Note: still in denial about ep 2... also, surprise! guess who broke free from her exam hiatus to churn this out in one afternoon sesh
@whaddupbaby
The early morning sun peeked through the sheer linen of the curtains, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. There was no birdsong, no familiar hustle and bustle of Jackson’s populace, nothing beyond the peaceful stillness of the room.
As far as you were concerned, there was only you and Joel.
Your back was against his bare chest, his broad frame encompassing you from behind as you lay on your side, limbs tangled together like crawling ivy.
His mouth skittered down your neck, lips tenderly pressing unspoken ‘I love you’s into your skin, branding you with his touch.
“No patrol today?” You mused sleepily, baring more of your neck for him.
“Mm-mm.” Joel hummed in response, breathing you in and gently tracing indistinguishable, lazy shapes on your hip. He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His words were warm against your cheek. “I’d rather spend a few hours with my wife.”
You smiled. “Lucky woman.”
“Her husband’s even luckier.” He drawled, his rich, Texan accent reintroducing itself in a deep rumble the way it did only when he was half-awake.
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“You always gotta put up a fight, don’t you, Mrs Miller?” Joel chuckled, kissing your cheek.
“Someone’s gotta keep you in check, Mr Miller.” You turned your head to meet his gaze.
And meet his gaze, you did. Two pools of deep brown stared back at you, steady, molten, and impossibly soft. Something about the way Joel looked at you made the world slow to a hush, as if the morning itself had bent to its knees, reverent to the quiet worship in his eyes.
It wasn’t just love. It was a kind of knowing—like he was memorising you in real time, committing the curve of your smile, the crinkle of your eyes, the sound of your breath to some sacred, secret archive he was happy to hold the only key to.
“Believe me, ma’am, I am putty in the palm of your hand.” His voice was low and gentle.
“You big flirt.”
Joel only smiled, slow and sleepy, like he had all the time in the world to love you, and no intention of ever stopping.
You brought a hand to cup his face, caressing his cheek and feeling the roughness of his grey-streaked stubble under the pad of your thumb.
And he took your hand, your fingers dwarfed in his, and pressed the softest of kisses to your knuckles.
“Guilty as charged,” He smiled widely.
You rolled your eyes, but failed to bite back a similarly wide smile threatening to form on your lips.
“Since you don’t have patrol, does that mean we get a few hours to ourselves?”
“Mhm.” Joel sighed, releasing your hand to run his hand along your side. “Why? Got something in mind, sweetheart?”
The half-hard state of his cock against the small of your back informed you that he already knew the answer to his own question.
You, nonetheless, entertained him.
“Maybe.”
“‘Maybe’, huh? Care to elaborate?”
“What are you, a cop?”
Joel laughed and slid his hand down to your thigh, gently hitching your leg above his hip, opening you up for him.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really bad at dirty talk?” He hummed in between trailing his lips along your shoulder, and slowly glided his hand down your front, below your navel, dipping under the waistband of your underwear just shy of where you were aching to feel the thickness of his fingers.
“You want me to try again?”
“Be my guest, sweets.”
You placed a hand over his, interlocking your fingers and sliding it down, down, down…
A low, almost inaudible moan escaped from his throat once he felt your puffy folds and the slick pooling from your aching cunt.
“I’m currently blanking on a witty one-liner, but I just really want you to fuck me silly.”
A murmured ‘fuck’ escaped his lips and he instinctively bucked his clothed hard-on against you.
Breathily, “yeah, I think I can do that.”
And that was how Joel ended up fucking you sideways at eight in the morning on a random Sunday.
One hand tilted your jaw up so he could suck at your pulse point as his cock lazily drove in and out of your weeping mound, held captive by his grip on your thigh splayed over his hips.
It was a good thing you were already dripping for him, because he held no patience for foreplay and endeavoured solely to feel your cunt wrapped around him. Usually, he’d take his time stretching you open with his fingers, but, fortunately, you were able to take all eight inches of him in nearly one thrust from the almost shameful amount of arousal you had collected.
Even more fortunately for you, an hour and a bit later, your godsend of a husband had managed to work four deliciously slow orgasms from you and showed no signs of slowing down anytime soon.
“Mmm, feel so good, baby.” He whispered against your jaw.
You whimpered at his snail-like pace. “Joel—” A strangled noise tore out of you.
A noncommittal sound came from him in reply.
“Faster. Please,”
“Sorry, sweets, no can do.” He tutted, sloppily pressing a kiss to the underside of your chin. “Wanna take my time with this pretty pussy.”
True to his word, Joel continued his almost painstakingly languid tempo.
He'd slowly drive in—all the way to the hilt, the coarse hairs at his base tickling your inner thighs. And then he’d pause to feel your drooling, velvety walls clench and flutter around him. And then he’d pull out so far you almost believed he’d dare to leave you bereft of his weeping, swollen head, before gradually feeding you his length and restarting his seemingly never-ending cycle.
All the while, he softly mumbled sweet nothings beside you, his warm breath fanning against your cheek.
“That’s my girl, taking me so well.”
“Can feel her stranglin’ me, baby. So fuckin’ tight.”
“That’s it. Oh, take it, gorgeous. Yeah, there you go.”
“Look so pretty full of my cock,”
You were overstimulated, to say the least.
All you could feel was him, behind you, steadily fucking into you. All you could smell was sex and Joel; pine and musk and Marlboro Reds. All you could hear was the low rumbles of his husky baritone, your own heartbeat thudding in your ears, the obscene sounds of his length re-sheathing itself in your very welcoming cunt.
Slowly, in and out. In and out. In and out.
Tears pooled in your eyes, but you didn’t notice. And even if you had, you wouldn’t have cared.
With every leisurely thrust, his tip kissed your cervix, filling you with a familiar weight that felt like home.
Joel was your home.
And that thought repeated over and over in your mind like a broken record as he continued fucking you like you both had all the time in the world.
Home, home, home.
“You feel so good,” You sighed.
“Yeah?” Joel slurred. “Fuck, baby. Never wanna leave this goddamn bed.”
Slowly, in and out.
In and out.
In response, you melted into him like butter on a warm dish, throwing an arm behind you to gently card through his salt and pepper curls.
Joel hummed and pressed a wet kiss to your temple before resting his chin on your shoulder, looking down at where you two were connected and letting out a low growl.
“You see that, baby?”
“Hm?” Your eyes fluttered, not registering anything except for the sensation of his big fucking cock.
Gently, Joel tilted your head downwards.
“Look how well you take me, sweetheart.” He sighed, his face right beside yours, his eyes watching the same thing. “Look at how she’s just cryin’ for me.”
Fuck.
A creamy ring had formed around his base—no doubt a salacious mixture of his pre-come and your slick, as you had already come a mind-numbing amount of times. And there it went, disappearing into your puffy, drooling cunt over and over and over...
You couldn’t help but moan at the sight, unconsciously clenching around him.
“Fuck,” Joel gritted his teeth and accidentally drove a bit too harshly into you, his cock dragging up your walls with a force he normally reserved for those special nights he’d fuck you like an animal in heat.
That wasn’t his plan for this particular morning, but, as always, you had managed to make him lose control, if only for a second.
“Joel!” You wailed, throwing your head back.
Joel immediately shushed you. “I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry, s’was an accident. You’re alright, hm?” He kissed your head. “Gotta keep quiet, though. Ellie’s probably still asleep.”
You whimpered petulantly.
“My poor girl.” Joel laughed airily, then lowered his voice to coo in your ear. “Gonna give me one more?”
One more? Was he trying to kill you?
Evidently, you didn’t need to voice such a concern, as it was apparently written all over your face.
“You can give me one more, can’t you?” Joel hummed softly.
A sigh. And then, you mumbled a quiet ‘yes’.
"That's my girl."
Your husband’s warm, calloused hand came to your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-circles on the bundle of nerves until you cried out and fluttered wildly around him, your millionth orgasm of the morning washing over you like a tidal wave.
And he kept slowly fucking into you as you reached you high, and still, after. Your consciousness barely hung on by a thread, and, at the rate he was going, that thread was in danger of snapping.
Slowly, in and out. In and out.
“Joel, too—too much…”
“Shh, baby. C’mon, hold out for a little longer for me, I’m almost there.” Joel promised sweetly, pressing another kiss to your hairline. “Please, baby, just a little more.”
You heaved out a breath. A faint sigh of exhaustion, possibly one of protest.
“Just—shit, just a little more, ‘nd I’ll fill you up, hm? Fuck you nice and full…”
Joel was rambling now, his breath laboured, his eyebrows pinched in concentration, his eyes half-lidded and blurred with lust as he sawed up and out of you.
Slowly, in. Even slower, out.
Obediently, you nodded.
As promised, it took him a few more thrusts before he came with a gasp of your name, buried deep inside you—as deep as your walls would let him.
His pearly spend leaked out of your cunt (which was still stuffed full of him) as he planted kisses on every inch of skin his adoring mouth could reach.
“Did so good for me. My sweet girl,” He whispered, nudging the side of your face with his nose.
Hoarsely, you replied, “think you just about killed me.”
Joel laughed softly and carefully angled your head toward him.
“C’mere,” He sighed, smiling.
And he tenderly slotted his lips against yours, tongue lazily slipping into your mouth and meeting your own.
And, draping a heavy arm across your waist, he pulled you closer against him, tangling his limbs with yours once more, and finding peace in the feeling of your body tucked into his.
And you both drifted into a warm, weightless sleep, letting the morning slip by.
Because, in the quiet tangle of shared breath and steady heartbeats, nothing else mattered.
Because the two of you had all the time in the world to love each other.
Just finished it and i loved it so much! could i request a part 2 to Dream Of Me..?
Dream Come True
Sam Winchester x F!Reader
IT'S HERE!!!!! okay, so many of you asked for a p.2 and it's here, finally. Thank you to everyone who left comments under Dream Of Me and now you have the second part. By the way, I think this shows my slight (huge) obsession with Sam's muscles and my lack of knowledge in blowjobs
Read "Dream Of Me" here
Summary: Sam's avoiding you, he's weird ever since he woke up and you had to question him about it sometime.
Warnings: SMUT, unprotected piv (which is fake and i do not encourage), oral (m. and f. recieving), nipple sucking, fingering (sort of), marking, angsty??? maybe, kissing, cursing, use of y/n, dean is done with these two, english is not my first language, NOT PROOF READ, ALL MISTAKES ARE MINE
WC: 11.6K (shhh, don't talk about it)
You can learn how to change Y/N for your actual name here
enjoy!
As soon as Sam arrived in the library and saw you standing there in those jeans that did wonders for your legs he immediately felt the room grow hotter. He felt like a high school boy who had just hit puberty with the way he was feeling today or as if it was the first time he dreamed with a woman in his bed – or other places for that matter. He did have feelings for you for some time, but everytime he thought about you, he thought about the sweetness of your smile or the way your laugh sounded when you were slightly drunk. Not about how loud he could make you scream his name.
Sam wasn’t innocent, and neither were you. He knew that you weren’t – he had heard, when the motel walls were too thin, the bed hitting against it and some curses of pleasure out of your mouth. And you most definitely knew he wasn’t, telling you and Dean the history he had with Ruby in excruciating detail even made you feel tingly inside.
Sam tried, badly, to be nonchalant about it around you but it was so difficult. Your plump lips moving as you explained the case, sometimes your tongue darting out to wet it, were driving him insane. He paid much more attention to the way you spoke to him with your hand on his shoulder during the drive to the case, your breath lightly hitting his face and reminding him of the hot kiss you shared in his head, your hand practically burning on his skin through his flannel. And when you finally found a motel to crash in for the time you stayed there, you started loading the gun barrels inside the boys room while Sam attempted to research and Dean was reading lore books on the small table the room had. The way you worked your fingers with your gun was so erotic without you even wanting it to be. Sam was on the verge of breaking as he stared at you, who was oblivious to his looks.
But one person that wasn’t oblivious was Dean Winchester. When he looked up from his book to Sam, ready to ask him a question, he almost immediately closed his mouth when he noticed Sam was doing anything but research. He looked at the way his brother was sitting, with an elbow on the table, resting his head on his hand, torso slightly turned in your direction, eyes trained on your hands. Dean then looked at you and was shocked that you hadn’t even acknowledged Sam’s stare. He smirked to himself as he shook his head in disbelief.
Of course Dean knew about Sam’s feelings. He got him to admit to his crush on you one night where the brothers were in a bar alone and you were in a hunt by yourself. Sam had just hung up his phone after talking to you, his slightly slurred words made you chuckle in the other end of the line and, when Sam put his phone down on the table, he wrapped one hand in his beer and sighed dreamily, staring mindlessly at his thumb that brushed the bottle left to right.
“Her laugh is so beautiful, it matches her” He murmured and Dean almost choked on his own beer, eyes widening at his brother, eyebrows furrowed. As if Sam had realized he actually said it out loud and not just thought, he looked over at Dean, face to face with his brother’s amused look. Sam just sighed disappointedly, knowing that there was no way he was escaping this, not even giving the ‘I’m just drunk!’ excuse. So, he just accepted it “Don’t tell her…”
As if all dots connected, Dean leaned back on his chair, a grin on his face as he thought about the interactions you and Sam had with each other and how it was actually quite obvious. “You like her?” Dean asked the obvious and Sam just nodded. After that, as the amazing older brother he is, Dean promised he wouldn’t utter a word to you about this and he was keeping his promise up to this day, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t tease the youngest about it…
“Hey Sam, have you found anything?” Dean spoke up and that seemed to wake Sam up from his trance. He cleared his throat and desperately tried to make it seem like he was concentrated fully on his assigned task.
“Um, y-yeah, all the victims died of blood loss and.. and there are bite marks…” Sam said, making you look up at him too, throwing your hair back with a movement of your head. Your hands had stopped working on the guns and you got up from the bed you were sitting, leaving the weapon behind. You walked until you were behind Sam and, using his body for support, putting your left hand over his right shoulder, you leaned in to look at the screen, confirming the information yourself.
