Hi You can call me De or Den, 18+ blog They/It/Ze/He 20 yo. Enby (Transmasc) POC. Fav color's yellow. I love writing and drawing. Maniac for animated men. Art Coms Open [SFW/NSFW]
Hi! I'm Dean but you can call me De, Den, or Denny. I've recently started writing in the last few years, one fandom I'm really enjoying coming up with fic ideas for is Hazbin Hotel. It's one of my obsessions right now. I also draw! So if you ever want art with an ask or a headcannon just ask! I would love to tbh.
18+ Blog
Requests/Commissions:
Open (If you're paying for a piece, written or drawn, prices are negotiable. I plan to set up a Kofi but requests are all free.)
Things I'll write
Fluff
Smut
Angst
Headcannons for any of those three things
Kinks I won't write (or discuss in my asks)
Rape/noncon (unless it's discussed as a kink and boundaries are set by both parties before the scene)
Scat/fart kink
Vore
Specifically, I won't write Valentino from Hazbin Hotel. I just don't like him in any way.
Fuck You List:
Transphobes/Terfs/Terms
CisHet Men (I'm a queer transmasc, I'm not in your demographic anyway)
Minors (bigggg no no)
Pedos and Zoophiles (nothing else to say besides stay far away from me)
IRL Incest enjoyers (big ass fucking EW) (roleplay between two consenting non related adults/fictional people is different.)
Racists (I'm black, wtf do you expect?)
Zionists (very obvious why)
Nazis (again, you wouldn't even like me anyway)
Loli/Shota enjoyers (again, EW)
Radqueers
If you fall into any of these you'll be blocked on sight and I will send the firing squad.
You can send thirsts about characters (or just horny stuff in general) to my ask box. As long as they fit into the rules I've set, go nuts.
Fandoms I like/write for:
Supernatural
Hazbin Hotel
Helluva Boss
Invader Zim
Five Nights At Freddy's
Obey Me
Cult of the Lamb
Avatar: The Last Airbender
Resident Evil
Jujustu Kaisen
Honkai Star Rail
Stranger Things
Spy x Family
Umbrella Academy
The Stanley Parable
Kpop Demon Hunters
My faves to talk/write about
Dean Winchester
Castiel
Sam Winchester
Lucifer
BOBBY!!! 💕
Vox
Alastor
Lute
Charlie
Simon Petrikov/Ice King
Leon Kennedy
Gojo Satoru
Sundrop
Neuvillette
Saiki K
Five
Zim
Shigaraki
The Narrator from Stanley Parable
Masterlist (Links and WIPs)
AO3 Links:
Holy (Not Really) (Hazbin Hotel: Charlie x Reader)
Thnks Fr Th Mmrs (Obey Me: Belphie x Reader, Beel x Reader)
The Sun Gets Lonely In The Sky (FNAF: Sundrop x Reader)
I'd Give You The World (MHA: Mina Ashido x Reader)
E.T (Invader Zim: Zim x Reader)
Tumblr Links:
Out Of Salt (Hazbin Hotel: Angel Dust x Reader)
Hazbin and Helluva characters with Rouge the Bat like reader (Lucifer, Charlie, Vaggie, Blitzø, Beelzebub, Veronica, and Fizzarolli x reader)
WIPs:
The Morning Stars (Pregnancy Headcanons)(Hazbin Hotel: Lucifer x Reader) (WIP)
Big Boy (Can I Be Your Favorite?) (Kpop Demon Hunters Bobby x Reader)
summary: youd had a crush on sam ever since you two were teenagers and both your dad's would leave you at Bobby's for weeks at a time. growing up wasnt kind to you though, you grew in places that made you hate the look of yourself in the mirror. sam grew into what could be compared to an Adonis statue. he could never like you back. right? requested by anon
warnings/tags: childhood friends to lovers, insecurity, youre kind of a badass tho, smoking, fluff, smut (oral f receiving, unprotected sex, body worship)
masterlist // join the taglist
The late afternoon sun hung low over the scrapyard, turning the piles of rusted metal into something almost glittery if you squinted hard enough. You wiped grease off your hands with a rag that had given up being clean years ago and leaned against the hood of the old Chevy you’d been nursing back to life for Bobby.
You’d been back in South Dakota for three weeks this stretch. A salt-and-burn outside Vermillion had gone sideways, and Bobby had needed an extra pair of hands cataloguing the new books he’d “acquired.” Truth was, you liked the quiet here. Liked knowing the layout of the house. Liked that Bobby still grunted your name like it was a mild inconvenience instead of a greeting.
Your phone stayed silent most days. Dean checked in when he felt like it—usually with a photo of some diner pie or an update about a hunt that had nearly killed him. Sam… Sam had gone quiet the day he left for Stanford. You still had the last email he’d sent, short and careful, thanking you for the protection charm you’d slipped into his duffel without telling him. You never answered it.
You’d always known better.
The memory still sat under your ribs like a bruise that never quite faded. Fifteen years old, standing in a drafty farmhouse outside Aberdeen while a poltergeist tried to drag a lanky, terrified thirteen-year-old Sam Winchester through the ceiling. Dean had been outside arguing with Bobby about whether they were even allowed to be on a hunt. You’d been the one who tackled Sam out of the way, the one who took the hit of flying glass across your shoulder, the one who later sat with him on the porch steps while he shook and pretended he wasn’t crying. He’d looked at you that night like you hung the moon. You’d looked back and felt something stupid and hopeful bloom in your chest.
Then you grew. Soft in the places other girls stayed sharp. Wide hips, heavy breasts, a stomach that never flattened no matter how many miles you ran or how many nights you spent crawling through crawlspaces after things with teeth. Sam grew into those long legs and that sharp jaw and became someone that people noticed. You watched it happen from the edges—holidays at Bobby’s, the rare times John dropped the boys off for a week. You learned to laugh at Dean’s jokes and keep your eyes off Sam’s mouth.
He never looked at you the way you looked at him. Why would he?
The familiar rumble of the Impala cut through the yard before you saw her. Black paint catching the last of the light, chrome gleaming like it always did under Dean’s obsessive care. You straightened, rag still in your hand, already bracing for the usual routine—Dean hobbling up with a six-pack and a story about something that almost killed him, Bobby yelling from the porch about the mess he was tracking into the house.
The passenger door opened.
Sam Winchester unfolded himself from the car like he still wasn’t used to how tall he’d gotten. Same soft hair, longer now. Same careful way of moving, like he was trying not to take up too much space even though he did. He looked tired. The kind of tired that came from pretending you belonged somewhere you didn’t.
Your stomach dropped so hard you felt it in your knees.
Dean slammed the driver’s side door and stretched, cracking his neck. “Jesus, when the hell is Bobby gonna cut this grass? Seriously. Old man's gonna get taken out by a tick of all fuckin' things.”
Then he spotted you.
A slow, familiar grin spread across his face. “Well, hell. Look what the scrapyard dragged in.”
You managed a smirk that felt brittle. “You’re one to talk. You look like shit Dean. What happened this time? Ghost almost take you down?”
Dean laughed, easy and warm, and crossed the distance in a few long strides. He pulled you into a one-armed hug that smelled like leather and motor oil and the same cologne he’d worn since he was nineteen. “Missed that smart mouth. Been a while.”
“Three months,” you said against his shoulder. “You still owe me for that salt-and-burn in Pierre.”
“Details.” He pulled back, eyes flicking over you the way he always did—checking for new scars, new bruises, the quiet inventory of someone who’d spent too many years counting the people he could still trust. Then his gaze shifted toward the car. “Brought company.”
Sam had stayed by the Impala, one hand resting on the roof like he needed the contact. When he finally walked over, it was slower, more hesitant. He stopped a careful distance away.
“Hey,” he said. Voice deeper than the last time you’d heard it in person. “It’s… been a long time.”
You wiped your hands on the rag again even though they were already clean. “Yeah. Stanford treating you alright?”
A small, tight smile. “It’s fine. Loud. Different.” His eyes flicked down, just for a second, then back up. “You look good.”
The words landed wrong. Too polite. Too careful. You felt every soft inch of yourself under the worn flannel and jeans, the way the fabric pulled across your hips and chest. You forced a laugh that didn’t quite make it.
“You don’t have to say that, Sammy.”
Dean’s eyebrows went up at the old nickname, but he didn’t comment. Instead he clapped Sam on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway. “Kid’s been quiet the whole drive. Figured a little home cooking and some of Bobby’s terrible coffee might shake him loose. You sticking around a few days?”
