Record Sex tapes, established relationship, Sam burping the worm (sorry). 1.7k words
Quick Quickie in the bathroom with boyfriend Sam. 1.4k words
Last Cheating and guilt. 1.1k words
Share Sharing a bed with Sam and getting naughty at night. 2.2k words
Back Pegging Sam. 1k words
Sam's nudes Taking classy nudes of Sam, written from an ask. 1.2k words
Lie Ruby possesses you and offers you to Sam. Non con elements. 1.9k words
Depollute me, gentle angel Cockwarming with Sam in the bunker library. 1.2k words
Pretty as a vine, sweet as a grape Sam blindfolds you for a taste test. Smut inevitably ensues, cause duh. 2.5k words
Late night call IT Support!Sam, high powered businesswoman!reader & phone sex. 2.4k words
Wallpapers Sam suffering from erectile dysfunction, reader showing him she is crazy about him despite it all. 2.1k words
7 minutes in heaven Stanford!Sam and you finally give into your passion during a game - with all your friends just outside. 2.6k words
Thinking of you Sam pining for you and jorkin' his peanits. 1.3k words
Your fingers part my lips and teeth You bite Sam and both of you are into it. 2.7k words
Seasonal ⋆⁺₊❅ Red Sam plays Santa and you tease him a bit too much. 1.1k words
Six foot four (more than 3k words)
I dreamed of the places I've been with you Sexy dreams and mutual masturbation in the Impala. 4.1.k words
Sense Boy king Sam, blindfold and submission. 3.7k words
Says I'm his favorite (yeah, I better be) The King plays with you while you sleep. More submission and a bit of cockwarming. 3.6k words
Treat your mouth as if it's heaven's gate Priest Sam and you desecrate a church. 5.4k words
Baby giraffe Birthday sex, drunk Sam, effects of drunk fucking. 5.5k words
A temporary bandage on a permanent wound After Sam loses Dean in "Mystery Spot", you find him. Rough and desperate sex, some angst. 8.1k words
Sam Winchester cries his way through sex Subby, tied up Sam, hook up turned so much more. Lots of edging. 10.9k words
A moose on the loose Jealous, pining Sam turns into confident backseat fucker Sam. 10.1k words
You got me good (I knew you would) Reader's first time, lots of communication. 9.6k words
Squeaky clean Naughty bath time, fingering and masturbation, soft pleasure-focused Sam. 5.3k words
Seasonal ⋆⁺₊❅ Egg-knock knock, who's there? Sam and you pining for each other and then getting it on in the bathroom. Set during "A Very Supernatural Christmas". 5.7k words
Seasonal ⋆⁺₊❅ Be cool and warm my heart Dom!Sam comes after sub!bratty!reader on a cold winter night. 4k words
Seasonal ⋆⁺₊❅ Holiday Cheer Sam and you celebrate Christmas with something special you haven't tried before. 6.2k words
Feat. Fem!Sam! A Knight to remember Challenge piece, female!knight!Sam x princess!reader. 8.1k words
Blood Sugar Sex Magik Sam x witch!reader, sex magic, blood kink. 4k words
imagine getting to finally peg sam. the first few times you brought it up he always turned into a blushing mess before trying to change conversation. maybe you would have dropped the subject if it wasn’t for the growing boner in his jeans every time you mentioned the idea. but it wasn’t until after a week long hunt without you that he finally agreed.
as soon as he came into your motel room he was a desperate mess, kissing you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. unlike the usual answer to if you could peg him, this time the response was only a repetition of “please, baby” while he ripped off his clothes in a hast. he was lying down on the bed ready for you by the time you got your strap on, pre-cum steadily leaking from his cock. he watched with rapt attention as you grabbed his thighs and spread them open; faint blush coated his cheeks as his dick twitched.
at first he tried to hold in his sounds, biting his lip through your gentle thrusts. but a few soft whines escaped as you sped up. along with whimpers of “fuck baby” every time you hit his prostate. at some point he couldn’t hold it in anymore, nodding along like a bitch in heat as you called him your pretty slut and moaning like a girl when you stroked his dick. his legs wrapped around your waist as spurts of cum shot out of his cock and his tight ass clenched around your strap. the post-orgasmic high would have him a blushing mess, but the whine that escaped him when you pulled out only showed how much he loved it.
a/n : ugh i haven't been able to get this head cannon out of my mind so i'm deciding to write it out. Jared in Gilmore Girls was the perfect age for Stanford!Sam. also fun fact, i never found Dean Forester attractive. i only became team Dean after watching Supernatural (but i'm most definitely a Jess girl).
Stanford!Sam would... always wear his Standford hoodie but the second you guys get together, that hoodie is no longer his. it LIVES in your closet or on your body. Sam doesn't mind though cause he thinks you look absolutely adorable in it.
Stanford!Sam would... come up with nerdy Halloween costume ideas like Clark Kent and Lois Lane or Peter Parker and MJ for those Halloween parties you always get invited to. he would always come up to you with "this Halloween we could be...! or even...!" "you know we should be... next Halloween"
Stanford!Sam would... help you study for your exams. he came up with a reward system for you to! for every 3 questions you get correct, you get rewarded a kiss. he even creates flashcards and everything! however after the 9th question you get right, you guys get a little distracted while he was rewarding you that your flashcards get strewn onto the floor beside the bed forgotten... at least you knew a little more about human anatomy that wasn't depicted in the textbooks ?
Stanford!Sam would... GUARD YOUR DRINKS LIKE ITS HIS DAYTIME JOB when you're at parties. Sam is not a very big partier but you like to dabble in nighttime social life once in a while and Sam feels like it's his god-given duty to watch after you. he watches from afar, puppy dog-eyed and smitten smile, as you're on the dance floor with your friends as he has his hand covering your cup.
Stanford!Sam would... follow you around and listen to your every command all puppy-eyed. he might tower over you, but you're the one who runs the show. Sam is hell-bent on following your orders. your shoe lace is undone? Sam's on his knees tying it for you, making sure to double knot that way you don't trip. you're feeling a little drained before your 9am class? Sam has a cup of your coffee order in his hand ready to go for you. trying to get out of the car? don't even think about it. in half a second, Sam is already on the passenger side with the door open, holding his hand out for you to help you out of the car.
sam winchester x fem!reader • friends to lovers, mutual pining • 7.6k words
♫ kiss you - one direction ♫
requested <3 | masterlist ♡ | read on ao3
the ghost catches fire at four thirty-seven in the afternoon.
after three nights of broken sleep, two interviews with increasingly suspicious neighbors, and one very unpleasant hour spent digging beneath what used to be a vegetable garden, the end of the hunt feels almost offensively simple. dean drops the match into the open grave. flame catches along the salt-soaked bones in a sudden blue-white rush, forcing all three of you backward from the heat.
you lift one arm across your face. beside you, sam watches the fire with his shovel still resting against one shoulder, dirt streaked across the knees of his jeans and a narrow scratch running from his jaw toward his ear. the spirit disappears somewhere behind you with one final crack of displaced air.
then everything goes quiet.
no screaming windows. no doors slamming inside the abandoned farmhouse. no invisible force attempting to throw dean down a staircase for the third time.
just cicadas.
dean stares into the grave.
“that’s it?”
sam lowers the shovel. “you sound disappointed.”
“i’m not disappointed.” dean nudges a loose clump of dirt toward the flames with his boot. “i’m confused.”
you wipe sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “by what?”
“it’s not even five.”
sam glances toward his watch. “that’s usually considered a good thing.”
dean looks personally offended by the concept. “when’s the last time we finished a job before midnight?”
you and sam both think about it, looking at each other with furrowed brows.
dean points between you with the hand holding his shovel. “exactly.”
the farmhouse stands behind him in the warm missouri afternoon, its peeling white paint turned gold by the lowering sun. someone has already started reclaiming the property from decades of neglect. the field beyond the house has been cut recently, leaving dry grass flattened in long rows, and a bright red real estate sign leans beside the gravel drive.
tomorrow morning, someone will probably discover the disturbed garden. by then, you will be gone.
the thought should feel ordinary. most towns become nothing more than names scribbled in the margins of john winchester’s journal, places you remember by whatever tried to kill you there.
this one already feels different. maybe because, for once, the sun is still up when you survive it.
dean begins filling the grave after the fire dies low enough to approach. sam joins him without being asked, which leaves you responsible for gathering the gasoline, salt, and canvas bag of supplies scattered around the garden.
you are carrying everything toward the impala when a distant burst of music reaches across the fields.
you stop. somewhere beyond the trees, a brass band stumbles enthusiastically through a song you almost recognize.
sam looks up from the grave, and another sound follows. children shouting, then the faint mechanical whine of something large enough to belong at a carnival.
dean plants his shovel in the dirt. “what the hell is that?”
you look toward the road. a banner hangs across the intersection half a mile away. you notice it for the first time now that the three of you are not driving past at sixty miles an hour while arguing about nineteenth-century property records.
summer days festival. august 18–20. food, games, rides, live music.
you glance toward sam, but sam is already looking at you.
“no,” dean says.
you turn. “i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face didn’t do anything.”
“it did the thing.”
sam leans against the shovel handle. “what thing?”
dean gestures vaguely toward you. “the thing where she sees something dumb and decides we’re doing it.”
“that is not a thing.”
“last month we drove forty minutes out of the way because you saw a sign for the world’s largest ball of twine.”
you lift the canvas bag into the trunk. “and now you can say you’ve seen it.”
“i could’ve lived without that.”
“you took a picture.”
“for evidence.”
sam ducks his head, but not fast enough to hide his smile.
the distant music rises again. you look past them toward the banner. dean follows your attention and groans.
“fine,” he says. “food. one hour.”
your smile arrives before you can hide it. sam sees, and something about his expression changes. only for a second, then dean throws a clump of dirt at his boots and tells him to stop standing around.
—
the motel shower produces hot water for approximately four minutes.
you discover this after spending most of those four minutes trying to rinse graveyard dirt from your hair. by the time you finish, the water is cold enough to make your teeth hurt.
still, when you step outside twenty minutes later, clean clothes sticking lightly to damp skin, the evening feels too warm to complain.
the motel sits three blocks from the town square. strings of carnival lights are already visible above the rooftops, glowing faintly against a sky that has not yet gone dark.
sam and dean wait beside the impala. dean has changed shirts. sam hasn’t. he has washed the dirt from his face and hands, but the dark blue flannel he wears still carries faint dust along one elbow. his hair is damp near his temples, pushed away from his forehead in a way that will last approximately five minutes before falling forward again.
his attention moves toward you as you approach, then stops. your steps slow, and sam looks away. not quickly enough. heat gathers beneath your skin that has nothing to do with the weather.
dean pushes himself away from the impala. “everybody done staring?”
sam’s head snaps toward him. “what?”
dean tosses the room key from one hand to the other. “nothing, sammy.”
you walk ahead before either brother can look at your face.
the festival occupies four blocks surrounding the county courthouse. by the time you reach it, the sun has disappeared behind the rooftops, leaving streaks of orange and pink above the buildings. food trucks and temporary stands line the streets beneath strings of lights. children run between adults carrying glowing plastic toys. someone is selling handmade jewelry beneath a striped canopy. another booth has arranged jars of honey beside hand-painted signs advertising three counties’ worth of local bees.
the air smells like fried dough, charcoal, hot pavement, and kettle corn. for several seconds, you forget what town you are in. that almost never happens.
usually, even on quiet nights, some part of your mind remains attached to the case. exits, weapons, the distance to the car, or whether the person passing too close behind you is actually passing.
tonight, the ghost is gone, the three of you are alive, and there is absolutely nothing left to kill.
“food,” dean announces.
he disappears toward a stand advertising smoked ribs before either of you answers. sam watches him go.
“one hour,” he reminds you.
you look toward the ferris wheel rising above the buildings at the far end of the street.
“sure.”
sam follows your gaze. “that sounded convincing.”
“i have no idea what you mean.”
“you’re doing the thing.”
you turn toward him. “what thing?”
“apparently, your face has a thing.”
“don’t encourage him.”
sam smiles.
you have known him long enough to recognize several different versions of that smile. there is the quick, satisfied one that appears when a piece of research finally fits. the slightly smug one he gets when dean is wrong about something and sam has evidence. the tired one after a hunt, when relief matters more than exhaustion.
this one is softer. you see it more often lately, and usually when he is looking at you. you try not to think too much about that.
“come on,” you say instead.
sam’s brow rises. “where?”
you begin walking backward through the crowd. “anywhere.”
his smile widens, then he follows.
—
the first thing you do is buy lemonade.
the second is nearly spill it down the front of sam’s shirt when someone pushes through the crowd behind you.
sam catches the cup before it tips, and his other hand catches you. his palm closes around your waist, warm and broad through the thin cotton of your shirt, pulling you forward before you can stumble into the couple passing behind you.
your free hand lands against his chest. everything stops. not the festival, though. it continues loudly and without concern. a little girl screams from the top of a spinning ride. grease crackles behind a food stand. the band on the courthouse lawn begins testing microphones, sending a burst of feedback through the square.
but something inside you stills.
sam’s fingers remain against your side. your palm remains over his chest. beneath it, his heartbeat is faster than you expect.
his eyes meet yours. “you okay?” he asks.
the question comes quieter than everything around you.
you nod. “yeah.”
neither of you moves. sam’s gaze drops. not far, but just enough that you know exactly where he looks before his attention returns to your eyes.
your fingers curl slightly against his shirt.
someone bumps sam’s shoulder, and the moment breaks. he releases you, and you take your lemonade from his other hand.
“thanks,” you say.
“yeah.”
sam rubs his palm once against his jeans. you pretend not to notice.
the lemonade suddenly tastes much too sweet.
—
dean finds you fifteen minutes later beside a game booth. he’s carrying a paper tray piled with ribs in one hand and a beer in the other.
you are holding an enormous stuffed dog.
dean stops. “no.”
you hug the dog more securely against your chest. its head is large enough to block half your face, one floppy brown ear falling over your shoulder.
“what?”
“where did that come from?”
you look at sam. sam looks toward the booth.
dean follows the exchange.
“sam.”
“what?”
“how much?”
sam clears his throat. “doesn’t matter.”
you lower the stuffed dog enough to see him properly. “twenty-eight dollars.”
dean closes his eyes.
“it was rigged,” sam says immediately.
“which should’ve been your first clue to stop.”
“i figured it out.”
“after twenty-eight dollars?”
sam gestures toward the dog in your arms. “obviously.”
the booth operator, a college-aged guy wearing a visor with the festival logo printed across it, leans over the counter.
“your boyfriend got competitive.”
sam goes completely still. you feel something warm spark beneath your ribs.
the booth operator doesn’t notice. “kept saying the bottles were weighted wrong,” he continues. “never seen anybody analyze a carnival game before.”
dean slowly turns toward sam. you bite the inside of your cheek.
sam looks at the booth operator. “i didn’t—”
“he was very determined,” you say.
sam’s attention snaps toward you. you smile innocently.
the booth operator points at the stuffed dog. “worth it, though. she wanted that one.”
“she said it was ugly,” sam protests.
you run your hand over one of the dog’s ridiculous eyebrows. “affectionately.”
dean looks between the two of you. then toward the beer tent across the street. then back.
you know that expression.
“don’t,” you warn.
“didn’t say anything.”
“you’re thinking something.”
“i’m constantly thinking.”
sam takes the stuffed dog from you before its giant foot can knock the lemonade from your hand. the thing looks even more ridiculous beside him. one long arm wraps around the dog’s middle while the head rests near his shoulder, making six-foot-four sam winchester look like he has stolen something from a child’s bedroom.
you laugh, and sam gives you a look.
“you wanted it.”
“i know.”
“you called it ugly.”
“i love him.”
something changes in sam’s face at the word love. then he looks down at the stuffed dog.
“him?”
“obviously.”
“does he have a name?”
you consider this.
“sam.”
dean chokes on his beer. sam stares at you. you keep your expression serious for approximately two seconds.
then you break. sam shakes his head, laughing under his breath.
“absolutely not.”
“sam junior?”
“worse.”
“sammy?”
“don’t call it that.”
dean points at you with one barbecue-covered finger. “do it.”
sam looks betrayed. “whose side are you on?”
“whichever one’s funnier.”
you reach for the stuffed animal, but sam lifts it out of reach.
“hey.”
“you lost naming privileges.”
“he’s mine.”
“i spent twenty-eight dollars on him.”
“as a gift.”
sam looks down at you. “is that what this is?”
the teasing thins unexpectedly. you become aware of how close he is again. the stuffed dog remains wedged between you, but sam’s attention has dropped to your face with that same quiet intensity from earlier.
“isn’t it?” you ask.
something in his expression softens.
“yeah,” he says. “it is.”
dean makes a noise around another bite of ribs. both of you look toward him.
“what?”
he swallows. “nothing.”
you narrow your eyes. dean finishes his beer and glances toward a hand-painted sign outside the bar across the intersection.
pool tournament tonight. $20 buy-in.
his entire face brightens.
“oh, hell yes.”
sam follows his gaze. “dean.”
“what?”
“you said one hour.”
“plans change.”
dean crumples the empty food tray and throws it into a nearby trash can. “you two clearly have…” he gestures between you. “…whatever this is handled.”
sam’s grip tightens around the stuffed dog.
“what does that mean?”
“nothing.” dean digs into his pocket and pulls out the impala keys. he tosses them toward sam.
sam catches them automatically. that gets your attention.
