this is my first year participating!! woohoo!! pls be kind i promise iâll try and lock in and actually do each day. happy petaltober! (im posting this in august)
Summary: Finals are approaching, which means so are the end of semester frat partiesâand for the first time ever, you were invited by a frat bro himself. The only problem? Youâve never even been kissed.
CW: None! âPractice kissâ trope, friends to⊠more, mutual pining, Sam being a jealous, cheeky sweetheart, readers nervous but Sam makes it better (as she stresses him out real bad)
WC: 4.3K
Based on this request!
The highlighter in your hand hasnât moved in at least five minutes.
Its tip sits idly against the smooth paper of your notebook, bright yellow ink bleeding into the next page. Your hand smudges the pen beneath it, ink staining the heel of your palm as it rests over the same sentence youâd abandoned moments ago, before your attention drifted somewhere else entirely.
To someone else.
Sam is sprawled sideways across the plush covers of his bed, one knee bent awkwardly to the side, the other long leg of his hanging half off the edge. He twirls his pencil loosely between two fingers, The Stanford Daily crossword spread open across his thighs, covered in partially finished answers and soft graphite smudges. His fingers tap absentmindedly to the beat of some catchy rock song humming from the radio, his foot bouncing right along with it.Â
Youâd shown up to his dorm to study. And, to be fair, you had been studying. Itâs not out of the ordinary for you to swing by his room when the library gets a little too loudâthe calm, warm sanctuary of your best friendâs space becoming one of your own. Itâs cozy. Comfortable. Watching him do little mundane tasks while you fry your brain with chemical reactions and nuclear physics equations has become, funny enough, one of your most savoured pastimes.
And usually, it works. Keeps you grounded from the mental cyclone that is university. Especially when the pressure of finals is weighing on your shoulders so physically, that youâre pretty sure youâre developing a bit of a hunch. Your chemistry exam certainly isnât about to write itself, no matter how much time you spend in the lab, and if you donât get your head wrapped around the concept of chemoselectivity within the next fourty-eight hours, you can practically kiss your entire degree goodbye.
Metaphorically, of course.
But itâs hard to keep your brain focused on chemical reagents when Samâs right there, worrying his lip between his teeth, wearing the worldâs sweetest thinking face, and blissfully oblivious to the chaos silently unfolding in your head. A chaos that currently consists 40% of organic chemistry, and 60% oh my God, his mouth.Â
âHey.â His eyes shift to yours, pencil pausing mid-spin. âWhatâs an eight letter word for âemphasizedâ?â
The question, breaking the silence, makes you raise your brows. Your highlighter finally slips from your loose grasp, rolling between the pages of your open notebook, leaving behind a wobbly, bright yellow line behind that youâll probably complain about later.
âUh,â you buffer, blinking at him. âAsserted?â
He makes an affirming sound, one that makes your heart flutter far more than it probably should, before he shakes his head.
âMmm⊠should start with an S.â He scribbles it out quickly, his eraser moving in slow, lazy strokes. The radio crackles on the mellow chord of a guitar intro, the beginnings of something by Nirvana, but it only catches your attention for a second before your focus drifts back to Sam. Sam, twirling that pencil that looks so tiny in his unfairly large hands, staring intensely at the crossword like solving it will reveal the secrets of the universe.
He chews on the inside of his lip as he thinks, pulling the corner on sharp canines, and for a second too long, you canât tug your gaze away. You trace the moles dotting his face, the shape of his mouth, the soft bow of his lips, the pink hue highlighted by the warm lamp lightâŠ
And by the time you snap out of it, heâs already looking back at you. Not just glancing this time, but holding the contact. His messy hair falls over his forehead, casting a soft shadow over his sweet face, while the lampâs glow catches in his dark pupils. He blinks slowly, tilting his head slightly, the same way a dog might when they hear something strange, before he speaks gently.
ââŠYou okay?â
Caught.
You freeze for a suspiciously long beat, staring at him with an, admittedly, pretty dumb expression; but he doesnât press. You purse your lips, debating, before youâre shifting your notebook off your lap, and crossing the small room in two short strides.Â
You sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed, facing him, both of your hands falling into your lap, threading your fingers together as you give them a small, reassuring squeeze.
âActually, I⊠thereâs something I wanted to talk to you about,â you say quickly. âYou heard of that party tomorrow night after the football game, yeah? Tomâs frat?â
Samâs brows furrow for a blink, before he softens. He lowers the newspaper slowly, setting it to the blanket beside him without looking away. His eyes turn full on attentive, damn him, the same look he wears when you ramble about something stupid, or ask him a million questions after lectures. The one that really means Iâm listening, even though youâre definitely distracting me.
âYeah?â he says simply, voice low and steady.
You swallow, gaze dropping to your hands as you squeeze them together, Samâs eyes following suit. He saw that. He always does.Â
âWell⊠Chris from physics asked me to go,â you tell him quietly. âWith him.â
Sam doesnât move. Not a muscle. Not even that little crease between his brows that always forms when heâs processing something tough, or that tick in his jaw that always shows when heâs frustrated. Just⊠nothing.
âAnd⊠I dunno, Iâm justânervous? I guess?â
For the first time since Samâs met you, the girl who borrows his hoodies without asking, who falls asleep against his shoulder during late night study sessions, whose laugh makes him stupidly giddyâhe feels something cold and unfamiliar coil in his chest. Your words play on repeat in his head like a scratched record, one thatâs too loud, too wrong, but is too out of control to shut off.
