Max, 24, she/her

is being obsessed with older men still considered a hyperfixation? mdni! I do post and repost 18+ content!

[colddustybooksandhotcoffee]

About me

Hiiii,

thought it might be nice to have a little about myself on here.

You can call me Max but it's not my actual name (I'm very paranoid of irls finding my blog, this is not the kind of digital footprint I want out there lmao). My pronouns are she/her.

I'm 23 and currently a university student finishing up my bachelor's degree.

My main fandoms right now are Supernatural and anything related to Pedro Pascal. Also getting into TWD, but I dabble in all other kinds of media.

I love nature, animals, working out, reading, and writing, though with the latter, it takes me literal years to finish anything:

Here's a short little SW drabble I did finish, though. (18+)

While I post about literally anything I enjoy, I do post and repost 18+ content, so minors, pls stay away!!

Feel free to message me or ask anything :)

[evifr-ruu]

Castiel

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Heated

✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦ ✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦ ✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦ ✦wc: 10k✦ ✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦

This room is going to suffocate you.

Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.

But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.

Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.

Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

✦End note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[waitingforthet]

I only watched the first three seasons, there’s only so far this parody can go.

[waitingforthet]

wait, I remembered one more thing I know about Supernatural

[cuntiel]

[doll2kiss]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀SUGAR TALKING ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀DBF DEAN WINCHESTER.

spending the night at your dad’s friend's house after a horrible end of party while being all wasted up, gloomy and a bit more bolder than before, you discovered that dean was looking at you differently. not in a protective way but more than that. you couldn’t put your finger on it.

so you let him do the talk. put his loving where his mouth belonged—on you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀includes ノ fem!reader… ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ suggestive content …⠀ ⠀ ⠀ older!dean winchester … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ agegap … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀dbf!dean winchester …⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀ mentions of alcohol … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ oral sex (f!rec) … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ vaginal fingering … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ a bit of piss (just mentioned) … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ squirting … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ sort-of-exhibitionism … ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ aftercare.

it had only taken one drunken dial for dean's impala to appear at your friends' house, parking in front of their yard and honking his horn to get your girl-best friend's attention so she would bring you there. and gosh, you were wasted out.

practically having to drag you out from the house, across the damp grass, with your knees completely refusing to cooperate. when the driver's door finally opened—your best friend just let you out of her hands, almost falling down again if it wasn't for the pair of hands that held you with so much care and fear. dean’s calloused hands, caressing your body softly and slow.

"i got her, don't worry," he muttered, effortlessly taking and lifting your weight from your friend. his large hands gripped your waist with a firm, grounding heat. "that's it, sweetpea."

you tipped your head back to look at him, a crooked, helpless grin spread across your face; eyes all glossy and lips barely opening.

"'ya look like a mess," he leaned next to your shoulder, almost caging you in as he reached across your body to grab the seatbelt. he was so close, so-fucking-close you felt how his chest rubbed upon your right shoulder.

you froze, your eyes were glued to him like a magnet. green eyes eating you from the side and his beard—slightly stubbled and barely grown out— stroking the side of your cheek.

"hands on the seat, keep 'ya head near the window if 'ya want to throw up," dean muttered.

the drive was a bit slow, some blur of his favourite mixtape blasting on your ears trying to erase the fact that the sudden blush on your face was getting worse per minute, but it was useless. every time you managed to pry your eyes open, you caught him glancing at you, his grip on the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles completely white.

for a while you thought you were going straight home, already expecting your parents' scolding when you got back and feeling incredibly embarrassed having dean by your side while getting scolded out…but no.

 i mean, you didn't know that instead of turning onto the street that led to your house, he was going to take a turn and head towards his own apartment.

you, alone, in the apartment, with dean.

again: you. alone. in. dean's. apartment.

when you both arrived, his place felt somehow familiar yet there was something off about it. a sudden arch on your chest was killing you, because what do you mean you're staying at your dad friend's house and you feel the need to have him closer to you? feeling his hands on your body again, feel his liquor-scented breath near your neck and his stubble brushing against your neck while he's kissin— you had to gently tap your head to get those thoughts out of your mind once for all.

however, you failed to notice that amidst all that constant battle with your thoughts, dean couldn't take his eyes off you. god, he felt absolutely terrible for staring at you so much. he knew he shouldn’t be looking at you in that way, like he wanted to press you against the nearest wall and strip you down to your knees and show you how a real man treats a woman like you.

he was starving, gasping and lowering his insults just for you to not hear him losing his goddamn mind. 

you swayed your feet dumblily, knees buckling again. 

just when you felt your body giving out once again, dean came to the rescue. his arms caught you quickly, carrying you to the guest room in his house. the journey there had been so difficult that dean was surprised his breath hadn't caught when he saw you resting so peacefully. 

your features looked softer than usual, your cheeks a gentle flush, and your lips barely parted, emitting small sounds and babbling that he found incredibly endearing. he lowered you onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, but before he could pull away— your hands weakly fisted into the front of his shirt, holding him there leaning over you. 

“stay here,” you whined and slurred, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. 

dean swallowed hard, his gaze tracing the messy flush on your cheeks. he gently pried your fingers from his shirt, his thumb lingering just a second too long against your skin. 

“it’s better for ‘ya to sleep it off,” he whispered, voice incredibly low with an inch of sweetness on it. “‘yer dad s’gonna kill me if i don’t take good care of his daughter.”

“i don’t care, no one has to know that you’re here..” you mewled against his touch, pausing your word for a few seconds before pulling him closer, snatching his collarneck with your trembling fingers. “‘m not that dumb, dean..”

your voice was softer, making you look reckless and bolder. you let go of his collarneck to push yourself up from the bed, sitting on it while playing with the strap of your dress, eyes locked on his. dean completely froze on the spot, his hand grabbing the mattress so hard his knuckles popped and became white. 

his green eyes were completely darkened, fighting the urge to screw everything and just fuck you senseless in that bed. he took one slow, deliberate step back into the end of the bed. “‘ya are drunk, sweetheart.. and i ain’t one of those dumb boys you date.”

“sure? ‘cause you look like the part.” you challenged him.

that took him by surprise.

he didn’t expect for you to talk back at him, neither trying to push his buttons. you’ve always talked to him in such a delicate and sweet way that seeing you like this, made his head feel fuzzy all of the sudden. 

and fuck, he didn’t want to see you like this. he cursed himself up and down because his eyes couldn’t stop wandering, tracing invisible scenarios of what it would feel like to touch you, to make you his own. 

it was so wrong. awfully so. dean couldn’t imagine such things with his friend’s daughter. your father had—if nothing else—more than enough strength to ensure dean would never see the light of the next day if he found out. 

yet he just couldn't detach himself from you 

from your sweet scent, the heavy weight from your gloomy and lost gaze on him, the way your legs slowly shifted—opening them for him to see that wet stamp on you panties, how your body rested softly on the mattresses, laying your back on the sheets and pulling sighs from your lips. how despite every drunken tangle of it, you still looked so good.

and that pissed him so bad.

“‘yer gonna regret this tomorrow,” dean rasped, leaning closer so his lips hovered just a fraction of an inch from yours, looking down on them before speaking again. “tell me to back the fuck off right now, because if i kiss ‘ya.. there’s no going back.”

you didn’t even hesitate, tangling your fingers into the lapels of his jacket and closed that tiny fraction of distance with a long strip from your tongue against his liquor-scented lips. “don’t”

dean panted, his mouth crashed down yours, looking so desperate and devouring your lips like he had been starving and craving since he saw you looking at him on the passenger seat. 

his rough palm burying into your hair, deepening the kiss even more while his other hand gripped your hips, that possessiveness showing more than before, brushing it as your tongue opened the kiss. 

your hands moved frantically, brushing his hair with your fingers. you needed him closer. “take that off,” you plead. “the jacket.”

“that’s not how ‘ya ask for it,” dean smirked mid-kiss. “how is it again, sweetheart?”

you licked your lips, pouting as his hand slowly moved its weight to one of your thighs. dean’s eyes were still on you. “take the jacket off, please.”

“please what, angel?”

“please sir.”

dean shrugged the jacket off in one motion, tossing it blindly over his shoulder. his body was again over you but his mouth didn’t come back for another messy make out but instead guide its way onto your neck, burying his face in the crook, pressing his lips in a trace of hot and open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone—his beard scratching the side of your shoulder.

“‘ya smell so good, princess,” he groaned against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. 

his hand slid from your thigh to work its way again to the hem of the top of your dress. he placed a chaste kiss on your shoulder before slowly lowering the strip of your dress, so slowly it felt like torture waiting for it to finish sliding down your skin. but he wanted to capture everything with attention: your moles, the marks on your skin from falls or bumps, the way your skin prickled with goosebumps at his close proximity.

you let out a soft moan as you felt his lips again, leaving a trail of kisses from your shoulder until he finally placed them on the gem of your chest, leaving you with no choice but to hold your breath and watch him from above.

“dean..” you mew.

“tell me to stop,” he drawl a desperate plea to whatever shred of morality had left on his body. with his free hand under the other strap of your dress, he watched you from below, his eyes completely darkened. 

dean had your breasts at an inappropriate distance, and it drove him wild, it drove him, god, it drove him so wild. he started to ask himself what would your breasts look like in his mouth? ‘cause they didn't look small, they looked prominent. the areola of your nipple was barely visible above the lace of your bra, erect and begging him to have it between his lips.

“tell me to stop right now or i swear to fucking god,” dean paused to let go a shaky breath, a hand slid higher up your ribs, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the lace of your bra. “‘m not goin’ to let ‘ya  go.”

it only took one look, watching your eyes narrow and speak volumes with a single glance. that was enough for your bra to fall to the side of the bed and for dean to pounce on your breasts.

he began with wet kisses around them, his tongue tracing and licking your areolas. his mouth then moved to entwine his lips around your nipples, slowly sucking them with muffled gasps, watching you from below—your breath coming in ragged gasps and legs pressed together as tightly as they could against the feeling. 

“dean, fuck” you gasped. “y—your beard..”

but he didn’t even listen to your plea, slowly lowering his kisses and licks to your stomach. “lift up a bit, sweetpea, ‘cause i can’t do too much if this dress is on the way”

you obeyed blindly, flustered by the sudden command. raising your body just the right amount for your dress to be finally slipped out, lying now on the floor while dean just looked at you—barely naked on his fucking guest bed. 

“fuck kiddo,” he muttered hoarsely, bracing his hands on either side of your body, pulling you closer to him. now your bare chest is rubbing itself against his shirt, causing you to moan quietly. “i got ‘ya kiddo, tell me.”

both hands lingered on the edges of your body, thumbs pressing shamelessly against your waist. the older man's gaze remained fixed on you, waiting, pleading for a response.

"i need you to eat me out, dean," you blurted out. 

god, you could already feel your cheeks growing hotter and hotter.

dean let out a smug laugh when he heard you so proudly make that indecent proposal, his smile growing wider with every second he spent with you. but he didn't want to give it to you so easily—as much as he loved to know how you taste, to make you his—he needed to test how willing you were to surrender to him.

he began by guiding two fingers to the hem of your underwear, playing with the elastic, moving it just enough to create friction against your wetness. dean held that for a couple of seconds, licking his lips as he noticed the damp stain in the center of your panties becoming more and more noticeable.

"’yer quite a character, doll," he murmured near your lips, finally brushing his fingertips against the moistened material, letting out a soft groan. "i didn't know ‘ya were so turned on by the idea of ​​me touching ‘ya. didn't those assholes at the party ‘ya went knew how to make ‘ya wet like i do?"

"dean,” you whined out loud, grabbing his shoulders. “oh my god."

his fingers moved with such agility that you felt yourself melting under his touch. i mean he was an experienced man, damn it, he knew what he was doing! but even so, he didn't hesitate to taste you and play with you even more. 

his index and middle fingers traced circular motions over your clit, slowly moving up and down, stimulating it and outlining your slit, pressing it both together until he felt your fluids staining his fingers even more.

“‘yer a big girl,”  he hummed, cocking his brow up. “just look how good this fucking pussy is taking me and i barely did anythin’, bet she tasted better.” 

you nodded eagerly, barely opening your mouth in an agape, only to continue moaning softly. when suddenly, you no longer felt dean's breath near your face, but this time it was in an even more dangerous place: between your legs, face to face with your cunt.

dean was leaving kisses on the inner skin of your thighs, his beard scraping between them, his teeth sinking into different places on your skin, leaving marks only he could see. and that turned him on even more.

dean quickly pulled your panties to the side and while his mouth kept marking your thighs, gasping when your wet core faced him. soaken, puffy pussy folds and needy clit begging for him to put his whole mouth on them. he'd be lying if he said being like that with you wasn't killing him. his cock felt trapped in his pants; it hurt, it hurt too much.

the older man quickly found his way to your core, opening your legs as wide as possible for better access. he started gently, with several wet kisses tracing your slit, saliva mingling with it, murmuring a few "mhm"s between each lick or brush of his lips against your wetness. his nose was pressing itself so perfectly against your clit, sending you to the edge.

“mhm—dean,” your hands went straight to tugging at his hair, moving your pelvis occasionally, craving even more of him as his tongue moved with agility, eliciting muffled moans and constant cries from you. “fuck you’re so-damn-good.”

dean feels how he’s losing his sanity minute by minute.

your pussy feels so good in his mouth, he couldn't even stop to breathe because he felt he might miss a moan, any reaction from you that could bring him to orgasm without even having touched himself. he craved you the most, he couldn’t let you go that easily while feeling his jaw so unhinged just by keep mouthing your pussy out. spitting on her, licking her, devouring every inch of it.

tears pour down your cheeks as his tongue thrust your hole, and you’re close. so fucking close clenching around his wet tongue, practically making you gush. you feel gooey, now his tongue and fingers are working on you. 

“dean—fuck!.. st-stop, i feel like ‘m gonna pee, i—” he cuts you off, removing his mouth from your core and replacing his tongue with two of his fingers, shamelessly thrusting in you, making obscene sounds coming out within each thrust. “deeeeean— f-fuck!”

your body felt numb with the pleasure that surrounded it; your legs closed with each thrust of the older man's fingers. you wanted to come, you needed to come, or you might explode. You were ashamed to see the state that man had you in—you couldn't refute anything because with each additional comment his fingers reminded you who was in charge of you.

and dean had promised to take care of you.

and.. well damn, he does it so well.

when you felt that throbbing in your lower abdomen again, you looked at dean. your eyes couldn't leave him even if you wanted to—his mouth was half open, imitating each of your grimaces of pleasure because yes, he was also about to come in his pants and he hadn't even been able to get his cock inside your pussy and that suffocated him.

you tried to speak, to murmur something more than a babble, but something stopped you.

a noise.

your phone ringing, playing that same sound on repeat on the nightstand. 

it was your father.

shit, shit, shit.

“d—dean…” you barely managed to whisper, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to compose yourself.

but dean isn't stupid. besides being your father's friend, he's a man, and if seeing you so flustered was about to make his cock explode in his pants, he had to take advantage of every drop.

without stopping his fingers and hand moving over you, he bent down and cornered himself as close to the nightstand as he could to pick up your phone. "shh, sweetheart—you don't want your daddy to find out how you sound after soaking my damn fingers, be a good girl f’me and be quiet."

he did answer the call, and from what you could gather, your father seemed worried because you hadn't told him where you were or who you were with. dean answered each question with a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and it bothered you so much that you couldn't make a sound when his fingers were so deliciously teasing your g-spot.

you covered your mouth, rolling your eyes when the elder made a quick movement with his fingers inside you that almost made you fall—but you didn't give in.

"oh yeah, don't worry, buddy, ‘yer  little princess is in the best hands."

son of a bitch.

"i’ll treat her the way she deserves."

shit, fuck.

"i'll take care of that brat."

you couldn't hold back any longer, and when you managed to see out of the corner of your eye that dean had hung up, you didn't hesitate for a second to ride his fingers with what little strength you had left. your mind went completely blank the instant the older man's name escaped you in a cry of pleasure.

it was the first time you'd had such a powerful orgasm. you felt your whole body fall apart and your legs go numb, staining not only the man's palm but also the bedsheets and the inner part of your thighs.

you knew you'd be trying to recover from that orgasm for a while. but that didn't stop you and neither dean from continuing to show you what a real man is capable of when it comes to your own pleasure.

all night long. just you and him, no one else. until you get used to its—large—size.

