of the vial is warm with Sam's body heat; she runs her thumb in slow circles over it. "You got the dagger?"

From a pocket inside his jacket, Dean produces one of their many silver daggers; it's as unimpressive as usual, but hopefully blessed. Sam considers it until Dean returns it to whence it came, then shrugs her shoulders. "Okay. We got the acacia yesterday, so I guess we're set."

Dean nods again. "Good." He leans with his elbows against the railing, clasps his hands, drops his head for a moment. When he looks up, Sam instantly identifies his look of calculated casualty. "So, the blood," he says. "That means it's— it's serious? With you two. 'Embrace of lovers' and all that."

"Yeah. I guess so. Why?" Sam squints at her brother. "You suddenly want to talk about relationships?"

"No." Dean looks at the floor again. "It's just—" he scoffs, shakes his head. "Damn, I don't know who to give the 'if you hurt her, I'll kill you' talk to."

Hands on her hips, Sam gives Dean what she hopes comes off as a considerate look. Judging by the petulant lowering of his brow, she didn't quite succeed. "You don't have to give that talk to anybody, Dean."

He frowns. "Just be careful with Charlie, okay? When you change back, you gotta... I dunno, let her down easy."

"She knows it's temporary," Sam murmurs, and it kills her.

Dean shrugs as he pushes off the railing. "Fine. But whatever happens, I don't want any cryin'."

"There won't be."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean heads back towards the door, pausing with his hand on the knob when he reaches it. "I'm gonna grab us some breakfast. Just wanted to make sure nobody PMSed anybody else to death first."

Sam rolls her eyes. "You know, Dean, you don't have to—"

Then it comes, pouring into every orifice: the silence. Biting and consuming. All-encompassing. Sam reaches out for Dean quite before she even remembers what's happening. Her hands grope along his side as everything goes weak and powerless, and suddenly she's on the floor and her body's limp around her.

Hands. Hands everywhere.

Scratching, clawing, touching, caressing. She tries to squirm away but she can't move, a prisoner in her own skin. The hands invade, slip beneath her clothing, knock knuckles against her teeth, press fingertips down the slope of her spine. Her throat spasms over an involuntary whimper, but no sound comes. Just quiet.

Then color.

Gray hits her like a waterfall and pushes over the empty landscape, coating a sky above and a slab of asphalt below. Then she sees the door: blue and chipped, slightly ajar. Beyond its edge she glimpses the flicker of claws and quick feet, maybe a glimmer of teeth. Then around the door spirals ivy, thick and wild and green, and before the door grows a mat with the incongruously innocent Wipe Your Paws mantra on it. Beyond the door, planks of wood begin to spread, winding out until they encase the shape of a house. The roof tumbles down and off its edges go cascades of water, a sudden soundless rumble of rain. A sidewalk wraps itself around the picket-fenced front yard in a slow slither, and then Sam sees it: a street sign. Willow and Birch.

Suddenly the voice: a spine-shuddering timbre, little more than vibrations that ring through her teeth.

I want you, Sam. Come to me. Come alone. I will ravage any uninvited guests. I want to talk with you. Come alone. Come to me.

Then coherency snaps back, stinging and complete.

"Sam? Sam?"

"I'm here," she gasps. She finds herself clutching Dean's jacket, head buried under his chin, just holding on. A weight comes heavy on the back of her head; she flinches, but it's just his hand, big and stroking gently through her hair.

"Hey, you're okay. It's gonna be okay. You're fine."

And she wants to pull away, but she can't, tethered to her brother by fingers gone numb with clinging. "I saw it. I saw where it lives," she gasps. Talking is like gargling with jell-o. "It said— it wanted me to come alone." She starts to stand. "I'm gonna kill this son of a bitch."

"Whoa, whoa, hold up." Dean fists his hands into the shoulders of her shirt and looks her right in the eyes, his brow hard. "Slow down. First of all, we ain't got a plan, and second, no way in hell am I letting you go alone to the demon that wants to own your ass."

"Dean—"

"No. Look, you calm down. Take a walk. Read a book. Go for round two with Charlie or something— I don't care. But we've waited, and we can wait a little longer. We just gotta put together a plan, figure out how I can back you up—"

Sam throws off Dean's hands with a pitchy scoff. "It said to come alone, Dean. What do I have to do to get it into your head that I'm still capable of hunting?"