You glanced past them toward the house. Bobby’s silhouette was already in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the three of you like he was calculating the odds of something breaking before nightfall.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m around.”
Sam’s eyes stayed on you a second longer than they should have. Something complicated moved behind them—gratitude, maybe, or the ghost of that porch from years ago. Then he looked away, toward the scrap piles, and the moment closed.
Dean was already talking again, loud and easy, filling the space the way he always did. “C’mon, both of you. Bobby’s gonna start yelling about the dirt we’re tracking in, and I need a beer before he starts in on the lecture.”
You followed them toward the house. The sun was almost gone. The Impala ticked as it cooled behind you. Sam Winchester was walking the same gravel path you were, close enough that you could have reached out and touched the sleeve of his jacket if you were stupid enough to try.
The kitchen at Bobby’s always smelled like old coffee and grease no matter how many times you scrubbed it. Tonight you layered something better over it—garlic softening in butter, onions going translucent, the low hiss of ground beef browning in the cast-iron skillet that had belonged to Bobby’s mother and somehow survived decades of hunters treating it like a weapon. You moved around the space like you owned it, because in a way you did. Bobby never complained when you took over the stove. He just grunted and stayed out of the way.
You kept your hands in your pockets and didn’t.
From the dining room you could hear Sam’s voice, lower than you remembered, careful the way it got when he was trying not to show how frayed he was.
“—last place we had anything solid was Jericho. Then it just… dried up. Like he wanted us to find the trail and then cut it.”
Bobby’s chair creaked. “John’s always been a stubborn bastard. Disappearing act’s not new. Difference is he usually left a breadcrumb or two for you boys.”
“This doesn’t feel like that.” Sam’s voice dropped further. “Feels like something’s hunting him.”
You plated the food quiet—thick slices of meatloaf, mashed potatoes whipped with enough butter to make Dean’s eyes light up, green beans you’d actually remembered to salt. Three plates for the table, one for yourself. When you carried them in, the conversation stalled the way it always did when food showed up.
Bobby eyed the plate you set in front of him like it might bite. “You didn’t have to go full domestic, kid.”
“Shut up and eat, old man.” You slid Dean’s plate across next, then Sam’s. Your fingers brushed the edge of his when you set it down. You pulled back too fast.
Sam looked up.
It was only a second. Maybe less. But his eyes caught yours and held, dark and tired. You dropped into the empty chair across from him and reached for the salt like it was the most interesting thing in the room.
Dean was already digging in, talking around a mouthful. “Jesus. This is better than anything we’ve had in three states. You been holding out on me?”
“You’ve been busy almost dying all over the country,” you said. “Priorities.”
Bobby snorted. Sam stayed quiet, but every time you glanced up—careful, casual—he was already looking somewhere else. Or pretending to. His knee bounced under the table. When Bobby launched into a story about John’s early days and a particularly nasty wendigo, Sam’s gaze drifted over again and stayed a beat too long on the way your flannel stretched across your chest when you reached for your water. You felt the heat crawl up your neck and focused hard on your plate.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. College boys looked. Didn’t mean they wanted.
Dinner wound down the way it always did at Bobby’s—plates scraped clean, Dean stealing the last of the potatoes, Bobby already half-turned toward the books stacked on the side table. Sam offered to help with the dishes. You waved him off.
“I’ve got it. Go finish catching up.”
He hesitated in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “Thanks. For… all of it. The food. Being here.”
You kept your eyes on the sink. “Yeah. Sure.”
You washed up quickly, the air in the house suddenly too thick for your liking.
The screen door creaked open behind you twenty minutes later. You were already outside, perched on the top step of the back porch with a cigarette. The yard was dark except for the single bulb over the door and the distant glow of the moon on the scraps in the yard.
Dean dropped down beside you, stole the cigarette from your fingers, took a long drag, and handed it back. Same routine as always.
“Kid’s wound tighter than a spring,” he said after a minute. “Hasn’t slept proper in days.”
You exhaled smoke toward the dark. “Can’t blame him. John’s been gone how long now?”
“Long enough.” Dean’s voice went flat the way it did when he was trying not to sound scared. He was quiet another few seconds, then, “He asked about you the whole damn drive.”
Your pulse kicked hard enough you felt it in your throat.
Dean kept his eyes on the yard. “Not like, ‘hey, is she still alive’ polite shit. Actual questions. What you’ve been hunting. If you still stayed with Bobby sometimes. If you were seeing anybody.” He glanced sideways, mouth tipping into something almost amused. “I told him you were still the same pain in the ass who used to steal my beer and patch us up after hunts. He went real quiet after that.”
You took another drag so you wouldn’t have to answer right away. The cigarette trembled just enough that you hoped Dean didn’t notice.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” you said finally. “He’s just… catching up. Being polite.”
Dean huffed a laugh through his nose. “Sammy’s a lot of things. Polite ain’t usually one of them when it comes to people he doesn’t give a shit about.” He stood, brushed off the back of his jeans, and looked down at you with that knowing big-brother expression that always made you want to shove him. “Just saying. Maybe don’t write the whole thing off before he even opens his mouth.”
He headed back inside, screen door slapping shut behind him.
You stayed on the steps a long time after, cigarette burning down between your fingers, replaying the way Sam’s eyes had kept finding yours across the table like he couldn’t help it.
Morning at Bobby’s always started the same way, even with two extra Winchesters under the roof.
You woke before the sun finished rising, pulled on comfy jeans and a soft, oversized flannel that hid most of the soft curve of your stomach, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The coffee pot was already half-full—Bobby’s doing—and the local paper sat folded on the table next to a laptop that still ran on spite and duct tape. You poured a mug, opened the browser to the usual round of police blotters and missing-person reports, and settled in.
That was the routine. News first. Then the Chevy. Then Bobby yelling at you to come eat before you passed out under a car.
Today the routine cracked open the second the floorboards creaked behind you.
Sam appeared in the doorway, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing a dark henley that clung to the long lines of his shoulders. He hesitated like he wasn’t sure he was allowed in the kitchen yet.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Mind if I…?”
You gestured at the empty chair across from you without looking up. “Help yourself. Coffee’s fresh.”
He moved quiet, poured a cup, and sat. Close enough that you caught the clean scent of Bobby’s cheap soap on his skin. The laptop screen reflected in his eyes for a second before he leaned in to read over the articles you’d already flagged.
“Anything local?” he asked.
“Couple of weird cattle mutilations two counties over. Probably just kids, but the pattern’s off. And a missing hiker near the Badlands who left all his gear behind.” You scrolled. “Nothing that screams ‘John Winchester was here,’ if that’s what you’re hunting.”
Sam’s mouth tightened. “Everything’s been like that. He's like a ghost."
You hummed, not trusting your voice with him this near. His knee bumped yours under the table once, accidental, and he didn’t pull away right away. You felt the contact all the way up your spine and forced your eyes to stay on the screen.
Then you heard the unmistakable noise— or squeal— of the Chevy starting up.
Dean’s voice carried across the yard, cheerful and loud. “Rise and shine, grease monkey. That Chevy still looks like it’s about to become one with the rest of the scrap.”
You glanced out the window. He was already at the hood, sleeves rolled up, coffee in one hand like he’d been born with it there.
Sam followed your gaze. Something flickered across his face—quick, almost gone. You told yourself you imagined the way his jaw flexed.
“I should…” You stood, gathering your mug. “Bobby’ll have a fit if I don’t at least pretend to fix the alternator today.”
Sam stayed seated. “I’ll keep looking. I'll grab you if something looks off."
You nodded and escaped into the morning air.
Dean grinned when you reached the Chevy, grease already smeared across one cheekbone. “Took you long enough. Thought maybe Sammy talked you into staying inside where it’s civilized.”
“Civilized is overrated.” You popped the hood the rest of the way and leaned in, the metal cool under your palms. “Hand me the socket wrench.”
He did, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. The easy physicality of it was familiar—years of shared hunts and shared silence had made touching Dean as simple as breathing. He leaned against the fender while you worked, narrating half-remembered stories about the last time this car had stranded Bobby in a ditch, laughing when you threatened to use the wrench on him instead.
You didn’t notice Sam at the kitchen window until the second time you straightened to stretch your back.
He was watching.
Not the casual glance of someone keeping an eye on the yard. Properly watching—eyes narrowed slightly, coffee mug forgotten in his hand. When Dean reached over and tugged a leaf out of your hair with a careless, “You’re a mess,” Sam’s expression shuttered so fast you almost missed it.