Sam stiffened up the moment you got closer to him. With the way you were leaning in – your hand on him again – made him take a deep breath to stay put. He had his eyes glued on the laptop screen because he feared that if he glanced at you in any way he wouldn’t be able to control his most primal needs – A.K.A. avoid his sinful thoughts to take over and a boner to rise. He could feel your warmth behind him and, as you nodded and walked away, completely oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions in his head, he finally felt like he could breathe.
“It’s clearly vampires. Thank God we didn’t have to turn libraries upside down to figure this one out” You said with a slight smile to Dean, your arms crossed in front of you. He closed his book with a thud, thankful for not having to do much more. You turned back to Sam who, at this point, had also closed his laptop and seemed lost in thought.
To get your suit in your bag – that you left over the other bed –, you had to go past Sam and, as you did, you brushed a hand over his arm and got closer to his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. You lowered your voice a little, for Dean not to hear what you were about to say, a worried frown in your face.
“Hey, are you doing okay? You seem off” You ask, slightly tilting your head, your eyes searching into his for any kind of discomfort, be it emotional or physical.
Alarms went off inside Sam’s head and, as soon as he could gather his thoughts together, he suddenly stood up, making you pull away from him and widen your eyes, startled. You furrowed your eyebrows at him and he swallowed deeply, trying to moist his dry throat.
“I’m fine” He mumbles before going to the bathroom, brushing past you in a hurry, his arm bumping against your shoulder. You stare at the shut door once he locks himself inside, mouth agape and an offended look on your face. You turn to face Dean again, questioning him with a look. Dean shrugs his shoulders and gets up from his chair.
At this point you felt kind of…hurt. You had done nothing to Sam, not that you were aware of, and your face dropped. Dean felt the need to guarantee you that it was probably nothing but even he was confused. Sam tended to long to be beside you, to touch you, or have any excuse for you to touch him. He swallowed his jealousy when you had asked Dean once to take his shirt off to care for his wounds. That day, as you stitched the gash on his brother's abdomen, Sam stared daggers at Dean, who felt the need to reassure him that you were all Sam’s, that Dean saw you as a little sister and nothing else.
This kind of avoidance towards you was weird to the point even you felt affected by it. You weren’t one to take things to the heart – you’re a hunter for fucks sake – but when it came to the boys, especially Sam, you felt worse than ever. They were often harsh, either with each other or with other people. Of course they had to be tough and mean when it came to it due to their line of work but, behind closed doors, they were the sweetest people you’ve ever met, always caring for you and one another and often sacrificing their own comfort – and sometimes their lives – so other people can sleep without worrying about what’s lurking in the night.
Still, it hurt when you became a victim of their temper and Sam being the one shutting you out this time was not only unexplainable but also like a punch to the gut. Let's say the tall, muscular and smart guy Sam Winchester was had you falling for him quickly – and, soon, harder – than you expected. He always tried to be as sweet as he could be and as understandable. He had a natural instinct to comfort the victims you guys often talked to, always the one to do the talking. You had noticed the way he approached the subject with care, especially if the victim was related to the interviewed in any way, and had taken that as a mental note. Hey, he’s good with words.
But, Sam could also be firm and assertive when it came to it. Once, while you and him were interrogating a guy who wasn’t cooperating at all with you, even when you both were disguised as FBI, Sam snapped. His big hand came with full force against the table, his palm facing down and a loud bang echoing through the small room. It startled you to the point where you jumped slightly, eyes wide as you looked at your ‘partner’. Sam was fuming. His nostrils were flared and his eyebrows were low, casting a shadow over his eyes. He slowly leaned in closer to the guy's face, a wicked grin emerging on his face.
“Look…” He started, voice low, raspy. He gently pulled his suit aside, secretly showing the man his shiny, silver gun safely resting against his hip. You watched as the dude swallowed harshly and his eyes stared at the weapon. “If you won’t cooperate with us…” Sam straightened up, holding both his hands behind his back as he started to walk until he stood beside the guy. He leaned towards his ear, the guy completely frozen. “We are going to rip the truth out of you” He whispered.
You had struggled to keep your composure. The way Sam showed his power over the man – who ended up telling both of you his side of the story after the threat – was distracting. It was safe to say you had discovered something about yourself that day. You had sat the whole ride back to the motel with your legs crossed to numb the throbbing between your thighs as you imagined Sam talking to you that way, in different settings. A cold shower was barely enough to calm you down.
The mix of all these things and other little stuff about the younger brother is what made him special to you. And, now, he was avoiding you.
You sighed and walked back to the bed, sitting beside the guns you’ve left scattered over it, facing Dean’s direction. You leaned on your knees with your elbows, holding your head with your hands, squishing your cheeks and making your pout more prominent than intended. Dean looked at you with pity.
“Did I do something? Say something?” You ask Dean, looking up at him. Dean shakes his head and sighs, getting up from the chair and walking to the mini bar. You knew exactly what he was reaching for and you stretched a hand out to grab the beer bottle once he handed it to you. You opened it easily with your hand and took three big gulps of it. Dean opened his as he sat down beside you this time, on the bed, and threw the lid over the bedside table, the material clinking against the wood.
“Nah, you didn’t do anything, he’s just in a mood” He said but it didn’t seem to help, your face still sad and your head far away, filled with the wrong thoughts. He sighed and gave you a side hug, your head laying against his shoulder. Dean rubbed his hand up and down your upper arm mindlessly to comfort you. “Don’t worry about it sweetheart, you did nothing wrong, he’s just…being Sam, I’m sure this has nothing to do with you, okay? I’ll make sure to kick his ass later” He smiled.
You smiled slightly at the last part, shaking your head at the older Winchester, the typical brotherly teasing something you grew fond of.
Meanwhile, inside the bathroom, Sam was trying to keep it together. He had never felt this way before and it was driving him crazy trying to stay away from you because, at the same time he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if anything he did or said showed his attraction – physical and emotional – towards you, he was dreading this. He longed for your closeness, for your touch, not necessarily in a sexual way, much like the one of concern you had just given him. But right now everything became sexual to him, just your hand over his arms was enough to drive goosebumps over his spine.
He washed his face with the cold water from the sink, brushing his wet hand through his hair. He breathed deeply and dried his face, ready to leave the bathroom and go back to acting as if he didn’t want to kick Dean out of the room and have you right here, right now.
Once he opened the door, he regretted it almost immediately. When he saw Dean so close he clenched his hand against the door handle, swallowing his jealousy. You weren’t his, he reminded himself, he didn’t have the right to be jealous of someone that wasn’t his. But, oh, he was. It was uncontrollable, but undeniable.
He watched Dean’s hand rub up and down your arm, your head laid over his shoulder so comfortably. He bit the inside of his cheek as he approached the both of you to place his laptop back into its case. You had noticed his presence, lifting off of Dean and looking at his side profile. He won’t even look at me. You glanced at Dean, who had also realized his brother’s behavior, and gave him a disappointed look.
You sighed through your nose and grabbed your gun to put in the waistband of your jeans. You also took your bag that you always had with you on hunts, separate from the one with your personal items, and threw it over your shoulder. Dean just stared as you got ready to leave, not stopping you. He needed some alone time with Sam to ask him what the fuck was going on.
“I’m going to the car, we can leave once you’re both ready” You said. Dean acknowledged it with an ‘Okay’ and Sam just hummed. You opened the door and left, angrily walking towards Baby.
As soon as the door closed behind you Dean got up from the bed and aggressively spun Sam around, grabbing at his shoulder.
“Hey–!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean interrupted, and an angry scowl on his face. He whisper-yelled, still worried that you might hear them. Sam gave him a confused look and Dean rolled his eyes at the stupidity of his brother. “Why are you acting like this with her?”
“Acting like what?” Sam bit back, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Stop pretending like you don’t know Sammy! Why are you ignoring Y/N all of a sudden? Weren’t you the one all” Dean raised his hands, doing quotation marks with both his index and middle fingers “‘head over heels’ for her, hm?”
Now it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. He crossed his arms in front of him, slightly looking down at his brother due to the height difference. “It’s nothing” He mumbled, looking away. Images of you roamed around his head at Dean’s question and it reminded him why he was doing this in the first place. He was avoiding you for your own good, you and your friendship with him.
“It’s not nothing, damn it, the girl thinks she did something. Did she? Because you sure make it look like you are angry with her” Dean kept poking at the subject, getting on Sam’s nerves. His face softened once his brother told him you felt bad. “What happened?” Dean asked again, this time a little more softly after he noticed Sam’s face drop at his words.
Sam sighed and looked around the room, nervous. He didn’t know if he should actually tell Dean about this – he’d definitely make fun of him endlessly. But still, he didn’t know if making you sad was worth it. He ran a hand through his hair, something he did when he was under pressure and mumbled “I had a dream”
“What?” Dean asked, not understanding whatever language his brother just spoke.
“A dream”
“Dream? What do you mean?”
“I had a dream…with Y/N”
“What do you mean a dream with–” Realization suddenly hits Dean “...Oh” and he relaxes his eyebrows, like he just made sense of everything that happened that day. Then he smirks. Smirks and starts to laugh his ass off as Sam just stands there, cheeks flushed, waiting for his brother to calm down. He knew it.
Sam started to smile slightly as his brother kept trying to talk over his laughter, his embarrassment almost gone. Once Dean finally took a few breaths, a hand on his chest as he dried his fake tears and his laughter died down with a sigh. He looked at Sam who stood there absolutely flushed.
“Man, that’s why you were taking longer in the shower than usual” Dean said with a fake disgust in his face. “Remember me to wash that bathroom twice before using”
“Shut up” Sam mumbled and looked away, suddenly deep in thought. Dean stopped joking and crossed his arms, giving Sam a silent questioning look. Sam glanced at his brother. “What?”
“This kind of still doesn’t answer my question. Why are you avoiding her?” Dean asked and Sam looked at him like he had three heads. “Shouldn’t this make you, and I can’t believe I’m saying this but, excited to be around her”
“Dean, come on, I don’t want her to think I’m a pervert and, besides, she doesn’t even like me that way” And when Sam said that, Dean’s eyeballs almost popped out of his head, his eyes widening at his brother. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, asking the Lord above – better yet, Chuck – to give him the strength to deal with Sam’s stupidity.
“Do you not see it?” He asks. Sam makes a face.
“See what?”
“Oh my God, are you blind Sammy? Or just severely oblivious?” Dean inquiries. “She’s so obviously into you it hurts to watch”
“Dean, please–”
“Don’t ‘please’ me! It’s so clear! She’s always near you when she has the chance, she always insists on helping you when you get hurt on hunts, she looks at you like you’re the last man on Earth, she always worries so much about you…”
“She does the same with you and…” Sam bit the inside of his cheek “...you guys seemed pretty cozy when I came out of the bathroom”
Dean almost hit Sam right then and there, or took one of the guns and shot him through his leg – as a warning. How could he even…?
“Are you fucking serious? That girl is like a sister to me. And why would I even flirt with her when I know you’re into the chick? I’m bad but not that bad, I ain’t stealing your girl” Dean reasures Sam.
His girl. Dean said. But you weren’t his. Sam sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, a million thoughts running through his head. He walked close to the bed and sat down, his and his brother’s guns slightly bouncing over the mattress with the added weight. He held his head in his hands, his hair falling beside his face, his elbows propped over his knees.
“What am I supposed to do?” Sam asks, helpless. Dean shakes his head.
“Talk to her, it’s as simple as that” Dean responded as if it truly was that easy. Sam thought about it. You weren’t gonna hate him for liking you and, maybe, Dean was right and you liked him too. It was a 50/50 chance between rejection and love. He weighed his options and decided in his mind.
Sam suddenly got up, startling Dean. He grabbed his gun and bag, walking around with a determined gaze. Dean accompanied his movements with his eyes, wanting to question the youngest about what conclusion he had gotten to but he was soon with a hand on the door handle and he looked back at his older brother, smiling.
“Let’s go, we have things to kill”
It was safe to say that seeing you in a suit didn’t help Sam’s mind as it roamed back to those thoughts. As said before, you looked good in absolutely anything, but boy could you absolutely tear a man apart with the way you looked. You styled your hair in a more professional way using Baby’s rear view mirror and it looked amazing, your strands glowing in the faint daylight the day had left.
You were both standing close enough so that Sam was able to smell your perfume and the scent of your hair products. It became harder to concentrate on whoever you were interviewing, his eyes wandering to stare at the back of your head, wanting to see inside your brain for any message that said ‘Hey Sam, I’m into you too!’
Dean had gone elsewhere to deal with other things regarding the case so that left you and Sam. Alone. You felt, for the first time in years that you knew Sam, awkward to be around him. On the ride to the witness’ house, you barely talked, something that rarely happened between the two of you. You thought about asking what was wrong but that didn’t work the first time so you hadn’t done it again.
Right now, you sat on the passenger seat of the Impala, staring at Sam's hands gripping the steering wheel. He had hardly looked at you throughout the whole day — or so you thought.
Sam was in an intense battle inside his head and the way you kept looking at him wasn't helping. When he left the room after talking to Dean, he thought he felt brave enough to tell you everything he wanted to but, once he saw you sitting in the backseat in all your beauty, he was reminded of why he hadn't done it before.
He looked at you in secret everytime you were distracted. The way your hips moved when you walked, the way you crossed your legs in the seat every now and then. Oh what he wouldn't give to squeeze your thighs between his fingers right now. You had your arms crossed in front of your chest and — may Sam be forgiven — but the way it made your breasts look when you did that.
He gripped his fingers against the steering wheel even tighter, grounding himself from his thoughts, his knuckles turning white. He sped up the car, unconsciously trying to get back to the motel quicker.
You looked at his side profile then, a quizzical look on your face. He still didn’t look at you.