"I don't doubt you can hunt, Sam. You're just not going alone," Dean snaps, swiping one hand in a gesture of finality. "I'm not gonna let some nasty bastard violate you just 'cause you're too full of yourself to know which fights to pick."

"Too full of—?" Sam's voice breaks off as her jaw clenches, and her neck twists in annoyance. Her skin feels too small, like every vein has gone bulging and every tendon has pulled tight. All the can think of are the words, I will ravage any uninvited guests and Dean's eyes, fear-wide and pupils gone to points. She snaps her gaze back toward Dean. "This has nothing to do with my ego! I'm saying: I'm the one with the connection to this thing, I'm what it wants, and I've already seen where it's hiding. I'm on equal ground with it now, but pissing it off by bringing you would be going in at a disadvantage."

"That's better than going into a trap." Dean puts up a hand and shakes his head before Sam can respond. "No. You know what? I'm gonna go get breakfast. You're gonna stay here and cool down." And he pushes out the door.

And Sam knows what she has to do.

She snatches her jacket from a peg by the door and follows Dean out. "Wait— Dean, wait."

At the sweet soft note she slips into her voice, Dean pauses at the open door of the Impala, his face guarded. "What?"

"I just— I'm sorry. You're right." The 6 AM breeze whips by, forcing Sam's bare legs together— and shit, she's still in her underwear. Not one of her more thought-out ideas. "I'm sorry. This chick thing is just throwing me off." She rubs a hand over her face, partially for effect, partially because it's uncomfortable to stand half-naked in the driveway, even if only Dean can see her. "I need to calm down and let you in on this one. And I will."

Dean's mouth and brow go a little skeptical, but his voice is careful. "God, Sam. Mood swings."

"I know," Sam says, and moves closer to the car. "I'm just— sorry. I've been a bitch." She moves ever-so-closer, opening her body language.

One corner of Dean's mouth flirts toward a smirk. "Well, maybe I've been a jerk. Look, we'll work out a plan when I get back, okay?"

Sam nods and takes one step nearer. "Okay."

Then she hugs him. Dean goes stiff and grumbles something annoying about "tits, dude," but gives her a grudging pat on the back after a moment. When she draws away, he flashes her a tense almost-smile, like someone skimped on the onion in his burger and he's trying to be nice about it, then retreats to the car. In moments, the Impala is a fading shape down the road, leaving dust in its wake.

Sam figures she has about four minutes before Dean notices she lifted the dagger from his jacket.

She rushes through the bunker, slipping silently into her room for her clothes and the emergency hunting bag she keeps under her bed. Hopping from one foot to the other as she pulls on her pants, she makes for Charlie's room, where she rifles around until she finds keys. Next she scrambles to gather the acacia, which she shoves into the bag, then struggles to get her bra on as she takes the stairs two at a time. Last on are her shoes and shirt, then she's peeling off in Charlie's car (and she is not going to think about what a major dickbag that makes her).

The road unfolds before her in a finite tug, much different from the sensation of aimless endlessness its twin lanes usually exude. A destination sits, clear and immovable, on the edge of her consciousness, like this is the only road in the world, and it's taking her right where she needs to go. She can't explain how she knows without a map which turns to take; the road just leads her. This sensation sends her blood buzzing. It's a familiar feeling, the kind she gets when she realizes oh crap that was too easy or wait just a damn minute this is a trap.

Rain begins to tap the windshield, and that's when she sees it.

The house of the Succubus sits gentle and unassuming amid sculpted mantles of greenery, all glistening bright with rainwater. Ivy curls around the posts of the small porch, and there's a mat reading Wipe Your Paws before the peeling blue door. Sam grimaces at it.

She parks a few blocks down and sets about preparing herself for battle. After a few miscellaneous demon-proofing measures, she sets about enchanting the dagger. It's not the cleanest job she's ever done, but assuming Dean's priest blessed it correctly, the acacia ashes are pure, the water from her emergency bag is still holy, and her and Charlie's blood is valid, it should all go well.

So, overall, chances are as good as usual.

Sam pulls her jacket on tight and steps out into the drizzle, enchanted knife and silver-bulleted gun both tucked into the band of her pants. A low creak issues from the gate of the picket fence when she pushes through it, causing her to tense in anticipation of an alerted enemy. But the Succubus is already expecting her, isn't it? She could probably scream and shout and execute dance moves on the lawn and it wouldn't make a difference to her situation. With this pleasant thought in mind, she reaches the front door, where she frowns down at the mat. A deep breath, an exhale, and Sam lifts a fist to knock—

The door peels open to a grin of a hundred teeth.

