sageྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

22 / sheher sam enthusiast

[alasdecas]

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝄞

sage. 22. she/her. writer at times. esp/eng. sam girl. music lover. ┆ "i like you the way you are." ⋆˚₊ 𖤓☽˚.⋆

┆𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐭 𝐦𝐞 [inbox: always open. req: closed]

talk 2 me anytime! im here to interact, make moots, read, shit post and sometimes write!

[1nsignia]

18+ mdni, sam winchester

—————————————————————————

i don’t care what anybody says, sam winchester is a freak in bed

i’m talking about putting you in a chokehold, your face suffocating in his biceps and drooling on it mindlessly from the backshots he was giving you, his hips ruthlessly snapping to yours while your back gave him that beautiful arch he loved so much 

his bicep would be covered by your saliva, red bite marks and hickeys bright and evident on his skin. 

“uh huh” sam panted, eyes pinned down on yours and examining your expression— a fucked up, lewd expression squished by his bicep— a sight to behold. “keep that back arched for me, mmm”

i’m talking about gripping your hair whenever you were straddling him, the slight tug making you moan in the hungry, passionate kiss and giving him enough space for his tongue to slide in your mouth 

and because of that, there was no way to hide that beautiful face of yours from him. even when your face was buried in his shoulder as you rode his cock, breathless gasps of “sam! mph- sam”  leaving your lips. it made his hand—that was already buried in your hair— lift your head up by your hair to lock your lips into a messy, open-mouthed kiss

“don’t hide from me” sam murmured in your mouth, his other hand pulling your leg closer to bury his cock more into your cunt. “wanna see your face when you make a mess all over me”  the drag of his length in and out was stretching out your poor, fluttering walls. enough for your hips to slightly jerk back and a small sound leave your lips, only for it to be swallowed by sam and easily hold your hips in place with one hand, the other still buried and gripping onto the locks of your hair 

and i’m talking about his large, large hand around your neck as he has you pinned under him in missionary, hovering on top of you and whispering filthy things in your ear to add onto the wet, slaps of his cock in your needy cunt 

“thaaaats it. youre doing so so good f’me, baby” “god, you look so good like this” your throat would bob in his palm and his thumb would brush under your jaw, a subtle gesture so soft it felt almost out of place from how eager sam was for you, how starved he was a moan left his lips when the veins on his length were brushed perfectly, biting your shoulder to swallow back his sounds as he kept murmuring on your skin without a thought. “fuck, you have no idea how you drive me crazy” 

absolute. freak. 

————————————————————————— main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @vianawaits @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @oh-sheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @advline @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 @scissorhvnds @branchesofmagic @devilslittlehelper @starr-jazz @nightwingblvd @yukimaniac @freddiweasly @devorator666 @dadump @ftkats @starl1ghtgr4yson @st4rstuddedreblogs @em12021 @heleneae

@darkxwolfsstuff @imintoomanyfandoms14 @littlelightbearer @th3d1nOr3ad3r @psychopompsblog @wwolfsca @kaiiii1009 @century-eggg @tvhore @chickenchickenpie @fanofthebatfam @sillygayfreak @tskdeion @potatoheartsyou @faepoetry @theall-seeingone (tags are open)

©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Can You Help Me Occupy My Brain?

(Sam Winchester x fem!reader)

Summary: Insomnia is the ghost that haunts Sam every night. No matter how exhausted he is, how fancy the motel, how warm your body is pressed against his. There’s only one thing that helps. You.

CW: Smut/angst/fluff, unprotected piv (yikes), lots of Sam Winchester guilt, insomnia, Sam being sickeningly sweet, lots of praise, sort of switch!Sam, sweet aftercare

WC: 6.0K

Insomnia’s a bitch.

Or so you’ve heard.

When you’re a hunter, you spend a lot of time awake. Whether you’re researching a new case, driving across the country, or ganking monsters most people only see in their worst nightmares—you’re always busy. So when you’re finally in a motel room, encased in darkness, underneath the warmth of a blanket, and get the chance to sleep? You take it. 

But for Sam? Sleep never comes easy. Never has.

So even now, after hours spent in the library until the two of you could barely keep your eyes open, Sam’s wide awake. You’re tangled up in each other, your cheek resting on his chest, his warm arm wrapped protectively around you. And while you’re dead to the world, he’s staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling.

He shifts restlessly beneath you, his mind refusing to fall silent. The steady rhythm of your slow and peaceful breathing a soothing comfort, one he longed to succumb to himself. But Sam Winchester has never been a lucky man.

His gaze drops to your face, taking in the tranquility etched into your features. You look so at peace, it almost makes him envious; but he doesn’t show it. His fingers trace soothing circles on the bare skin of your waist beneath your shirt, like he’s trying to lull himself to sleep right along with you. 

His hand wanders, tracing the contour of your shoulder, then drifts down your arm. The touch is barely even there, like he’s afraid of disturbing your sleep, but he can’t help but touch. His body aches to do something. To move. But with you, all peaceful, nestled on top of him like this, he can’t. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.

Slowly, he attempts to pry himself carefully from your sleeping form, trying not to wake you. He knows better than anyone how important sleep is to a hunter. But wherever he was trying to go, he doesn’t get far. Not with the whine that slips from your lips, the way your body relaxes into him like you crave nothing but closeness.

He feels a pang of guilt at the sound, and he immediately knows he’s anchored in place. No way he can move without waking you, and he’d never risk it. He tries not to let him bother him too much. He really does. But his mind is racing a mile a minute, and he can’t seem to quiet the storm. So he keeps up his sweet touch, like he’s grounding you. Or himself. Maybe both.

But his touch isn’t born out of just affection. There’s something else that runs deeper, an aching desire. Something more that only you can sate. 

He needs you.

There’s one thing that he knows for sure can help, one thing alone. One that he would never, ever take from you. Not like this. Not when you’ve had a long day. Not when you fell asleep the moment you were tucked into the sheets. No matter how badly he craves it, and how you’d be more than happy to provide.

His hand drops to your waist again, flexing against your flesh like he’s physically forcing himself to stay contained, but your body responds all the same. It’s like you’re dialled in to all things Sam, the way you’re so responsive to him— and it drives him absolutely insane. So the moment your body shifts, preening into him, with a content hum that vibrates against his chest?

He’s fucked.

His breath hitches, just slightly, at the sound, low and sweet. It goes straight through him, warm and honeyed, tugging at something deep in his chest he’s been trying so hard to push away.

His hand tightens on your form, but not to pull away this time. He’s pulling you in. Anchoring you closer against him. Letting himself feel all of you, you and the heat of your skin.

He shouldn’t. He knows he really shouldn’t let himself get distracted right now, he’s supposed to be quieting his mind, not stroking the fire. But God… you’re so soft. So warm. And you melt into him like you’re made to fit there. 

His thumb moves, just a whisper of a motion, stroking your hip beneath your sleep shorts. He doesn’t go further. Just draws innocent patterns on your skin despite how much he aches to take more. 

He closes his eyes, jaw clenching as he fights the urge to roll on top of you and chase that peace. The kind only sweat-slick skin and desperate friction can bring. 

But you’re sleeping. You’re exhausted. And Sam? He may be restless, but he’s never been selfish. 

So instead, even when his every nerve is on edge and aching for release, he just holds you tighter, a stuttering sigh ripped from his throat. 

But your body knows him.

Yeah, maybe you’re exhausted. Maybe you fell asleep the second your body hit the bed, and his arms were wrapped around you. 

But that doesn’t stop you from knowing. Your brain, even unconscious, registers the little things. Like the way his heart is racing beneath your cheek. The way his muscles are too tense to be sleeping. The way that sigh was pulled from deep in his gut, and sounded almost pained. 

So even though you were dead to the world just a second ago, you hear it. Sure, you can fall asleep easily— but you’re still a hunter. And hunters never do stay sleeping for long.

“…Y’okay?” you mumble against his chest, tucking yourself impossibly closer, clinging to his heated skin.

He almost startles when you speak, your voice sleep-thick and warm against his chest. He swallows, hard, guilt immediately gnawing at his gut. Mentally chastising himself for waking you, and cursing how well you know him. How easily you can read him, even in sleep.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, fingers still tracing absent circles on your hip. “Just restless. Go back to sleep, baby.”

He tries to keep his breathing steady, but even he knows he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding the rising agitation. But it’s not your problem. Not when you need as much sleep as you can get. 

It takes you a second to process his words, still very much half asleep. But when you do, you can tell he’s lying. Because c’mon now, you’re not an idiot. You can tell he’s speaking through clenched teeth. His jaws probably working so hard, the muscles are sore. 

“Liar.”

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. Not when you’re still so damn tired. But one thing’s for certain: you’re awake now. You’re with him. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a curse. “Can’t fool you, huh?” He mutters, voice rough. 

His fingers still against your hip, finally giving into that pull. The honesty. He never quite could lie to you, not for long. Because yeah, you know him. Almost too well. 

“I can’t shut my brain off,” he admits, jaw tight. “Thoughts just… keep coming. Like a goddamn loop.”

He sounds almost bitter. Not at you, but at his own brain. His body. He tilts his head down slightly, lips brushing against the top of your head, almost like a kiss, but it’s more out of habit than anything else.

“It’s nothing. I just need to move. Go for a run. Or—” He cuts himself off. 

Cuts himself off before he can say ‘you’. Before he says ‘I need to fuck you until I can’t think’. Because no way is he dragging you into that when you’re barely even conscious.

But the need is there anyway. Thick in his veins, pulsing through him like fire and gasoline. 

After a moment of silence, the tension of his unspoken words heavy in the air, you respond simply. 

“I know.”

You know how he gets. You know how he lays awake at night, thinking about anything and everything. His past. His future. The what-ifs, the maybes. 

Finally, you let your eyes flutter open. You look up at him with tired eyes, gaze finding that puppy-dog expression looking down at you, all sweet, guilty, and filled with quiet desire. Your heart damn near shatters.

It clicks. Really clicks, what he needs. What he’s aching for. The real reason he’s looking down at you like a dog who got caught stealing scraps off the counter.

He needs you. 

“…Just relax. I can help you, Sammy,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

He swallows hard, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he tries to force the images your words conjure away before they settle deep, and he can no longer push them down. He screws his eyes shut like he’s in pain, before opening them again, and his pupils are more dilated than before.

“You’re dead on your feet,” he protests, voice coming out raw. “You need sleep.”

