Title: 27 Bones
Summary: There are 27 bones in the human hand.
Disclaimer: Kripke et al owns everything I would like to own, but do not.
A/N: Thanks to
897 words. A smut-angst milkshake. Cross-posted at the usual places. Feedback feeds the soul.
There are 27 bones in the human hand.
When Dean knocked on the door of Jo’s apartment over Tipsy’s Dry Cleaning and Video Rental, she wasn’t expecting company. When he pressed his way into her apartment and started rambling about “unfinished business” and “loose ends,” she wasn’t grasping his meaning. When he suddenly shut up and advanced on her in three swift, bow-legged strides, she wasn’t prepared for his hard touch. When he pushed her against the wall and his hands snaked up her shirt to find her breasts before his mouth had even latched onto hers, she wasn’t smart enough to ask him “why” or proud enough to tell him, “no.”
So instead she told him, “yes”—and didn’t stop saying it until he collapsed onto her body in a selfish, post-orgasmic malaise, only half-naked on her living room floor. And even then, she kept whispering it over his shoulder—“yes, yes, yes, yes”—as she stroked the thick muscles of his back with her small hand.
Of those bones, 8 are carpal, or wrist bones.
She’s thinking now—as she clutches the door knob to keep from slamming it so hard she shatters out the glass—of how solid and hot-skinned Dean’s arm was when she curled her hand as far as she could around his bicep and tugged him into the bedroom.
She’s thinking of how his hipbone fit perfectly beneath her curved palm as she licked her way across his hard belly to find him with her mouth, crisp curls and soft balls cradled in her other hand as her tongue worked him.
She’s thinking of how her fingers curled into his scalp and grabbed at his ears to keep his lips tight to her clit as his own thicker, longer fingers plunged and filled her; his jade eyes flickering up to meet hers over the pale fur of her mound.
She’s thinking of how her short nails dug half-moons into his thighs and scratched long lines down his back as he thrust into her with his head thrown back, mouth open in a soundless roar.
The palm is comprised of 5 metacarpals.
She’s thinking of how she dragged her fingertips through his hair as he drifted off to sleep, even as he weakly protested that he had to get back on the road.
She’s thinking of how she spread her hand wide across his left shoulder and felt the raised lump of scar tissue Sam and she had given him in
She’s thinking of how she reached between her own legs after his breathing turned rhythmic and deep and fingered her folds to marvel at how swollen and slick he’d made her.
She’s thinking of how she slid her arm around and bent her wrist to cup his sleep-soft dick, imagining she actually had some kind of ownership over it, and thereby, him.
The proximal, intermediate and distal phalanges—or fingers—make up the final 14.
She’s thinking of how she rolled over and skimmed her hand along the mattress to find him, but came up with a fistful of cooling sheets and the sight of him, fully clothed and standing beside the bed.
She’s thinking of how his 4 a.m. shadow was rough beneath her palm as she held it against his cheek while he kissed her long and sorry, one arm holding her down against the bed so she wouldn’t rise with him when he pulled back.
She’s thinking of how she reached out with fingers to snatch one more feel of him as he moved away, but all she got was the hem of his shirt, and then that was gone, too.
She’s thinking of how she could still smell the tang of his cum on her skin as she pressed her hand against her mouth to keep from calling after him and asking him to stay.
There are 27 bones in Jo Harvelle’s right hand.
But now, two months later, she’s clutching the doorknob and watching the retreating form of Sam Winchester as he walks away slow and weighty to an empty, beige Ford Taurus in the parking lot beneath Tipsy’s. He folds himself into the driver’s seat and doesn’t look back up at Jo in the doorway. Just drives off without so much as a kick-up of dust. Leaves like a bomb didn’t just detonate.
Like Dean’s not dead and hell-trapped, and Jo didn’t just snarl at Sam that it should have been him.
It was just one night—just one night when she had her hands on Dean Winchester…all over Dean Winchester...and didn’t know why or how or what it meant, but supposed there would be time enough to figure that all out. No reason to be a chick about it and start asking questions she probably wouldn’t like the answers to anyway. Well, she was right on that count. She didn’t like the answer.
She looks down at her hands now—her trembling hands—and she’s thinking of how she never knew someone could literally slip through your fingers.
Dean didn’t tell her she needed to hold on that tight.
Jo discovers that if you drink enough tequila, you can punch your front door hard enough and often enough to break all 27 bones in your right hand. The secret is to keep saying “yes” and not have the guts to say “no.”