A place to reblog fics I enjoy
Primarily SFW, very occasional NSFW
(please heed any warnings on posts, recommended 16+ for NSFW content for your own wellbeing but ultimately, it's your desicion)
She/Her/They/Them
Check out my main @reginaphalangelobster where I write when I can!
Hi I'm Lobster and this side blog is a way for me to reblog all of the fics I enjoy!
My rules are pretty simple, most of what I reblog here will be SFW (very occasional NSFW) and completely incest free (it's a shame have to say that but I watch Supernatural, so yeah)
I will mainly reblog works for;
Supernatural
The Boys
MCU & X-Men
Criminal Minds
Doctor Who
Buffy The Vampire Slayer & Angel
I'm a fan of many other shows so you may see some things for 911: Nashville, Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, House MD and whatever else I read and like.
As stated above, this is a side blog.
My main blog is @reginaphalangelobster and I mainly just write there, various things but check it out if you're interested!
My graphics side blog is @lobster-graphics and all of the graphics on this blog were made by me!
I take requests on both of these blogs so if you're looking for a fic or some cool dividers, have a look!
Hello I just wanted to drop in with this bc I found it on Pinterest and went ooh, Cas core lol
Okay so I may have a thing for thighs, specifically Cas', but I'm just thinking of ditzy fratboy Cas and his thighssss ughhhhh
Fucking him however you so choose and pinning his thighs to his chest until they ache and carefully lowering them back down, pressing kisses over his soft skin, soon growing heated, leaving your marks all over him, biting again and again, so every time Cas moves, he feels them. Walking hurts so much the next day, poor Jimmy can barely make it to the library after what Cas had done to him last night....
(I'm sorry I'm just obsessed with this now, you did this to me...thank you)
YESYESYES heās my new obsessionā¦I wanna give him a series if I get enough requestsā¦..spread the wordā¦..
Mhmmmm. Himbo!Castiel doesnāt have regrets. Jimmy? Yeah, probably. Cas lets it happen because heās property of the frat. Heās so committed to St. Delta (which is the nickname Iāve given to his frat, Delta Psi Omicron). Itās absolutely not an excuse to let people play with him however they want! Anything goes when heās Castiel, no matter who you are, and thatās what makes owning one of his ties to be the ultimate symbol of depravity. Heād welcome the thigh stuff with open arms legs because youāre the boss!!! Invite a friend!! His build is also very toned due to how active he is, so taking a bite or a ride means youāre getting a firm piece of man.
Jimmy has to suffer the next day, and itās sooo embarrassing. But heās so addicted to the feeling as Cas that he canāt stop!! A little uptight guy covering himself up with a suit and downing electrolytes every morning in the library, shifting uncomfortably while trying to take in the lecture material he forgot to take notes on yesterday night. The struggles of being the college boytoyā¦
imgomgomh i love frat boy casā¦can we please have him x top male reader whoās like really nerdy and got pushed by their roommate to come to the party and him (whoās a very secret freak) and cas end up freaking crazy style š
Collide At St. ĪĪØĪ~šŖ½
Socials | Masterlist | Intro | Rules
Frat Himbo!Castiel x Top Male!Reader | Tipsy Castiel, nerdy reader, public sex, Castiel is a hypocritical Christian and sooo gay, freeuse Cas, everyone is an enabler, Cas gets a helping hand (job) from reader, everyone is drunk. Dirty talking reader.
Note: This oneās lowk grossā¦please donāt flag me tumblr .į.į
ĪĪØĪ. Delta Psi Omicron, better known as St. Delta. Rumors circle around about how the frat got its nicknameā some say itās because of their charity work, while others say itās because they own the biggest house on University Avenue. But most know itās because the people who flood to their parties always end up on their knees.
Your roommate wonāt shut up about St. Delta. You got unlucky with dorm pairings, and all year youāve been nothing but pressured to attend one of the fratās events.
āCome on. Maybe youāll find someone to cuddle up and watch Netflix with you or some shit.ā Your roommate laughs at you, gesturing to the posters messily taped to your side of the dorm wall. āPeople travel like, two, three hours to go to their parties and youāre telling me that living across the street from them does nothing to you?ā
You groan. This is the third time St. Deltaās been mentioned today, and the millionth thing mentioned about how ācrazyā or āinsaneā or some other intense synonym pulled from his ass to describe their parties.
āWhat if I donāt want to go?ā You murmur back to your roommate from your bed. He knows youāre not much of a partier. Youāre hardly even a drinker on the weekend.
āWhatever, man.ā He shrugs. āThe boys are tasty. Thought I was doing a favor saying youād want a bite.ā
That is tempting.
When your roommate disappears to the bathroom, you wonder if itās worth trying.
āThe boys are tasty.ā
ā¦
You decide to go without the company of your roommate. If itās really that crazy of a party, making friends should be easy, right? The lights are off and the music is loud in the three story building. St. Delta is the oldest frat at your college, but they must destroy the house so much that the interior looks newly remodeled. LEDs mounted to the ceiling flash rainbows into your eyes. God, is this really going to be worth it? You shouldāve just stayed home, but since youāre here you may as well have a free drink.
You try to make your rounds to find a cooler but you get blocked by a bunch of guys are crowded around one man, cheering and laughing louder than the music. The man in the center has his fly and jeans buttons undone, his suit shirt is torn and hangs at the waist by the single bottom button. His tie is still around his neck and heās holding up a new shirt, clearly gifted, against his body to measure its size. Itās a plain white shirt with the words COMMUNITY DICK printed in big black lettering.
āHow many times didāja get your cock sucked, Cas?ā One guy shouts. Another wraps an arm around Cas while a guy takes a photo.
āAt least four times! He probably sucked some too, heās got cum in his hair!ā Another guy laughs and runs his fingers roughly through Casās hair, causing Cas to moan a little. Someone sticks a dollar bill in the manās waistband and the group goes wild.
āSay cheese, Cassie!ā
The group hollers and Cas sticks his tongue out for the picture. He puts the shirt on, which ends up being too short, and the crowd disperses for more alcohol. You try to follow the horde in the direction of drinks and accidentally ram into this Cas guy.
āAh- Sorry!ā You say timidly. Cas doesnāt seem bothered. His tired blue eyes sweep your body up and down, clearly liking what he sees.
Castielās pants are low enough to see his v-line and trimmed happy trail poking from his boxers. The man looks like heās been tossed around in every way possible, played with, fucked silly, and got off to it every time.
āYouāre newā¦ā Cas takes his bottom lip between his teeth.
āHowād you know..?ā
āIf you werenāt new then youād be naked by now.ā He says it matter-of-factly, voice slightly slurred.
āOh.ā
You notice he has a tattoo above his groinā lineart of a church with three Greek letters underneath: ĪĪØĪ. Oh. He must be one of the frat boys your roommate was talking about.
You like what you see, and itās shameful.
āVirgin?ā
You look back up at his face and shrug. None of his business.
āHm.ā
āThanks anyway.ā You walk past him into the kitchen. The men from earlier are there, grinning and looking at the pictures they took of Castiel.
āFuck, someone needs to plow him or heās going to be pissy tomorrow.ā
āHow much more does he fuckinā need?ā
āUntil his tie goes missing.ā
The group laughs even louder. You help yourself to an unopened bottle of vodka, cracking it open and dumping a generous helping into a solo cup. Thereās no chaser in sight. Not even a Coke can. So you down the thing straight, fighting back the expression your face wants to contort to. You whip around when the group gets rowdy again. Castiel hobbles into the room clutching his tie.