It’s true. He knows it’s true. But you’re awake now, and looking at him, those sleepy half-lidded eyes pinning him in place. And God, he’s so damn weak for you.

You don’t miss a beat before responding.

“So do you.”

Slowly, you bring one hand up from beneath the warm blankets, brushing away the hair that fell over his forehead. He closes his eyes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat momentarily. His muscles that were so taut before loosen just a fraction. 

He hates this. Hates how much he needs you. How dependent he’s become on your touch, your presence, your everything. It’s dangerous. He shouldn’t make you his crutch. 

But you don’t think like that. Fuck, you never could—not with how sweet he is. How gentle. How he’d drop everything in the damn world to be there for you. You hate the guilt you see when you look into his eyes. Why’s it so bad that he needs you for this? 

And yet, he still sounds pained when he speaks. 

“You’re exhausted,” he argues, but he doesn’t even sound convinced himself. It comes out rough with need, with barely contained desperation. “Just rest, honey. Please.”

You have to fight the urge to pull him into a bone crushing hug at the way his voice breaks on that please. Instead, you sigh. Lean forward. Press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, and you take note of the way he melts into it.

“Sam. I want to,” You say, voice gentle. You can tell just how guilty he’s feeling. How selfish he thinks he is, even when none of it is his fault. Even when you need this sometimes, too, just for different reasons.

You shift, hand trailing along his bare chest, lingering on the small white scars that shine on his smooth skin. You can see how much he’s aching for your touch, and yet…

He inhales sharply, a low groan trapped in his throat. 

“Christ,” he mutters, voice breaking, his hips twitching instinctively despite himself. Barely noticeable, but you see it. You always do.

His hands clench at the sheets, white-knuckled, like he’s trying to hold onto the last thread of his control. But you’re killing him. You can see it on his face. 

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes dark and glassy with want, and misplaced guilt. “I don’t want you to—”

He chokes on the lie.

“—I don’t want you hurtin’ yourself for me.”

You could cry from those words alone. Him lying here, literally twitching with need, talking about possibly hurting you like he’s not the most gentle man you know. Like he wouldn’t chop his own hands off before leaving so much as a bruise on your skin. 

But when your hand slides just a little lower, just a whisper over the waistband of his boxers, his resolve shatters. A broken sound tears from his chest, as he finally looks at you.

Really looks at you, and all that’s left is raw need, vulnerability written in every line on his face. 

“…Fuck. Please.”

The plea is all it takes for you to move. You know he needs to be taken care of. 

You sit up in the bed, even when your body screams at you to lay back down, crawl under the warm covers. You’re nothing if not determined, especially when it comes to Sam. You slide off the shirt you were wearing, his shirt, some old graphic tee you’ve claimed, leaving your chest bare. 

He doesn’t even pretend not to stare as you strip. You rid yourself of your sleep shorts, not wasting any time, before moving to straddle his hips with lazy movements that definitely show you were asleep not five minutes ago. All uncoordinated and messy, but Sam responds all the same. 

His breath stutters as you move over him, his big hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. Warm, calloused, trembling slightly with that restraint he tries so hard to hold onto. 

He’s hard as damn steel beneath you, body taut with need, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. He just lets you take control, even when every muscle in his body is screaming at him to roll you over and lose himself in the heat of your skin.

His fingers run circles over your hips, possessive and reverent all at once. And God, he wants to touch. Wants to taste. Wants to bury his face between your thighs and worship you until you’re shaking—but he holds back. Lets you take the lead.

But when you shift on top of him, just slightly, a low groan rips from his chest as heat meets heat through thin fabric. His head falls against the pillow with a silent curse, and you have to fight the urge to lick a stripe up his neck. God damn is he ever beautiful.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes out, raggedly, eyes dark with want but still so damn present, watching every expression on your face. “Tell me how to love you right.”

Even like this, tired, aching for release, he’s thinking about you. About how he wants you to feel good. How he can please you.

You lean down, dropping your lips to his jaw, trailing sweet kisses along his skin, until you reach just below his ear. 

“Don’t worry about me. I want you to relax. Let me love you,” you drawl, getting right back to work peppering your lips along his throat, just to feel him twitch, before pulling away to look at him. “…Just say the word, and I’ll take care of you.”

And God, that just about kills him. He’s wired to worry about you, constantly, endlessly. But you see right through it. And right now, you’re not letting him hide. When you look at him, all sweet, tired, and knowing, he can’t look away.

His breath comes slower now, shallow, not from calm, but from anticipation being coiled so tight it hurts. 

“Please,” he repeats, and fuck, he really can’t tear his eyes away from you, sat like an angel in his lap.

With that single word, you’re moving again. Scooting back just enough so you can hook your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, slowly stripping away that last barrier between you.

A low groan tears from his throat at the simple action alone. His head drops against the pillow with a quiet curse, hips twitching instinctively toward the heat of your body.

He’s fully exposed now—hard and aching, pulse throbbing at the base of his cock, and he’s still trembling with restraint. You let your eyes trail over him, all of him, and a familiar hunger pools low in your core despite the lingering exhaustion. Because seeing him below you, big, beautiful, and dripping with need, your mouth damn near waters.

“You’re so gorgeous, Sammy. Always so fucking perfect…”

One of his hands grips the sheet below him, the other clawing slightly at your thigh as if he’s reminding himself: don’t take over. Let her lead.

But when you settle over him again, skin to skin, he lets out a broken whisper, “…Christ, I love you.”

The words slip out like he just can’t help it. Soft and sweet, making your chest feel warm, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting the slick pre-come that’s dripping from the swollen head, spreading it slowly over the length of him as you speak. 

“I love you.”

You take the opportunity to just get him ready (and allow your body to wake up), stripping yourself of your panties, before finally leaning forward to kiss him. 

The second your lips meet his, Sam just about unravels.

A deep sound rumbles from his chest as he kisses you back, slow at first, like he’s savouring it, or like he’s afraid that this is a dream, and too much pressure will make it vanish. But then your thumb circles the head of his cock again, slick and teasing, and that thread of restraint snaps.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you close as the kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet need that borders on reverence.

Every shift of your body gets a response out of him: the press of your breasts against his chest, the heat between your thighs brushing dangerously close to where he needs you, your sweet lips, your tongue battling his own.

God, he wants to slip inside of you. Wants to feel your walls fluttering around him as he fills you like you’re made for him. But still… he waits. Because this isn’t just about release.

It’s about you touching him like he matters. Like he’s worth loving despite the thoughts that haunt him late at night, despite everything he’s done.

“Baby… baby please—”

Maybe you’re still waking up. Maybe your body is still getting worked up. But fuck, that please? The way he’s borderline pleading for you?

You pull back from the kiss just long enough to reposition yourself over him. You let your slick slide over his aching cock, right where he needs you most, and yeah. You’re already soaked for him.

Maybe not as much as usual, but you’ve also just regained consciousness. Usually, the two of you spend time, really stretching you out, getting you ready for him. Sam practically lives and breathes for it. But right now? Sam needs. And, well… you can’t really find it in you to care about slow.

So you lift your hips. Nimble fingers sliding along the base of him to line yourself up. Then you’re sinking down onto him the way he needs.

Despite the intense, full feeling, you don’t move with agonizing slowness. There’s an odd, pleasure-pain feeling about it, just from being stretched to the max, and you close your eyes, inhaling a sharp breath. It doesn’t hurt. Not really. It’s just so much.

A raw, broken sound tears from his throat, half groan, half gasp, as you sink down all the way, impossibly wet, tight, and hot, clenching around him like a vise. 

You don’t reopen your eyes until you’re fully seated, pelvis to pelvis, and when you do, you’re met with him looking right back at you. Studying you.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. Even though you can tell every fibre of his being is screaming at him to just fuck up into you, to chase that sweet relief that’s been building after hours of torment, he forces himself still.

Because he heard that sharp inhale. Felt how your cunt spasmed around him as you took him all at once. His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips, soothing even as his own breath comes ragged and uneven.

“Baby… tell me— you’re alright?” He grits out, voice rough as gravel, holding himself back with every ounce of his restraint. “I’m not—I’m not hurting you, am I?”

The way he’s looking up at you, pupils blown, expression dazed and pleasure filled, but still heavy with love and concern, you can feel your body relaxing from that alone.

You take another breath, rolling your hips just once, barely even there, and you still when the stretch is still present. Almost.

“…‘M okay. Just… give me a minute…” you trail off, letting yourself relax. Letting yourself feel. Because beyond the stretch, there’s that familiar heat. The kind of pleasure that explodes under your skin like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Sam is still beneath you, every muscle in his body locked so tight, you’re almost worried his bones might crack. His thumbs still draw those patterns into your skin, trying to be gentle, trying to give you time, but his breathing comes in short bursts.

“Take all the time you need. Don’t rush, honey, okay? Don’t… don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, voice thick with an odd mix of desire and worry. His jaw clenches at the sensations, the heat of you wrapped around him, so damn tight, and the way your body pulses with each breath.

He tilts his head back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just… fuck, look at me, okay? So I know…”

His voice breaks when you shift again, even that tiny roll sending sparks up his spine. “Christ. You feel too good…”

His words are so sincere that they make your heart just ache. The image of him beneath you, a sheen of sweat on his skin, the beautiful blissed out expression on his face, has you opening up for him just a little more. And coupled with his words? Yeah. You’re fucking soaked.

When the ache subsides, after a few moments of just breathing, you move. A steady roll of your hips, and you gasp at just how snug he feels inside of you. Then another. And another. Until you’re rocking over him so slow, that you almost feel bad. Like you’re teasing him—without even meaning to.

“Fuck… fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on your hips, knuckles almost white as he fights the urge to take over.

He lets you set a pace. Take what you need. But with every roll of those sweet hips? You can see his restraint wearing thinner.

He’s fucking huge, and while you knew that already—it just feels so intense. Like he’s splitting you open, thick cock brushing against every little sensitive spot inside you in a way that has your mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Pulsing against your walls, making shockwaves of pleasure shoot through your core.

Sam’s hands wander, one coming down to squeeze at your thigh, the other trailing up to slide his fingers across your waist, grip tightening around whatever he can get a good hold on. Digits digging into your flesh hard enough to make pretty little indents that will be a faint purple later, marks that he’ll kiss as a silent apology. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he rasps through gritted teeth. “So perfect, riding me like this. Like you’re made for me…”

All the little praises, the words of encouragement, the compliments that slip from his lips whether he means to or not, go straight to your core. Make you clench around him involuntarily.