"Sam, darling," says the Succubus.

Sam feels as if her stomach has just shriveled up, but keeps her face hard.

The Succubus stands a head shorter than her, androgynous and haunting, but certainly beautiful. Black hair slips smooth over fine shoulders, eyelashes short and thick, features strong. The teeth gleam with saliva. Its voice is heavy and smooth and slithering:

"I'm so happy to meet you, sweetie."

"I think we've already met," Sam growls.

A grin splits the Succubus's face wide open. "Oh, of course," it says, and suddenly the boy from Wicks and Wonders stands there, purple shirt, stubble, scar and all. He's still grinning, this unholy thing that strains his lips until their chapped edges crack.

Sam suppresses a shiver, but does not waver. "Cute trick."

"Oh," its voice comes eerie, like it's speaking through a garbage disposal, "honey, that's not the cutest trick I have." Then a shiver, a twist, and the Succubus becomes the questionable sales clerk from the unmentionables store and— shit, that actually makes a lot of sense. The smile is the same, chilling and too-toothy.

"And," it continues, artificially chipper, "my personal favorite." Its hair goes frizzy and discolored, its body turning smaller and skinnier, and Sam recognizes the jittery little waitress from her first night as a woman. "I couldn't resist. I had to see you in person, Sam, get in a touch here, a compliment there— you're so pretty," it finishes in a mocking squeak of the waitress's voice.

Chaos thrums through Sam's body, an unpalatable mixture of chilled skin and boiling stomach. "You were that guy at the bar, too, aren't you? The one that groped me."

For a moment the Succubus-waitress's face goes blank, then the pretty little features slide back their original haunting mold, and they're laughing. "I saw that fellow. Wish I'd been able to get that close to your lovely drunken self, but I know better than to threaten you in front of that brother of yours, darling."

Unsure whether to be glad that the Succubus didn't stalk her while inebriated, or upset that the bastard in the fishing hat is actually a real-life douche bag walking the earth, Sam settles for a pointed grimace.

The Succubus simply smiles wider. "Oh, don't make that face. It's unbecoming of those beautiful eyes and— oh, that mouth." Its hand leaps to Sam's lips; she slaps it away and jerks back. The Succubus presses forward a blushing lower lip. "Don't frown, dear. Smile! Your smile is so lovely. I could fall head over heels for that smile, Sam Winchester."

There's a hitch in Sam's chest. The earth goes jittery beneath her feet. "Where— where the hell did you hear that?"

"From your lovely friend, of course!" A pat of condescension to Sam's cheek, then the Succubus stands back and gestures to the house inside. "Come in, won't you, darling?"

"No," Sam hisses, and she's seething, now, sucking deep breaths and fighting the urge to draw the blade and gank the damn thing. "How did you know Charlie said that?"

"Oh, sweetie." With a flippant wave of a hand, the Succubus lets roll a low, creeping laugh. "You've been hearing my beckoning for days, now. Did you really think it was one-way?"

"What— how much did you see?"

A smirk full of teeth. "Everything, sugar-pea. Everything but the boring bits."

"Why?" Deep breaths, Sam. Deep breaths. She itches to snatch a weapon out of her pants, but would it be surprised? Was it watching her in the car preparing, too? "Why watch me?"

The Succubus drips forward, liquid legs and flowing arms, so close that Sam can smell sulfur and cologne. "It's all about foreplay, Sammy."

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, you're so dominant!" A hand goes to the Succubus's sternum, poised in a raised-pinky imitation of flattery. "But you were so gentle with that little ginger vixen."

Sam's vision goes blurry at the edges. "You- you— shut up." Her teeth grind together. "You watched?"

"Of course, darling!" the Succubus laughs. "Why do you think I change the bodies of my partners before I take them? All humans are the same. Give them a new suit and they simply must try it out. And you didn't disappoint! Live Samantha-cam? Better than Casa Erotica any day. Especially Charlie. Oh, did she ever have her way with you!"

Sam's hand whips out the gun and fires off a shot before her brain catches up. The Succubus, missed by an inch, goes wide-eyed.

They stare.

The gun fires, cuts air once, again, again; the Succubus swerves, dodges, laughs.