āOhhh, looks like heās not letting anyone have it tonight.ā The guy with the camera giggles, gesturing at the tie: āThe headās really that bad?ā
āUnfortunately, Michael.ā Castiel limps to the counter beside you to get a drink. He casts a sideways glance at you. āWhatāre you staring for?ā
You stutter like you were caught doing something bad. āI just wanted to know what theyāre talking about. And if youāre okay.ā
āJesus, you really are ignorantā¦ā Castiel reaches for a second shot. He tugs at his tie like itās a badge of honor, then at his sagging jeans in an attempt to cover his obviously bruised ass. āā¦But youāre pretty. Dāya like guys?ā
For some reason the alcohol starts to hit you now. Not enough to be drunk, but enough to make you honest. You nod.
āThen Iām trying to figure out why you havenāt even tried to fuck me.ā
All of the blood in your body rushes down faster than you thought humanly possible. āYouā¦didnāt ask..ā
āYou donāt need to ask.ā Cas stumbles until heās leaning sloppily against you. āI belong to the St. Delta, the house and her visitors.ā A hand finds its way into his boxers and he starts panting. You donāt know what to do. Your back is against the kitchen counter and you justā¦let him. At least for now.
Heās so tired that he can hardly please himself with the proper formā itās kind of embarrassing how he looks more like a cheap body than anything else. Your lip twitches. Fuck it.
You pull his arm from his boxers and replace it with yours. You know what youāre doing because you take care of yourself. If this guy is so desperate for something, he needs to get it right.
Your hand squeezes him until he gags, working him just until the edge before stopping. He swaps positions with you against the counter and you have him pinned, causing the cups and cans on the counter to topple over. Castiel looks like heās going to fall over or throw up. Youāre not going to let that happen.
āIs this it? What you want?ā You ask like youāre guilty of something, but Cas is so into it that he almost looks hypnotized.
āMmhā¦mhmā¦.ā He presses his forehead to your chest. Castielās stupid shirt rises up higher and you can feel the muscles on his stomach grind against yours. Heās bigger than anyone youāve ever met. Thicker. Your tongue slips loose and suddenly all the thoughts in your head announce themselves to the room:
āWhat the fuckās your problem?ā
You donāt stop though. You pinch him and he gasps. Heās twitching in all the right ways and it makes you hungry for something you didnāt think youād ever indulge. Youāre in public, at a frat party of all places, the friends of your new toy standing across the room like nothingās new.
āItās okayā¦ā Castiel whines. āDoesnāt count if you have a purity ring.ā He says with complete seriousness, grabbing your bicep with his sticky hand and you feel the metal of his ring rub against you. Heās so proud of himself, so compliant and so willing to do whatever it is you want.
āNo wonder youāre the household toy,ā you spit on your hand and work him harder. āYou just say āyesā to everything. How do you function in class?ā
āI get good gradesā¦ā he whimpers. āIāunghā¦gonna get my masterās.ā
āYeah, Iām sure youāre looking for a few mastersā¦ā you scoff, squeezing him so he squeaks out his response.
āMāseriousāah!ā
āI donāt listen to dumb holes.ā
āMaybe a PhDā¦ā
āPaying so much for school just to pimp yourself out for free. Sounds pretty stupid to me.ā
You get him off quickly after feeling the crowd of eyes on you from across the room. Michael makes a lewd gesture, twisting his hands in front of his open jaw. He mouths something:
āTake his tie.ā
The others stick their tongues out and continue with the jeering. Castiel collapses against you, thighs shaking, sweating a storm. You catch him by the arms and set him on the alcohol and cum covered floor. The guyās in pure blissā youāre not one to kink shame but Christ is it impressive how okay with it he is. You hastily down another drink to cope with the feeling of what you just did. You take his tie off his neck and tuck it in your pocket.
āThatās the first time heās let someone take it without a fight.ā One of the guys announces. āI might need some of you later.ā
Thatās enough for one night. If youāre going to get your own rocks off itāll be in the privacy of your bathroom, replaying the image of Cas whining to you, his self-reporting shirt, the letters tattoed under his v-line, the ecstasy on his face when you forced a mess in his boxers better than anyone hereā
You wash your hand in the nearby sink, checking on Castiel periodically before you leave. His friends haul him up the floor and put him on the kitchen chair. One of his friends tells you that heās fine, and Cas confirms it.
āCome back next weekā¦ā Cas coos. āIāll be good for you.ā
Youāre definitely using that tie in the bathroom tonight. And considering joining a frat.
Get a kiss from an angel by joining my Taglist~šŖ½
summary: in every lifetime, sam winchester will find his way back to you
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: fluff, big soft hours | word count: 841
warnings: a couple mentions of guns, sam is so in love it hurts
dean's version
In this lifetime, youāre nothing special. Just you, with your nose buried in a book, feet up on the dash of the car, reading as Sam drives. Just you, with your seemingly endless knowledge of spells and counterspells, and a will strong enough to hold up even the most draining of wards. Just you, whoās nothing special. Right? Wrong. Youāre the most special thing in Samās life, because you think youāre nothing noteworthy. Thereās not a conversation that passes him by when heās out and about in which he doesnāt manage to work in a compliment or two about your skills. Heās completely, utterly, head over heels for you, and he wouldnāt trade it for the world. He feels it when youāre sitting in the bunker, leafing through lore. He sees it when you hit target after target in the bunkerās shooting range, hitting a bullseye every single shot. He sees it when youāre tucked against his side, fast asleep, the warmth flooding his chest nearly drawing tears to his eyes. Youāre his everything; his second half, his missing piece. And you will always be that, because you are forever his, no matter what.
In this lifetime, youāre two seashells at the beach, feeling the cool waves wash over your ridges. Sam is a delicate cream shell, flecks of pink and gold making their way into the colour, pale against the sand. Youāre a pale purple, a twisting ridge dancing across your shell. You lay side by side; two natural treasures of the world open to the sun and sky. The warmth of the sand warms you, and the coolness of the nighttime waves drown you in pleasure. Someday, a kid will come along and pick you up, turning you over in their grimy fingers before pocketing you. That same kid will inevitably turn towards Sam, tucking him in the pocket alongside you. Because where one of you goes, the other follows. Even if that happens to be the salty pocket of some kidās swimsuit.
In this lifetime, youāre freer than youāve ever been before. Youāre light as a feather, floating in the breeze. But youāre not a feather, and neither is Sam. You both came from the same place; the soft head of a pure white dandelion. You will both end up in the same place too; a field miles away, coming to rest gently in the tall grass of the untouched plain. You will take root and grow and change in that field, and Sam will be right there with you through it all. You will sit together and watch birds wheel overhead, point out the shapes of the clouds as they move above, unconsciously lean into each other when the nights get too cold. Samās warmth will flood into you even in this state, and itāll feel just right. Because this is how itās meant to be, just you and him, together in a field of your own, completely free.
In this lifetime, you have what you can only imagine to be perhaps one of the most intimate, perfect outcomes. You are two books, sitting together on a shelf. Not just any two books, no. Two books in a duology. The beginning and end and everything in between. The only compliment you need is each other, because where oneās tale has gaps, the other can fill them in. Where oneās story has plot holes, the other has the solutions. Cover to cover you sit on the shelf, pages well-loved and full of annotations. Highlighted words, dog-eared pages, suspicious stains that are likely coffee spilled in a careless moment. The domesticity of it all is what makes the moment, because you are loved. Your story has been read back to front and back again a million times, and someone has bothered to go through and highlight every shared moment, every touch, every breath.
No matter what happens to you two, you will always be with Sam. Because Sam doesnāt do anything halfway. He goes to the end, and you will happily follow him, wherever the story takes you. Heaven couldnāt tear you apart if they tried, because Samās grip on your essence is so tight that it would pull him apart to have you part from him. His footsteps will go first, making a path through heavy snow and tall weeds, and your footsteps will follow, mirroring his perfectly. Your hand will be in his, fingers intertwined, thumbs rubbing over knuckles with a tenderness found nowhere else. When you step into a bar with Sam, the hunters know who you are. Because you are Samās other half, the only person they can think of who knows more about the obscure and occult than him. The one who he will toss the shotgun to with no second thought, because he trusts you just that much. The only one other than Dean who can call him Sammy and get away with it (many have tried, and all have failed. Sam plays favourites). The perfect love story. The perfect couple. In every universe.