“Fuck… s’big, Sammy. Feel so fucking good…” you whine, hips grinding down against his, the rhythmic movement causing a steady pressure to pool low in your core, sparks sizzling beneath your skin.

Your hips are barely moving, and you can tell he’s just aching for you to speed up. And yet… he’s being so sweet. So gentle that your heart aches.

Every little sound that slips from his lips is like music to your ears. Egging you on, making you want to speed up. To give him more. Give him everything, even when your body doesn’t quite want to cooperate.

You switch things up, lifting your hips just enough so you can sink back down on him with the roll of your hips, and he all but whimpers beneath you.

“Baby… please,” he pleads, and your brain all but short circuits. 

You let out a moan, a real one, one that makes his fingers tighten on your hips. And you know what he needs, from just those two words alone.

So even though your hips are starting to tremble, you nod. Really lifting now, until he’s only halfway nestled inside of you, thick cock dragging along every sensitive inch of your walls, before sliding back down with a hard grind of your hips, your clit bumping against his pelvis in a way that makes you tighten around him involuntarily.

And oh, his face screws up in pleasure, a fucking beautiful sight. Every lift of your hips has him stifling a groan, heat coiled low in his stomach like a bowstring about to snap.

“Can you—faster, please? I need—fuck, honey…” he gasps out, voice hoarse and raw.

You feel a pang of something in your chest, pleasure from the sound of the pleads, guilt from the desperation in his voice. The combination is dizzying. “I know… ‘m sorry…” you coo between pants, picking up the pace, even as your hips tremble.

Sam’s eyes snap to yours at the sound of your voice. Groggy, breathless, trying for him—and something in his chest cracks open.

“Hey—no,” he rasps, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads rest together. “Don’t you dare apologize. You’re perfect. This is perfect.”

His hips twitch upwards, just once, a small, involuntary thrust that makes both of you gasp, body betraying him from just how far gone he really is. Sweat beads at his temples, his biceps flexing under your palms, and you have to fight the urge to lick his slick skin.

“Don’t gotta push yourself,” he breathes against your lips, but his voice is shaking. “Fuck, baby. Yeah… just like that…”

The praise, his sweet words, the way he’s so patient, even now, absolutely kills every shred of restraint you may have been holding onto. Despite the shake in your thighs, the tension in your hips, you keep up your new pace.

Just a little faster. A little more force on the grind down, making sure he hits deep in a way that makes him moan, and you see stars as his tip kisses your cervix just right. And fuck, before long? You can’t keep the whimpers and whines contained.

His fingers trace your body as much as he can reach, reverent and greedy at the same time. Over your thighs, across your belly, up your spine so he can thread his fingers into your hair.

He pulls you down so his lips can find your neck. He mouths your skin, teeth grazing your throat, making every one of your muscles coil tight with need.

“Feels s’good, Sam, I—” you break off in a broken moan, his tongue trailing along your pulse point, cock dragging deep inside, stretching you out so perfectly. You’re pretty sure you see heaven at some point: one precise thrust forcing your vision to go white. 

He wants you all around him. Wants to fill you up until you’re his, and his alone, until you can’t think straight, until you can’t even breathe. He speaks against your throat, the deep rumble vibrating against you. “You sound so pretty.”

Your hips are getting sore. You can’t stop shaking. But Sam’s got that edge to his voice. That hint of possession that he rarely lets himself show. So you don’t stop. If anything, you speed up, the slap of your ass hitting his thighs with each deep thrust filling the motel room. 

And when his cock head drags right there, stroking your g-spot in such a way that you see stars, and you let out a trembling cry, he smirks against your neck.

“Yeah?” he taunts, voice low and dark with need. “Feel how deep I am inside you? How you’re clenching around me like you can’t take it?”

You can almost pinpoint the exact second the possessive fire inside of him wins, like a switch has been flicked, and he’s feral. His free hand slides down your hip again, guiding the pace now.

“You wanna come?” he murmurs, licking your throat and all but moaning at the taste. “Huh? Wanna come on my cock?”

He’s talking in that syrupy tone, thick with need and almost teasing, making you moan at the sound alone. Your cheeks and chest flush a deep pink, and it only makes him want you more.

“Yes, God, yes, please,” you beg, mouth falling open in a silent plea. “Can you… fuck, I can’t…”

One more roll. Another gasp, your hips trembling from the strain. It feels so fucking good that your legs are tingling, eyes rolling back with each movement, but it’s just too much.

Sam needs no further invitation.

He takes control, hard and sure. His grip turns bruising, as he lifts you up just to slam you back down with a force that makes the bed creak and your cry ring out like music. 

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

Each snap of his hips is deeper than the last, drawing little gasps and pleas from your lips. Your soaked pussy swallows him whole, slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping onto his, each wet sound making him groan. 

That sweet spot inside of you is bumped with each movement, Sam watching your face like a man possessed, eyes dark with fire as you writhe on top of him.

“You wanted help?” another hard thrust, and he grins when you gasp. “This what you needed, honey? Me taking over so all you gotta’ do is go stupid and feel?”

You nod, dumbly, unable to respond with words. Only incoherent whimpers and mewls sliding past your swollen lips, cunt squeezing his thick cock like you’re trying to milk him dry.

It’s so much, his pace bruising, filling you up with everything he has. Desperate. Needy. Every one of your nerves feel like they’re on fire, sending shockwaves of pleasure that roll deep in your lower belly with each brutal thrust.

It’s almost embarrassing, the sounds he pulls out of you, even half asleep on trembling thighs. And when you feel your eyes getting glassy, mind going all hazy and fogged over, you know you’re really far gone.

Sam watches you unravel, every sound you make like a brand on his soul. He loves how responsive you are. How open. How completely his you are when he pushes you to the brink.

“C’mon… look at me. Eyes on me,” he commands, voice rough like fire, but soft like velvet. “You’re gonna come first… But that’s okay, baby. Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna let me feel all of you, huh?”

His big hands guide your hips in sharp, deep drops, each one hitting that sweet-spot dead on, his thumb sliding between your thighs to circle your clit with firm pressure. And holy fuck, you’re so damn close, that you’re teetering on the edge almost painfully. 

Your back bows. You fall forward, arms wrapped around his neck, holding him so damn close, that you can feel every puff of his panting breaths against your breasts. He doesn’t waste a second. Immediately licking a lazy circle over your nipple in a way that makes you twitch.

“F-fuck, Sam, ‘m gonna—”

You can’t even finish getting the words out before the first wave hits. Hot, intense, mind-numbing pleasure that makes your lips part in a sob.

Your pussy spasms around him uncontrollably, black pinching at the corners of your vision as you fight to keep your eyes open. Your limbs go loose over him, shaking and pliant, but he doesn’t still.

No, he relishes in it. Growling your name like a prayer, low, broken, and desperate, feeling you clamp down around his cock in pulsing waves.

“Yeah, that’s it…” he chokes out, hips snapping up hard to milk every sweet second of your climax. His thighs are covered in your slick now, wet and dripping, and fuck, he doesn’t last.

With a final thrust and a guttural groan muffled against your breasts, he spills deep inside of you. Heat flooding through the two of you as his whole body tenses beneath yours. For a few long seconds there’s only the sound of broken gasps and heartbeats, the quiet sound of skin-on-skin as he slowly stills.

Then gentle hands pull you closer, kissing the curve of your neck like a man trying to memorize your pulse.

“So damn perfect,” he whispers hoarsely. “I love you so fucking much.”

You close your eyes at his words, still hazy, probably two thrusts away from passing out on his cock, and you have to take a breath before you respond. “…Love you. S’much.”

There’s a moment where neither of you move. Completely still. Pelvis to pelvis, skin to skin, slick to slick. 

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, then another to your shoulder, gentle now after the storm. Slowly, he rolls both of you over, still connected, tucking you against his chest. The movement is lazy, loose limbs tangled together, and you know that it’s worked.

That his brain has finally quieted long enough for him to just feel. To relax. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

He pulls out, so slowly as to soothe your over sensitive nerves, and both of you hiss at the loss. The sudden emptiness has you whining against his chest, and he coos little praises, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

It’s only then that he pulls away, easing his hands over your thighs, like he’s trying to calm the tremble with touch alone. His pupils are still blown with desire, but it’s not heated anymore. Just full of love. 

“C’mere,” you whisper before he can get too far, trying to coax him back down onto the sheets. “This was about you relaxing…”

He shakes his head before you can say more. “Shh…” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and lingering emotion. “Let me do this for you.”

He kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, soft, tender, before slipping off the bed with careful movements. 

“You took care of me. Let me take care of you.”

And even though his legs are heavy and his eyes burn with exhaustion… he’d walk through hell barefoot if it meant seeing you warm, safe, and cared for. That’s just the kind of man he is. 

You don’t protest when he pads his way to the bathroom. Don’t say a word when he lingers in the bathroom, letting the water run, picking the softest cloth he can find. 

And when he comes back, hair messy over his forehead, skin shining with sweat, a satisfied grin on his face, love in his eyes, and a cloth in hand? Your chest feels heavier than before.

He kneels between your thighs, cloth warm in his hand (because of course he waited for the water to heat up. Always does), and brushes the inside of your trembling thigh with the back of his fingers like you’re made of porcelain. 

“Little sore?” he murmurs, already knowing the answer.

He doesn’t wait for words. Just works with that quiet tenderness that never fails to undo you. Slow, careful strokes, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your throat tight, whispered apologies when you twitch at the sensitivity.

And when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back next to you without a word. Pulls you against his chest, fitting the two of you together like you’re made to intertwine, and he tucks your head below his chin.

And for the first time in days, or maybe longer, you can feel it. Peace. Because Sam is finally relaxed.

You wait until his breathing has evened out beneath you before you drift off again, a dreamless sleep overcoming him in a way it hasn’t in too long. 

For the night: insomnia doesn’t win. 

AN: Hello again 🖤 just wanted to thank everyone for the love on my first post, it means so much! I still have two more posts from AO3 that I’ll import onto here within the next few days, then hopefully new ones once I finish them, lol.

Just like last time, if anyone has any ideas, recs (specifically Sammy, because I’m a sucker for him), or just want to chat, please don’t hesitate to leave an ask!

(Divider is from @saradika-graphics!)