“Sam” You called. He didn't acknowledge it entirely, his head to focused on not getting a boner at the thought of fucking you in the backseat. You inch closer to him, a hand on his shoulder, “Sam!”
“What!” He answers, dryly. You brush it off, already used to his attitude for the day.
“You don't need to go that fast, we aren't in a hurry, God damn” You huff and pull your hand away from him, sinking back down in your seat angrily.
“Okay, sorry” He mumbles. You feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. A message from Dean. You take your phone and read the message. “Found a bar, don’t wait for me to get back ;)”. You chuckle and send an answer back knowing you’d probably only see him next morning. You told him to be safe – in all ways – and not drink too much. Sam looked at you from the corner of his eye. “Who’s that?”
“Madonna” You reply, sarcastically. He doesn’t say anything so you look at his face, which has an annoyed expression over it. “It’s Dean, he found a bar, told us not to wait for him”
Sam hums in acknowledgement and silence settles again, letting your mind wander over the possibilities of why Sam was acting with you this way. You were usually pretty playful, talked a lot with each other, either in the car or before you both parted ways to sleep, each in your own room. This silence, this avoidance was driving you nuts trying to figure out what happened. You felt like crying, honestly, overwhelmed with this feeling inside you. These feelings, plural. Your feelings for Sam mixed with this sickness that downed on you when you would notice he could barely say a word to you.
Lost in your head, you almost didn’t notice when Sam parked Baby in the motel's parking lot, only realizing it when the comforting hum of the engine went away. You both got out of the car, getting your bags in the trunk. You weren’t in the same room as the boys but you felt the need to talk to Sam so, when you came up behind him to his door and got inside his room, stepping in and quickly closing the door behind you, he was confused.
“Aren’t you going to–”
“What’s going on?” You asked, throat tight and heart aching, but you refused to cry. Sam furrowed his eyebrows and you stepped closer to him, standing barely two feet away from the Winchester.
“You’ve been acting cold towards me all day! All damn day. And I have no idea why.” You pressed your index against his chest accusingly, pushing him back slightly, not because you were necessarily stronger, but because you caught him off guard, your outburst was unexpected.
“I didn’t–”
“I tried, okay? I tried to figure out what I did but I…I don’t know. I tried to talk to you earlier today and you brushed me off, you seem incapable of looking at me properly, you’re cold, you’re quiet and I have no idea why so, please tell me. What’s going on?”
Your eyes were glassy and your heart was racing. Sam was speechless, he didn’t know you were feeling this way. Dean had told him, of course, but he had no idea you were actually that affected by his distancing. And to think that he only stood away because he didn’t want to make you feel bad or creeped out about his nervousness, it had the exact opposite effect. He felt his heart sink as he saw you holding back tears and his first instinct was to wrap his arms around you.
You hugged him back, thankful for some reassurance that he at least didn’t hate you, your arms wrapped around his waist and your face pressed against his chest. Sam caressed your head, your hair feeling soft under his fingers.
“You didn’t do anything, Y/N, don’t say that” He told you.
You pulled away from his chest to look at him. “Then tell me what’s wrong”
Sam sighs and closes his eyes momentarily. He had imagined this moment thousands of times, where he told you about how he felt. He couldn’t believe it would be after he ignored you because you were too hot to handle. He looked at you again, drowning in your beautiful eye color, one that he could stare for hours at its beauty. He then looked up, asking for the strength to tell you all he wanted, his throat visible to you as he swallowed his nerves.
“Actually, yeah, you kind of did something” He says, moving his hands until he was holding your upper arms, a smirk on his lips as he eyes you down. You opened your mouth, shocked, but, before you could say anything, he continued. “You drive me crazy, Y/N”
You stood still, scared to move as he talked. You were confused, lost. Hadn’t he just said you had nothing to do with this? Meanwhile, Sam just looked at you for a few seconds, silent. He took you in completely, your body still hidden under the FBI suit but he felt like he already had it memorized. He wanted to touch you, to feel you and he felt like, if he held back any longer, he could lose you. Lose you to someone who wasn’t scared of loving you. “Sam, I don’t–”
“Just– Look at you. You are one of the most amazing women I know, you’re strong, you’re smart, you– God, there’s no words that can describe just how incredible you are. You care for people more than you do for yourself and, even if that makes me angry sometimes, it just shows how big of a heart you have” He takes a breath. “You can be dying but you’d still put a bandaid on someone's scraped knee just because they asked you to, because you care.”
Sam slowly moves his hands to hold you by your neck, his rough palms hot against your skin. You had no words, you just hoped that your eyes could talk for you as you stared into his hazel ones. You had so much to say but words refused to form in your mouth. You never thought Sam would be the one to confess, hell, you never thought he even liked you that way. Hearing him say those things was like getting hit by a train of happiness. You raised your hands to wrap around his wrists, gently holding them as you prayed for him to continue.
“You’re the girl I picture to be forever in my life, if not as a lover, please let it be as a friend. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, but, at the same time, I can’t keep these feelings to myself much longer. If you don’t want me that way, it’s fine, but I need you here with me, one way or another” Sam finishes and starts searching your face for any kind of reaction. He just put his heart in your hands and it was up to you to shatter it or not. He felt his nerves on fire. He rubbed his thumb against your jawline to keep himself grounded and hold onto the comforting thought that you hadn’t pulled away from his touch.
You suddenly smiled, wide and proud. Sam seemed to relax when he saw it, a breath he didn’t know he was holding coming out of his mouth. You felt a rush of happiness go through you as you realized he wasn’t avoiding you because he was mad at you, he was avoiding you because he wanted you so bad he felt like he could make you mad. And that was so Sam. It was exactly like him to tone down his own feelings because of other people and how they might feel, even if it eats him on the inside. What felt even better is that he managed to muster up the courage to come here and tell you about everything in the most Sam way possible, in a way that made shivers run through you.
“Sam Winchester, if you don’t kiss me right now I might just–” He didn’t even let you finish, his plump lips crashing against yours in earnest. He waited months for this and there was no way he was delaying this further. Your words are swallowed down by his mouth along with a surprised gasp you let out. One of his hands went further until it held you behind your neck, his thumb still caressing your jaw as relieved breaths came out of his nose, he was so nervous he would get dumped and his heart crushed that kissing you felt better than anything he ever imagined. The dream might’ve been good but actually kissing you felt so, so much better.
Your lips were sweet and your skin felt soft, a big contrast against his rough hands from handling weapons and burning bones. Those dreams of his came to mind yet again, the thought of exploring your whole body with his mouth made him groan, opening his mouth and teasing your lips with his tongue so you’d open them. You gladly did, letting one of your hands wrap around the base of his neck, pulling him in.
He lowered one of his hands to your waist through the inside of your black suit, pulling your body flush against his, squeezing your skin through the layers of clothing, eager to feel every inch of you. You groaned at his touch, a surge of heat polling into your belly. His hands took the opportunity to explore what he could – like dream Sam did – trailing his fingers up your back and you shivered, the light touch just making your need for him bigger.
His tongue explored your mouth, the kiss growing more heated within the moment. He starts to gently take the suit off your body, sliding it against your arms without breaking the kiss. Sam thinks for the first time in the last few seconds. He thinks about all the times he imagined being able to do this and, now that he had the chance and his feelings were reciprocated, he wanted to make it as good as possible for the both of you. He pulls away, wanting to make sure that you are on board with this.
His breathing is heavy and his cheeks are flushed as he looks at you, pupils dilated with desire – desire for you. Not once in your life have you thought that Sam would look at you that way – and God how much you dreamed of it. He was always much more secretive with his antics than Dean was, often keeping to himself instead of bragging about it, but you knew. You knew he was a passionate lover and the way he behaves just gives away how much of a gentleman he must be in bed.
“Is this okay? Are you okay with this?” He asked you, voice filled with lust and deeper than his usual. You could’ve melted right then and there as he looked between your eyes, searching for any discomfort. Instead of telling him, you decided to show Sam how bad you wanted him. You slowly walked back, dropping the suit he already had taken halfway off from your body to the ground. You didn’t take your eyes off of him and he stared intensely at you right back, attentive to what you were going to do.
Your hands slowly trailed up your body, roaming through your curves and you see Sam swallow, his fists clenching and unclenching beside him, his throat so deliciously biteable. Once your fingers arrived at the top button of your white shirt, you started to unbutton one by one, slowly. You took your time, eyes trained on his with a smirk on your lips. You were playing bold but the way he was looking at you made your knees weak. His eyes were analyzing every movement of your hands and he stood unbelievably still, like a hunter watching its prey, careful to not scare it away.
Once the last button was undone, you dropped the white clothing to the ground. You now stood in your bra, the cold of the room hitting your skin and making goosebumps rise over it. You got closer to the man again and he accompanied you with his hazel orbs, now a tone darker due to his dilated pupils and the poor lighting in the room. You took one of his hands and placed it against your bare skin, the hot touch making you sigh before grabbing him by the neck with the other hand, bringing his face closer but, instead of kissing him, you placed your mouth closer to his ear.
“I want you, Sam” You whisper in his ear and leave a kiss right below it. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, keeping as much control as he could, biting his lower lip. He groans and a ton of thoughts go through his head – you, naked below him, your attitude gone as he fucks it out of you, pleasurable moans of his name coming out of your mouth. I want you, you said. He strongly grips your hips with both hands, making you yelp, and pushes you towards the bed, manhandling you successfully. Once your back is against the mattress, Sam immediately attacks your neck, kisses and bites making you sigh his name and arch your back into him.
“You have no idea what you do to me” He mumbled against your skin. And, really, you had no clue. He had spent the whole day thinking about this exact moment. The whole day, more like the last 4 months. The months where he had the urge to smash whatever man’s head that flirted with you against a wall and kiss you right then and there, in front of everyone to show who you truly belonged to. “For ages I’ve been thinking about you like this, you are everything that I think about and it’s driving me insane. You drive me insane”
He bites you particularly harder and you moan, your hand flying to his head and tugging at his hair. “Sam!” Your plea came out pathetically needy and he pulled away from your neck to look you in the face, his strong arms caging you beneath him and making you focus solely on the grin he had displayed on his lips. He kisses your lips again, passionate and needy, a groan rippling deep in his throat.
With his lips still glued to yours, he tugged his own suit away from his body, fumbling with the clothing and throwing it away so quick you barely noticed it, loosening his tie and bringing his hands right back to your body, because now that he could touch you, there was nothing in the world that could take him away. He landed his hands on your ribs and trailed then behind your back, his fingers teasing against your bra.
He broke the kiss and with unsteady breaths close to your mouth he asked: “Can I?” as he teases his finger under the bra strap. You hummed in approval and grabbed both his cheeks, giving him a firm peck on the lips to emphasize it.
“Yes, you can, please” You say. It came out much needier than intended but Sam didn’t seem to mind. You thought he didn’t, but he did. He smiled at you, feeling pride in the thought of making you needy and, hearing your voice – that’s so assertive and strong on a daily basis – breathy and desperate, made him wonder why he hadn’t done this earlier. You looked stunning under him and no dream could ever picture what he was seeing. Your eyes hooded, mouth agape and thumbs caressing the stubble on his face, eager to touch him as much as he was to touch you. He was looking right through the gates of heaven.
He proceeded to unclasp your bra, gently taking it off of you. He does all that without taking his eyes off your face and only allows himself to look down once the undergarment was long forgotten, laying on the ground. You didn’t know what to do or where to look, turning your face from him and feeling your cheeks heat up. You, of course, had been with other men in bed and you never truly cared if they didn’t think of you above a one night stand – you didn’t think much of them either. But Sam made you feel nervous. He was being so caring up until now, contrasting against most men you’ve been with, the thought of not reciprocating it properly made you shy below him.
He was appreciating the perfection he had under him, his fingers trailing your sides affectionately when he noticed your face turning away. You were biting your lip and avoiding his piercing gaze and he raised a hand to hold your chin, slowly turning your face to look at him again. He kissed you to ease your nerves but, this time, it wasn’t lustful, it wasn’t simply a carnal need, he kissed you with love, with passion and you could feel it tearing through your soul, his feelings pouring out and painting your insides.
He pulled back again and his eyes traveled through your face as a smile painted his lips. “You’re beautiful” He says and you smile back at him widely, your heart racing in your chest. You didn’t know what to say to that so you grabbed at his loose tie that hung just below your jaw and pulled him in harshly, smashing your lips against his. The unexpected move made Sam lose his balance and you took the opportunity to change your positions, laying him back on the bed as you straddled his waist with your legs.
Sam gripped your hips as you made out, gently rolling you over him and you felt it. You felt him under you through the clothing you both still had on and a whine escaped your lips into the kisses. Sam leaves your lips to start attacking your neck, leaving hickeys and bites behind. He was holding onto the last ounce of control he had, you were just so much. Every little noise you made went straight to his cock and he couldn’t handle it anymore, you still had too much clothing on and he needed to do something about it.
Sam turned both of you over again and left your lips to stand straight in front of you. The sight of you half naked, splayed out over the bed, hair messed up, shiny spots from his saliva against your neck and collarbone was very close to the sight he’d dreamed about. But a hundred times better. Because this was real, he was touching you, kissing you, marking you and making you his.
He felt suffocated in his own clothes and he took the opportunity to take off his tie and his white shirt along the way, slowly revealing his defined body. You swallowed to try and not drool over the sight, his strong physique covered by a thin layer of sweat, the tattoo he had on his chest contrasting against his tanned torso and few scars he had here and there. Some were white, others were pink-ish – more recent – but he looked fabulous no matter what. You’d seen him shirtless before, while patching him up or when the bunker was too hot for either of the brothers but none of those situations were as intimate as this. He was half naked only for your eyes to see – as much as you were for his.