I totally get hating your old fics, believe me, but it was a stepping stone for you and it was still great, that just shows how amazing your writing is. And I'm kinda glad it's an old one, bc if you wrote it now I'd be balling and I don't want my bedtime stories to do that to me EVERY night, thank you.
Dean Winchester lay sprawled on the cheap motel sheets, legs hooked high over your shoulders, the blinds shut tight and the "Do Not Disturb" sign keeping the world out. Your thick cock drove into him in long, deliberate strokes, grinding straight against his prostate with every slow roll of your hips.
"Shitā¦ youāre gonna break me," Dean groaned, voice hoarse and shaky. His freckled chest rose and fell fast, cock flushed dark and drooling steadily onto his stomach.
You had been teasing him for hours. Every time his breathing hitched and his thighs started to shake, you eased off the stroke on his cock, leaving him clenching and empty, orgasm slipping away. He whined, hips jerking, trying to fuck himself back onto you.
"Youāre such a bastard," he panted, hole fluttering around your shaft.
You answered by circling your hips, pressing right on that swollen spot inside him while your fist stayed motionless around his leaking cock. "You love every second of it," you murmured against his throat, biting down just hard enough to make him shudder.
Deanās moan cracked. His rim squeezed you tight. You started stroking him againāslow, focused on the slick headāwhile your cock hammered his prostate in short, brutal thrusts. The pressure built fast this time, different, deeper, almost too much.
His eyes rolled, thighs trembling hard against your shoulders. His cock jerked in your grip, and you didnāt stop. You kept fucking him through it, nailing that spot over and over.
Deanās whole body locked up. A sudden, powerful jet of clear fluid erupted from his cock, splashing hot across his chest and abs. His hole clamped down hard, spasming as thick white ropes of cum followed, mixing with the clear squirt and painting his torso in messy streaks. He kept pulsing, hole milking your cock in rhythmic squeezes while you fucked him straight through every wave.
When it finally ebbed, Dean went limp, legs sliding off your shoulders, chest heaving, eyes glassy. His skin glistened on with the mix. You stayed buried inside his twitching hole and leaned down to kiss him slow and deep, tasting the wrecked little sounds he made against your tongue.
sleepyhead
dyin' on your front porch
take your time
in every lifetime
rangifer
settle | part 2
fireworks
relax
scrapbook
soft heart, soft arms
pretty
be my valentine ?
care for you
graphite
touch
rainy season
safe place
song without words
lifeboat
your day
roadhouse siren
just a child
24 across
ą¹ą£ā angst !
we all break a little
one final death
chasing cars | roadkill
means to me
love, left behind
ą¹ą£ā smut (mdni) !
i trusted you | i trust you (mdni)
long road home | part 2 (mdni)
chapstick (mdni)
first (mdni)
control (mdni)
sweet dreams (mdni)
imma start making a tally of which fics I have read and which are next on the list bc going to bed just after reading your work is the absolute best. Expect me to slowly make my way through all of the fluff you have to offer
summary: in every lifetime, sam winchester will find his way back to you
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: fluff, big soft hours | word count: 841
warnings: a couple mentions of guns, sam is so in love it hurts
dean's version
In this lifetime, youāre nothing special. Just you, with your nose buried in a book, feet up on the dash of the car, reading as Sam drives. Just you, with your seemingly endless knowledge of spells and counterspells, and a will strong enough to hold up even the most draining of wards. Just you, whoās nothing special. Right? Wrong. Youāre the most special thing in Samās life, because you think youāre nothing noteworthy. Thereās not a conversation that passes him by when heās out and about in which he doesnāt manage to work in a compliment or two about your skills. Heās completely, utterly, head over heels for you, and he wouldnāt trade it for the world. He feels it when youāre sitting in the bunker, leafing through lore. He sees it when you hit target after target in the bunkerās shooting range, hitting a bullseye every single shot. He sees it when youāre tucked against his side, fast asleep, the warmth flooding his chest nearly drawing tears to his eyes. Youāre his everything; his second half, his missing piece. And you will always be that, because you are forever his, no matter what.
In this lifetime, youāre two seashells at the beach, feeling the cool waves wash over your ridges. Sam is a delicate cream shell, flecks of pink and gold making their way into the colour, pale against the sand. Youāre a pale purple, a twisting ridge dancing across your shell. You lay side by side; two natural treasures of the world open to the sun and sky. The warmth of the sand warms you, and the coolness of the nighttime waves drown you in pleasure. Someday, a kid will come along and pick you up, turning you over in their grimy fingers before pocketing you. That same kid will inevitably turn towards Sam, tucking him in the pocket alongside you. Because where one of you goes, the other follows. Even if that happens to be the salty pocket of some kidās swimsuit.
In this lifetime, youāre freer than youāve ever been before. Youāre light as a feather, floating in the breeze. But youāre not a feather, and neither is Sam. You both came from the same place; the soft head of a pure white dandelion. You will both end up in the same place too; a field miles away, coming to rest gently in the tall grass of the untouched plain. You will take root and grow and change in that field, and Sam will be right there with you through it all. You will sit together and watch birds wheel overhead, point out the shapes of the clouds as they move above, unconsciously lean into each other when the nights get too cold. Samās warmth will flood into you even in this state, and itāll feel just right. Because this is how itās meant to be, just you and him, together in a field of your own, completely free.
In this lifetime, you have what you can only imagine to be perhaps one of the most intimate, perfect outcomes. You are two books, sitting together on a shelf. Not just any two books, no. Two books in a duology. The beginning and end and everything in between. The only compliment you need is each other, because where oneās tale has gaps, the other can fill them in. Where oneās story has plot holes, the other has the solutions. Cover to cover you sit on the shelf, pages well-loved and full of annotations. Highlighted words, dog-eared pages, suspicious stains that are likely coffee spilled in a careless moment. The domesticity of it all is what makes the moment, because you are loved. Your story has been read back to front and back again a million times, and someone has bothered to go through and highlight every shared moment, every touch, every breath.
No matter what happens to you two, you will always be with Sam. Because Sam doesnāt do anything halfway. He goes to the end, and you will happily follow him, wherever the story takes you. Heaven couldnāt tear you apart if they tried, because Samās grip on your essence is so tight that it would pull him apart to have you part from him. His footsteps will go first, making a path through heavy snow and tall weeds, and your footsteps will follow, mirroring his perfectly. Your hand will be in his, fingers intertwined, thumbs rubbing over knuckles with a tenderness found nowhere else. When you step into a bar with Sam, the hunters know who you are. Because you are Samās other half, the only person they can think of who knows more about the obscure and occult than him. The one who he will toss the shotgun to with no second thought, because he trusts you just that much. The only one other than Dean who can call him Sammy and get away with it (many have tried, and all have failed. Sam plays favourites). The perfect love story. The perfect couple. In every universe.
summary: after everything he's been through, sam's health isn't what it used to be. even now after it's all over, he still gets nasty migraines on occasion; you're always there to help him through them
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: fluff n comfort | word count: 3.0k
warnings: migraines, non-sexual nudity (bath), sam being a clingy, sleepy giant when he's hurting, just comforting fluff
notes: this was an idea i had in my drafts that @andmeiamherdagger then completely soul-read me about and so now i am posting it yippee !!
taglist | k's AMA - Feb 21st to 28th
Samās holed up in the library when it hits. Itās early afternoon, the soft sunlight filtering in through the windows and the thin layer of frost that covers the panes. It drifts over the pages of his book as he turns them, kicking up dust with each page. The words start to blur across the pages, but he pays it no mind; he hasnāt been sleeping well lately, after all. Itās only when the hot flashes start that he gets concerned. Ropes of heat cycling through his body like a rising wave that consumes him. It makes him shiver when it settles in his bones, and the chills that set in shortly after make him exhale a shaky sigh.