But he doesnât say that. He never would.
Instead, he swallows, nods, and schools his expression into something carefully neutral.
âOkay, and⊠youâre going?â His voice comes out impossibly softer than usual, but in an almost manufactured, forced way. Careful-soft, the kind of tone people only use when theyâre hiding something. You try not to dwell on it.
âI mean, I think so? Maybe?â you explain, an uncomfortable frown pulling at your lips. One of his own follows.
âYou donât have to. Donât let him pressure you.â
Your jaw tightens as you shake your head, and your fingers tense hard enough to ache. Squeeze.Â
âNo, no heâs notâthatâs not what this is.â You laugh awkwardly, but it dies as quickly as it slips out. âHeâs nice enough for⊠yâknow. A frat boy. Heâs just, bold, and IâŠâ
You trail off, teeth pinching down on the inside of your cheek. Because God, why was this so damn embarrassing? It really shouldnât be, because Christ, this is Sam. But it feels a little like beginning a presentation in front of an entire lecture hall, then realizing you forgot your notecards at your seat.
Your eyes flick back up to Samâs, and something flashes across his face. Something too quick for you to decipher, gone far too fast for you to name. But if thereâs one thing it does well, itâs make your words tumble out before you can catch them.
âSam, Iâve never even kissed anyone.â Heat rushes to your face instantly. âWhat if Iâm, like, awful?â
The room goes strangely quiet.
The radio keeps playing somewhere in the background, guitar humming softly through the speakers, but you become hyper-aware of everything else. Like the sound your palms make when they slide against each other. The slow exhale of Samâs breath. The warm scent of his shampoo lingering in the room. The way heâs looking at you.
Or, the way heâs staring at you.
Because of all the things he expected you to say, that wasnât even in the top ten. Nopeâwasnât even in the ballpark. Completely left field. Not about the party, or Chris, or his boldness. He knows all about that. But the sinking, twisting feeling in his gut was bracing for something else. For you to tell him that you liked Chris. Really liked Chris. That this conversation would shift to how excited you are. That heâd have to smile and nod as you gush, pretending that it doesnât feel like a knife was jammed between his ribs.
But instead, you say that, staring at him like heâs the only person who can ease your nerves, and that? That just makes his chest ache in a whole new way. Because oh, oh fuck, he just hates how much the selfish, guilty part of him likes it.
His gaze softens, just a fraction. Not into something you can pick apart, not yet anyway, but some of that tension leaves his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he turns to face you more fully, reaching his hand out to nudge your clenched fingers with his own, forcing them to relax.
âOh, câmon,â he tries, voice coming out lighter than his chest feels. âYou wonât be awful.â
At that, your face does something a little stupid. Your nose scrunches up like youâve just smelt something terrible, your hands lifting to scrape dramatically over your face, a whiny, pathetic sound slipping from your lips. Peering through the spaces between your fingers, you catch Samâs expression cracking. Something like warm, fond amusement breaking through the mask in a dimpled grin.
âEveryone I know has said their first kiss sucked,â you deadpan. âI mean, you told me yours was barely a peck, and then you spilled soda everywhere!â
He cringes at the memory, before leaning forward slightly. Not enough to invade your space, not without asking, but enough to rest his elbow on his knee, cheeks slightly pink from mild embarrassment creeping up his neck.Â
âOkay, maybe mine sucked,â he admits with a shrug, and a sweet laugh. âBut, yâknow. Just keep your elbows away from soda cans, and youâll be just fineââ
âShut up, Sam.â
You roll your eyes, raising two hands to plant firmly on his shoulders. Those broad, muscled shoulders, that you have to pretend not to stare (read: ogle) at. His eyes widen at the contact, his body going a little stiff, before relaxing into the touch. âThis is serious,â you complain, giving him a shake, and he sways like the jostling does anything. It doesnât, not really. He just lets you believe it does.
Heâs holding back a laugh, and you can tell. To his credit, he does an alright job, but thereâs really no denying the way heâs biting the hell out of his tongue.
âIâm gonna ask you something, and I need you to not freak out, okay? Just, think about it. Please.â His face sobers up immediately, shifting into something almost concerned, which really, really doesnât help the nerves licking up your spine. âI wanted to, um. Ask if youâd, uh⊠teach me.â
You swallow.
âYâknow. How to kiss.â
Youâre almost sure Sam stops breathing for a second.
His eyes donât widen. His lips donât part. In fact, absolutely nothing happens to that usually very expressive face of his, which is infinitely more terrifying. Itâs like every neuron in his genius brain fired at once, sent a thousand signals in every direction, before crapping out entirely.
âSam.â You shake his shoulders again, and this time, he forgets to sway. Your fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, leaving dimples in the soft cotton of his tee shirt. âSay something.â
He blinks, once, twice, before coming back to it. Mostly.
ââŠWhat?â
Your stomach drops like a rock in water.Â
âPlease donât make me say it again,â you croak, words catching in your throat like youâve swallowed thick, sticky syrup. Your brain spiralsâheâs too stiff. Too silent. What if you ruined things? What if he kicks you out? Oh God, what if he never speaks to you again? âI⊠Iâm sorry. I know thatâsâyou donât have to, I mean, Iâd neverââ
âOkay.â
You pause, choking on your words. ââŠOkay?âÂ
Sam nods slowly, his face still really not giving you a whole lot to work with, and that only makes you spiral.