[thesundontshineontheseeyebrows]

just what you need

masterlist

You call it quits with your boyfriend after 5 years and try to re-enter the dating pool. It sucks. And you’re nervous about sex with new people.

So what do you do when your best friend, Sam, generously offers himself so that you can experiment with a safe and familiar face? Accept his offer, of course.

CONTENT WARNINGS 18+, smut, angst, fluff, bestfriends to friends with benefits to lovers, AU!Sam Winchester, idiots in love, canon divergence, feelings, experimenting with positions and kinks, traffic lights system. Specific warnings will be labelled for each chapter.

CHAPTERS ᯤ Ground zero ᯤ The first Friday ᯤ The second Friday ᯤ The third Friday ᯤ The fourth Friday ᯤ The fifth Friday ᯤ The sixth Friday ᯤ The seventh Friday ᯤ The eighth Friday ᯤ The ninth Friday

CANON DIVERGENCE This series takes place in an AU where there’s no ‘family business’ and you meet Sam in your first year of university/college.

divider credit @/strangergraphics

[colddustybooksandhotcoffee]

eek, this sounds amazing, count me in

[lichanicksstuff]

I'm watching supernatural with my friend and she just paused and asked me:

"Why every time Castiel shows up they only show Dean's reaction?"

We watched like a few episodes and she clocked it immediately.

[sicksicksixx]

this is what i mean when I talk about destiel being in the editing as much as the writing or the acting. this is not something the actors have control over or are even necessarily aware of. but it’s there, textually.

[millermouth]

steady hands

summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.

smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming || a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!! wc: 11k

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"

thank you so much for reading! I love youuu!!!

[pbeeanjay]

wind beneath your wings

[give-bucky-his-boyfriend-back]

Dating Castiel headcanons🩷🌸🎀

He leaves you for Dean Winchester

[myaimistrue]

i love so very much about destiel but one of my all time favorite things is the way dean is just. so fucking delighted to be around cas at all times. like everything he does is funny and interesting and cool and wow my best friend’s an angel! and everyone else is like uhhh he’s fine i guess? but dean is busy twirling his hair and saying cas you’re sooooo awesome tell me more about about the mesozoic period :) and cas is staring directly in his eyes two inches from his face like Whatever You Want Dean.

[thesundontshineontheseeyebrows]

𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃

➶ warnings: pining, forced proximity/one bed trope, sexsomnia, friends to ???, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), munch!sam, is this exhibitionism?

➶ summary: sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.

➶ word count: how long is a piece of string? 5.1k words apparently...

quick note: inspired by one of my fav fics ever by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (please go read it and their other work!!!) - genuinely think about it daily… (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here

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Road tripping is simultaneously your favourite and least favourite thing to do with the Winchester brothers. 

When a hunt takes you far away from the bunker - where there’s nothing but forest after forest or field after field, town after town, and stateline after stateline - you feel most at home when you’re on the road in the four walls of that sleek and purring black metal machine that etches memories onto your body like you’re a vinyl record. Blaring rock ’n’ roll music (and the occasional pop tune, but Dean will deny it despite him tapping along on the steering wheel) down the highway, bickering on acceptable answers for a game of ‘I spy’, and a never-ending mixture of sweet and savoury treats keeps the three of you going for hours. Sometimes, you’d wish the hunt would never end. The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, sometimes make you wish that God would come down and smite you himself.

If you’re lucky enough, the three of you secure two separate hotel rooms where everyone gets their own bed to sprawl out in. 

On those other days where you’re not so lucky, though, the sight of only one set of keys dangling in Sam’s hand and his tight-mouthed look as he leaves the reception makes you and Dean both groan and roll your eyes.

In this event, the brothers would both insist that a lady “even one as rough as yourself” was never to take the floor and had to take one of the two beds, while they rock-paper-scissored each other on who took the couch (if that was even an option). Dean usually drew the short straw…

Although you appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed regardless of the groaning noises the old mattresses would make under the tiniest amount of weight, or how musty and thin the bedspread was, the squabbling and sardonic chivalrousness of the brothers really started to grind your gears. After a couple months of this set-up, and a few sore backs later, your frustration peaked and you snapped at how ridiculous and stubborn they were being. 

Now, a single-motel-room-stay means you rotate between who you share one of the two beds with because you’re smaller than the two 6-foot giants to hunt with, and the easiest to sleep next to. Lucky you.

A road trip hunt with a Dean-bedshare means headphones or heavy sleeping pills are a must - that man snores like his life depends on it. Whilst you’ll never be cold in a bed with that human radiator, he does also love to starfish, which means space is a bit of luxury.  

Sam gets nervous when it’s his nights. 

He knows this sleeping arrangement is less than optimal for you, especially when you’re with Sam because he’s just so big, and you’re just putting up with it because you care about both of them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make sure you’re as comfortable as you can possibly be.

When he knows it’s his rotation, Sam replicates the bed positioning in your room at the bunker by pushing the motel bed into the corner of the room furthest away from the door so that you can be against the wall, where you feel safest. A present (read: security blanket) from being a hunter for so many years. 

So after Baby pulls into this cross-country hunt’s motel carpark just before midnight, a late spring heat still simmering in the air, and Sam returns with only a single set of keys, he knows this week is going to be difficult - it’s his turn with you. 

Sam’s had a crush on you from the moment you fired a shotgun shell filled with salt past his head at a particularly nasty demon who had him in a chokehold one squeeze away from death. But he’s loved you since the night you cried into his shoulder after you’d lost an entire family to a Wendigo eight months ago. He’d rubbed your back in soothing circles to calm you down, burying his nose into your hair and whispering it’s okay repeatedly. He could never turn back from that night. 

The ceiling fan whirs quietly above, the wind current soft in the room. Sam is stripped down into a white singlet and black sleep shorts on the bed’s left side, the top sheet covering his legs as he lies with his back propped up by a pillow against the motel wall. The bedside table lamp to Sam’s left colours his body in a faint yellow and orange so that he can read while he waits for you.

He’s moved the bed already, now tucked under a large window where silvery clouds glow outside in the sky. 

He tries to act nonchalant when you open the bathroom door and step out into the shared room, a light baggy shirt sitting half-off your shoulder that finishes just above where your sleep shorts end. He tries not to gawk at your exposed thighs, hunching his shoulders and dipping his head down to stare at the book in his hands to distract himself. 

The bottom of the bed dips on its right side by the wall as you sit to watch the crappy soap opera on the TV. Sam slightly lowers his book to peek at you as you mindlessly plait your hair at the edge of the bed. He admires how soft you look. If he had the guts, he’d crawl behind you, kiss your shoulder, and do your hair himself. He’s watched you enough times to know how to do it, but most importantly, how you like it done.

Dean’s already called it a night. His snores not quite drowned out by the TV.

“Do you want me to keep the TV on?”, you call to Sam as you tie off your plait, still facing the TV. “Uh, no,” he replies softly, “not unless you need it to fall asleep?” “No, I’ll be okay.” You half turn your body to smile at him, before putting out your hand for Sam to pass you the remote. His heart stammers as you make eye contact. Sam’s noticed you only really have the TV on during the night when you’re sharing a bed with Dean. He’s not quite sure what that means, yet.

He rests his book on his lap to grab the remote and leans forward to hand it to you. He thinks about spreading his fingers across the remote so that your fingers graze his as you take it, but decides against this. The TV clicks off.

Sam watches as you climb up the bed and pulls the sheet back for you to hop under. Although you make him nervous, he wishes he could do this every night.

You settle in the bed - Sam bookmarking his current page and placing it on the bedside table before turning the lamp off. He shuffles down the bed and rolls onto his right shoulder so that he’s facing you at eye level. 

You both stare at each other, silently and serenely. Your face is laying against your pillow, the top of your right hand resting in your left palm just under your jaw. Moonlight caresses the right side of your body and Sam thinks you’re glowing; angelic. He worries you’ll hear his heart beat thundering in his chest if you listen into the mattress carefully enough. 

A couple inches separate your bodies - perhaps three-hands-wide. It’s an acceptable amount of space for two close friends, but that boundary could easily and quickly be crossed. A small shift forward by your hands, your legs, or your face is all it would take. 

A particularly loud snore leaves Dean’s chest, making both of you quietly giggle.

“God, he’s so loud”, Sam groans. “I know. I think he could take on a lawn mower with that snore”, you chuckle. “Maybe even a Boeing 747.” You snort at that. Sam’s heart leaps at making you laugh.

You both chat for a bit about the day, as well as life in general - a key element to your routine when sharing a bed with Sam. Every feature of your face is lit so sweetly. He can see how your nose scrunches and your eyelashes flutter when you passionately talk about something you like. Sam knows that when you fall asleep later, he’ll sneakily admire your face in its unguarded state, with the soft beautiful noises that fall from your lips when you’re deep in sleep. He thinks that might be his favourite view.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” You smile softly at him.

Sam returns your comment, his voice dropping to a whisper as he says your name.

You nestle in the bed to get yourself comfortable for sleep, before closing your eyes. A small sigh leaves your nose. 

Sam looks down at the blanketed curve of your waist. It moves gently with the rise and fall of your quiet breaths. You were so close to him that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. He really wanted to.

With his index finger, Sam traces the dips of your body along the mattress in the small space between you both. His eyes close briefly as he imagines how you’d feel against his fingertips. He does sort of know how it would feel, though - he’s grabbed your arm and your waist when you’ve slipped in front of him; he’s held your hand when he’s pulled you up onto a wall you’re too short to climb; and he’s felt you shoulder to shoulder and back to chest when hiding from some monster hunting you. Sam just wishes he could touch you in a way other than a friend does… Like a lover would…

His eyes drift open and they return to your face. When they reach your eyes, he realises you’re staring right back at him. He freezes. 

“Hi,” you whisper sweetly, shifting your head a little, “can’t sleep?”

Sam’s not sure how to react. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights. How long have you been awake? Did you notice him looking at you? Could you see that it was a look of more than a friend? Of someone who longed badly to reach out and touch you? 

He shakes his head timidly against his pillow at your question. Sam is suddenly aware of the heat from your body. He himself feels like a nuclear bomb about to self-destruct. “I think it’s the heat.”

You hum. “I’d offer to turn up the fan, but I think it only has one speed.”

There’s a beat of silence. “How about we take the sheet off, Sammy?” The way you say his name makes his stomach flip. He doesn’t have time to react as you sit up on your left arm and lean over him to rip the sheet off, your breasts pressing briefly across his chest. Sam’s nostrils flare and he takes a big swallow, his throat bobbing noticeably. He tries to stifle a groan and not think about it. 

When you lie back down, you’re closer to Sam than before. Maybe one-and-a-half-hands-wide separate you now. “That better?”, you ask. “Yeah,” he breathes. God, you’re so close to him. He can smell the faint remains of your perfume from the day. It sends a rush through his body and warms his chest. 

Sam notices your eyes glide over his face, stopping for a moment on his lips. A gentle smile appears on your face, then your eyes return to his. Sam feels his cheeks redden, his breathing quickening and lips parting. He can’t tell if he wants you to keep looking at him like that or if he wants to bury his face in the sheets. 

You shuffle a few centimetres closer, your lips also parting. Your eyes are locked with his. “Good.”You reach out and squeeze his left bicep. He tenses, waiting for your soft, warm hand to return to your side. But it doesn’t. It just sits there on his skin. His eyes snap down to look at your small hand on him. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and looks back at you. He swears he sees a glint in your eyes, something with a suffocating heat simmering behind it, that is asking him to touch you. He tries to pass it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then your hand starts to rub tenderly up and down his arm. You’ve never touched him like this before. It’s simultaneously calming yet maddening. It ignites the nerves under his skin with each slide. 

You both sit in silence for a minute. But Sam’s mind is racing. Is this really happening? He hears your breathing speed up. Do you actually want me the way I want you? Your hand pauses on his arm. Keep touching me. He sees you looking at your hand, beginning to move it back to your side. No. Don’t take your hand away, please.

Sam swallows again, thinks fuck it, and finally gets the courage to touch you. He tries to be slow and tender, but he moves too fast, grabbing your wrist hanging midair between your bodies. It makes you take a sharp inhale at the sudden contact.

He goes to speak, but words fail him. Jesus, fuck. He blinks a little stupidly, adjusting his grip to be softer, then slides his hand up your arm to your elbow. He briefly stops, inhales, then moves his hand to rest down on your waist. 

He’ll hit his head against a wall if he lets this moment pass. 

Sam’s hand falls on the band of your sleep shorts, a small section of your skin is exposed where your shirt has ridden up. He echoes your movements on his arm ever so slowly. You let out a small sigh. Or was it a little moan? His hand flexes. 

Your legs move first, finding his knees to press yours against; followed by your hips, so close that he knows a roll of yours or his hips would cross that boundary of friendship forever; your chest, maybe a finger apart; and then your face.  

You tilt your head up slightly, your nose brushing his. Your lips are so close to his that your next breath out ghosts his mouth. He can smell your toothpaste, now. A growing heat blooms in his groin. 

That beat of silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s heavier. Sam’s ears burn - a mixture of love, need, admiration, and hunger. Another beat passes. The low whirring of the ceiling fan blows the electric current running between both of you.

You lift your hand to cup the left side of Sam’s face. Your thumb strokes once against his jaw. His eyelids flutter. Sam’s fighting the urge so hard to not just grab your hair and smash your face into his. 

“I dream about you touching me, Sammy”. The words fall so effortlessly from your mouth Sam thinks he misheard you. Then you lean in.

A very quiet whimper escapes his throat as your lips carefully meet his. It’s warm, sweet, fearful, relieving. 

Fuck.

Sam can feel you humming faintly against his lips. Fuck fuck. 

Your fingers, stilled on his face, slide to the back of his head to bury themselves in his soft brown hair. At first, they curl gently, tenderly rubbing his head. Then you tug - not hard - just enough to bring him in deeper to the kiss, to tell him you want more. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head. 

“Sammy,” you breathe against his lips, eyes hooded. His hand on your waist is heavier. His touch turns to a grip. He can feel the goosebumps rising on your skin.

The gap between your bodies closes as you roll your hips into him, he groans into your mouth, his brow scrunching. Sam can’t ignore your breasts pressed against his chest, now. And you can’t ignore his thick and hard cock nudging your core. 

Both you and Sam have clearly forgotten about Dean in the next bed over, snoring lightly. Or maybe neither of you care. But who can blame you, you have more pressing matters at hand.

Your hand is still buried in Sam’s hair, tugging more frantically now. Sam’s right arm moves from underneath him to grab the side of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer. He can feel your pulse thudding in his hand. It’s as quick as his deafening his ears. 

This is it, Sam thinks. Don’t fuck it up.  

Sam’s nerves dissipate for a second as he rolls on top of you. The kiss changes. The sweetness and uncertainty still lingers, but it’s shifting into something more messy, more sure, more desperate. His legs bracket yours; his left pressed firm between your thighs and his right on the outer side of your left. 

Your left hand replaces your right in his hair as you move it to Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his flexing muscles as Sam’s left hand starts kneading the flesh of your waist. His thumb is rubbing deeply into the side of your navel.

He doesn’t ever want to stop touching you.

Both of you are panting into each other’s mouths. Each kiss is searing, your teeth nipping his lips. Your bodies meet with every roll, stroking the fire blazing between you. When Sam delivers a particularly deep grind into your hips and core that makes you gasp, your back arches. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip in the next kiss.

Sam pulls back, just a little, his forehand dropping to yours. Your chests are both heaving. “You are so beautiful.”

It makes you roll your eyes, grinning, “Shut up and keep kissing me.” He smiles and leans back in. 

This is not the time to say “I love you.” He decides to show you, though, by doing the next closest thing to it.

He inhales. “Can I…can I keep going?”, he sheepishly asks against your lips, beginning to slide his left hand down to the side of your hip, pausing, then down to the top of your thigh that’s just covered by your shorts. Your panting fans his face.