“you’re letting sam drive?”
dean points at his brother. “three rules. don’t scratch her. don’t eat in her. and if anything happens to her, i kill you and bury your body somewhere no one will ever find it.”
sam looks down at the keys. “comforting.”
“i mean it.”
“i know.”
dean turns toward you, saying your name.
“what?”
“don’t encourage him.”
“to do what?”
dean looks between you again, his mouth twitching. “you’ll figure it out.”
before either of you can respond, he disappears into the crowd. you stand beside sam in silence. the stuffed dog stares blankly between you.
finally, you say, “he’s weird.”
sam looks toward the bar where dean disappeared.
“yeah.”
“you know what he meant?”
“no.” the answer comes too quickly.
you smile into your lemonade.
“you’re a terrible liar.”
sam adjusts the dog beneath his arm.
“where to next?”
you look around the festival.
“you’re still coming with me?”
his expression shifts with genuine confusion.
“why wouldn’t i?”
you lift one shoulder. “dean bailed.”
“dean found a pool table.”
“same thing.”
sam studies you for a moment, then takes a small step closer so the crowd can move around you.
“i wasn’t here because dean was.”
the words settle somewhere warm.
you look at him. “then why are you here?”
sam’s eyes hold yours. for half a second, you think he might answer. instead, he raises the stuffed dog.
“because somebody had to win you this thing.”
you laugh, and sam smiles again.
you let him get away with it. for now.
—
you ride the ferris wheel first.
sam insists the giant dog cannot come. you insist he can, and the teenager operating the ride sides with you.
sam ends up sitting across from both of you, knees nearly touching yours in the small metal carriage while the stuffed animal occupies half the bench.
“comfortable?” you ask.
“very.”
his knees are folded at an angle that looks painful.
“you could sit over here.”
the invitation escapes before you think about it. sam’s gaze moves toward the open space beside you. there is barely any, the stuffed dog takes up most of the bench. you shove it toward the corner.
sam hesitates, then the wheel lurches. his hand shoots toward the side of the carriage.
you laugh. “scared?”
“no.”
“you grabbed the railing.”
“it moved.”
“that’s what ferris wheels do.”
“i know how ferris wheels work.”
the wheel carries you higher. lights spread beneath you as the courthouse drops away. the surrounding town extends outward in quiet blocks, streetlamps coming on one by one beneath the violet evening sky.
when the carriage reaches the top, it rocks gently.
sam looks down. his hand tightens around the railing.
you stare at him. “sam winchester.”
“don’t.”
“are you afraid of heights?”
“i’m not afraid of heights.”
the carriage rocks again. sam looks directly forward.
you begin laughing.
“you hunt monsters.”
“monsters usually stay on the ground.”
“you’ve been in airplanes.”
“when i had to.”
“you went to college in california.”
“buses exist.”
you are laughing hard enough now that the carriage shakes beneath you.
sam’s expression finally breaks. “you done?”
“not remotely.”
he kicks the toe of your shoe lightly with his. you kick him back.
the carriage begins moving again. when you reach the bottom, the operator keeps the wheel going. sam exhales subtly.
you catch it, and he sees you.
“say one word.”
you hold your hands up. “wouldn’t dream of it. we’ll let dean believe he’s the only one scared of flying.”
a minute later, your carriage rises again.
this time, when it slows near the top, sam moves.
“scoot over.”
you look at him. “what?”
“you said there was room.”
your heartbeat changes. you pull the stuffed dog onto your lap. sam shifts across the narrow carriage and sits beside you.
his thigh presses along yours immediately. there is no avoiding it. not that either of you tries.
his shoulder rests against yours. his body is warm after the cooling evening air, and something about having him this close makes every other detail sharpen.
the wind lifting your hair. the faint smell of his soap beneath the lingering trace of graveyard smoke. the slow movement of his knee against yours whenever the carriage sways.
“better?” you ask.
sam looks down at the festival.
“yeah.”
you smile. his hand rests on the bench between you. yours does too. the backs of your fingers touch, and neither of you pull away. a rush travels through you so quickly that your breath catches.
sam’s fingers shift, barely. his little finger hooks against yours. you look down, then at him. sam is already watching you.
the ferris wheel stops. not at the bottom, at the top.
your pulse jumps. sam’s gaze drops toward your mouth. you don’t move, and neither does he.
the stuffed dog begins sliding from your lap. you grab it automatically, and sam catches the other side. the moment breaks beneath several pounds of badly stuffed polyester.
you stare at each other. then you both start laughing. by the time the wheel moves again, your fingers are no longer touching.
you notice anyway.
—
the photograph happens because you need somewhere to put the stuffed dog.
a small booth near the courthouse advertises four pictures for two dollars. beside it sits a bench exactly large enough to hold one enormous carnival prize. you drop the dog onto it.
sam studies the photo booth. “no.”
you pull back the curtain. “yes.”
“we already spent twenty-eight dollars.”
“you spent twenty-eight dollars.”
“on you.”
there it is again. on you. you pretend the words don’t do anything to you .
“then two more dollars won’t kill you.”
sam folds his arms. “why am i paying?”
“because i’m holding the curtain.”
“that logic doesn’t make sense.”
“you went to stanford. figure it out.”
“that’s not how stanford works.”
you step inside. sam remains outside, so you sit and wait. the curtain does not move.
“fine,” you call. “i’ll take them by myself.”
three seconds pass before sam appears.
you smile. “thought so.”
“move over.”
the booth is not built for him. he has to duck beneath the frame, then fold himself onto the narrow bench beside you. his shoulder takes up half the space. your hip is pressed tightly against his, and one of his knees angles awkwardly between yours.
you stare at the tiny screen.
“this seems intimate.”
sam exhales a laugh.
“your idea.”
a countdown appears. five, four, three…
you smile normally before the flash fires.
sam blinks. “great,” he mutters.
the next countdown begins.
you turn toward him. “you blinked.”
“it was bright.”
“that’s generally how cameras work.”
“thanks.”
you laugh just as the second flash fires.
“you ruined it.”
“you were the one talking.”
the third countdown starts.
sam looks at you, and you look toward the screen.
“sam.”
“what?”
“camera.”
“okay.”
the flash fires. he is still looking at you. you catch it in the reflection of the screen immediately afterward.
your heartbeat stutters.
the final countdown appears.
sam seems to realize what happened at the same time. neither of you turns forward.
three.
his eyes remain on yours.
two.
you stop breathing.
one.
the flash catches both of you looking at each other. the booth falls quiet.
sam’s knee remains between yours. your shoulder rests against his chest. outside, music begins on the courthouse lawn. inside, neither of you moves.
“we should…” sam starts.
“yeah.”
he doesn’t finish, and you don’t move.
finally, the machine makes a mechanical grinding sound beneath the screen. both of you jump. a strip of photographs emerges outside.
you laugh under your breath. sam opens the curtain first, cool air rushing into the booth. you follow him out.
the photographs develop slowly.
first picture: you smiling, sam caught halfway through blinking.
second: you laughing at him while he looks toward you with exaggerated annoyance.
third: you face the camera, but sam doesn’t. his attention rests entirely on you.
then the fourth darkens into view. neither of you is looking at the camera. you are looking at each other, and your smiles are gone. the expression on sam’s face makes your stomach turn over. soft, unguarded, wanting.
you run one thumb over the white edge of the strip.
sam clears his throat. “you can keep it.”
you look up. “you don’t want it?”
“there’s only one.”
“we can cut it.”
his eyes move toward the third picture.
“keep it.”
you slide it carefully into your pocket. something tells you he will remember it without needing the photograph.
—
the band is better than expected. not good, exactly, but enthusiastic.
they play covers everyone knows, and by the third song enough people have gathered on the courthouse lawn that the grass becomes a makeshift dance floor.
you stand near the edge with sam. the stuffed dog is back beneath his arm.
“dance with me.”
sam nearly drops it. “what?”
you nod toward the crowd. “dance.”
“i don’t dance.”
“everyone dances.”
“dean doesn’t.”
“dean absolutely dances.”
“not sober.”
“neither are half of these people.”
sam looks toward the lawn.
a middle-aged couple moves past you holding hands. a group of teenagers jumps badly in time with the music. three little kids spin in circles until one falls over and immediately starts laughing.
you hold out your hand. “come on.”
sam looks at it.
“you scared?”
his eyes narrow. “of dancing?”
“apparently.”
“you just found out i don’t like heights. don’t push it.”
you smile. “two fears in one night. huge progress.”
sam looks toward the crowd again. then at you. his hand closes around yours, warmth rushing straight through your arm.
“one song,” he says.
“sure.”
you pull him onto the lawn.
sam was right, he cannot dance. not disastrously, though. there is rhythm somewhere beneath all those long limbs, but he thinks about every movement too much. his shoulders stay tense. his hands keep hovering in uncertain places as though he needs instructions.
you laugh. “stop thinking.”
“helpful.”
“you’re counting.”
“i’m not counting.”
“you absolutely are.”
“i like patterns.”
“this isn’t research.”
“everything has a pattern.”
you step closer, and sam stops talking. you take one of his hands and put it against your waist. his fingers spread automatically.
“there,” you say.
your hand slides onto his shoulder.
“other one.”
sam looks down at you, then his free hand finds your other side.
“better?” his voice is lower.
you swallow. “yeah.”
the band moves into something slower. not a slow song, exactly, but close enough that the people around you shift nearer to one another.
sam notices. you know because his thumbs stop moving. you didn’t realize they were moving until they stop. small strokes against your waist barely there. your arms settle around his neck.
sam’s eyes darken.
“still counting?” you ask.
“no.”
“good.”
you sway with him beneath the festival lights. every few seconds, someone brushes past. each time, sam draws you closer.
eventually, there is almost no space left.
your chest rests near his. his hands have moved from your waist to your back. your fingers find the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.
sam breathes in. you feel it. his eyes drop again. your whole body seems to recognize what is happening before your mind catches up.
you tilt your face. sam leans closer.
then someone crashes into his back, hard. sam stumbles forward, and you catch his shoulders. the teenager responsible shouts an apology before disappearing through the crowd after his friends.
sam closes his eyes, and you bite back a laugh.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
he opens his eyes. you are still holding him, and he’s still holding you.
the almost-kiss sits between you obviously now, it’s impossible to pretend otherwise.
sam’s jaw tightens.
“do you wanna get out of here?”
your heartbeat trips.
“where?”
he looks at you.
“anywhere.”
—
the impala smells like leather, gun oil, and dean.
you slide into the passenger seat with the stuffed dog wedged awkwardly across the back. sam shuts the driver’s door and adjusts the seat automatically, though dean has already shoved it nearly as far back as it goes.
the festival glows beyond the windshield.
you look toward the bar. “should we tell dean?”
sam opens his phone. “probably.”
he sends a message.
less than thirty seconds later, his phone buzzes. sam reads it, and his mouth flattens.
“what?”
he turns the screen toward you.
don’t wreck my car. be back before checkout.
you laugh. “that’s permission.”
“apparently.”
sam starts the engine, and the impala rolls away from the curb.
for several minutes, neither of you say anything. the festival disappears behind you. streets become quieter, businesses giving way to houses, then fields. warm night air moves through the open windows.
sam keeps one hand at the top of the wheel. the other rests beside him on the seat. you look at it, then out the window, then back.
you have spent years touching sam in ways that don’t count. pulling him out of the path of something dangerous, passing weapons, checking cuts, falling asleep against him in the back seat, squeezing his hand beneath hospital lights when dean is hurt.
nothing about those touches is meaningless, but they have always had explanations. tonight keeps taking the explanations away.
his hand at your waist, his finger hooked around yours, his body against you while you dance, his eyes on your mouth, your eyes on his.
you look toward the road. “where are we going?”
sam glances at you. “you said anywhere.”
“that isn’t a location.”
“i’m working on it.”
“you don’t know?”
“not exactly.”
you smile.
“sam winchester driving without a destination.”
“don’t tell dean.”
“he’d be devastated.”
“he’d blame you.”
“probably accurately.”
sam smiles toward the windshield.
you watch him, but he catches you.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“you’ve been looking at me for, like, thirty seconds.”
“have not.”
“you have.”
“eyes on the road, winchester.”
he laughs quietly. your chest aches with it.
the road rises gradually outside town. sam eventually turns onto a narrow overlook above the river, gravel crackling beneath the tires. the place is empty except for one battered trash can and a wooden guardrail overlooking the dark water below.
he parks, and the engine goes quiet. cicadas immediately fill the silence.
you look through the windshield. moonlight catches the river in narrow silver pieces beyond the trees.
“not bad.”
sam nods. “saw the sign earlier.”
“when?”
“driving to the farmhouse.”
you turn toward him. “you remembered an overlook sign while we were hunting a ghost?”
he shrugs. “thought you might like it.”
the answer disarms you more effectively than anything else tonight. you look down at your hands.
“oh.”
sam’s attention remains on you.
you reach for the door. “come on.”
outside, the air has cooled. you climb onto the hood before sam can tell you dean would object. the metal remains warm beneath you, heat from the engine seeping through your jeans.
sam gives you a look.
“what?” you ask.
“dean’s going to kill us.”
“then he shouldn’t have given us the car.”
sam considers that, then climbs up beside you. the hood dips slightly beneath his weight.
you sit shoulder to shoulder facing the river. for a while, neither of you speaks. the quiet doesn’t feel awkward. it rarely does with sam.
somewhere below, water moves steadily over rocks. insects pulse through the grass. an occasional car passes on the distant highway, headlights appearing briefly through the trees before disappearing again.
you reach into your pocket. the photo strip is slightly bent, so you smooth it against your thigh.
sam notices.
“survive?”
“barely.”
you study the pictures again.
“you blinked.”
“we established that.”
“terrible first picture.”
“you look fine.”
“you look possessed.”
“an occupational hazard.”
you smile. your thumb moves down to the third picture. sam’s amusement fades, you feel it.
“you weren’t looking at the camera.”
he looks toward the river. “no.”
“you did it twice.”
“apparently.”
you wait. sam knows you are waiting.
he rubs his palms once against his jeans, then rests them beside his legs.
you look at the fourth picture.
“what were you looking at?”
sam exhales.
“you know.”
your heartbeat begins to climb.
“i want you to say it.”
his head turns.
moonlight catches one side of his face. his hair has fallen forward again, exactly as you knew it would, and the small scratch near his jaw has darkened against his skin.
“you,” he says. the word lands softly.
you look back at the photograph.
“why?”
sam laughs once beneath his breath. not because anything is funny, but because you have made things difficult, and he knows it.
“seriously?”
you turn toward him.
“seriously.”
his gaze moves over your face.
“because i wanted to.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“it is.”
“not a good one.”
sam lowers his head. for a second, you think he will retreat. then he reaches into your hand and takes the photograph.
his thumb settles over the third picture.
“you want a good answer?”
“yeah.”
he looks at you.
“i’ve been trying not to look at you like that for months.”
all the air leaves your lungs. the insects continue in the grass.
sam looks back at the strip.
“probably longer.”
your hand tightens against the hood.
“why?”
his mouth twists faintly.
“you ask that a lot.”
“sam.”
“because you’re my friend.”
something inside you drops. sam sees it.
“no.” he shifts toward you immediately. “that came out wrong.”
“really?”
“yeah.” his knee presses against yours. “you’re my friend, and we hunt together, and this life is already…” he gestures vaguely toward the road, the car, everything beyond it. “complicated.”
you wait.
“and i didn’t know if you…” he stops.
for once, sam seems unable to find the correct words. you have seen him translate latin while concussed. you have watched him lie to police officers with a straight face while blood from a monster dried beneath his fingernails.
you have never seen him this uncertain.
“if i what?” you ask.
his eyes lift.
“wanted me.”
the honesty of it hurts.
you stare at him.
“sam.”
he shakes his head.
“you don’t have to say anything.”
“you just told me you’ve been trying not to look at me for months.”
“yeah.”
“and now you think i don’t have to say anything?”
“i’m giving you an out.”
“i don’t want an out.”
sam goes still. you can actually see the words reach him. the tension in his shoulders changes first, then his mouth, then his eyes.
“you don’t?”
“no.”
his attention drops to your hand against the hood. slowly, he moves his own beside it. your fingers touch. the same rush from the ferris wheel moves through you again, but stronger now.
sam looks down too. his fingers turn beneath yours, and your palms meet.
“every time,” you admit.
his eyes return to your face.
“what?”
you thread your fingers through his.
“every time you touch me.”
sam’s breath catches, and you smile nervously.
“all night.”
his thumb passes over your knuckles. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
something warm and almost disbelieving spreads across his face.
“me too.”
you laugh softly.
“we’re idiots.”
“probably.”
“dean definitely knows.”
“definitely.”
“that’s humiliating.”
“only a little.”
you look down at your joined hands.
“how long?”
sam’s thumb keeps moving across yours.
“i don’t know.”
“that’s not like you.”
“what does that mean?” he asks.
“you know everything.”
“that is wildly inaccurate.”
“you know how many miles we drove yesterday.”
“three hundred and twelve.”
you give him a look.
“but that proves nothing,” he continues.
“you know how many cups of coffee dean had this morning.”
“four.”
“sam.” he smiles, and you lean closer. “how long?”
the smile fades into something gentler.
“maybe that case in arizona.”
you search your memory.
“the werewolf?”
“yeah.”
“that was six months ago.”
“i know.”
your chest tightens. “why that one?”
sam looks toward your hands. “you got hurt.”
you remember.
three stitches in your shoulder after a werewolf caught you before sam could fire. objectively, not even close to the worst injury you have taken.