Your stomach did a stupid little flip.
Jealousy. It looked like jealousy.
You told yourself that was ridiculous. Sam Winchester did not get jealous over the soft, sad girl who used to patch his scraped knees and who still couldn’t fit into the kinds of clothes the Stanford girls probably wore. He was just tired. Stressed about John. Reading too much into a look was the fastest way to get your heart broken.
Still.
When Dean tossed an oily rag at your chest and laughed at the way you fumbled it, you caught Sam turning away from the window like he’d been caught.
You ducked back under the hood so neither of them would see the small, traitorous hope that refused to die.
The cigarette was already half-gone when the screen door creaked open behind you.
You didn’t turn. You knew Dean’s footsteps by heart—heavy, restless, always announcing themselves. These were quieter. Careful. The kind of steps that belonged to someone who’d spent years trying not to take up space.
Sam settled on the step beside you without asking, long legs folding awkwardly, elbows on his knees. He didn’t reach for the cigarette. Didn’t speak. Just sat there breathing the same cool night air, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours every time either of you shifted.
The silence stretched until it started to feel deliberate.
You exhaled smoke toward the dark yard. “You’re staring a hole through the ground there, Sammy. Something on your mind?”
He let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tight. For a long moment you thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then his voice came low, almost careful.
“You and Dean.”
You glanced sideways. His profile was sharp in the porch light, jaw working once before he forced the rest out.
“Is there… something going on there? Between you two.”
The question landed blunt and a little raw, like he’d been turning it over too long and finally just let it fall. There was something sad underneath it, something that made your chest squeeze even as the absurdity of it hit.
You laughed.
Not the polite kind. A real, startled sound that surprised even you. Smoke curled out with it.
“Me and Dean?” You shook your head, still smiling, and tapped ash off the end of the cigarette. “God, no. He’s like the world’s most annoying older brother. He steals my fries and then laughs at me if I trip. We’ve never—Jesus, Sam. No.”
Sam’s ears went pink so fast you almost felt bad. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed hard on the ground between his boots.
“Right. Yeah. I just… the way you two are with each other. It’s easy I guess. I didn’t want to assume, but—” He cut himself off, grimaced, and tried again. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. Forget I asked. Seriously. I’m running on like three hours of sleep and too much of Bobby’s coffee. My brain’s not… working right.”
You watched him stumble through the recovery, the tips of his ears still burning, and felt that dangerous little spark of hope try to catch again. You crushed it the way you always did—reminding yourself what you looked like in the mirror, how soft you’d gotten, how a guy who looked like Sam Winchester had never once glanced twice at someone built like you.
Still.
He’d asked.
“There’s nothing going on with Dean,” you said quieter. “Never has been. Never will be.”
Sam nodded, still not quite looking at you.
“Okay.”
Sam sighed, long and quiet, like he’d been holding the sound in his chest since he sat down. The porch light caught the edge of his profile, the tired slope of his shoulders.
You bumped your knee lightly against his. “You know, Dean already sold you out.”
His head snapped toward you so fast you almost laughed again.
“What?”
“On the drive over.” You took the last drag of the cigarette and crushed it out on the step. “Said you asked about me the whole way. What I’d been hunting. Whether I was still crashing here sometimes. If I was seeing anybody.” You tipped your head, letting a small, teasing smile pull at your mouth. “Didn’t know I was such a hot topic, Winchester.”
The color drained out of Sam’s face so completely you could watch it happen. His ears went from pink to pure white, and he made a sound that was half groan, half strangled laugh.
“I’m going to kill him,” he muttered, burying his face in both hands for a second. “I am actually going to murder my brother and leave his body in one of these junk cars.”
“You’d never find it again. Bobby’s inventory system is a nightmare.”
That pulled a real laugh out of him—short, surprised, the same soft huff he used to make when you teased him as teens. He dropped his hands and looked at you, still embarrassed but something warmer underneath it now.
“I forgot how much of a pain in the ass you are,” he said, and it came out almost fond.
“You used to say that every time I stole the last of Bobby’s cookies and blamed it on Dean.”
“Because you did steal them. And then you’d sit there looking all innocent while Dean got the lecture.”
“Worked every time.”
Sam shook his head, smiling at the memory, and for a second the years between then and now folded in on themselves. The same easy back-and-forth you’d had on Bobby’s porch after hunts that went sideways, after John left them for weeks at a time. You’d forgotten how simple it used to feel.
He sobered gradually, gaze drifting out toward the dark shapes of the cars.
“I’m not going back to Stanford,” he said quietly.
You didn’t pretend to be surprised. “Figured that part out when you showed up in the Impala instead of on a plane.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb along the seam of his jeans. “Whatever’s going on with Dad… I can’t sit in a dorm room pretending everything’s normal while Dean’s out here alone. And I don’t—” He stopped, then tried again. “I don’t want to be that far away anymore. From any of it.”
The last part hung there, heavier than the rest.
After a moment he glanced at you sideways. “Your base is still here? South Dakota?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged one shoulder. “Mostly. I take jobs when they come up, but I always end up back at Bobby’s eventually. Someone’s gotta keep the old man from living entirely on beer and microwaved garbage.”
Sam’s mouth curved. “Some things really don’t change.”
“Guess not.”
The quiet that settled after that wasn’t the strained kind from earlier. It was softer. Familiar. The two of you just sitting side by side on the worn steps while the night settled around you.
Then Sam spoke, voice low enough that it nearly disappeared into the dark.
“I watched you sleep that night.”
You turned your head. He was staring at his hands, fingers laced tight between his knees.
“After the poltergeist,” he went on, still not looking at you. “You took that hit of glass for me and then you just… passed out on the couch at Bobby’s. Dean was still arguing with him about whether we should even tell your Dad. I sat on the floor next to you for hours. Kept checking your breathing like an idiot. And I remember thinking—” He let out a short, almost embarrassed breath. “I remember thinking you were the bravest person I’d ever met. And the prettiest. And I was thirteen and stupid and I didn’t know what to do with any of it.”
Your heart started hammering so hard you felt it in your throat. “Sam—”
“I never stopped,” he said, quieter. “Even when we only saw each other a couple times a year. I’d show up here and you’d be under some car or covered in salt and you’d smile at me like nothing had changed, and I’d have to go sit in the bathroom for five minutes just to get my head on straight. And then I left for Stanford and I told myself it would fade. That it was just some leftover kid thing. But it didn’t. Every time Dean mentioned your name I’d go quiet and he’d give me shit for it and I’d pretend I didn’t care.”
You shook your head, already scrambling for the exit. “You’re exhausted. You’re stressed about your dad. You’re mixing things up—”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” Your voice came out sharper than you meant. “Look at me, Sam. Really look. I’m not… I’m not the kind of girl guys like you end up wanting. I never was. You dated those Stanford girls, the ones who looked like they belonged in magazines. I’m the one who eats too much of Bobby’s excuse for cooking and can’t button the top of my jeans after a long night of ice cream and shitty romance movies. You’re confusing gratitude with—”
“I’ve always liked the way you look.” He finally turned his face toward you. His eyes were dark, steady, a little scared. “The soft parts. I used to catch myself staring at your mouth when you were arguing with Dean and then I’d feel like a complete creep. I liked it. I still do.”
You opened your mouth to argue again, to list every reason this couldn’t be real, but Sam was already shifting closer on the step. One of his hands came up, hesitant, and settled against the side of your neck. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw.
“I’m not lying,” he said, almost a whisper. “I’ve been half in love with you since I was thirteen years old and you shoved me out of the way of a stupid poltergeist. And I’ve spent every year since then trying to talk myself out of it because I didn’t think you’d ever look at me the same way.”
You managed a broken little sound that wasn’t quite a word.
Sam leaned in and kissed you.
It started soft—careful, almost questioning—like he was still giving you the chance to pull away. His mouth was warm, a little chapped from the road, and he tasted faintly of coffee. When you didn’t move, when your hands stayed frozen at your sides, he made a quiet, rough noise in the back of his throat and kissed you deeper. One of his hands slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist like he’d been thinking about putting it there for years.
You felt the last of your arguments dissolve under the heat of it. Your fingers finally curled into the front of his henley, hanging on, and Sam tilted his head and kissed you like he’d been starving for it—slow and thorough and so full of everything he’d just said that it left you dizzy.
When he finally pulled back it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven.
“Still think I’m lying?” he asked, voice wrecked and soft.