"Easy, sweetie! Don't tire yourself. I don't want you all pliant when I get to you. I like 'em with some fight."

Another shot, another miss. The Succubus leaps backwards into the house and Sam follows. It dances backwards over a coffee table. A bowl of potpourri overturns with a crunch of dead flowers as Sam lunges after. She fires every time she thinks she has a chance, shooting wide at the Succubus, who winds away on fluid laughter. Then Sam gets a shot in— a nick, just by the chest— and the monster shrieks, face contorting into a mess of furrowed flesh and teeth. It turns black eyes on Sam, then with a sweep of its hand, the gun goes flying to the other side of the room.

Next thing Sam knows, she's on the floor with the air knocked out of her and an immovable Succubus crouching on her stomach.

"Did you really think this would end well, sweetie?" It grabs her by the wrists and presses her supine against the floor so that her spine stretches and the dagger at her back presses sharp into her skin.

"Why are you doing this?" Sam seethes through her teeth. "Why me?"

The Succubus rolls its eyes. "Because, Sam, you're a fine catch."

"But you changed me—"

"Not your looks, Romeo. If that was my only criteria, I so would've gone for your brother. No, I choose my victims by their souls, and I love your soul, Sam. It's— it's so raw." It shudders over the last word, making Sam's stomach go all twisty. "The skin of your soul's been all gnawed and stripped, and you know what's underneath? Power. You're the most powerful human I've ever come across. You're special. You're the Boy King, Sam Winchester, hand-fashioned to cradle Lucifer himself like it's nothing. Your blood is like gold and acid, and your spirit… oh, I could just lick it. So much mingled desperation and endurance, just a cocktail of martyrdom. The very same martyrdom that threw the apocalypse into a grinding halt. That's powerful. And do you know what, darling? Sex is power. Power is sex. And what better way to appreciate your power than to watch it torn away while you writhe all helpless underneath me?"

Sam's jaw aches, her teeth are clenched so tightly. She heaves deep breaths through her nose. "I'm gonna kill you."

The monster rolls its eyes. "Please don't. I've never been so hot on necrophilia, darling." And it pushes its hands up underneath her jacket.

Then it freezes. Tries to move. Can't. Its eyes widen. "What—?"

Sam will never be sure how this happens. Perhaps it is her own cunning, or the Succubus driven to carelessness by its own lust, or maybe just pure, dumb, Winchester luck. Probably a mixture.

Whatever it is, it gives Sam the power to throw her jacket over the Succubus, pinning it beneath the devil's trap drawn on the inside, then go for the dagger at her back, and flip them. She lands crouching on the creature with her knife-tip pressed against its throat. They stare at each other, breathing mutually hard enough to power a wind turbine, then the Succubus gasps,

"How—?"

And Sam says, "Should've paid attention to the boring bits, too." She presses forward with the dagger.

The succubus squeaks. "Wait, wait!" it cries, writhing against the weight of Sam's thighs. "Look, look, here's the thing: I'm willing to offer you a deal. You let me go, and when I'm good and far away and I'm sure you're not following me, I'll turn you back." At Sam's silence, it gulps. "Or, you can kill me right now and be stuck like that forever. Your call."

Sam's lungs feel far too small, like they're going to collapse in on themselves if she doesn't get control of herself. "You're fucking insane."

"No, darling, just a sadist." Sam clenches down on the monster with her thighs, and it squirms beneath the jacket, hissing. "Whaddaya say?" it gasps. "Ready to lose the soft bits and get back to normal?"

"What makes me think I'd trust you?"

"Oh, I don't think you would. I think you know I'd just go out and keep doing what I've been doing: defiling virgins, sucking souls dry, spying on nerdy little redheads who get zany in bed. I just think you're willing to look the other way if it means getting reunited with your penis." Then it smirks. "All the other hunters have been. After I had my way with them, of course. They didn't get the drop on me like this." It shrugs. "Like I said, you're special."

"I guess I am." Then Sam clutches the Succubus's hair and drives the dagger into its neck. A deafening shriek issues broken over the metal, muffled in blood. The monster goes hitching and twisting and finally boneless, its eyes a void of demon-black. Sam shoves to her feet, cleans the dagger on her jacket. Stands there a moment, looking down. Breathes deep. Trembles.

So, it's over.