“i’ve gotten hurt before.”
“i know.”
“then why?”
his jaw shifts.
“because i couldn’t think.”
you fall quiet. sam looks toward the river.
“you were bleeding, and dean was talking to me, and i knew what i needed to do. i knew the wound wasn’t bad. i knew you were conscious.” he swallows. “but all i could think about was getting to you.”
your fingers tighten around his. sam looks back.
“and then you were okay, so i told myself i was being stupid.”
“were you?”
“apparently.”
“that’s not what i meant.”
his mouth curves faintly.
“no.”
you study him for another moment. “i think mine was before that.”
sam’s eyebrows rise. “really?”
“maybe.”
“when?”
“i don’t know.”
“you just gave me a hard time for not knowing.”
“different rules.”
“how convenient.”
you bump your knee against his. sam nudges yours back.
the touch lingers, and your face feels warm despite the cool air.
“i just remember noticing things.”
“what things?”
“you.”
he watches you. “that’s specific.”
“shut up.”
“you demanded details.”
“i changed my mind.”
sam smiles. you look toward the river because looking directly at him has become difficult.
“i noticed when you were tired before you said anything. i knew which shirts you hated even though you wore them anyway. i knew when you were pretending to read because you’d been on the same page for twenty minutes.”
sam’s expression softens. you continue before courage can disappear.
“and i started knowing when you walked into a room without looking.”
the confession feels larger than saying you want him. maybe because wanting can be temporary and this never has been.
sam’s thumb stops over your knuckles.
“i do that too.”
you look at him. “what?”
“with you.” he leans slightly closer. “i always know where you are.”
the night seems to narrow around you.
sam’s gaze falls toward your mouth. this time, nothing interrupts. no falling stuffed animal, no stranger crashing into him, no camera flash. just sam sitting close enough that you feel his breath when he exhales.
his hand releases yours. for one terrible second, you think he is pulling away.
instead, his fingers rise toward your face. they stop before touching.
“tell me if i’m wrong.”
your heart pounds hard enough to hurt.
“about what?”
sam’s mouth twitches.
“you know.”
“i want you to say it.”
his eyes close briefly. “you really like making me work for things.”
“apparently.”
his hand finally touches you. fingertips brush along your jaw, and your whole body goes warm.
sam watches your face carefully.
“tell me you don’t want me to kiss you.”
you lean into his hand.
“that would be a lie.”
something in him gives, and sam kisses you.
the first touch is careful, softer than everything building toward it. his mouth presses against yours as though even now he is making sure you mean it, giving you one final second to move away.
you do the opposite. your hand catches the front of his flannel and pulls.
sam makes a quiet sound against your mouth, then the careful part disappears.
his other hand finds your waist, and yours slides behind his neck. he kisses you again, deeper now, and every almost-touch from the entire night seems to collapse into this one moment. his thumb presses beneath your jaw, and your fingers disappear into his hair.
sam draws you closer until your knee slips between his and your shoulder turns fully toward him.
you kiss him harder.
he laughs softly against your mouth. the sound makes you smile.
“what?” you whisper.
sam shakes his head.
“nothing.”
“what, sammy?” you repeat.
“i just…” he looks at you from inches away. “i’ve wanted to do that for a really long time.”
your chest aches.
“then you should probably do it again.”
his smile appears slowly.
“yeah?”
you pull him in by his shirt.
sam kisses you before you can answer. this time there is nothing hesitant about it.
his hand slides into your hair, holding the back of your head while his mouth moves against yours. your palm finds the warm skin beneath his jaw. every breath becomes shared, interrupted, forgotten.
you have kissed people before, but none of them have felt like this. maybe because none of them were sam.
none of them knew you before they touched you. none of them knew exactly how you take your coffee or which nightmares make you leave the motel room instead of trying to fall asleep again. none could tell when you lie about being hurt from the way you tie your boots.
sam knows all of it, and now he knows the way you kiss him too.
you shift closer. his hand tightens against your waist.
then something enormous falls inside the impala. both of you jerk apart. a muffled thump comes from the back seat.
you stare through the windshield. the stuffed dog has fallen sideways against the door.
silence lasts one second, then you laugh.
sam lowers his forehead to your shoulder. his body shakes with his own laughter.
“he ruined it again,” you say.
sam lifts his head.
“we are not naming that thing after me.”
“he keeps interrupting us. seems accurate.”
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
the words come out before you think about them.
sam stills. your smile fades slightly, and his hand remains around your waist.
“no,” he says softly. his eyes hold yours. “i really don’t.”
something about the answer feels dangerously close to another confession. one neither of you are ready to make tonight.
you are strangely okay with that.
for once, there is no rush. you know what his mouth feels like now. you know he wants you. he knows you want him. tomorrow can have the rest.
you brush your thumb across his cheek.
“kiss me again.”
sam does.
—
dean is awake when you return. of course he is.
the motel room door opens before sam finishes unlocking it, revealing dean standing barefoot on the carpet with his gun lowered at his side.
“finally.”
you look at the weapon.
“were you about to shoot us?”
“you took my car.”
sam holds up the keys. “it’s fine.”
dean immediately steps past him and looks toward the parking lot.
“you scratch her?”
“no.”
“hit anything?”
“no.”
“let her drive?”
“hey,” you protest. dean ignores you.
sam shakes his head. “no.”
“good.”
dean takes the keys, then he looks at sam. really looks.
his eyes move from sam’s hair to his face, then toward you.
you suddenly remember what the two of you were doing five minutes ago.
you run a hand through your hair. that probably makes it worse.
dean’s expression changes slowly and horribly.
“oh.”
sam closes his eyes. “don’t.”
dean looks delighted.
“oh.”
“dean.”
his gaze drops toward sam’s hand. you follow it.
somewhere between the parking lot and the motel door, sam has placed it against your waist. neither of you noticed.
dean looks back at his brother.
“about damn time.”
you cover your face.
sam sighs. “can we not do this?”
“do what?” dean steps back into the room. “i haven’t said anything.”
“you literally just did.”
“three words.”
you follow him inside. the giant stuffed dog takes up half of sam’s arms when he carries it through the doorway.
dean stops again.
“what the hell is that?”
you lower your hands.
“sam junior.”
“no,” sam says immediately.
dean’s face lights up.
“sam junior?”
“do not encourage her.”
dean takes the stuffed dog from him and examines it.
“kinda see the resemblance.”
sam glares. you drop onto the edge of your bed, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts.
dean sets the dog upright in the motel chair.
“there. family portrait.”
“i’m going to kill you,” sam mutters.
dean looks toward you.
“see? his paternal instincts already kicking in.”
you fall backward onto the mattress.
sam throws a pillow at his brother, and dean catches it.
“wow.” he tosses it onto his own bed. “dating for five minutes and you’re already violent.”
sam goes still. so do you.
the word hangs in the motel room.
dating.
dean notices, you see his expression change subtly. for all his teasing, he knows when he has stepped onto something neither of you has discussed.
“i’m showering,” he says.
he grabs clean clothes from his bag and disappears into the bathroom. the door closes.
silence settles.
you sit up, and sam remains beside the other bed.
“so.”
he rubs the back of his neck. “yeah.”
“dating.”
“dean talks too much.”
“he does.”
sam glances toward the bathroom door. water starts running.
he looks back at you.
“but…”
you wait. he takes two steps closer.
“if you want.”
your chest goes warm.
“if i want?”
“yeah.”
you stand. sam watches you cross the space between you.
“you’re making this sound like i’m picking dinner.”
“i’m trying not to assume.”
“sam.”
“yeah?”
you reach up and straighten the collar of his flannel, though nothing is wrong with it.
“i spent the entire night trying to get you to kiss me.”
his eyebrows lift. “the entire night?”
“most of it.”
“you could’ve said something.”
you stare at him. “you could’ve.”
“fair.”
your hands remain against his chest. sam’s settle at your waist again more easily this time, as though they already know where to go.
you look up at him.
“yes.”
his brow furrows.
“yes what?”
“yes, i want to.”
understanding moves across his face. then the smile comes. soft, warm, yours.
“okay.”
“okay?”
“yeah.”
“that’s all i get?”
sam leans down.
“no.”
he kisses you. you barely have time to smile before his mouth covers yours.
behind the bathroom door, dean bangs once against the wall.
“i can hear you not talking!”
you pull back. sam’s forehead drops against yours.
“i hate him.”
you laugh quietly.
“no, you don’t.”
“right now, i might.”
dean shouts something else through the running water.
sam reaches toward the nightstand and turns the television on loud.
you laugh into his shoulder.
his arms close around you. it happens without hesitation this time. no startled pause, no question. you fit yourself against him, cheek resting over his chest while some late-night sitcom fills the motel room with canned laughter.
sam presses his mouth into your hair. the gesture is so simple that it almost hurts more than the kisses.
you look toward the ugly stuffed dog in the chair.
“we’re keeping him.”
sam follows your gaze.
“fine.”
“and his name.”
“absolutely not.”
“sam junior.”
“no.”
“sammy junior.”
“worse.”
you tilt your head back.
“you said i could have anything i wanted tonight.”
sam’s eyes narrow.
“i did not say that.”
“you implied it.”
“when?”
“every time you asked where i wanted to go.”
“that’s not the same thing.”
“feels the same.”
sam looks down at you for a long moment. the amusement slowly softens from his face. his hand rises to tuck your hair behind your ear.
“you know i would, though.”
your smile fades.
“what?”
“take you wherever you wanted.”
his fingers linger lightly near your cheek. the words are quiet. not a promise, not exactly. something better, maybe. something true.
you think about the road outside. the thousands of miles behind you and all the ones waiting ahead. bad motels and worse coffee. haunted houses and graveyards and nights where getting to morning feels impossible.
you think about sam beside you through all of it. then you look at his mouth.
“anywhere?”
his gaze drops to yours.
“anywhere.”
you rise onto your toes, and sam meets you halfway.
this kiss is slower, easy. his hands settle around your waist while yours curl over his shoulders.
there is no rush now. not because you want him any less. because for the first time, you know there will be another kiss after this one.
another tomorrow, another town, another road.
when you finally pull away, sam keeps you close.
the bathroom door opens behind him.
dean steps out with a towel around his neck, takes one look at you, and immediately turns around.
“nope.”
you and sam laugh.
when dean begins complaining about needing a room of his own from now on, sam doesn’t move his hands from your waist. he doesn’t step away, and he doesn’t pretend.
neither do you.
for once, there is nowhere else you would rather be.
Summary: Good ol' hurt/comfort with Sammy because he seriously needs a hug and I dream of touching that hair and back.
Relationship: Sam Winchester x f!reader (I wrote it with a girl in mind but can be read as gn!reader too). No y/n.
Warnings/tags: Angst, fluff, comfort, self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to sad childhood, dean being dean, demon blood, trauma, idk supernatural is already a tw on its own.
Author's note: Hi! This is my first published work. Idk if anyone is going to read this but, if you do and like it please give me your opinion. I'm trying to get out of my comfort zone and get better at writing so any suggestions or comments are very appreciated! English isn't my first language so if I make any mistakes please correct me. x
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Days like these didn’t come often. Sure, Sam thought about it all the time -the demon blood, the venom coursing through his veins and poisoning every organ, tainting what remained of his human nature. But he didn’t break down.
Years of endless car rides, moldy motels, and grief had taught him that breaking down was dangerous. Vulnerability got you killed. And being vulnerable with other people only gave your enemies something else to use against them.
The stress of the job usually helped him forget. He found solace in endless lore, interviews, and hunts. They gave him something else to focus on. They also gave Dean a reason to stay by his side. Oh, and they gave him the perfect excuse to keep you close.
Sam hated himself for it. You and Dean were the two most important people in his life, and he was dangerous. The things that wanted him were dangerous. Still, the need was stronger than his conscience. He loved you and he couldn't let go.
This afternoon, however, you and the boys had wrapped up the hunt much faster than expected. It had turned out to be nothing more than a simple salt-and-burn. So Sam found himself alone in the motel bathroom, unable to quiet his thoughts.
Back when he was a kid, the bathroom had been the only place where he could find privacy. The only place where he could escape John's critical stare, where he could feel clean after long, violent days. He would take long showers and let the warm water boil away the dirt and blood until it turned cold, the chill eventually soothing his mind. Dean would often tease him when he got out, making jokes about "taking care of his little problems" and using all the hot water. It had embarrassed him at the time, but it had also confirmed just how much comfort he found inside that room. So, even now, the bathroom remained one of the places where he felt safest.
Dean had gone to some bar you had passed on the way to an interview to “gift the woman of the town with his precious talents.” You, on the other hand, had gone for a walk, as you always did when you had free time.
Sam normally would have joined you. He liked how happy those simple walks made you. He liked the casual conversations you shared and he loved watching you walk. Loved the way you seemed to breathe differently when you weren't surrounded by creatures, weapons, and the constant threat of death. He loved your easy smile, the way you talked about nothing and everything, the way your hand sometimes brushed against his when you walked beside him. It was such a small thing. Such a normal thing. And somehow, it meant so much. It was a kind of domesticity he had never known. A life that felt almost within reach. It was torture, but a very precious one.
This time, however, he hadn't gone. He had wanted to with all his heart, and being away from you had tortured him. He was always worrying about you, and missed the opportunity to see what would make you smile today.
But the hunts and their cruel rhythm, the guilt and its constant pursuit… He was exhausted. Every muscle burned and every bone ached. His head throbbed like a bitch. Unlike the headaches he'd suffered when he was having visions, this one was less sharp and more consuming. He could feel the blood pounding behind his ears and across his forehead. He wondered if it still carried traces of demonic venom. If it was spreading silently through him. If, little by little, it was consuming him until there was nothing left but a monster-
The door opened and closed with an irritating sound. Sam felt his head threaten to split apart.
“Sam?” Your voice sounded worried. So even though he barely had the energy to raise his voice, he answered.
“Bathroom. You can come in.”
“Hi, Sam. What are you doing here?” You paused when you saw him. He looked pale, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Why are the lights off? Wait, let me turn them–”
“No.” The answer came so quickly that it startled you.
“Sam, are you okay?” The words were soft and low. He loved that about you. The affection and warmth. The pure, selfless care you gave to someone as tarnished as him. It made something inside him break. He looked at you with wide, hazel puppy eyes, almost as if he were silently begging for something.
You always seemed to know what to do, even when he didn't know what he was asking for. So you stepped closer, took his head, and pulled him against your stomach. The soft sounds it made were strangely soothing. When your fingers began tracing slow patterns along the nape of his neck, he almost started purring. He held you desperately, pressing his face against your shirt. It didn't really smell like you -he wished it did- but it smelled clean, like floral detergent.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He could barely focus on your questions. Your nails were drawing little circles against his skin, and it felt so good.
“My head.” The words finally came out, muffled against the fabric.
“Okay. It's okay. I know just the thing that can help.” You always do, he thought. “But we have to lie you down. You can't stay here; you'll only get more uncomfortable.” He didn't answer, he simply followed you into the main room and sat on the edge of his bed.
"Come on. Lie down on your back.” You placed a pillow across your crossed legs. Sam lay down and rested his head against it. Then you took his temples between your fingers and began massaging them. “You know, I think I might have mentioned this before, but my grandmother owned a hair salon. I loved spending time there.” Your fingers moved into his hair, gently tangling through his scalp as you applied more pressure. “My father hated it because it took time away from training and helping with lore research and everything else, but I loved it. I used to clean things, handle appointments, all kinds of stuff.” Your fingers slowly moved toward the nape of his neck and the tops of his shoulders. “Sometimes, when we were about to close, my grandmother would take me to the fancy chairs. She'd wash my hair and massage my scalp.” Sam's eyes drifted shut. “I always found it fascinating that such a simple thing could mean so much. Whenever she did it, I felt every ounce of hurt, pressure, and stress disappear.” Your voice softened. “It felt intimate. I used to be jealous of her hands. I wanted to be able to make someone feel as safe and cared for as she made me feel with such a simple gesture.” Your fingers continued their slow movements through his hair. “One day, I asked her to teach me. After that, I started practicing on my mom every day.” You weren't entirely sure why you were telling him all this. You simply felt comfortable with him, and it seemed like the right thing to say. Maybe all he needed was a few soft words and something to distract him from the pain. “It's been a while since I've done this, though. Tell me if the pressure is too much.”
“It's perfect.” He answered so quickly that you couldn't help but giggle. God, he loved that sound. A small smile tugged at his lips. If Dean saw me now, I would die of embarrassment. “Thank you.”
“It's the least I can do. You're always taking care of everyone else. Saving people. Saving me and Dean when we need help on hunts.” Your fingers continued moving gently through his hair. “Who takes care of you?”
Sam's breath caught. How could someone so precious exist? He was putting you in danger every day, and here you were, saying the most beautiful things while taking his pain away without asking for anything in return. That was it. The dam broke. A couple of tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, dying into his hair. You noticed immediately and stopped.
“Hey. Are you sure it's not too much?” That only made him cry harder. You were so gentle and loving. He didn't know what to do with it. He had never been treated like this before. Sure, Dean had always taken care of him. But this was different. This was soft. There was no screaming, no sacrifice. Just your hands in his hair and your voice in the dark of the room. Your body close enough for him to feel the warmth of you. You weren't even his. That was the problem. You were his best friend. And maybe best friends could be like this. Maybe best friends could hold each other and touch each other with this kind of care.