You couldn’t find a single word that would come out right. All you could do was shake your head once, small and stunned, while his thumb kept stroking absently along your jaw like he couldn’t quite make himself stop touching you.
“Can we… talk somewhere else? Somewhere Dean won’t come looking the second he finishes whatever beer he’s working on.”
Sam’s eyes searched your face. Whatever he saw there made his shoulders loosen.
“Yeah,” he said. “Anywhere you have in mind?”
You stood first and held out your hand. He stared at it for half a second like he couldn’t quite believe it was being offered, then laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm and the simple contact sent a fresh wave of heat straight up your arm.
You led him off the porch and around the side of the house, past the last of the scrap piles and into the taller grass that Bobby never bothered to cut. The path was more memory than trail—something you’d worn in over years of restless nights when the walls of the house felt too close. Sam followed without asking where you were going, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles every few steps.
The barn sat half-hidden behind a stand of overgrown bushes at the far edge of the property. The roof sagged in places. Vines had claimed most of the south wall. You pushed the heavy door open with your free shoulder; it groaned but gave way. Inside smelled like old wood and dust and the faint sweetness of whatever wildflowers had taken root near the foundation.
You’d claimed this place a long time ago. A thick rug was still spread across the loft floor. A couple of heavy blankets were folded in a milk crate. An old kerosene lantern sat on a beam where you’d left it. The hole in the roof above the loft was exactly the same—jagged, wide enough to let the sky pour in.
Sam looked around slowly, still holding your hand.
“You’ve been coming here by yourself,” he said. Not a question.
“On the bad nights.” You let go only long enough to climb the ladder first, then reached back for him. “Stars are clearer out here. No porch light.”
He followed you up. The loft boards creaked under his weight. You lit the lantern; warm gold light pushed the shadows back just far enough. The last of the daylight was bleeding out of the sky above you.
You settled on the rug with your back against a support beam. Sam sat close enough that his knee pressed against yours.
Sam’s voice came quiet when he finally used it.
“I meant everything I said out there.”
You looked at him in the low light. The same soft mouth that had just kissed you senseless. The same eyes that had watched you across Bobby’s kitchen table like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
“I know,” you said.
Sam shifted closer on the rug until his knee pressed fully against your thigh. The lantern light caught the dark flush high on his cheekbones.
“Can I show you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “How much I mean it. All of it.”
Your pulse stuttered. You looked at the soft line of his mouth, at the careful way he was holding himself back, and the old fear rose sharp and familiar.
“Sam… no one’s ever touched me and still wanted to be around the next day.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. “Not like this. Not when they actually saw—”
He didn’t let you finish.
Sam kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair while the other settled at your waist. He kissed the rest of the sentence out of your mouth, slow and thorough, until your back met the rug and his weight settled carefully over you. The old wood of the loft creaked once beneath you both. Cool night air drifted through the hole in the roof, but all you could feel was the heat of him—long body bracketing yours, the solid press of his chest against the weight of your breasts.
His hands started roaming while he kissed you. Broad palms sliding down your sides, mapping the curve of your waist, the fuller swell of your hips. When he reached the lower curve of your stomach he didn’t flinch or skim past it. He spread his fingers wide and pressed, feeling the way you yielded under his touch, and made a low, hungry sound against your mouth.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured when he finally broke the kiss just enough to speak. His lips brushed yours with every word. “I’ve wanted my hands on you for so long. You’re so soft here—” his thumb stroked the underside of one breast through your flannel, “—and here.” His palm dragged lower again, over the plush give of your belly, and he exhaled like it wrecked him. “Christ. You feel even better than I imagined.”
You turned your face away, heat flooding your cheeks, but Sam followed, nuzzling under your jaw.
“Don’t hide from me.” His voice had gone deeper, almost pleading. “I’ve thought about this exact thing more times than I should admit. You under me. Letting me touch you. Letting me see you.”
His fingers found the top button of your flannel. He paused, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.
“Can I take this off? Please. I want to look at you properly. Want to put my mouth on every inch of you."
You nodded once, small and shaky.
Sam’s hands were careful but not hesitant. He worked each button open, pushing the flannel apart, then helped you sit up just enough to slide it off your shoulders. The cool air kissed your bare skin. Your bra was plain, functional, the kind you wore for hunts, and for a second the old urge to cross your arms rose hard.
Sam didn’t give it room to grow.
He stared down at you like he’d been gut-punched. One hand came up and cupped the heavy curve of your breast over the fabric, thumb brushing the peak of your nipple until it tightened.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re beautiful. Look at these—so full and perfect in my hand.” He squeezed gently, watching the way your flesh overflowed his fingers, and his hips shifted against your thigh like he couldn’t help it. “I’ve jerked off thinking about exactly this. The way you’d feel under me. How your body would give when I pressed into it. You’re so fucking pretty like this, all spread out for me on this rug. I like every single part of you. Don’t you dare think I want you any other way.”
He leaned down and kissed the upper swell of your breast, open-mouthed and warm, then higher, along your collarbone, then back to your mouth. Between every kiss the praise kept coming—low, filthy, reverent—while his hands kept mapping you like he was afraid you might disappear if he stopped touching.
“So beautiful,” he whispered against your lips. “My girl. Exactly like this.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
My girl.
Something raw and overwhelming surged up behind your ribs—too big, too sharp, too close to everything you’d never let yourself want. Your eyes burned. You kissed him harder before he could see it, pouring every messy feeling into the press of your mouth so he wouldn’t notice the way your breath had gone uneven. Your hands fisted in the front of his henley and yanked.
Sam broke the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt up and over his head. It landed somewhere in the dark beyond the lantern light.
Holy shit.
You’d seen him without a shirt years ago—skinny teenager, all sharp elbows and too-long limbs. This was different. Broad shoulders, lean muscle packed along his arms and chest from years of hunting, a soft trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. The lantern gold slid over the planes of him and you felt the old urge to cover yourself rise hot and fast. He was all long lines and quiet strength and you were still you underneath him.
Sam never let you give the thought room to breathe.
He kissed you once more, deep and claiming, then started working his way down. Mouth open against the hinge of your jaw, the side of your throat, the upper curve of one breast. When he reached your stomach he didn’t skip past it or treat it like something to tolerate. He pressed his face there, breathed in, and kissed the plush skin like he’d been starving for it.
“Fuck,” he muttered against you, voice wrecked. “Softest thing I’ve ever put my mouth on. Look at the way you take my hands—” his palms slid up your sides, thumbs stroking the warm undersides of your breasts, “—and just mold to me. I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you for years. Wanted to feel you under me while I fucked you stupid.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair, half trying to pull him back up, half holding him there. Sam only groaned and kept going, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower until his nose brushed the waistband of your jeans. His fingers found the button. He popped it open, then looked up the length of your body, eyes dark and hungry and impossibly soft at the same time.
“Can I?” He tugged gently at the zipper. “Want these off. Want to see the rest of you. Want to find out if you taste as good as you feel.”
His free hand stroked up over the curve of your stomach again, possessive and reverent, while he waited—lips already brushing the newly exposed skin just above your underwear, breath hot, voice dropping into something filthy and earnest.
“Let me, baby. Let me show you exactly how much I want every single part of my girl.”
You nodded, breath already shaky.
Sam didn’t rush. He worked your jeans down your hips and thighs, then your underwear with them, careful over the softest parts of you. When you were bare against the old rug he sat back on his heels for a second just looking—lantern light painting gold across the full curves of your stomach, the heavy weight of your breasts still in the bra, the dark thatch between your legs. His hands settled on your thighs and spread them wider.
“Christ, look at you,” he said, voice gone rough. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. All soaked and open for me. My girl.”
Then he folded down and put his mouth on you like a man who’d been starving for years.
There was nothing hesitant about it. Sam licked a broad, filthy stripe up the center of you, groaned like the taste hit him hard, and then settled in to eat. His tongue worked over your clit in firm, wet strokes while one hand pinned your hip down so you couldn’t squirm away. The other slid under you, gripping the plush curve of your ass and hauling you tighter against his face. He made wet, hungry sounds against you—open-mouthed kisses, the flat of his tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth that made your thighs jump.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he muttered between licks, the words vibrating against your soaked cunt. “I’ve thought about getting my mouth on this pussy since I was fifteen. Dreamed about the way you’d drip down my chin.” He sucked your clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue until your back arched. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Want to feel you come on my tongue before I even get inside you.”