“Please.” Your mouth moves down to his neck, biting and leaving hot open-mouthed kisses along his damp skin. “Take whatever you want from me.” His breath stutters, eyes darkening. There’s no uncertainty, now. It’s all primal. 

Sam grabs your jaw with his right hand, pulling you back up into a long, deep, and passionate kiss. Then his mouth begins to trail down your body. 

He feels feverish. You want him. You want him. 

The way you’re laying in front of him, eyes sparkling with dilated pupils, smiling at him like you love him. Could you love him? God, he doesn’t know what to think. Or how to. He just knows what he wants. 

“I want to make you feel good,” he groans your name into your clothed sternum. He hears your breath hitch, breasts rising to bump his face. Mental note: come back here afterwards. 

Sam moves to kneel between your legs and continues kissing down your torso, “I’ve thought about how you’d look under me”, he hums on your right rib set, both hands now positioned at the top of your thighbones gripping the flesh, “how soft you’d be ”, he lifts up a section of your shirt, making your breathing quick and shallow, “how you’d feel against me”, he bites and sucks at this newly exposed spot to the right of your navel, “how you’d sound if I got to touch you like this.” A low moan falls from your mouth, head lulling backwards into the pillow, hips rolling into his face. He huffs, smirking. 

Sam’s face pauses at your lower waist; his nose is sitting against your short’s waistband and his mouth ghosts the middle space below your hips. His jaw clenches, closing his eyes briefly as his breath stutters again. Two thin layers separate him from where he so desperately wants to be. Fuck, he’s wanted to do this to you - for you - for what seems like an eternity. He pushes his forehead down into you slightly to centre himself. Don’t cum yet don’t cum yet. 

You call his name at his lack of movement. It’s so needy. It makes him salivate. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s never called you that. At least not while you’re awake. You don’t seem to tense or flinch, so he thinks it’s okay. He hopes he can call you it again tomorrow.

Sam’s hands slide back up along the outside of your thighs to your waistband, making you shiver. His fingertips rest on your waistband and he looks up at you, dark and hooded eyes boring into yours; he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You smile softly at him and lift your hips eagerly so that he can ease your shorts down.

He swallows, and gently guides your sleep shorts down your hips, then your thighs, your calves, and then your feet. 

Just one thin layer now. 

Sam can already see your arousal soaking through your underwear. Oh fuck. A wrecked groan rumbles in his chest, his hips rolling into the mattress. 

God, the sight of you. Maybe he should just bury his face in your pussy now, underwear still clinging to you, and make you cum like that. He doesn’t want to tease you like that tonight, though. Maybe next time.

His hands, planted on your thigh bones, grip the newfound flesh. You feel just as soft and warm as he had imagined. Goosebumps from your skin prickle under his palm and fingers. His cock twitches against his sleep shorts, and the restriction makes him muffle another groan. 

“Christ,” he purrs, kissing the top left corner of your underwear, “look how wet you are,” he moves to kiss the right side. 

You sigh breathlessly, reaching for Sam’s left hand to caress it, “It’s all for you, Sammy.” He hums in satisfaction at your words. 

Okay, okay, he thinks to himself. Focus, Sam. 

Both hands grab the elastic of your underwear to roll down your body. The scent of your arousal hits him almost instantly and he parts his mouth, panting. His nostrils flare - you smell so sweet. It’s enough to thicken the fire blazing inside him, especially his cock. Drool is pooling in his mouth. 

Sam can hear you above him, whining slightly at the air change near your core. Sounding just as desperate for this as he is. 

He moves both his right index and middle fingers along your mound, mesmerised at the way your body shudders and hips buck at his touch. He pauses just above your clit before shakily running his fingers through your folds, down to your opening. A sharp gasp falls from your mouth and your brows scrunch, back arching away from the mattress.

Fucking hell you feel like heaven itself. The heat and wetness from your folds makes Sam lose awareness of his surroundings for a second. All his senses are focused on you. He feels like he’s on fire; blood pulsing hotly through his veins, each breath rushing through his chest like a dry wind sparking embers.

He pulls his fingers away, eliciting an instinctive whimper from you, your hips lifting off the bed. Sam stares at his fingers, dumbstruck - he was glistening with your arousal in the moon light. He brings his fingers to his lips with a shaky exhale before putting them in his mouth. A low and broken moan escapes his chest as he sucks them, his tongue swirling his fingers, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting and committing to memory something seraphic. It makes him want to cum right there. 

“I’m gonna make a mess,” Sam moans your name hoarsely, his voice laced with both awe and heated reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”

Your chest is rising and falling rapidly with each second that passes with Sam’s face sitting right by your heat. Your eyes are locked with his, pupils blown wide out. Your mouth is gaping in desperation. He feels feral. Hungry.

Sam guides your legs to sit over his shoulders. Both of you shuffle slightly to get comfortable - he wants you both to be here for a long time. 

His hands move to hold both your thighs so that they rest against his face. He drops his eyes from yours to stare at your core - arousal glistening across your folds and dripping down onto the mattress - and it stirs something possessive in him.

Sam lowers his head to your slit and breathes you in, nose brushing your slick warmth as he exhales a groan so low and guttural it rattles through your bones. 

He’s changed his mind. This was definitely his new favourite view. 

He starts slow, careful - Sam kisses the soft part of the inside of your left thigh, echoing on your right, before the tip of his tongue enters your sweet slit and slides down.

Dear God. The taste and scent of your core floods his mouth and nostrils. Your left hand flies from the side of you to cover your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You both whimper needily at the sensations; you into your hot palm and Sam into your heat.

But when he licks a long wet stripe from the bottom of your folds to your clit so slowly that your hips buck and a pornographic moan shatters from your lungs, Sammy can’t help himself.

You were just so responsive to him. 

He does it again. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattens and moves down and up the length of your folds, collecting everything - spit, slick, and heat. He groans, deep and rough, as he buries his face further into you like he’s starving.

Sam extends his tongue to lap at you, kitten licking and slurping at your slit, encouraging you to give him more of your slick wetness. Your body twitches at every roll of his tongue, every suck of his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his brows scrunching and curving in sheer desire, indulgence, and love.

He couldn’t see anything else outside of you. You were fisting the sheets, hips twisting and legs flexing.

“God, yes, Sammy, right there, right there, Sammy, fuck.” You cry quietly, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, Sammy, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

Sam ruts into the bed like an animal, fucking himself against the mattress. He can feel his rock hard cock pulsing and leaking with precum.

“Keep talking,”he begs weakly, voice muffled against your core, spit and arousal dripping down his chin, “Tell me…tell me how good it feels. I need to know I’m making you feel good, sweetheart, please.”

Fuck he hopes you’ll let him do this again. 

Sam’s tempo increases as his tongue begins circling your clit, lightly sucking it to draw you deeper into his mouth. His nose is pressed firmly into you - he wants to suffocate on you.

Loose curls fall onto Sam’s forehead, dampened by a mixture of his sweat and your sweet arousal coating his face as you grind into him and he buries himself in you. 

Neither of you can stop moaning.

His fingers are gripped hotly and tightly on the flesh of your soft thighs. He means to be gentle but he’s too desperate for you, and he knows there will be purple bruises there in the morning. He’ll kiss them tomorrow to say sorry if you let him.

Sam’s head moves with every roll and turn of your hips so that his mouth stays attached to your clit and folds. Listening to your breathing and feeling how your body moves, he’s learning that you really like when he licks the left side of your folds and rub his nose on your clit. Your mouth falls slack when he does that. 

He kisses sloppily and hungrily up and down your heat, wetness smeared across his face and nose. His tongue slips down to your entrance to work inside you. A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips. If you sound like this when he’s eating you out, he can’t wait to hear you when you cum.

“Sammy, I’m-I’m gonna…“ you breathe out, too flushed from the building pleasure to finish your sentence. He feels your body tense and moans at your movements. You were going to fall apart in front of him. God, he was about to do it. He was about to make you cum. He shoves his face further into your heat. 

“Please, sweetheart,”he growls against you, vibrating through your wetness, “please cum for me.”

Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting Sam’s hair in pure ecstasy. “Sam…” you moan, uncontrollably, body shuddering. You take a loud inhale, mouth wide open and….

A hot wet flush spurts around Sam’s groin, jerking him awake. “Fuck!” He swears quietly to himself. His hips roll once, then still. He’s panting harshly as his eyes fly open. It’s pitch black. He can’t see anything. He pauses for a beat while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can hear the ceiling fan still whirring above.

Did I just have a fucking wet dream? 

Yes. Yes he did.

Sam groans quietly to himself, scrunching his brow in embarrassment and disappointment in himself.

That was stupid, Sam, stupid, he bullies himself. 

Sam lifts himself onto his forearms, sweat dripping down his body onto the bed. When did I fall asleep? He turns his head to the left towards the window - to you - to see if you were awake, or even there. You are.

He can just see how your lips are parted slightly, nostrils moving lightly as you inhale and exhale soft breaths. You’re still asleep.

Jesus Christ.

The sheet is still covering both of you, but you’re curled towards him in a foetal position. Your right arm is outstretched, hand resting sweetly next to his pillow. It must have been quite close to his face…

Sam carefully slides his right leg out from under the covers and onto the floor first, then his other leg, as he gets out of the bed slowly so he doesn’t disturb you. God knows this would be the absolute worst time for you to wake up and see him like this. 

The moving air current from the fan hits him like a winter’s gale, making him shiver. 

He wobbles past Dean’s bed, who is deep in sleep and (of course) starfished across the mattress. Reaching for the bathroom door, Sam grabs the handle and turns it cautiously to open the door. He flails briefly for the bathroom light switch, finding it, then softly clicks the door shut behind him before turning it on.

Sam leans against the door, back pressed firm against the cold wooden frame and head repeatedly hitting it faintly. 

I am in so much trouble.

┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆

Oh my poor Sammy. Somebody give this man a cuddle. 

If y’all enjoy this, I have plans for a second part, but let me know your thoughts!!

And to the lovely anon in my inbox with the Sam request - if you're reading this, I SEE YOU!! I am writing your request as we speak 💚💚💚

[thesundontshineontheseeyebrows]

𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams (p2) || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃

➶ warnings: 18+, angst (sam is a little bit mean UNINTENTIONALLY, but he'll make it up to you), pining, porn with plot, confessions, friends to lovers, oral sex (m! + f! receiving), munch!sam, switch/soft dom!sammy, canon typical violence

➶ summary: how will Sam deal with the fallout from last night? unfortunately, not very well.

➶ word count: 17.5k

quick note: um...sooooo heyyyyy... SURPRISE!!!! Yall have waited way too long for the next installment of this and i just couldn't bare having this sit there until the 11th. thank you all so freaking much for the love and support on the first fic - had me smiling and giggling every time <3 i hope this was worth the wait

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part one back here (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here

Sam doesn’t flick the light switch on. No, not yet. He needs to be in the complete, utter darkness so that it dulls the blindingly sharp edges of guilt.

His jaw clenches tight as he tries to swallow, throat constricting further as he replays whatever that whole thing was.

Oh god. Oh god oh god.

He knows he likes you – knows he loves you. As sure as he knows his own name. Sam.

But Christ, what the fuck? That – that – was not okay.

You’re a freak, Sam.

The bathroom air feels stale against his tacky skin, the salt from his sweat tightening it, probably making his white singlet now a patchy damp grey. Breaths come in shudders. His chest heaving and nostrils flaring. Heartbeat thundering in his ears and throat, hammering at the insides of his wrists. The chill of the tiles underneath his clammy feet mix with the horrid heat pulsing from his body to make him feel like he’s superglued to the floor.

His still semi-hard but softening cock twitches momentarily in his briefs, and he’s suddenly brought back to the sickening wet patch in his boxers starting to dry. Sam groans in disgust, neck craning forward to see how bad of a mess he’s made, but realising there’s no light for his eyes to adjust to, so he throws his head back into the wooden door with a flat thud.

He lifts off the surface with a huff as he starts undressing himself – ruined boxers dragged down each leg first, followed by his singlet ripped over his shoulders – still in the dark, “That was wrong. That was so wrong.”

Sam drops the dirty clothing in a mound to the left of the door, then flicks the light switch up. The overhead fixture splutters to life with a cough, making him wince and quickly scrunch his face up as the bright, searing white light burns his eyes like he was being smote. Hunched, he pads over to the shower, pulling at the grimy glass door and reaching in to turn on the shower head.

He pauses for a second – does he turn the water to hot to scald and scold himself; to burn that even now still persisting hunger for you out of his body and dull the crushing shame of what he’s just done? Or cold to strip him and his undeserving, uncontrolled, and unrequited love for you down into individual parts, clean it all from his filth, and bind it back into something he can quietly survive with, maybe sometimes (selfishly) enjoy, in proper private. 

Sam opts for the latter.

He decides to only shut off the cold water when it no longer bites, which, thanks to the roadside motel’s rusting pipes, isn’t very long.

He sulks out of the glass cubicle, cursing at the lack of a bathmat, then reaching out for his hanging towel – still slightly damp from his earlier shower – and running it roughly through his hair, before swiping his face and dragging it down the rest of his body to dry himself off. Sam goes to hang the towel back on the hook, but is met with the realisation that he didn’t bring any clean clothes into the bathroom. Fuck.

It’s really not his night.

A frustrated groan leaves him, head tipping back and blinking up at the ceiling in such tired defeat like it might magically produce at least some underwear for him – because knowing his luck? You or Dean (god forbid it’s his brother) will wake up and ask why he’s had another shower. At this time of the night.

Sam wraps the sodden towel around his hips and walks towards the bathroom door. Just as he’s about to grab the handle with his left hand and flick off the light switch with his right, the pile of his dirty clothing skims the bottom of his vision.

Ha. Great, Sam thinks, barely able to look at it as he rolls his eyes away in disgust.

Bending down, he scoops up the reminder of his crimes in his left arm, straightening back up and turning the overhead fixture off to plunge himself back into darkness before stepping out into the shared room.

Although he can’t currently see anything, he can hear the ceiling fan still whirling above his head, pushing a now mildly warm current through the air that brushes past the raising hairs on his arms.

In the doorway, Sam shudders as he lets his eyes adapt to the low blue and silver lighting and shadows of the moon seeping in through the windows by the shared bed. The bed with you in it.

He can’t focus on you. Not right now.

He blinks a little stupidly, eyes scanning across the room and over worn, dated furniture, books with jutting out pages that are stacked in short, lopsided mountains, bags by the tv that– bags. Bags with clothes in them. His clothes. That he needs right now.

Sam silently shuffles past Dean’s bed over to his own duffel, crouching down to drop the ‘used’ clothing to the side of it and scrounge through the clean and orderly packed clothing to find another pair of boxers and a singlet to wear. He finds what he needs, pulling them out with a quick soothing sigh, and tucking the materials to his right side, then standing up and returning to the safety of the pitch-black bathroom to dress himself. Once the towel is hung back up, Sam quietly closes the bathroom door behind him and pads back over to his bag.

He’s staring down at the small heap of grimy, intermingling clothing like it’s personally offended him. Because it has. And really, it would offend anybody else who saw it, too.

Normally, he’d fold his dirty clothing in a neat pile, ready to be taken to a laundromat whenever necessary during a hunt. There’s already a heap next to his bag from yesterday. However, Sam doesn’t think he should leave evidence of his night emission out in the open. So, swiftly, he squats back down, both hands rummaging through the duffel to find a plastic bag that can hide at least the visible source of shame.

“That’ll do,” he whispers to himself when he finds it, reaching to his left and stuffing that mess into the plastic bag, and shoving it deep into his own duffel.

He rises, a slow and audible breath dragging from him. Then he turns back to the bed. Back to you. His eyes fall on your sheeted figure. You’re still fast asleep.

He takes four steps towards the bed to end up at his side, shins resting against the mattress as he looks down. His eyes glide over you and god, you’re so beautiful; your lips are in a sweet, gentle pout, softly parted as you take in and exhale small huffs of air, your lashes lightly fluttering for a second, then stilling as the ring and pinky finger of your right hand twitch.