He debates going to search for you, ultimately tossing the idea when he remembers youāre out on a grocery run right now. Youāre the only person he trusts when heās this vulnerable; not even Dean gets to see him at his lowest like this. When itās only him and Dean at the bunker, heāll stay locked in his room when the migraines hit, only coming out to search for water or some scraps of whatever Dean cooked for them. But when youāre here, heās much more willing to seek out your comfort. As awful as the headaches are, you always seem to know exactly what he needs to forget about the worst of his pains.
Eyes returning to the page, heās halfway through the paragraph when the pain starts. Itās deep in his muscles, laying dormant until moments like these. It rears its head, first in his back, the scar from a stabbing years ago making him feel like heās reliving it. The burning pain only spreads from there, radiating up into his neck and the back of his head, while another tendril spreads down into his right hip and knee, settling in them with teeth like hellhounds. Sam shakes out his hand trying to rid himself of the tingles, to no avail. They bite back stronger and harsher, playing with him like a puppy might play with a chew toy.
He manages to get through one more paragraph before the faint sunlight pricks at his eyes, tunneling deep into his brain and playing tennis with it. His ears start to ring faintly, an echo of the pain that pierces his skull. The next word Sam tries to read devolves into black pinpricks as the pain shoots into his eye, pulsing in the socket with a vengeance unlike anything heās felt. This one, he already knows, is the worst one heās had in years; not since he was plagued with visions nearly 20 years ago.
Pushing his palms against his eyes does nothing, and when a particularly violent pain brews beneath his skin, his head tips forward to the table with a harsh thud. Sam winces minutely, not finding the energy in him to care. The pain from the table is nothing compared to the pain in his head, but at least that one will go away soon. The hurt in his brain will bury its vines in him for longer, roping him back until heās tied to his own body, subject to its whims.
Thereās a knock from the doorframe and Deanās rough voice carrying loud across the room.
āSammy?ā Dean says. āYāalright?ā
Sam makes a dismissive sound low in his throat, slowly picking his head up as if itās full of rocks. It might as well be for how strong his ears are ringing now, like pebbles floating around and knocking off each other at every turn. Deanās voice is too loud, the light from the windows too bright, and he can feel everything a hundred times more vividly than usual. Even the sliding of his socked feet on the floor makes him groan in discomfort.
āWoah, hey, look at me, Sammy,ā Dean says, grabbing Samās shoulders and hauling him up.
Samās head lolls uselessly, but heās still conscious, fighting the fire in his head. His big hands scrape uselessly at his face, trying to brush the long strands of his hair back from his half-lidded eyes.
āWhat do you need, Sam?ā Dean asks.
He gestures uselessly around, whining softly when another wave hits. Samās phone rings on the table, your contact name flashing on the screen. Dean picks it up, unlocking it. Sam knows he should feel some sort of his usual shame with the way heās burdening Dean with his problems and his pain. Dean never complains, but Sam canāt help but feel guilty.
āHey,ā Dean says, answering your phone. āWhere are you?ā
āI was just about to tell you Iām on my way back. Dean, is everything- why are you answering?ā
āUh.ā Dean points to Sam before remembering you canāt see him. āItās Sam.ā
Your breath hitches. āWhat about Sam? Is he alright?ā
āIām fi-.ā Samās voice is weak and raspy, and Dean cuts him off.
āHeās not, donāt listen to him.ā
You hum. āSam? āS it your head again?ā
āAgain? Whatddya mean, again?ā Dean asks.
āYeah, he gets migraines every so often. Did he- did he never tell you?ā you ask.
āNope,ā Dean replies.
āāS- ow. Dizzy.ā Samās voice is barely more than a whisper, but you hear it all with those instincts that are tuned in to everything Sam.
āOkay, okay. Iām coming home, give me ten minutes.ā
You canāt see, but Sam smiles gratefully behind the phone, already resting his head on his arms at the table and stretching out his long legs, hoping to stretch out the aches from his joints. He sighs softly when his eyes flutter shut, although he knows sleep wonāt come; heās in too much pain to get any meaningful rest.
āThanks,ā Sam whispers.
āāCourse. Dean, make sure he gets his ass in bed please,ā you say, no room for argument in his tone.
āYep.ā
Dean hangs up, tossing Samās phone back on the table. He slides the book out from under Samās head, ignoring his brotherās muttered complaints.
āAlright, up you get Sasquatch.ā
Dean hoists his brother up by the armpits, wrapping one of Samās arms around his shoulders as they half-walk half-stumble down the hallway. Samās long legs get tangled around each other in his lack of coordination, and he all but completely collapses into the bed, flat on his back and arm flung over his eyes.
āYou wantā¦somethinā?ā Dean asks, wildly unsure of how to deal with the situation.
āNo,ā Sam mumbles. āJust-.ā
āJust waitinā till the grocery runner comes back.ā
Sam huffs a pained sigh.
āAlright. Wonāt even make fun āf you this time.ā Dean steps out, closing the door just a little too loudly.
The position Samās in is uncomfortable, but he canāt bring himself to turn. Too much energy he doesnāt have. It wraps around him like a shroud, the exhaustion, covering him until he can barely breathe or think coherently, or much at all. Time dilates until the seconds feel like TV static, and then your footsteps echo softly down the hallway. While Deanās steps echo loud, yours tread soft, already starting to soothe Sam despite the distance.
You creak the door open slow, knowing the exact speed to prevent the hinges from squeaking. Sam groans when he feels you approach the bedside, feeling the way the mattress dips with your weight as you sit by his shoulder.
āHowāre you feeling, Sammy?ā you whisper, hand stroking his hair back from his forehead.
āBad,ā he says weakly. āHurts.ā
āI know,ā you soothe. āDid you take your meds yet?ā
Sam shakes his head, recoiling when it only makes the ache worse.
āWhere do you hurt?ā you ask, already knowing the answer.
āEāerywhere. āS worst ān māhead ānd my leg.ā
Heās slurring the words, too tired and hurting too much to bother with making intelligent conversation. You already know which leg he means; the right one, same one thatās been giving him trouble for years. You rub gently at his hip, earning yourself a slight untensing from the muscles there and a tentative exhale from Sam.
āIāll get your meds, okay? Iāll be right back, love.ā
āMākay.ā
Sam waits not-so-patiently for you to come back, arm pressed over his eyes ever stronger, like he can physically hold back the pain through brute force alone. Relief courses through him when you come back with his meds and a glass of water, and he eagerly gulps them down. They taste sour going down, but the relief they bring is more than enough to convince him to take them without complaint.
āStay,ā Sam begs, hand gripping into your shirt.
āOkay. I can stay.ā
You kiss his forehead, tugging the blanket up around his body. Heās already in a hoodie from earlier, and although heās uncomfortable sleeping in his jeans, neither of you make any move to change them out for something better. Samās arms wrap around you before you can settle yourself under the sheets, tugging you close until he can bury his face in your stomach and block out the world.
āFeeling tired yet, love?ā you ask.
Sam hums low and raspy into your shirt, arms tightening momentarily around you. You smile, kissing the top of his head and running your fingers through his hair. The meds he takes for these migraines always take it right out of him, numbing the pain until he forgets about it and making him so drowsy he has no choice but to succumb to sleep. Dean tried them once for a one-off headache he had, and while it solved the pain, he was up and wandering around right until they wore off. Another little quirk of Samās, most likely.