You were close—too close. The coil in your belly wound tight and sharp, every wet stroke of his mouth pushing you higher. Your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled.
“Sam—wait—I want—” Your voice broke. “Want to come with you. Please. Need you with me.”
He groaned like the words physically hurt him, but he listened. One last long, filthy lick from entrance to clit and then he was crawling back up your body, mouth shiny, eyes almost black in the low light. You reached for his belt with clumsy hands. He helped, shoving his jeans and boxers down just far enough.
His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the head already slick. You stared. He was huge—long and flushed dark, the kind of size that made your stomach flip with equal parts want and nerves.
Sam caught the look on your face. He wrapped one big hand around himself and stroked once, slow, watching you.
“Hey. Eyes on me.” His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “I’ll go slow. I’ll talk you through every second. You’re going to take me so well, baby. I know you will.”
He settled between your thighs, the blunt head of him dragging through your soaked folds until he notched against your entrance. The stretch when he started to push in made your breath catch hard. Sam’s forehead dropped to yours, voice low and wrecked and steady all at once.
“That’s it—breathe for me. Feel how wet you are, how easy you’re letting me in even though I’m big. Fuck, you’re tight. Squeezing me already.” He pushed another inch, then another, hips rolling in small, controlled movements. “Look at the way your pretty cunt is stretching around me. Taking every thick inch like you were made for it. That’s my girl. So perfect and mine.”
He kept talking while he worked himself deeper—praise and filth and soft check-ins mixed together—until he was finally seated all the way inside you, hips flush to yours, both of you shaking with it.
Sam stayed buried to the hilt for a long moment, just breathing against your mouth, letting you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. Then he started to move.
It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate—long, deep strokes that dragged almost all the way out before sliding back in until his hips pressed flush against the soft give of your ass. Every thrust was measured, controlled, like he was trying to carve the shape of himself into you. His hands never stopped moving. One stayed braced by your head so he could watch your face; the other roamed—cupping the heavy weight of your breast, squeezing the plush curve of your waist, sliding under to grip the full meat of your ass and haul you up into the next thrust.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked and reverent at the same time. “Taking me so deep. Your pretty cunt is stretched so wide around my cock and you still keep pulling me back in. Softest, wettest, most perfect thing I’ve ever fucked.” He rolled his hips on the next stroke, grinding against your clit, and groaned when you clenched around him. “Feel that? That’s you milking me. That’s my girl getting greedy for it.”
He kissed you through the next few thrusts—slow, filthy, open-mouthed—then pulled back just far enough to keep talking, forehead against yours, eyes locked on yours like he needed you to hear every word.
“You’re so fucking beautiful under me. These tits bouncing every time I push in—” his hand squeezed one, thumb dragging over the tight nipple, “—this belly I can’t stop touching, these thick thighs wrapped around me. I’ve never seen anything prettier in my life. Never wanted anyone the way I want you right now.” Another deep stroke, wet and filthy-sounding in the quiet loft. “I could live inside this cunt. Could wake up every morning and bury myself in you just to remember how perfect you feel.”
You were shaking, nails digging into the muscle of his back, the old fear trying to surface and getting drowned under the relentless praise and the thick slide of him. Sam felt the way you tensed and only fucked you slower, deeper, like he had all night to prove the point.
“Don’t you dare go somewhere else in your head,” he murmured against your lips. “Stay right here with me. Feel how hard I am for you. Feel how much I love every perfect part of this body. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever put my hands on, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you believe it.”
His rhythm stayed steady and devastating—making love with the intensity of a man trying to rewrite every doubt you’d ever carried. Every thrust came with more praise, more filthy reverence, more of that low broken voice telling you exactly how gorgeous you were while he buried himself inside you like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.
Sam’s rhythm never turned frantic, but it deepened—every stroke longer, heavier, the wet sound of him moving inside you filling the loft. His voice stayed right against your ear, low and broken and constant.
“Come with me,” he breathed. “Want to feel you. Want you to come on my cock while I’m this deep. You’re so beautiful like this—taking every inch. My girl. Mine.”
The coil snapped.
You came hard, thighs locking around his hips, cunt clenching in tight, rhythmic pulses that dragged a raw sound out of your throat. Sam followed a heartbeat later, burying himself to the root and spilling inside you with a long, shuddering groan, hips stuttering through it while he kept whispering praise against your skin like he couldn’t stop.
When it was over he didn’t pull away. He simply shifted his weight to the side enough that he wasn’t crushing you, then gathered you in close—one arm under your shoulders, the other draped heavy across your waist. His face pressed into the side of your neck. You could feel his heart still slamming against your chest.
For a long time neither of you spoke. The lantern flickered. Cool night air drifted through the hole in the roof.
You traced idle shapes along the sweat-damp line of his spine and finally found your voice.
“I’ve liked you for a long time too,” you said quietly. “Since before I even really knew what it meant. I just… never thought you’d look at me the same way.”
Sam’s arms tightened. He huffed a soft, incredulous little laugh against your throat.
“You should’ve told me before I went to Stanford,” he murmured, the words warm and teasing. “Could’ve saved me a few years of pretending I was fine and jerking off to the memory of you.”
You pinched his side. He only laughed again—quiet, genuine—and pressed a lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw.
After that the talking came easier. Soft, unhurried things. The way the stars looked through the broken roof. Whether Bobby or Dean would notice you were both gone. How Sam wasn’t going back to California, how you weren’t planning on leaving South Dakota any time soon. Old memories of the poltergeist night, of stolen cookies and porch steps, of all the years you’d both spent looking and never quite saying it out loud.
Sam kept you tucked against him the whole time, one hand stroking absently over every part of you like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. You watched the sky through the hole in the roof together until the lantern burned low and the night settled quiet around the old barn, two people who had finally stopped missing each other.
sending older!dean winchester videos of you testing out all the fun and big toys that he’s bought for you. your thighs trembling, and breath all panicky as you struggle to work the thick, monstrous dildo into your weeping cunt. it’s so much bigger than all the other gifts that he’s sent you, almost like he’s trying to get you ready for something. and all the while he’s grunting with the sleeve of his balled-up flannel in his mouth and his hand furiously pumping his cock as he watches the footage you sent him of your squelching cunt clamp tightly around the toy that’s a perfect model of his own cock; cum coating his hand when he has to listen to his baby girl cry out for him.
Butch!Deanna who always asks you to cut her hair because 'you know her style best' and 'everyone else fucks it up.' totally not because she loves how softly you deal with her. Hand on her neck as you get to work, trying her best not to act out.
Butch!Deanna Who will literally die if she's not touching you constantly. Fingers looped around your belt, hand on your lower back, chin on your shoulder. If she's not in your vicinity she will go crazy.
Butch!Deanna Who knows you go absolutely crazy for her happy trail. Always purposefully raising up her tank top to show you her midriff then will act so confused when you push her against the Impala, saying 'If you were needy, just say so'
Butch!Deanna Who knows you're very capable of fixing stuff but feels so offended when you do so. Like if your motorcycle breaks down or your car and you decided not to inform her about it and just work on it yourself.
She will give you an attitude for the rest of the day until you figure out what you did.
Butch!Deanna Who will literally tie you to a chair in order to keep you from making a reckless mistake.
She would do anything to protect you, even if it means something that you probably dont consent to, like locking you in a room or even knocking you out. Though she means it with love, even if you don't see it half the time.
Butch!Deanna Who will purposefully leave her flannels and bigger jackets for you to find and wear, especially in fall and winter so she can catch you in them and act fake upset when you refuse to give them up. (Not before she takes a million secret pictures though)
Butch!Deanna Who acts insanely jealous whenever a guy tries to pick you up at a dingy bar. She will walk behind and sling an arm over you, glaring at the man till he goes away saying 'is he bothering you sweetheart?'
Butch!Deanna Who gets especially needy after having some drinks, begging for you to fill her up with your fingers and give her release, saying 'please baby I'll be s'good'
I need her so bad it ain't even funny anymore. (Also in my head she has nipple piercings. Yes I want to suck on them) (yes I will be writing something for Sam as well)
It’s summer time and readers got a Popsicle, pervert Sam lowk gets hard from it picturing it as his dick
the way i almost wrote this in another fic a while back but this particular trope still has me in a chokehold lol
cw: gn!reader (they/them pronouns); pervert!sam; (imagined) oral sex; sorta caught in the act | 1k words | 18+ content under the cut
Cherry red syrup slides down your fingers, dripping down your arm all the way to your elbows. It’s a sticky, sugary mess, but the popsicle is your only saving grace in the scorching summer heat.