He noticed your stare and he smirked as he approached your lower belly with his mouth. You held your breath and closed your eyes as his mouth made contact with your skin. From then on, he kissed his way up, biting here and there in places only you would know if the mark was still there the next day. He kissed your own scars that were scattered through your torso softly, treating them with care because, as much as him, you had gotten hurt on hunts. Besides, he found it amazing how strong you were. He admired you and your scars were there to prove to everyone who saw you that you were a fighter.
His hands came up alongside his kisses, caressing your sides so lightly it was almost ticklish. When his mouth got to the valley of your breasts he looked up at you, a question in his eyes. He had his hands placed right below your boobs, not moving, not touching them, just there as he waited for your approval. You were burning up from the inside out, the sight was so much. His eyes pleading for you to let him touch you, his hair making a curtain around his face.
“Touch me, Sam” You whisper, knowing that even if it wasn’t loud, he could hear you. He grinned and went right into action, his hands filling themselves up with your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples. You let out a low moan, the little stimulation you got from his fingers finally doing something to soothe the fire inside you.
He joined with his mouth, sucking and licking deliciously at it. You flew a hand to tangle into his hair, unconsciously tugging at his roots when he lightly bit at your nipple. Sam would groan against your skin every time you would tighten your fingers in his hair and he felt like he could cum just by hearing your faint pleas and breathless whines. He continued kissing up after that, his hands still squeezing your breasts lightly.
His mouth marked your collarbones with hickeys, painting your skin with reds and purples. He nipped at your neck, sucking at your pulse point and you bucked your hips against his, the pleasure too much and too little all at once. He was taking his time with you, appreciating every second that he could get and yet you felt his desperation when he tightened his hands around your boobs once your crotch hit his.
You tugged his hair harder to bring his face close to yours and Sam complied. You smashed your lips against his, the kiss all tongue and teeth, completely desperate. Your breathing was heavy and Sam brought his hands to your back, lifting it off the bed and making your chest glue against his, your sensitive nipples grinding against his skin. You clawed your nails on his shoulders to keep yourself together, markings that looked like half moons left behind in your desperation to remind you all this was real.
You dragged your hands down his arms, nails lightly scraping over his skin, and gently guided his forearms down, his hands going along. He proceeded to rest his palms over your covered ass, groaning in your mouth when he realized what you were insinuating. You wanted more, needed more.
You pulled back from his mouth just enough so you could talk. You opened your eyes to see one of the sexiest views you’ve ever encountered. Sam’s mouth was open, unsteady breaths hitting your mouth as his eyes stared down at you. You brought a hand to his cheek and just appreciated the sight for a moment before your mouth gave him an open mouthed kiss below his jaw. You felt goosebumps down your spine when he moaned lightly at your action, his hands squeezing at your ass. You placed your mouth close to his ear and Sam closed his eyes, waiting to see what you were going to do now.
“Fuck me, Sammy, don’t hold back” You whispered and Sam’s knees almost gave out, the nickname he usually hated hearing sounding so sweet coming out of your mouth. He pulled back to look at you.
“Are you sure?” He asked, looking between your mouth and your eyes. You nodded.
“Yes” Was all you had to say before he grabbed at the hem of your pants, dragging them down your legs. He distanced himself from you to kneel between your legs, face to face with your covered pussy, the only thing you were wearing now being your panties.
After discarding your pants, Sam roamed his hands slowly up your legs, from your ankles to where your hips connected to your thigh. You were clenching and unclenching your fists beside your body, holding your torso up with your elbows and looking down to see him hypnotized by your soaked underwear, his eyes glued. You were embarrassedly wet and, as Sam dragged a finger over it, grinding against your neglected clit, you bucked against his hand, whining.
“Sam…” You pleaded and he finally looked up at you. You were taking deep breaths, your chest going up and down, decorated by the marks left by his mouth and teeth. You looked stunning. “Do something”
And he does. He kisses right above your covered sex and you moan deep in your throat again, fingers gripping the sheets. Sam was feeling pride in himself. He was the one who got you like this, not any other man. He was the one you were begging for and he was the one who was going to give you everything you wanted. He wanted to worship you atom by atom of your being because that was what you deserved, he was going to treat you like the goddess you were.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and, like he was opening a present he long wished for, – which was kind of true – he takes it off so calmly you were close to combusting. When Sam finally sees you completely nude for the first time, only for his eyes to see and outside of his dirty dreams, he hums in delight. Fucking hums. He’s done for the moment he sees your cunt, wet and glistening just for him. Oh how badly he wanted this, for so, so long he wanted you like this and now he was finally fulfilling his deepest desire.
He squeezes your thighs in his hands before reaching for your sex, his middle finger collecting your wetness in his finger. You buck against his hand again, this time even more sensitive and neglected than before. And you cry out, not with tears, but a desperate sob for attention. Sam notices that and looks up at your face to see your eyebrows furrowed and a sheen of sweat in your forehead, you looked so fucked out without even him actively doing anything. He softened and caressed your sides with his hands, soothing your nerves – or trying to, at least.
“Shh, pretty girl, I’m gonna take care of you” He says “I’m just appreciating how perfect you are, taking my time with the girl of my dreams”
Your face softened and you felt your cheeks warm up even more than they already were. You bit back a smile. You felt unique at that moment, as if you were the only woman in the world as he said the sweetest words inches away from your pussy, it was almost laughable to think that one of the most romantic things you’ve ever heard was said between your legs.
Sam smiled at you and started kissing your inner thighs, so close yet so far from where you truly wanted him. He loved kissing your skin, he loved to feel you and you were keeping that in mind. He expressed his love physically rather than using words and you were just realizing it wasn’t just in bed he was like that. He always wanted to cook for you, he knew how you liked your drink, he would take care of you when you would get too drunk or when you were hurt or not feeling great. He hugged you, kissed the top of your head, pranked you. He gave you his jacket when you were cold or for you to use as a pillow when you were sleeping on a longer ride. He protected you, even if he knew you didn’t need it, either literally, putting his body in front of yours when someone or something threatened you, or not letting you go alone on hunts – including this one, where you had offered to go alone to questioning and, even if he was technically avoiding you, he wasn’t going to let you go solo.
Sam had loved you for so long and you were oblivious. Were. Because now he was digging his fingers in your thighs, mouth closing over your clit and you were arching your back. His stubble scratched your inner thighs, adding more to the building pleasure in your belly. He sucked at your cunt so skillfully that you wondered how long you would last like this and how much he had practiced to have a mouth that was able to do that. He moved his hands to your ass again, bringing your hips up and burying his face deeper into your heat.
He felt like he could die happy between your thighs because he wasn’t leaving there anytime soon. You were delicious and he was drinking in your noises like a drug, getting high off his lust and your taste. He hummed and groaned against your pussy, his cock pulsing so bad it practically hurt, almost cumming in his pants just from this.
“Sam– Oh God, please, please, plea–se” You cried out, the pleasure almost too much, the foreplay making you sensitive to a level you felt everything ten times harder. Sam knew exactly what he did to you, it was like he edged you consciously, knowing you’d beg for him louder once he finally got to touching you. And damn him because it worked, you were a moaning mess and he would be lying if it didn’t stroke his ego to hear you plead for him, submitting to his ministrations so quickly, it was adorable.
He was eating you out with everything he had, digging his nails on your skin. You were soon close to the edge, tightening your thighs around his head so he would not pull away. Everything around you consisted only of him, his scent, his noises, his body, him. It was overwhelming and, with a loud cry of his name, you came, hard.
The room went out of focus, your eyes rolling back in pure pleasure. You had trapped Sam’s head between your legs and he hadn’t stopped. He kept licking you clean, completely lost in your pussy. He could stay like that forever, until his jaw went sore, just so that he could hear you over and over again while he’s nose deep into your cunt. He only comes back to the real world – the one that doesn’t consist in an infinite loop of your voice moaning his name – when you pull at his hair and your thighs open space to let him get up.
“T’much Sammy'' You say, breathless. You bring him up from your cunt, and look at his face, glistening with your juices, a giddy smile on his lips – like a kid who just got a truckload of candy dumped at their house – and cheeks red from the heat. You smile back at him and giggle. Who would’ve thought that he would make you cry for him to touch you and, minutes later, you’d be laughing at his mischievous grin from making you cum.
You brought him back up with a hand behind his neck and he gladly crawled on the bed until he was face to face with you again, his hands supporting his upper body so he wouldn’t crush you. You looked at him for a few seconds, a look that you intended to fill with love and care and he reciprocated, his head angling 45° with a gentle smile that made him look absolutely adorable. You put a strand of his hair behind his ear, which proved useless as it fell right back to curtain his face, his hair being too straight and too soft to hold up like that. You chuckled lightly and pulled him in for a kiss.
You could taste yourself on his tongue, the saltiness making you hum in his mouth. The kiss grew heated fast and you started to roam your hands over his chest, his muscles tensing under your light palms. You explored his body as much as he did to yours, caressing over every visible muscle he had – which, honestly, was a lot. When you got to his abs, Sam broke the kiss to let out a shaky breath. He gently grabbed your wrists and kneeled on the bed, his body now in its full glory above you, the lightning in the room making his body even more defined.
With your wrists in his hand, Sam dragged your palms, that were flattened against his skin, lower. And lower. Until you were touching the hem of his pants that he still, incredibly, had on. You stared at the bulge he had right below, swallowing thickly and letting out a deep breath, your cunt clenching in response. He looked big. You should have an idea, Sam was 6’4, of course it would be proportional to his height but God if it didn’t make you think about swallowing him down, the tip hitting the back of your throat, tears welling up in your eyes as he fucked your face.
“Want me to take them off?” You hear his voice, snapping you out of your fantasies. You looked up at him and down again. You hooked your fingers in the waistband and, on cue, Sam let go of your wrists. You slowly brought his pants and underwear down at the same time, too eager to keep up the foreplay and too desperate to tease.
When you finally see it, an audible groan reverbates in the back of your throat. Sam moans lowly, the pain from the constriction caused by his boxers and pants finally going away and making him even more aware of the neglect his dick got up til now. He watches your reaction carefully and, one of the first things you do is throw your legs back, standing on your knees, one hand supporting your body as the other stops midway to his dick. Sam felt his whole body burn with need. God what did he do to deserve you.
You were on all fours in front of him, head inches from his cock, eyes now looking up at him with a question. You felt like if you opened your mouth you would drool, you needed him inside it and you were silently asking him if it was okay.
Sam angled his torso to bring his face closer to yours, grabbing your chin with his hand and giving you a firm peck on the lips. “Do it, beautiful” He whispered against your mouth and straightened up again and you confirmed with a nod before wrapping your hand around his dick.
Sam breathed out when you started to pump him, your hand doing light movements. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of your name, a silent plea and you gladly listened. You wrapped your mouth around the tip, just the tip for now, and circled your tongue around it, the salty taste of precum invading your mouth. Sam’s hand instantly flew to your head, encouraging you to take him deeper, but not forcing you. Still, you started to relax your throat and took as much of him as you could, hollowing your cheeks.
“Y/N, baby, Jesus” Sam sighed and your insides tingled. You took what you couldn’t take in your mouth with your hand, squeezing and pumping using your spit as lube. You could feel Sam holding back, his hips stuttering every now and again. You braced yourself, deciding to give him more, and placed your hands on his thighs, tapping it twice with your index finger. Sam looked down at you, swallowing his breathy groans. He damn near came just by looking at you, those beautiful eyes staring up at him, your mouth wrapped around his dick. He concentrated, remembering the silent message you sent him.
“I don’t want to hurt you” He said and you did your best to shake your head no in your conditions. You won’t. And emphasized it by squeezing his thighs and pushing your head forward. Sam sighed and nodded. “Okay, but if it’s too much, tap three times, get it doll?” He asked. The nickname made you shiver, his voice sounding so sweet calling you that. Brushing it off you tapped his thigh three times, just for him to know you understood what he said.
Sam started to rock his hips back and forth slowly, using your mouth for his pleasure. All you did was relax your throat as much as you could and breathe through your nose. He started to quicken up within time, losing his control as his release came closer. He was grunting and moaning and all his noises went straight to your pussy. He let out sighs of your name, his head thrown back and his neck glistening with sweat, his Adam's apple bobbing everytime he swallowed.
Too enamored by his noises, you lost focus and gagged on his cock, tears stinging your eyes. Sam loudly moaned your name at that, hips faltering as he tugged at your head to take your mouth off his cock. His breathing was heavy and his mouth was dry and he stood face to face with you to kiss your lips again, moaning inside your mouth. You were a bit disappointed that he hadn’t cum but you swallowed his whines gladly with your mouth, clasping your hands on each one of his cheeks. He pulled away and caressed a thumb over your lips.
“What have you got in that mouth of yours sweetheart?” He asked with a smirk and you bit your lip.
“Says the one who was eating me out like a starved man” You replied, wrapping one arm around his neck as your index finger traced his lips before giving them a peck, smiling once you pulled away. He smiled at you before wrapping his arms around your waist, like he would in a hug, and throwing you back. You shrieked as you landed on your back and Sam laid practically on top of you, attacking your face with tiny kisses, making you laugh under him.
Once he stopped, he just stared down at you. “Hi” He said.
“Hi” You whispered back after your laugh died down.
“Did I already tell you you’re beautiful?”
“Once…twice”
“You’re beautiful” He said, again “I’ll never stop telling you that”
“I can deal with it” You teased and he chuckled, going right back to kissing you.
Sam was one of a kind. You had taken some time to truly understand why you had fallen in love with him in the first place but there was not just one thing that made Sam Winchester special, everything he did just added up. From the huge things to the tiny details, he just was so easy to fall in love with and these moments were definitely one of those in the list, in which, no matter the situation, good or bad, Sam could make you smile.
As he kissed you now, his hands roamed your body like he had done before until two of his fingers teased at your entrance and you rolled your hips against his hand. Blowing him had made you aroused again and you could feel your wetness coating his fingers. Sam smirked in your mouth before slowly inserting his middle and ring finger inside your wetness. Your mouth left his to let out a moan, your foreheads glued.