He could reach out and touch you if he wanted. He does want to. But no, that’s creepy. And after what he’s done tonight, he knows he deserves nothing less.

Sam’s gaze lifts from you, almost taking physical effort, as he realises he may have left a gross wet patch where he was sleeping. He gulps, preparing himself for the damage, then scanning along the open space to assess with clinical precision.

There’s nothing there but the crumpled lines of the fitted sheet.

Oh thank god. Sam thinks he probably wouldn’t have survived the night – no, the rest of his life – if his cum had stained the bed.

Okay. You’ve got this, Sam.

With one quick, task-driven nod, carefully, he sinks himself onto the mattress next to you – years of hunting guiding his long limbs and breath into almost perfect silence. First, he sits. This is not something to rush. Then, once he’s certain he hasn’t woken you due to the weight change, he lifts just the corner of the flat sheet up and shifts to raise his right leg onto the bed. Finally, at last, he rolls his body smoothly into the open space.

He drops the sheet over him and wriggles ever so slightly, lightly spreading his arms and legs, lifting his head once, twice, and nestling into the pillow as he settles into the somewhat comfort of the old, lumpy bedding. Springs only letting off a faint, almost silent creaking.

You did it. Sam smiles to himself, almost feeling like he should give himself a pat on the back. Everything’s okay.

He closes his eyes, attempting to fall back into a deep and hopefully uneventful sleep, and a solid, warm limb grazes and crosses over his left arm, reaching to the middle of his chest. Smaller, warm hand splayed carefree, the palm and fingertips burning through his singlet to reach his skin. Sam seizes, neck almost snapping as he turns to you, eyes wide and frantic as a sudden wave of panic sweeps entirely over him that you’ve woken up.

He’s fucked it.

But when his gaze locks onto your face – eyes flicking between every space and curve to account for any movement, open features, anything that’s changed since he last looked at you – your own are still closed. Your mouth is softly shut now, though.

And then (and he’s so sure he doesn’t imagine it), Sam hears a small, content, so content, noise leave your throat as you rub your left cheek against your pillow.

Nope. Nope nope nope. He’s not doing this.

He wants your hand there. God, he really wants it there. He’s desperate for your touch, in whatever way he can have it, which is just so fucking selfish of him. He knows it. Beats himself up about it every day. But this can’t be happening. Not right now. Not after what’s happened, after what he’s done. He’s too dirty to have a touch so pure as yours on him.

Almost painfully, Sam carefully grabs your wrist with his left hand, fingers wrapping gently, timidly, around the bone to lift your arm off of him and place it back in the small space between you both.

He slips out from under the sheet and slides himself off the bed, fumbling a little this time as his legs twist under him and his feet miscalculate the distance from the mattress to the floor.

When he fully stands, he frowns, heart aching at the sight, his need for you. Sam has to get out of here. He turns his head to the right to look at the bedside table, specifically seeking the digital alarm clock – it reads 04:55. Way too early to go get coffee, even for Sam.

“Fuck.”

He spins on his feet and rushes back to his duffel to dress himself – sweats pulled up his legs, then a long sleeve flannel, unbuttoned, flung around his shoulders.

The only safe place he can go is outside.

He squints to locate some shoes, opting for his runners because god knows how long he’s gonna have to be gone for. Without even lacing them, just tucking the strings into the sides, Sam almost runs for the door, snatching a set of keys on the wooden table as he passes it.

Quietly, so quietly, he grabs the door knob and turns it, pushing the door with measured pressure, then slipping out through the crack without daring to turn back to look at you.

By the time Sam gets back to the motel, the sun is already warm over the red wooden panelled roof. He doesn’t know how long he’s been gone for, but it was long enough to devise a plan. A solid plan, he thinks. All he’s gotta do is keep his distance from you – limit any sort of verbal or physical (especially physical) contact with you. It won’t be long; just until the case is done. Which is hopefully only a few days. Then Sam can rent a car or something and say he needs to go visit an old friend back at Stanford and will be gone for a couple days.

Solid.

Heat is already brimming in the morning air, the crunching gravel parking lot offering some relief underfoot as Sam walks across it back to the room. Another hot day. Great.

If he’d really thought about it, actually used his usually analytical and cool-tempered brain, he wouldn’t have worn these stupid – now almost fully soaked through – sweatpants on the walk.

Sam pauses at the door, hand outreached for the handle, as he takes in an attempt at a deep and calming, centring breath. It doesn’t work.

“Ah! There you are, Sammy.”

It’s Dean.

Thank god.

“Was just about to send out a search party for you,” he says, quickly looking up from his seat around the other side of the wooden table as his younger brother steps through the doorway. Dean’s eyes fall back to the book splayed in front of him, then – they flick just as quickly back up to Sam, face scrunched, “You wore that for your run?”

Sam pays him no mind, walks straight past him to his duffel, “Didn’t run. Just needed some air.”

“Right.” A pause. “Well, next time you ‘just need some air’, can you take your damn phone with you? Had us both worryin’ about you.” Pages shuffle. “All for nothin’.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Just riffles through his bag to find a change of clothes for the day ahead. He hears Dean sigh, “You better go tell her you’re back.”

That makes Sam stop. Still crouched, he turns back to his brother and stares at him blankly, a little dumbly. Dean’s already turned towards him, looking at him, eyes sweeping over his face, trying to discretely track any sign of a reaction. Unsatisfied, Dean says your name like it's the most obvious answer in the world. Probably because, now that Sam thinks about it, it is. His brother exhales, shifting his body and attention returning back to the pages in front of him as he leans forward, left elbow braced on the table to prop up his head, “She’s in the reception askin’ abo–”

“Oh Sam! You’re back!”

Shit.

Sam can just see the wisps of your hair to the right of Dean’s face as you come in through the door. He struggles to complete a swallow.

You can do this, Sam. You can do this.

“We were getting a bit worried about you,” you close the door behind you, beginning to walk towards the table, “‘specially cause Dean and I tried to call you to figure out where you’d gone and your phone was here.” Sam doesn’t respond. Just shifts his neck back to his bag on the floor in front of him as he sifts through the clothing. His clean clothing.

He smells the coffee before he hears you place a cup on the table with a soft thud, Dean mumbling a thank you. To his horror, you don’t take a seat, no; you keep walking. Walk right around Dean’s chair and stop right by Sam’s right side. Your hips level with the side of his face.

Fuck.

“Here, take this one, Sam. I’ll get another.”

He’s frozen. He can see your legs in the far corner of his right eye, denim shorts finishing mid-thigh – but he can’t look at you. If he did, all he’d see is your face above him, looking down at him. Like you had last night. When he was buried in between those warm bare thighs, soft flesh and muscles bracketing and tensing around his head–

“T-that’s okay.” Sam’s cock twitches violently, hardening. “Don’t want one.”

“You don’t want any coffee?”

He shakes his head. Returns to searching for proper pants and a shirt.

Truthfully, he does want one, but he can’t risk touching you. He’ll just go get one afterwards. He’ll have to be discrete, though, make sure neither you nor Dean catch him. Although he can’t see you, he’s sure you’re nodding your head in that slow, rolling motion you do when you’re listening and processing something. You’re probably exchanging a quick, confused glance with Dean.

“Okay...” God, you do not sound convinced. “Did ya have a good run? Interesting outfit choice you’ve got on there.” “Um– yeah, no. Didn’t go for a run.” It sounds so much like he’s being short with you. He hates it.

He hunches over more, digging further into his bag as frustration starts to kick in. Not at you – never at you – but at the fact he can’t find his stupid clothes.

“Oh? What were you do–”

“He needed some ‘fresh air’.” The way Dean says it pisses Sam right off.

“Ah. Okay.” You’re not buying it. But you don’t push him. And for that, he’s so thankful. “Well, I just spoke with the man at reception about the kids in the paper and he sa–”, Sam stands abruptly, having found what he needed, and almost collides with you.

You’re wide-eyed. Brows raised, mouth parted in shock at the sudden almost contact. Sam jerks back reactively. His feet stumble, left one tripping on his duffel, but manages to save himself at the last second from fully falling.

Both of your hands, even the one still holding the rejected coffee cup, fly out from your sides to try and grab him. They stop just short of his body as Sam stabilises himself, your hands hovering mid-air, “Sorry, Sam. I– I didn’t mean–“ A rattled breath leaves him, “Y–you’re fine. My fault.”

His eyes drop immediately from yours, skirting and staring down at the thin carpeted floor, but not before he briefly catches the skin of your bare forearms left uncovered by the sleeves of your loose flannel bunched at your elbows. Sam can’t move, otherwise he might touch your arm or your hair or your beautiful face when he does.

You seem to notice this; sidestepping to the right, a little skittish, to give him plenty of room to walk past.

He stands there for a beat, blinks rapidly a few times, then moves, “I’m…I’m just gonna go and... get changed.”

You nod once from the corner of his vision as he passes you before he almost slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

When Sam emerges, showered again and now dressed in appropriate clothing for the day, you’re sitting at the small wooden table over by the wall with Dean, muttering softly and somewhat excitedly to each other, pointing at notes in your journal and shoving opened research books and scanned newspaper sheets in front of one another’s faces.

You don’t look up when he comes out.

But Dean does, craning his neck to the left behind him to track Sam as he passes the table. He shifts back to focus on you as Sam returns to his bag to put the used clothing in a neat pile next to it, “Sam, we think we’ve got it.”

Sam stands straight, arms crossed over his chest, gaze focused on his brother, preparing himself to listen to Dean speak.

But there’s just silence.

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Sam realises he’s waiting for you to start speaking. When you don’t, Dean kicks at you underneath the table, releasing your attention from the pages you’re staring down at with a small, annoyed sound as you look up at Dean, then to Sam. Sam doesn’t miss the way your big eyes snap away from his immediately and back to Dean’s, then down to your book when it clicks that you’re meant to be talking.

“Oh, um– yeah so...” Sam almost gets entirely lost in your voice right away.

You’d found the article online three days ago: One Teen Dead, One Hospitalised After Suspected Murder-Drowning by Mystery Figure in Local Sanatorium.  

Dean had waved it off, said ‘they probably got high and decided to go for a dip, needed a cover up and said they had a ‘Grave Encounters’ moment’.

But you paid him no mind, continued on by saying ‘who drowns in an empty pool?’

Dean’d paused at that – and Sam, equally as curious as you but also wanting to back you up, said ‘we’ve gone on hunts for much less’.

And that was that.

When the three of you arrived in town yesterday, you did your preliminary checks – located the Sanatorium, talked to a few locals about the teens (who then directed you to head to the newspaper office to go over their archives), and established there was only one bar within a 45 minute drive radius. Dean has his priorities.

Sam had gone to the office, scanned the articles he thought would be relevant, then met back up with you at the local library. Dean had busied himself by slinking around the perimeter of the derelict Sanatorium, all its doors blocked off by police. 

Before the incident, the one where Sam came in his underwear asleep because he thought he was eating you out, you and Sam had sat at the table together with his laptop, your notebook, and several scanned newspaper sheets in between you both, while Dean was comfortably splayed on his bed with several books for research.

With a ‘I think I’ve read the same paragraph four times’ just before 2am, you’d all called it a night.Then, this morning, while Sam was out getting some ‘fresh air’, you went to talk to the gruff receptionist who ‘smelt like stale wet laundry’ and had that ‘back in my day sort of attitude’(which Sam knows really grinds your gears), finding out that the ‘stupid local teens’ regularly went to ‘that ol’ haunted Sanatorium’ as a ‘dumb rite of passage’ because ‘kids these days got nothin’ better to do, ‘pparently’.

The morning’s research so far had pointed to the cause of death for one teen and hospitalisation of the other being from a pissed off ghost – a nasty doctor who used to secretly experiment on some of his patients and was killed during a major patient breakout.

A simple salt and burn.

‘–Well, I don’t think that, but Dean does. And we all know that Dean is always right–’

‘–Yeah. ‘Cause I’m the oldest.’

You snorted. ‘Whatever, old man.’

Cute, Sam thought.

He wanted to ask what you thought you were all hunting – because you’re smart; your brain considers every possibility, doesn’t let the small or seemingly insignificant details go missed, and you’re a very good hunter; one of the best he knows, and also? He cares what you think – but that would mean having to talk to you.

So Sam just stands there like a butter knife with no butter – technically functional, but not contributing to anything at all. A few nods here and there, maybe one or two ‘yeps’.

When you finish detailing all the research and opinion points for consideration, both you and Dean look up at Sam, clearly waiting for him to say something final. Maybe disagree or question what they’ve offered, because ‘Sam is the best researcher’ (your words, not his. He remembers it fondly when you first said it, the heat that had bloomed in his face and down his neck, the way his heart and chest had swelled). Well, Dean definitely is staring at him, and just in his peripheral vision, it looks like you are, too. Sam can’t be too sure, though. He didn’t look at you the entire time you were speaking – and he’s not about to start now. Can’t start now.

“So, Sam, what do you think?” You sound a little unsure. Timid. Like you’re a nervous student waiting on the teacher to tell you if your answer is right or wrong.

Oh sweetheart. He doesn’t want to make you feel insecure or uncertain.

But he still can’t look at you. “Sounds good.”

An awkward, prickling silence festers in the air. It’s so heavy. Sam could blame it on the summer heat leaking into the room through the old, draughty walls, under the gaping motel door, but he knows it’s not that.

He gulps, words flying around and ricocheting off the walls of his brain as he tries to breath a bit of air back into the suffocating room. “So what’s the plan? We go to the doctor’s grave first? Salt him and burn him, then head to the Sanatorium after nightfall? Make sure he’s gone for good?” Not looking at Sam, Dean rises from his seat, closing the book in front of him, “Nah, doc’s already been cremated. But the Sanatorium’s got both his hands out on display ‘cause he was this top shit amphibious surgeon who they wanted to commemorate or something – so we needa burn ‘em”

“Ambidextrous, Dean,” you offer absentmindedly. Dean throws his left hand in the air, waving you off. A small, suppressed grin tugs on Sam’s mouth, “That’s sort of weird.”

His brother shrugs, bending slightly to reach into his jacket hung over the back of his chair to find the car keys, “It’s a weird town.”

Sam notices you don’t move. How quiet you are. Normally, you’d be the first one up, gunning for the door, pushing past and shoving Dean, giggling, as you both race to the car. Not for any real purpose – just because you both can and you think it’s funny. Because ‘not everything in our lives has to be so damn serious, Sammy’. He likes how well you get along with his brother. Means that if you did want to be with Sam, maybe even marry him, life would just be so damn easy, so perfect.

Sam, not a very helpful thought to be having right at this moment.

But he risks a look at you. Because god does he miss looking at you. And when his eyes find your still-seated body, he realises you’re already looking at him.

Shit.

His eyes flick instantly back to the open space in front of him as he tries to play it off, starts to pat himself down as if he’s looking for the spare motel keys or his phone.

Sam didn’t have enough time to properly read you, but you looked...embarrassed. Maybe even a little bit hurt. Is that because of him? Christ, it’s definitely because of him. Fuck. This is not going to plan. He’s totally fucking up any abysmal chance he had with ever getting with y–

“Are you looking for this?”

Sam freezes. His breathing hitches, heartrate slowing like he’s prey playing dead, like motion might kill him. You’re closer, now. Sam slowly raises his head up. You’re not sitting at the other side of the table anymore – you’re standing in front of him, right arm outstretched with his phone in your hand.

He needs to remedy the situation. Just a little bit. Not look like such a complete asshole. So he meets your gaze, tracking you as you take in a quick, audible breath, “Y-you left it in your yesterday jeans. Thought you might’ve forgotten to take it before you left this morning.” Your eyes flick away from his, down to the phone still hanging between you both, “Took it out after we called it. Just in case.”

Sam swallows. For a second, just like he had last night when he passed you the tv remote, he considers spreading his fingers across the phone so that his fingers graze yours as he takes it from you. It’s been so long – too long – since he’s just touched you. No intent behind it. Just contact. But he can’t. “Thank you.”

He takes it, carefully, from you between his left thumb and two index and middle fingers. You give him a tight small smile, one that doesn't reach your eyes. Your hand drops back to your side, almost with a brushing motion as if you’re trying to shake off having to have touched something of his.