“You’re eating that thing like you’re five,” Dean chides, shoveling bites of ice cream into his mouth. How his teeth aren’t sensitive enough to make him cringe from the cold, you’ll never know.
“I can’t help that it’s dripping everywhere,” you mutter, pouting.
Sam sits beside you on the curb outside the creamery, quiet. The three of you just finished a case that had you running around in the sun all day, which inevitably lead to you all dripping with sweat and close to fainting from heat exhaustion. When Dean suggested going on an ice cream run, you readily agreed. Sam wasn’t about to argue with the idea, either. Dean ordered a heaping three scoops of chocolate ice cream, and you, of course, wanted a popsicle; Sam opted to follow your lead, ordering the less visibly-messy yellow pineapple popsicle. He hadn’t realized that your choice would have him sweating even more.
Sam can’t help stealing glances at you, though, watching your lips wrap around the popsicle. It’s borderline pornographic, the way you suck on the tip of it and drag your tongue up the sides. It’s strangely methodical, your movements; you inspect all angles of your popsicle, lapping up whichever side is the wettest to prevent too much spillage. Despite your attempts to stop the syrup from leaking all over your palm, your efforts are futile. It trails down the popsicle in thick red beads, sliding over your fingertips.
His imagination is perhaps a little too vivid, because all Sam can think about is what your mouth would look like around his cock. He wants so badly to take you someplace private, to get you on your knees so you can stare up at him through your lashes and go down on him. He’d cup your cheek while you suck him off just like you’re sucking on that popsicle, all messy and gorgeous. Would you swallow every drop of his cum the same way you’re lapping up all of that syrup? Would you mind if he spilled into your mouth, or would you want him to paint your face?
If he wasn’t already hot before, he definitely is now.
Sam has to pry his eyes away when he catches sight of the popsicle dripping past your pretty lips, beading off of your chin. His pants are becoming tight, so much so that he has to discreetly adjust himself, shifting on the curb beside you.
“Shit,” you mumble, wiping your face with the back of your hand. It mostly just smears the sugary syrup across your chin, but Sam glances over for a split second just to find that you’re licking the melted popsicle’s remains from your hands. He swallows harshly, stiffening even more beneath his jeans.
“Ugh. Gross,” Dean mutters, nudging your shoulder.
“Oh, like you’re not gross when you eat all the time,” you snap back, sucking up the rest of your popsicle from the stick. The wet slurping sounds you make nearly have Sam going into cardiac arrest; he grips his own half-finished popsicle, unsure if his blush is obvious or if he might be able to pass it off as a result of the heat.
Your lips and tongue are dyed red now. You wipe your mouth again, and Sam clears his throat, unable to meet your eyes when he speaks. “Maybe you should get some napkins,” he suggests.
With a huff, you shake off some of the remaining syrup from your fingers. A few ruby drops splatter against the pavement. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. I’ll be back in a minute.”
You push yourself to your feet and enter the ice cream shop again to clean up. Dean sits two feet away from his younger brother, glancing over at Sam in your absence. He notices Sam’s concentrated expression and the way he tries to keep his legs closed, and he squints.
“What’s up with you?” Dean wonders, quick to interrogate his brother.
Sam’s shifty gaze only briefly lands on Dean. “Nothing. Just… hot.”
Dean’s eyes narrow further. He shovels another melted bite of ice cream into his mouth, then wrinkles his nose. “Dude.”
Sam refuses to turn his head. “What?”
“Dude.”
“What?” The exasperation in Sam’s voice is obvious; so is his guilty conscience. Dean shoots his brother a look as if to say I know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours, and Sam groans, taking an aggressive bite of his popsicle.
Dean just shakes his head, pointing his spoon at Sam in accusation. “You need to get laid, man. Not with them, ‘cause that’s fuckin’ weird, but somebody. For your own good. Christ, this shit is gettin’ old.”
A pained sound escapes Sam’s throat. He looks back at his brother, straightening up. “What shit? What are you talking about?”
Another knowing look. Before Dean can dole out some rather blunt clarification, you emerge from the ice cream shop. Your lips are still a little red, but the sticky cherry syrup is no longer covering your skin.
“There, good as new,” you announce proudly. “Can we go someplace with an air conditioner, now? Please?”
“Sounds good to me,” Dean answers without missing a beat. His eyes are still trained upon his brother, shooting Sam a look that tells him everything: I won’t say shit, but you have to keep it in your pants.
“Yeah,” Sam mutters, ignoring the strange sinking feeling in his chest. He manages to make his erection not-so-obvious, chucking his unfinished popsicle into the trash. “Let’s go.”
There’s a strange energy in the air that you can’t help but pick up on, but you have long since learned that you’re unable to decipher the telepathy between two brothers. You climb into the backseat of the Impala, perfectly oblivious to the mental conversations they’re having about you.
tag list . . . @ravenhood2792 @fuiabarcelos @midnightblossomss @angelicentity98
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–
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.
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
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 💚💚💚
The mansion loomed against the overcast sky like a monument to faded glory, its marble columns and wrought-iron gates speaking of wealth that had long since stopped trying to impress anyone but itself. You'd seen a thousand places like this over the decades—testaments to the kind of money that came from being a supe in the golden age, before Vought started churning out heroes like they were action figures on an assembly line.
You lingered in the back of the black SUV for a moment longer than necessary, watching through the tinted window as Homelander's cape billowed in the artificial breeze he'd conjured for dramatic effect. Some things never changed. The man couldn't walk through a door without turning it into a production.
Soldier Boy had already climbed out, his boots heavy on the gravel, that familiar swagger in his shoulders that had made him the poster boy for American exceptionalism for nearly four decades. He'd glanced back once, a questioning tilt to his brow, and you'd waved him off with a lazy flick of your fingers.
Give me a minute.
He'd rolled his eyes but continued on, falling into step beside Homelander as they approached the mansion's grand entrance. You could hear the exchange even from here: Homelander's clipped impatience, Soldier Boy's gravelly amusement, and then the door swinging open to reveal the trembling figure of Mr. Marathon himself.
You'd seen his face before. Of course you had. The man was practically a Vought poster child for the new generation of supes. All shiny smiles and earnest enthusiasm. He was handsome in that has-been kind of way that had sold merchandise to teenage girls and lonely housewives, with the kind of boy-next-door charm that made him palatable for daytime television appearances.
But you'd also seen the other side of him. The side that had plastered his bedroom walls with posters of Soldier Boy. The side that had written fan letters so embarrassingly adoring, to both you and certain soldier, that they'd made your cheeks heat when you'd stumbled across them in years ago.
You'd always known, on some level, that you were a fantasy. That was the job, really. To be beautiful, to be unattainable, to be the thing men whispered about in the dark when they were alone with their hands and their thoughts. You'd made peace with it years ago, had even started to enjoy it—the power of it, the way you could make a man's entire world shrink down to just you with nothing more than a glance and a smirk.
It was a power you'd perfected over the decades. A power that had made Soldier Boy, of all people, look at you with something approaching genuine respect.
And it was a power that was about to be very, very thoroughly deployed.
The front door was still slightly ajar when you finally emerged from the car, your heels clicking against the stone pathway in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Your dress swayed with each step, the slit up the side revealing just enough thigh to make a man's mouth water.
You heard the words before you saw the scene unfold.
"Homelander! Soldier Boy!" Mr. Marathon's voice was pitched high with barely contained excitement, the kind of breathless fawning that you'd heard a thousand times before. "Such an honor! I can't- I mean, I've been a fan of yours for years, Soldier Boy. I literally popped my cherry on your underwear, I can't even-"
You paused just outside the doorway, a smirk curling your lips as you caught the expression on Homelander's face. Disgust, pure and undisguised, the kind of revulsion that came from being confronted with the deeply human messiness of desire. His nostrils actually flared, like he'd smelled something foul.
Soldier Boy, for his part, seemed caught between amusement and annoyance, his jaw working as he processed the confession.
And Mr. Marathon just kept going, his words tumbling out in a rush like he couldn't contain them anymore. "It was the late 90s edition and—" His eyes found you suddenly, widening to comical proportions as his brain short-circuited. "Oh. Oh. Oh my god. You're-"
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed beneath your breasts, and let the silence hang for a moment. Let him squirm under the weight of your gaze.