Already he feels heavy and warm with sleep against you, arms and one leg wrapped up in you like heās afraid to let you go. Sam knows heās usually a physical touch kind of guy, but when heās hurting, he has no shame in admitting all he needs is to cuddle you until he feels better. Heās drifting off mere minutes after taking his pills, his grip around you loosening until he drops into a deep sleep. The last thing he registers before darkness surrounds him is your heartbeat in his ear and your fingers teasing through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp.
The clock on the bedroom wall ticks softly as it brings Sam back into wakefulness, the gentle rhythmic movement of the hands a symphony to his drowsy ears. He blinks once, eyes squinting shut against the light darkness of the room. One hand wanders for where your bodyās supposed to be, coming up with nothing but air. He realizes then that his head is on a pillow instead of your chest; you must have swapped it while he was out.
Heās wildly disoriented, not entirely sure what day it is anymore, much less whatās going on. Last thing he remembers is sitting at the library table flipping through a book, and now, heās twisted in blankets, face down in a pillow, hood flipped up over his head. A soft groan slips through his sleep-swollen lips, and he rubs a hand over his eyes. Sam can feel the pillow creases across his face, one long one going from the corner of his mouth all the way up to near his eyebrow. Hair flopping in his eyes, clothes rumpled and bunched up at the hems, he looks like heās been hibernating for years, not napping for a few hours.
Your voice floats in from the doorway, and Sam rubs his bleary eyes, turning halfway over on his forearms to look at you.
āHey there sleepyhead,ā you coo. āFeeling better?ā
āYeah.ā Samās voice is rough, deeper than it usually gets even when he's tired, worn raspy by the sheer weight of his exhaustion.
You smile lightly, stepping into the room, the door still slightly ajar.
āHow lo-.ā Samās cut off by a wide yawn that stretches the tenseness from his jaw. He scrapes a hand down his face in an attempt to clear the residual sleep from his features.
āItās been, uhā¦threeā¦almost four hours,ā you say, poorly concealing a laugh. āYou alive over there?ā
āHm,ā Sam hums lowly. Another smaller yawn breaks his features, and he burrows further into the blanket nest.
You drop onto the mattress beside him, rubbing your hands up and down his back through the blankets and fabric of his hoodie. There's more blanket lines on his arms where the sleeves are rolled up, Sam notices, but all he can focus on is the way your hands feel. The rhythmic passage of them across his broad shoulders stays for several minutes, massaging out some of the tension in his neck. He's about to drop off into sleep again when your voice cuts through the fog.
āCāmon, letās get you up. I made dinner, if youāre hungry.ā
Sam extracts himself from the blankets, swaying slightly on his feet when a bout of dizziness hits. Slowly, balancing himself on you, he walks to the kitchen where Deanās already waiting, bowl of soup on the table before him.
āHeya Sa-,ā Dean starts, frowning when he sees his brotherās frazzled state. āYāalright? You look awful.ā
āShut up,ā Sam mumbles, plunking into a chair.
Dean laughs, but thereās no real humour. āāM serious, you look terrible. Did- Your head doinā any better?ā
Sam nods, scrubbing his eyes again.
Deanās lips purse as he nods. āSo how come you didnāt wanna tell me ābout this?ā
A touch of guilt returns to Samās body, but heās too spent to argue with Dean about it.
āDidnāt want you to worry, Dean. Youāve worried about me for, hell, forty years. You donāt have to keep doing that now.ā
āSammy, Iām never not gonna worry ābout you.ā
Sam smiles softly, accepting the bowl from your warm hands. You peck his cheek, and he savours the way he melts into your touch. Finishing dinner takes him a while, but each bite gives him more strength than he had before. Itās only after he almost falls back asleep at the table that you haul him back to the bedroom, dragging him into the bathroom with you.
āWhat- whatās happening?ā Sam asks as your fingers start to slide his hoodie over his head.
āYou, Sammy, are taking a bath. I, am going to make sure the bedās comfy.ā
āWhy?ā
You chuckle. āWhat, you want me to stay? I can stay.ā
āWant you to wash my hair. Please.ā
How could you say no when he says it so gently? āOkay. Get in the tub then, giant.ā
Stripped of his clothes and the bath adjusted to his tastes, he slides into the water, feeling the heat already work away at his tensed muscles. A weighty sigh slips past his lips as he tips his head back against the wall, sinking as far in as his legs will allow. If he bends at the knees, his chest mostly slides under the water, and he tips one leg down to make sure his sore knee gets attention.
Your soapy hands through his hair feel like a miracle of the highest order bestowed to him. Sam loses himself in the way you handle him so gently, despite knowing he wonāt break. Itās the thought that you care about him enough to treat him like heās fragile that means the most to him. His thoughts drift together into one ribbon weaving through his head, then dissipate into blissful nothing, surrounded by warmth and your steady, loving hands.
āSam, love?ā you say, shaking his shoulder.
It only feels like mere seconds, and he frowns. He blinks his eyes open, finding your kind, smiling face looking down at him, cheeks softened by the heat of the water and the room. He examines himself, finding the patch of dirt on his elbow from earlier completely gone.
āDid I fall asleep again?ā he mumbles.
āMhm. Youāre good to come out now, if you want.ā
With a heave that makes him feel a hundred years older than he really is, he picks himself out of the tub, wrapping the towel you hold out to him around his hips. He stands there uselessly as you drain the tub, only moving when you take a second towel and start drying off his hair. You squeeze the water from the ends in a way that never pulls, but still gets all the moisture out, and Sam sighs at your attentiveness.
When heās dried off and walked back into the bedroom, you help him dress in the worn sweatpants youād intended to put him in earlier. He protests you putting a hoodie or a shirt on, saying heāll get too hot with it, but you know what he really wants; the contact, the proof that the migraine didnāt sweep him up and away. He still feels the residual traces of it gnawing at his bones and muscles, but a bone-deep exhaustion that a solid full night of sleep will fix resides there too.
Sam takes only one of his meds this time, hoping itāll wash away the final traces of pain. Just like before, just like every time this happens, Sam settles in first, tugging you close and sprawling across you as best he can until heās blissfully comfortable. You tug your arm from under him, wrapping it over his back and resting your palm somewhere between his shoulder blades. You press one light kiss to his lips, then a second to the side of his head before settling back, turning out the lamp, and letting yourself drift off with him. The doorās still open at Samās request, the cool air rushing over his bare back doing wonders for his temperature regulation. Dean will surely come by at some point and close it, but not before peeking in and grinning softly at the two of you tangled together.
You both know that Sam will wake up beyond disoriented tomorrow, and heāll probably sleep in way later than he normally would, but thatās just what these awful headaches do to him. They take him right out, leaving him floundering on the battlefield like a soldier until you come to drag him home again, pulling the arrows from his brain and soothing his aching joints with your tender touches. You both know that Samās going to wake up with lines from your shirt all across his chest, and you both know heāll be sluggish all day tomorrow, but youāll gladly navigate through the consequences with him if it means heās not alone. Because your favourite part about loving Sam Winchester is how easily you can care for him.
Once again, k crushes it with my happy bedtime story.
OKAY BUT Sammy IS fragile, and precious, and the most deserving of pampering and affection and gentle care in the world!!! And washing his hair ughhhhh I need to do that immediately. No joke. Lemme do it.
And, in honour of you, you fantastic author, I listened to Gregory Alan Isakov while reading this in my cozy lil spot (I've been meaning to for so long) and it made it so much better. I felt sleepy along with Sam and also UGH the meds only making Sam sleepy kills me. My sweet boy <3
So, yet again, ty for the sweet lil fic and never stop writing comfort for Sam this healed the moose-shaped hole in my heart just a little bit more, thank you š§”
dean winchester as the filling in an angel sandwich !!
