𐙚 @lvstqrs - Tumblr Blog

control ☆ sam winchester

summary: who knew sam liked it so much when you were in control?

pairing: sam x angel!reader (gn) | genre: hot smut !! mdni | word count: 7.4k

warnings: older!sam, sub!sam (ft. a lot of whining and other sounds), a lotta edging, unprotected sex (dont do this), grace-play + sam's newly discovered grace kink, marking (giving sammy hickies !!), dean being a pain, dom!reader (?), i think that's it

notes: wow, writing something that's not a request ???? @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth and @aniresrene made me do it (thank you both !!). i took a bit of inspiration for some of this from a fic by @theedaythatnevercomes and her c'mon baby, get in fic :] as always, mdni with my smut !! and also as always, i'm too asexual for writing smut on the regular, this is not an open invitation to request heavy smut from me :]

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There’s something hot under your skin. It doesn’t burn, because it can’t. It doesn’t singe or scorch, because it hasn’t learned how. But it simmers, bubbling gently, a rolling ocean that laps along the shore in soft waves, curved and gentle like crescent moons on the sand. The longer you let it sit, the stronger it gets, coasting toward something like a boil that makes your skin hot and your stomach warm. It drips lower, a slow line of heat that lands heavy when it hits the pit of your core, spreading molten heat in a honey-slow crawl ever downward.

Across the table from you is the reason for your distress. Not that he would notice, of course, because you’ve spent too many years taking the time to learn to cover it up. He’s not in tune with the rhythm of your grace yet, can’t notice when it flares around him, doesn’t seem to realize how it burns stronger on days like these. Sam is many things, and unfortunately, oblivious to the way he makes you feel is one of them. You’ve learned you have to be painfully direct with him, because speaking in wraparound metaphors is never going to get your desires across. He needs facts, statements, full sentences that start and end with Sam, I need you. He needs you to be bold. So tonight, you will.

Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. They’re thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and you’re not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.

You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesn’t tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend there’s a wise voice telling you it’s tale.

Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Sam’s bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forest’s stories, because he’s chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.

Everything about Sam is soft in ways you’d expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Dean’s hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Sam’s hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way he’s just cleared his throat isn’t harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, it’s light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.

“I am not staring,” you reply.

Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. It’s hard to see it now that he’s growing a bit of a beard, but you don’t think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.

“If you’re not staring, then what are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

Sam’s eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table you’d been studying earlier, something golden he doesn’t know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.

“I’m not kidding,” you say.

“I know.”

He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a moment’s notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.

“Are you done?” you ask, gesturing to his book.

Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. “I can be. Why?”

You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. “I can wait if you’re busy.”

“No, no, I’m not busy.”

“You’re halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.”

Sam shrugs, caught. “First time for everything?”

You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Sam’s brows furrow as he watches you. It’s not unlike you to move in a space like you’re not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. You’re moving on a mission, and Sam’s starting to understand what it is.

“Come with me,” you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.

“Where are we going?”

You nod in the direction of the hall. “You are going to have a first time.”

Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasn’t fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps you’ve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesn’t live under his; maybe you’ve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “If I was too direct.”

Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t apologize.”

“I made you uncomfortable.”

“Not uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.”

Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.

“But you look…uncertain.”

“Not uncertain.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.

“Anticipation.”

You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt he’d been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.

“Okay,” you say. “Anticipation is good?”

Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

Sam’s eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than you’d intended, his face immediately flushing pink.

“Sorry,” he whispers when you remove your hand.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“But you-.”

Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “Something can hurt and feel good at the same time.”

You frown. “How on Earth does that work?”

Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. “I wish I knew.”

“Do you-. Can I do it again?”

Sam’s eyes focus on you. “Please.”

You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.

“Wait- wait. Stop,” Sam pants.

You retract your hand immediately. “Too much?”

“No, no. God, no. Just-. We’re in the library.”

You nod, slow. “There is no door.”

“Right.”

“And Dean could walk past.”

“Right again.”

“And you would like to be somewhere else.”

“Three in a row.”

You hum, grabbing Sam’s large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know it’s probably pointless, but it’s the thought that counts.

Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like you’re floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.

Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesn’t matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isn’t important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.

You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.

Despite his size, it’s devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like he’s ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.

Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes you’ve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Sam’s hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like it’s rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Sam’s hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.

“Sam?” you ask, breathless.

Sam makes a noise in response that’s airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.

“Do you want to try something new?”

He freezes. “Like what?”

Your hips shift minutely, Sam’s eyes squeezing shut in response.

“Making you feel what I feel.”

“You feel it different?”

You nod, the motion jerky.

“What kind of different?” he prods.

“More feeling. More energy. Just-. More. You’d like it.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. “Yeah, angel.”

One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Sam’s hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know it’s worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until it’s no brighter than the room’s shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Sam’s pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.

“Promise,” he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.

Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Sam’s huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.

“Off?” he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Not yet” you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.

“Want to feel you.”

“You will.”

Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when it’s so new. He’d burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until he’s a shell of himself. You’re not here to hurt him, after all. You’re just here to give him a good time, a first experience he’s never had before; it’s not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.

Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where he’s straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.

And he lets you. And he likes it.

He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he can’t wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.

The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Sam’s chest.

The tent in Sam’s boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time you’re done.

His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.

Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking he’s reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure that’s built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something he’s done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines he’s read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isn’t zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.

A half-satisfied sigh spills from Sam’s lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. It’s pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just can’t see the same colours you can, can’t see the same prettiness to what’s not meant to be pretty.

“You gonna do something?” Sam asks, wrecked. “Or just stare?”

Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, you’re just high enough that he can’t grind against you.

“Ask nicely,” you comment, frowning a little.

To you, there’s nothing strange about that comment. It’s something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word ‘please’. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.

To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, it’s a command, a request he simply can’t ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it can’t hurt you. His lips form an ‘o’ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.

“Please, angel. Do something. I can’t-. I need-. Please.”

When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like you’re oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.

You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. It’s hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Sam’s working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.

“Don’t need it,” you say, knocking it from his hands.

“I-.”

“I am an angel, Sam.”

“Ever heard of a Nephilim?”

You laugh, melodic. “It can’t happen.”

“You’re sure?”

You stare. “I would not be saying this if I wasn’t.”

Sam looks like he’s about to protest again, and there’s only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Sam’s dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.

“Of course we can,” you reply aloud.

“What?”

You nod toward him. “I heard you.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Sorry.”

“Sam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.”

Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he can’t decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Dean’s footsteps outside getting closer, praying that he’ll walk past without commenting on anything.

“Sammy?” Dean yells. “You in there?”

You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look he’s trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.

“What’re you doing?” he whispers low.

“You said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,” you whisper back. “I’m testing that theory.”

Sam’s eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Dean’s banging on the doorframe.

“I got questions for you, Sammy,” he yells.

“Dude, go read a book or something,” Sam shouts back.

You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.

“I did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, would’ya?”

Sam groans, this time from his brother’s sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.

“Make it quick.”

“Do I get to come in or am I stuck yellin’ at this door?”

“Don’t come in!” you and Sam both yell at the same time.

Dean mutters something Sam can’t hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.

“What’s the question?” Sam asks.

“Got this case here, says it’s in, uh, Milwaukee.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s talkin’ ‘bout some drownin’s.”

“Wisconsin’s covered in lakes, Dean.”

“Well yeah. But this one’s weird.”

You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.

“Why’s that?” Sam replies, voice careful and steady.

“’Cause the guy drowned on land.”

Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.

“Oh..kay. Weird.”

“Yeah. And there’s this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted t’show you. ‘Cause I can’t find it.”

“Why would I know?”

“Eh, thought your angel pal could help us out.”

Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.

“What’s it look like?” Sam asks.

Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know he’s taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear you’re surprised Sam can’t see it floating between your chests. There’s a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. It’s surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Sam’s sweat-flushed cheeks.

Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Sam’s doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he can’t, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesn’t hear.

“Could be a binding sigil,” Sam answers.

You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.

“Not right?” Sam whispers to you.

“No. The spiral should be a triangle.”

Sam redraws his mental image. “Dean?”

“What?”

“Is it Celtic?”

Dean shuffles some pages around. You still don’t move.

“No,” you and Dean both say.

Sam groans, frustrated. “Okay. It’s either Enochian or some bastardization of it.”

That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.

“Good,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.

“Great. What’s it do?” Dean asks.

Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.

“Pr- probably binds- ah.”

You stop.

“No, sorry. Not binding.”

You can see the gears turning in Sam’s brain.

“Wait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?”

“Uh…left.”

A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Dean’s silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Sam’s fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that you’re notice later and wear because they came from Sam’s hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until you’re certain that whatever pressure he’s feeling now is worse than he’s ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell he’s close, heat burning sharp between you.

“Hurts,” he whines.

Just as Sam’s about to tip over the edge, you stop. You don’t give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Dean’s ears, Sam’s eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.

“The hell?” he whispers, throat wrecked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” is your answer.

“Dean?” Sam asks, weak. “You there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just readin’ somethin’. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.”

“It’s a sigil for a plague,” he comments.

“Good,” you whisper, starting a slow roll.

“Oh great. Which one?” Dean asks, exasperated.

“Seven, I think.”

You stop. Sam whines.

“Not seven, not seven,” he says, punched out and breathy. “’S not seven.”

“Well, that’s great. Y’only got, what, nine more to go through?”

“Shut up.”

You lean down to Sam’s ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.

“Seven was hail, Sam.”

“I know.”

“Ask him what the man drowned in.”

Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he drown in? Water?”

You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam can’t see it.

“No, uh…drowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.”

Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Sam’s forehead.

“It’s one. Dean, it’s the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.”

Your grip tightens on Sam’s hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until he’s just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Sam’s eye.

“What now?” he murmurs to you.

“You haven’t told him how to remove it.”

“I don’t know how to remove it.”

“Yes, you do, Sam.”

Dean shuffles. “How am I supposed to get it off these people?”

“Fire?”

You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.

“Hellfire, maybe?” Sam adds.

You stop.

“What other fire is there?” Sam murmurs to himself. “Not hellfire…not fire…f…it’s…holy…holy fire. Dean! Dean, it’s holy fire.”

“Good boy,” you coo, nipping at the dip between Sam’s collarbones and moving again.

“Anything else?” Sam asks his brother.

“Nah. Just needed that geek brain o’yours.”

Dean’s footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once you’re certain he’s not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Sam’s closet. Some worn t-shirt that’s seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.

Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how he’s squeezing your hand. He’s panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Sam’s hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.

“Hurts s’bad,” he whimpers.

“Mhm?”

“Yeah, ‘s- ow. Hurts, hurts. Please, angel. Please lemme just-.”

“Hm,” you hum.

“Please, I need-.”

You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Sam’s eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, breathless.

You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Sam’s lips. The bubble bursts in Sam’s core, and then he’s coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the room’s night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but you’re too focused on Sam and Sam’s too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.

He’s panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesn’t go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until it’s back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you don’t pull at the knots you’ve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.

Finally, slowly, when he’s soft enough you’re both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace you’d given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that he’s fully human once more.

“I will clean up here,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “Get yourself sorted out.”

“Do I have to?” he murmurs back.

You smile gently. “Yes, love. You do. It won’t take very long.”

Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. He’s getting older, you know this. He’s older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. He’s getting to an age he never assumed he’d reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means he’s running out of time on earth, something you’re distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.

Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if they’d just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isn’t dented by Sam’s head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.

When he shuffles back into the room, you’re in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So?” you murmur, turning to face him.

“So,” he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.

“Was it too much?”

Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.

“No. ‘S perfect. Thank you.”

“Would- would you do it again?”

Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. “Not now.”

You laugh light and airy. “I didn’t mean now, love.”

“Oh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”

You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. He’s barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand won’t go numb; you won’t let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.

“Okay?” you ask when he stills.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.

You kiss the top of his head. “Rest well, Sam.”

“You know I will.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. “I love you, angel.”

“You know I love you too.”

“I know.”

It’s the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You don’t sleep, Sam knows you don’t, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. It’s never annoying, and you’ve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesn’t shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.

tags : @sweetbabygirlsworld, @spectralgalaxygauntlet, @violained, @vfwwm, @cloudsincalifornia, @bejeweledinterludes2, @castielscaplan, @spaghettiwoes, @winchesterheart, @miyasfatass, @legalmente-loca-blog, @deersammys, @alexxavicry, @lessiesimpala, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theedaythatnevercomes, @rafs127, @fox-saturn

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