Sam sat up and turned away from you, embarrassed by his reaction. “Hey, Sammy. Please. Tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me.” The nickname was what finally shattered the last of his composure.
“Why are you like this?”
“What? What do you mean, why am I like this?”
He finally turned around. His cheeks were wet, his nose red, his lips slightly swollen. They looked beautiful. Your fingers ached to touch them. Your lips yearned to kiss them to taste the salt of his tears.
Focus.
“Why are you so nice?” His voice trembled. “Why do you stick around?” He swallowed hard, hoping the tight feeling on his throat dissapeared. “Look, I'm dangerous. I'm a monster. I have this disease inside me. In my blood. This venom that's destroying every ounce of humanity I've ever had.” You couldn't speak. Sam's voice broke. “I'm begging you. I can't get away from you and Dean. I can't. I need you.” His eyes were full of fear. “So you have to leave. Because if you don't, you're going to end up dead like everyone else who ever got too close to me. Like my mom and dad, like Jess.” You stood frozen. He was standing in the center of the room, his large frame usually taking up so much space. Now, somehow, he looked small like a child trying to hide from an angry beast. You understood why he believed what he was saying. You wanted to tell him he was wrong, you just didn't know how to make him believe you. So you tried.
“Sam, listen to me.” He looked at you reluctantly. “Monsters are scary. They're cruel... ugly things.” You struggled to find the right words. “Some might look good on the outside, but inside, they're rotten. They feed on fear and power.” You took a step closer slowly, as if you were trying to talk to a wild scared animal without making it run. “Sammy, how could you possibly think you're like them? You're brave. You care about people. You work every day to make the world safer for strangers who will never even know your name.” Your voice grew softer. “You try to do the right thing every day, even when the right choice is harder than the wrong one.” You smiled faintly. God, you loved him so much. “You're kind. You're stubborn, in the best way possible...and you're beautiful.” Sam's breath caught. “Your soul is beautiful. I've seen it every time you've saved someone. I've seen it in the way you care, in the way you fight, in the way you keep going even when you're exhausted and afraid, and I see it now. Even when you're sad and angry.” Your voice trembled from the emotion of such honesty. “It's still beautiful.” Sam's eyes filled with tears again. “You are loved.” You wanted to reach for his hand. “And I need you to let me show you that.” He didn't move. “Let me take care of you. Let me stay by your side. Let me help you see how perfectly human you are.”
For a moment, Sam was speechless. He looked into your eyes and found no hesitation there, no lies nor pity. Only care. So he let his body do what it wanted.
He closed the distance between you in a few quick steps, took your face between his large hands, and kissed you. The kiss was passionate, filled with raw want and love. It tasted like salt, just what you had thought. All the things he had spent years refusing to say poured into it. All his fear and need, all his lonliness and devotion. And he worshiped you with his lips.
When you finally separated, both of you were breathless. “I love you,” he said.
“I know.” You smiled, teasing. “I love you too.” He wanted to hear those words a million more times.
You took his hand and guided him back toward the bed. He lay down, and you gently pulled his head against your chest.
“Does your head feel better?” You stroked his hair.
“So much better. Thanks.”
“Anytime you need it, just ask.” Your fingers continued their gentle movements. “It's okay to ask, Sam. I'm here for you. Always.” Warm tingles spread beneath his skin like fluttering butterflies.
Then your voice grew lighter. “I also give incredible back rubs, if you're interested…”
And that was how Dean found the two of you.
You were sitting on the edge of the bed, watching television while giving a very shirtless Sam, sitting on the floor in front of you, a back rub.
Dean stared at the scene and he sighed. “Fucking finally.”
wordcount: 3677
summary: One of Sammy’s lore yap-sessions leads into your quiet admiration put into actions.
warnings: sam x reader, early seasons sammy in mind, established relationship, smut (oral m!receiving, kind of over the clothes, not quite premature ejaculation but my guy definitely tried his best to hold it for longer, you make him keep talking through it), he’s such a nerd #needthat
Sam once more had that look on his face– same one you’ve gotten more and more used to spotting. Those furrowed brows, the gentle dimples on his cheek and those ridiculously soft puppy-eyes he got when on the edge of one of those obscure rants. That face always meant he was about to go on and on about history long forgotten by everyone else– those weird cryptic legends, myths, ancient texts or hunting overall…
Right now, he’s sat comfortably on the motel bed, long limbs stretched out and back propped up against the headboard and his hair messy both from the nap he’d just taken and your finders carding through it. John’s hunting journal is resting open on the bed beside y’all on the mattress, your legs bracketing his hips and hands resting gently over the warmth of his chest.
“... so the thing with ancient demonology is–” Sam keeps on explaining with that deep concentration he got when talking about these topics. “ –most people confuse the different classes of demons, like Babylonian’s spirits have totally distinct classifications. They have this one species– Assaku, that are more of a disease creature. But there’s others like Rabisu that are fully in the shadows type of entities–” His hazel eyes are bright with enthusiasm, glowing with that professorial knowledge he got when deep into lore. His voice speeds up as he speaks, gaining momentum whenever he remembered yet another fact.
For the most part, you didn’t even follow his trail of thought– not really at least. Sure, you had your fair amount of hunting knowledge but whenever Sam started rambling? The terms and definitions sort of start blurring together, ancient languages mixing inside your head. It didn’t matter though. Not because you weren’t paying attention or interested– God, no. But because you were completely and utterly mesmerized by him. By his hands, intimate and gentle now resting on your thighs as if your presence was something he couldn’t not not react to– even while deep into his lecture. Every once in a while, you’d offer a soft: ‘mhm’ … ‘really?’ … ‘huh’ Not enough to cut him off, but just the right amount to keep him talking, showing him you were paying attention. You weren’t as focused on his looks by themselves as much as the devotion behind them. The reverence and passion behind a man who lived too much inside his head and finally had a chance to open up.
Sam hadn’t even noticed your silence or how you were completely captivated by him– not by his stories but your boyfriend himself.
Finally registering the quietness, he paused mid sentence. Not only the silence itself but how the silence was– that kind of soft, deep silence. Something like wonder, like you thought he was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen in your life. For some reason, he suddenly felt… shy? A rare, slow flush crept up his neck as realization hit him: he’d been rambling for thirty minutes straight about ancient Mesopotamian demon classification without checking if you cared even a little bit.
His hands stilled on your thighs, voice dropping from lecturer mode into something quieter, warmer– a little sheepish now that he wasn’t losing himself in knowledge anymore. “Uh…” Sam said softly, a hint of nervousness to his gentle smile, vulnerable behind all that intelligence and muscle he carried through life. “Was I talking too much?”
There was an endeared smile now pulling at your lips, eyes soft as they look down at him, shaking your head. “Not at all, Sammy” You hum, fingers gently running through his hair, brushing it away from his face.
God. How you called him Sammy– that stupid, affectionate nickname only you or Dean ever used– soft and sweet like honey instead of teasing like his brother might use, Jesus that did things to him. And then your fingers were in his hair again with tender strokes that made his heart squeeze and warmth spread through his chest, he leans into the touch instinctively– like a shelter puppy meeting its person for the first time, eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening them again to look at you properly. That smile of yours… God, that stupidly perfect smile– the kind that could end wars with how much love was packed into it and it was aimed at him of all people.
He lifted both hands to cradle your face and gently kissed you on the lips, before pulling back with those kind dimples of his. “You’re ridiculously cute when you ramble, Sammy” You murmur, fingers brushing the strands of hair away from his forehead. “D’you know that?” Lips brushing his with every amused, fond word.
The hunter froze for a second– not because of the kiss, Hell no, but because your words made something fuzzy flutter in his chest. Cute. You thought his rambling was cute. Him? Sam Winchester? The same guy who could recite entire chapters of ancient Sumerian demonology from memory, the same guy who could bench press a grown man while taking out a vengeful spirit? Was being called cute by his girlfriend. His (usually sharp brain) short-circuited for a moment, face flooding with heat that spread all the way down his neck and probably even to his chest.
And then you kissed him again between those soft murmurs– lips brushing like quiet whispers, shattering whatever dignity he had left. Sam made tiny noises in the back of his throat (the kind Dean would’ve teased him mercilessly if he ever found out) before pulling you closer into him and deepening the kiss slightly– not hungry or desperate, but slow… sweet, full of everything warm and quiet they shared when it was just them like this: tangled up together on messy motel sheets. “Mh” You hum against his lips, pulling back only to press another soft, brief kiss before pulling back once more. Hands gently cradling the back of his neck, threading through the hairs there. “Tell me more, Sammy” You coo, tender eyes fixed on him with a mix of awed fascination and something closer neediness.
Sam’s breath audibly stuttered at the sound of that coo– low and sweet, vibrating against his lips. That last kiss, so fleeting and tender like a bee landing on a flower, he felt something in his chest clench. God, he could never get used to this type of love. And then you asked. Not sarcastically, not politely pretending to care… But like you actually wanted him to keep talking. His throat tightened– for once it wasn’t from nerves, but from sheer disbelief that someone could ever look at him like that… touch him like that… kiss him like that… And still want more of his voice, more of his nerdy rambles about dead languages and ancient spirits.
Someone help him, he definitely wasn’t strong enough.
He swallowed hard, eyes darkening slightly with affection without breaking away from your gaze (those big doe eyes doing things to his very soul), he leaned back into your hands cradling the back of his neck before speaking again. Voice lower now– somehow even softer than before, still brimming with passion for the subject. “The Asakku weren’t just disease demons” He murmurs softly between gentle kisses to your temple, as if punctuating each word against your skin. “They were cursed entities born from sorcery gone wrong” “Mhm?” You quietly egg him on, eyes looking up at him with full, sweet attention while softly kissing down his neck.
The Winchester’s pulse fluttered the moment your lips brushed his neck– soft, featherlight kisses trailing down the column of his throat and he had to focus on physically biting back a groan. Your attention was killing him. Not just because you were kissing him (which okay, Hell yes) but because despite everything else, you were still listening. Big eyes staying locked on him whenever y’all’s faces came close again, like every word out of his mouth mattered more than anything else in the world. It made him want to talk forever.
So in spite of the goosebumps rising along every inch your lips touched his skin, Sam kept going– the scholar in him refusing to stop mid-sentence even as pleasure hummed through his body. “The Babylonians believed an Asakku could be summoned accidentally” He whispered hoarsely between shaky breaths, pushing through your gentle kisses. “By saying forbidden words or touching cursed artifacts…” His voice dipped lower with each syllable– not from boredom or monotony, just… distracted. Distracted by how warm your breath felt against his sensitive skin, how gently those fingers threaded through his hair…
“Really?” You prop him, sweetly keeping him talking as your mouth works over his neck, lips trailing the soft skin– one hand on the back of his head while the other slowly trails down his broad chest.
Sam’s breath came faster now– shallow, uneven breaths, his fingers flexing against your hips where they still rested like an anchor. Every brush of your lips sent electric tingles down his spine. That spot just below his ear? Fatal. You’d discovered it by accident months ago and hadn’t stopped exploiting it ever since. And now, paired with those slow drags of your fingertips tracing over the hard planes of his chest, down the ragged fabric of that same shirt he’s been sleeping in since he was seventeen and hit a growth spurt– yeah, he was definitely losing coherence. But still… he tried. “Y-yeah” He stammered slightly (a rarity for a guy who could quote latin poetry flawlessly), voice dropping into something gravelly and thick like syrup. “Some texts say that if someone finds an Asakku’s name carved in clay, reads it aloud without protection…” His words faltered when you nipped lightly at the responsive patch on the side of his throat– a tiny gasp escaping him before he could stop it, academic rigor crumbling by the millisecond.
“Mhm… What happens then, Sammy?” You murmur softly, kind and curious, bambiesque eyes on him even as your hand keeps trailing lower down his torso– fingers gently tracing the v shape of his abdomen.
Your boyfriend’s abs tensed the second your fingers dipped lower, following the defined line that disappeared into his jeans– his mind was melting. On one hand: ancient Mesopotamian demonology. Important stuff. Dangerous stuff. On the other hand: you, touching him like this. Asking questions with that voice– the softest, most endearing tone as if his every word was sacred while simultaneously reducing him to a mumbling mess. “You uhm, you get possessed” Sam finally manages to answer in a low breath, even rougher than before as your fingers dip dangerously close to waistband territory. “The Asakku gets inside you” He swallowed hard while you traced that damn v line– not rushing but clearly not stopping either.
“That so?” You kept murmuring with calm words, wide eyes never leaving his as your face moves down his body, lips trailing over his stomach.
Jesus Christ. Sam’s body locked– not from awkwardness or fear, just from sensation. Pure, overwhelming, devastating sensation. Your mouth following the path of your fingertips, reverent kisses along the hard ridges of his abdomen where you’d pushed his shirt up. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest because how dare you put him through this while he’s trying to teach ancient demon lore? (And also, how dare you be this good at unraveling him? You were barely even doing anything for Christ’s sake) His breath came in short bursts now– not quite panting but dangerously close to it. One hand lifted instinctively to tangle gently into your hair, not pushing or pulling, just… holding, needing something solid to anchor himself to.
Your name slipped out on an exhale that sounded more like a plea than a protest or anything academic-related. The Asakku could’ve possessed ten thousand people right then and Sam wouldn’t have cared– not when your mouth was moving lower and lower down his body.
“Keep talking, Sammy” Damn, he wanted to do that so badly. Anything you asked of him really– especially with those doe eyes looking up at him. “Wanna hear your voice” And God how you were looking up at him. All innocent, wide eyes staring into his hazel ones while your lips hovered just above the sensitive dip of his navel– asking him to keep talking? Like this wasn’t slowly dismantling every coherent thought in his brain.
His voice, you wanted to hear his voice? Not because you were passionate about Babylonian curses– but because it was his. The sound of him speaking, his rambles, the nerdy little lectures he usually saved for Dean while working cases (who shamelessly rolled his eyes) or his father (who he hadn’t even seen in over a year) and now you. The woman that made Sam Winchester feel like he could both be a scholar and someone who loved without apology– was practically begging for more of him with kisses as a bribe. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then with a voice already wrecked from trying not to groan: “The Asakku, once inside, takes control” Swallow to steady himself, fingers tightening slightly in your hair as another kiss lands on the juncture of his hip. “Makes you sick first, then violent…” Meanwhile, you keep humming soft ‘mhm’s and ‘what else’s encouraging as your hands oh so innocently pull at his jeans, mouth gently kissing him through his boxers.
Sam’s entire body arched off the bed. It wasn’t a full on sit-up, just a sharp, involuntary lift of his hips from the mattress– enough to betray how utterly wrecked he was. Her mouth, through the thin fabric of his boxers. God this wasn’t fair. The soft kiss, right over where he was already hard from this slow torture some might call ‘affectionate interrogation’. After all, it wasn’t aggressive or demanding, just… sweet, curious little kisses like you had all day to unravel him completely with tenderness alone. Hell, it definitely worked better than any other seduction might’ve worked on another man.
He choked out your name again, this time cracking halfway through from sheer desperation wrapped in awe because– holy shit, you liked listening. Genuinely liked it. Enough to be reverently kissing down every inch of his body, which definitely was something.
A needy plea breaks him out of his inner turmoil, a quiet, sweet: “Please keep talking, Sammy” Those damn eyes looking up at him, your mouth wrapping around the leaking head of his dick through the fabric of his boxers in a delicate kiss.
He could’ve died a happy man right then and there.
Your lips had pressed through the thin cotton right over the sensitive tip of him, already leaking with way too much need for a man supposedly thinking about demonic possession. His hands flew from your hair down to grip the sheets on either side of his hips, hard enough for his knuckles to whiten from the strain. “Fucking– Jesus Christ” He whispered hoarsely– not blasphemy because to him this was genuinely prayer worthy.
Those wide eyes were still on him, innocent, hungry attention full onto what he had to say– asking him (more like pleading actually) to keep talking.
Unfortunately, Sam’s brain had short-circuited completely. He couldn’t form words. Couldn’t remember what an Asakku even was. Forgot the word ‘demon’ for a flash. Hell, he might’ve forgotten his own name for a solid three seconds.
All he knew was heat– so much heat, and your mouth. Your warm, devastating mouth– still pressed against him through that thin layer of fabric, completely innocent as if you weren’t about two kisses away from making him cream his pants like a goddamn teenager at prom. His broad chest rose fast under uneven breaths, shallow panting as one hand finally let go of the death grip on the sheets and instead cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over it with reverence. “The uhm… the Asakku, it feeds” His voice cracked between syllables from how his dick twitched under your lips. “On fear– it feeds on fear” He manages to push through. All you replied was a muffled ‘mhm’ against his length, still mouthing at him through the dampness of his boxers.
Sam’s hips twitched once more. A tiny jerk, just an inch upward– not enough to crowd but desperately following your touch. And God, the dampness definitely wasn’t helping. The younger Winchester’s underwear was ridiculously soaked through now with the undeniably slickness of his arousal– his body betraying the restraint he prided himself on as a disciplined hunter able to remain in control under pressure.