[alasdecas]

mariana reyes (oc) ⊹₊⟡⋆ "i've got that summertime, summertime sadness..." masterlist

[alasdecas]

it is a lana summer for me

[alasdecas]

mariana reyes (oc) ⊹₊⟡⋆ "i've got that summertime, summertime sadness..." masterlist

[alasdecas]

through his eyes

sam winchester x oc (mariana)

synopsis told through the eyes of sam, after a few hunts with mari, his mind starts to be filled with her. he's falling for her but he feels the need to push it away. takes place around 5x5-6

cw angst !! self deprecating language , sam not feeling worthy, heavy guilt | divs by cursed-carmine & bonnieknowsbest

cas had been speaking of meeting mari soon, i was nervous, i knew dean could tell. i wondered what she knew. did she know i started the apocalypse? that i drank demon blood? would she be disgusted by me?

but when i met her it all faded. the look in her eyes was excited and curious. either hopeful or oblivious, her presence was calming. being with mari created a new environment, one that relieved the tension between me and dean, and her knowledge on hunting was impressive.

every time i saw her, i noticed how my stomach turned. she was beautiful–of course she was. but i found everything about her attractive: the way she spoke, handled herself, the way she walked, i could go on.

i tried to ignore the pit in my stomach every time we worked together. i didn't deserve this, to think of having anything—of deserving anyone. especially her. not after what i did, not when i know what's coming.

she was shy but had a confidence that radiated. she seemed so sure of herself and her plans that it made us all feel better. i assured myself from the beginning that her liking me was not possible. even in the case that she did, as soon as she found out everything she would leave. anyone would.

we were studying alone in the motel, she usually stayed in another room and met up to talk about the case. dean was at the bar–as usual. supposedly interviewing locals on what they knew. it was hard to focus, embarrassingly hard.

the ac hummed loudly, smell of tobacco from previous stays stunk up the room. we sat at the small shabby table by the door. mari was right in front of me, glasses sat on her nose, leaned into the lore book she had. she was completely into it, fingers following words, her head turning along the pages, hair falling in her face.

my hands were mindlessly playing with the book i had, i couldn't take my eyes of her.

her brown eyes, they were big and earnest, filled with an emotion that felt positive despite the reality we were living in.

the moles on her face–four to be exact. one on the side of her nose, right below where her glasses rested. the remaining below her mouth, two directly under each other, the fourth closer to her chin.

i ignored the image of me kissing them, anxiety building in my stomach, along with guilt. i couldn't think of her that way, i shouldn't.

there wasn't hope for me finding happiness, let alone love. i would try to settle for the hope to live, even if a big part of me felt i didn't deserve that either.

i shook my head, forcing my attention back to lore books laid in front of me. i made myself useful, finding information that would help the case and without surprise mari did too.

i wondered what she wasn't good at, what she liked to do, what she was thinking. mari was quiet, in a nice way. but she always immediately headed to her room after the day was done, and never said too much about herself.

around cas though was different, she was brighter if that's possible, engaging more before noticing me and dean's presence and pulling back.

she was comfortable with us, to an extent. she never seemed bothered by us, or reluctant to work with us, she just wasn't used to it, didn't know us well enough.

it was better that way, everyone who knew us well got hurt, and that was the last thing we all wanted. the more distance the better, no matter how much i wanted to get closer.

when dean came back we discussed before she headed to her room. settling into the squeaky uncomfortable motel bed, my eyes stayed open. the burning from exhaustion was ignored as my mind kept me up.

regardless of the countless worrisome thoughts that wanted to race through my head i could only think of one today. mari, i wondered what she was doing, if she was already asleep.

then i thought about today, how she looked, her smile, the interesting point she brought up from the lore she read, her eyes lit up when she explained.

i just wanted to shut my brain off, to have a night of not thinking about anything: about lucifer, about ruby, or lilith, the angels after me, the other hunters questioning me.

and i especially didn't want to imagine myself with her, the thought of kissing her, being close enough that i'd know her...because i know that i'm too broken to be with anybody.

A/N ugh new tumblr update, hopefully they end up fixing things! i started a new book and got the idea of writing in first person.. scary!! it's interesting writing from sam's perspective, i don't know how accurate this is but i tried! any comments & reblogs r appreciated ! 🏷️ @444tunately @dontlistentodaisy @dollivic @tayl0rsvers1on @harleymuses @reginaphalangelobster @amourflores

[alasdecas]

i know recently i haven't been active and just been very critical of my work and therefore not writing ☹️☹️ but going back i was thinking about this and i actually love this so much??? it's been so long since i read it that i didn't remember any lines just the plot, and i actually surprised myself!? of course its not like outstanding but the lines

"i didn't deserve this, to think of having anything-of deserving anyone. especially her. not after what i did, not when i know what's coming."

"there wasn't hope for me finding happiness, let alone love. i would try to settle for the hope to live, even if a big part of me felt i didn't deserve that either."

really struck me like ?!? idk this is a silly rambling but just wanted to say smth since its been a bit since i posted 😢

[alasdecas]

hi sage! miss you a ton! hope you're doing well 🥹❤️

aww hi daisy!! i miss you too! i am doing well thank u!! how are you angel!!

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Cruel World: Chapter Twenty

Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.

All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…

Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader, Dean Winchester x OFC

WC: 5.9K

CW: 18+ MDNI, canon-type violence/injury, blood, wound care, mild angst/emotional tension, language, implied smut, mentioned character death, some sweet, tooth rotting fluff these idiots deserve <3

A/n: this one's a little longer as I'm finally wrapping up my first multi-part fic! I separated this chapter into two parts to bring two storylines together.

Thank you to everyone who's come along for the ride, and I hope you enjoy!

Cruel World masterlist

“Share my body and my mind with you, that’s all over now. Did what I had to do, I found another anyhow.” - Cruel World, Lana Del Rey

𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚

Dean had never been on that side of the line.

Waiting and wondering.

Pacing in front of the same row of motel rooms where she’d left him. Holding the empty coffee cup—her number scribbled across the cardboard sleeve in fading blue ink—in one hand and his phone in the other. He stared at the numbers like there was a punchline hidden somewhere among them.

He’d never been the one wondering how soon was too soon to call.

It had been two weeks since Rhi had pulled out of the parking lot in her old Bronco, glancing over her shoulder at him one last time.

He’d tried like hell to forget her.

It was pointless.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty, though that certainly wasn’t helping. She wasn’t the kind of woman Dean usually noticed first in a crowded bar. No impossible curves. No bright lipstick. No easy invitation.

Rhi made people earn her attention. And for some reason, he wanted it. She didn’t buy his “cowboy Casanova” act—as you’d once called it—which meant he didn’t feel the need to perform around her.

Without the act, he was just Dean. A guy who’d only ever been himself around a handful of people.

Leads about the wolves had dried up and Crowley was getting impatient. Maybe he could call her under the guise of chasing down leads. 

That might give her the impression that he’s using her. The thought made him shudder. 

Finally, he dialed her number with a shaky hand and continued to pace while he waited for her to deny his call. 

After three rings, he was ready to hang up. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the voice he’d been unable to forget.

“Hello?”

Silence. His mind went blank. He’d even forgotten her name. 

“Hey…Rhi.”

Nope. He’d forgotten his name. 

“Uh. It’s Dean—“

Nailed it, he thought. 

“Dean…”

His heart sank at the sound of her struggling to remember him. 

“Winchester.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

If he had died, he had just discovered a new circle of hell. One that Lucifer wouldn’t even visit. 

“Oh…I’m sorry—“

“Kidding! I was wondering if you’d ever call.”

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window outside of his motel room. He looked as flustered as Sam did when Dean brought him to a strip club for his eighteenth birthday. Ears tipped pink with an involuntary, nervous smile tugging at his cheeks. 

Rhi agreed to “assist” Dean on the case to track down the werewolves. Research only, he had insisted, to which she rolled her eyes. Her defiance frustrated the hell out of him. It prevented him from fulfilling his purpose in life—keeping people he cared about safe. 

“Haven’t you died a time or two, Dean? Why are you so worried about something happening to me?”

He couldn’t answer that. Not without spilling his guts, because he knew Rhi could see through his bullshit. He’d risk telling her that, even though he barely knew her, he didn’t want to lose her. 

“Shit shit shit shit—“

“Language, asshole.” Rhi laughed carefully before wincing. 

While the group was attempting to restrain the werewolves and bring them to Crowley, Rhi had let her guard down within striking distance. Of course, Dean was the only one remotely interested in her injury. He quickly guided her to the Impala. Shrugging off his flannel, he balled it up and pressed it hard against the bleeding wound near her hip.

Dean glared at her in the passenger seat, completely ignoring the blood that was staining the door and leather seat. He reached over her and pulled the fabric back enough to see if she was still bleeding, which resulted in fresh blood rising to the surface. 

“Son of a bitch—I’m takin’ you to the hospital.” 

“You’re not taking me to the hospital.” She winced through gritted teeth. “Just take me back to the motel.” 

His jaw ticked and his knuckles were pale from gripping the steering wheel. 

She was smart enough to know this wasn’t a wound she could stitch in a bathroom. She didn’t want to admit that she was terrified of hospitals. After the death of her parents, she associated the smell of antiseptic in a sterile environment with death. 

He could see the tiny dimples forming when her chin quivered. She pressed the shirt tighter against her hip and tried to cloak her fear with pain. 

Her face softened when she felt Dean grab her hand that was gripping the seat and tracing his thumb across her knuckles.

She was trying like hell to dislike the man. Trying to lessen the sting when he inevitably disappointed her. But doing things like that was making it difficult. He didn’t ask if she was scared. Didn’t patronize or crowd her. Just acknowledging that he saw her and didn’t think any less of her. 

Rhi was going to be down for at least a few weeks while she healed from the deep claw mark to her side. 

Dean stayed in the waiting room, dodging calls from the Campbells and Crowley. Eventually he was able to visit Rhi in her recovery room. 

“Just take me back to the motel and I’ll take it easy for a few days.”

Dean shook his head. 

“No. You don’t need to be staying in some shitty room trying to take care of yourself. Doc said you lost a lot of blood. You need to rest. And you need help keeping the wound clean.”

She folded her arms in front of her chest. 

“Why do you care, Dean?” Her voice was soft as she tried keeping it steady. “I’m basically a stranger to you.”

There was softness beneath the harshness in her expression.

“And what? Do you have some big fancy house with a white picket fence where I can put my feet up for a few weeks?”

“I mean… it doesn’t have a fence.”

The words were out before he could think them through. His stomach fluttered at the idea. He’d need to clear it with Sam and you first. But like you’d reminded him more than once, it was his home too.