Sam Winchester resigns herself to the fact that she's done the right thing, wipes a shock of blood off her cheek, and leaves the door open behind her when she leaves.

—

Charlie is waiting for her in front of the bunker.

Sam parks in the driveway, gets out, and hardly has a chance to take Charlie in— unshowered, rigid, paler than usual— before the smaller woman is saying, so quiet it's hardly audible over the wind,

"You scared the shit out of me."

Sam stops cold. Fuck. She hadn't given a single thought to whether Charlie would be worried. "I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

"Stop. Please. Sam, I just—" Charlie's lips tighten and she glances to some far-flung place, shifting on her feet. When she meets Sam's eyes again, there's a barely perceivable shake about her. "Dean freaked when he got back. Told me what you saw." Her forehead laces into furrows. "Did you go after the demon?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

A sharp nod, then Charlie covers the last few feet between them and lands a punch against Sam's arm. It doesn't hurt, but Sam staggers all the same, taken aback.

"You are a douchewad!"

Sighing, Sam rubs uselessly at her shoulder. "I know."

Charlie puts her hands to her hips. "What if it had done something awful to you? Or you had died?" Abruptly she stills. Her face softens for a moment, then tightens up again. "You know, permanently."

Taking a gamble, Sam puts one hand heavy on Charlie's shoulder and is rewarded when the muscle goes soft and the other woman leans into the touch. "It told me to come alone, Charlie. Dean wasn't gonna let me, so I had to leave quick. But it's fine. It wasn't nearly the worst demon I've ever dealt with." A smile takes hostage one corner of her mouth. "Died easy and everything."

Charlie's eyes widen. "Wait, what? You killed it?"

Sam nods. Charlie looks her up and down, then takes a step back. "Is it— what, delayed-acting fix? Do you take a while to change? You don't have to, like, shed your skin or anything, right? 'Cause that's—"

"Charlie." Sam brings both of her hands down on the other woman's shoulders, gentle and quieting. "I had to kill the Succubus. It wouldn't change me back."

There's a moment of tense confusion, Charlie's eyes slightly narrowed and her shoulders hard, then she goes slack.

"But you're still a chick," she says.

Sam puts her hands out in display. "Yep."

Charlie's eyes go a million miles an hour, skipping from the blood on Sam's jacket to her tangled hair to the slope of her hips. "But that means—"

"Yeah. It's permanent." And that should probably scare her more than it does. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet; maybe she'll wake up in the middle of the night days from now on the verge of mental breakdown; maybe this will eventually ruin her life. But right now, it's got her heart racing. "Look, Charlie, since I'm— you know, since I'm a woman now, and since our blood worked on the Succubus, I was wondering if you'd. You know."

Charlie shifts. "If I'd what?"

Fuck, Sam. You can do it. She draws a deep breath and says on the exhale, "If you'd stay here with me."

Silence. They stand, staring at each other, two parts separate trepidation to one part shared shock: shock that Sam would actually ask for this, this illusive thing that's seemed unachievable until now. Because who would have thought Sam would ever be here, a new creature, standing before an old friend and asking her to be something more? Is it even possible? It could be a ridiculous hope, something as foolish as sitting up and waiting for Santa Claus— but isn't that what their world is made of? Impossible things? Sam wants to believe. Wants to think she can have this one impossible thing, this tiny sliver of happiness.

Sam almost hopes.

Then Charlie says, "I can't."

A gulp punches down Sam's clenching throat. "Charlie—"

"You were right. Earlier. When you said— you said we shouldn't. And you were right. I'm not—" Her head falls to one side and huffs out a breath, like her neck and lungs just gave up. "I'm not made for all this. I wish I could be a badass demon-fighting research babe with a hot, sensitive girlfriend who kills sons of bitches and takes names, but who am I kidding? That's not me. I sit at desks and only talk to people in roleplaying games, and I can't live thinking I might…" She rolls her shoulders and finally meets Sam's eyes. She's cringing. "Like one of us is going to die bloody any day."

"It's not like you have to go out and hunt with us or anything," Sam says, and it's too quick, too desperate. But she goes on. "This place is warded against everything you can think of. It's, like, the safest building on the planet. And there's that extra room if you want it— or, you know. My room." Shitshitshit Sam, why would you say that? "I mean, I can't make you stay. It's not like this is an awesome life or anything. But I know what I'm doing, and I'm still here, right? You don't have to worry about me. And you can be okay here. Safe and everything."