Each exhale from Sam’s mouth was shaky, every inhale desperate as all the stimulation slowly built up into something unbearable. He was drowning in sensations. The painful throbbing of his dick, the softness of your lips even through layers of clothing, the gentle hums that vibrated like earthquakes through his spine, the way you kept looking up at him like he was your whole world and not just another nobody in a sea of hunters. His hand (the one not still gripping the sheets) moved again, sliding from your cheek and into your hair once more. It wasn’t pushing or guiding, just… holding there. Then, a broken whisper of your name escapes, accompanied by an: “I can’t” Not I can’t talk, not I can’t think. Nope, just… “I can’t”
“Yes you can, Sammy” You encourage him with soft, honeyed words. “Keep talking please, lemme hear you, sweet boy”
Oh God, the second you called him sweet boy– his heart actually stuttered in his chest. As if your mouth working him over his pants wasn’t enough to drive him fully crazy, you now had to hit him right in the praise kink buried deep inside him.
Sweet boy? Him?
Sam Winchester– the guy who’d punched a literal werewolf so hard its jaw unhinged, the guy who used to go into full on lawyer rants, the same guy who Dean accused of being ‘too uptight’? And here you were… looking at him like he was something tender. Something precious, a sweet boy.
Because you asked, because you said please with those pretty eyes and soft lips– he swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going despite how wrecked he clearly was. “The Asakku, takes over your mind first…” He exhales shakily as another kiss lands right on the throbbing underside of his shaft. “Then it uhm… It makes you forget yourself” Huh. Ironic given it was exactly what you were doing to him right now.
Your boyfriend’s voice was barely above a whisper– thin, trembling with the effort of staying coherent. “Then it uhm…shit… Makes you do things” He continued softly, hazel eyes glazed over as they stared down at you. “Violent things or just like… Things you’d never do by choice” His words were slow– each syllable dragged out like they were pulled from his very soul. Not because he didn’t know the lore, Sam could quote the lore in his sleep. It was because focusing on ancient Babylonian possession rituals required more brainpower than he currently had available, especially because most of his mental capacity was busy trying not to thrust up into your mouth through those damn boxers like some desperate teenager.
And yet you were still listening, still humming little ‘mhm’s against him between kisses that felt too much like worship for something this mundane. Your lips wrapped softly around him through the damp fabric, suckling gently, tasting the sweet muskiness of his precum. It wasn’t demanding or rough, just… tender, almost reverent– the kind of kiss you’d give something sacred. His breath left him in one long rush, a quiet ‘oh’ escaping without a sound, muscles tensing and untensing all at once. Jesus, those wide eyes locked onto his like you adored what you were doing more than anything else in the world definitely weren’t helping his case. Oh God and then you tasted him, didn’t flinch or pull away from the salt-sweetness seeping into the cotton of his underwear. If anything? You seemed to lean into it, enjoying his musk, his taste.
“Keep talking, Sammy” You remind him, voice a delicate whisper while focusing on trailing your tongue over his length through the fabric.
Sam’s entire body arched again– this time more pronounced, hips fulling lifting from the bed and towards your face in a silent plea he didn’t even fully register he was making. Your tongue. Jesus Christ. The warm, wet drag of it over his throbbing dick– he has to forcefully shake his head to snap out of it. “The uhm… The victim loses control…” He stammered out between shallow breaths, voice cracking boldly as your tongue traces another line over the ridges. “Body stops being theirs… the ah, the uhm… Mind goes blank”
The more he talked, the more devastatingly overstimulating your mouth became– slick tongue suckling tenderly over his most sensitive spots, slowly mouthing at his tip. Sam was gone. Not just distracted, completely gone. Vanished. Reduced to a trembling, gasping mess under you.
Every word he tried to speak now came out fractured– half-formed syllables, broken pauses between breaths, choked out whimpers and groans.
The second your lips found that exact spot– the hyper-sensitive junction where his leaking head met the throbbing heat of his shaft– a rush of white-hot pleasure bursted within him. A sharp, involuntary spurt shot through his boxers. He truly tried his best to hold it back, but every kiss was another warm`spurt and another and another…
Sam came.
In seconds. Without a warning, without anything resembling control or buildup just a continuous cascade of sensations finally bursting through. And you felt it– all of it. The damp heat spreading against your lips like evidence, as if Sam coming apart under you was completely normal, beautiful and right instead of mortifyingly embarrassing for him. But you weren’t pulling away– you weren’t flinching, you didn’t look surprised or awkward or even mildly shocked.
There was no judgement in your expression whatsoever. Instead? Your lips stayed sealed around him through the fabric, suckling gently, drinking up every last drop.
( +18 ) mdni : explicit content ahead afab!watcher ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ must be logged on twt/x to watch these! do not watch in public or with sounds on, unless alone ★
dean ﹏ not losing time in the impala ﹏ sharing with castiel ﹏ prone bone position ﹏ finger-fucking you ﹏ better than pie! ﹏
sam ﹏ soft and slow sex ﹏ size difference ﹏ facesitting ﹏ overstimulating you ﹏ relaxing in the bath ﹏
castiel ﹏ playing with your tits for the first time ﹏ sharing with dean ﹏ eating you out ﹏ curious about your body ﹏ new experiences ﹏
jo ﹏ on the couch! ﹏ scissoring with jo ﹏ riding her thigh ﹏ making her come on your strap ﹏ eating you out ﹏
⧽ summary: you get caught drawing questionable pictures of sam in your sketchbook, and, to your surprise, he seems more than interested to show you more of him.
⧽ tags/warnings: sam winchester x fem!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, smut (oral f!receiving, some sort of camera/mirror sex, fingering, dirty talk, light dumbification, grinding, penetrative sex, creampie, light sub/dom undertones if you squint), aftercare, i imagined s1 sam while writing this.
cross posted on ao3
The chewed pen between your lips hasn't been useful in a few minutes.
Its cheap taste of wood is leaving an awkward feeling on your tongue, but you couldn't care less. Despite your poor attempt at remaining concentrated, your mind still remains somewhere else.
A few minutes prior, you decided to do something of your extreme boredom. So, you took the first pen available, one that already carried deeply engraved bite marks, along with your sticker decorated sketchbook, before searching for an idea, or a muse.
Your gaze directly drifted to Sam, carefully lounged on his side across the rough covers of his motel bed, surrounded by newspapers. He has this concentrated frown on his face, one that makes him furrow his eyebrows as he hastily types on his laptop.
Minutes passed, and your burning gaze is still resting heavily on Sam's figure, as if your brain was trying its absolute best to memorize every single inch of his skin, every micro-expression resting on his face, just all of him.
You finally come to your senses as Dean gets up from where he was sitting, near the small table in the corner of the room. He walks towards Sam, probably to show him some piece of information he found about the ongoing case they are working on.
You're not always directly involved in the cases or hunts. You provide some help if needed, but your current job matters most than those side quests your friends take you on. Although you can't help yourself but follow with a smile when they forcefully grab you to join them on simple, less dangerous hunts, as Dean claims it can only do you good to have some fun from time to time. Even if his notion of fun is quite foreign to you.
At this point, you feel totally disconnected from the real world, not hearing any of their shared words as you roughly trace Sam's shape in your sketchbook. The current atmosphere makes it easier to focus, the warmth of sharing a room with your friends always offered a familiar, home-like feeling.
The irregular sketch slowly transforms into a quite accurate drawing, perfectly portraying Sam's soft yet focused traits. The way you outlined his body is almost immodest in the way you emphasized on your favorite parts of him, according more details to his arms and hands and the way those dark wash jeans sit low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear attracting your attention.
By the time you snap out of your trance, Dean is watching you, a mocking smile plastered on his face.
"You okay?" There is no actual concern in his tone, just obvious amusement. His eyes rapidly shift between you and the black notebook sitting in your hands.
Your muscles only freeze for a few seconds, but that's already too much. You look suspicious, and Dean is definitely not going to let that slide.
Staring at him with a clueless expression on your face, you straighten up, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the couch as you actively attempt to figure out if you should just throw that book out the window, or pray that he won't try to snatch it.
He only hums, and Sam lifts is gaze towards you. His hair is messy, a sign that he must've ran his fingers through it at least a couple times. He blinks slowly, daylight streaks reflecting on his pupils. You almost drown in them before Dean snaps you out of it by waving his hand in your direction.
"Yeah, why wouldn't i be?"
You grimace for a millisecond, realizing that this second poor attempt at keeping your composure is only making you look more questionable.
Leaning back against the couch, you make an effort to relax despite the heat radiating off both Sam and Dean's heavy glances. A soft hue of pink rises to your cheeks as you hopelessly try to not meet their eyes.
The two brothers share a look, a hint of mischief coating the air. Dean approaches you slowly while your eyes wander away, then abruptly snatches the sketchbook out of your grasp.
"Alright, what do you think you're doing?" You suddenly get up, ready to steal your belongings back.
"Nothing, just curious," He walks as far as he can away from you, holding the book in the air as if it were a sacred item no one was allowed to touch, then waving it at you with a smile. "What do we have here?"
You determinedly stomp towards him, a groan escaping your lips. "Just give it back man, it's not funny."
He turns his back on you, and before you get the chance to fight him to retrieve your book, he has already opened it on the last used page.
A ridiculous, annoying smile appears on his features, one that clearly hints he's trying not to laugh. You can't tell if he's just entertained, deeply concerned, or a few seconds from making fun of you.
"Well, would you look at that, Sammy," Dean holds the book wide open towards Sam, who lightly squints to make out what's happening in front of him. "You look like those chicks in the playboy magazines."
A laugh escapes his lips as he throws the notebook at Sam, then turns around to face you, opening his mouth like he's about to say something stupid, once again.
"Shut up, Dean."
Sam's voice rises, words escaping in a huff from the other side of the room as the corners of his mouth rise upwards. He's still laying comfortably on his bed with your book in his hands, his fingers roaming on the graphite coated page.
He takes a few seconds to register the amount of care you gave to details. Surely, this is a more explicit depiction of reality, but Sam doesn't seem to mind it. In fact he likes it, knowing that you think about him beyond what you can only see.
What else could you have possibly drawn before? How far does your imagination goes when you think about him? So many questions flow, and grows more curious by the second.
"Sam…" The awkwardness of the situation doesn't even allow you to finish your sentence.
"Don't worry. It's really nice," He replies quietly, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
His words play on repeat in your mind as he carefully closes the book to hand it to you, which you accept with almost trembling hands and pink cheeks.
You decide to cut the moment short, storming to your room like a scared puppy. The heat radiating off Sam's presence, the strength of his perfume clinging to you as you leaned close to retrieve your belongings was too much.
As you get back to your room, you sit in silence, flipping through the pages of your sketchbook, and your realize that most of them are only picturing Sam in many different scenarios. You remember all those time you spent hours at the library with him, pretending to be focused on the random book you picked up upon arrival, when you were in fact focused on your small purse-sized sketchbook hidden between its pages.
You would spend most of your time at the library to examine Sam, remembering him as if it were the first and last time you laid eyes on him, just to doodle the scene of him awkwardly sat on a chair, his long legs spread out as a perplexed expression froze his features.
You loved taking advantage of those quiet moments to properly look at him, the way his bangs sit perfectly on his forehead, how often he tilts his head to one side in confusion, or even the look he'd give you every time you were too deep in your thoughts to notice him staring back at you. Those round, shiny eyes highlighting his puppy-like gaze.
Tonight isn't particularly on Sam's side. His mind's racing, and has been for long minutes, or even hours, reminiscing about today's events.
Sam calls himself stupid for feeling that way, curious and strangely aroused by the thought of you, sitting in silence, imagining every curve of his body, each one of his muscles, while filling the pages of your sketchbook.
He wonders how you would feel if he did the same, staring at you while he smudges graphite on a large piece of paper, laying each one of your beautiful features on it. He wonders if you'd pose for him, a seductive look on your face as his bitten pen marks the pages.
He's desperately trying to hold his thoughts back before they send him waking to your room, banging on your door in hope that you're still awake.
He didn't try hard enough.
In a few seconds, Sam is already standing in front of your motel room door, gathering up the courage to knock on it. His eyes only widen in shock as the handle twists open. The look on your face, taken aback by his unexpected appearance, makes him take a step back.
It gives him the perfect view to really take a look at your figure, his cheeks tinted with a soft, pink hue as he notices your bare legs, the long shirt you're wearing barely covering up your thighs. Wait, is that his shirt?
"Sam?" you breathe out, your eyes follow his gaze, settled on your upper body. He gives you a hint of a smile, visibly amused by the situation. It definitely is his shirt. "What are you doing here?"
Sam scratches the back of his head, unsure if he should say the truth. "I, uh, couldn't sleep. You?"
"I was gonna go grab my book. Left it in Dean's car," you respond simply while giving him a look, one that says i know you're lying.
"At three in the morning?"
You groan at his question, already defeated. You did leave your book in Dean's car, but thats's definitely not what's keeping you up so late.
Your facial expression must've betrayed you, since Sam leans forward, his forearm resting above your head on the door frame. Your breath itches as his face appears slightly closer to yours, the disappearing scent of perfume on his clothes coating the air between your bodies. "Can I come in?"
You nod in response, shifting just enough to leave space for him to enter the room. He does so, looking around the room as if he's never entered it before, while you face the door, shutting the it quietly before you lock it to prevent the outside air's coldness to enter.
When you turn around, you expect him to be sitting on the edge of your own bed in an ungainly manner, with a certain shyness he always carries around when spending alone time with you.
To your surprise, he's facing you. Not too close to be all over you, but enough for his warmth to caress your skin. You both stand there for what feels like a minute or so, his eyes traveling along your features. From the way your eyelashes curl, to the shape of your lips. Your heart finds comfort in the weight of a deafening silence, until Sam breaks it.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, smiling. Unexpectedly confident in a way that makes your pulse throb.
You nod, and Sam is already all over you. His mouth crashes against yours, hot, starving but still sweet. The sudden weight of his lips on you, along with his large hands cupping your jaw is dizzying in the best way. He takes his time with it, tasting and feeling every inch of your body you allow him to touch.
Slow sweeps of his tongue accompanied by light nips to your bottom lip make you gasp just right, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth, the both of you exhaling deeply at the burst of hotness emanating from the shared kiss.
His hands wander, tracing the curve of your hips beneath the fabric of his shirt, settling there before you push his wrist down, urging him to get a better hold of your body until he reaches your ass, squeezing the flesh softly as you hum. His free hand slides up to tangle in your hair, acting as a cushion when he pushes you against the closed door.
He growls as your bodies collide, your messy licks and bites working him up in the most delightful way possible. Your skin is hot, every tiny movements burns: the wet caress of his tongue against yours, his bangs tickling your skin, the way his fingers curl around your ass, pressing you flush against him as his hips desperately grind against you.
Quiet whimpers of desperation slip into your mouth like he just can't help it, and you moan at the feeling. The reciprocated sexual longing tastes absolutely wonderful on your tongue. He breaks the kiss just enough to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking on your sensitive spot to tear a soft gasp away from you. Each one of the marks sucked into your skin pull at your arousal like a leash, his groans traveling directly to your core.
"Fuck— I need you Sam," you succeed to mumble between gasps, voice thick with desire.
Your fingers fumble at the hem of his shirt, impatient. You tug upward on the soft material, and his hands only leave your body for a split second before he's grabbing you again. He hums in return when he manages to get rid of the only piece of clothing you were wearing, revealing your underwear. Your hands find his hair again, tugging on the soft stands as your lips crash onto his.
"Need you too. So fucking bad," Sam mutters between breaths, eager to taste you better.
"God you're so beautiful," he whispers as his fingers tangle in your underwear. He could just sit there and watch you all night, all pretty and needy for him. "I wish you could see yourself, how good you're gonna look while taking me."
His words make your head spin, and you moan at the thought: you in front of a mirror, slightly bent over with Sam's big hands covering your hips, grounding you as he slides in and out of your cunt like there's no tomorrow.
"The bathroom mirror is broken," you whine at the eventuality of mirror sex with Sam vanishing right in front of you.
His hands settle on your waist, guiding you until the back of your knees hit the sharp edge of your bed. You sit, not breaking the kiss, hands still tangled in his hair.
"Wait for me," Sam whispers, and you already miss the feeling of his skin against yours when he backs away. You can't exactly make out what he's doing, your eyes are too focused on his back. His broad shoulders are glistening, already affected by the warmth of the room and his excitement.
Sam fumbles an attempt at opening your laptop, which was sitting on the edge of a small table standing across the room, perfectly aligned with your bed. He manages to open the camera app, and a green dot appears next to the webcam as his reflection appears on the screen.
You smile when he makes his way back to you, and you slide your panties down your legs as he watches your every movements, lustfulness written all over his face. He licks his lips before getting down on his knees, hands groping your thighs as soon as he hits the floor.
You close the distance between your faces, sliding your tongue in his mouth, so fucking impatient for him to touch you more and more. He hums in satisfaction when his long fingers reach your back, unhooking your bra in one single motion.
His lips trail down to find your chest, and you rest your hands on his shoulders. He drags two fingers along your inner thighs, teasing as he mouths at your breasts. You close your eyes, gasping as his fingers graze your folds lightly.
Sam thumbs at your slit, dragging it up and down your folds before settling on your clit. His lips wrap around the soft skin of your breast, stealing a moan from you as he sucks a dark spot. Your legs open up even more as your vision blurs.
"That's it, baby. So pretty opening up for me." he murmurs, a cool puff of air hitting the wet spots his lips left behind, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the sensation.
"Fuck, Sam—"
He wraps a massive hand around your body, fingers splaying over your back. You're wet. Really wet. You can feel it as he spreads you open with his middle and index finger, eyes blown wide, eaten alive by his arousal.
You whimper when he teases your folds, and it quickly turns into a moan as he leans down to lick the wetness of your cunt, his tongue flat against your sensitive part. "So wet and pretty for me," he hums.