âJustâjust okay?â you sputter, your hands dropping from his thick shoulders to grip the fabric of your pants. Squeeze. Your heart picks up a frantic, erratic drum solo against your ribs. âNothing else? Yâjust blank, and then âokayâ?â
He blinks, the neutral mask finally shattering into something else, something almost defensive. But itâs the Sam-version of defensive, which as it turns out, is a whole lot cuter than it is intimidating. His brows pinch together, forming a sharp crease between them, his nose scrunching as he pulls up his hands in mock-surrender. âWell, yâknow, I⊠you told me to think about it!â
âYeah, well, not like that!â you shoot back, the strange mix of nerves, frustration, and sticky-sweet affection making your pitch pick up a fraction.Â
He winces, something like guilt painting his features. âOkay, okay, sorry. Uh.â He lets out a long, shaky exhale, and you feel it fan over your cheeks. When did he get so close? His shoulders drop with some sort of forced-calm, as his eyes search yours with a sudden, almost startling vulnerability.
ââŠYeah,â he murmurs, the word soft, barely above a breath. âYeah, of course. I mean, if thatâs what you want. Really want.â He pauses. âI mean. Itâs just⊠practice, right?â
You nod, but your throat feels too tight to speak. Right. What you really want. Practice. The words spin and dance around in your head for a moment, echoing on repeat, and thereâs something about the smooth, comforting rumble of his voice that settles your spiraling anxiety into something shallower. Calmer.
ââŠYeah. Practice.â
Sam shifts, closing just a bit of remaining distance between you. His movements are agonizingly slow, giving you every opportunity to pull away, to laugh it off, to change your mind. When you donât, his hand comes up. Those long, warm, graphite-tinted fingers gently take your hand, flipping it over to brush a soothing circle over your whitened knuckles. The touch sends a fresh, electric wave of heat rushing to your face. Damn him.
âWe can stop whenever you want,â he whispers, his gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to your eyes. âOkay?â
âOkay,â you breathe out, your voice coming out far quieter than youâd intended, and he smiles. Itâs small, a subtle tug of his lips, but dimples dent his pink-tinted cheeks in a way that makes your stomach flip.
âRelax for me,â he instructs. âJust a peck first, yeah? Test the waters. Then tell me how you feel.â
He waits for you to nod, then leans in, and nothing could pull you away from him then, not even your pulse threatening to pound straight out your chest. His eyes flutter closed, and it takes you a moment to realize that oh yeah, yours probably should too, and then they do, and then heâs kissing you.
Itâs just a peck. Barely there, exactly like he said.Â
Itâs not like the movies, where thereâs a dramatic swell of music, or fireworks exploding somewhere in the distance. Itâs just Sam. Itâs the familiar, comforting scent of his laundry detergent and the faint, sweet trace of the coffee heâd abandoned on his desk earlier. Itâs the soft, hesitant press of his lips against yours.
But itâs enough to make your entire world feel like itâs tilted on its axis.Â
His lips are softer than youâd imagined. And that only makes you think holy shit, have I imagined this before?, and thatâs a whole new can of worms youâre not quite willing to open up yet. Not when he pulls away, far sooner than youâd like, and you find yourself wishing heâd lingered.
He doesnât go far. Your eyes take a second too long to blink back open, and when they do, heâs already looking at you. Those soft, hazel depths swirling with something so warm that you have to fight the urge to squirm.
âSee? Not awful,â he teases, his big hand squeezing yours where his fingers are still cradling your wrist. ââŠFeelinâ okay?â
âUh-huh, yes. Okay.â You nod, a too-fast, jerky movement, and his eyebrow raises, a laugh huffing from his chest.Â
âRight,â he snickers, and then his other hand is moving. Still slow, still careful, but when it lands on your cheek, you have to fight every urge to lean right into it. But that sounds very non-platonic, and this is normal, friends-teaching-friends, thank you very much, so you resist. ââŠIâm gonna do it again. Just a little more. And you tell me if itâs too much, too fast.â
You nod, and then heâs closing the space againâbut your palm lands flat on his chest, and he pauses. Confusion clouds his face, then concern, a question forming on his tongue, but youâre faster. âWhatâwhat do I do with my hands?â
The brief flash of worry melts, puddles into warmth right along with your heart, as his expression fades back into fond amusement. A faint dusting of pink blooms across his cheeks, across the gorgeous slope of his nose, and he lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, dipping his head.Â
âWhatever you want,â he says, his voice a low, raspy hum that vibrates straight through your palm still resting on his chest. He glances at your hand, then back to your eyes, tilting his head. âOr stay right there. I donât mind.â
When you donât say anything right away, a shuddering breath flowing from your parted lips, he softens. Completely.
âHey,â he whispers, thumb stroking your cheek gently. âHow about⊠you just keep âem where they are. Just like that. And then⊠just follow whatever feels right. Yeah?â
A smile tugs at your lips. âOkay. Yeah.â
This time, when he closes the distance, itâs not as hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his warm palm gently guiding yours to do the same, and when his lips brush yours, the kiss is different entirely. Itâs no longer a testing, fleeting peck.Â
His lips part slightly against yours, soft and yielding, and for one terrifying, wonderful second, the world narrows down to nothing but the heat of his mouth and the gentle, grounding pressure of his hand cupping your jaw. He has to duck his head to reach you, so you let yours fall back just slightlyâit should be awkward, cramped, but God, itâs really not. He hums, a sound that feels a little like approval (and Christ you hope it was), and then his hand in yours slides away.