Her eyes widened when she realized he wasn’t joking.

For some reason, that reaction stung more than he expected. He wasn’t offering because he felt obligated. He was offering because the thought of dropping her back into a smoke-stained motel room and driving away made his chest feel tight.

“Rhiannon, please—”

“This wasn’t your fault, Dean. You don’t owe me anything.”

She didn’t want him collecting guilt like spare change. Didn’t want to become another person he felt responsible for saving.

“You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me. I never shoulda called you.”

He pushed himself out of the chair and paced a few steps away before she could see how much he meant it.

“If we’re being honest…” she said quietly. “I’m glad you called.”

Dean stopped and she felt nervous under his gaze.

“I dunno. You’ve kinda grown on me.”

His shoulders relaxed.

“In a fungus-y sort of way.”

There she is, he thought. He breathed a sharp laugh and his gaze dropped to his feet to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

“So you’ll stay with me? No strings attached. Just a free bed and home cooked meals—“

“—please stop talking.” The entire ordeal, coupled with the blood loss she sustained, was brewing a massive headache. She was also trying to fight the  warmth blooming in her chest and spreading to her cheeks. 

Rhi agreed to accept his hospitality for a couple of days only. She made it clear that even though she could barely walk, she could still kick his ass. Or at least shave a few more years off of his life. 

𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙬𝙤

After checking to make sure Willa hadn’t woken up from Walker’s playful barking, you joined Sam downstairs with Castiel. You were incredibly frustrated by the timing of his arrival. All of your hormonal need had been converted directly into bitterness.

Settling onto the couch beside Sam, he rested a hand on your bare thigh and squeezed lightly, shooting you a quick smile meant only for you. You sighed and let your head fall against his shoulder while you collected yourself.

Walker plopped down at the angel’s feet, happily panting and looking up at him for more attention.

Sam’s eyes flicked between the dog and Castiel.

“Oh. Some animals are drawn to celestial beings like myself. Your dog appears to be one of them.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, fascinated by Walker’s immediate attachment to him.

“Anyway…” Sam sighed and began wringing his hands together nervously. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Glancing over his shoulder, he found you already looking at him. You were clearly exhausted and frustrated. But you were still there—at his side like always.

He wanted to minimize the situation. Make it sound smaller than it was. The reality was that his nightmares about Hell, the Cage, and his time without a soul were threatening the fragile peace the two of you had finally found. They were warning signs that the barrier Death had constructed around his memories was failing.

“We’re retired, Sam.”

Your quiet voice reminded him of the conversation you’d had in the car. That the two of you didn’t do solo missions anymore. Not now. Not when you had everything to lose.

Sam explained everything. From the first memories that had started bleeding through. The dreams that no longer felt like dreams. The nightmares of his soul trapped in the Cage with Lucifer and Michael.

The things he’d witnessed through the eyes of a stranger.

The things he’d done to you.

Castiel listened silently, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know what to do, Cas.” Sam rubbed a hand across his face. “I can’t afford to lose it completely. We can’t keep living like this.”

He looked at you again for reassurance. Your tired eyes were glossy as you listened to him recount the twisted reality of the last six months.

Sam’s return from Hell had really only marked the beginning of yours.

Even though you’d found peace, it had come at a cost.

“I can’t help but feel responsible,” Castiel admitted quietly.

You bit your tongue. Selfishly, irrationally, part of you still resented him. Sam had made his choice to stop the Apocalypse, but that didn’t mean you had forgiven everyone involved. You likely never would. 

Not when you hadn’t even fully forgiven Sam.

“Let me see what I can do.”

Castiel stood and stepped toward Sam. Before you realized what you were doing, you were already on your feet. Your arm moved protectively in front of Sam’s chest.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Your mistrust of him made you question every move he made.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Sam reached for your hand.

“I need to examine whatever remains of the barrier Death created around his soul,” Castiel explained. “I need to know whether it can be repaired.”

A tense silence settled between you.

“And how exactly are you supposed to do that?” you asked.

“It’s difficult to explain.” Castiel tilted his head slightly. “But it won’t be pleasant.”

Unbeknownst to either of you, Sam remembered exactly what that meant. He remembered Castiel discovering his missing soul, and Death forcing it back into place. He knew it was agonizing. But the cost of losing everything was worse.

“Let’s just get it over with.”

Sam’s resigned sigh earned matching looks from both of you.

The three of you moved to the basement—technically the root cellar of the old house—so as not to risk waking Willa.

“Whatever happens,” Sam said firmly, “do not stop him.”

Your face fell as you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself. Partially to fight the icy chill pressing in from the cellar, and partially because of the edge in his voice.

It was every bit as terrible to witness as you’d expected. Every instinct in you screamed to eliminate the threat. Instead, you paced nervously, staying close enough to intervene if you needed to.

Even with his belt clenched between his teeth, Sam’s body was screaming for relief. His skin flushed red, every vein standing out beneath the surface. His brows were drawn tightly together.

Eventually, his body relaxed against the chair as he inhaled deeply, not realizing how desperately his lungs had been starved for air.

“Just as I suspected,” Castiel said, almost to himself, as he stepped away from Sam.

Sam was still catching his breath.

“The problem isn’t the wall. The problem is you, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed on him, confusion written plainly across his face.

“There are cracks, so to speak. But they aren’t from age or poor construction.” Castiel tilted his head slightly. “They’re from your inability to let things go.”

The weight of the truth settled over Sam in the form of guilt.

“Using some of my grace, I can seal off the remaining memories. But you have to let them go, Sam.”

You immediately turned toward him, hopeful he was receiving the offer the way you had—as a gift. As a key to finally moving forward.

Instead, he still looked cautious and unconvinced.

Castiel sighed. As an angel, he possessed strong moral convictions—arguably stronger than Sam’s. But he wasn’t burdened by human emotion the way people were.

“Humans do not heal by knowing everything. That is not how you were designed.” Castiel watched as the words settled over him. “They heal by deciding what they can survive without knowing.”

He paused.

“You were given free will, Sam. Use it. I can give you the opportunity to move forward.” His voice finally softened. “Please take it.”

He seemed almost as determined to help Sam as you were. There was desperation in his words and something uniquely human—hope.

“Sam.” Your hand settled on his shoulder, grounding him. “Please.”

He nodded and swallowed around the knot in his throat. There may not have been anything he could have done to make it home to you the night he was locked in the Cage. But now, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep his family together.

It was nearly dawn by the time you both made it upstairs. You were exhausted, but neither of you closed your eyes when you crawled into bed together.

Maybe it was the relief of the whole ordeal finally being over.

Maybe it was a side effect of Castiel’s grace.

Whatever it was, you both felt ten years younger. A hundred pounds lighter.

Curled against his side with your legs tangled together, your cheek squished against his chest and his fingers loosely threaded through your hair, you felt like twenty-somethings again.

He still got butterflies when you glanced up at him through your lashes, squinting playfully and asking what he was staring at.

Without warning, he rolled you onto your back and settled between your legs, caging you beneath his broad frame.

Your fingertips traced the hard lines of muscle in his arms before slipping into his hair.

“You should rest, Sammy.”

Your voice and your body were giving him very different messages.

“I know. And I will.”

He punctuated each statement with a kiss trailing along your throat.

“After I take care of you.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and let your eyes flutter shut as Sam turned onto the gravel driveway, trying to stave off the next wave of pain throbbing behind your eyes.

It had been three weeks since Castiel had shown up in the middle of the night and given you your life back.

Three weeks since Sam had finally chosen to let go of the past in exchange for the possibility of a future. A future that apparently included themed birthday parties for toddlers.

“Fucking Valerie,” you muttered under your breath. “Fucking face paint. Fucking glitter. What the fuck.”

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Sam huffed a laugh as he checked the rearview mirror to make sure Willa was still asleep. “The mouth on you.”

“Sorry,” you groaned, eyes still squeezed shut. “My head is killing me and that… toddler mosh pit… didn’t help.”

He fought back a smile. The party—if you could even call it that—had been an hour of pure chaos.

Willa had consumed roughly a month’s worth of artificial sugar and crashed the second she’d been buckled into her car seat. The emotional fallout would arrive before bedtime. He’d stake money on it.

“Well, I’ll take care of getting her inside—”

He trailed off.

You opened your eyes and noticed the Impala sat in its usual spot. Next to it sat an old Ford Bronco that you didn’t recognize.

Your brows furrowed.

“Just wait here.”

Sam’s voice was low, but lacked any real concern. Dean would never bring anyone dangerous around you or Willa. Still, he didn’t take chances anymore.

The smell of bacon grease and the sound of quiet conversation drew him toward the kitchen.

“Dean?”

Rhi stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped backward. One hand moved to grip her side while the other braced against the table. Her eyes never left Sam.

“Hey—relax. Sit down.”

Sam stopped short, immediately noticing her reaction.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh, tried calling you.”

After a few rushed introductions, the tension eased slightly—slightly being the operative word.

Curiosity pulled you inside. After letting the door click shut behind you, you were immediately greeted by the familiar sight of Dean in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms loosely crossed over his chest, framed perfectly in the doorway.

He didn’t notice you, though. His attention was fixed on someone else. Someone who made his features soften and those subtle crow’s-feet appear when he smiled.

Willa was asleep on your hip, her head resting on your shoulder. Your view was suddenly obstructed by Sam, who noticed you standing in the entryway. He gently gathered Willa into his arms without waking her.

“Who is that?”

“A friend of Dean’s. I think she’s staying with us for a few days.” He kept his voice low, but Willa stirred anyway. He shot you an apologetic look before carrying her upstairs.

You continued to observe a version of Dean you hadn’t seen in a long time. One of genuine happiness and comfort.

His earthy green eyes had a spark in them again, and there was a healthy glow about him you hadn’t realized had been missing.

Walker wandered into view and sat at Dean’s feet, clearly interested in whatever was on his plate. When Dean glanced around to see if he could get away with sneaking him a scrap of food, his eyes finally landed on you.

Heat rushed to your cheeks and you quickly pulled yourself together. He hadn’t seen you since you’d completely fallen apart in front of him. It had only been about a month, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

Even though you felt like a train wreck standing there, he seemed to immediately recognize the dramatic improvement in your condition.

You finally willed yourself forward into the kitchen and were overwhelmed by the mixture of scents, making your nose wrinkle. Strong coffee, breakfast food, and the hunter special—gun oil and motel soap. All familiar, but overpowering with the migraine you’d been fighting all day.