His lips form a seal around your sensitive bud, sucking like his life depends on it. You don't get the time to respond before he dips further, humming against your clit as a thick finger slides inside you, stretching you out beautifully. Your lashes flutter when he drowns in it until the last knuckle, fire pulling at your core.
A second finger enters you, and Sam pumps in slow, wet squelching sounds echoing in the quiet room as he hits your favorite spot, making you whimper as he stuffs you full.
He smiles against your pussy. Your pretty sounds make his head spin, and he can't help but moan against you, the vibrations of his voice electrifying every nerve in your body. "Come on, look at yourself baby. Already a mess."
The tone of his voice makes you shudder. Your half-lidded eyes find your reflection on the laptop's screen. The sight alone could make you cum on the spot. Sam kneeling in front of you, his arm going back and forth as he fingers you eagerly, and those broad shoulders covering the view of your pussy, making it only his to see.
He's right, you are a mess, your eyes are glossy, jaw open, and eyebrows pulled in silent pleasure, waiting for more. "Oh god, Sam!"
Your fingers comb through his hair, unconsciously tugging on it as his pace fastens, pushing his tongue into your throbbing cunt as he rocks his face back and forth. He drags your orgasm down until you're just a wet, moaning mess under his touch.
"Want me to fuck y'like this, baby?" he prattles, curling his fingers to tear another loud moan from you. "Take you right in front of that camera?" Your pussy clenches at his words and he groans, "So you can see how much of a good girl you are?
"Y-yeah," you sob, trying your absolute best to contain your orgasm.
"Say you want it." Sam urges, lapping at your folds. He can already taste your juices on the tip of his tongue, threatening to flow out.
"I— Fuck, want you to fuck me, Sammy. Just like that." You nod frantically.
This was everything you needed to send you over the edge. Sam's fingers curl and thrust deep inside you once again, as his lips find your sensitive clit.
Your climax washes over you, breaking you apart as the overwhelming pleasure makes your brain go numb. You can only babble Sam's name, all over again."God, Sam— Don't stop," you cry out.
"Go on, Sweetheart. Cum all over me." He moans when your juices drip down his fingers, coating them alongside his tongue. He licks and suck on your arousal, tasting you as a low whimper escapes him.
His fingers escape free, and he looks up at you with big caring eyes. Your release coats his chin and lips, and you can see a few drops sliding down down his neck. He drags his fingers to his mouth without hesitation, sucking them clean.
"You taste so good," he grins shamelessly, more than turned on by the sight of you, all broken, thigh open wide for him.
You're barely able to bite back a moan as he bends to capture your lips. His long fingers wrap around your throat, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. His free hand skim over your trembling thighs, soothing you.
Sam is hungry, desperate. He wants to bury himself inside you and stay there forever, he wants you to beg for him, all pliant and starving, ready to swallow him whole.
Soft giggles escape your lips as he picks you up, making you stand in front of the camera. God, how he loves it when you sound like this, so happy and full of light. He can't help it but smile, white teeth showing as he places himself behind you before kissing your cheeks.
You melt against him, leaning you back against his chest as he wraps his long arms around you. The feeling of his restrained cock against your ass makes you shiver, "Look at you," he whispers. "So fucking hot."
You hear the clink of his belt buckle as he takes his remaining clothes off, not wanting to waste a second before he pushes you flush against him, his hardness pressing against your back. You gasp softly and hear a low chuckle coming out of his throat. "Are you ready for me, baby?"
"Don't tease me, Sam. I need you right now," you whimper in desperation.
"So needy," he whispers against your ear before lightly biting your lobe.
Sam slowly shifts and rubs his cock between your folds, you slightly bend over to give him easier access. He lines himself up with your entrance and stays still for a few seconds, taking in the moment. You, on the other hand, can't bear to live another second without him inside your pussy. You suddenly bore down, splitting yourself open on him with a deep moan. "Fuck."
He grunts, then choke on a whimper as you continue, taking him almost to the hilt in one go. "You're so— Big."
"Oh Fuck," he breathes out, your name escaping his lips a he tries to keep his composure. "You didn't even give me a moment to—" His voice breaks again as you rock against him.
His forehead drops to your shoulder, grunting as he rolls his hips back. And, when he thrusts back in, you feel the entirety of him pushing against your walls, the curvy shape of him fitting into your cunt in the most appetizing way. The throaty sound it pulled from you both is obscene. Each one of your moans come out louder than the previous one.
"I'm so full, Sam," you almost cry, already overwhelmed by the fullness of your pussy as Sam's hips collide with your ass.
"Yeah, feels good?" He bites the skin at your shoulder, before licking on it to ease the soft, but delightful pain. "Look at us, baby. You're taking me so good."
The sound of his voice, raspy, burning with desire, has almost the same effect on you as his cock. You feel yourself dripping, your arousal sliding down your thighs as you come closer to a new orgasm. You whimper as he slows down, not far from crying of pleasure and desperation.
Sam wants to take his time with you, not ready to let go. He presses your knees together, closing your legs. He feels even bigger like this, taking you apart entirely. You almost taste him, and you start to think that you might be losing your damn mind over him.
He looks at you through your reflection on the laptop screen, "Let me savor you. 'M gonna take you slow and deep, and I won't stop until you cum all over me." His hand wraps around you face, holding your chin to make you face him. "Would you like that, Sweetheart?"
You nod with half-lidded eyes, and he kisses you. It's slow, full of care and affection. You grab his wrist, guiding his hand near your clit, urging him to touch you. The most broken sound of pleasure escapes you, feeling deep pressure everywhere you needed, craved.
He gently fucks you in return, slow enough to drag long moans from your lips, and your legs start to tremble again. "I wanna cum— Please, Sam"
"Fuck. Me too, baby. I got you," he mumbles, brain completely shutting down as he reaches his high.
You buck against him, meeting each one of his thrusts as he thumbs at your clit before circling it harder. Your eyes flutter open to watch him thrust into you, gasping, cheeks carrying a hot pink color. "Cum in me," you mumble, smiling at the hot frown on his face.
This is too much for Sam. He instantly goes dumb, thrusting harder while keeping a painfully slow pace.
You never thought you could ever be more full until he came inside your pussy, the both of you moaning and panting loudly, as his warmth brings you back to the real world. "That's my girl," he coos, leaving delicate kisses on your skin as you reach the end of your orgasm.
"That was fucking amazing," you pant, and he puts a reassuring hand on your waist. The both of you exchange a look as while coming back to your senses, flashing a smile to each other.
He wipes away the tears pricking at your eyes with a brush of his lips, before wrapping his arms around you. You stand there for a moment, looking at your reflection, until a flash of amusement makes itself known in your eyes.
"You look a mess, Sammy," you giggle, messing with his hair even more as he chuckles before giving you a sweet peck.
"Your fault for being so beautiful." His grip tightens around you, and he picks you up before setting you both on the bed.
You lay comfortably on his chest, sticky and glistening with sweat. You're too lazy, too exhausted to even think about getting into the shower right at this instant. You'd rather stay here, with Sam, the sweetness of your shared moment being more important than anything.
Unfortunately, your body gets the best of you. As Sam draws peppers kisses all over your face while whispering sweet, heartfelt words that sound like the most perfect melody to your hears, the comforting feeling of his presence lulls you to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up to an empty side of the bed. The room is clean, too clean as even Sam isn't here anymore.
You sit up carefully, looking around the room until your eyes catch the shape of a piece of paper, folded and lying on the pillow next to you. When you pick it up to open it, you read:
Left with Dean for the day :(
You looked so pretty asleep, i couldn't wake you up
please, wait for me.
— SW
On the other side of the paper is a surprisingly accurate drawing of you, asleep, with a soft smile on your face.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Smut (p in v, fingering, oral f receiving), angst, loss of virginity, light fluff, feelings :(, real bad self-image issues
Summary/Warnings: You're a virgin, and it's really not a big deal. Everyone was a virgin once. You're just a virgin longer. Maybe forever, because nobody really seems to be willing to solve that problem for you.
You've never told Sam and Dean, and you don't have any intention to. Ever. But when a hunt goes wrong, Dean finds out. And he might have been keeping something from you as well.
Author's Note: This might be the horniest thing I've ever written. Enjoy <3!
Title from Red Wine Supernova by Chappell Roan
Word Count: 8.9k
You haven’t slept in three days, and it’s starting to be a problem. But you can’t afford to sleep. You can only drink staler and staler coffee, sit at the motel table, and pretend this is a case that, somehow, you’re going to solve. That Dean isn’t grumpier than usual, and Sam doesn’t constantly look like he’s going to kill the next person that dares to have an incorrect idea. It’s why you volunteered for the next round of interviews. You don’t want to be there when one of them snaps and kills the other, and while you wouldn’t love to return to the room and find it covered in blood, at least then you’d have an excuse to call it.
You wouldn’t call it. You’d work the case until it was done, because that’s what you do. And Sam and Dean won’t kill each other, because they’re Sam and Dean. That said, you are expecting a pouting Dean to pacing back and forth outside the room as he waits for you to return, and a grumble about how Sammy said he was being annoying and needed to walk it off. You’re more than prepared to give him a sympathetic smile and ask him if he was being annoying. And he’ll probably protest that he wasn’t, and you’ll raise your brows, and he’ll admit he mighta been drumming really loud while eating the chips.
It’s not an unreasonable expectation. None of you have slept, because this thing is insane. There’s no obvious pattern to the victims, no connections, nothing in line with everything you’ve ever seen. It’s men and woman, a wide age range, no previous coflicts or knowledge of each other in life. There are holes through theirs chests that could be bullet wounds, but obviously aren’t, because Bullets don’t remove the heart from the body. But it’s not werewolves, because werewolves aren’t clean killers like this and every fucking person in this stupid town has passed the silver test. There’s a new kill every night, and a new body every morning, and another reason for you, Sam, and Dean to start screaming every day. Every hour makes you all wired, because it’s closer and closer to another evening where you won’t have caught this asshole and another person will die.
And it’s become really easy to get on each other’s nerves. Sam was mad at Dean because he’d purposefully gotten you all burgers instead of Sam’s rabbit food, you’re mad at Sam because he said you were bad at poker—and you are, but what the fuck—and Dean’s mad at you because-
Dean’s not mad at you. You and Dean don’t really get mad at each other. You understand each other, better than you’ve ever understood anyone else, and it’s the perfect amount of alike that you’ll lend him grace you wouldn’t lend anyone else—including yourself—but you don’t see enough of your own twisting, molding innards to hate him. You mostly see something better. A man that has all the same rotting parts, but has made something out of them while you just waste away in toxins.
And you think Dean sees something similar in you. It’s why you’d been obnoxiously chewing potato chips, right in his ear, and he hadn’t punched you or snatched the bag away from your hands. He’d just rolled his eyes, grabbed one of his own, and started chewing in Sam’s ear.
So you hadn’t really volunteered for interviews so much as been aggressively told by Sam you were doing interviews. And it was only fair Dean met the same fate.
But he hadn’t. And when you opened the door to the room, they both looked happy.
Dean practically shouts your name when he sees you, wildly gesturing for you to join them at the table. “Sammy found it!” He grins at you almost manically, and it’s a little adorable. “We can finally fucking leave.”
“I might have found it,” Sam corrects, his smile a little more tentative, but still real. “And we can’t leave yet. Not until we actually get the thing-“
“Obviously, dude, but that’ll be soon, instead of in a million years.” Dean looks to you for agreement. “I mean, c’mon. You guys can’t really wanna stay in hicktown Ohio forever?”
You shrug. “I dunno. Good coffee.”
Dean glares at you. “The coffee tastes like ass and you freakin’ know it-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat look. “Do I actually get to know what the monster is?”
Sam sighs. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“I already don’t love it, it’s a monster that’s killed like, ten people-“
“Worse than that.” Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “It’s sorta like a dragon.”
You, very suddenly, don’t feel really well. Everything is hotter than it had been a second ago, and the walls seem to be closing in as your skin begins to prickle and ache. “Like a dragon?” You ask, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Or a dragon?”
“Like a dragon. Tell her, Sammy.”
Sam shoots Dean a glare—not happy being thrown under the bus—and mutters, “It’s a unicorn.”
You stare at him for a long minute, then shake your head. “It’s a what.”
“Unicorn.” Sam mumbles. “They’re, uh, looks like they’re real.”
“But not Pinky Pie and Disney.” Dean adds, turning Sam’s laptop for you to read. “Real fucking assholes.”
“They hunt virgins.” Sam explains. “To bond with. And it’ll kill anyone who falsely lures it.”
“Stab the poor son of a bitch right through the heart, then pull that sucker right out.” Dean adds, spreading his legs and propping his elbows on his knees. “And it looks like it’ll go after chicks and dudes, any age, so that’s why there’s no pattern. You’re able to fuck, you’re fair game.”
“Oh, cool.” You mutter, a lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m always looking for equal opportunity murderers in the monsters I hunt.”
“Yeah, well, it’s gonna make it a little harder to find the thing.” Sam grabs his laptop back, frowning at the screen. “It’ll take a human form, then look for a virgin. And it won’t be able to tell until it gets the person’s heartbeat up, so it might be a guy or a girl, depending on who it’s hunting tonight.”
“But,” you glance at Dean, who’s grinning as you start to put it together. “It is hunting tonight.”
“Hunts every night.” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “And we don’t know where, but we can take some guesses. Split up and look at all the bars in town ’till one of us finds something, then gank this douchebag and get the hell out of here.”
“Split up?” You whisper, something wired and flailing coiling around your guts. “That’s, um, shouldn’t we stick together? If it’ll go after anyone?”
“Not everyone.” Same shrugs. “Low, uh, body counts. I guess. Low enough that it can’t tell immediately.”
“So we just need a bunch of whores?"
Dean snorts. “Well tonight,” he spreads his arms, shooting you a wink that really isn’t helpful right now. “We’re the whores, Sweetheart. We’re safe, and we’re going to kick some unicorn ass.”
It’s a cheesy, stupid thing to say, and usually you’d laugh and crack a joke back. Something about unicorn ass and whores that you can’t really think of right now, because there’s bile in your throat and something heavy fogging over your brain.
“How do we, uh,” your tongue is numb in your mouth, and every word is dragged out of your throat. “How do we kick a unicorn’s ass.”
“Well, we’re looking for electrical malfunctions, golden eyes when it gets, uh, excited, and a refusal to drink anything but water.” Sam frowns at the screen, looking up at you with a half-shrug. “Anything amoral seems to knock it down, so just, uh, swear? Then shoot it with iron. Iron kills it.”
“And, um,” you swallow, tugging at the fabric of your sleeves. “What’s gonna to the virgin? If the unicorn finds it?”
Sam sighs. “They, uh, they seem to use them.”
Dean frowns, leaning around to try and read the screen. “Use them-“
“Their purity. Use their purity.” Sam raises his brows, and you can see the exact moment it clicks in Dean’s head.
“That’s...” Dean trails off, running a hand over his face. “Shit.”
Sam mutters an agreement, and your mouth feels like sandpaper, your heart beating like it’s trying to escape your chest.
“And after?” You whisper, a little unsure you want to actually ask the question, or know the answer. “After they’re used?”
“Well, they’re not ‘pure’ anymore.” Sam puts an air quote around pure, and you feel a little sick. “So, uh, stab.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly. You might need to lie down. “Stab.”
Dean looks over you with a drawn brow, his voice low and cautious as he says your name. “Are feelin’ okay-“
“I’m fine.” You remember how to smile, and hope it looks real. Not like your teeth are starting to feel out of place in your mouth, and you can’t seem to find enough spit to choke on. “Let’s get the unicorn ass.”
Dean doesn’t look convinced. Hell, Sam doesn’t look convinced. But they both let it go for now, and you can breathe just a little easier knowing you’re not barreling towards a fight.
But only a little easier.
Because you’re fucked.
Virginity is a funny thing. It’s just a social construct, but it’s a social construct some monsters seem to take as scripture, making it a hazardous thing to still have in your line of work.
And you hadn’t meant to be a hazard. It just kind of happened. Because it started as something that was a given to have, then turned into something that you just were a little too busy to lose, before becoming an awkward conversation you’re not willing to have. Something that hangs, silent and sharp, over your head and around your throat. Something that’s now a question of why? Why is it never you? You’re not ugly. You’re even pretty enough that, if you tell someone, they won’t believe you and it’ll all feel worse. You’re even pretty enough that you’ve seen people size you up at bars, but none of them ever approach you.
So it might just be you. You might just have something on your face that gives away that you’re more trouble than you’re worth, a little too rough to touch and not have it sting, telling people stay away.
And Sam and Dean will never know. You’re already a little younger, a little worse of a hunter, a small problem when they’re obviously trying to take someone to their bed but the girl sees you and makes quick and inaccurate assumptions. Sam is better at brushing them off—She’s like my little sister—but Dean gets red and awkward and suddenly loses all his well-practiced charm. He sulks back to the table, and won’t look you in the eyes for an hour or walk with you back to the bar. You’re honestly shocked neither of them have thrown you to the curb by now, an you’re not going to give them another reason to. Another reason for Sam to make a sad, puppy-eyed pity face and Dean to stare at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like there’s no way someone could’ve possibility survived as a hunter like this.
And a small, well-contained part of you wishes Dean would look at you the way he looks at other women. Like they still have beautiful, horrible secrets that he’d love to uncover with only his hands and mouth.