Sam notices it. Feels it. Like a metal nail scraping against something rawing – a thin, sharp, scratch slices right over his heart.

He goes to open his mouth, but you turn around towards Dean, waiting by the now opened door, before Sam can say something. Whether it would’ve been something to fix this or make it worse – Sam doesn’t know. 

He watches as you quickly look up at Dean when you pass him on your way outside. His brother looks down at you, offering a small, kind smile, and the thrumming wound inside Sam tears open just that little bit more.

Dean’s head shifts back to Sam, eyes barely catching as he skims over him, then tips his head in a silent order to leave.

Sam sighs, then reaches for the spare set of the motel room keys still on the wooden table and follows you out the motel.

By the time Dean closes the door behind Sam, you’re already waiting by the back right passenger door – the side Sam needs to be on – arms crossed over your chest, back leaning against the Impala and away from the two approaching brothers as you take in the surrounding mountains and summer scenery.

You don’t show any sort of acknowledgment of you noticing when Sam reaches the side you’re on, only moving to turn and open your door when Dean unlocks Baby.

A wall of heat drifts over Sam as he slides in, the leather interior already heating up the air.

“Phew, hotter than Hell in here,” Dean whistles as he shuts his door, buckling himself in, then plugging the keys into the ignition, “Well, not quite.”

Rolling his eyes at his brother, Sam places his phone still held in his left hand into his lap to drag the seatbelt across his chest and click it in. The engine rumbles to life, made louder by you rolling down the backseat window behind Sam. Joan Jett & the Blackhearts’ Bad Reputation starts as the cassette player kicks in – your attempt at expanding Dean’s music library – while both Sam and Dean echo your movements, letting a gentle wind current flow through as the car reverses over the gravel carpark and pulls out onto the road.

Sam turns his head to the passenger window, watching paddock after paddock fly by on the way to the Sanatorium as he tries to distract himself from overthinking. His right index finger begins unrhythmically tapping against the side of his right thigh, left leg bouncing restlessly. The repeated movement makes his phone sitting in his lap slip in between his thighs, causing Sam to shift his neck to look down at it. He pockets the phone into his jeans, then turns back to look out the window. A moment or two passes before a cold horror slashes straight through him.

His phone. In the jeans he wore yesterday. Oh fuck. You didn’t see his underwear, did you?

No, Sam. You wrapped them up in the plastic bag. Shoved them into that little pocket near the bottom. The jeans he worse yesterday were in the pile next to his duffel. You wouldn’t have seen it.

Right?

“Dude, what’s with the ice maiden this morning?” The rising panic building in Sam as he stares wide-eyed out the window is splintered, neck jerking to face his brother, “What?” Dean throws his head back to the right, motioning towards you sat silently in the backseat, “You’re being so weird to her this morning.” Sam’s face tenses. He doesn’t dare look back at you; his head and eyes starting the movement to the left to look at you, but stopping and snapping back to the front before he reaches too far. Dean stares at him, noticing the restrained and twitchy movements, then continues with a brow raise, “Weirder than usual. Than your Sam-weird–” “Shut up, dude.” Sam half-whispers, half-hisses, tone clipped and low. Despite the wind whipping past his ears and the loud music, there’s every chance you can still hear them talking.

Dean ignores him, eyes shifting back to the road ahead, with a small smirk brimming, voice needling, “Jeez, d’ya wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or somethin’?”

Sam’s nostrils flare.

“I’m jus’ sayin’”, Dean’s head tilts slightly to the left for a beat, fingers rapping on the steering wheel – and Sam knows it’s to punctuate his point, “if I’m picking up on this weird emotional brick wall thing you’ve got goin’ on, then–”

“Just drop it, Dean. Seriously not in the mood for it.”

Jaw so tight his teeth might crack, Sam leans sharply forward and cranks up the stereo dial, huffing with irritation as his back returns to the leather bench and he resumes staring out the window – face now in a deep scowl – deliberately drowning out any possibility for his brother to ask any further stupid questions.

“There’s a way in through the graveyard out the back of the Sanatorium. Underground entrance that’s covered by some bushes,” Dean says as he turns Baby’s engine off, “Don’t think the cops know it’s there – ‘s how the kids have been gettin’ in.”

The three of you are parked at a little lookout a couple hundred metres away from the Sanatorium – a lookout tucked off a shabby forgotten road with an even shabbier carpark, surrounded by looming trees so tall and dense that the sunlight barely makes it through the canopy.

“How the hell d’you find that out?”, Sam questions as he unbuckles. Dean tilts his head, clicking his tongue, “Saw some kids smokin’ pot when I was out here yesterday, thought they might know a thing or two, so I flashed my badge and told ‘em I’d lock ‘em up unless they told me how to get in.”

You scoff – and without looking, Sam knows you’re rolling your eyes, “What made you think they knew something?”

Dean twists back to you with a smirk, “Just a hunch, sweetheart. I’m full of ‘em,” finishing with a wink.

You give him a dismissive yet amused 'mmhhhmm' before opening the car door and sliding out.

Although Sam has no right to be, especially today, he can feel a flicker of jealously briefly tighten his chest, a low heat creeping up his neck and through his head.

Dean follows your movements, smoothly lifting himself off the front bench and closing the door behind him, leaving Sam in the quiet of the Impala all by himself. He sighs deeply, raising his left hand up to his face to massage the bridge of his nose.

It’s not even 10am yet and already Sam’s wishing for the day to end.

He makes an adjustment to his original no-contact-with-you plan. A little contact is okay, he tells himself. Just act like you had when you first met her and not like she’s got the plague. Or that you dreamt about kissing her and making her whine and moan and cum with your mouth and tongue.

Easy.

Despite his limbs still dragging as he climbs out from his seat, Sam moves with a slight more confidence than he had back at the motel. As he closes the door, he sees you and Dean are both standing behind Baby’s popped boot, words passing between the two of you that Sam can’t quite make out. You’re in the middle, on the right side of Dean, meaning if Sam walks over to you guys (which he kinda has to so that he can get some weapons), he’ll have to be next to you.

Okay, Sam. Breathe. Just go stand next to her.  

He walks around the car, dried dirt crunching under his shoes he moves to the back and stops next to you. You’re ducked, busy riffling through and grabbing the essential bits and bobs – some salt, a crowbar, some matches, a flashlight, and... a knife?

Sam raises his left arm, gesturing towards the weapon in your hands as you start stepping back and away from the trunk, “What’s the knife for?” You raise your head towards him briefly, giving him a small, sort of friendly smile, “Just in case.”

Sam goes to open his mouth, but Dean cuts in, saying your name with a gruff tease and a shake of his head, “You know you’re gonna look like a real idiot when we’re done here.”

You raise your left hand up in an acknowledgment of Dean’s snipe before spinning around and heading towards the wooden picnic table. Sam looks back to his brother after his comment, but Dean isn’t looking at him – eyes watching you walk away before sliding right back to the hunting arsenal in front of him. Sam exhales, starting to feel agitated again, then hunches and reaches in to also grab what he needs, while Dean takes a step to the side, left leg resting against the taillight and left hand loosely holding onto the boot’s lid as he waits for Sam to finish.

When Sam steps back to signal he’s done, Dean closes the trunk and locks the car. But instead of walking over to you, he just turns around and leans against Baby’s hood. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there in silence. Sam knows this move – Dean’ll have the palms of his hands against the car, just on the edge, fingers tapping expectantly for Sam to look at him as Dean contemplates if what he’s about to say is worth the reaction his brother might have, if he’ll even listen to him, consider his ‘words of older brother wisdom’.

Sam raises his brows, head still dropped downwards and eyes purposely not meeting any part of Dean, as he finishes tucking in the weapons he grabbed. He takes in a deep inhale as he goes to speak, but before any proper words form on his tongue, Dean lifts himself off the Impala and starts walking towards you.

It makes Sam lift his head. To pause, look for where his big brother’s gone; the brother who’s always meant to pull him back from the edge of a bad decision despite Sam’s persisting objections, talk some sense into him ‘because big brother’s know everything ‘nd someone has to teach the annoying little brother the rights and wrongs of the world’; the brother who’s just made it across the carpark and started talking to you, making it strikingly clear that Dean doesn’t think whatever he thinks is plaguing Sam right now just isn’t worth it.

Sam knows he’s being an asshole. And the fact the Dean won’t step in, even though Sam told him to get lost?

Well, the feeling in his chest is something he can’t name, but it’s along the lines of irritation, anger. But also dejection. Disappointment. And maybe a bit of shame.

Great, Sam thinks, lips pressing into a tight line.

Walking towards you both, he sees you’re perched on the table surface with your feet on the wooden bench, Dean standing in front of you. He notices you look at him – still continuing to talk to Dean – before your eyes flick a little too quickly back to his older brother, your face faltering a little.

Ouch.

Dean must notice it, too, because he turns towards Sam, but doesn’t offer more than a jerk of his head to the woods.

You jump off, waiting for Dean to move first, then following behind him once he starts walking towards a rough path through the trees which Sam assumes is the direction of the Sanatorium.

Normally, Sam and you would be walking side-by-side, close enough for him to catch your perfume that makes him pull in a deep inhale, smile and get a little lightheaded and flushed every time he smells it, your shampoo, too.

He’s too far away from you to do that this time, though. Maybe three steps behind. Further apart than he truly wants to be, but still the shortest amount of distance that he’d consider to be safe.

Nobody says anything the entire trek, the only sounds that meet Sam’s ears are of twigs snapping underfoot and soft bush moving aside, the occasional bird call ringing around the three of you. Maybe someone does say something, but Sam just doesn’t hear it. Or maybe, just neither of you say anything to him.

The quiet means last night’s dream that poor Sammy’s being trying so hard to keep at bay creeps back into his mind. Every time he tries to push it away, a scene paints itself in front of his eyes, demanding he relive it – your hand cupping his jaw, fingers stroking his face; his hand on the curve of your neck, keeping you as close to him as humanly possible; your warm, kiss-swollen lips; his legs tangled with yours; how wet your underwear was, how wet you were; your legs over his shoulders; the sheets fisted in your hands as he lapped at you; your hands pulling at his hair...god, how you tasted—

“Where’s all the cops?” Sam almost walks straight into the back of you. You’ve stopped just before the edge of the clearing that backs onto the Sanatorium, a mass of dilapidated and overgrown grass-covered headstones ahead.

He should probably take a step back. Or away. To the side. Something. You really do not need to feel how hard his dick is right now.

With a small shuffle backwards, Sam refocuses on reality in front of him. From at least where the three of you are standing, all the police cars are gone. No officers in sight. 

And, just as Dean had said, the ‘secret’ entrance into the Sanatorium is there, peeking out through some small trees and a couple bushes that have seen better days, a stairwell fenced by a row of rusted metal spikes on either side as the cement steps disappear down to a weathered wrought-iron door.

Dean tsks. “Guess it’s their day off,” he starts walking towards the shrub covered pit off to the edge of the graveyard, “lucky us.”

You turn your head to watch him walk away, “We should still be careful. Just in case they’re still here or they come back.” You’re right. Dean’s being his usual too reckless self. But you look back at Sam – a quick, tight-lipped smile flashing (which Sam notices again, doesn’t quite reach your eyes) – before following after his brother.

A deep, weary exhale leaves Sam, his chest puffing then deflating with the breath for a steadying moment, then moving his legs to trail after you.

Rust and stale moisture fill Sam’s nostrils and lungs as the three of you walk through the damp underground passage. It’s pitch black, save for the three light streams from your flashlights swaying with each step.

Sam knows your nose is scrunched at the reek without even seeing your face. You always do that when there’s a bad smell. And Sam’s ribs always feel too damn small to contain the overflowing of warmth and tender swelling pooling in his heart and lungs from your reaction.

Dean’s humming of ‘Enter Sandman’ can just be heard over the hollow echoing of footsteps, only pausing as you come to the end of the hallway, the transport corridor finishing at an open doorframe leading to a cement ramp.

The three of you make your way up, coming to another door that spits you out into one of the Sanatorium’s hallways. Windows clouded by years of grime line the front wall, weak daylight filtering through the dirt. Dust coats every surface, and rotting windblown leaves are scattered under a partly smashed window.

The three of you shine your torches down both sides of the passage, trying to figure out your bearings. Sam’s light lands on something big and blue ahead to the left and he squints his eyes, “Hey guys? I think there’s a map over there.”

The three of you make your way over and sure enough, he’s right – it’s a large enamel directory map, roughly two metres squared, white lettering and lines marking out corridors and rooms, some graffiti scratched into it.

You all study it for a minute. Then you speak, “Dean, do you wanna check out the West Wing? I think that’s where the doc’s hands are – and I know how badly you wanna see them.”

Oh no. “We’ll go through the East Wing–”

No no no no no.

“–it’s pretty big and splits off into all the patient bedrooms, so we’ll cover more ground that way. See if there’s anything else of the doctor’s on display that might cause him to stick around and murder some more curious teens.”

Shit.

“We can meet back up at this point here–,” your finger landing on a spot on the map.

Fuck.

“–this bridge or whatever that connects the two wings – I’m betting that’s where this supposed pool–”

“I, um–,” Sam interjects, “I think you should go with Dean.”

The room stills. Suddenly. Violently.

Maybe Sam didn’t think this fully through.

You and him always go together when you split for a hunt. It’s not even discussed; it’s just instinct.

But he can’t be alone with you today.

He sees the hurt crack across your face as soon as the words fall from his mouth. His suggestion like he’s ripped your already rawed and bruising heart straight from your chest with his bare fingers and nails, ground it into almost nothing between his teeth, and spat the bloodied remains back in your face.

Your lips part, brows cinching in visible confusion as you process what he’s just said. You try to recover as quickly as possible, but Sam sees the way your eyes start to glaze, reddening at the edges, mouth closing at a slight downwards curve. Your jaw clenched tight, throat working to swallow.

You’ve really done it now, you idiot, Sam chastises himself. 

“Oh.”

The silence is absolutely suffocating. An incredibly sour, guilty taste scars his mouth.

“Um...okay,” you turn to Dean – too quickly, practically forcing Sam out of your sight – as you speak, voice quiet, wavering a little, clipped, “Let’s go, Dean.”

Oh god.

You move, as if any slower and you might completely fall apart right on the spot, straight past his brother down the shabby grey hallway leading to the West Wing as Dean stares at Sam like he just shot him. His face is scrunched incredulously and head shaking, hands raising in a stunned question, mouthing each slowed syllable in ‘what the fuck?’ back at his idiot younger brother.

Sam can feel his heart hurt. Physically fucking hurt. Maybe even tear fully in half. Someone’s skinning the layers off one by one of the lurching muscles, each shredded layer dropping to the pit of his chest to sink him down to somewhere lower and darker than Hell itself.

Dean turns away from Sam – a sharp, cutting scoff leaving him that he definitely wanted him to hear – and starts after you with a quick run, leaving Sam alone by the map as the dragging silence and dark closes in around him and his crushing, pathetic mess of feelings.

“God, you are such an idiot.”

Sam’s stalking through the East Wing, jaw tight, movements snapping but twitchy as he tries to stay focused on the hunt.

“It’s not her fault you had a dirty sex dream about her – just ‘cause you can’t keep it in your damn pants.” He’s muttering to himself now, because he knows himself well enough (at least that’s what he tells himself) that dealing with his stupidity and ineptitude internally will just make him self-combust. Good, actually. Maybe then he’d feel even remotely clean again. Or maybe you would forgive him for hurting you because he was dead and he wouldn’t have to worry about facing you again.

What a cop-out.

“She’s your friend, Sam, fur-rend. Don’t subject her to your depravities.” He sighs, flashlight slicing through the space in front of him as his shoulders drop, that too familiar and well-worn feeling of defeat knowing that you would never reciprocate his love once again making itself proudly comfortable in every muscle and vein within his body, “She deserves better.”

He passes doorways, bedrooms, turned over chairs and scattered paperwork, filthy and torn open mattresses with stains he doesn’t want to think too long or hard about. Footprints of different sizes – probably from teenagers over the years – disturb the debris on the floor.