“You okay?”

Dean’s familiar, steady voice centered you.

You hummed and nodded, offering a quick smile to compensate for what your body language was probably saying.

Dean introduced you to Rhi, who waved politely mid-chew. She certainly looked the part of a young hunter. Edgy, alert, and hyperaware of her surroundings.

But there was more to it than that. She was pretty in an effortless way. The kind that looked good in harsh motel lighting and after sleeping in her truck. The kind that didn’t seem to require any effort at all.

You glanced down at yourself. There was still glitter on your sleeve. Probably in your hair, too.

“Rhi, this is Y/N.”

You smiled politely while tugging your sweater over your hand and attempting to rub at the glitter stain. It only spread the irritating substance.

Dean briefly explained the situation while watching your expression for any sign of apprehension.

“Well, we’ve all been there.” You gestured toward the bandage peeking out beneath the hem of her shirt. “Everyone in this house has, anyway.”

She tilted her head curiously.

“You’re a hunter too?”

You let out a weak laugh.

“Once upon a time, yeah. We had the opportunity to retire and took it.”

Almost on cue, a tired cry echoed from upstairs, followed by a frustrated sigh and the familiar creak of old floorboards beneath Sam’s feet.

You used it as an excuse to end the increasingly uncomfortable interaction.

“I’ll set some towels and blankets upstairs for you. Stay as long as you need to.”

Dean was visibly relieved by your warm reception, but he still watched you walk away, searching your expression for signs that you were saying one thing and feeling another.

Rhi noticed the way his gaze lingered. The way he seemed to be looking for something beneath the words. There was no resentment in the observation. She simply filed it away the way hunters do.

After Sam got Willa settled again, he found you decompressing in bed. Hovering somewhere between sleep and relaxation. After grabbing you a glass of water and a couple migraine tablets, he sat beside you on the edge of the mattress.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“It’s just a migraine, Sam. I’ll live.”

He rested a hand on your leg and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

You finally cracked an eye open.

“What? Dean’s friend?”

He chuckled at your dismissive tone.

“You’re fine with her staying here?”

Frustrated, you pushed yourself upright and immediately winced when the pressure behind your eyes intensified.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just checkin’.” Sam shrugged awkwardly.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back downstairs to join his brother. Eager to hear about life on the road. Now more determined than ever to find Dean a way out of Crowley’s debt.

Sam couldn’t help but notice the chemistry between Dean and Rhi. And the way they both tried to ignore it. How they stared at each other when they talked before quickly looking away whenever the other noticed. 

She really was a female version of Dean. Less false bravado than him, but she still fought to maintain a hardened image of herself, even when cracks appeared and revealed her soft underbelly.

Guilt twisted in his gut when they described Rhi’s injury. The same way it did for Dean. Hunting was dangerous enough without the added risk of bringing live monsters back to Crowley.

“This has gotta stop, Dean. I never should have let you take this debt.”

He expected the usual cocky, dismissive retort.

“I’ve been doing some research.”

Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in disbelief.

“Now who’s the nerd?” he huffed under his breath.

Rhi looked equally surprised, seeing as Dean had attempted to assign her to research duty.

“Alright, alright.” Dean gestured dismissively. “It’s hard to find something to hold over the King of Hell. But—”

Dean paused and pulled out a weathered lore book that Sam recognized immediately. He tried not to let himself fantasize about long nights poring over ancient texts and a glowing computer screen.

“—if we could find the bones of his vessel?”

Sam’s interest was piqued when he realized where Dean was heading. He was thoroughly impressed. Burning the bones of a demon’s vessel killed the demon within.

“Isn’t he, like, four hundred years old though? And Scottish? How the hell are we gonna find his bones?”

“Without going to Scotland?” Rhi asked, pressing her knee against the edge of the table. “I have no idea.”

Her eyes flicked between the brothers as they arrived at the same conclusion through a silent exchange.

“Maybe Cas?”

“Worth a shot.”

Dean shrugged and agreed to try summoning the angel who had been particularly difficult to reach lately. As usual, it would be a waiting game.

After a tense standoff, Dean convinced Rhi to take his bed while he slept on the couch. It had been years since she’d slept on anything better than a stiff motel mattress or a pull-out couch. Most nights she slept in the back of the Bronco at a state park or national forest. To her, it was more comfortable than a stuffy motel room and reminded her of camping with her parents when she was a kid.

The soft mattress and fresh-smelling comforter were a welcome change.

The first day was unnaturally quiet despite the addition of two more people to the house. Willa was cautious of the stranger at first, but she was also the first to break the ice. Once she let her guard down enough to smile and laugh around Rhi, life resumed as normal.

Rhi was impressed by how a gun-wielding, battle-worn man like Dean could soften enough to carry a toddler without breaking her. The same booming voice that could break up a bar fight could read the same board book twenty times in a row without complaint.

She did her best to stay out of the way and quietly observe the household dynamic.

You and Sam were clearly in love and shared parenting responsibilities equally. There was never any question about Willa’s parentage—she was a spitting image of her father with her hazel eyes and messy brown locks. But some of her mannerisms and expressions were a curious blend of yours and Dean’s.

Dean had given a vague explanation of the last two years. She knew Sam had essentially been dead for a year and then simply… come back. It would have been miraculous if he wasn’t a Winchester.

He never mentioned the way your relationship had changed after his loss, but it was obvious that it had.

It was obvious in the same way a smoking candle revealed that it had once burned brightly. Love had existed there once. It had burned hot and fierce. Now all that remained was a pleasant lingering scent—a reminder of a different time.

It showed in the way Dean dished up your plate at dinner while you got Willa settled. Or how he always brewed enough coffee so there would be a fresh cup waiting when you woke up.

His touch didn’t linger. Your breath didn’t hitch. But your lives were still uniquely intertwined. In the way only surviving tragedy together can be. 

A few days later, you offered to help Rhi change her bandage while Dean was running errands with Sam.

“It’s really no problem. I’ve patched those idiots up more times than I can count.”

You asked about her life. Trying not to be too invasive, even though she was standing shirtless in your bathroom save for a sports bra.

It had been so long since you’d talked to another woman that you found yourself opening up without even trying. For once, you didn't have to lie about how you met Sam. Or what you did after high school instead of going to college and chasing a dream job.

It was easy to see why Dean liked her so much, even if she was nothing like the women he usually went for. She was more than tolerable—you actually liked her. Even if you were slightly intimidated.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy.”

The words left your lips before you could catch them. You silently kicked yourself, hoping you hadn’t accidentally ruined something good for him.

Sensing your anxiety, Rhi gently nudged your shoulder.

“Girl. Chill.”

You let out a nervous sigh.

“Just try not to hurt him too badly.” You quipped, though there was a thread of sincerity beneath it. “He’s more sensitive than he looks.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“The man cried watching a Disney movie. He should come with a handle with care sticker.”

“What movie?” Her voice was tight while she stifled a laugh.

You pressed your lips together, trying and failing to suppress your own laughter.

“The Brave Little Toaster.”

For a moment she just stared at you. Then both of you dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. 

At that moment, you weren’t a mom or a soon-to-be wife. You weren’t a former hunter. Or a survivor of tragedy. You were a woman laughing hysterically in a bathroom with another woman. Gossiping about a silly man. It was a tale as old as time.

You hadn’t heard the brothers when they came home. They just stood at the base of the stairs listening to the chorus of wheezing laughs. The thought passed between them silently that they hadn’t heard you laugh like that in years. 

“Guess I’m not as funny as I thought I was.” Sam shrugged at the idea. 

“Trust me, Sammy. Out of the two of us, I’m the funny one.” 

Eventually, Castiel did appear. Of course, it was at an inconvenient time and nearly gave everyone a heart attack. He agreed that the bones of Crowley’s vessel would make excellent leverage. If they could find them, Crowley would have little choice but to release Dean from any debt he believed Sam owed him.

Dean could finally move on and do whatever he wanted with his life. He didn’t want to leave hunting completely. It was too deeply ingrained in the fibers of his being. But he wanted the ability to choose it.

More than freedom, though, he wanted somewhere to belong. More importantly, he wanted someone to belong to. Whether or not that someone was Rhi, he wasn’t sure yet. But you had awakened something in him. A part of himself he’d buried beneath duty, guilt, and self-sacrifice.

You had shown him that he was worthy of belonging and being loved.

The rest happened surprisingly fast.

Once Castiel located the remains of Crowley’s vessel, you agreed to let Sam join his brother to handle the negotiations. The only condition was that Rhi went along to supervise.

Crowley complained loudly, threatened everyone equally, and eventually decided the arrangement was no longer worth the trouble.

Unlike that night more than a year and a half ago, Sam came home.

You both knew this would be the last time that you’d have to wonder. 

You were on him the second he set foot on the porch, nearly knocking him off his feet. Laughing, he caught you around the waist and helped you wrap your legs around him.

You buried your face in his shoulder while he held you effortlessly against his chest. Even after he set you down, you couldn’t bring yourself to let go.

“Why’re you crying?”

Sam tried pulling back when he felt your shoulders shaking.

“No.” You shook your head against him, laugh-sobbing into his shirt.

His hands rubbed slowly up and down your back.

“Baby… why?”

“I don’t know!” you cried through a nervous laugh. “I don’t know.”

Dean and Rhi were lost in their own world while they unloaded the Impala and casually debriefed in the driveway.

Neither of you noticed Castiel until he was standing a few feet away.

“Congratulations.”

Both of you jumped and you cursed under your breath. 

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam said automatically.

The angel simply stared while Sam’s smile slowly faded.

“Wait.” He frowned. “For what?”

You felt your stomach drop. Your eyes fluttered shut when the realization hit you.

Castiel was looking directly at you with the same puzzled expression he always wore when attempting to understand humans.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Is that not what humans say when they learn someone is expecting a child?”

The realization hadn’t reached Sam yet. You watched him trying to make sense of the words. Waiting for it to land. 

Finally his eyes widened and flicked towards you. He was puzzled by your lack of reaction.

“Did you know?”

You shrugged nervously, desperate to get a read on him.

“Know what?” Dean asked, stopping at the base of the porch steps.

Rhi’s eyes widened first. 

“Oh shit.” 

Dean looked between all of you.

“What am I missing here?”

The tension shattered when the weight of understanding finally crashed into Sam.

He laughed. A loud, disbelieving laugh that seemed to erupt from deep in his belly. The kind of laugh that only finds you safely on the other side of survival. 

“Really?”

