Title: "A Beautiful Taste"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Supernatural/Gilmore Girls
Rating/Classification: language and sexual content, crossover, humor, some angst, Lorelai/Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own either set of characters, though I admit I'm totally infringing and enjoying it! Summary: 2475 words. His face is leaner than Dean Forester's.

Lorelai squints at the guy and it is entirely possible that she's been staring for an ungodly long time because his cheeks tinge slightly red and he stutters out, "Um, Ma'am?" That pretty much confirms that she's wrong. No, this isn't Dean Forester, because Dean Forester never had a southern drawl. And then it makes her think "Oh, God, am I really a 'Ma'am?" and she stares down at herself to make sure she's not wearing a Pepto Bismol pink pantsuit and a string of pearls.

Nope. Still jeans and a Yale T-shirt of Rory's. Only, it's not actually Rory's because Rory hasn't worn it. She just bought it for some unknown person like you do when you're bored at the college bookstore. So, theoretically, it's that unknown person's T-shirt and Lorelai stole it out of Rory's luggage, but, in any case, she doesn't look like a 'Ma'am,' and that's all that counts.

Actually, since the guy seems somewhat cognizant and seems to have all his fingers and toes (not that she can see his toes; he's wearing cowboy boots. How Texan of him.), he probably counts pretty well, too.

"Ma'am," he says again, looking nervously around the street, and she has to correct him, "Lorelai," before she starts clutching pearls that aren't there. "Don't worry, I'm not a crazy person," she adds for good measure. "You just look very Dean-like."

Now he's the one squinting. "I don't look like Dean at all. Dean's short, for one," he snorts. "And I'm much better lookin'." But even as he says this, the tips of his ears are pink and he's scuffing his boot against the asphalt.

"Forester?" There's probably a lumberjack joke in there somewhere, but Lorelai wants to get this whole identity thing out of the way before she starts singing any songs and bringing up flannel. Plus, she doesn't want to add to his inferiority complex.

The guy, Not Dean, shakes his head. "Winchester. My brother. Who's Dean Forester?"

"Would you believe my daughter's ex-boyfriend? I caught them having sex once. That was traumatic. In fact, I still haven't gotten over it. Isn't Winchester a kind of rifle? God, I wish I'd had a rifle then…" She drifts off because Not Dean is looking around again, like he's hoping to be hit by a truck or Touched By an Angel…or both. "Seriously. Not a crazy person," she repeats.

"I believe you." Only he says it in that slow, soothing way you talk to people in the psych ward. "I'm Sam. I'm just passin' through."

Lorelai has to laugh. "Nobody 'passes through' Star's Hollow. It's like the Bermuda Triangle. You crash here horribly and are never heard from again. You have to eat your crew to survive. Though I have no idea how you'd eat your crew underwater. I guess that would make them seafood…"

Not Dean, a.k.a Sam, actually laughs like he's not trying to talk her into a strait jacket. "Dean's older. The meat might not be all that tender," he notes. "But I haven't seen him in about an hour. You think someone else got to him?"

An hour, huh? Lorelai vaguely remembers seeing a nice face and a tight male behind sauntering into Luke's. Since she's still avoiding Luke, she didn't pursue it…despite every last female impulse screaming, "Follow that ass!"

"Was that the guy who looks like Eric Brady? Oh, no." She clicks her tongue. "I think Miss Patty might have seasoned that poor soul and thrown him in the pot."

Sam's eyebrows furrow and she notes that his face is leaner than Dean Forester's. It has more years, more experience. But not in the craggy Robert Redford way. More like the 'you won't be arrested for investigating the rest of me but you'll probably still feel dirty about it' way. "Who's Eric Brady?" he asks. "Did he date your daughter, too?"

"Shame on you, Sam. Your pop culture knowledge is sorely lacking." She waves in the general direction of Patty's studio. "You might want to check over there. I'd come with you, but I have delicate sensibilities."

"Ma'am--" She looks at him, pointedly. He flushes, revealing dimples that are practically like craters. It's incredibly cute and she's almost tempted to make a moon landing. "I mean, Lorelai…begging your pardon, but I don't think anything about you is delicate."