Sam opened his eyes to watch your expression as he hooked his fingers inside you. You whined, your eyebrows furrowed and your nails left angry red trails over his shoulders. He lowered his head to kiss your neck open mouthed. He started to scissor his fingers inside you, preparing for what you knew was coming and you gladly relaxed around his fingers, grinding your cunt on his digits.
“Sweetheart, I need to be inside you, I need you” He whispered in your ear and you whined at the thought, nodding in approval.
“Yes, Sammy, please” You breathlessly said. Sam took his fingers out from your hole and you held back a complaint from the emptiness once you saw him pumping his hardened cock with the hand he used his fingers to prepare you, lubricating himself with your juices. He lined himself up with your entrance and looked at you again.
He wanted to watch you as he sunk himself into your heat and that’s what he did. He slowly started to enter you and your mouth opened in a silent moan at the stretch. He was filling you up deliciously well, right in the division between pain and pleasure and, the deeper he went, the harder your nails dug on his shoulders.
Sam was also struggling. Your tightness enveloped him in a way no one had ever done before and it felt so fucking good to bury himself inside you. He started to distract you from the possible painful stretch with kisses over your collarbones and neck, focusing on relaxing your body so he could make love to you properly.
At last, you felt his pelvis connect with yours and you were so amazingly full. His dick hit places inside you you could never reach alone and it felt incredible.
Once you were used to his size and craving more, you rolled your hips against his, making Sam suck in a breath. He was trying to keep his composure but he was holding on his last ounces of control and when you moved he damn nearly lost it.
“You can move” You whisper and Sam wastes no time fulfilling your request, immediately starting to pump into you. He was euphoric, his mind was blurry as only images of you naked under him and begging for him to fuck you went through his head. You would tighten your walls around him from time to time and that would cause his breathing to falter and his hips to stutter.
You weren’t much different, every buck of his hips would hit you in a spot that made you see starts. You were already overstimulated from his previous ministrations so you knew you weren’t going to last long and, from the way Sam was twitching inside you, you knew he wasn’t going to either.
“Sam, I’m s’close” You moaned close to his ear.
“Me too, baby” He said as he brought his hand to press over your lower belly. You nearly screamed as he did that, you could feel him even better, his shape feeling like it was being permanently molded inside you. Along with it, he reached a thumb to rub over your clit – his big hands be damned – and at that you finally went over the edge with a desperate cry of his name.
Your vision blurred as the only thing you knew was real was the feeling of emptiness since Sam was chasing his own release after leaving your warmth. He pumped his cock a few times and proceeded to cum over your belly, painting your skin with his liquids. You were spread out on the bed for a while longer after that, Sam panting above you, his softening dick still in his hand and you completely fucked out with a lazy smile on your face.
Once that high passed, Sam took you to the bathroom – bridal style – and cleaned you up in the bathtub with warm water and gave you the privacy you needed after he sorted himself out too, leaving the bathroom on his boxers.
You took your time, using the toilet so as to not get any infections and leaving the bathroom completely naked, too lazy to actually put clothes on. You just wanted to sleep beside Sam and wake up happy in his arms.
He saw you coming out of the room and smiled, eyeing you up and down.
“No clothes?” He asked
“Unless you’re uncomfortable, I think we’re past that” You joked and he shook his head.
“I don’t mind, come here” He said, opening an arm to invite you to lay over his chest and you gladly did, jumping on the bed and wrapping your arms around his torso, laying your head on his firm chest. Sam covered both of you with the white sheets, hiding your exposed body under them. You laid silent for a moment, just drowning in each other's company as you listened to his steady heartbeat.
Sam caressed your upper arm, his mind running with a thousand thoughts in which a thousand and one consisted of you.
“Hey, want to know something?” Sam asked. He was taking advantage of the situation because now he was confident enough to do so, and he wasn’t delaying this any further if his mind would allow him. You lazily looked up at him, your chin now resting on him. Your eyes stared at him with so much appreciation that he felt even more encouraged to tell you what he wanted to.
“I think I love you” He blurted out. You felt your face warm up and smiled widely, but didn’t lose the opportunity to tease him for his choice of words.
“You think?” You raised an eyebrow. Sam panicked inside.
“No, I mean that–”
“I think I love you too” You interrupted before he could say anything else, your giddy smile never faltering. Sam relaxed and pulled you in for a kiss to seal this promise.
Who would’ve thought that Sam would have his dream come true at the end of everything. Yet, here you were, half-asleep in his arms after you admitted your love for each other.
A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading. XoXo
Summary: You steal Sam’s shirt. But that simple theft comes at a big price.
Request: Can you write something where Sam notices the reader wearing his shirt?
Song Inspo: “Look At You” by Screaming Trees
Word Count: 2,200
Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Fluff, thievery, kitchen shenanigans, implied smut, tinge of angst and feels.
It was an honest mistake, really.
After the latest hunt, Sam graciously offered to let you wash your clothes here in the bunker (since most of them were bloodstained). You had to pull a finished load from the dryer before you could use it, not knowing if it was Sam or Dean’s clothes you were shoving into a nearby basket.
When you later went back for your clothes in the dryer, you’d apparently grabbed one of Sam’s black undershirts in all the fabric shuffling.
An accident. Though you hadn’t realized it until you were back in the comfort of your borrowed room in the bunker, sitting on your bed and folding your laundry.
You pulled out one of those big-and-talls and took one good look—and you knew it could only fit perfectly on Sam Winchester’s extra-long torso.
A smile unconsciously drew across your face.
You knew you should just bring it over to him. His room was a mere two doors down the hall…but instead, you gave into the quiet, secret urge to fold it up and put it with the rest of your laundry, knowing full well you were going to use it from now on as a sleep shirt.
The thing was so long it reached halfway down your thighs. (AKA: the perfect length.) But you really didn’t think he would miss an old-ass undershirt like this one.
The next morning, you made sure you were dressed in some pajama pants, your most comfortable bra, and an old college shirt before you ventured out of your room and into the kitchen.
Predictably, Sam was already up and dressed for the day, making some coffee. It was early enough that Dean was likely asleep, or at least still getting himself together.
Sam turned and greeted you with a smile. “Morning.”
“Mhmm,” you nodded groggily, though you offered him a “pleasant” smile before you accepted a coffee mug from him.
Sam’s smile deepened slightly. He knew you weren’t a morning person. He sipped at his own mug while you held yours with both hands, raising it slowly to your lips. You closed your eyes at its hazelnut warmth; trust him to stock the fridge with your favorite creamer. You hummed in delight.
Sam’s gaze was warm on you too, though you didn’t realize it.
“Hey, uh…we’re running low on stuff. Want to go somewhere for breakfast?” he asked.
You met his gaze and had to stifle your smile this time.
“Sure,” you nodded. “Want to wait for Dean?”
Sam shrugged. “We can bring him something back.”
Interesting. Your smile grew, despite your best efforts.
“Okay. Let me just get dressed,” you said.
And maybe you’d put a little makeup on, fix your frizzy bedhead. Apparently you and Sam were going on a brunch date.
Not a real one though, you rolled your eyes at yourself as you trekked down the hall. You had known the Winchesters for a couple of years now, and had gone through some real scrapes together whenever they needed your help, or vice versa. They were quickly becoming part of your people. Your family.
…But never more than that, it seemed.
Your smile slowly fell before you reached your room. You just couldn’t know that Sam was staring after you, down the hall, with a similar contemplation on his face.
“Think Dean’ll crap his pants when he sees the Impala’s gone?” you remarked. You were the passenger while Sam drove. You knew he must've been savoring this, as it was one of the few times he’d ever sat in that seat.
“I left him a note,” Sam replied in amusement.
“Aw, damn,” you teased. “Here I thought we were going on Mission Impossible.”
He shook his head, but his smile kicked up at the corners. He paused when something occurred to him.
“Hey, by the way.” He turned to you in askance. “Did you happen to see one of my shirts when you were doing laundry yesterday?”
You perked up internally, but you tried to school your features into something more nonchalant. Casual. Yeah.
“Uh, no,” you replied. Somehow, even that small lie made you feel a prickle of guilt. “What color was it?”
“Black,” he said. Good thing he was focused on pulling into the diner’s parking lot, and not on your blushing face. “Can’t seem to find it.”
You averted your gaze and bit the inside of your lip so you wouldn’t smile.
“Sorry, haven’t seen it. I’ll keep a lookout though.”
After a nice morning with Sam (you brought back a breakfast burrito for Dean), you spent the rest of the day catching up on Game of Thrones with the brothers.
It was nice to have a rare day off, even if you spent most of it trying to ignore how your thigh was resting against Sam’s. How you could feel his warmth radiating from his arm, laid behind your head on the couch, and how if you’d just leaned over a few inches, you could’ve been resting against his flannel-covered chest.
God. You’re such a girl, you inwardly lamented at yourself. Fucking c’est la vie.
At their insistence, you spent another night at the bunker while you rested up. That werewolf hunt had been particularly brutal on everyone, especially your wounded side. It was already starting to heal, but would definitely be uncomfortable while driving.
Now, ordinarily you weren’t one to let that keep you down…though it did give you an excuse to stay a little while longer.
When you all finally called it a night, you took a long, hot shower and pulled on the shirt over your underwear. It now kind of felt like contraband, but that thought also amused you. It also made you feel closer to him, in whatever small, pathetic way.
You spent the next couple of hours trying and failing to fall asleep in your room. You tried listening to music, daydreaming, even counting damn sheep for what that was worth, but your brain was wide awake.
You blew out an irritated sigh into the darkness and silence.
And then your stomach growled. Ugh, fine!
You got up. It was late enough at night that you didn’t bother changing clothes, lest you be spotted by a wild moose. You just padded out barefooted down the hall and into the kitchen, where you raided the fridge.
Geez, Sam was right about them being low on options, you thought as you perused a damn near empty fridge. There was milk and creamer, a couple cases of beer (of course), some crumpled ketchup packets, and a half-eaten burger that already had something fuzzy growing on it.
This is just sad. You grimaced, but you stuck your head in closer to see if you could find anything in the back. If you only knew about the hot gaze on your ass.
“Midnight snack?”
The voice, though familiar, startled the shit out of you. You banged your head on the edge of the freezer door when you jumped on reflex. You cried out and your hand flew to the back of your head, just before a larger hand covered yours.
You glanced up at found Sam’s handsome face—very apologetic, but somehow silently laughing.
“Uh, sorry. You okay?” he asked.
“Y-Yeah,” you replied. You faltered a bit as you realized how close he’d gotten, staring down at you with those earnest hazel eyes. But those eyes soon dipped and took in the rest of you…clad in only a black shirt that brushed your bare thighs.
You watched it start to compute on his face, in the tilt of his head, and the subtle raise of his brows.
“Is that my shirt?” he asked.
Your lips twitched, despite your blushing embarrassment.
“No,” you replied.
His gaze flicked up to yours. He smiled a little incredulously.
He knew you were a filthy liar. But you slipped your hand from under his and crossed your arms under your breasts, leading him to drop his hand from your hair.
“It’s soft…and comfy,” you said lamely. And you wished it smelled like him.
Sam was amused, and a little surprised…and undoubtedly turned on. He couldn’t help but notice your bare legs, the smooth expanse of skin, the suggestion of curves under his shirt, and the firm peaks of your nipples through the fabric.
“Okay. You can keep it,” he said, when his gaze finally drew back up to yours. “For a price.”
Your face felt hot. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth for a moment, but somehow you managed to answer him.
“Name it,” you said gamely. Your stance became an unspoken challenge.
Sam’s lips drew closer to a smile.
He reached for your chin and tilted your face up towards his. There was a moment of uncertainty there, as if he was giving you time to pull away, if you wanted to.
The truth was, you were holding your breath. It felt like you’d been waiting a small eternity for this exact moment.
Your arms uncrossed. Slowly you reached for him, grabbing onto the front of his blue flannel, and he bent down to you. When his lips finally touched yours, it almost short-circuited your brain. You inhaled deeply and melted a bit, raising your hand to the back of his head to keep him there.
You felt the gentle way he caressed your cheek, and later the strength in his hands when he molded them to the curve of your waist and pulled you in close. You wrapped your arms around his neck in response, and the kiss became a fierce, sloppy meeting of lips.
His tongue swept across your bottom lip and sought entrance. You welcomed him in with a wordless moan.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, nails grazing his scalp. It earned you a deep sound of pleasure from his mouth into yours. Soon enough, those same strong hands were roaming down your waist and hips, then squeezing your ass, and pressing you against the hard planes of his body. You also felt the hardening length of him against your stomach.
“Sam,” you gasped against his lips.
That seemed to pull him out of the frenzied haze. Panting for breath though he was, he broke from you, pulling away far enough to look down at you with furrowed brows. There was a question in his eyes that he still voiced.
“Too much?” he asked.
It was a loaded question, but you thought you could read them all.
Do you want this? Do you really want me? We can stop…
Your answer was simple. You pulled yourself up on your toes and claimed his lips with a devouring kiss. Sam’s eyes closed on a sharp inhale, but his hold on you tightened again. He bent down to move his hands down the back of your thighs, and he squeezed twice, wordlessly encouraging you to jump for him.
You had electricity in your veins and a warm pulsing between your thighs. In your frazzled state, you did your best to jump up, but he helped you the rest of the way. You were able to wrap your legs around his waist, though you let out a small yelp at being vaulted so high.
Now you had the rare privilege of looking down at Sam’s amused face. You smiled down at him, caressing his cheek.
“I think I want a tour of your room,” you said.
“Good,” Sam replied. Despite the care he took in how he held you, you saw the hunger in his eyes. “I could go for a midnight snack.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that. You clung to his shoulders as he carried you down the hall and into his room, where he locked the door behind him.
The man was a furnace, you discovered, after your skin was dewy and glistening against his, and the sheets laid tangled between your bare legs.