"You were my first jerk off-" he blurted out, his cheeks flushing a shade of red that nearly matched your dress. "My first- I mean, the first time I ever- with the magazine, the one from 1993, the-"
"I was your first jerk-off?" you cooed at him, like you might do to a specially dumb and slow puppy, your voice syrupy sweet and dripping with amusement.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. A strangled noise escaped his throat.
You pushed off from the doorframe, your heels clicking against the marble floor as you approached him with the slow, predatory grace of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Soldier Boy watched you come, that familiar glint of curiosity in his eyes, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
You didn't stop until you were standing directly in front of Mr. Marathon, close enough to smell the expensive cologne he'd doused himself in, close enough to see the way his pupils had blown wide.
"Mm. Cute."
The words came out soft, almost tender, and you watched him crumble at the sound of them. His knees actually buckled, just slightly, before he caught himself.
Homelander made a sound of pure disgust, rolling his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. "Can we please get on with this? We're not here to indulge in- whatever this is."
He shoved past Mr. Marathon, shouldering the man roughly as he strode into the mansion with all the grace of a spoiled child. "The V1. We're here for the V1. Don't waste my time with your pathetic fanboy nonsense."
Mr. Marathon stumbled, catching himself on the wall, and for a moment he looked almost shell-shocked. Then the spell seemed to break, and he was scrambling after Homelander, his voice pitched high and anxious. "Of course! Right! The V1! I've got it- I mean, not got it, per se, but I know someone who knows where it is, I can-"
Soldier Boy didn't move. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and curious. When Mr. Marathon had finally disappeared down the hall after Homelander, he turned to you fully.
"Didn't know ya liked 'em pathetic, doll."
The words were mocking, but there was genuine curiosity underneath. You'd known him long enough to recognize the difference.
You chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made his eyes darken. You moved closer, your arms coming up to loop around his neck, your body pressing against his in a way that was familiar and intimate. Your lips ghosted over his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath but not quite touching.
"I like men who cry their way through sex."
He huffed out a laugh against your lips, rolling his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. "'Course you do."
But he was smiling, just a little, and you knew he was already half-hard in his jeans. He'd always been a sucker for your particular brand of depravity. That was what had made the arrangement work for so many years—you were the only woman he'd ever met who could match his appetite without getting caught up in the messy emotions that usually followed.
"Shoulda known. You always were the freakiest bitch I ever met."
His voice was low, amused, mocking in that way that always made heat pool between your thighs. "I thought you had better taste than that."
"Go talk to Malchemical." you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'll be along in a minute."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna play with your little toy, huh?"
"Maybe." You pulled back, giving him a smile that was all teeth. "Don't wait up."
He snorted, shaking his head as he turned to head down the hall. "Try not to break him too badly. We still need him functional."
You watched him go, savoring the way his shoulders moved beneath his jacket, the familiar heat of desire curling low in your belly. Then you turned and followed the direction Mr. Marathon had disappeared, your heels clicking against the marble like a countdown.
It didn't take long to find him.
He'd been left in a hallway somewhere near the back of the mansion, probably sent to retrieve something or other while Homelander brooded and Soldier Boy did his lines. You found him leaning against the wall, his face buried in his hands, the only visible part of him were his ears: and they were the color of a ripe tomato.
Poor thing. He'd been so overwhelmed by the whole encounter that he'd shut down completely.
"How adorable," you murmured, your voice carrying through the empty hallway. "You poor, pathetic little thing."
His head snapped up, eyes wide and glassy, and the look on his face was so utterly wrecked that you felt a surge of dark satisfaction.
"I- I'm sorry," he stammered, pushing off from the wall. "I didn't mean to- it's just- you and Soldier Boy and Homelander, I never thought I'd actually meet you, I've been a fan for so long and-"
You closed the distance between you in three quick steps, and before he could finish his sentence, you had him pinned against the wall.
The sound he made was obscene—a high, desperate whine that went straight to your core. His eyes fluttered shut as you pressed against him, one of his legs bending at the knee and hooking around your waist in a pathetic attempt to pull you closer.
"How cute." you murmured against his lips.
And then you kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was brutal, messy, the kind of kiss that left nothing to the imagination. Your tongue swept into his mouth, tasting the faint sweetness of the champagne he'd clearly been drinking before your arrival. His lips were soft and pliant against yours, parting eagerly as you devoured him.
He was trembling beneath you, his whole body shaking with the force of his arousal, and you could feel the evidence of his desire pressing hard against your thigh. Your hand found its way into his hair, gripping tight and tilting his head back to expose the column of his throat.
"Pretty," you breathed against his skin. "So pretty for me."
He whined again, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. You could feel the damp spot forming on his pants, the fabric sticky and warm against your leg.
"You're going to be so good for me, aren't you, baby boy?" you cooed, dragging your lips along his jaw. "Going to let me have my way with you?"
"Yes, yesyes please-" he gasped. "Please, mommy, please—"
The title sent a thrill through you. You bit down hard on the junction of his neck and shoulder, just shy of breaking skin, and he choked on a moan, his hips jerking against you.
"That's it," you purred. "Let me hear you, princess. Let me know how much you want it."
He was drooling now, just a little, a thin strand of saliva escaping from the corner of his mouth. You licked it away, savoring the taste of him, and then moved lower to leave a trail of harsh lovebites along his throat.
His leg tightened around your waist, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. He was so desperate, so pathetic and needy, and the knowledge that you had reduced him to this—a whimpering mess against a wall—was intoxicating.
"Please," he begged again, his voice cracking. "Please, mommy- mommymommymommyyyy-"
"I know what you need." You sucked another mark into his skin, right over the pulse point, and felt his whole body shudder against you. "You need someone to take care of you, don't you? Someone to tell you what a good boy you are."
"Yes," he moaned, eyes rolling back into his skull. "Yes, yes, please-"
"Lucky for you," you murmured against his throat, "I'm feeling generous today."
Soldier Boy found you like that.
He'd only been gone a few minutes—just long enough to do a few lines and make sure Homelander didn't fry off anyone sat on the pool table. When he'd turned around and found you still absent, he'd known immediately where you'd gone.
The trail of destruction you left in your wake was legendary.
"What the fuck," he drawled from the end of the hall, his voice carrying through the space like a whip crack. "Couldn't even wait five minutes?"
You pulled back from Mr. Marathon's throat, your lips shiny with spit and a thin smear of blood where you'd gotten a bit too enthusiastic. The man beneath you was a wreck: eyes glassy, lips swollen, his whole body trembling with barely contained need.
Soldier Boy's gaze traveled down, cataloging every detail. The lovebites blossoming along Mr. Marathon's neck. The way one of his legs was still hooked around your waist. The obvious tent in his pants that had left a dark, damp spot on the fabric.
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Soldier Boy's voice was mocking, but there was a familiar heat in his eyes. "Gotta get your hands on every pathetic little fucking bitch you come across."
Mr. Marathon moaned at the degrading term, his hips bucking against you involuntarily. Soldier Boy's expression shifted to something darker, hungrier.
"Should have known you'd have a taste for submissive bitches, sweetheart." He was walking toward you now, his boots heavy on the marble floor. "All that power, all that control.. you just can't resist a man who begs."
You chuckled, dragging your tongue in a slow stripe up the length of Mr. Marathon's throat, from the base to his jaw. He shivered violently, his leg clenching around your waist, a series of pathetic little noises escaping his throat.
"Can you blame me?" you murmured, batting your eyelashes at the older man and feigning innocence, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Look at him. So pretty when he falls apart."
Mr. Marathon whimpered, his hands fisting in your dress.
Soldier Boy reached you in four more strides, and then his hand was fisting in the back of your dress, hauling you away from the man you'd been devouring. Mr. Marathon slumped against the wall, his knees giving out, barely managing to stay upright.
"Hands off." Soldier Boy's voice was a growl. "You're not the only one who gets to play."
And then his mouth was on Mr. Marathon's.
It was brutal. It was a kiss that was more about domination than pleasure. Soldier Boy's tongue shoved past the man's lips, taking what he wanted with ruthless efficiency. His hand found its way to Mr. Marathon's throat, squeezing just enough to make him gasp, and then he was biting down on the man's lower lip.
Hard.
A thin trickle of blood welled up, and Mr. Marathon's whole body went rigid, his eyes flying wide. Then he was coming, hard and fast and embarrassingly quick, his hips jerking as he painted the inside of his pants white.
Soldier Boy pulled back, his lips stained red with the man's blood. He looked down at the mess Mr. Marathon had made of himself, then back at you, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
"Mmm." He licked his lips, and Mr. Marathon whimpered at the sight. "Well, I kind of see the appeal here, sweetheart."