His eyes were already shining.

You felt tears stinging your own again.

“I think so—”

You barely had time to squeak before he wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off the ground.

“Sam!”

His hands cradled your face when he finally set you down. His forehead pressed against yours. He wasn’t checking for injuries—physical or emotional. Not checking to see if you were falling apart at the seams. 

He wanted to confirm to himself that this was real. 

The smile that spread across his face was brighter than any you’d seen since before the Cage. There wasn’t a thread of panic there like the first time he held Willa.

After everything this world had thrown you two, there wasn't a shred of fear or hesitation anymore. 

Summer was boiling on the Kansas prairie. The only reprieve was in the evenings. The setting sun and gentle breeze made the heat more bearable. The rhythmic creaking of the porch swing punctuated the swelling chorus of cicadas. You and Sam were settled on the swing with Willa in his lap while you showed her the strip of ultrasound pictures. Trying to explain to her that the tiny black and white blob was her new sibling. 

Walker laid with his head between his paws on the porch. Releasing a deep sigh as he stared down the driveway bathed in golden light. Always on alert for intruders but letting his eyes gently shut while he baked in the glow.

The door creaking open behind him made him sit up. He slowly pushed himself up to watch Dean and Rhi step onto the porch, continuing a conversation they had started inside. 

“Ha, remember the last time you tried assigning me to research duty?” 

“Yeah! You put yourself in the hospital!” 

She stopped, her jaw fell slack in disbelief, while Dean continued down the steps with a cocky smirk. 

Walker’s head snapped back to the sound of Willa’s whimpering cry. She wiggled out of Sam’s lap to plod after Dean, gently nudging Walker out of her way. 

“Sorry kiddo.” He scooped her up and perched her on his bicep. “Gotta stay here.” 

He peppered her with kisses before handing her back to you. 

“We’ll be back in a few days.” 

“Be careful.” You said warmly while settling Willa on your lap. 

“Always am.” 

Dean smiled and scratched Walker between his ears. Walker watched as he joined Rhi at the bottom of the steps and they crossed the yard.

The familiar black car roared to life. He tilted his head as it disappeared down the gravel road and beyond the trees. For a moment, he continued staring after it and watched as the dust settled back onto the road.

The creak of the porch swing caught his attention. He watched as you stood up awkwardly and moved towards the front door to start dinner. 

He finally turned away from the empty driveway and walked back toward the porch swing. With a satisfied huff, he settled onto the warm boards and rested his head between his paws.

The familiar voices behind him blended into the evening chorus of cicadas. 

His family was home.

And this time, everyone who left would come back.

A/n: It's crazy that I started this fic when I was eight months pregnant with my daughter, and now I have an almost-three month old who's asleep on my shoulder right now.

It was so fun to learn and grow as a writer, and I hope you enjoyed! <3

My current taglist was made just for Cruel World. If you'd like to join my taglist for supernatural or other fandoms, fill out my form

𝙲𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝:

@ambiguous-avery , @insensiblelimerence , @samiwinchester444 , @staley83, @little-rose-universe , @ferncloud0191

𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝:

@mrs-cactus69 , @youre-djoking , @casanddeanswife , @winchesterfields67

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Hey guys, can we PLEASE talk about this scene?

Because I’ve been thinking non stop about the way he yanks her under him. Fuck off. I’m dizzy.

[alasdecas]

Hiyaaa!!! How are you doing?? I feel like it's been a while since our last chat!

Also, side note, I kind of feel like watching a random spn episode so pre Scoobynatural (last ep I watched and my all time fav), which lighter, not super plot heavy episodes are your favourites? And Sam-centric ones perchance?

hii omg sorry i haven't been too active interaction or obviously post wise!! i'm doing alright!! nothing outstanding just relaxing thankfully.. how are you!!!

and for sam centric or fun episodes...

7.14, 6.15, 6.9, 7.5, 8.8, 11.8, 5.5, 5.8

[wendichester]

𖤓 𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, found in a sage-green motel drawer, folded inside a ridiculous seaside t-shirt that says i got crabby in cape mercy 𖤓 @alasdecas

mari,

dean says writing letters is a chick-move. which is funny, because dean once spent three days refusing to admit he was upset, so i’m not taking emotional advice from him.

and maybe this is dramatic. maybe it’s stupid. maybe it’s the kind of thing i would fold up and hide somewhere instead of giving to you directly because, apparently, i can stare down a demon but not one dominican girl in glasses who looks at me over the top of a map and says, “sam, that road is closed. i literally told you that twenty minutes ago.” you did tell me. for the record.

you told me a lot of things that summer, actually. not all at once. not in the easy way people sometimes do when they want to be known fast. you were reserved in the beginning, almost careful with yourself, as if you had a version of mari for strangers and another version tucked away for people who had earned it. the first one was polite, observant, pretty in a way that made me nervous because it didn’t ask for attention and still got it. the second one came out somewhere between the third bad motel and the second time dean chose the music without asking.

you were loud. funny. sarcastic enough to make dean choke on his slushie. too honest in a way that should’ve scared me off and somehow did the opposite.

i think i liked you before you let me see all of that.

i know i loved you after.

that town was the kind of place people forget exists once summer ends. weather-beaten docks, tiny souvenir shops, salt stuck to every window, and roads so narrow dean kept muttering that the impala deserved better. you bought that ridiculous local t-shirt from a shop with a sun-faded plastic lobster in the window, then acted as if it was a perfectly reasonable purchase because “it has character.” dean said it had a criminal record. you wore it over your halter top the next morning anyway, with jean shorts and sandals, hair messy from the heat, sage-green nail polish chipped on one thumb, and sunscreen already in your hand.

“sit,” you told me.

“mari, i’m fine.”

“you are six feet of pale academic tragedy. sit.”

so i sat.

your hands were gentle. that’s what got me. you had this nurse’s focus, this steady way of noticing small things before they became problems. a cut on dean’s knuckle. the headache i pretended i didn’t have. the fact that i’d been rereading the same paragraph for ten minutes because i was too busy watching you pretend not to watch me back.

you noticed everything.

which was inconvenient, because i was trying very hard not to be noticed.

the case was supposed to be simple. haunted inn, old drowning, local stories. we were going to be in and out in two days. instead, the car broke down outside a bait shop with one working vending machine and a bathroom key attached to a wooden fish. dean was under the hood swearing. i was pretending i knew enough about the problem to help. and you were sitting cross-legged on the curb, googling solutions with your glasses slipping down your nose, reading instructions aloud in the most serious voice i had ever heard.

then you muttered something in spanish.

i didn’t catch all of it.

but that was the moment, i think. sunset turning the road gold, your gas-station slushie melting beside your knee, you squinting at your phone and refusing to panic because someone had to be useful. you were so pretty it was honestly rude. moles on your skin. tired eyes. that little frown you got when you were concentrating. the softness you tried to cover with sarcasm. the honesty you used when you were scared someone might miss the point.

i didn’t miss it.

i just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you didn’t make it easy, by the way. when you liked me, you acted as if being in the same room was suddenly a complication. you’d plan the route, hand me the map, remind me about the next turn, then refuse to look at me when my fingers brushed yours. you judged every song dean played but claimed you were “very relaxed about music, actually,” which was the least convincing lie i’ve ever heard. you saved me the blue raspberry slushie even though you said it stained my tongue. you bought me a paperback from a used bookstore near the pier because you said the main character was “tall, quiet, and emotionally constipated, so obviously.”

i still have it.

there’s sand between the pages.

our first date wasn’t called a date. you were very firm about that. it was “a walk.” then it was “getting food.” then it was “checking out the beach because we’re already here, sam, don’t make it weird.” i tried not to make it weird. i failed. you wore flared jeans even though the air was warm, and a babydoll top that kept catching the sunset. i remember you holding your sandals in one hand, walking barefoot near the water, telling me about the difference between the person people first met and the person your close friends got to keep.

i wanted to be close enough to keep you.

that thought hit me so hard i almost stopped walking.

later, we went swimming after dark. also not a date, according to you. definitely not the first date, which mattered because you had rules about kissing on first dates and you informed me of them with the kind of dramatic offense that made me grin for ten minutes afterward.

“excuse you,” you said, pointing at me as we stood ankle-deep in the water. “i do not kiss on first dates.”

“i didn’t ask.”

“well, saved you the question, no?”

it was like you read my mind. i was thinking about kissing you. i was thinking about how careful you were with your own heart and how badly i wanted to be trusted with it. i was thinking about the moon on your wet shoulders, your laugh carrying over the water, the way you looked at me when you thought darkness gave you permission. i was thinking that if i stepped closer, you might step back. and if you stepped back, i would deserve it for wanting too much too soon.

so i didn’t kiss you. not that night. i just walked beside you until we were both cold, and when you shivered, i gave you my jacket without making a joke about it. you looked at me for a long second, softer than you probably meant to.

“you’re sweet,” you said, quiet enough that i would’ve pretended not to hear.

the kiss came later, because mutual pining can only survive so many sunsets before it starts getting ridiculous. we were outside the motel, sitting on the hood of the impala while dean was inside pretending not to spy through the blinds. you had that stupid t-shirt on again, your knees tucked up, your shoulder pressed against mine. i told you i liked the mole near your mouth. you went still in this tiny, startled way, as if being noticed that specifically meant more than some big confession.

then you said, “you’re not very subtle, winchester.”

i said, “neither are you, mari.”

and you kissed me first. barely. just enough to ruin me.

then you pulled back and said, “that doesn’t count as a first date kiss.”

i said, “no?”

“no. this is different.”

you were right. it was.

the summer didn’t end with a goodbye, which still feels impossible. our lives are usually built out of leaving. motel keys on counters, tire marks in gravel, people we care about becoming rearview mirror ghosts because staying gets complicated and dangerous and selfish.

i expected that. maybe you did too. maybe that’s why you kept pretending you were casual about it, folding your clothes too neatly, making little jokes, reminding everyone about the route back as if planning the road could protect you from the end of it.

but then you looked at me across the parking lot, wearing sage green and trying not to cry, and i knew i couldn’t turn you into another thing i missed. so i asked you to come with us for a while.

not forever. not in a way that trapped you. just a while. just the next town. the next case. the next sunset. the next gas-station slushie where you judged dean’s music and stole my fries and reminded me to put sunscreen on even when there wasn’t a beach for miles.

you said yes.

then you called me an idiot for looking so surprised.

i’m writing this from the passenger seat while dean drives and complains about your playlist, which means he secretly likes it. you’re asleep in the backseat, curled around my jacket, one hand tucked under your cheek. the weird t-shirt is in your bag somewhere. your glasses are in the cupholder because you forgot them there. there’s a slushie receipt stuck in my book, and your handwriting on the map, and for once, summer doesn’t feel like something we lost. it feels like something we carry with us.

so, marianna, what happened that summer can stay there if you want. but i’m really glad you didn’t.