"You should see the backs of my knees. They're like porcelain."

Of course, she's had better pick up lines, but she's also usually anywhere else but smack in the middle of Star's Hollow talking to someone who looks like Rory's first love but is somehow taller and more muscular and decidedly Red State-ish. Not that she's going to ask if he voted for Bush. If she's lucky, maybe he just listened to Bush. That Gavin Rossdale…Gwen found herself a catch.

"I'll bet they are." He swallows, grins again, looks like he wants to take her up on the offer but has six things to do first. Isn't that always the way? "But I should really find my brother. He's got the car."

Thrown over for a short brother and a car. Lorelai wonders if she should be insulted. And then she wonders what kind of car it is, because she wouldn't mind being thrown over for, say, a classic cherry red Corvette or Kitt from Knight Rider.

So, she asks. As one does.

"1967 Chevy Impala. Black." How Sam says this with a straight face, she'll never know.

Lorelai is still laughing -- how and why in the world are two twenty-something hunks driving a car older than the both of them? -- as she reaches out and takes Sam's hand. And yeowch, is that a good choice, because his fingers are long and his palm is warm and delicious little sparks immediately shoot up her arm. Figuratively. Being that she's not one of the X-Men. "Come on," she says, "you're lucky I just happen to have a 1967 black Impala parked in the lot at the Dragonfly. And your midget soap star brother is lucky I didn't have it towed."

Sam falls into step with her with a surprising lack of protest and only minimal squinting. Lorelai has to admit that walking shoulder to shoulder with Dean (Forester) and interlacing her fingers with his wouldn't have felt nearly as good.


They find Dean in the inn's kitchen, inhaling fresh-baked gourmet muffins and having an eerily familiar "Ma'am" exchange with Lorelai's best friend, Sookie.

"See, he survived Miss Patty. Though I'd be happy to check and see if he's missing any toes."

Sam feels the knee-jerk jealousy coil in the pit of his stomach. A feeling he can't explain even though he loves his brother more than life. But then Lorelai's pretty blue eyes dance with amusement and he realizes she's pulling his leg and, Dean's toes be damned, his extremities are the only ones she's interested in.

She practically talked his ear off on the short walk over and he only caught about 50% of it. The parts where she talked about how big they grew 'em in Texas ("I'm from Kansas.") and the smile lines around her mouth telegraphed, "I want to sleep with you."

He hasn't been with anyone since Jess. He's not sure he should be with Lorelai, despite the fit of her jeans and her gorgeous face. But when she takes apart a muffin and pops a bite of it into his mouth, he's pretty damn certain he's not gonna have much choice. Her fingers trail teasing over his top lip, it's probably only a few seconds at the most, and he's the hardest he's been in a long time.

"D-delicious," he stammers out.

Dean's eyebrows go sky high and he makes a clear "go for it," motion before whimpering blissfully at Sookie's mention of classic five alarm chili and fresh baked bread.

Great. They've got demons to chase in Vermont, of all places, and Dean wants to listen to his stomach while Sam listens to his raging hard-on.

Maybe Lorelai was right. This place really is like the Bermuda Triangle.

But the crash is going to be anything but horrible.


She hasn't done this in a long time, possibly ever. Taking a stranger to bed. There was Chris and then Max and then Chris again and Luke. But then she looks at him and he doesn't have a stranger's face, does he? He's familiar and his body is lean and hard in all the right places. Actually, are there any wrong places on Sam Winchester? Probably not. She hopes she gets to find them. And she hopes she gets to do most of the searching lying down because while she's no slouch in the height department, he's tall enough -- "lanky" is what they call it -- that they both might need a chiropractor before this is over.

"You're barely older than Rory," she murmurs, when the door to the guest suite clicks shut behind them. "What am I doing?"

He doesn't ask, so he probably picked it up in context…God knows, she's got a lot of context to offer…and he brushes his knuckles up and down her cheek like he's the one who's pushing forty and seen way too much. "I think you were showing me your delicate knees."