The air in the crawlspace was thick with dust, ancient magic, and the oppressive, metallic tang of old copper piping. It was a maintenance shaft, barely wider than a manās shoulders, that ran behind the walls of the old warehouse. It was also the only place to hide when a dozen demons had swarmed the main floor, their arrival a nasty surprise for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission.
You were pressed against the cold, corrugated metal of the far wall, your vesselās form humming with a barely contained energy that was the equivalent of a humanās anxiety. It wasn't fear for yourself; it was the acute, sharp-edged concern for the two beings you shared this cramped space with. Your partner, Castiel, had his back to the opposite wall, his worn trench coat brushing against the grime. And between you, trapped in the most literal sense imaginable, was Dean Winchester.
Dean was the filling. The very unwilling, very overheated, very mortified filling of the most impossible sandwich in the history of the universe.
He was pressed between you and Cas with an intimacy that would have made a lesser man pass out. His shoulder blades were flush against Castielās chest, and he could feel the hard, unyielding plane of the angelās body through his own flannel shirt. Lower down, the pressure was even more distinct: the unmistakable, solid warmth of Castielās hips and groin was firmly, unshakeably nestled against the curve of his ass. He was trying, with every fiber of his being, not to think about the fact that an angel of the Lord was essentially spooning him against his will.
And then there was you. You were his front. He was face-to-boobs with you, his nose practically brushing the fabric of your shirt. His hands, at his sides, were trapped uselessly. His hips, however, were not. They were pressed directly against you, the hard line of his arousal (and yes, he was trying to will it away, trying to think about Samās dirty socks, taxidermy, reruns of Dr. Sexy, M.D., Castiel dressed as a nun- wow, rewind, he'd definetely have to explore that thought later in the shower- anything) making a desperate, unwanted connection with the soft strength of your thighs and the tempting apex of your legs.
His face was the color of a ripe tomato. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. He was a furnace.
And you and Cas were completely oblivious to his state.
āThe primary threat has been neutralized,ā Castiel stated, his voice a low, rumbling hum that vibrated through Deanās back. He was utterly, infuriatingly calm. His posture was relaxed against the wall. He might as well have been standing in a park. āHowever, the secondary wave is sweeping the eastern perimeter. We are, for the moment, undetectable. We should remain in situ.ā
āAgreed,ā you replied, your voice a melodic whisper that was just as level. Dean could feel your breath puff against his hair. āThe residual energy from the sigils on the outer walls are masking our presence. To move now would be to risk alerting them. Theyāre hunting, not just guarding. Theyāll be thorough.ā
Cas gave a curt nod, the movement of his head brushing against the short hairs at the nape of Deanās neck. āThen we wait. It is the most logical course of action.ā
Dean clenched his jaw. He was going to have a stroke. He was going to die of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 20-something between two beings that were literally the definition of divine, and his ghost was going to haunt Sam forever, he'd make damn sure of it.
āHey, uh, guys?ā Dean interjected, his voice coming out a little higher than heād like, strangled and croaky. āNot to interrupt your book club, but any chance we can figure this outĀ beforeĀ I spontaneously combust?ā
You looked at him, your brow furrowing in that charmingly perplexed way of yours. āSpontaneous combustion in humans is a result of internal, not external, factors, Dean. You are not in danger of catching fire.ā
āIām not so sure about that,ā he muttered, trying to subtly shift his hips to relieve the pressure against his own. It was a terrible idea. The minute he moved, the fabric of his jeans dragged against you, and he felt his own body betray him with an immediate, traitorous twitch. He froze, his face flushing a deep, mortifying red.
āYou are agitated,ā Castiel himmed in, his voice holding a note of clinical observation. āYour heart rate is elevated and your temperature is increasing.ā
āGee, ya think?ā Dean gritted out, his voice strangled.
"I am certain, these are facts."
"Can't we just make a run for i-"
He was cut off. Not by a word, but by a gesture so casual, so utterly dismissive, it sent a jolt of pure, electrified shock straight to his core. Castiel, without a single break in his composure, lifted a hand and placed it on the back of Deanās head. With a gentle, but inexorable, shove, he pushed.
Deanās face was unceremoniously smushed into your chest.
"Dean, you must cease speaking and let us discuss the course of action."
It was soft. It was warm. And it smelled like ozone, clean linen, and something uniquely you. His mouth was parted in surprise, and his lips were pressed directly against the swell of your breast, his nose buried in the fabric at your sternum. The scent was dizzying, an angelic perfume that was both calming and wildly, terrifyingly arousing.
A strangled, choked-off sound escaped his throat. He jerked, a purely instinctual reaction. His hips bucked forward into the cradle of your thighs, his now-hard cock grinding against you. The contact was electrifying, a shocking jolt of pleasure that shot straight to his core. Then, as if on a rebound, he jerked back, his ass pressing firmly against Castielās crotch, and he could feel the angelās answering hardness there too. It was a full-circle moment of absolute, dizzying mortification.
He felt like a bug pinned to a board.
Castiel continued his statement, his voice not so much as wavering. āAs the structural integrity of these older edifices is often compromised. A move would be ill-advised.ā
You, meanwhile, were looking down at the mop of short, sandy-brown hair now pressed against your chest. Your eyes, which were your most expressive feature, flickered with a complex mix of amusement, fondness, and a spark of something deeper, something that bordered on hunger. You didnāt move him. You simply let him stay there, his face buried in your cleavage, his body trembling between you and Cas.
He let out a muffled, desperate sound against your chest, a sound that was part protest and part plea, his hands finally coming to grasp at your hips in search of stability.
āDean,ā you said softly, your voice a gentle murmur. āThe pressure of your discomfort isā¦ loud. Itās creating a distress signal. If you could perhapsā¦ calm yourself? It will help maintain our cover.ā
It was the kindest, most condescending thing anyone had ever said to him while he was using their chest as a pillow.
Dean tried to mumble a protest, but it was muffled by fabric. He could feel your heartbeat, steady and slow, like a drumbeat beneath his ear. He could feel the faint, ethereal warmth of your vesselās skin. And behind him, he could feel Castiel, stoic and unmoving as a statue, a solid, unshakeable presence that was too close and not close enough.
He felt insignificant. He felt small. He felt human, fragile, mortal, caught between two cosmic forces that had decided, for some inexplicable reason, that he was interesting. He was a butterfly pinned in a box. An object of reverence and curiosity.
And it was the most insane, humiliating, and utterly amazing thing heād ever felt.
He barely caught what Castiel said, too focused on keeping the grip of his fingers on your hips not too tight but not too loose either. He only caught onto your response.
āI know. But it is the most efficient solution. We are in a confined space, and our primary objective is to remain undetected until we can complete our mission.ā
āYes,ā Cas agreed. āDean is a variable we must account for.ā
Dean, for his part, had never felt less like a variable in his entire life. He felt more like a human-shaped, easily-breakable, and incredibly horny chess piece in a game played by beings far beyond his comprehension. He felt small, insignificant, and utterly at the mercy of the two celestial beings who were currently discussing him like he was a mildly disruptive cargo they were transporting.
It was, he realized with a shudder that was definitely not entirely from the cold, also a major turn-on.
He swallowed, his throat dry. He was so utterly, completely screwed.
The next thing he knew, Castielās voice was soft in his ear. āThe way is clear. We can go now, Dean.ā
Dean was unceremoniously shoved from the confines of the small space. He stumbled into the dimly lit corridor, his legs weak, his face a flaming beacon of mortification. He felt like a man who had gone straight to heaven and been summarily kicked back down to earth, all in the span of twenty minutes. He stood there, blinking, trying to remember how to walk.