Not quickly, or harshly, only the opposite. It never leaves you completely, trailing warm, teddy-bear soft fingertips along your forearm until they dip, circling your waist. Now itâs your turn to hum, and he responds by adding just a little more pressure against your lips. Tilting your face a little further to align with his. Your body sings with the touch, head going all airy, mouth tingling, pulse fluttering, and holy shit, youâre really kissing someone.Â
Youâre really kissing Sam.
Inevitably, your mind starts to reel. How do you breathe? Do you pull back? Is that rude?âbut Sam must feel it in the way a shaky exhale warms his cheek, because his lips part from yours just long enough to drag a breath into your abused lungs. Then heâs right back on you all over again.Â
Yes, your body soars, a dumb, happy sound tumbling into his parted lips, high-pitched and giddy. His thumb dimples into the plush flesh of your hip, his lips popping off of yours. He chuckles, sneaking one more kiss to your cheek.
âAwh,â he coos, heat climbing up your neck. âThat was cute.âÂ
You donât quite have the capacity to tell him to shut his trap, considering that youâre pretty sure your brain tapped out two Sam-kisses ago, but your body moves of its own accord. The arm that isnât smushed between your chests slings around his neck, fingers threading into the messy hair at his nape, and then youâre pulling him in.Â
The enthusiasm at which he reciprocates pushes your body back, but oh, he catches you, strong arm still circling your waist, fingers pressing into your skin. He feels impossibly bigger that way, half-looming over you, broad and steady, never imposing. His neck is fever-hot beneath your fingertips, and you can feel the rapid, fluttering pulse pattering a frantic rhythm at his throat.Â
Heâs feeling it too.
And that, that alone, has a fresh wave of electricity buzzing through your veins. Your mouth parts, instinct taking over, as he swipes his hot tongue along your lower lip. He doesnât push through the seam, not even if your body was begging for itânot yet, anywayâbut that little taste has your fingers tugging softly in his hair. Your body screams closer, closer, closer, your chest pushing against his, all that Sam-warmth of his a very welcome comfort.
âDonât know what you were sâworried about,â he hums, breath hot against your lips. âYouâre a natural, sweetheart.â
The words do something to your stomach, something gooey, something gratifying, a strange mix of heated flush and goosebumps rising on your skin.Â
âYeah?â you purr, Sam responding by pulling you in further, shifting you up-right, letting both hands settle at your waist. Your body smushes so close to his, that you may as well be straddling those tree trunk-thick thighs of his.
In an utterly, completely platonic way, of course.
As it turns out, once you begin kissing Sam, itâs just about impossible to stop. You alternate between pecks and deep, long kisses. Itâs not as sloppy as you imagined, and maybe less⊠wet, but that could just be him. Sam kisses with a force that could be mistaken for passion, or even reverence, sweet and gentle and fuck, the back of your mind just keeps rattling about how right it feels.Â
âYou taste so good,â he breathes, and you mmm-hmm your agreement, unwilling to part too long, just as his tongue swipes across your lip again. Fucking-fuck.Â
âYou planned this, didnât you? Tasteâtastinâ like heaven.â You donât have time to fluster, not with how he mouths at you. All you can do is whine. âSâthat strawberry, honey?â
You donât have the breath to deny it, not when his mouth continues moving against yours with just devastating, sweet enthusiasm. He kisses you like heâs been waiting months, years to do it, and maybe, just maybe, he has. One hand slides up your back, slipping into your hair, tangling with the locks and holding you flush against him as the kiss deepens. It turns heavy, all consuming as you melt into him, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips. And oh, Samâs done.
His tongue finally, finally slips past your lips, tasting of black coffee and the sweet berry chapstick thatâs smudged against his own mouth. Itâs intoxicating.
Your brain croons, because this, this is it, you realize. It settles that Samâs kisses are the best youâll ever have, and youâll just have to live with that forever.
Screw Chris.
The grip on your waist tightens as he angles his head, deepening the kiss until your mind goes entirely, blissfully blank. You can forget forming thoughts, your brain all gooey and useless in such a perfect way, something you werenât even sure was possible. Itâs heated, slightly messy in the best way, and youâre pretty sure heâs stolen your ability to breathe entirely.
Itâs right in the middle of one of those searing, mind-numbing kisses when your brain, the torturous, unorganized organ that it is, suddenly misfires entirely. A synaptic impulse jumps the gap, and your eyes fly open.
You pull back abruptly, your hands falling to grip his shoulders again as if to steady yourself. Youâre panting, lips tingling, face so hot you feel as though you could melt like ice cream in the middle of summer.Â
Sam blinks, dazed, those sweet, hazel puppy eyes blown wide. âWhat? What is it? Did Iââ
âStressed,â you blurt, breathless, voice carrying just a little too loud through the heavy air of the dorm room.
Sam freezes. His face falls. Hazy warmth clears the way for sharp, genuine concern. Both hands drop from your waist as though he was burned, cupping your cheeks instead, his thumbs brushing below your eyes as he scans your face for any sign of a spiral. âHey, hey, itâs okay,â he soothes. His voice drops into that protective, heart-breaking register he uses when youâre on the verge of a panic attack, or sobbing over some organic chemistry lab. âBreathe fâme, okay? Iâm sorry, we can stop, I shouldnât have pushedââ
âNo, no, Sam, listen,â you interrupt, grabbing his wrists to still his frantic, stupidly-comforting motions. âThe crossword. Eight letters. Starts with S.â
He stares at you. Pauses. Then, slowly, the pieces click into place.