He held you to his chest while he recovered on his back. You rested there, just enjoying the sound of his heartbeat slowly coming down from its race. His fingertips traced lazy patterns up and down your naked back.
Sam had taken great pleasure in tossing the shirt along with his other clothes onto the floor. Your panties had been flung to parts unknown.
You smiled at the thought, while your nails made delicate tracks of their own across his slightly furry chest.
“What’re you thinking?” he asked you. Quiet and steady.
With a sigh, you pushed up onto your elbow on his pillow, so you could see his face. Your hand found his cheek. There his stubble pricked against your palm, and you drew your thumb tenderly across his his lower lip.
“I’m hoping you want more from this than one…very awesome night,” you confessed.
Sam smiled, reaching up to grasp your wrist gently. It was a different kind of touch, where just a few moments ago, he’d pushed your body damn near to its limits. And yet, he knew his own strength. Controlled, even in his bed.
“Yeah, I do,” he replied, though his eyes gradually fell from your face. “I’ll be honest, it uh…scares me a little.”
“What does?” you asked with a frown. You waited until he looked up at you again.
“This matters to me,” he said at last. “You matter to me.”
And the people that mattered all too often got taken away from him.
Your throat constricted. Because in his wary eyes, you could almost see the thoughts that were likely plaguing his mind. Things that might’ve kept him from this night with you for so long.
In that moment, you made a decision. You lowered down to press a gentler kiss to his lips.
“Then let’s give it a try,” you said.
AN: It got a little angstier than I intended there at the end lol, but I went with it! I so hope you guys enjoy this. I love me some Sam. 💜
REQUEST : “hi!! I was wondering if you could maybe write an age gap (legal obv) with female!reader × dean winchester where the reader is like in her 20s and dean's in his 40s :) just some rough smut with choking and hair pulling and spitting (if you're comfortable with it) and dean being like super "hungry" for her, like he's waited a long time for it to happen. also lots of dirty talks cause i absolutely love them hahah :) anyways im in love with your writing and all your stories! thanks a lot! <3” — anonymous
PAIRING : dean winchester x professor!reader (f.)
CHARACTERS : miracle, sam winchester
WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), angst, enemies to lovers, age gap, voyeurism, smut, oral sex, p in v, praise kink, choking, hair pulling, dacryphilia, rough sex, spitting
WORD COUNT : 8.4k
A/N : devil wears prada song title. @spnkinkevents : #12daysofspnkinkmas2023 — chair sex and food play. I wrote this half-asleep while listening to ASMR, like… that’s how I write most of my stories, plus, they’re always written between 00.00-02.40. Doctor Who references, ‘cause I’m a nerd. I got carried away…. Cliffhanger bc I’m cruel.
There were countless pros and cons to having houses built so close together with windows facing the same direction.
Pros: Accidentally seeing your hot neighbour walk around naked in the living room and kitchen. Accidentally catching your hot neighbour jerk off when they think that everyone’s asleep.
Yup, she’s seen all of that and more. All from that nameless, freckled, green-eyed man next door.
Even wholesome things, like him playing with his cute dog, babying the little rascal and spoiling it. Him cooking and baking, being wholeheartedly content with feeding it to the tall, Hazel-eyed puppy dog of a man, the tall man’s gorgeous deaf wife, and his tiny adorable son; the blue-eyed, dreamy dude in a trench coat; and that endearing young boy with blue eyes who looked like a combination of all three of the men.
There were times where she’d seen the green-eyed man dressed as a cowboy and even a princess to entertain the little baby boy—his nephew. For sleepovers with him, he’d read him bedtime stories while being completely animated. He’d build a bunch of forts, with sheets, the couch, pillows, and some Christmas lights. He'd talk to the little boy and hold serious conversations despite neither of them being able to understand each other. He’d teach the young boy and the baby boy how to fix cars—at least he tried to. He’d pack his best friends' lunches every morning with his hair unkempt, half asleep, while sipping on some coffee. He’d even take naps with the baby, treating him as his own son.
He’d do ridiculously endearing things, too, such as baking bread at night when he couldn’t sleep. He'd read books only when he was alone, as if he’d be made fun of by his friends, and she finally understood why. They were either romantic, erotic, or completely nerdy and abstract. He had range. He’d watch cheesy soap operas and rom-com k-dramas when he did chores. He loved to collect things such as Pokémon cards and even legos.
There were a million things he did that she thought were cute. The windows into his house were like the screens of a television, like her favourite character, she got to see him when he’s relaxed and surrounded only by those who love him
As for the cons, we’ll get to that…
When they first moved in, it was about three and a half years ago. She’d been visiting her family in Kansas City for her oldest brother’s birthday in June.
When she returned to Lebanon, they had already settled down. There was a brown and beige Ford pickup truck, a black Subaru—both parked in the front, and a sleek black Impala in the driveway.
The youngest, Jack, waved at her one day when he returned with Cas after buying groceries. Then, Cas awkwardly introduced himself and Jack, and gave her the names of the other two men who were brothers, Sam is the tall one and Dean was the freckled one.
Sam was the most social one. He’d spark up conversation with her whenever he saw her, dropping bits and pieces of information about himself, his brother, his fiancée, Cas, Jack, and Dean’s loyal dog, Miracle.
After seven months of living together, Sam moved out with his wife, Eileen. They’d just gotten married, and they both invited her. She’d gone, the wedding was pretty, cute, and modest. Y/n had spoken to a few of their close family and friends. Dean, however, kept to himself the whole night as if he were grieving. He’d smile occasionally if any of his friends came to him, he was enthusiastic, and then he'd go back into himself.
Four months later, Sam and EIleen returned; she was pregnant. It was a boy, he’d planned on naming him after his big brother, which Y/n thought was adorable. He hadn’t told his brother, but planned on telling him the day his son was born.
Y/n could tell Dean had mixed feelings about his brother’s departure, mostly negative feelings. He loved Eileen and his nephew. But when it was just him, Cas, and Jack, he'd often drink, despite concerned, useless interventions with Cas. Unless Sam, Eileen, and his nephew were there. He’d never even glance at that top-shelf cupboard.
The good thing was that at least Dean was a happy drunk.
The first time she interacted with Dean was a few weeks after she’d returned from Kansas City, she assumed two things: his heart was closed off to new people, and he’s one hot, irritating, grumpy, sour, old man.
It was the spring semester at Kansas University. Y/n was grading her students’ creative, personal essays in the office downstairs. She was perplexed by the small percentage of her students and their inability to use proper grammar or follow the thorough, detailed checklist she created to get them to pass easily.
Just when she thought she’d gotten great at making their lives easy, they return the shittiest, half-assed essays. She felt bad for the bad grades, but since the rest of her students managed to get perfect scores or at least proficient scores, she couldn’t just let them pass.
Loud banging on the door startled her from reading an impressive essay. Her blood ran cold and she scrambled up from her rolling chair, ignoring that she pushed it halfway across the room.
Her socked feet were quiet on the wooden floor, making her way quickly down the hallway until she got to the shelf where she kept her gun. She pressed it against the door and looked through the peephole, then relaxed when she saw Dean.
She was irritated by the loud knocking, though, regardless of how cute he looked when he was clearly pissed off. She opened the door and set the gun down on the table where she usually placed her keys.
“Lady, have you seen the mess you made outside?” Dean asked her, pointing behind him. She stared at him, stunned by how much prettier he looked up close. Her cheeks turned hot, but she looked past him trying to see whatever he was pointing at.
She looked at her red Mustang parked in the front as a reminder to restock the kitchen, then looked close to where his house was. She winced at the mud and the running water from her hose going into his nice lawn.
“Shit,” she murmured, toeing her socks off before moving past Dean to turn the hose off. She got distracted by the mud and the puddles as she pulled the hose, and coiled it back where it should have been. It’s been a while since she last let her bare feet feel this beneath, the smell of wet dirt was amazing, even when it wasn’t caused by rainfall.
“Do you always do shit like this?” He asked from behind, his tone harsh.
She frowned when she turned to look at his furious face, careful to not touch her forehead with her muddy hands when she used her wrist to move hair away from her face.
“I’m sorry,” she apologised, tilting her head at him. He just rolled his eyes at her, then he stared at his lawn, and ran his hand down his face. “Did I do somethin’ else to piss you off?” She asked, looking around to see if there’s anything else she may have forgotten.
“One, your cat’s too damn loud, crying and meowing for my damn dog when you let him out,” he started, which made her blink in confusion. She didn’t expect something like that to get on his nerves. “And B, why the hell do you have cameras facing my place?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her ego being injured fueled her anger and defensiveness. “Okay, listen, Doctor Who, I said I was sorry, okay?” She could tell her words stunned him by the furrowing of his brows in bewilderment, disarming him and shutting him up. “It’s not my fault your dog likes my cat, too. And the cameras are off, they’re there to scare people, so fuck off,” she snapped before she stop herself.
Dean scoffed at her, “fuck you.” She rolled her eyes at him this time, staring daggers into his back when he turned around to get to his home.
“If you’d fuck me, maybe you wouldnt be such an asshole.” Her snide words made him freeze. He laughed dryly and he turned to face her once more, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Pretty sure I’d still hate you, sweetheart,” he chuckled, crossing his own arms. That stung, even if she didn’t know him personally and half the time she spent romanticising him based on the little bit of information she had. “And I’d rather go fuck some other chick.” She clenched her jaw and breathed in slowly, angry heat began rising up her neck the faster her heart started to beat.
Entirely unintended, she venomously spat, “according to your brother, you haven’t been lucky enough, and you’re not going to be.”
“You talking to my brother about my sex life?” He stepped closer to her, his nostril flaring in anger. Betrayal and hurt crossed his features and she realised her mistake.
“No, just overheard him ‘cause you’re an overbearing douchebag,” she lied smoothly. Truth was, Sam and Eileen did accidentally—drunkenly—tell her how hard it was for Dean to maintain a serious relationship for more than three months. They don’t remember sharing that information. It was easy for her to casually ask about Dean’s love life and availability, masking her attraction to Dean as mere surprise as to how the younger brother got married before the older one. “Makes sense now why no one will sleep with you,” she laughed mockingly, stepping closer to him defiantly.
His face was red now, too. Angry, offended, he rolled his eyes at her smug face and body language. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“Sure, yeah, if that makes you feel better,” she snorted, patting his very nice, broad shoulder with her muddy hand as she made her back into her house. Preoccupied by the small mud-print on his beige Henley, he couldn’t get the last word in or stop her from leaving him flustered in her swampy driveway.
That was the start of a horrible relationship with her neighbour. The neighbour she had a crush on.
He found all kinds of reasons to complain. Big and small. And she secretly did things to piss him off, occasionally sabotaging his plans.
The thing was that deep down, she still liked him, but he made her so angry and frustrated. And it felt good to see him angry and frustrated by things she caused either on purpose or accidentally. Any attention was better than no attention.
Eventually, that all changed. The fun, the it’s-better-than-nothing feeling, it didn’t last. Fourteen months later, she stopped the cruel games and decided to avoid him completely.
When her friends offered to take her out, she agreed, even if she wanted to stay home. If Dean was home, she made sure to never say no to them, and sometimes she’d offer to take them out. Wherever.
She’d started to grade at the cafe, library, or the diner, even if Dean went to all those places often. At least he wouldn’t say anything there around all those people.
When she grew closer to Sam, Cas, and Jack, she’d find excuses not to go over to Dean’s when they offered either food, game nights, movie nights, or random hangouts. They started to notice too—the tension, the avoidance, the hostility—and they’d go over to her place instead, often without Dean, who’d choose to go out to avoid staying home alone.
It was awful. The rejection started to hurt, yet, he had her heart in the palm of his hand. Deep down, she knew that Dean wasn’t a bad person; he just didn’t like her.
Eventually, Dean ended his animosity, too, and everything went back to ‘normal’. She slowly started to reject offers from her friends to test the water, stayed home to grade, and didn't permit her cat to leave even if it cried for an escape. If she took him out, it was with a leash she eventually got him to get used to.
They ignored each other when they crossed paths—in the driveway, at the grocery store, at diners, at the cafe. They acted like complete strangers. She’d keep her curtains closed, at least she did for the windows that face his house. She made her presence as unnoticeable and as invisible as she could to prevent causing more damage to each other.
Then, about two months ago, on Halloween, Sam, Eileen, Cas, and Jack went to her house to collect candy. Sam made a point of staying back while the rest of them walked to where Dean was waiting—looking anywhere but at her house—to convince her to go to his and Eileen’s place for Thanksgiving.
He was honest, cute, wide hazel eyes attempting to convince her to try and make amends with Dean. She didn’t doubt it, when he told her that Dean felt guilty, but her pride was bruised, and her heart was broken. She told Sam she would be visiting her own family for that holiday. She omitted that she’d be going to her mother’s house a few miles away, still in Lebanon. And she easily convinced her mother to let her stay the rest of the week until she had to go back to work.
Now, Christmas was near—in four days, to be exact. It wasn’t the holiday spirit that made her change her mind, it was the hurt and the exhaustion of planning her life around avoiding Dean.
So, she called Sam, she asked if he could do anything to get Dean alone tomorrow.
For the rest of the day, she would start to prepare everything—even though it was Dean who created the mess—she was willing to make the first move and hopefully meet him halfway.
She couldn’t lie that she felt embarrassed by how excited she was to see Dean. She couldn't even differentiate the meaning of the butterflies in her stomach, but she powered through her fluttering heart and her shaking hands as she prepared everything before going to see him.
She considered not doing it at all, calling it quits—but the consequences of that quickly made her miserable. That would just mean more avoidance, more hiding, more changing everything about herself to make him happy.
All of this over one little misunderstanding. One bad day where her mouth ran without consulting her brain first ruined what could have otherwise been a good friendship—perhaps even a romantic relationship.