Sam was waiting standing by the Impala, a few blocks away, his face a mask of concern that quickly morphed into a baffled frown as Dean entered his visual camp, a little breathless, his face still glowing with a tell-tale flush.
Dean clapped him on the shoulder with a little too much force. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown wide, he looked like heād just stared straight into god's eyes.
āDean?ā Sam asked, following his brother as they took their seats inside the car, his face creasing with confusion. āYou okay? You lookā¦ weird. Did you hit your head?ā
You and Cas slipped into the backseat as if you hadnāt just provided the most intense sexual experience of Deanās life without even touching him below the waist.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He didnāt answer. He couldnāt. His mind was still back in that closet.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. You were looking out the window, your face placid. Cas was looking at Dean, his head tilted in that familiar, bird-like way. There was a hint of something in the angelās gaze, something that looked a lot like amusement.
Dean swallowed, his voice croaking out a single word. āBeer. I need beer.ā
He needed a lot of it. And maybe a cold shower. And another one of these hunts. Anything to get back in that closet. This time, he thought, a wild, reckless thought, maybe they wouldnāt be in such a hurry to leave.
Sam Winchester was a mess on the couch.You had him pressed back against the cushions, one hand down the front of his jeans, stroking his thick, leaking cock while your mouth devoured his. Sam moaned into the kiss, tongue sliding desperately against yours as his hips twitched up into your fist.
The kiss was messy and hungry ā all tongue and teeth and soft, desperate sounds. Samās large hands gripped your shoulders, fingers digging in as you worked him over inside his pants.You stroked him slow and firm, thumb swiping over the slick head every time you pulled back. He was so wet already, precum soaking into his boxers and making the slide filthy and perfect.āFuckā donāt stop,ā
Sam gasped against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. His cock throbbed hard in your hand, twitching as you kept jerking him off.You kissed him deeper, tongue fucking into his mouth as your hand moved faster. Sam whimpered, hips jerking up into your fist, chasing the pleasure.You could tell he was close. His thighs were trembling, breathing turning into short, desperate pants between kisses.
His cock swelled even thicker in your hand, leaking steadily.Sam moaned loudly into your mouth as he came hard, thick ropes of cum spilling into his boxers and soaking through his jeans.
His cock pulsed and jerked in your grip with every spurt, his body shuddering against yours as the orgasm ripped through him.He kept kissing you through it, soft and sloppy, like he couldnāt bear to pull away even while he was falling apart.
When he finally calmed down, Sam buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and lingering pleasure.
The car was already rocking hard on the deserted back road, headlights off, stars sharp overhead. You had Ben bent over the warm hood, his jeans and boxers shoved down around his ankles, thick thighs spread wide as you fucked him deep and raw. Your hips snapped forward with every thrust, driving your cock into his tight, scorching heat while the metal creaked and dented under his gripping hands.
Benās back arched, a guttural groan tearing from his throat each time you bottomed out and ground against his prostate. You had one hand pinning his wrists together behind his back, keeping him locked in place, while your other hand stroked his thick, leaking cock in perfect rhythm with your thrustsāfirm, fast pulls that had him leaking steadily onto the glossy black paint.
āFuckāharder,ā Ben growled, voice rough and broken, pushing back against you even as his super-strength warped the hood. āDonāt you fucking slow down.ā
You tightened your grip on his pinned wrists and drove in deeper, voice low and rough against his ear. āThatās it. Take every inch.ā
You gave him exactly what he wanted, slamming into him harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet night. Every thrust nailed his prostate dead-on, making his powerful legs tremble and his cock throb in your fist. You kept railing him without mercy, angling your hips just right.
āShitāright thereāfuck, youāre deep,ā he snarled, forehead pressed to the dented metal. His body rocked with every powerful snap of your hips, ass clenching greedily around your cock. āKeep hitting itāah, fuckāā
You pounded into his prostate relentlessly, stroking his cock faster, thumb swiping over the slick head on every upstroke and smearing precum across the warm hood. The car rocked harder with each thrust, metal groaning under his grip as his super-strength flared. Benās moans grew more broken, his hips jerking back to meet you.
You leaned in closer, breath hot against his neck. āLook at you. Taking it so well for me.ā
āGoddamnāgonna comeādonāt you fucking pull out,ā he gasped, voice cracking. āStroke me fasterāshit, Iām closeāā
You gave him everything, hips snapping brutally, hand flying over his leaking length. āCome on, Benny. Let go.ā
Until his whole body seized. Ben came with a loud, wrecked shout, thick ropes of cum shooting across the hood, painting the black paint white and messy. His ass clenched tight around your cock, pulsing rhythmically as he trembled through the orgasm, still pushing back against you like he couldnāt get enough.
The feeling pushed you over the edge. You buried yourself deep one last time and came hard, groaning low as you filled his twitching hole with pulse after pulse of hot cum. You kept thrusting through it, slow and deep, pushing your load further inside him while he panted and twitched beneath you, cum still dripping from his cock onto the dented hood.
When the last spasms faded, you stayed buried inside him for a long moment, both of you breathing hard under the stars, the car hood warm and marked with the evidence of how long youād been doing this.
It was suffocating, arousingly suffocating. Your nails digging into the sides of his neck as you squeezed a smidge harder. It made him feel alive, in a fucked up way. Knowing you held his life in your hands, knowing you could just take it at any moment, it got him going.
You were hesitant but not overly opposed. You knew he liked it when you were rough, always paying extra attention when you were in a fight he knew you would win. The way you'd punch, the way you'd kick. He wished it was him. It was odd.
He didn't know why he liked it, he shouldve felt numb to it at this point. All the pain. Hes been living through it all his life, so why now. Why with you does he want it, want the suffering to come from your hands only.
Maybe that was love, he knew you wouldn't hurt him, knew that you did it all with love. Not the harsh hatred he was used to.
"It is to much?" You asked and he immediately shook his head, "h-harder, I-I can take it" he gasped out just barley before a soft groan followed. All thoughts going straight out the window, he could understand one aspect he liked about it. The feeling, the emptiness that always came with being on the verge of passing out.
No overthinking, no remembering. Just being. Being with you, his angel, his God given solace. Something that he thought he would never get.
This is just a small drabble but I read one of my moots drabbles here abt dean and pain and HAD to write smth with choking (also if you know where that quote i used is from you get a prize :3)
cw pressing on bruises, pet names. established relationship!
dean likes when you press on his bruises. a blushing purple fans the curve of his bicep and bleeds into pink, then to skin, freckled and kissed a subtle tan from earlier sun. he sighs against the mattress and stares up at your pretty face.
hurt makes him feel alive. abrasions remind him that he's man and skin and blood and give him something like an adrenaline rush. he strangely finds that his lips want to curl when his stomach is beaten and his back is scraping into dirt ground. ache is nice, the pummeling indescribably easy to take.
it's best here, with you. he doesn't have to worry about fighting back or being sore all over when tomorrow comes. you just touch over the rotten spots already there with such soft, soothing fingers and palms.
his hands trace around your waist, almost shaking, needing badly though he isn't sure what. cheeks figgy, lashes crowning his eyes heavy. you're an angel and he wants you to smother him forever.
"baby," he breathes. you knead the bruise, his lungs hiccup.
thighs warm to both sides of his lap, you hum and pause.
"does it hurt too bad?"
"no, s'good. it's nice. please don't stop."
so nothingburger and i am so tired but had this thought and wanted to give it life
Okay but yes, just YES. My masochistic baby needs someone to make it hurt so good (badumtss) and not go too far, never bad, just the nice little sting, ughhh your writing always gets me omg
Hello what if you did ditzy Castiel but made a version where heās a dumb sex obsessed frat boy Iām sorry if that doesnāt make sense šš
Omg I think Himbo Frat Boy!Castiel is my new faveā¦
I think Himbo!Cas would have to be approached with nuance because heās not a traditional āparty boyā, but definitely chases the adrenaline kick you get at a crazy party.