The concern in his eyes dissolves completely, into something so profoundly fond, so overwhelmingly soft, that it almost hurts your chest to see. A slow, dimpled grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, as a disbelieving laugh tumbles from his lips, and his forehead drops against yours.
âOh my God,â he whispers, the vibration of his chuckle buzzing against your skin. âYou, Jesus, I have my tongue in your mouth, and youâre thinking âbout the crossword?â
âItâit was bugging me!â you defend weakly, though a smile is already beginning to tug at your own lips. You can still feel the tingle of his. âAnd, yâknow, it fits!â
âUh-huh,â he murmurs, his gaze dropping back to your mouth. The fondness in his eyes darkens, slow and languid, slipping into something more heated. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw one last time. âYeah. It does, sweetheart.â
Before you can say another word, long before you can register his big man-paws sliding back down to cradle your waist, he closes the distance. He shuts you up completely, mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that doesnât feel platonicâand sure as hell doesnât feel like practice.Â
Not at all.
AN: Okay sooo, got side tracked by this adorable ask, oops! Have some sweet, fluffy Stanford Sam (who, Iâve come to realize that you guys absolutely adore. Me too, my friends).
Anyways, should be returning to my roots, writing absolute filth soon, I promise! I just have absolutely no focusing ability recently, lol. Also, side note, the chemistry stuff in here is just stuff I vaguely remember, so itâs probably definitely wrong.
Summary: Sam doesnât mind taking care of you when you drink. What he really, really minds, is that seems to take seven shots of JĂ€ger for you to say what heâs been aching to hear for years.
CW: Samâs POV. Angst, classic Sam Winchester self-deprecation, painful yearning, heavy alcohol consumption, drunken (sort of) confession
WC: 3.7K
âThatâs it. Take it easy.â
The motel key slips into the lock with a troubled metallic click. It echoes through the empty corridor, a sharp contrast to the mellow sounds of the night. Samâs voice is rough, hushed against the crown of your head, your arm slung loosely over his broad shoulders. He can feel the light, maddening tickle of your hair on his chin, and smell the sweet, comforting scent of your shampoo swirling through his senses, thick and intoxicating and so completely you that itâs damn-near dizzying.
The soles of your boots drag over rough concrete as he shifts your weight into the crook of his elbow, his bicep tugging slightly with the effort as he pulls the door open with one hand. Itâs a tight, persistent ache, his muscles still burning from hours spent pulling heavy shovelfuls of soil from the pit of a grave, but heâd endure it a thousand times if it meant keeping you standing.Â
His arm remains looped tightly around your waist, almost too tight. Itâs a protective weight, yes, holding you upright, catching you almost desperately close each time the world spins beneath your feet.
The hinges groan loud enough to make his jaw tick, spilling a sliver of golden-yellow light onto the pavement. He leads you inside, heart skipping with a hard thump against his ribcage when your strideâs a moment too quick. Your boot catches on the threshold, nearly sending you nose-first into the floor.Â
âWoah,â he panics, grip tightening. âCareful. I said easy.â
ââTs you,â you scold. âToo fast.â
He chuckles, shaking his head, but thereâs no humour in it. Not really. ââŠOkay, sweetheart. Iâm sorry.âÂ
The chill of the air conditioning drowns out the sticky, humid air outside as he pulls the door closed, a heavy sigh falling from his lips.Â
âCâmon, killer,â he lulls, his thumb drawing a soothing circle against your hip. Your shirt had ridden up slightly somewhere in your stumbling, exposing a line of bare, silky skin. âAlmost there. Then youâre going right to sleep.â
Youâre warm beneath his fingertips. So soft, so⊠pliant. Youâd dressed up tonight, a fact he is incredibly, painfully aware of. A fact that had the words âyouâre so damn beautifulâ sitting on the tip of his tongue like an overfilled glass ready to spill over, and thatâs becoming a physical weight now that heâs felt the give of your soft flesh beneath his fingertips.Â
Sheâs drunk, sheâs drunk, sheâs drunk, the mantra in his brain screams, but he just canât seem to make his heart listen.Â
His throat bobs as he forces himself to shift his grip, his clammy palm smoothing back over the scratchy fabric of your shirt, slipping into something gentler. Something safer.Â
Because if he continues to allow himself the luxury of feeling you, truly, deeply feeling you, letting his fingertips dimple into your side, heâs not sure heâll ever be able to draw himself away.
âDonâ wanna sleep,â you complain softly. Your fingers tease his cheek absently as he guides you towards the bed, his bed, and the touch forces his breath to pause its escape from his hollow lungs.Â
âI know,â he says, but it comes out futile. He tries not to focus on the softness of your hands, the elegant curve of your knuckles, or the way heat seems to radiate off your skin like the surface of the sun. He really, really does.Â
But itâs practically impossible to keep himself composed when you brush the angle of his jaw while peering up at him with those wide, drunken eyes that derail his carefully structured poise entirely. Itâs a trap. A poorly set, painfully obvious trap, that he stumbles right into anyway.Â
Because God, all he can think about is how usually, your skin runs freezing. Heâs lost count of the times youâve pressed your ice-cold fingers to the nape of his neck from the back bench of the impala. He remembers the way heâd flinch from the shock of it, the way your bright giggle would fill the cabin, and the way heâd have to pretend the heat climbing up his neck was just from the coldâand not a stupidly happy reaction to your laugh. You run so hot, Sammy, youâd tease, and heâd have to duck his head to grumble his protests, hiding the way his heart threatens to leave behind purple bruises on his ribs.Â
But right now, your skin is burning. And as your hot, sweaty hand paws his face, Sam swallows his racing heart, and lets you burn him, too.