When Charlie says nothing, Sam steels herself, thanks the absent God that she's come low enough to do this, and begs. "Please, Charlie."

Because Charlie can't leave. She can't leave Sam alone with Dean again, Dean and his renewed skepticism, with that look in his eyes like he's got to fix Sam again, like being in a different body is the same as getting in bed with a demon or having no fucking soul. She can't do it, can't keep living without one single person who believes in her. Because she's done so, so many terrible things, and because of them she doesn't deserve Dean. But she's purged herself as best as she can, trying to be pure, trying to be good enough, and Charlie is the only one who's noticed. Now that she's had a taste, she doesn't know if she can go without.

And if that isn't sick and dependent, she doesn't know what is.

But Charlie's lip gives this helpless little quiver and she breathes, "I'm sorry, Sam."

And that's that.

Head hung, Sam digs Charlie's keys out of her pocket and tosses them back to her. Charlie catches them, makes a small noise that could be "thanks" or could be "sorry." Then she draws forward and pushes her arms around Sam, who leans down against her, wrapping the smaller body up in her grip, clutching, cherishing. They stand there in each other's warmth until Sam feels a spot of moisture growing where Charlie's face is pressed against her chest.

They don't look at each other when they pull apart.

Sam takes out her phone and turns her eyes to it (12 messages, 18 missed calls). She fires a text to Dean (i'm ok. back home. srry) and very deliberately does not look up as she hears the bunker door clang shut behind Charlie.

When she heads inside, herself, she goes straight to her room, locks herself in the bathroom, and strips down. She showers mechanically, focused purely on each task at hand. If her body is shaking and all she wants to do is sink down into the bottom of the shower and lay there, then that's just the ecstasy and agony of a close hunt. That's all. She doesn't bother to wring out her hair, ignoring the dark spot that spreads across the shoulders of the overlarge t-shirt she pulls on. On the bottom, she wears an old pair of jeans. She doesn't touch the clothes Charlie helped her pick out.

As planned, Charlie is gone when she emerges from her shower. The room Charlie had been in is vacant of her bag, and her iPad is gone from the library table. Just to be sure, Sam checks the driveway; no car.

She's just about to head back in and drink every available bit of alcohol she can find when the low rumble of the Impala breaks over the bunker walls. She turns, and sure enough: there's Dean, tearing down the driveway. He executes one of his poorest parking jobs yet and throws the door open.

"Sam!" Dean pushes out of the car. "What the fuck! Are you alright? What the hell happened?"

"It's dead," Sam says.

The shoe drops. Dean's face goes loose. "You're still a girl," he says.

"Yeah."

Down comes the other shoe. "Wait— shit, Sam, you ganked it before it turned you back?"

Sam sighs. "It gave me an ultimatum. It was only gonna turn me back if I let it go."

For a moment Dean just sputters, then he throws out his arms. "So you should've let it go!"

"Dean! It was a rapist demon. Are you kidding me?"

"I don't know, Sam! Are you prepared to be a girl for the rest of your fucking life?" He's breathing hard, now. Distressed. Worried?

Sam's insides thrum with unrest. She doesn't know what to do with this. "Hey— Dean, it's okay."

"No, it's fuckin'—"

"Yes, it is." She expects backlash, but Dean stills at the conviction in her tone. A deep breath, then she continues. "Look, we kill monsters. It's what we do. And that was— that was one of the most repulsive monsters I've seen." Dean's brow goes skeptical at that, but Sam forges on. "And it's not like I'm not gonna miss being a guy, but this whole woman thing isn't so bad. It's not any worse than before, just different. And okay, maybe I would have wanted to go back to normal, but I kind of like this too, and we've been through a lot of new normals, so maybe this is one of those. Seriously, I'm fine."

Dean frowns. "Sam, I can count on one hand the number of times you've told me you're fine and it was actually true. You could be having the fucking identity crisis of the century in there and I'd never know. You wanna be a chick forever?" He tosses up his hands. "Hell, whatever! But you gotta be honest with me about what's going on in your head, 'cause I can't do this thinking you might be eternally fucked over in there, and I can't go hunting with somebody who can't even get a handle on themselves."

Everything inside of her clenches up, throat and chest and stomach. "It's not like that. I'm— I don't know, man, I'm stable, okay?" She rakes her hands through her hair, fingers catching in the wet ropes like seaweed. "Look, honestly, I really am okay with it. I don't feel any different on the inside. I'm still Sam. I'm good, Dean. I swear."