You’ve got secrets. Dean can’t have them—because they’re a liability and you’re not looking to lose him forever—but you really wish he’d just look at you. Once, really look at you, and not see you. See something so much better, that you think he’s always a little close to finding, that nobody else ever seems willing to try and look for.
You’re a little grateful they left you alone in this backwater dive bar. It would hurt to watch Dean flirt right now, when everything feels raw and wired in your body, and every time someone drops next to you at the bar you feel more and more sick. There are quick, polite conversations with random strangers who sound like they’d rather be anywhere than here, with you, and by the time you’ve repeated your cover story for the eighth time your lungs are wrapped iron and your nails feel like a burden on your fingers.
It’ll be over by tonight. All three of you know what you’re looking for, so the unicorn will be dead before sunrise, and you won’t have to do any explanations about why you’ve been quiet and tense since Dean said like a dragon. Nobody will look at you with pity or confusion, nobody will get hurt, and you won’t end up with a hole in your heart as the only people that have ever seen you to be worth something realize just how wrong they were. That you’re really just a small, useless burden that even a literal monster wouldn’t be able to stomach the presence of-
“You here all by yourself?”
Something sparks in your gut at the voice, coming from off to the side, because for a second you really think it’s Dean. It’s deep, moves through your whole body, and knocks loose something in your lower gut that always makes you feel hungry, but it’s not Dean. When you turn, the man next to you looks like someone ran Dean through a printer too many times and he came out faded. A little too short, not quite as broad, all the pretty scars that make Dean Dean seemingly vanished, and a gleam in his eyes that Dean’s never had. It’s a little more feral, without any playfulness or glowing shadows. Too much yellow instead of green, the cocky smirk just a little off, none of it right. None of it Dean.
“I’m, um,” you frown, because this man even smells like Dean. “I’m waiting for a friend. He’s running late.”
Not-Dean clicks his tongue. “Shame, leaving a pretty girl like you all alone. You want some company until your boyfriend shows up?”
You shake your head, turning your glass around in your hand. “Not my boyfriend. And I’m actually…” You trail off, your eyes falling on the man’s own glass. The clear liquid inside. “You drinking vodka?”
“Am I- Oh, sure.” The man chuckles, raising his drink for you to click. “Here’s to not-boyfriends-“
“Can I have some?”
You watch the man carefully as he looks between you and the glass. “Nah, sweetie, you don’t want this, it’s some strong stuff-“
Sweetie. Not sweetheart. Not Dean, not right, not safe. And something is starting to crawl over your skin and shoot up your spine, making you sit a little taller as your heart pounds louder and louder.
As Not-Dean licks his lips, and scans over you with yellow eyes that might be shining.
Fuck.
“I, um, I’m gonna go call my friend.” You start to shift off your seat, pulling your phone slowly out of your pocket. “He should’ve been here a few minutes ago, and I’m worried-“
“C’mon, you haven’t even told me your name.” Not-Dean wiggles his brows, and it looks wrong on his face. “Bet I can guess, if you give me a hint-“
“No, it’s fine, my name is, uh…” you look down at your phone, the screen completely black. You’d charged it before you left.
“Your name?” Not-Dean prompts, grabbing your arm. Holding you near him, at the bar. “I’d really love to learn it. I could teach you a few things in exchange-“
“I was never given a name!” Your voice is a frantic shout, Not-Dean’s eyes narrow, and you do the only thing you can think of. Punch Not-Dean square in the face, yank your arm from his grip, and run. Fucking sprint out of the bar and not allow yourself to falter as you hear a roar that’s a little hoarse and off pitched. Like a horse keen. Like a wounded animal.
Like a monster.
Splitting up had been a terrible fucking idea. Now you’re alone, you don’t have even an idea where Sam and Dean are, and you can’t afford to stop and jack a car because you can hear it in the distance. Hooves, clapping against the pavement, getting closer and closer as you begin to run out of breath. You can’t hide, it can hear you, and you can’t go faster because you already feel faint and everything is beginning to collapse in your body. Muscles tightening and skin crawling and eyes pushing out of your skull, every breath too shallow and every step too short.
You fall to your knees behind a truck, wrapping a hand around your own throat and trying to force your heartbeat back down. Slow, even breathes that come out in choked gasps, nails digging into your skin as the hooves slow, and you hear a low sputtering sound from somewhere behind you.
And it’s too quiet. You can’t hear anything but your blood in your ears, and all you can see in the night is the flickering yellow light of a streetlamp in the distance. You squeeze your eyes shut and swallow every breath, hoping you can force yourself out before the unicorn finds you. You don’t want to be used. You don’t want to be alone. You just want Dean, where’s Dean, why the fuck did you let him leave you alone, why didn’t you tell him the truth, why can’t you think of anything else but Dean, where’s Dean-
There’s something hot on your neck, and a large presence at your side. Something like spit is being splattered on your neck, and you can’t contain the vomit when a too-rough hand trails up your arm-
“Get the fuck back, you son of a bitch!”
A loud bang cuts through the air—making you jump out of your skin as a heavy body slumps onto yours—and it sounds like church bells and music. It sounds like Dean. That’s his voice shouting your name, his arms wrapping around your body and carrying you away from the unicorn, his breath fanning over your face as he sits you on the curb and starts to turn your face in his hands.
“Fuck, never should’ve left you, but I didn’t-“ Dean cuts himself off with a huff, and you think he’s talking to himself more than you. “Did the asshole touch you anywhere I can’t see?”
You shake your head, keeping your eye glued shut as you curl your hands in Dean’s shirt. Maybe Dean’s shirt. Not-Dean had been wearing plaid too, and you don’t have the nerve or will to open your eyes and seen if it’s your Dean, or the cheap unicorn knockoff.
“Shit, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me. Sam’s on his way, but we gotta get you out of here-“
“Didn’t touch me.” You whisper, fighting every urge into your body to curl forwards and start sobbing weak and pointless apologies. “I’m okay.”
“You’re okay? You think, fuck-“ Dean’s arm—bigger, warmer, maybe actual Dean—loops around your waist, his voice a little closer to your ear. “Need you to hold onto me, got it? We’re goin’ back to the car, and you gotta, fuck, can you open your damn eyes?”
They fly open, almost on command, and it’s Dean. The smell of whiskey is stronger, more authentic, and his face is sharp in all the right places, and it’s really Dean.
And he looks pissed. His touch on your body is careful, and his eyes are attentive and sparked with worry, but his jaw is clenched, and his every word is suddenly pushed through his teeth.
“You’re gonna hold onto me.” He orders, holding your wide-eyed gaze with a glower. “I’ll take a better look at you when we get back to the room-“
“Dean, I’m fine-“
“And,” Dean barrels on, as if he didn’t even hear you. “We’re going to have a chat. You’re, I can’t-” he shakes his head scooping you fully into his arms. “Just hold on.”
He sounds pissed. Dean’s rigid and silent the whole ride back to the hotel, his grip white-knuckled and tight on the wheel, and you feel even worse than before. This is it. He had to save you, and he’s going to learn why he had to save you, and he might not kick you out but he won’t look at you the same again. No more ease or awe or comfort or understanding, because Dean’s rotten in places where the mold can be burned away with every good part of him, but you’re just rotten. Just a hideous thing that roars in your chest, just angry and cowardlyand revolting and wrong. You’re just wrong.
All the panic and paralyzing adrenaline had left your body, so you push yourself out of the Impala on unsteady feet. Dean mutters something about Sam dealing with all the cleanup as he opens to motel room door, watching you shuffle inside with clenched fists and an unreadable expression. You flop onto the bed with a small whine, your body beginning to drown in exhaustion, your gaze locked on the peeling paint of the ceiling as Dean moves around the room out of your view.
“Why’d you come back?” You ask, your voice hoarse and weak, and Dean lets out a long, low exhale from somewhere off to the side.
“You were actin’ really weird.” He grunts. “Didn’t sound like yourself. Weren’t laughing at my jokes, or making fun of Sam. Looked sick every time one of us said stab.”
“I could’ve just been-“
“Don’t.” He snaps, and you crane your neck to see him at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and looking at you. Dean seems to be really looking at you, all of you, and you suddenly really wish he would stop. You’re complete exposed below him, under his glare, and he’s going to see something he hates. Something you don’t have a name for that you’ve never wanted him to see, never wanted him to find. The thing that makes everyone else look away.
But Dean’s attention is like a drug, and you need him to stop before you lose him, but you also never want him to stop watching you. It’s confusing and raw and makes you feel like a live wire, one word or touch or stare away from snapping and bursting into a million sparks.
And Dean’s still looking at you.
“I didn’t,” you swallow, his eyes like a magnet on yours. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He repeats, his voice lower. Harsher. “You’re not injured.”
You shake your head.
“Good. We need to talk.”
“Dean, I-“
“I’m asking the questions.” Dean leers over you slightly, and you nod again. “Why the fuck did that unicorn seem like it was hunting you.”
He knows the answer. His whole face is already painted in anger, and you know he knows. He just wants to hear you say it.
“Because it was hunting me.”
“Unicorns only hunt virgins.” Dean grunts your name, still not looking away. “You’re not-“
“I am.” You mumble, folding your arms over your own body as you drop back down onto the mattress. “Sorry.”
“Why would you say, fuck- Why in goddamn hell wouldn’t you tell me and Sam-“
“Tell you and Sam what?” You scowl at the ceiling. “That I’m untouched? Pure? Boring-“
“That you’d be in danger!” Dean all but roars, and you don’t flinch, but you do cringe. All the mold in your body feels as if it’s spreading like cancer, because Dean would never hurt you with his hands, but he might be about to curb stomp your heart with only his mouth. “I don’t give a shit about the virgin thing, I care that you were so fucking stupid to go off alone, that you didn’t trust me enough-“
“It’s not about trust, Dean,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut again. “And it’s not like you tell me everything-“
“I do! I’ve told you about all the shit in my past, and my fear of flying, and Rhonda Hurley, and that weird freaking dream I had with the mice in top hats-“
“That’s not the same!” You’re pushing back up on your palms, raising your voice to match Dean’s. You just need him to stop yelling at you, to rip the band-aid off and finally give up on you so you can rest. “This isn’t your business-“
“It’s my business if it’s gonna get you fucking killed, Sweetheart. And I coulda helped you-“
“Helped me?” You scoff. “I don’t need your help with this, Winchester, I’ve come to terms with it-“
There was a brief moment where Dean had looked like you’d kicked him, but it vanishes in a second as he gapes at you in disbelief. “To terms with virginity?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, holding his suddenly slack expression with your own glare. “Nobody wants me, it’s not a big deal-“
Dean snorts. “There’s no damn way you’re that stupid-“
“I am not stupid-“
“Yeah? Cause you’re a fucking idiot if you think nobody wants you.”
It’s your turn to gape at him. Your heart stumbles slightly in your chest, your fingers curling into bedsheets, and the world begins to spin as you try and understand his words. “What?”
“You,” Dean takes a firm step forward, drawing your name. “Are a fucking idiot if you think that there’s not one damn person on the planet who wants you.”
“But-“
“Nah. No freakin’ buts.” He’s closer now, his knees bumping yours as he glowers down at you. “I’ve watched too many hair-gelled losers at bars size you up like they wanna take a bite for you to have buts. Hell, I’ve-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “Shit, there’s just, there’s no way-“
Your face twists back into a scowl. “Fuck off, Dean. It doesn’t matter if you believe me-“
“Oh, I believe you, Sweetheart.” Dean’s eyes flash, nostrils flaring as a low groan leaves his chest, rolling through the air and settling between your legs in an aching heat. “And I finally fucking get it. You just, you have no idea. I thought you just didn’t want it, but you’re just- Shit-“
“Dean,” your voice is soft, a little breathless, and can’t help but rub your thighs together as his hands start to flex at his sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
“I know,” he mutters, scanning over your body with an almost predatory expression. “I’m not, I just gotta,” his gaze flies back to yours, his voice suddenly stern. “Sam tell you how the unicorn choses its form?”
You blink. “Wha-“
“It takes the form that will be most appealing to the target. To help the asshole get attention quickly. That unicorn,” his voice drop, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and it takes all the will you have to not start fall back into in the sheets. “Looked kinda like me.”
“I, um, I don’t-“
“Do you want me?” Dean grunts your name, and you make the mistake of dropping your gaze down, to his pants. To where an impressive outline is straining against his jeans.
“I’d, I mean, I’m not-“ You swallow, everything a dizzying haze of Dean. “Yeah, I think, but you’re not-“
“I’m not what?” He growls, kneeling down to your eye level, trailing a slow hand up your thigh. “Not interested?”
“Yeah?”
“Wrong.” Dean’s hand moves higher, trailing closer and closer to your center before running back down to your knee. “So incredibly wrong, Sweetheart. I’ve wanted you since, fuck, since I first saw ya’. But you didn’t seem to want me, so I backed off, but if you just didn’t-“ He pauses, his brilliant green eyes suddenly tearing into your soul, unraveling you before he’s even touched bare skin. “Do you? Want me?”
“I already said-“
“You said yeah.” He mutters, rubbing his hand is a slow pattern on your knee. “Need you to say the full thing, before I do anything else.”
Dean’s face is suddenly softer, with something that aches and tugs on your own heart shining through his eyes, and you couldn’t lie to him if you tried. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to Dean. It feels cruel, and wrong, and as if you’d be denying yourself something so good and rare it will never be replicated if you walk away now.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I’ve wanted you. But I’m not, it’s not going to be good for you. I mean, I know how to take care of that,” you point to the bulge in his pants, pressed slightly against your calf as he crouches before you, and Dean frowns. “But I’ve never, um, you know-“
“You’re not takin’ care of anything.” He says, scanning over your open face with drawn brows. “We’re doing this, it’s gonna be about you.”
“Oh.” There’s a little drool falling out of your mouth, Dean reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, and your voice becomes a squeak. “Okay.”
“If you really wanna,” his mouth curves into a smirk, and you need it on yours now. “Next time, I’ll let you go to town on Little Dean.”
You can’t stop the small giggle escaping your lips, and it turns into a full laugh as Dean’s own grin grows, and nothing really feels that bad anymore. “Little Dean?”
“Compared to the rest of me, yeah.” Dean does a loose gesture at his broad, strong body, his grin growing cocky. Hungry. Starved. “But trust me, gorgeous. Ain’t nothing little about him.”
Your eyes widen, your thighs rubbing together as the need for him becomes almost unbearable, and Dean lets out a deep, low chuckle.
“You want me, babygirl?”
You nod, and Dean’s eyes narrow as he squeezes his hand on your leg.
“Need you to say it-“
“Yeah.” You whisper. “Yes, please.”
A grin splits over Dean’s handsome face, and his hand drifts to your stomach, his eyes never leaving yours as he drawls your name. “I’m gonna need to get you ready, so just,” he pushes you slightly, and you fall flat on your back, moving your own hands to hold his against you. “Stay there, look pretty, and let me work.”
You nod, your vision already a little blurred with desire as you stare at the ceiling. Dean draws back, shuffling around at the edge of the bed, and you look up to see his shirt gone. It’s all warm, slightly golden and freckled skin, strong and soft in all the right places. His muscles flex as he takes a long, deep breath, and big, calloused hands lowering to trace over your midriff, his eyes never leaving yours.
“What’d I say about stayin’ there-“
“I, um,” you gasp a little as his hand slips under your shirt, bunching the material and starting to slowly pull it over your chest. “I’ve done other stuff. Just so you know. And I’ve done things to myself-“
“I bet you have,” Dean mutters, wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you carefully against him as he helps you out of your clothing. “Shit, Sweetheart, you’re so damn beautiful. Can’t wait to taste you, touch you, fucking ruin you-“
You let out a high, needy moan, burying your face in his neck and mumbling against his skin. “Please, Dean, just-“
You cut yourself off with a gasp as his free hand slips into your pants, cupping your pussy over the fabric of your underwear and rubbing back and forth so torturously slow you might fly out of your skin.
“So wet for me already,” he grunts, tugging on your hair until you lean back, meeting his gaze. “Ready?”
You’re not sure what you need to be ready for, but as long as it’s Dean doing it, you’re good. You nod, wrapping your arm around his neck in silent affirmation, and Dean pulls back to pop open the button of your jeans with a single hand, offering himself easier access.
Two broad fingers toy with the hem of your panties, Dean’s eyes almost glittering as his attention falls to where he’s touching you. Watching your body shiver when he glides his thumb over your clothed slit, your hips jerk when he presses down on your clit, your legs stretch as wide as they can when he starts to rub small circles against you.
“Dean,” you whine, your free hand moving to cup his jaw, trying to move his gaze back to yours. “Please, shit-“
“That feel good, babygirl?” Dean starts to quicken his movements, adding small, teasing flicks and pinches that make your eyes roll back in your head. “You like me teasin’ you? Playin’ this pretty fuckin’ pussy until you’re soaked- Fuck-“
You start to grind on Dean’s hand, trying to chase relief while showing him that he didn’t need to play with or tease you. He has you, unraveled on his fingers and desperate for more of him, all of him, whatever he can offer you that will feel like this-
“Shit, you’re dripping.” Dean’s movement on your clit still as he drags his thumb down, resting right over your aching, already sensitive cunt, and pressing into you just enough to make you whimper. “I gotta taste you, Sweetheart, c’mon.”
His gaze shoots back to yours, something a little animalistic in his low, hoarse voice that almost makes you cum on the spot. “Need you hold on, pretty girl, we’re gonna get you out’a these.”