âI know. Iâm sorry.â
He lowers you onto the ruffled sheets, the dead weight of your arm sliding off his shoulders, curling around his forearm instead. Your fingers grip is weak, so weak, but to Sam, it feels like a brand. You pinch your eyes shut, face scrunching into a look he knows to be discomfort, or maybe just fighting off a suffocating wave of dizziness.
âHey,â he murmurs, hands already moving to steady you. He wants to slide his arm back around your waist, tug you close, and never let go. Christ, he wants to. But instead, his hands land on your shoulders, his long thumbs tracing the swoop of your collarbone. âYou okay? Dizzy?â
ââM fine,â you insist, prying your eyes open, but your head lolls slightly to the right, your fingers gripping him just a little tighter. Liar.
He swallows.
âRight.â
Youâre not. He knows it, and he hopes that deep down, you know it, too.Â
He sighs, smoothing a sweaty palm over his jaw. Iâm too fucking sober for this, he thinks, but heâd never say it aloud. ââŠJust, stay here for a second, okay?â he says, forcing his voice to remain soft. âGonna grab you some water.â
The only response he receives is a hum and a sway, and heâd expected just that.Â
Because to Sam, it was really no surprise how the night had come to a close.
The hunt, for once, hadnât even been a gruelling, exhausting thing. It had ended with a high in the form of that breezy, prickling adrenaline that simmers just beneath your skin, leaving you drifting on false confidence that never truly lasts the night. The three of you had practically soared to the nearest bar, courtesy of Deanâs lead foot, sliding easily into a sticky back booth.Â
And Sam had known, with a sinking, nauseating certainty, just how youâd end up the moment Dean suggested JĂ€ger.
He didnât just⊠watch. He couldnât. With each dragging minute, heâd been imagining the exact weight of you in his arms as you tilted back the first dram. Heâd planned the precise pressure of his hands to help you out of your jacket as his heavy gaze traced an amber drop spilling down your cheek. Heâd already pictured the cloudy haze in your eyes by the time your fingers curled around your second shot, and heâd begun to see it take over by the time youâd swallowed your fourth. It took six for Dean to stagger to the pretty blonde bartender, and seven for your pupils to swallow your irises completely. Heâd felt his chest seize when the two of you were left alone, with nothing but his churning gut, and you peering at him with a look of pure heavy-lidded trust.
And when youâd asked Sam to join you, when youâd pouted and told him he was no fun, heâd smiled. A tight, practiced smile, as his own blood betrayed him, threatening to rise to his cheeks.
Heâd said someone has to be responsible, as he fought to keep his gaze from dropping to your lips. Heâd told you he had to keep his best friend from losing her head, as he cursed himself for being a starved, green-eyed creep.
Because thatâs what you are. Thatâs all youâve ever been to him, and thatâs all youâll ever be.
His friend.Â
He swallows hard as his eyes pinch shut, the dull ache behind his temples forcing him back into the present. He barely feels his legs carry him across the room, hardly notes the way his hand pulls open the mini-fridge, and doesnât fully register his fingers curling around a cold, plastic bottle. All he can feel is the heat of you, still clinging to his skin.Â
Heâs back to you quick, gently lowering himself to kneel before you, ignoring the way his throat feels as though itâs been lined by a hundred swallowed blades, a thousand more poking into the sick, erratic muscle of his heart.Â
âHere,â he breathes, unscrewing the cap with unsteady hands, and extending the bottle out to you. âDrink. Slow sips.â
You huff, mumbling something that sounds a little like âokay, momâ, but you tilt it back anyway. You wince like it burns your throat more than the liquor had, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before shoving the bottle against his chest.Â
âGood,â he praises, though itâs really just a sigh. He reaches out slowly then, his fingertips brushing the rough denim collar of your jacket. ââŠNow letâs get you out of this, yeah?â
Youâd told him once, with a casual, mundane shrug, that you hate the way the sleeves scratched when you wore it too long. It had been passive. Youâd laughed and fake-grimaced, scrunching up your nose in a way that made his throat run dry, and his brainâor maybe his heartâhad never let him forget it.
âMmm-hmm,â you hum, the singsong tone settling like a physical weight on his chest. âPlease. Sâhot.â
Sam nods, his thumbs folding around the fabric as he peels it back, dragging it off your shoulders, pulling it away until it lies pooled on the floor beside him. You blink, sliding forward, but your hands donât even move to brace for the fall. No, instead, your forehead drops against the curve of his neck, your nose brushing his collarbone as you breathe him in.
A violent, helpless shiver climbs up his neck at the feeling of the damp heat of your skin against his throat, the steady, rhythmic puff of your breath that makes his own stutter. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to wrap his arms around you. To bury his nose in your hair, to hold you until your world stops spinning, your body stops swaying. He aches to pull you flush against his chest, to breathe you in until the hollow, bleeding hole behind his ribcage feels full.Â
But he canât. He wonât.Â
He wonât, so instead, he keeps moving. He gently coaxes you back, his large hands sliding up to cup your shoulders.Â
Theyâre trembling now, and he knows it. He knows it, and yet, itâs impossible for him to make them stop.Â
ââŠJust need you sittinâ up a little straighter for me, okay? Almost done. I promise,â he whispers.