𖤓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒌𝒐-𝒇𝒊! 𖤓

[alasdecas]

my god!! i love this so much :(( thank uuu!!

[s0urw00lf]

𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

Summary: Mary had a blatant favoritism for Dean and it breaks your heart to see Sam in tears over his mother.  

An: all I have to say is- Mary Winchester is almost as bad as John.  

WC: 1.5k - Sam Masterlist

 It wasn't hard to see. Not for you, at least, the way Sam crawled into himself with Mary and Dean found yet another thing in common that he just didn't.

The way he'd try anything to bond with his mother, because for Dean, it was so seamless. Then, the way he'd try to actively avoid the woman as a whole when she clearly had blatant favoritism towards Dean.

Your heart broke each time, and every time it became harder and harder to bite your tongue because of how protective Dean was, and how willing to let go and accept it, Sam was.

But you weren't. You didn't like Mary. You didn't like the way she was raised from the dead and shoved into the boy's life like she still belonged. Like she'd been there the whole time.

You especially didn't like the way she disregarded her youngest son, your husband, just because she knew Dean longer.

She wouldn't even try.

At first, you thought maybe it was because she felt guilty or weird, but the way she clicked with Dean made it obvious she wasn't having any trouble being a mother.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the morning Sam had invited you and Mary to watch a movie together. Something fun- a movie he had picked and loved for years. You, of course, obliged because it was Sam and you could never resist his pretty puppy eyes.

You made yourself comfortable at Sam's side, and he wrapped you in his arms. Sam's eyes lit up when his mom walked into the room, taking a seat closer to the end of the couch than him. Just that small action made him deflate a little, and you again bit your tongue. Instead, you pressed a subtle kiss to his forearm and intertwined your fingers with his.

A little way through the movie, you had excused yourself to the bathroom, and when you got back, the movie was paused, and neither Sam nor Mary was anywhere to be seen.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you walked around the bunker, checking in all of the usual places Sam liked to hide out in. All spots came up empty.

The last stop you made was to your shared bedroom, where Sam was sitting on the corner of the bed with his hands in his hair and tears falling down his face.

"Baby?" You gently called as you approached. Sam didn't hide from you, he looked up at you, sad and teary-eyed. The sight made your chest constrict. "Oh, Sam," you whispered, stopping in front of him.

You put your hand on his face, wiping away the tears that kept falling. "Talk to me, honey. What happened?" You question gently.

Sam wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer as he buries his head in your chest. You resisted the urge to let tears fall yourself. You brushed your hands through his beautiful brown locks, scratching gently, and the base of his skull in the way he always found comfort in.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong," you urged him. You knew already, you knew Mary had yet again crushed his heart and hopes that one day he could really have his mama back.

"I-" Sam began, but his voice broke. You shushed him, "Take your time, honey… I'm not going anywhere," you continued, running your hands through his hair.

"I just… want her to see me." His voice strained. Your heart shatters. "The way she does Dean. I don't have any bond with her and she won't- she won't even try"

You bit your lips, trying to contain the heat boiling in your chest. "I know." You hated that it was the only thing that you could say.

Right now, as Sam clutched you closer, your mind had set. Mary would hear a price of your mind. You'd argue with Sam, you'd argue with Dean, if Mary can sit and choose favorites, you won't let her hear the end of it.

You sat with Sam for about an hour until he fell asleep. You pressed a kiss onto his forehead, giving him one last glance to make sure he was really asleep before slipping out of his arms.

You tiptoed out of the room and down the hallway.

You found Mary in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She froze momentarily when she saw you.

You took a seat at the table. "We need to talk," you said, interlocking your hands. Mary finished chopping the tomatoes and set them aside. "What about?" She glanced at you.

You huff a laugh, "Sam." Your tone is harsh but still respectful. She looked off, as if she already knew it was coming, "What about him?" She sighed.

You rolled your eyes. "Look, I'm not gonna sugarcoat anything, you're an adult. You can take it." Your gaze on her hardens. "You have to stop treating him like some guy you met on the street."

"I don't"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing in an attempt not to lose your cool. "You do. You're his mother, and you act as if you hate him."

She avoided your eyes, and you saw right through her. "You think he doesn't see the way you avoid him? That he doesn't see your favoritism for Dean? Sam's not an idiot, and he knows how to read a room."

"I don't try-" "No, you're right, you don't. I don't care what your problem is, but I advise you to fix it. He's been to hell and back, he lived with the guilt of your death and every one he's ever lost his whole life." You cut her off.

Your mind wandered back to an hour ago, when he was crying because the woman who gave birth to him would barely sit in the same room as him.

She folded her arms over her chest, looking as if she was trying to shrink into herself.

"And you know the worst part?" She looks at you questioningly, "The worst part is he's so much like you. he never wanted this life. None of it. He wanted to find love, build a home, and have a normal family. Ring any bells?"

Mary shook her head, sucking in a harsh breath. "I'm sorry- but I. I can't. I don't even know where to start with him."

You scoff, "How about an apology. Tell him you love him, get to know him. Him, not stories, not rumors. Him."

Mary leans against the counter, facing away from you. You could see the contemplation on her face, which irritated you further. How did anything requiring her son have to be contemplated?

You scoffed, standing up from your seat, "You know what- forget it. You obviously don't want anything to do with him. Just know this, he would've done anything to spend just a few hours with you when you were dead." You walked to the door, pausing. "Imagine how he feels watching you walk around his home and still making no effort."

You walk back to you and Sam's bedroom. He was no longer asleep; instead, he was standing in the middle of the room, looking like he was thinking too hard.

"Hey," you say, eyeing him. He turned towards you, a small smile lit his face, and his eyes were no longer red. Instead, they sparkled in their usual hazel color.

He walked towards you, wrapping his arms around you tight and secure, "Oh- what's this for?" You let out a surprised laugh, hugging him back.

Sam kissed your forehead, "for loving me. And taking care of me, even behind my back"

Oh.

You look up at him, "You know, it's rude to eavesdrop," you joked, trying to gauge his feelings. He shrugged, "You left me."

"Clingy"

"Only for you"

This makes you laugh, relieved he wasn't upset about you confronting his mom. You sighed, "If I crossed a line, I'm sorry. I can't stand to watch you wait for her to see you. It's not fair."

Sam frowns to himself, "It's okay, honey-"

"Except it's not. You and Dean have been without a parent for so long. Now she's here, and I can't even begin to imagine how it feels."

Sam's jaw clenched. He shook his head before picking you up bridal style. "I got you, though. And dean. That's all I really need. I mean, yeah- it sucks, but what's new."

You felt a pang in your chest, you opened your mouth to say something, but Sam cut you off with a kiss.

You melted into him without a fight. He laid you on the bed, then lay down himself. "Don't wanna talk about it anymore. Just wanna sit n lay with you." He muttered.

You smiled, "I think I can make some arrangements"

He gives you an 'oh really?' look. "Oh, can you? Wouldn't wanna ruin your busy schedule"

You snort, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Never too busy for you," you promise.

Sam smiled into the kiss, pulling you closer.

The anger directed towards his mother didn't leave. It wouldn't, not until she fixes her act, if she ever does. But Sam had a way of melting away your anger like no other, and right now, all you wanted was to focus on him. Because that's what he deserves.

[s4turns-st4rs]

thinking about sam winchester picking you up just to prove he can… bridal style cuz he’s a gentleman….

[anislittlewh0re]

ᘏ sam winchester who's favourite thing in the world is to tease his pretty gf

tw. heavy teasing, size kink, dacryphilia, oral (f rec.), p in v, creampie. mdni.

your boyfriend, sam winchester, had mastered the art of teasing you.

while he'd always been a patient man in the bedroom, choosing to take his time to learn your body and its desires over time and prioritise your pleasure over his in true gentleman fashion, sam now enjoyed teasing you and watching you mess of yourself.

he liked seeing how whiny and impatient you got, clawing on his thick biceps with your thighs trembling around his head as he'd spend what felt like hours mouthing at your clit, dragging his tongue through the slick mess between your thighs in languid strokes which gave you just short of the orgasm you'd come to need even as his fingers would scissor you open with knuckle-deep thrusts.

he loved how deep your pretty skin would blush when he'd press his thick shaft flush against your wet folds, grinding against you with controlled thrusts as you'd whine and plead for his cock, for him to finally fuck you. " patience, sweetheart." sam would groan, your slick coating his cock and the swollen veins wrapped around it in sticky rivulets.

sam adored the fat, petulant tears that would start to pour down your flushed cheeks when he'd finally notch the head of his cock into your entrance only to pull back and start fucking into you with shallow thrusts that went just barely past the bulging head of his cock.

and when he'd finally give in to your pleas and fuck you with full, deep pumps of his hips that had the thick, mushroomy tip of his cock kissing your sweet spot with every thrust; sam loved how needy and loud you'd get, your inhibitions melting away as you'd claw trenches into his back, your legs wrapped tight around his pistoning waist while you'd moan— high pitched and pornographic.

and finally, when sam would allow himself to finish, spilling inside you with a deep grunt after he'd made you cum on his cock at least twice, you'd be babbling thankyou's to him.

a/n : nanami vers reminded me of my sweet gentle lover sammy

taglist : @kelbrave, @icebearcucumber, popeheywardssecretgf, @ohangeleyes, @stoneyggirl2, @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13, @butterphii dm or comment here to be added to the taglist.

[boykingscourt]

SAM WINCHESTER IN EVERY SPN EPISODE (88/327)

[alasdecas]

Hey I just wanted to check, you answered my Dean flirting with Mari ask privately and I'm totally fine with that but you added your usual inbox tags so I thought I'd make sure, did you mean to post that? As I said, I'm fine with either, I just thought I'd check <3

OH HI sorry for some reason i thought it'd private post but with asks i guess it just goes directly to the person😭😭 i was just going over my mari works and rethinking what i want to have out publicly as unofficial works like i still want to have those discussions and little thought exchanges but maybe it should be under another or no tag!!

[ohangeleyes]

alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:

1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..

2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.

at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.

i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️

and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.