And Dean looks at her, honestly looks. The lines sit sharp on his face; the corners of his mouth pull. Then his eyelids draw together and there's a slight nod to his chin. A sigh. "Okay, Sammy," he murmurs. "Okay. I'm gonna believe you."

Sam wonders if Atlas would feel like this, were the earth lifted from his shoulders.

A shuffle of feet, then Dean says, unexpectedly, "Y'now, you remind me of her when you're like this." Sam's stomach goes aflutter at the mention of her.

"Kinda sound like her," Dean continues. "And that smile—" He shakes his head. "Maybe a little too close to home. But it's good." He clears his throat. "Almost pretty."

Before Sam can even consider how to react to that (flattered? confused? bullying him for it until the end of time?) Dean punches her none-too-lightly on the arm and pulls on his bravado just like that.

"I'm still fucking pissed you went after that thing by yourself," he says in a tone that suggests "fucking pissed" is a bit of an exaggeration.

Sam sighs into the collar of her shirt. "Yeah, sorry about that."

He puts up his hands in mock innocence. "All's I'm saying is you totally deserve bleeding out your crotch once a month for the rest of your life."

"Gross, Dean," Sam says, but there's no venom there.

Dean dismisses her. "Gross for you, not for me. I don't wanna know about it. Guess that's what Charlie's here for." He glances around, frowning. "Where is she, anyway?"

Fuck. Sam looks away, unsure what her expression will say, whether Dean will blame her or look down on her or God knows what.

His voice is careful. "Sam? What happened?"

"I asked her to stay." Sam's voice is strained. She pushes her hands deeper into her coat, still refusing to meet Dean's gaze. "She didn't want to. Left about twenty minutes ago."

"God," Dean murmurs. "Sorry, Samantha."

Sam shakes her head and scoffs low. Does Dean really have to do that? "You gotta quit it with that Samantha stuff, man. It's Sam."

"I know, Sammy," Dean says. "I know." Then he hugs her, brief but tight, so quick that Sam hardly thinks to return his squeeze before he's pulling away. He claps her on the back. "Sorry."

She is really not going to think about the way her eyes are stinging. "Are we good?" she asks, cautious.

Dean cuffs her on the shoulder, and then he starts smiling, of all things. Nothing big or bright, just kind of sad, kind of resigned. But smiling. "We're good."

And Sam could live with that. She could survive on Dean's stunted affection, on the first signs of trust budding between them again. She could forget Charlie and go back to sharing beers and cleaning guns and falling into step with her brother, and that could be okay.

But for once in her long and damned life, Sam is allowed to be more than okay.

Both Winchesters turn simultaneously at the sound of the approaching engine. The yellow shock of Charlie's car turns the corner and Sam doesn't dare to get her hopes up— maybe she forgot something, or she's coming back to see Dean, or- fuck, who knows?— but then Charlie throws the car into park a hundred feet up the drive and busts out of the door. She comes down the road at a run. Sam hardly has time to register the cry of, "I'm sorry, I'm the worst at big decisions!" before they're only feet apart and Charlie is fucking leaping.

Charlie's legs wrap instantly around Sam's waist, and the larger woman doesn't miss a beat, just puts one foot behind her for balance and holds Charlie effortlessly against her. For a moment they stare, wide eyes into wide eyes, then Charlie says, "I'm stupid. Of course I'll stay. I'm still scared shitless, but that's the point, right? I want to learn how to gank things, and I want to fall asleep on big smelly books while we're trying to research, and I want to wake up next to you in the mornings, and yes, yes, I want to stay."

Charlie kisses Sam like the whole world is riding on it.

And it's so right. It's good and perfect and everything Sam has ever wanted, clumsy and impassioned and featuring some slightly inappropriate tongue. Charlie's hand goes tight and almost painful into her hair, and Sam's arms tremble under Charlie's weight as she crushes them together, and yes. God, yes, she deserves to win for once. She lets slip a helpless, joyful noise into Charlie's mouth; Charlie laughs and winds her arms around Sam's neck, pushing them closer.

Somewhere out in the real world, Dean says, "Jesus! Get a room!"

Charlie smiles against Sam's lips, then flips Dean the bird.

And Sam believes, for the first time in a long time, that happiness could be possible.