You tilt slightly with the shift, a soft, breathy sigh of drunken compliance (or so he hopes) escaping your lips. His grip tightens in a way he canât quite control. His thumbs run slow, rhythmic circles into your collarbones, feeling the way the adrenaline still buzzes beneath your skin like a live wire.Â
He wants to press his mouth right there. He wants to taste the salt on your skin, to soothe the electricity cruising in your veins. He wants it with terrible, sickening conviction, that he canât curse, canât shake, and sure as hell canât pray away.
His hands drift to your ankle slowly, methodically, reaching for the thick laces of your mud-streaked boot, dirt caked into a tight double knot. He unlaces it carefully, his hands, usually so steady wielding a gun or blade, shaking as he works at your boots. He undoes one. Then the other.Â
He sets them aside with the heavy thud of leather hitting the cheap carpet, leaving behind a muddy imprint. His hands linger. Just for a fraction of a second. Itâs just his fingertips brushing the slope of your ankle, feeling the fluttery, soft thud of your heartbeat meeting his. Itâs just a stupid, chest warming sensation that swells through his body at the connection.Â
Because it means youâre truly, completely with him. Not back at the bar, not in some faceless manâs bed.
With him. Even if itâs only to help you out of your scratchy clothes, tuck the covers under your chin, and make sure youâre safe.
He forces his hands away, skimming his clammy palms over his thighs, a desperate attempt to stop them from trembling. Because God, the yearning is a living, breathing thing inside him, and he damn well knows it. Itâs so suffocating that all he wants is to finally tear open his chest and let it out in the open, to shatter the stupid, flimsy barrier heâs put up between you to shield you from what he really wants. What he needs.
But youâre drunk. And heâs a sick, self-preserving coward.
ââŠSammy?â
Your voice cuts through the silence of the room as a hesitant smile touches your lips, and the sight nearly wrecks him. Clumsily, your hand lifts.
Samâs breath traps itself in his throat as your fingers, still burning with that feverish heat, make contact with his jaw. Theyâre uncoordinated, a little shaky, tracing his cheek before finding their destination.
Your knuckles drag through the thick, curtain-like strands falling into his eyes, sweeping them back, and tucking the lock behind his ear. The touch is feather-light. Nothing but a brush. But to him?Â
It feels like fire.Â
It sears through his skin, goes straight to his bloodstream, lighting every nerve ending like a sparking fuse. He leans into it. He canât help it. His head tilts, involuntarily, pathetically, into the touch like a dog begging at your feet to be pet.
âYeah?â he manages, but it comes out croaked. He winces. âAre you gonna be sick?â
âNo.â Your voice is a soft, sleepy rasp as your face twists into a frown, a thoughtful crease forming between your brows. âIâm fine. Can you jusââŠâ Your hand wanders, one finger twirling, tangling into a stray lock. The movement tugs just enough to make his scalp pull. âCan you jusâ câmere?â
Sam frowns. âHmm?â he hums, sliding his palm over your knee. Itâs a light, grounding touch, but your skin still burns him through your jeans. âIâm right here.â
Your nose scrunches up again, but this time, itâs not pain, or the world-tilting haze of alcohol. Itâs what Sam can only describe as, labeled loosely, a look of profound, drunken irritation at being misunderstood. A surge of pure, unbridled affection rushes through him so strongly, it almost steals his breath.
Almost.
âSam,â you pout, and your voice shakes. He hates it. âNo. I, youâre not⊠yâdonât lis⊠lisân, Sammy.â
Confusion, cold and cloudy, furrows his brows. âWhat?â
âComeâcome here,â you choke, and with clumsy, JĂ€ger infused strength, your fingers curl on the collar of his jacket, tugging him up and forward hard enough to make him jolt.Â
Thereâs really no surviving the landing. His hands fall firmly against your hips to catch himself from falling forward and crushing you completely, his fingers splayed wide, dimpling into the hem of your jeans, the curve of your waist.
Youâre so hot there. So fucking hot. So hot that his brain seems to stall, and all he can think is oh, oh fuck. Sheâs drunk, sheâs drunk, sheâs drunkâ
He doesnât get to finish the thought. Your hands climb up his chest, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, teasing up his neck and finally cupping his cheeks. You paw at him like youâre searching for something to hold onto, thumbs brushing just below his eyes, palms cradling his jaw.
âHey, hey,â he manages, prying his hands off your sides, finding purchase on your forearms instead. âWhatâre you doing? Youââ
âI wanâ you close.â
The words seem to hit him like a physical blow to the chest. Soft, slurred, barely above a shaky breath against his cheek, but they absorb right through the spaces between his ribs and detonate right there. His fingers go rigid on your forearms, holding just a fraction too tight, as his pulse roars in his ears, ugly and desperate.
âWhat?â he croaks. Stupid. He heard you. Fuck, of course he heard you.
âClose. CloseâŠer,â you repeat, stretching out the syllables, letting them drag off your tongue. Your thumbs pad under his eyes, one squishing into his cheek, your forehead tilting forward just enough for your hair to tickle his jaw. âI want⊠I wanâ you here, Sammy. But, not, mm, on⊠on the floor. Here.â
His jaw works. The muscle tenses beneath your palm, and he wonders if you can feel it feather.
âYouâre⊠youâre drunk,â he says gently. Heâs not sure if heâs trying to convince you or himself.