His voice is husky and low and the way he says, "Lorelai," erases the last traces of the kid from Chicago that turned her daughter into the walking, talking Scarlet Letter. It's just the tiniest bit hesitant, but mostly committed. Convicted. Like he's walking right into the electric chair and, okay, that's probably not the best comparison in the world and now Lorelai is the one hesitating, backing up until she hits the footboard of the bed and searching Sam's eyes for confirmation that she's somehow Mrs. Robinson-ed him into this and he'd rather be chugging chili with Dean or cozying up to that black Impala and calling it "Annabelle."

"If you're having second thoughts, we could just…cuddle, you know. Or play Battleship."

"Naw." He swallows, scuffs at the rug with his boot. "It's just that I haven't done this in a while."

"What, cuddle?"

"My girlfriend, she…" He drags his ginormous hand through his shaggy brown hair.

"Left you for a woman? Dumped you for a buff English soccer player named Niall?"

"Died," he says, softly, closing his eyes.

Okay, that's way worse. And Lorelai knows that "I'm sorry"s are appropriate responses in times like this, that sex is probably a no-no because all signs point to him crying in the middle of it, but she's never been particularly appropriate, so she moves back to him and takes his Not Dean face in her hands and kisses him.

It's the kind of slow, soft kiss that says things more eloquently than her trademark stream-of-consciousness babble that probably browbeat him into coming to the inn with her. At least, it is until he crushes her to his chest and turns up the heat and intensity about six notches. And she gets the message. Now is not the time to be eloquent. Now is the time to wrap her legs around his waist and hold on for dear life as he launches a full-scale assault on her lips and tongue. He's playing Battleship after all, sinking her with little to no effort.

She retaliates by attacking the button and fly of his jeans, by yanking his T-shirt up and forcing him to pull back just enough so that she can tug it over his head and toss it aside. Sam is all angles to her curves. He's tanned where she's still winter pale. He's scarred where she doesn't have a single scratch. Maybe he is a lumberjack. "T-timber," she gasps out, when he falls with her to the bed. He chuckles and she's glad because she doesn't think she could explain the reference right now, not with his palms sliding up her calves so he can lift her legs and very thoroughly inspect the porcelain-ness of the backs of her knees.

He presses his lips to the creases, giving his seal of approval, and she gasps out his name and "please." She doesn't even say "please," when she's ordering extra mu shu pork at Al's Pancake World, but she's saying, "please," now because she might die if Sam doesn't crawl all the way up her body and use that ever-so-polite southern mouth to kiss her again.

And, God, he really is so well bred, because he listens to her. He slides over her and braces his palms on the pillow on either side of her head. He kisses her like he might never get to do it again.

He kisses her laugh lines and the crinkles that will some day be crow's feet. He teasingly nips at her earlobe and thanks his stars that she feels nothing like Jess, tastes nothing like Jess. Lorelai is gorgeous and womanly and she tells him exactly where she wants him to be, exactly what she wants him to do…all without saying a word. In bed, she's nearly silent. She does all the talking with sighs and gasps and her heel drumming Morse code against the back of his thigh.

Sam's cock is as lean and long as the rest of him and he thrusts into her with torturingly shallow jabs, flirting with her the same way he flirts with his shy, dimpled grin. His breath is warm against her ear and he murmurs things she doesn't understand. What sounds like Latin and feels like secrets he doesn't share with anyone.

When he comes, it seems to last forever, beyond her, and she's pretty much getting herself off a third time just as he buries his face in her neck and bites off a name that definitely isn't hers. In fact, it's one of Rory's other questionable boyfriends…and probably also the girl he lost.

He's just passing through, she reminds herself. Just passing through.

So she kisses his temple, pushes him onto his back, and tells him it's totally okay to call her "Ma'am," this time.


Sam wakes up sometime in the middle of the night relieved that Lorelai is still in his arms. Her leg is trapped between both of his and her head is tucked beneath his chin. Something warm drops onto his cheek and he knows…he knows it isn't blood.

She sleepily wipes away the tear with her thumb and asks him to tell her all about Texas.

"I'm from Kansas," he reminds.

"I know. Be creative."

He squints down at her in the dark and before he shows her just how creative he can be, he thanks the Lord that Dean Forester got the Hell out of this Triangle and left Lorelai Gilmore for him to swallow whole.


February 5, 2007.

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