You nod, letting Dean lay you back down on the mattress, lifting your hips as he drags your jeans off your body, taking your underwear with them. Leaving to totally, completely naked on the bed. Vulnerable, entirely at his mercy, with not another place you’d wish to be in the world.
Dean crawls slightly over you, one of his hands tracing up your stomach, palming at your breasts, then rolling your nipple between two, rough, expert fingers. You gasp, arching slightly off the bed, and a low, deep groan rolls from Dean’s chest.
“Holy fuck, Sweetheart. You’re,” Dean cuts himself off, dropping his mouth to your other breast and latching plump, slightly chapped lips around your nipple. Your vision starts to line with light that might be angels coming to take you away, because this has to be heaven. This is better than heaven. Heaven wouldn’t allow such sinful things as Dean groaning against your skin, his boner pressing into your thigh, or his hand kneading at your ass. Someone shouldn’t be allowed to feel this good. This feels like everything, and blissfully nothing, and mostly just Dean.
You must have moaned his name, because he crashes up, fisting a hand in your hair as he pulls you into a sloppy kiss. All teeth and spit and burning need. Dean tastes like coffee and whiskey and syrup and fruit when he shoves his tongue down your throat, and he smells like gunpowder and leather as his weight hold you easily down, and his lips are so soft but so demanding as he practically devours you, and you’re high. He’s not even inside you yet and you’ll never have enough. This isn’t more than what you’ve done before, but Dean’s ruined you with just teasing touches and wet, starved kisses, and you’re starting to worry you might ascend when he actually fucks you.
He starts to kiss and suck a line over your jaw, down your neck, and between your breasts. It’s heavy and wanting, but still so carefully coordinated. Every move Dean makes seems to be calculated, because he nips at your collarbone right as he tugs on your hair, and the sound that leaves you is high and undignified and exactly what he wanted. His chuckle rumbles in his chest—now pressed against your stomach—and all you can do is moan as he continues his perfect torture. Licking one nipple as he pinches the other, dragging two fingers through your folds as he kisses down the plane of your stomach, stopping right at the apex of your thighs with glittering eyes and firm hands, slowly guiding your legs open.
“Shit.” He mutters, warm breath right over your pussy, making your hips jerk slightly. “Goddamn, baby, you’re responsive.“ A wide, smug grin overtakes Dean’s face as he pushes one finger into your pussy, and you squeak. “I’ve been waiting for this.” He growls your name, and starts to pump that finger in and out, the pace so slow and almost painfully good. “God, you have fucking idea how long- How bad-“ Dean groans as you squeeze around him, and adds another finger. “You’re making such pretty sounds, babygirl, better than I ever imagined. Shit, you’re sexier than a fucking dream.”
His eyes drift back to yours, and shiver goes up your spine from how Dean’s looking at you. Really looking at you. Watching your writhe in the sheets and plead for him in weak gasps, watching you at your most vulnerable state, and grinning like he loves what he sees. Like he’s never seen anything better.
“Dean,” you gasp as his fingers pick up speed, starting to scissor inside your dripping cunt, bumping against a tender spot inside of you that seems to sing under his touch. “Oh my god, Dean, please-“
“Such pretty sounds,” Dean grins at you, crooking his fingers against that same spot to rub. “Let’s see if we can make some more.”
Without further warning Dean drops back down, latches his lips onto your clit, and sucks it right into his mouth like candy. It’s almost immediate, how he pulls you from warm pleasure to raw, almost feral desperation. You’re right on the edge, grinding on his face as his stubble burns your inner thighs in the best was possible, his tongue flicking over that pulsing bundle of nerves, his fingers reaching a demanding and brutal pace-
“Fuck, I’m-“ You let out a loud moan as Dean growls against you, pulling at his short, soft hair to try and both move him away as you dangle over the drop, and urge him on to let him catch you when you fall. “Close, Dean, I’m close, please-“
He pulls away, and you almost scream from the loss. You even force yourself up to glare at him, but you’ve barely gotten a steady balance when a high, needy breath escapes you at the sight of him.
Dean’s towering over you, his pants discarded into another corners of the room, stroking his massive, fully-erect cock in one hand as he scans over your sweaty, flushed body.
“I wanna fuck you dumb, babygirl.” He grunts, and you can’t really hear him your own Dean-addled brain, so you just gape and moan, and he chuckles. “Shit, looks like we’re already halfway there. You got any words for me-“
“Dean, please.” The words start to fall out of your mouth with the slight drool on your chin, almost as if he’d commanded them. “Please, I need you, need you so bad-“
You spread your legs in offering, and Dean groans. “Fuck, Sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He closes his eyes, running a hand over his face, and there’s a moment before he speaks again where you worry you’ve ruined it. That you’d shown too much, or Dean saw too much, but no matter what this is over before you can even get that huge, glorious cock inside of you-
“I’m sorry-“
Dean frowns, his brow drawn as he looks down at you. “What the hell are you sorry for.”
“I dunno, I’m just not-“ You swallow. “I’m not good at this, I don’t know what to say-“
He grunts your name, prowling over your body under your trapped between his strong body and the bed, unable to escape his intense, searing gaze. Looking at you, examining you, and not flinching or moving away. “You,” he says, tracing one gentle hand over your cheekbones. “Are fuckin’ amazing at this.”
You can only gape at him, so he keeps going.
“I’m the one that might fuck this up, Sweetheart. You’re so,” he makes a loose gesture to your body, and you really wish he’d use words, but the look of sheer awe in his eyes will be enough for now. “And I get to do this for you, and I’m not trying to blow my load before you even cum once.”
“I almost came.” You offer him a small smile, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw. “But you stopped me.”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well, I’m plannin’ to make that up to you. If you still-“
“I want it.” You cut him off quickly, rolling your hips up, right against his cock. “Please, Dean, I really want it.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, dropping a little further down. “Are you-“
“I’m sure.” You guide Dean’s lips back to yours in a soft, almost sweet kiss, and say the words you really hope will snap whatever leash he’s put on himself. “I want you.”
It works. Something flashes in Dean’s eyes, and his hand snakes between your bodies, finding your clit and rolling it in slow circles as he growls in your ear.
“Wanna feel you, babygirl. Fuck you raw. I’m clean, but if you want me to grab a rubber you’re gonna need to keep yourself going while I-“
“No!” You almost yelp, wrapping your arms around him in a desperate attempt to keep him above you. “I mean, I’m clean too, obviously, and I take birth control just for like, lady stuff-“
Dean raises his brows at you. “Lady stuff?”
“It kinda helps with period cramps and-“ You cut yourself off with a moan as Dean flicks your clit, tossing your head back you start to squirm, trying to catch him into you. “Fuck, Dean, please just fuck me-“
“You mean like this?” Dean guides the head of his cock inside you, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. “Fuck ya’ like this, baby?”
You grind on him, scratching at his back as you plead. “Shit, that’s, Dean that’s good, more-“
“More, baby? You need more already?” His grin is shit-eating, and you’d hit him if the dark look of lust in his eyes, the baritone of his voice being several octaves lower than you’ve ever heard it, and the throbbing ache of him starting to split you open wasn’t rending your limbs only putty in his arms.
“Dean, please-“
You might stop breathing as Dean guides himself fully into you, settling his face in your neck as he bottoms out. There’s a long moment where it’s only Dean’s warmth over and inside you as he gives you time to adjust, groaning against your skin as you squeeze around him.
“Shit, Sweetheart, you’re so tight.” He kisses right behind your ear. “Feel, fuck, feel so good around my cock, so fuckin’ good-“ He emphasizes his words with one, short thrust that pushes him right against that one spot and makes you whine. “You ready, baby? Ready for me to pound this tight little pussy until you cum all over my cock-“
You almost yank him back down into a desperate, borderline feral kiss, because if he kept talking you might have cum from just the sound of his low, rough voice growling in your ear and rumbling in your chest.
Dean takes a long, ragged breath when he pulls away, and you roll your hips only once. Just enough for him to groans and fall back over you, kissing and sucking on your skin like he thinks you’ll vanish if he doesn’t mark you with his touch.
Then he starts to move, and you were right. This is heaven. Dean’s moving so slow, pulling almost all the way out before driving back inside, until you’re fully impaled on him—his cock pressed fully against that one spot, making your whole body feel warm and alight, and your head feel a little dizzy—then repeating the movement again. And again. Over and over, so fucking slow, still leaving softer, slightly uneven kisses along your collarbone and grunts against your skin but-
“Dean,” you gasp his name, your nails digging into the muscles of his broad back as he continues to move on you. “Fuck, Dean, go faster, please-“
He rises up to meet your eyes, an unreadable expression on his face that’s made entirely hunger and want, but edged with something a little stronger you don’t understand. “You sure-“
“Yes.” You’re practically whining, scratching at Dean’s skin as you squirm under him, desperate him to really, properly fuck you. “Please, Dean, feels so good, need more, need you-“
He shakes his head slightly. “Don’t wanna hurt you-“
“Not gonna-” you let out a breathy moan as Dean pushes back into you, the movement a little harsher than before, and so fucking good. “You won’t hurt me, please, Dean, fuck-“
“I’m-“
“You said,” you force your eyes to stay on Dean’s, even as he sits deep into you, cock throbbing against that soft spot and making you see stars. “You said you wanted to fuck me, Dean.” You raise your chin, grinding up into his torso until his throat bobs. “Fuck me.”
A low, primal noise leaves Dean’s mouth, and he fully snaps. You might have screamed his name when he began to move again—ramming into you at an unforgiving pace, creaking the bed and bruising your hips as he grabbed at your skin, molding you perfectly into his touch and body—but he swallows the noise with a deep kiss that makes your eyes go unfocused, your whole body slack and only for Dean to play with as he drags you higher. Slamming against that spot, balls slapping onto your ass, one free hand squeezing at your tits before dragging down your side and finding your clit-
“So fucking good, babygirl.” Dean groans into your mouth, and you think you might be floating or falling or flying, but it doesn’t matter because Dean grunting in your east and slamming into your dripping cunt, and that’s the whole world. “Look so good, all ruined and whiny, such a good fucking girl, taking this cock so well, made to be fucked so fucking pretty-“ He pinches your clit, and you whimper his name. “Wanna cum, baby? Wanna fucking soak this cock-“
“Yes,” you gasp, scratching at his back, muscles rippling as he drills into you. Something in you hopes it leaves a mark. That Dean feels you on his back a little forever, just like you know you’re going to feel him in your pussy and on your neck for the rest of your life. “Feels so good, Dean, feels so fucking good, wanna cum so bad-“
“Beg-“
Dean barely grunts your name before you bite on his upper lip, almost screaming into his mouth. “Please, Dean, please, need to cum, wanna cum so bad-“
“Shit, baby, you’re-“ Dean groans, his pace becoming uneven and thrusts slightly staggered, cock twitching deep inside you as he ruts into your aching, clenching pussy-
Dean flicks your clit once, sending your hips almost flying off the bed, and starts to rub you at a frantic, savage pace.
“Cum with me.” He growls your name, lips ghosting over yours and you stare at him under, cockdrunk, lidded eyes. “C’mon, baby, cum-“
Your scream is hoarse as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—pure, drug-like bliss washing over your whole body, a soft haze of Dean settling behind your eyes and over your skin—and Dean roars as he slams open, warmth coating inside you and dripping between your thighs, down your ass, and onto the bed.
Dean rolls over, taking you with him, and remains carefully sheathed inside you as your cunt grows sensitive and your breathing slows back down. It helps that he keeps your ear pressed to his bare chest, where you can hear his heart beating. Calm and steady and strong, just as certain and constant as the man it’s inside.
As the man had been.
You’re not sure what he’s going to be now.
“That, ah,” Dean breaks the silence, his voice low and almost soft. “That do it?”
You smile against him. “If you mean take my virginity, then yeah, I think you did it-“
“No, I mean was it,” He groans, his arm shifting slightly around as his voice drops. “Was it good. For you.”
“Oh.” You nod slowly, trying not to hum like a needy fucking when Dean starts to run his fingers through your hair. “Yeah. Really good.” You stifle a moan as he twitches inside you. “It was awesome. Good, uh, good job?”
“Thanks, Sweetheart.” You can hear to smug grin in his voice, his free hand starting to rub soothingly on your back. “You were pretty fucking awesome yourself.”
There it is. You were pretty awesome. And he’s still inside you. And you need to know if you were awesome enough for something, anything to stick.
“You said, um,” you swallow, staring at his tattoo because you can’t bear to look at his face right now. “You said I could give you a blowjob next time. Did-“
“Did I mean it?”
You nod nervously, and Dean’s whole chest rumbles with his low laugh, rolling right through your body. He grunts your name, and—when you still don’t look at him—hooks a finger under your chin to guide your gaze to his.
“Look.” He sighs, and this is it. He did you a favor, and that’s it. He won’t stay, nobody stays, why would Dean Winchester be the one to stay-
“I get it,” you mumble, and wish you would find the will to make your body roll away from his. “You don’t need to explain-“
Dean’s grip on you remains firm, and his voice is a deep, amused drawl. It feels a little cruel in your gut, because you’d have really liked more. More would have been the best. You didn’t even need all of Dean, you’d just have really like more.
“You get it.” He raises his brows, and you nod again. “Sweetheart, you might want to actually hear the explainin’ part before you say anything.”
“I, um-“
“See, I’m a firm believer that all ladies should ride more than one dick in life. Too much of a good thing, ya know?” He winks at you, thrusting slightly up into you, and you flush. “But, if you’re taking applicants for long-term dicks, I’d have to be dumb not to apply. I’m never gonna complain if I get you all to myself.”
You stare at him, your voice barely a whisper. “So, um, you mean-“
“If you’ll have me,” he mutters. “I’ll take you up on that blowjob offer soon. And any other offers you’ve got.”
“Offers,” you swallow. “For long-term dicks?”
He shrugs—tracing a finger over your arm and refusing to meet your eyes—and it might be your turn to make the move.
“Dean.” You whisper, crawling up his chest just enough for his eyes to easily find yours. “I’d really like you being my long-term dick.”
He frowns. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that-“
You drop down to press a soft, tentative kiss against his lips, and he tenses for only a second before overtaking you. Deepening the kiss with his tongue pushing on your lower lip, groaning when you open for him without a moment’s hesitation, pinning you onto his chest with big, strong arms as you fall fully into him.
Dean pulls back for only a second, searching over your open expression—all affection and need for him, swollen lips and shallow breaths—until he finds what he’s looking for, and his face splits into a wide grin.
“If you’re lettin’ me,” he says, tucking a little bit of hair behind your ears. “I think I’ll stay your long-term dick for while, Sweetheart.”
“I’m letting you.” You whisper, a small smile pulling on your own lips. “But we need to come up with a better name than long-term dick.”
“Boyfriend?”
You stare at him for a second, unsure if this is real, because Dean just said that word like it was obvious. Not something he’s adamantly refused to be for anyone, ever, for the entire time you’ve known him. He said it like he was waiting to say it. And, looking at him—unfamiliar hope haunting the very deepest part of those perfect eyes, his grin so genuine but filled with nerves—you think he might have been. And all the money and glory and pleasure in the world couldn’t make you tell him no.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Boyfriend’s good.”
Dean’s grin becomes almost boyish, and this last kiss is sweet. It’s a kiss in the rain, or under bleachers, or on a rooftop with nothing but time and peace around you.
And you and Dean have never had either of those things.
But you’d really like to and find them. And if it’s with Dean, you really think you could.
End Note: Look at Dean. Being Emotional. I'm so proud of him (I made him do that)
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ever since he first laid his calloused, but gentle fingers on you, he just wanted to give give give.
he never once initiated that you would take the lead in bed. never once asked for anything in return after he spent hours between your thighs, his tongue and fingers working in perfect sync, you making a mess all over his mouth over and over again.
even when sam was just back from a hunt, tired as hell—but aching to touch you, he wouldn't let you lift a damn finger. undressing you all on his own, laying you down gently, taking his time with you, hovering on top of you and thrusting into you until his limbs gave out.
but that doesn't mean, that you never initiated that you would take the lead during sex, doing all the work, taking care of him.
and sam has tried desperately to hide how much he loves it.
but it is so obvious.
obvious in the way he tries to muffle his soft whimpers by biting his bottom lip when your mouth touches his neck, dragging your tongue down his bare and firm chest and his abs.
in the way his fingers dig in your hips so hard to the point it bruises when you push yourself down on him, the stretch burning so sweet.
in the way he tries so hard to keep his hands in place and let you adjust to his size first, but deep down, all he wants to do is make you desperately move on top of him, tits bouncing and a moaning mess.
but he never does that. he behaves.
he let's you settle on a pace that is comfortable for you. and while you move desperately slow on top of him, sam always pushes your hair away from your face so he can properly see your cock-drunk look. and of course he always brings your face closer to his by gripping the back of your hair to give you a kiss, all hot and heavy breaths and teeth.
and when you speed up, even just a little bit, sam's shaky hands find your waist, his thumb caressing your skin, whimpering and whispering "you're doing soo good, baby" while his eyes are glued where you both connect.
and when he feels you clenching around him, his hand moves between your legs, thumb circling your clit just right. your hands immediately grip his shoulders, your legs shaky, pace faltering as your orgasm makes you a whiny mess.
and of course the sight of you and the feeling of your pussy suffocating him is enough for sam to explode inside you with a moan and a death grip on your ass.
and when you collapse on his shaky, sweaty body, his dick still inside you, all sam can manage to say is "i love you".
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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