How on earth is he meant to explain, apologise for his callous, fucked-up behaviour when he sees you next? ‘Oh sorry, I was just sort of going through it and decided you had to take the full brunt of it’. Yeah. Real nice. Asshole.

Sam walks into a tiled room – maybe a medicinal closet – where murky vials are scattered across benches and tables, some still filled with mysterious and sickly liquids, others cracked and dry but still just as gross. He picks up one that’s still whole, turning it over in his fingers to try and decipher the faded writing.

That’s when a high, blood curdling scream cuts straight through the air.

Your scream.

The glass that was just in his hand smashes, thick fluid sludging across the ceramic flooring, as Sam drops it and sprints out the room, blind sprinting down the corridor.

Oh no.

He yells your name. Frantic. In terror. Scanning. Doorways pass in a blur. His footsteps slamming. Flashlight jolting wildly in one hand, fractured light thrown across the walls and floor, crowbar gripped and ready to slash in the other.

Sam didn’t think about this – the fact that you could get hurt and he wouldn’t be with you.

He’s shouting your name. Over and over and over. The words tearing apart his throat as he skids around corners, lungs burning, something horrible rising hot and fast and violent inside him.

You’re screaming his name now. Desperate. Urgent. Fear and pain bleeding. But it’s getting louder, so he must be going in the right direction.

He reaches a room with a large pool – the pool – and he sees you. Finally.

You’re crouched in the far right corner of the drained pool, down at its deepest end, your back to him and facing the walls hunched over and trembling, sobbing. Hands at your face.

Sam calls your name, voice scraped and shot, relief filling his lungs at finally finding you, but thorned panic still simmering underneath his skin at the unanswered question of your screaming. Are you hurt? What happened? Where’s Dean?

Moving from the doorway, he quickly surveys your body to check for any sign of injuries as he jumps down into the empty pit, boots smacking the pool’s tiles as he runs to you. With his left hand, still holding the flashlight, he reaches out to touch your shoulder, his voice already softening when he says your name again.

Just as his fingertips graze your shoulder, Sam’s entire body is thrown backwards through the air by a sudden explosive force.

His back hits the floor with a hard cracking sound, the air punched straight from his lungs. Flashlight and crowbar flying out from his grip and clattering somewhere far out of reach.

Sam tries to suck in a breath, breathe some air into his head to think, process what the hell just happened. Instead, something else starts filling his lungs. Something he can’t see, can’t feel outside his body.

Water.

Warm, suffocating water.

He’s drowning.

Sam tries to move his hands to grab at his neck and chest, to push himself up so that he can claw the bodiless but choking water out – just something – but his arms are pinned flat to the cold tiling.

He doesn’t question why you did that – how you did that – he can’t, because his head’s flooding. Literally. Black spots, rimmed by hot blasts of colour, start forming in his vision.

Slow, smooth footsteps are padding towards him. He can feel the vibrations. The pressure in his lungs and head is building faster. Taking over every single pathetic inch of his helpless body, no space left now for any single thought but one. 

I’m going to die.

He does.

Almost.

A thick, chunky slashing sound splinters in the air.

Sam immediately begins spluttering, the heavy pressure evaporating in a sharp, brutal release. Cold air burning its way through him with each gulping breath.

He blinks harsh and rapid, clouded vision starting to clear back into reality, and you’re there above him, looking down at him; wide-eyed, panting heavily, a panicked expression across your face.

Feeling starts to come back to Sam’s limbs as Dean suddenly appears behind you up along the pool wall, gun at the ready, wearing a harrowed look and just as on edge as he stares at you both, “What the hell happened?”

“Was a Mimic,” you push out, voice breathless but still tight with adrenaline, chest puffed from an inhale then dropping, “Not a ghost. Told you, Dean.”

If Sam thought the car ride to the Sanatorium was quiet, the ride back to the motel is fucking death itself.

There’s no music blaring – in fact, no music at all. Silence, except for the rumbling of the Impala when Dean presses his foot down on the accelerator too quick.

At yours and Dean’s demand, Sam’s in the backseat, lain across the warm black leather as he drags himself back from the hunt. His lungs and head hurt, so does his back from the impact of hitting the hard pool tiling, but he’ll be okay. Physically. 

You and Dean are both in the front. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. Sam adjusts himself, body shuffling to try and slide himself up to sit against the car door, but wincing at the movement and change in pressure. He carefully lowers himself back down with a shaky breath, defeated. He’ll just have to try and talk to you from here. He calls your name, hoarse and quiet, “how did you know what to do?”

The way Sam’s positioned on the backbench means that all he can see is the back of your head, a little of your left side. You look down at him over your shoulder, eyes flicking briefly back to the moving road ahead, before turning your whole body slightly in the seat to face him as you speak, left arm bending over the bench, “I’ve, uh, hunted one before – they’re like Crocottas, I guess? Maybe a sub-species or something; copy the image and voice of someone you um... love.” Your voice drops on that last word, face flushing, eyes nervously skirting away from him, down to the space between you and Dean, then back to Sam, “But they don’t get you to kill yourself. They usually do that fun part for you.”

You offer him a small smile as you finish your sentence while Sam’s jaw ticks, your left thumb rubbing nervously over your index finger before shifting your body back to face the front of the car.

The three of you ride the rest of the way back to the motel in complete silence. Well, verbal silence, at least. Sam’s stomach tightens sickeningly as your words relentlessly repeat over and over and over in his head, ‘copy the image and voice of someone you love’.

Did you hear him screaming your name?

Did you see yourself on the pool floor with him?

Sam’s pulled out of the scattered thoughts and horrors whirling around in his head as Baby slows, the sound of gravel kicking up in a low scatter audible from the tyres rolling into the motel carpark. Dean parks, the brakes groaning softly then the keys jangling as the rumbling engine goes silent.

Sam sees your head disappear as you hop out the car first, the passenger door closing behind you almost within the same second. He slowly begins to push himself up to also get out, but when he does manage to fully sit upright, he realises Dean hasn’t moved.

“Dean—”

“You better fucking make it up to her.” His brother’s still facing the front, tone low and stern, disappointment and fury edging. Sam swallows. Here come those words of older brother wisdom that he was steeling himself for earlier. “She just saved your ass back there and all you’ve done today is be an absolute dick to her.”

“I—I know.”

“Seriously, Sam. All she does is look out for you. Look after you. And I thought you... you two...” A few moments pass while Sam waits for Dean to continue, but he doesn’t, save for a frustrated huff leaving him. Clearly, his brother’s initial chew out of him is finished. But Sam knows better, knows there’ll be more later, back at the Bunker.

Sam’s throat is even drier, cutting, head starting to prickle with static and shame as he turns in the seat, opening the car door and sliding out. He expects his brother to follow after, but instead, the car engine kicks up again. Sam’s barely taken a step away from the Impala as Dean reverses out the carpark without even looking at him.

A little stunned, Sam looks towards the motel room, expecting that you’ll be standing by the door, wearing a just as confused expression as he is. But you’re not. He can see the room’s door is slightly ajar, so you must have a set of the keys and already walked inside.

He takes in a ragged breath, steadying himself for the inevitable uncomfortable; facing you, and giving you the biggest, most desperate and guilt-ridden apology known to all of humanity – no, to every species of the world and beyond.

Working the words and tone, the pauses and inflections in his stupid brain to make sure he doesn’t somehow make this whole thing somehow any worse than it already is, Sam takes the first step towards the room and feels like he’s learning to walk again.

Time to be alone. With you.

He’s watching you, digging through your duffel bag, as the door closes behind him with a soft click.

Here goes nothing.

Sam starts with your name, careful, like it’s the first word to ever be spoken, then pauses, “Thank...thank you fo–” “It’s fine. Don’t mention it,” you cut in, still crouched, not looking at him. Your voice is steady, finishing on an uptick, but Sam can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way.

Fuck.

He stands there, frozen, unsure of what to do or say. He’d considered that you might shut him down, but he didn’t think you’d do it before he even got the first sentence out. Before he’d even been able to apologise.

“Are you feeling okay?” you ask, rising before turning to face him. Sam notices you giving him a quick once over from head to toe, shoulder to shoulder, “the Mimic didn’t hurt you too badly?”

Even after he’s been the biggest asshole to you, you’re still worried about him. It makes him feel exponentially, catastrophically worse.

“Y—yeah. Thanks to you.” You smile but don’t meet his eyes. “Just a bit of a sore back. Maybe a little head trauma to add to our library.” The Battle Scars of Alexandria – a little recurring inside gag of yours and Sam’s. He doesn’t know exactly when it started, maybe sometime back on a hunt in Mississippi (he’ll have to check the journal later), but it keeps you both accountable, and never fails to make a smile crack from either one of you.

Only this time? It does fail. You just nod, “Do you want the first shower or...”

Superb.

“No, you have it,” Sam exhales with a light smile, “Don’t think Dean’ll be in any competition for it, either – he’s off somewhere.” You start walking towards the bathroom, a clean change of clothes looped in your arm, “Probably to that bar we saw yesterday. Told me he wanted to ‘see if there were any hot chicks’ earlier when we were in the West Wing together.”

This is going so incredibly well.

“I’ll be quick,” you say softly from the bathroom doorway, left hand splayed over the wooden frame, offering him a small smile. Sam nods appreciatively, a nauseating ache shrouding his heart and settling low in his stomach, before you close the door.

You are quick. And Sam follows with the same efficiency.

When he steps out of the bathroom in pants and a grey shirt, the ceiling fan is going again. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the shared bed against the wall, pillow propped up behind your lower back, wearing a singlet with a new pair of denim shorts. Sam notices that you’re fidgeting with the bedspread, staring down at the fabric bunched between your fingers. You’re nervous.

You look up from your lap at the noise of him stepping into the room, “Sam, can we– can we talk?”

And for the first time today, yours and his eyes meet and stay. Gazes locked in a charged, fragile silence.

Sam swallows, blinks once, twice quickly, then nods, hands flexing by his side. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”

Shit. Okay. Here we go.

You’ve got a timid smile on your face, eyes dropping back down to your fingers as he walks around Dean’s bed. The bed squeaks under Sam’s weight despite the careful way he gently lowers himself down as if not to scare you, deciding to sit opposite you on Dean’s bed, sensing that being on the same bed as you might not be such a good choice given what he’s about to tell you.

Sam brings his hands into his lap as your eyes flick quickly up to look at him, then down to the space between you both, gaze almost unfocused.

You take in a sudden, deep wavering breath, your hands twisting together as you begin to speak, “I’m just gonna get it out of the way–um, about this morning... in bed...”

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

You did know.

You know that he came in his underwear. Next to you.

Dreaming about you. About going down on you.

You’ve known the entire day.

And Sam’s been the one giving you the cold shoulder, acting like a complete and utter douchebag, when you must be horrified, disgusted by hi–

“I’m really sorry about putting my arm over you.”

What?

“I... I didn’t think it would make you uncomfortable because we’ve... you know... we hug, and we’ve like–cuddled–before. And that’s not an excuse! I just... I think my half-asleep-mind thought it would be okay, but proper awake me knows that I really should’ve asked you first...”

Sam’s looking at you like you’ve just told him the sun is green.

“I’m really sorry for making you uncomfortable, Sam,” you’re looking up at him now, earnestly, your voice impossibly soft, “I’d never want to do that.” Your gaze drops, again. Guilt-ridden. Ashamed because you think you’ve hurt him.

“And I know that’s why you were gone this morning and why you’ve been avoiding me today – and I don’t blame you at all – I’m just...hoping that I can make it up to you and we can go bac—”

“That’s not why I’ve been avoiding you.”

That makes your eyes shoot up to his, “What?”

“That—you putting your arm over me this morning—that’s not why I’ve been...”, a stuttering breath leaves Sam, “...a gigantic but very stupidly apologetic dick to you today.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Um... what....what did I do?” Sam sighs, half-smiling. Of course you think you’ve done something wrong. Oh sweetheart. “I...” You’ve been truthful with him, laid yourself bare and fragile for him to judge. You deserve only the exact same from him. But the hollow churning, twisting burn happening in his stomach might just make him throw up.

Here goes fucking nothing, Sam tells himself.

He lifts his brows, shaking his head a little, “I had a dream. About you. Last night.”

No words leave your mouth. It opens, then closes. Then opens again, brows furrowing and raising with each movement of your mouth.

“I’m—I’m not proud of it.” He quickly adds, mouth dry, eyes flitting, nervous at your (lack of) reaction.

“What sort of dream?”

You’re staring at him, body stilled and a flicker of something Sam can’t quite decipher flashing over your face.

His mouth tightens at your question, a heavy, burning flush crawling out from his chest and up his neck, into his face. He clenches his jaw hard, the bone popping. Adam’s apple bobbing through the dry swallow he tries to take.

Sam thinks he can almost hear each cog turning in your brain as you piece together what he’s just admitted to you. And what he isn’t saying. You make a small ‘oh’, realisation beginning to rise. Then you look to his side of the bed that you’re sitting on, eyes widening as the truth hits you, then back to him, “Oh!”

Yeah...

“Is that why, um– was it...no...uh...” You seem to say more to yourself than to him.

But Sam knows exactly what you’re wondering, what you’re asking – did it make him cum?He can’t blame you. If you told him that you’d had a sex dream about him, he’d also be morbidly, pervertedly, guiltily curious. So he gives a slow, heavy nod, biting his bottom lip, saying what he thinks is perhaps a vague enough but not-too-crude admission that still gives you an answer, “I, uh, had to take a shower.”

The floor beneath his feet could crack wide open and engulf him whole, and he would gladly say ‘thank you’. Thank you thank you thank you.

You move your head in acknowledgment. Understanding and processing this revelation that he’s a freak. And now you’re not looking at him. Shit. 

 “What—” you take in a sudden breath, clear your throat, “what do you mean when you say ‘you’re not proud of it’?”

Sam rubs his mouth with his left hand. The right words seem too big yet too small, too much and too incomplete all at once. You look up at him, big eyes completely unreadable as you watch him.

He starts with your name, then exhales loudly, “You’re one of my best friends. And—and I shouldn’t have dreams about you like that,” he pauses, tongue poking the inside of his left cheek, “I don’t... don’t want things to be different between us. For you to feel weird or uncomfortable around me.”

God, he can only hope he’s said the right thing. And if he hasn’t? Well, hopefully he’s said enough good over bad. Sam watches your throat work, still holding your measured gaze. You’re biting the bottom corner of your lip, clearly thinking about something. Weighing up his sins and about to deliver his punishment.

But there’s something... different... on your face.

Something he doesn’t think he’s seen before.

“Would it make you feel better if I said I’ve also had a dream, um – like that – about you?”

What?

Sam thinks his whole heart stutters, starts beating impossibly faster. Harder. Pulse in his throat, vibrating almost painfully up the left side into his jaw and head.

“Look, Sam,” you continue, and there’s a low, beautiful blush dusting your cheeks, your hands are twisting again, “I care about you. A lot. And I know you care about me a lot too, but– oh fuck it, I care about you in a different way, too.”

Christ. Are you saying what he thinks you’re saying?

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel that way.” Fuck. You are saying what he thinks you’re saying. “I don’t.... expect—but I just want you to know that it’s okay. Everything’s okay. We’re okay— at least on my end...”

You’re rambling, now. You’re so fucking cute.

“Can I kiss you?”, Sam cuts in.

A small, airy laugh escapes you. “God, yes,” you breathe with a high end. It makes Sam chuckle fondly, his heart going painfully soft. “Even if it’s just to shut me up.”

There’s a stupid, wide grin on his face that he can’t stop from showing as his gaze drops from you for a moment, then rising back up to your face, “It isn’t, but if it helps...”

You huff, leaning forward to grab the pillow he slept on and throw it at him in response. Sam catches it with ease, tucking it into his right arm as he pushes himself up and moves over to your shared bed. Just behind him, he drops the pillow at the end of the mattress as it dips while he settles into the new spot, bending his left leg on the bed and tucking his foot into him while his right leg hangs off the side. He feels the mattress shift as you re-adjust yourself, leaning forward to crawl over from the other side of bed and sit opposite him cross-legged.