She was twenty-six and just like Dean, she hadn’t had a serious relationship since… Well, ever. The last time someone convinced her to date them was in highschool, and even before that, it took her a month—or less—to figure out she wanted nothing to do with them. She didn’t like the people she dated. She realised quickly that she didn’t even want a future with them, she didn’t even allow them to kiss her or touch her. So she figured that if she didn’t want to marry them, what was the point of wasting her time?
For so long, the first thing she thought of when she felt attracted to someone was: can I stand the thought of their touch? Can I see myself kissing them, letting them kiss me? Can I stand the thought of the fights and staying with them through thick and thin? Can I picture myself with them in the future, permanently?
The answer was always ‘no’ and the attraction died immediately after the realisation.
With Dean, the answer was different. Not for some stupid reason, like fate, or the boy-next-door trope. No. This was reality, and the real reason was the fact that she got to see who he was before she was attracted to him.
It was the selflessness, the love in everything that he did, the gentleness of his heart, the kindness that radiated from him, and the ease in the way he did chores, the way he made his friends laugh, his playfulness, the loyalty, the way he was clearly protective.
It was the open windows of her house into his open windows that let her see through him, down to his very beautiful core. It was the lack of hidden things, the openness of his soul because he felt safe, unwatched. It was real because Cas, Jack, and Sam were proof that even though Dean wasn’t perfect, he was worth it.
The Doctor did say once: the good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice-versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.
For the first time, she was willing to take a chance.
She smoothed down the silky emerald-green dress. It was pretty, flowing down her body perfectly, stopping at the middle of her calves…. Actually, now that she looked at herself in the mirror, her curls perfectly maintained, the light touch of makeup, the heels… was it too much?
She ignored those anxious thoughts and made sure she had everything she needed and everything that she prepared before stepping out into the cold.
The spaghetti straps didn’t stop the cold, but the heat of her nervousness at least did something as she walked up to his door and waited after knocking gently.
When he opened the door, he was stunned to see her.
“What?” He asked bluntly.
She could tell that the way she was dressed caught him off guard. His eyes moved from her face, up to her hair, back down to the boxes in her hands, and lower to her feet.
“I’ve got pie,” she said the first thing her mind thought of. Yes, it was blunt, yes, it disarmed him further… It was not smooth, but Dean looked behind him, and then he looked at her once more while biting his lip before opening the door wider, and stepping out of the way for her to enter.
She exhaled shakily as he scratched the back of his neck. Out of habit, she slipped out of her heels before stepping inside his home, planting her bare feet on the soft, long rug he had. He kindly, wordlessly, took her heels from outside and placed them on the shoe rack he had inside before shutting the door behind her.
She felt so… warm. Finally, she was inside the place she longed to be in. Right where Dean was. Along the walls there were dozens of pictures, but she didn’t go too far, she waited for him.
She felt his presence behind her and it made her shiver, but she couldn’t bring herself to look back at him. Instead, she stared at photos of him with Cas, Sam, Jack, and other people she hadn’t met. Women and Men. Dean was smiling in all of them. And in a large majority of them, they were looking at him while he looked at the camera.
What a funny thing.
“Here,” he said from behind her, his deep voice sounded soft, gentle, unlike the last time they spoke to each other. It made her shudder. “Let me help.” She slowly braced herself when she turned around, staring into his beautiful green eyes, illuminated magically by Christmas lights.
“Thanks,” she whispered, carefully loosening her grip on the objects in her hand for him to take what he wanted—which was everything.
She stepped to the side when he murmured, “no problem,” and started to walk off to the kitchen. She followed him slowly, took a look around, respectfully, curiously, just when she heard the clicking of nails and the thump of paws on wooden floors, and the bark of his dog headed in their direction.
“Miracle,” Dean grunted, setting everything down on the table, “not inside.” While the fluffy dog did stop its excited running, his enthusiasm was not lost as he wagged his tail, and playfully got down on his stomach in front of her feet. Still on his belly, Miracle approached Y/n slowly, paws and tongue at her toes, as if testing the waters.
“Hey,” she greeted softly as she squatted slowly and laughed quietly, gently scratching Miracle’s head as he nudged her hand with his wet nose, staring up at her with adorably wide eyes—much like Sam did. “You’re so cute,” she cooed, her heart warming up when Miracle barked quietly.
He then jumped up and turned towards Dean, who was watching them—perplexed, happy, conflicted.
“You were asleep,” Dean scolded, but sweetly took Miracle’s head in his hands and kissed him between his ears. Miracle whined and stepped away, sitting in front of Dean as if saying ‘I’ll be good if you let me stay’. “Whatever,” Dean groaned with a smile, which made Miracle happy, because he laid his cheek on his paw and stared up at Dean, resting.
Now, it was awkward.
Dean caught her staring at him, her expression inquisitive. She cleared her throat awkwardly, but she couldn’t form words. She only now noticed that he was wearing a faded black shirt and hotdog pyjama pants.
“So…” Dean began instead, “pie.” It wasn’t any better, but it’s as she always said: it was better than nothing.
“Yes,” she confirmed, “strawberry… you weren’t getting ready for bed…?” She inquired, tipping her chin in the direction of his attire.
“Not to sleep,” he reassured her, taking a few steps toward the cupboards to pull out two plates, glass cups, and then some utensils from the lower drawer. “Why are you doing this?” Dean asked quietly from where he was across the kitchen, everything still in his hands.
“I deserve better that’s why,” she snapped. He blinked at her, guilty, but she paused and took a deeper breath. Careful to not smear her eyeliner, she rubbed her temples instead. She reached behind her to wrap her ankle around the leg of a chair to pull it out and sit down. “Sorry, I don’t like… being angry,” she breathed out, looking out his kitchen window into her dark living room. She switched the Christmas lights off. “It's very stressful because I…” She turned to look at him and forgot her words as he came closer.
He looked cuter in person and prettier, still. Three years and nothing has changed, he still had her heart right in his hand.
“Why?” He pressed, placing everything down on the table in front of her. Looking up at him felt intimidating, so she averted her gaze. He was much older than she was… it made her… feel dumb. See-through. Like he could figure her out in seconds.
“Because I’m friends with your friends,” she admitted without looking at him, then she reached out to arrange the plates, cups, and utensils. He sat down thoughtfully, and watched her unstack the small boxes she brought over.
“You’re doing this for them,” he laid out flatly, but he took a seat next to her and stared at her. His eyes on her made her self-conscious, flustered. She bet he could see everything, all the ugly and the weird in her.
“I’m doing this for me,” she corrected him gently, “I just want to be happy,” she sighed, removing the plastic wrap she placed over the pie she baked. “Is that selfish?” She wondered out loud, taking the knife, she stared at it.
“No,” Dean sighed, wrapping his hand around hers to take the knife. She inhaled sharply at the warmth of his touch, his calloused palms brushing against the back of her hand, sending warmth over her chest, pressing into her wrist with her heart excitedly pounding against her ribs.
She released the knife into his hold, trying to hide how much he affected her, but she doubted she could fully do that with the Christmas lights exposing the blush she could feel on her face. She could feel her veins pumping blood faster, caught up with the heavy beating of her heart. If he looked down at her neck, he could probably see it in her veins.
She looked away, down at Miracle who was still peacefully laying on his belly, and Dean looked away towards the beautiful pie to start slicing into it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, taking her plate to give her the first slice. She looked up at Dean, taking the plate with a generous slice of strawberry pie.
“I wanted to be the first to say it…” She complained playfully, trying to maintain eye contact with him, but his beauty was intimidating, forcing her to look away, “soon as my ego stopped being sensitive,” she added.
Dean laughed softly, placing his own slice on his plate. The sound of his laugh made her smile, her stomach flipped with elation, at the crinkles by his eyes. Her breathy exhale made him look at her.
“Well, I’m forty-four, my ego’s been bruised enough times,” he told her, “I don’t care much for it when…” he trailed off and chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. She bit her lip, too, trying not to stare too long at his pretty mouth.
“Well, thanks,” she murmured, her jaw twitching as she looked away from him.
“I’d consider all this an apology,” he told her, gazing at her as she opened two rectangular boxes. She smiled, shaking her head. She pulled out a bottle of homemade eggnog along with a decorated jar filled with white frosting, and a small container with crushed peppermint candy. “This isn’t… poisoned, right?” He teased, still watching her while she opened the bottle of rum eggnog, she tilted her head at him, amused. “Just making sure… you did make all this…” he trailed off, impressed.
“Taste the pie,” she encouraged as she started making the drinks.
“You’re just trying to shut me up,” he chuckled gruffly, but he picked up his fork and started to dig in. The strawberry filling barely touched his tongue when he moaned, she watched him not even begin to chew. His brows furrowed and he closed his eyes, savouring the pie.
It made her blush, but she focused on covering the rim of the cups he brought with the whiskey frosting she made and the peppermint candy shavings before filling it with eggnog.
“You made the frosting, too?” He asked, tipping his head towards the jar. His mouth was full, some strawberry filling dripped down the corner of his mouth, but he picked it up with his tongue. She licked her lips, trying to stop herself from breathing airily, and passed him the eggnog with a nod and slid the jar of frosting towards him to serve herself some eggnog.
Dean dipped his finger into the frosting, collecting a large amount before wrapping his lips around his finger to suck the frosting off. She forced herself to look away from how hot he looked and ate her own slice of pie instead.
“I’ve seriously been missing out,” he murmured regretfully. “I was real childish,” he told her, “I never should’ve gotten pissed over… everything-”
“Dean,” she interrupted him, giving him a sheepish smile, “you already apologised and I forgive you. Besides, I did things, too.. on purpose… so, I’m sorry.” She pursed her lips and took a sip from her eggnog, swiping her tongue along the sweet frosting.
“You did things on purpose?” He repeated, a smirk on his face. She breathed out a laugh and nodded bashfully. “Why?” he wondered, leaning into her curiously, subtly moving his plate of food towards her. She considered being blunt, but she chose to test him instead.
“Probably the same reason you got pissed at everything I did and didn’t do,” she laughed, pulling a piece of strawberry out of the pie to put it in her mouth.
“I doubt that,” Dean muttered, picking up his own drink, and taking a large gulp. She eyed him closely, her eyes becoming hooded when he licked across his lips after drinking to collect the thin layer of sweetened alcohol on his mouth.
“What was your reason then?” She wondered flirtatiously, her voice low and seductive. She pushed her plate away with her arm., and mimicked his body language, scooting forward in the chair.
She watched as his eyes darkened and his jaw clenched, his hand tightening around his fork before he dropped it. She’d never quite been stared at that way before, but it suddenly—almost, made her laugh. Her legs felt weak, her stomach heavy, almost fooling her into thinking she couldn’t get up, but she did.
With a rapid heart and shaky knees, she pushed her chair back, and Miracle lifted his head in alarm. Dean leaned back in his chair, sliding his palms up his thighs, and watched hungrily as she lifted her dress up her legs, squeezing in front of him and part of the table to sit on his lap.
“Seems like we’ve both been missing out on a lot of stuff,” she whispered, her stomach fluttering for a variety of reasons, but mostly from excitement. He bit his lip, eyes twinkling as he placed his hands slowly on her thighs. She sank her teeth down on her lip, too, breathing heavily when his hands began sliding up her thighs, lifting her dress higher, and higher.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered, continuing to move her dress up until his hands were wrapped around her hips where he could realise she wasn’t wearing any underwear. “I thought I should tell you, before I ruin you,” he rasped, tightening his hold on her hips.
“Fuck,” she moaned, moving forward in his lap until their hips were pressed together. She brought her hands into his hair, and pulled it gently, bringing her mouth close to his, but she never kissed him. She breathed against his lips and when he leaned forward to kiss her, she pulled back teasingly.
“You’re seriously gonna make me wait?” He whispered, slowly rolling his hips up into her, his hard cock pressing into her wet core. She gasped softly against his mouth and laughed breathlessly.
“You feel good,” she praised, flushing as she ground against him harder.
“I’d feel better inside you,” he smirked, sliding one of his hands farther up her dress, his warm palm flattening up her stomach reverently, stopping beneath her breasts..
“I bet,” she moaned, arching into his touch before finally pressing her tinted lips against his. Dean moaned softly against her mouth, pressing against her hungrily, then lifted her up, carefully moving his plate and cup aside to lay her down on the table.
“Miracle, bed,” Dean ordered when he pulled away from her lips. The dog obediently stood up and excitedly made his way to where Dean’s room was. Dean kissed her once more, drawing her attention away from Miracle and back to him.
She’d never been kissed the way Dean kissed her or touched the way Dean touched her. His hands were everywhere, testing, learning, skillful. He scratched her skin sending sparks down to her already soaked core, kneading her body roughly until she moaned against his mouth. He squeezed her and made her wet. He dug his blunt nails into her and made her nerves ignite. His hands smoothed across her, sailing over her body like she were an ocean and he was a sailor.
He was desperate, devouring her mouth with his tongue and his teeth, putting his all into the kiss, licking her lips, teasing the inside of her mouth, brushing against her warm tongue. He yearned to memorise the taste of her mouth, to feel close to her, pressing and moaning against her the way he’d done when he ate the pie and frosting. He nibbled on her lips, tugging, biting, claiming, taking the air from her lungs and pulling away at the perfect time.
He rolled his hips into her frantically and finally started to move away from her now-swollen lips, the colour of her raspberry tint robbed and replaced by the redness of his kiss.
He dragged his teeth teasingly along her jaw and licked his way down her neck, pressing his stubbled face into her neck, kissing and sucking softly, searching. She rolled her head to the side, giving him all the access he needed, until finally, she moaned loudly when he sucked into her sweetspot. He smiled against her throat, feeling her take handfuls of his shirt, her hips wiggling impatiently beneath him.
He kissed lower still, then back up to the other side of her neck, and bit her collarbones, kissing every inch of her skin, her shoulders and her sternum. She loved every second of it and slipped her hands beneath his shirt, touching and scratching his skin, pulling him closer as he bucked into her bare core.