The nearest room turned out to be a guest bedroom, all white linens and tasteful decor that was completely at odds with what was about to happen.
Soldier Boy grabbed Mr. Marathon by the front of his shirt and hauled him through the door, shoving him down onto the bed so hard the man bounced. You followed at a more leisurely pace, watching the way Mr. Marathon's chest heaved, the way his eyes tracked you both with desperate, hungry need.
"Strip, bitch." Soldier Boy commanded, and Mr. Marathon scrambled to obey.
His hands were shaking as he tore at his clothes, fumbling with buttons and zippers in his haste to comply. He was naked in under a minute, his cock jutting up against his stomach, still wet with the evidence of his earlier release.
"So eager," you cooed, settling yourself on the edge of the bed. "Good boy."
Mr. Marathon whimpered at the praise.
Soldier Boy shoved him onto his stomach, hard, and Mr. Marathon went willingly, face hitting the mattres with a muffled "umphf-" as his arms folded beneath his head.
It wasn't even a second before reflex kicked in and he pushed his ass up in offering.
"Look at you," Soldier Boy growled, palming himself through his jeans. "Pathetic little bitch, presenting yourself like a dog in heat."
"Please," Mr. Marathon sobbed. "Please, sir, please-"
"You want it?" Soldier Boy fisted a hand in the man's hair, yanking his head back. "You want me to fuck you?"
"Yes-" Mr. Marathon moaned. "Yes, yes, fuck, please, sir. I've wanted—I've wanted you for so long-"
"Bet you have." Soldier Boy released him, and Mr. Marathon collapsed forward again. "All those years jerking off to our pictures, wishing it was us fucking you instead of your hand."
Mr. Marathon's entire body shuddered.
You moved closer, settling yourself at the head of the bed so you could reach Mr. Marathon's face. You cupped his jaw, tilting his head up to meet your eyes, and smiled.
"Let me see you," you murmured. "I want to see your face when he takes you."
His breath caught in his throat.
Soldier Boy had finished undressing, his body as impressive as you remembered: all broad shoulders and narrow hips and that cock that had driven you to madness more times than you could count. He didn't bother with lube or preparation, just spat into his hand and slicked himself up, the sound obscene in the quiet room.
"Gonna fuck you like you deserve," he growled, positioning himself behind Mr. Marathon. "Gonna fuck you like the whore you are."
And then he pushed in.
Mr. Marathon moaned—a high, desperate sound that was half pain and half pleasure. His hands fisted in the sheets, his whole body shaking as Soldier Boy bottomed out in one mean thrust.
"Fuck," Soldier Boy groaned, his head falling back. "Tight little bitch."
He pulled out and thrust back in, hard, the rhythm he set punishing and relentless. Mr. Marathon was crying now, tears streaming down his face, but his hips were pushing back to meet each thrust, desperate for more.
"Look at him." you crooned, stroking Mr. Marathon's tear-streaked cheek. "So pretty when he cries."
Mr. Marathon sobbed, his mouth dropping open in a wordless plea. You leaned forward and kissed him, swallowing his cries as Soldier Boy fucked him harder.
"I've wanted-" he gasped against your lips. "Wanted this for so long, wanted you, wanted him, wanted-"
"Shh," you murmured, kissing the tears from his cheeks. "You have us now, princess. We're going to take such good care of you."
"You don't deserve it, though, have that clear." Soldier Boy growled, his thrusts growing more erratic. "You don't deserve to be touched by me, or her, you pathetic little mutt."
Mr. Marathon moaned, his hips jerking as he came again, his cock painting the sheets beneath him.
Soldier Boy didn't stop. He kept fucking him through the aftershocks, his rhythm never faltering.
"Please-" Mr. Marathon sobbed. "Please, I can't- it's too much—"
"You can take it," you purred, smoothing his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. "You can take it for me, can't you, baby boy?"
He nodded frantically, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Soldier Boy pulled two more orgasms out of him before he came himself. When he was finally satisfied, the man was sobbing and shaking beneath him. Once he pulled out Mr. Marathon collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving.
"Beautiful.." you murmured, stroking his back. "So beautiful for me."
"Had enough, mutt?" Soldier Boy flopped onto the bed beside them, his chest slick with sweat.
Mr. Marathon whined, already shaking his head. "No- no, nonono, please, I need—"
"What do you need, princess?" you asked, tilting his chin up.
"You," he gasped. "Need you- need to touch you-"
He reached for you, his hands trembling, and you let him pull you into his arms. He buried his face in your chest, nuzzling against the swell of your breasts, and you chuckled softly.
"Hungry, are we?"
He nodded frantically, his mouth finding the curve of your breast through the fabric of your dress. You helped him push the straps down, baring yourself to him, and he moaned as he took your nipple into his mouth.
"Christ," Soldier Boy muttered, watching the scene with narrowed eyes. "Greedy little fucker."
"Can you blame him?" You arched into Mr. Marathon's mouth, loving the way he sucked and bit at your sensitive flesh. "They are quite spectacular."
Ben made a sound of mock disgust, but you could see the hunger in his eyes. "Alright, that's enough of that." He grabbed Mr. Marathon by the hair, pulling him off your chest with a growl. "If you want something in your mouth so badly, you'll get my fingers instead. Those tits are too good for the likes of you."
Mr. Marathon whimpered as Ben scooped up some of the cooling cum that had pooled on his stomach, then shoved two thick fingers into his mouth. The smaller man's eyes fluttered shut, his tongue laving over Ben's fingers with desperate eagerness.
"Look at you," you cooed. "Such a good boy for us."
Soldier Boy pulled his fingers free, and Mr. Marathon whimpered at the loss. Then he was being hauled up, positioned on Soldier Boy's lap, impaled on his cock once more.
"Ride," Soldier Boy commanded. "Ride me like the whore you are."
Mr. Marathon sobbed but obeyed, his hips rolling as he bounced on Soldier Boy's cock. You positioned yourself atop of him, your legs spread wide, and he was almost sort of fainting when you sank down on him.
"Mommy," he gasped, his mouth finding your breast again. "Mommy, please-"
"That's it," you crooned, stroking his hair. "Take what you need, princess."
His hips picked up speed, frantic now, and you could feel him trembling on the edge again. Soldier Boy's hands were on his hips, guiding him, and you could hear the grunts he made as he got closer to his own release.
Sensing this, Soldier Boy reached across your bodies to start playing with your clit, making you clench down on the man sanwiched between you.
"Ah- come for me," you murmured against Mr. Marathon's ear. "Come for me, baby."
He did, moaning your name as he spilled himself inside you. Soldier Boy followed moments later, his grip bruising on Mr. Marathon's hips as he filled him.
You collapsed together in a heap of sweaty limbs and heaving chests. Mr. Marathon was still crying, soft little sobs that he couldn't seem to stop, and you gathered him in your arms.
"Shh," you murmured. "You did so well. So good for us."
"I love you," he sobbed, the words tumbling out unbidden. "I love you both—"
"Oh, sweetheart." You chuckled, pressed a kiss to his forehead. "No, you don't. But that's okay. You don't have to love us to enjoy this."
He whimpered, but he nodded.
Soldier Boy snorted from beside you. "Fucking groupies. They're all the same."
You smiled, stroking Mr. Marathon's hair until his sobs quieted to soft hiccups. His breathing evened out, and you could feel him slipping toward sleep, utterly wrung out.
"Sweet dreams, princess." you murmured.
Soldier Boy watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.
"You are one depraved bitch, you know that?"
You smiled at him, slow and predatory. "You love it."
( +18 ) mdni : explicit content ahead afab!watcher ִ ࣪ ⋆ ٫٫ must be logged on twt/x to watch these! do not watch in public or with sounds on, unless alone ★
dean ﹏ not losing time in the impala ﹏ sharing with castiel ﹏ prone bone position ﹏ finger-fucking you ﹏ better than pie! ﹏
sam ﹏ soft and slow sex ﹏ size difference ﹏ facesitting ﹏ overstimulating you ﹏ relaxing in the bath ﹏
castiel ﹏ playing with your tits for the first time ﹏ sharing with dean ﹏ eating you out ﹏ curious about your body ﹏ new experiences ﹏
jo ﹏ on the couch! ﹏ scissoring with jo ﹏ riding her thigh ﹏ making her come on your strap ﹏ eating you out ﹏