You’re facing each other now. And Sam might actually explode from the giddy, heating anticipation of it all. He’s suddenly aware of all his limbs and muscles; his chest visibly rising and falling as his breath drags in and out of him, his arms and legs suddenly feeling like they don’t belong to him, low humming electricity tingling through his fingers.

There’s still a gap between your bodies, maybe one and a half of his hands. It’s that line, again – of friendship that you’re both teetering on crossing and won’t be able to untangle yourselves from, won’t be able to go back to what once was if this goes badly.

Sam really hopes it doesn’t go badly.

Your eyes drop down, noticing that space. Your eyes lift back up to his as you inch closer to him, your right knee bumping his left leg, and Sam’s mouth parts as he inhales then swallows.

Your body starts leaning forward, towards him, and Sam is already moving before he realises it. Your right hand falls lightly on Sam’s left ankle, the touch so light yet grounding that it somehow steadies and unravels him all at once.

Both of Sam’s hands twitch by his sides. He doesn’t want to lock you out of having control by holding your face with his hands, just in case you change your mind about wanting him. He wouldn’t blame you.

But he still needs to touch you. So he moves his right arm to touch your left knee, palm barely against your soft skin.

You’re so close now. Sam can feel your breath tickle his face. Eyes are on lips, breaths slowing, syncing. His nose bumps your face, softly, and then you both slowly close your eyes.

When your lips touch Sam’s, the world all suddenly makes sense.

Sam thought his mind would be racing, a scrambled blur, a mess of every thought and word and everything else if he did ever get the chance to kiss you. But it’s silent. At peace. For one of the very few times in his pained life. Something warm and dizzy is unfurling beneath his ribs. Maybe it’s his heart.

You make a small, soft sound. A hum. And Sam doesn’t mean to, but his control slips for just a second, and he pushes further into you, to have more of you, to taste more of you. Your fingers tighten around his ankle at the movement, and then you mirror him, push forward into him.

Fuck.

Sam makes a low, almost broken noise at the contact, and he can’t help but give in to the consuming hunger to move even more into you.

Neither of you pull back as the moment stretches. Even when it should end, fade into a soft, sweet pause. He should probably pull back, right? Tell you how long he’s been wanting, needing to kiss you; how fucking sorry he is for being such an idiot; how he also cares about you in a different way–loves you. But he can’t tear himself away from your lips.

Instead, the kiss grows needier. More desperate. Pieces of Sam’s hair fall forward to graze your face as both yours and his breathing gets heavier, louder. His lips are sliding so easily against yours, and he can feel the warmth of it, how wet and unsteady its turning as something darker, primal builds more and more between you both.

Sam’s right hand flexes on your knee, starting to slide up and down a few inches, thumb grazing and pressing into your bare skin, fingers grabbing softly at your flesh. Goosebumps are rising under his touch, your skin growing with heat.

You begin rising slightly on your knees, steadying your weight with your left hand on his lower right thigh. Sam’s left hand moves from his side to grab your jaw, thumb against your right cheekbone, fingers and palm splaying across the side of your head as he angles you gently to deepen the kiss. You hum again, content and a little breathless. Sam’s already completely losing himself in you.

He feels your tongue swipe briefly at his lips – tentative and warm, wanting more of him – and he responds by softly biting at your bottom lip, making you gasp. And Christ if that sound doesn’t make his dick go instantly rock hard. The tension in his stomach and groin and balls tightening and dizzying.

Your grip on his thigh tenses, and he can feel the way you smile against his lips, “So tell me, Sam, what exactly we’re we doing in this dream of yours?” you mumble low and teasing, still kissing eagerly at him.

God, the way you say his name like that is so fucking dangerous to what little restraint he has left that he’s holding on to for dear life.

Sam’s mouth curves into a crooked grin at your question. Emboldened, he kisses you twice, heavy and unhurried, before starting to trail hot, dragging kisses across the right side of your jaw, “I might’ve been in between your thighs.” A light but sharp bite to your skin, making a deliciously heady moan fall from your mouth, then soothing the mark with the heat of his tongue and lips. “Makin’ you feel really good.”

“So good it made you cum?”

He chuckles lightly against the space between your jaw and your ear, a hint of embarrassment tinging his ears, but a dark coil burning low in his stomach, extremely turned on at your unfiltered words. “Think that just means I get a hell of a kick out of givin’ you pleasure,” he cooes with a squeeze to your upper left thigh. 

“Well, Sammy,” you begin, shifting your right arm up from his ankle to touch his chest, your palm flattening there as your fingers trace so slowly up towards his collarbone – his shirt still separating you both, but doing absolutely nothing to stop the hungry burning of your touch, “I’d like to show you what happens in my dreams first, if that’s okay.”

His dick pulses at that, a wet patch of his underwear making itself proudly known. He pauses against you, warm wet lips still pressed to yours. Shit? Shit. As he pulls back just a little, left thumb rubbing tenderly across your cheek, right hand gently kneading at your plush thigh, you have this soft, seductive look on your face that almost makes Sam let out a very pathetic whimper.

“Of—of course.” You smile at each other, all dimples and teeth and nerves, before you lean forward to kiss him again, but this time with something Sam thinks might be the something he’s been pining for, but doesn’t want to name, doesn’t want to impose on you. Just in case.

“Can you move up the bed for me, please?” You motion with a small flick of your head back. He nods, rising as you shift closer to the wall to allow him to move to where you want him. When he settles, you crawl up after him – an image fanning the fire sparking hotter and hotter somewhere deep inside him – and get him to lie down with his back against the mattress, still covered by the bedspread. You swing your right leg over him first so that you sit across his lower stomach, your right hand bracing against the plane of his chest to support yourself in the movement, both his hands coming to hold your hips. The heat from your skin with the weight of your body as you press against his own makes Sam’s heart swell in a warm, heavy roll, a light-headedness drifting over him. You both breath in, staring silently with shy smiles at each other for a soft moment as Sam’s fingers begin rubbing slow, gentle circles over your flesh.

Although he successfully fights the urge to flip you over and make you a whining mess below him, he knows without a doubt that you can definitely feel the prominent bulge straining in his pants by your ass.

Your warm hands move to cup his face as you lean down. Sam strains his neck to meet your lips, aching to have them on him again already, and the kiss pushes his head back into the pillow underneath him. A small, pleased sound leaves him, and then you grind your hips back and down lightly, testing, over his cock. He stutters a gruff moan, hands flexing before grabbing at a meatier part of you, making you giggle softly and stupidly beautifully against his mouth. “I like that sound, Sam.”

You move your mouth down to his neck, slow, measured touches of your lips and tongue to him, lingering just long enough to make his body buzz. Sam’s so sure that if you weren’t on top of him, tethering him to this fading bed, the weightless earth, he’d probably float away.

Heat and intensity grows as you begin sucking, paying particular attention at a hollowed part of the curve, before licking a long stripe over and up his neck, grazing your teeth at his right earlobe. You’re already making him feel too good, too powerful, the feeling of you sliding down his body, the changing pressure of your weight on his muscles, only adding to the euphoria.

He’s already missing your lips against his, but he can’t help the way his hips jerk up at you every time you kiss at him through his clothing, electricity trailing. You kneel between his thighs, hands outstretched and claiming at his waist as you press a kiss to his bulge, making Sam moan your name, brows drawing together, hands tightening their grip of the sheets in desire. You hum in acknowledgment, saccharine and smug, and when Sam’s eyes look down at you, your fingers quickly working at the button of his jeans, the metal teeth rasping as you pull down the zipper, he sees a telling damp mark of precum leaking through from his tip.

His heartrate is thundering. Almost choking. You rid him of his jeans, his proud, thick and slicked cock springing up as his boxers go down with them. Then you pause, still knelt between his legs. Sam’s eyes flick to your face, worry quickly threading through his focus and brain working frantically over your movements to determine if you’re okay, if you’re second-guessing what’s about to happen or if you’ve changed your mind or–

“Fuck, Sam. You’re...you’re even bigger than I thought you’d be.”

Sam knows he’s big. He’s a big guy. Got long limbs and all. But hearing you say that sends a bolt of white, breath-taking heat straight to his balls, and a helpless groan leaves him. Cheeks reddening a little, Sam dips his chin briefly, bashful, before his gaze returns back to you, grinning so wide at him.

“Hope I can take you.”

Oh fuck me.

You shuffle, leaning weight on your forearms over his thighs and hips, and then, with the most seductively heart-swelling grin that Sam’s ever seen, you lower your mouth, lips parting as you slowly, carefully, begin to take him in.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes, head falling back onto the pillow as intoxicating, wet heat surrounds his tip, bone-deep pleasure sweeping over him, making the muscles in his legs tense.

Sam feels more than hears the breathy chuckle come from you, the softness of your lips rolling just over the sensitive ridge of his swollen cock head, tongue bumping his leaking slit, before you pull back up, lips grazing along the reddened skin of his tip.

At the next dip of your mouth, your tongue slides along the underside of his sensitive, red tip, pressing flat against and around him. Sam grunts at the sensation, hips stuttering up in lapsing control as you run the tip of your tongue along his ridge and let more of his hard length into your warm mouth.

You still, only for a few seconds, eyelids hung low, moaning with him still in your mouth, “Mmhhmm, Sammy. Knew you’d taste so good.”

He’s going to go crazy. You’re going to make him go crazy.

You start bobbing your head, the motion guiding his tip to slip further and further down the back of your tongue. Sam raises his right hand from his side, resting it heavily on top of one of yours holding the upper side of his thigh, the warmth of his palm pressing into your knuckles. You hum as Sam’s breathing quickens, turning ragged, nostrils flaring and mouth gaping. The sound of your heated and wet mouth sliding up and down his cock is fucking maddening, overwhelmingly erotic.

His brows are pulled up in sweet, shuddering ecstasy as he holds back whimpering, trapping the burning ache in his chest, but the pleasure you’re giving him is making it a herculean task. Sam is strong, though. He can hold it back. Right?

You hollow your cheeks, beginning to suck him, your spit and his pre-cum combining to make the movements deliciously lewd and sloppy, working him up and up.

“That—hng, shit. You feel so good.” He’s trying so fucking hard to not thrust deep into your mouth – he’s worried he might hurt you, might make you choke on him.

Lids hung low in desire, you look up at him, meeting his hungry gaze on you. Your left hand squeezes at his thigh before sliding out from underneath his right one atop of yours, only to lace and interlock your fingers with his as you continue building the starved bliss swimming in his body, the tenderness and intimacy of it in such a dirty, salacious moment incredibly heart stopping. And completely undoing. 

Sam feels it. The tension coiling low in his stomach, his balls pulling tight. Quick. Too quick.

He squeezes your hand twice.

“Sweetheart–,” he rasps, head straining off the pillow, trying to keep it forward to watch you, indulge in you, but only failing as the intense rushing feeling and pleasure of your tongue and mouth on him becomes too much, “–y-you need to– need to stop– I wanna– fuck–wanna make you feel good. Feel good with my cock.” You moan filthily around him, the vibration almost tipping him right over the edge, as you pull your mouth off him with a dick-twitchingly erotic noise that sears its notes into his memory, looking up at his panting and tensed face over his heaving chest from under your lashes. He doesn’t miss the way a wet string of saliva is still connecting you to his throbbing cock, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m sure we can do something to get you ready again.”

Oh. He catches your tone.

And who is he to deny you from enjoying yourself?

“Yes, ma’am.”

There’s a ridiculously sexy smile on your face that makes Sam’s hips uncontrollably flex up just a little as you lower your face back down to his cock, placing a deceptively sweet kiss to the swollen tip once, before letting go of his fingers and wrapping your left hand around his length. Your right hand moves to between his thick thighs, beginning to gently massage his aching balls while your mouth opens again to let your tongue run over his leaking slit and around the head’s ridge.

As your fingers close around his slicked cock, you squeeze it slow twice, then start a measured stroking movement, your grip tightening as you reach his head then loosening as you slide back down to his base. You repeat the motion, drool pooling down from your lips and mouth to make each run velvet smooth and mind-numbingly hot and pornographic, your right hand fondling his left ball, then moving to the right, igniting the pleasure.

But poor Sammy can’t stop the pathetic, needy whimper (that you definitely hear) rip from him this time at the renewed, devoted attention of your hands on his taut and ridiculously sensitive body.

Fuck.

Searing heat shoots up the back of his neck all the way to the crown of his head, creeping over his face, prickling his cheeks. His body goes rigid, worried you’re going to stop – because fuck, that was embarrassing.

But you don’t. No. In fact, you moan, deep and hard, the sound reverberating through his cock and washing over his body as you give him more, squeezing with your left hand what you can’t fit in your mouth while you take his length further down your tight, warm throat, his swollen tip bumping the back and making you gag as you mumble a low ‘mmm, good boy, Sammy’.

Oh.

Oh. 

Christ, that’s way too hot.

He whines, even more wantonly, hips jerking up in a quick stutter at your touching, your praise. Sam didn’t know he’d like that, that he needed your praise – needed more of it like air – that he could possibly get any more fucking turned on than he already was.

You chuckle this time, he can feel it in the way your lips curve in a smirk when they glide back down his length, a hard suck following when you come back up.

Sam’s breathing shallows, chest flaring, the muscles of his entire body tensing as he lets himself give in to you. Now, unapologetic and desperate. The taut coiling in his stomach is winding again, numbing heated pleasure creeping over his skin and flowing throughout him, his fingertips and toes curling and beginning to tingle.

Your right hand lifts from between his thighs, reaching up to the middle of his lower chest before your nails press into his skin to rake down and over his abs – sharp, angry red marks left glowing behind. The hand slides to his hip, moving almost underneath him as you grip his flesh to try and rock him into your mouth, moaning for him to give you more. He surrenders, his hands grabbing at the sheets beside him, his entire body desperate as he begins to feel his cock swell.

“Fuck—I’m gonna—,” he pants, dry swallowing, voice wavering, “I’m gonna cum.”

You look up at him, nodding your head frantically, your mouth tightening around his tip and tongue swirling faster and sloppier while your left hand starts to pump and twist his cock, deepening the intense, white-hot burning inside him, “Please, Sam. Please cum down my throat.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s gone. His stomach and abs seize as the first euphoric wave pulls him under. Sam cums hard, mouth slackening and brows scrunched, a swear with your name drowned by his shamelessly loud and broken moaning, his eyes rolling up and his upper back and head lifting off the bed as three long, hot white ropes spurt into your mouth. You continue working him, your hand slightly slowing, drawing out his pleasure for as long as possible as you swallow him down through each wave.

Your mouth switches between softer, more careful sucks and licks of his sensitive cock to ease and guide him down. Sam realises he’s covered in sweat as his back meets the bedding again, bliss and warmth flowing through him from head to fingers to toes.

Gently, you take him out of your mouth, big, lust-blown eyes meeting one another’s.

“Holy shit.”

You giggle, sweet and seductive, wiping along your bottom lip and the sides of your mouth with your thumb before sliding it into your mouth, sucking and then licking it with your tongue to make sure you don’t miss a single drop of him, “Good, Sammy?”

God, I wish I could eat you.

He responds with a low and wrecked, feral moan as he grabs your arms and pulls you up into a filthy, claiming kiss, all saliva and heat and longing hunger for you, tasting the salt of himself on you. A sharp noise leaves you, surprise at the sudden contact, before you kiss him back with just as much unbridled need as him.

Sam’s lips never leave you as he manoeuvres you, manhandling your body under him as he drops his weight, rolls his hips into yours. You moan, high and wanting, your fingers fumbling for purchase on his big shoulders, running up the nape of his neck and tangling in his soft curling hair.

His dick should be softening, maybe twitching in overstimulation, but Sam can already feel the blood pulsing into his swollen tip again, bare skin prodding insistently at a warm soft spot of your inner right thigh.

“Sam. Sammy.” 

Oh he needs to hear you calling his name like that when he’s between your thighs.

He groans against your lips, the kiss urgent and demanding, “I know, sweetheart. Gonna take good care of you – such good care of you, yeah?”