During the day he goes by Jimmy. Jimmy looks like the most respectable member of the fratā heās clean, softspoken, and well educated that strangers wonder why he even decided a frat would be fit for him. If the sun is up, heās focusing on studying for the next A+ and mostly keeping to himself. But at night? Heās Castiel. Stoner, drinking himself silly, letting any and all willing hands play with him like a free toy and god does he love it. Heās never picky when heās Castiel, so anyone who wants him can have him. The only condition is that he needs it so rough and sooo messy that heāll wake up bruised and stickyā¦Heās not shy. It makes him very popular with horny partygoers. Itās actually disgusting, but heās good with his mouth and better with his dick, so whatās the problem with him letting the room get him off a few too many times?
Heās so notorious for being the college bimbo that Itās become a tradition for students to hook up with him and steal his tie. Guys wear them to events, girls tie it around their belt loops, some even use it to hang on their doorknob as a warning for a particularly passionate night with someone (or some people)! Having that signature blue tie is its own depraved badge of honor. Itās enough of a service for Cas to sometimes wake up to a few dollar bills next to him.
Hello what if you did ditzy Castiel but made a version where heās a dumb sex obsessed frat boy Iām sorry if that doesnāt make sense šš
Omg I think Himbo Frat Boy!Castiel is my new faveā¦
I think Himbo!Cas would have to be approached with nuance because heās not a traditional āparty boyā, but definitely chases the adrenaline kick you get at a crazy party.
During the day he goes by Jimmy. Jimmy looks like the most respectable member of the fratā heās clean, softspoken, and well educated that strangers wonder why he even decided a frat would be fit for him. If the sun is up, heās focusing on studying for the next A+ and mostly keeping to himself. But at night? Heās Castiel. Stoner, drinking himself silly, letting any and all willing hands play with him like a free toy and god does he love it. Heās never picky when heās Castiel, so anyone who wants him can have him. The only condition is that he needs it so rough and sooo messy that heāll wake up bruised and stickyā¦Heās not shy. It makes him very popular with horny partygoers. Itās actually disgusting, but heās good with his mouth and better with his dick, so whatās the problem with him letting the room get him off a few too many times?
Heās so notorious for being the college bimbo that Itās become a tradition for students to hook up with him and steal his tie. Guys wear them to events, girls tie it around their belt loops, some even use it to hang on their doorknob as a warning for a particularly passionate night with someone (or some people)! Having that signature blue tie is its own depraved badge of honor. Itās enough of a service for Cas to sometimes wake up to a few dollar bills next to him.
The Gabe one was so good, I fear I may have to ask for āClose your eyes, love. I'll be right here when you wake up.ā with Cas....
np ofc and I hope you're doing well!!
Castiel couldnāt be to sure how long you had these nightmares for, but the problem is that you never mentioned them. It was becoming obvious pretty quickly.
The late nights, the bags beneath your eyes, and the willingness to always stay up to do the research for the boys so they could get some sleep in. Although tonight had been different, you had fallen asleep while reading in bed.
The nightmares slowly crept up into your mind, the darkness, losing everything. Dean. Sam. Castiel. The very angel who had managed to break down so many walls and called you his. Tonight was particularly awful.
But when you woke up in a cold sweat of fear and desperation, their was something different about it. Two large black wings had curled themselves around you, like a comforting blanket. Castiel was laid beside you. āYou needed sleep.ā His voice came from behind you, flat but containing the slight hint of worry and concern he only had for things he truly loved.
āCassā¦ā His name falls like a prayer from your lips.
āShh. Itās okay, I understand.ā His palm placed over your shoulder, the other tucked beneath you. āYou just close your eyes.ā The warmth of his grace slowly overtakes you as he shifts the positions to hold you to his chest. āI will be here when you wake up, love.ā He presses a kiss to your temple and you fall into a nightmare free bliss.
Because he was there holding you, like he always would be.
I yearn for more aggressive sex from Castiel ššš sorry I just love your writing sm
More Cas?!??? I did not think my Cas smut would get as many requests as it didā never say sorry I love this as much as you do anonā¦youāre so sweet! Iāll take Cas reqs anytime<3
What if Reader called herself an angel in front of Cas and it made him want to break her spirit?
May I also interest you in my banned nsft fic? ļ¼Ė¶ā¢Ģ į-Ė¶)
Letās think about Cas playing up that innocent facade. Heās an angel. Girls love angels. Theyāre always calling themselves one, talking about how such sweet creatures canāt do any wrong. But angels hate when girls think theyāre something special.
Itās what he makes you think about even when heās prying your mouth open and pushing you down to his feet. One hand keeps your mouth gaping and the other jams two fingers into your throat. You reach up to grab his wrists and brace yourself, legs straddling his shoe, trying to hide the motion of you grinding against the laces.
āThatās enough.ā He commands. āYou have the confidence to call yourself my kind? You canāt handle a fraction of what real angels deal with.ā
He pulls his hand out of your mouth and wipes it across your face twice: once with his palm, the other with the back of his hand. You push your hair out of your eyes but by the time you can, heās teleported behind you. The back of his shoe finds a place on your back and pushes you to the floor. Thank god Sammy recently cleaned the bunker floor. The wood tastes like cleaning productsā¦a bit chemical and linen scented, it tastes sterile like Castielāsā
āHis wings flap forward, caging you beneath him.
āCasā¦ā you cough.
āI donāt know what Iām doingā¦.ā He tilts his head to the side so he can see your reaction. He puts on a fake look of remorse, eyes glazed over, brows scrunched tightly together. His voice softens like heās trying to comfort you. āAngels donāt know any better. Itās our first time on earth too.ā
He watches you scramble to your knees but not bother to get up.
āDidnāt you want this?ā He asks it like a statement, because he already knows the answer.
āYes Cas.ā
āCastiel.ā
āYes Castiel.ā
Itās like youāre the real pervert instead of him. Heās disgusted that heās even touching you, like youāre diseased in comparison to something as divine as he is. You try to win him back, hugging his leg and crying for his forgiveness.
āIām sorry Castiel,ā you grab his pant leg tight and move to straddle his foot again. āI shouldnāt have said that!āā
He kicks you off of his foot and steps right on your pussy, grinding down simultaneously with your own pathetic thrusts. One hand grabs your hair and the other unbuckles his belt.
āI think you mistook being an angel for being a disgusting monster fucker.ā
His cock could wash the filth from anyoneās mouth. You gag on him, and he only grinds his foot against you harder. He leaves no room for hesitation and your nose hits hard against his happy trail.
āFight back.ā He dares. āYouāre an āangelā, whereās your blade? I want to convince myself youāre worth being touched.ā Itās like youāre barely entertaining him, like the mouth heās fucking isnāt even there. You swirl your tongue around him, bobbing your head, trying to please him in any way possible, but your presence is a chore.
You cum before he does, whimpering through the orgasm and clutching his leg harder. He scoffs and pulls out of your throat roughly. He retracts his foot from under you and looks at the shiny residue with a scowl.
āIāll try harder, Iām not done yet-!ā
Castiel pushes you back down and stands over you, taking his cock in his hand. You squeeze your thighs together to conceal the need throbbing through your body. He starts panting like an animal, wings spread wide and as stiff as his own dick as he pumps fast and hard. He clearly gets off on his own pain, hand gripping himself so tight you wonder if thereās even blood flow. You were too gentle. Too needy. This is what angels do to themselves.
A powerful orgasm washes over him and he finishes on you. He stands there panting, jaw slack and chest heaving.
āI shouldāve known better than to waste my time with you. But as youāve said: angels donāt know anything, right?ā
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