ââM not,â you insist, pawing at him again, then again, each movement more desperate than the last. Your breath ghosts over his lips, and he can smell the JĂ€ger. Heâs almost sure heâs drowning in it. Sheâs drunk, the mantra repeats. Sheâs so fucking drunk.
âMânotâI know what Iââ
âNo.â His hands slide up your forearms to your wrists, not pulling them away. He canât pull them away. Instead, his thumbs press firmly against the erratic thump of your pulse, and he swallows so thick it hurts. âYou donât know what you want right now, okay? You need⊠you need to sleep. Itâs the JĂ€ger, sweetheart, and youâre drunk, and itâs notââ
âAnâ I want you.â
You say it so simply. You say it like youâre ordering another round, like youâre commenting on the weather. You say it like itâs easy, like itâs fair, like it doesnât punch a hole through the sensitive, tearing walls of his heart. âI want you, Sam. Anââand âm so tired of you beinâ so careful âround me, ân notânot lettinâ yourself look, or t-touch, ânââ
âHey.â His voice doesnât come out loud. It doesnât come out mean. But thereâs lead in it, heavy, like a lid that forces your mouth to click shut. He pries your hands off his face slowly, and itâs not because he wants to. God, he really doesnât. But itâs because heâs almost sure that if they stay, theyâll burn a hole right through his skin.
He eases you back just an inch, just enough to get a good look at you, and that single look costs him. Because it means he has to see the glassy sheen over your eyes, and pretend he doesnât notice the way your irises are nothing but a thin ring around your pupil. It means he has to watch the way they drop to his lips, and he has to swallow every neuron firing, bursting to flames for him to close the distance.
âI know,â he says finally. âI knowâI know you think you do right now. But youâre drunk. God, youâre so fucking drunk, baby. Youâre going to wake up tomorrow, youâre going to feel like hell, and you wonât evenââ his voice wavers, and he pauses. Forces the tremor down. ââYou wonât remember this. I canât let you say something youâre not sober enough to take back. I wonât.â
You blink at him. Itâs a slow, heavy thing, and for a terrible, heart-shattering moment, he thinks you might cry.Â
âBut, I⊠I do meanâŠâ
âShh.â He lowers your hands to your lap, his touch so soft he can barely feel itâor maybe his hands have just gone entirely numb. He canât quite be sure. âI know. I know you do right now.â His thumb brushes a circle over your knuckles, though his fingers tremble so hard that his hand shakes yours, too. âBut right now⊠right nowâs not enough for me, okay?â
The silence that follows is suffocating. He watches the words die on your tongue, syllable by syllable, as the fight drains out of you like sand slipping between your fingers. It hurts. It burns him square in the chest in the worst way.Â
Pulling back slowly, he lets the back of his thighs fall against his calves. Because if he lingers, he will break, and he knows it. Heâll fold in half and press his mouth to the crown of your head and tell you everything. Every stupid, pathetic year heâs spent longing for something he couldnât have.
ââŠOkay,â he swallows, and his voice remains steady, steadier than heâd heard in his head. âOkay. Youâre gonna lie down now, and youâre gonna sleep. And, and tomorrow⊠tomorrow weâll talk.â He pushes himself up on useless, heavy legs, guiding you back on the bed, hands hovering just above your forearms. He can still feel you scalding his palms. âIf⊠if you want to talk. And if you donât, thatâsâthatâs okay. We⊠weâll be okay.â
Itâs a lie. A flimsy, stupid lie, that already begins to gnaw at his heart.Â
You make a small, unhappy sound, shuffling back against the covers. âDonâ wanna sleep.â
âI know,â he repeats, barely above a breath. His hand finds the back of your head before he can catch it, guiding it down to the pillow, his fingers threading gently into your hair. He presses the softest of kisses to your temple. Itâs just a brush of lips, barely. But to him, itâs everything. âI know. But you need to. I need you to. Just⊠for me, okay?â
You mumble something incoherent, your eyes finally, finally, fluttering closed. Your fingers curl blindly into the pillow as you shift, rolling yourself lazily onto your stomach, nuzzling your cheek into the pillow.
And beside you, Sam stands frozen. Staring.Â
Because fuck, even drunk off your ass, even like this, youâre just⊠beautiful.
Itâs not a passive thought. Itâs one thatâs weaved and woven its way through the slopes and grooves of his brain, thatâs integrated itself so deep, that heâll never be able to shake it away, and he knows it. But now, itâs settled right along with those words youâd spoken through loose lips and a thick tongue, imbedding themselves right into that damned mantra.
I want you.Â
They repeat as he turns. They repeat as he flicks off the lamp. They repeat as he crosses the room. They repeat as he lies down on the opposite bed, over top of the covers, and stares blankly at the water-stained ceiling in the dark.Â
Because tomorrow, he knows you wonât remember a word. And tomorrow, he knows he will.
Tomorrow, he knows heâll remember every goddamn second, and he canât do a single thing about it.
AN: I feel like going fic posting MIA for over a month and then posting straight angst is a little bit evil. Sorry? Maybe?
Anyway though, I really am sorry about the little hiatus! Surprise, Iâm in the middle of moving, yikes. Iâll be a happy woman if I never see a box again, but oh well, once itâs done and Iâm out of here, I can (hopefully) be back to writing more often.
This is (loosely) based on âBlackâ by Pearl Jam, if you couldnât tell by the titleâŠ
prguitarman
2087
discoholicmusic
origamiaround
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