It’s not a question; he just wants you to know that he means it, but the way you nod urgently at him only spurs him on, makes his stomach and balls tighten and twist almost painfully in arousal.

Sam braces himself on his left forearm against the mattress, hand cupping the side of your neck, bare legs shifting to bracket your left one, while his right hand moves in between your bodies, snaking slowly down the expanse of your clothed stomach, past your navel, down to the button of your shorts. Your breath hitches, hips thrusting up at his heavy touch, and you push your mouth up into him. Unbuttoning it with devastating precision, Sam drags the zipper down like his sanity depends on it. If he’s being honest, though, it does a little.

The thought that he should go slower, take his time with you as his fingers and palm slip hastily over your mound crosses his determined, lust-driven mind. Next time. Next time.

Despite still being separated by your underwear, he groans possessively as the pads of his index and middle fingers finally touch you where he most desperately wants his face to be, fingers separating as they run down the outsides of your puffy folds before sliding back up through your slit to give you one, two measured circles of your clit, making your body flex up at him. You’re perfect. How could you not be. “God, you’re fucking soaked. Could probably taste you through your damn shorts.”

You smile, fingers tightening your greedy gripping of him, whining against his lips with a breathy ‘mmhhmm’.

Sam places one last lingering, searing kiss to your swollen lips before he takes his right hand out from between your thighs, repositioning both his arms to either side of your body. Lifting himself up from his forearms to his hands, he lowers slightly and begins to ease himself down the bed, down your body. He dips his head, his lips leaving a heated, wet and branding kiss to each spot where your nipples are peaking through your bra and singlet. It makes your back arch, breasts bumping into his face as you moan softly.

Smirking, pride stirring, a breathy huff slips past his lips. He looks up at you from just below your breasts, keeping eye contact with you as he continues his slide down your torso, shifting his leg still between your own lower first. He can feel his heavy and hard cock sticking to his shirt-covered-stomach, already ready and desperate to go again. His right hand pulls up the hem of your singlet to expose the soft warm flesh of your lower navel, dragging it further up to your waist and ribs, scattered kisses dotting your skin. He bites at a spot to your right, teeth sharp but careful, rolling his tongue over it and tasting the faint glow of your shower gel and light sweat, then blowing cool air at the blooming mark, your breathing going quick and shallow, sucking in air.

Big, warm, calloused yet tender hands gripping at your hipbones, Sam pauses at the space between them, making sure that you’re looking at him. Your nostrils flare, “You’re such a tease, Winchester.”

“Well,” he rasps, dark and dangerous, your name hanging in the air as, kneeling, he begins pulling down your shorts without breaking eye contact, “you seem to be enjoying it.” You bite your bottom lip, blushing and grinning, eyelids hung low as you lift your hips and move your legs to help and watch him as he slides the shorts down your legs. Sam brushes a kiss to your bent right knee as he draws the fabric lower. You kick them off, a little impatiently (Sam notices), letting them fall somewhere out of sight to the floor.

And when Sam’s gaze drops to between your now parted thighs and he sees your underwear, well, fuck. He knew you were wet – could feel it – but your underwear is literally soaked through with your arousal, outlining every curve and dip of your wet cunt. 

An absolutely fucking rough, animalistic groan tears from him, the exhale rattling his bones.

Sam thinks he almost blacks out for a few seconds as a possessive hunger drags over him. He drops back down in a sharp, controlled motion to kneel lower between your plush thighs, beginning to peel off your drenched underwear. He can’t wait any longer. He’s not patient enough.

A small shiver runs through your body as the air of the motel hits your core. He settles hurriedly, his thick cock throbbing against the firm mattress, precum dribbling from his slit and smearing the bedding beneath him.

Gonna have to burn these sheets afterwards.

“I gotta be honest with you,” he murmurs, a little wrecked, guiding your legs over each of his broad, muscled shoulders, “I made a fuckin’ mess when I did this last night.”

“Jesus, Sam,” you moan low. He knows he looks like a wild, rabid animal with the way the blacks of his pupils are blown wide, mouth gaping and panting, drooling. He slides his grabby, greedy hot hands up the outside flesh of your thighs, over your hips, fingers gripping at your waist, palm cupping the soft curves. Muscled forearms deliberately push your thighs against the sides of his head, the pressure and warmth adding to the growing, fever haze he’s swimming in.

Just like he’d done last night, Sam starts slow, reverent; kissing the softest part of the inside of your left thigh, then shifting to the right one to place an equally as tender yet heated kiss. He looks up at you from between your thighs, admiring and drowning in how the colour of your irises is almost fully swallowed, the way your chest is rising and falling in weighted, staggered pulls. His shuddering warm breath brushes over your pussy, his nose nudging at your slicked clit and swollen folds. With a heavy inhale, he takes in the first heady scent of you, blooming across his senses as if he can taste you through the air alone.

Fucking fuck fuck fuck.

You start squirming, hips slightly twisting and hips bucking. Oh you want him badly.

Sam’s not a cruel man. He’s enjoying this, how badly you want him to eat you out just as much as he does, how it’s making your body react so much in anticipation. But making you wait any longer after today is cruel. So he pushes forward, letting the tip of his tongue run from the top of your puffy slit all the way down to your soaked, clenching entrance.

“Oh, fuck—” a sinful, heavenly gasp cuts you off, and fuck that sound needs to go straight into a museum, your right hand flying up from your side to grip the pillow under your head, left hand flexing hard by your hip, scrunching up the bedsheet.

Fucking. Christ. You somehow taste even fucking better than he’d fantasised as you flood his mouth and nostrils. Rich and warm and smooth and sweet, intoxicatingly and simply you. This – everything – is so much better than last night. So much better.

“Fuck,” Sam groans, “fuck. You taste too fucking good.”

He means to go slow, make sure that he doesn’t hurt you by going too fast or do something that isn’t pleasurable, but Sam can’t help himself as he licks you again, this time really pushing his nose and flattening his thick tongue into your cunt, and his cock jumps between his stomach and the bedding below him. You both whimper. Maybe an attempt at trying to say the other’s name, but lost entirely to the sensation of and pathetic need for each other.

Sam didn’t realise, but his eyes had closed, rolled so hard to the back of his head that if you weren’t just as consumed as he was – your head tipped back in soft radiating, tingling pleasure – you would’ve only seen bits of white peaking from underneath his fluttering eyelids.

He moans heavy and deep and rough into your heat, then buries his face into you to show you just how starved he is for you.

Despite the almost violent urge to suffocate in you, Sam begins small, slow, measured kitten licks at your clit and wet puffy folds, doing everything in his willpower to keep his heavily hooded eyes open and locked on you.

Soft, high gasps shatter around him as his big hands dig into you, thumbs pressing into the front of your waist as his splayed fingers curl and grip at each of your ribsets. He’s already getting drunk on it, on you, in him and all around him.

I hope you let me do this every night, Sam thinks.

He can feel the sheets beside his head shift as you claw at them, chasing to move and grab something. “You can pull on my hair, honey. It’s okay. Show me where you want me,” he says with your name, somewhere between a weak coo and a pleading beg, “Show me how you want me.”

Sam sucks your clit into his mouth and your left hand shoots to his head to bury in his hair. He moans in encouragement, the feeling of your fingers and nails running through the soft brown curls and against his scalp lighting up every single nerve in his entire body, leaving a pleasant, warm tremor to roll through him.

He tests something from his dream, licks the left side of your folds and rubs his nose in a circle over your clit. And fuck. Fuck. You look like you might cum then; mouth slackening and brows pulling into the most beautiful, holy scrunch as your hips buck off the bed. Sam grins, dark and hungrily, moving his left arm from his hold on your waist to drape over your hips and press you into the mattress to keep you, pin you in place so he can keep making you feel like that.

Maybe he does still have some of those psychic abilities...

The muscles of your stomach under his forearm shudder and tense as Sam’s tongue starts moving up and down your cunt – spit, slick, and heat coating his chin and cheeks and nose, sliding down his throat as his mouth works to swallow every single bit you give him.

You’re even more responsive to him than he could’ve possibly dreamed or hoped. He’s in heaven. This is his heaven.

“Sam—Sammy, oh my god,” you cry, voice high and needy.

There we go.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Makin’ you feel good with my tongue? My mouth?” Unable to speak, you tug the locks of his hair in your left fist in response, making him grunt, brows cinching and hips rutting into the mattress below him. “Good girl,” he growls against your soaking sweet and heady heat, words vibrating up into your core, doubling his efforts, “Keep tellin’ me– need to...need to know how good I’m makin’ you feel. Please.”

You whimper, and he’s greeted by a fresh flush of wetness when he licks into you again. Your hand releases from its grip, nails scraping down and over his scalp, palm pressing to push him further into you. Devour more of you.

Fucking yes yes yes.

Desire is pulsing in his blood and ears, pulling deep in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter.

You start writhing, trying to roll your hips, grind up into his face as Sam increases the speed and swirling of his tongue and lips; the wet, lewd squelching sound of him hungrily eating you out mixing with the desperate, feral noises coming from both of you and reverberating off the motel walls.

Sam pushes his tongue into your gushing hole, making you clench around him at the intrusion and giving a new, beautiful sound he’s cataloguing. Your breathing’s getting tighter, higher, thighs tensing, shaking around his head, the heel of your right foot digging into his clothed back as the pleasure from his movements builds and builds and builds.

Oh you’re about to fucking cum.

“Yes, baby, yes,” he slurs, shaking his head side to side then up and down, dragging his curled tongue over and through your puffy folds, messy on your clit, “Just like that. I know, I know— doing so well for me, honey. Just wanna cum, don’t you?”

“Unngh, ye—yeah. Fuck, Sam!” He can’t help rolling his hips and cock into the mattress – it’s all feeling too fucking good. You feel too fucking good.

Your right hand is suddenly over his one across your hip, palming into the back of his hand, nails biting at the skin. Sam hopes you leave long, pretty red marks and scratches, dark purple bruises that’ll be a reminder of how completely undone you both are.

He’s feverish. Hands hot and heavy, tight in awe and indulgence of your bare flesh against his touch. Loose, wet brown curls cling in damp strands to his forehead as he starts grunting, whimpering into your pussy, burying his face impossibly further into your slick warmth, sloppily mouthing and slurping and lapping at every part of you he can reach.

A seraphic mixture of his spit and your arousal is dripping down onto the bedding below you both, marking it in a sticky, filthy, widening wet patch of sin and lust, and too-long-harboured, needy, aching love. 

Definitely burning the mattress.

There’s a sound.

Not from you. Not from him.

Metal scraping against metal.

Sam only just registers it over your high, desperate moaning and the way your soft, warm thighs are twitching, tensing, pressing firm against his ears as your back starts arching.

With a surge of fear, he stops his movements between your legs, rushing to lift himself up. You realise at the same time, a pained sound leaving you, heaving heavily as you sit just on the precipice of your orgasm, panic stiffening your body. Sam starts ripping at the sheets underneath and around you to pull them over your body, to shield you from the cock-block-of-a-brother named Dean Winchester.

“Dean, stop!” Sam shouts, scrambling for the bedspread and rolling over the top of you to the side closest to the door so that your half-naked body now shivering with adrenaline is even more protected. But Dean? He doesn’t hear his brother.

No, he swings open the door, one hand holding onto a plastic bag presumably filled with a hearty, greasy takeaway lunch, a six-pack of beer in the other.

Dean pauses as his eyes land on the scene before him – his brother; flushed and panting, hair wild, face smeared and glistening with something wet, in bed. With you. Both of you under rumpled sheets. Clothes scattered on the floor.

“Oh– hah– oh fuck.” “Dean, just get out!”

The older brother stands in the doorway, motel door wide-open as he looks away from the scandalous and unexpected situation of you two in the bed in front of him, head shifting around in every direction and unable to stop anywhere, “Sammy, you sly dog. When I said ‘make it up to her’, this,” he gestures vaguely with his right hand at you both, “wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Dude!” Sam yells, while you loudly groan Dean’s name at the same time, annoyed and exasperated, but equally as mortified.

“Alright! Alright! I’m leaving.” He chuckles, backing out the door with his eyes stuck to the motel floor as he pulls the door shut with him, food and alcohol still in his grips.

Sam turns his head back to you, ducked in front of his broad chest, legs slightly tangled with his own. You peep up at him, face red, brows and nose crinkled in embarrassment.

Both of you burst out in laughter, Sam dipping his jaw with a shake of his head, then rolling to the side and falling back onto the mattress with a groan from the bed springs, eyes facing up at the whirling ceiling fan.

He huffs, nostrils expanding with a sheepish, dimpled smile creeping across his face as his gaze shifts back onto you lying beside him.

“Well, shit.”

OOPS. sorry for leaving yall in the lurch. again. BUT NOT NEXT TIME. YOU WILL BE REWARDED FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I PROMISE.

and a GIGANTIC thank you to my lovely @theedaythatnevercomes for proof-reading this first - would be lost without you ❣️ AND @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for their formatting support 💗

(i'm not going to lie, I was really nervous about posting this. like almost hyped myself out of it. i hope it somewhat satisfied. please let me know :) ) tag list for yssttwdimd: @ukor02 @chaoticsunball @sourpinkvelvet @ohangeleyes @cursedbysukuna @bad-wolf1991 @lunaleah @vines-climbing @megafangirl @littlemadamred @neutralizedair @hollyfranklin @let-it-sn0o0ow @sunnyteume @neenaisawesome @withjust-a-bite @sturnlover2003 @manly-man-whore @rulesareshadesofgrey @i-is-for-inspiring @lushfruit @thefairlyaveragegatsby @skel-skell @daughterofthemoons-stuff @angelcritterz @samstarship0 @oyounhouriyat @yolsworld @buckysdogtagss @tylermckeebby @millietozier @mazzaroni-cheese @samiwinchester444 @liliana-111 @sammy-simp @starr-jazz @angrleyes @y2kr0se @fandomhopped @winterstar67 @samsleatherjacket @alice-ace299 @rubyrubydoo09 @dangerouslyglimmeringnavigator @snomsnoom @importantzinehorsefan-blog @ughiloveart

[ivytwines]

[mypeopleskillzarerusty]

[creatorofarcadia]

It's been a while since I watched Supernatural, so don't take my opinions as gospel or anything. But I think Dean is self-hating to the point of narcissism in some ways. Don't get me wrong, I empathise with Dean and understand why fans largely do too. But his self-loathing warps his perception and becomes the centre of EVERYTHING and at times that really has ripple effects on those around him - particularly Sam.

Take their childhood, Sam has a right to mourn the fact that he didn't get a normal childhood. He's allowed to be angry that he didn't get a home, a present father, a stable community, and consistent education. But whenever Sam attempts to express his complicated feelings about his childhood, Dean immediately interprets it as ' oh I was supposed to look out for you. Are you saying I failed? Are you confirming I'm worthless?' which grinds the conversation to a complete halt. Because of Dean's intense self-criticism, Sam can never really be 100% honest with him or ask for support with his own issues, especially regarding their childhood. As anything outside of 100% gratitude just becomes another stick for Dean to beat himself with, and the conversation is immediately derailed.

Not only does Deans self-hatred mean that Sam's expression of his own experiences are pretty consistently shut down. In some ways, I think Dean strips Sam of his autonomy - he's so self-loathing, he sees every decision Sam makes as being about/a reaction to him. A good example of this is Stanford. Rather than understanding Stanford for what it was, an attempt by Sam to carve out a better life from himself and escape hunting. Dean views it as betrayal or abandonment, some re-affirmation of his own belief that he's not worth caring about. Rather than understanding it's a rejection of hunting, he sees it as Sam rejecting him. To Dean, Sam isn't attempting to find a better life, he's punishing the family.

Overall, it's interesting that people largely and rightfully sympathise with Dean due to his self-hatred. However, I don't see as much discussion about how his self-hatred doesn't just hurt him, it hurts those he's close to, as it colours his interpretation of their every action. Dean's self-loathing is always the biggest thing in the room and that has consequences.

[sicksicksixx]

really can’t express how good this analysis of Dean’s personality disorder is if anyone wants to deep dive into his psyche and what is canon in the text.

[killedbythecat]

the bunker has a record player 🎶🎸💿