“Did you know your shirt was see-through when we first met?” He whispered into her cleavage. She laughed and replied with a breathless ‘no’. “Well.. your tits on display, legs bare in those tiny shorts, all pissed as hell… it was hot,” he chuckled, lowering the thin straps of her dress until the top started to reveal her breasts.
“Is that why you jerked off that night?” She asked, gripping his hair and tugging hard. He grunted and laughed, staring into her lustful eyes.
“You saw?” He teased, bringing his hand to her breast, squeezing roughly. “The answer’s yes.. And everytime after that, it was also ‘cause of you,” Dean confessed, “couldn’t stop thinking about you, every day and every night. I thought I hated you, but I guess I just needed to fuck you.”
She chuckled, gripping the hem of his shirt, dragging it up his body as he latched onto her nipple. She hummed softly, tugging hard at his hair, in complete bliss as he wrapped his mouth around the bud, licking, sucking, and biting until she whimpered for him to give her more—which was impossible. He moved onto her other breast, savouring her warm skin with his hotter mouth, tugging her neglected nipple with his fingers, twisting and pinching.
“Please,” she moaned, yanking his hair so he’d pull away. Dean growled against her flesh and bit down hard on her breast, before pulling away, drawing a mewl from her of his name.
“You could be nicer,” he muttered, allowing her to lift his shirt up off his body, but he continued to kiss her breasts, sucking gently around the flesh to leave red marks. He lifted her feet up on the table and pressed her thighs close to her chest, opening her up to admire her soaked sex.
“We’re long past nice, pretty boy,” she teased blushing and biting her lip when he stood up straight. She didn’t look at him, too insecure to watch him as he brought his hand to the inside of her thighs, teasing her vulva.
“You think I’m pretty?” He grinned, circling her entrance, moaning at copious amounts of arousal on his fingers. “So wet… you that needy for my cock inside you?” He asked smugly.
She looked at him now, heat flooding up her face at his obscene words. Before she could say anything about it, the tattoo on his chest drew her attention away from the adorable pride on his face.
“You’re a hunter,” she stated, stunned, blinking at him with a smile. He looked down at himself then at her, speechless. She lifted her hips and hitched her dress up higher to reveal her ribcage where she had the same tattoo, twice as small.
“You’re a professor,” he remarked with arousal on his face, pushing his finger into her. He lowered himself down her body and wrapped his arm around her legs, holding her open as he breathed warmly against her wet cunt.
Before she could close her legs to him demurely, Dean dove in, his mouth hot on her pussy. He ate her out the same way he kissed her, teeth making her whimper, his tongue parting and tasting, picking up the flavour of her wetness as she moaned.
He salivated on her, humming in satisfaction while he sucked her clit into his mouth while he fingered her. Her hands found his hair once more, pulling hard and almost painfully, but his cock jumped each time inside the thin material of his pyjamas. Dean added a second finger as he moaned against her swollen clit, knuckles deep, pressing against the front of her textured walls, drawing silent moans from her, making her squirm more and more.
“Fuck,” she panted, “you’re so good,” she praised, flexing her hand above his head before gripping at the honey strands. He slurped lewdly, devouring her pussy, squeezing her hips desperately holding her close to his face while she pushed him harder against her cunt. “Dean… I’m close,” she moaned, closing her legs around his head.
He moaned again, adding another finger, shoving deep as he circled her swollen clit with his tongue, drawing figures on her clit possessively. She gasped loudly and cried out his name, tensing up when she orgasmed, her walls clamping down on his three fingers. The rapture of her orgasm seemed endless as he continued to tongue at her clit, it made her writhe uncontrollably, and he smirked against her pussy.
Her whiny laugh and the way she squeezed his head to stop him made him chuckle, and he tapped her thigh once he pulled his fingers from within her pulsing walls. She released him, melting into the table while he licked his fingers clean of her release.
“You taste good,” he told her earnestly, “so fucking good.” She bit her lip, giving him a look of disbelief. He narrowed his eyes at her, leaning down to lick a long stripe up her pussy, then down, pushing his tongue past her clenching, wet hole.
“Dean, fucking…” she moaned, “oh, God, why does that feel good?” She snickered, then he pulled away hovering above her. She opened her eyes to his smug face, his clean fingers squeezed her cheeks roughly until she opened her mouth. She furrowed her brows, whining out with her hands around his wrist so he’d release, but she shut up when he spit in her mouth.
“Taste yourself,” he ordered, licking his lips. Her pupils dilated as she looked into his eyes, the tangy taste of herself made her mouth water and she swallowed. “D’you know how hot you are?” He asked rhetorically, kissing her roughly once more, ravenous and stopped only when he felt her hands pushing his pants down his legs.
“I want you, Dean,” she whispered against his mouth, biting his lip before returning the passion of his kiss.
“Where?” He asked teasingly, wrapping his arm around her waist, he sat her up on the table and gently held her face in his hands, before releasing her to strip completely.
“I want you inside me,” she told him coquettishly, hopping off the table to slowly let her dress pool around her feet. “I want to ride you, to feel you stretch me open…” she walked towards him, watching him completely aroused, a look of pleasant surprise on his face, “I want you to fill me up, and make me cum on your cock…” she licked her lips, staring down at his cock, erect and leaking precum. “... I’ve never seen a dick this nice,” she told him, wrapping her hand around the base and stepping closer to him.
He grunted, “suck it then.” She laughed through her nose, releasing his cock to fondle his balls. He moaned, stumbling slightly. “I’ve been wanting to shut you up with my cock in your mouth,” he told her, a smirk on his face, “now, I’m just thinking how pretty you’ll look with your lips wrapped around me.” Dean reached up and curled his fingers around the back of her neck.
She looked behind him, removed her hand, and tipped her head to the chair, “sit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he grinned, kicking the chair towards him like she had earlier, then he sat, legs wide and tempting. “You’re sexier than you were in my imagination,” he told her, watching her get down between his legs, kissing his thighs while looking up at him through her curled lashes.
“Keep talkin’,” she grinned up at him, taking his heavy cock in her hand once more. Dean gave her a sexy look, smug and aroused.
“I wanna finish in your mouth,” he told her, “want to see you swallow my load.” Pleased, she moved forward and began kissing and licking the length of his cock, teasingly and experimentally feeling the velvety, veiny texture against her hand, tongue, and lips. “I want to hear you choke on my cock, and see what you look like with tears in your eyes as I fuck your pretty face.” She moaned softly, intrigued by the description of his fantasy.
She dipped her tongue into the slit, moaning at the taste of his precum, drooling over the soft head of his cock before sucking him into her mouth.
“Fuck,” he moaned, tangling his fingers in her hair. She slowly took him deeper, pulling him out of her hot mouth teasingly, then swallowing inch by inch of his hard cock. “You’re so good at that, baby,” he panted, letting her take her time at her own pace, but he gripped her hair tightly. “Don’t stop,” he moaned, staring into her eyes as she continued to take his cock, bobbing her head, not stopping until he hit the back of her throat. She swallowed around him, and he bucked his hips up, releasing a whispered curse, attempting to keep his eyes open to watch her suck him off.
She got comfortable between his legs, taking his freehand to put it in her hair. He took her hair, put it together, and waited for her permission before slowly lifting his hips, pushing his cock slowly into her throat. When she gagged, he slowly pulled back, then pushed back into her, lips parted, releasing quick breaths.
Eventually, he started to fuck her face in earnest, lifting his hip up off the chair, pulling her hair hard to guide her on and off his dick. Her spit dribbled down her chin in a mixture of his precum. She swallowed as much as she could, moaning and blinking tears that tickled her eyes and her jaw.
“You look so fucking…” he chocked on a moan, “so damn sexy.”
She ignored the soreness of her jaw, relaxing it as best as she could as he fucked her near mercilessly. Her pussy throbbed with every sound of his pleasure, clit aching for attention at the way he gazed down at her with burning desire, but she refused to touch herself, enjoying the build-up, the desperation for another orgasm, for his touch.
He throbbed in her mouth, turning to mush beneath her mouth. He even began to whimper and moan her name, praises and dirty words becoming scarce in attempts to hold back his orgasm, edging himself with her mouth. It didn’t take long for him to hold her with her nose against his pelvis breathlessly.
He pulled her off his cock, and released her hair to wipe tears tenderly from her hot cheeks with his thumbs, trying to get his mind off the near-pleasure of her mouth around his cock while catching his breath.
“Yummy,” she rasped, pulling a breathless laugh from him. She wiped her chin with her shoulder and smiled up at him, slowly getting up on her knees to get rid of the ache of sitting on her legs.
She got up, leaning back against the table, admiring him in his red, flushed, somewhat sweaty state. His hair was a mess from her hands and he had a blush around his neck to his ears. She knew the hardness of his body accounted for the fact that he was a hunter, as well as the scars she felt beneath her soft hands, bite marks, bullet wounds, and healed slashes.
“Come closer,” she told him and he laughed, bringing himself and the chair closer, stopping when she sat on his thighs, fixing herself over his strong thighs. “Gonna cum if I tease you?” She asked, tapping the head of his cock. It twitched instantly and he moaned.
“Depends,” he replied breathily, sliding his hands up her body. She hummed softly, spreading her legs, positioning his cock near her soppy folds.
“On what?” She cackled playfully, parting her folds with one hand, circling her clit with her fingers. He watched her lustfully, the wetness that made her pussy shine coated her fingers.
“How wet and warm you feel on my cock,” he replied truthfully. He grabbed her hand and moved it out of the way anyway, taking his cock to push it between her folds, pressing the tip against her clit.
“Fuck, Dean,” she moaned softly, grasping his shoulders, “you feel… I need you,” she whimpered, rolling her hips along the length of his cock. He moaned with her, moving her hips closer to him, her wetness coating his cock.
“I’m gonna fuck you so good, sweetheart…” Dean moaned, watching her lean back against the table, positioning the soft head of his cock to her entrance. Completely enthralled, he watched himself slip inside her, and she watched him, biting her lip hard in concentration, the stretch of her walls around him almost painful. “Fuck… I can feel how bad you need me… I need you just as bad,” he panted, flexing his hands on her thighs, desperately trying not to thrust up into her warmth. He dug his nails into her flesh, his head tipping back, his hips rolling up.
“Dean,” she moaned again, starting to lift herself up and down his cock, reaching up to cup her breast. “Shit, you feel amazing,” she breathed out, grinding her hips against his until he was fully inside her.
“You okay?” He asked, one of hands drifting up to knead her breast comfortingly. She nodded, buried her fingers in his hair and brought him in for a kiss as she bent her knees, and tucked her feet in between his thighs.
“I could cum like this,” she mumbled against his lips. His chuckle rumbled through his chest and he shook his head, her pussy clenched at the sound and she started to lift herself up again.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, sucking on his lip momentarily. “I’ll make you cum so hard…” He paused to moan, thrusting up into her slowly, meeting her hip. “...you’ll never want to fuck anyone else,” he promised her, building up the pace of his thrusts until she stopped moving with him altogether, letting him fuck up into her needy cunt.
“You’ll only wanna be fucked by me,” he continued, watching her lean back with her elbow on the table, her hands roaming his warm body, “and I’ll be there, ready to fuck you hard.” He looked over her shoulder, at the jar of frosting. “Pounding into your sweet cunt,” he swore breathlessly, reaching behind her, dipping his fingers to gather frosting, “makin’ you beg, makin’ you impossibly wet.” He smeared frosting over her nipples, over her collarbone, her sternum, until he had no more while she moaned his name needily.
“Makin’ you feel things you’ve never felt before.” He gripped her hip with frosting-coated fingers, leaning forward to lick and suck the whiskey frosting from her body. “I’ll fill you up as many times as you want,” he vowed, smoothing her hand up her back, into her hair once more, pulling until she whined his name. “I’ll fuck you wherever you want.”
Her pussy continued to gush over Dean’s cock the more he talked—his breathless, husky voice taking her over the edge. Each rough pull of her hair made her mewl and whimper as she rolled her hips desperately against his.
“Dean, please,” she whispered, scratching down his back, digging marks into his skin the harder and faster he thrusted into her. Loud skin slapping, the wet sound of her pussy being penetrated, with every push of his cock in and out of her, squelching and driving her crazy. She dug her nails into her palm, making obscene sounds that made her self-conscious.
“I’ll fuck you all over your house, all over mine.” Another moan of his name, another rough pull of her hair. “I’ll fuck you in my car, in your car, anywhere and all over town.” He pulled away from her sticky chest, licked his lips at the sight of her, so she screwed her eyes shut. She felt a warm pool of wetness on her pelvic bone, opened her eyes to him spitting between their bodies, watching his saliva drip down her folds to her clit.
She’d never heard of or experienced sex quite this raw and dirty.
“I’ll make you scream my name, make you forget how to talk, how to walk…” She leaned back into him, panting into his ear, keeping him close while rubbing her clit. He yanked her hair, forcing her to look at him.
“Dean…”
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered, closing his eyes, he breathed against her lips, “and I want you forever.”
As he promised, she cried out his name when she came, squeezing his cock hard, coating him in her release. He grunted her name, cursing loudly as he came inside her, his hot seed spurting into her, filling her as he said he would.
He circled his arms around her as she writhed once more, releasing her hair as she put her arms around his neck, panting and catching her breath until the pleasure subsided.
“I want all of that,” she murmured after a few moments of silence, kissing his cheek. He squeezed her and moved back, bewildered. He moved hair from her face and tilted his head at her, drawn to her nakedness, her flushed beauty. “First, I want to shower…” Slowly, carefully, she climbed off his lap, her legs shaky, her pussy releasing the mixture of their pleasure.
“That’s a good start,” he told her softly. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled when he stood up from the chair and looked around at the mess in the kitchen. “No one’s coming home anytime soon… thanks to Sammy…” Dean trailed off, smoothing his hand over his head to fix his hair.
“Thanks to me,” she came clean with a shy smile, bringing his gaze up to hers. His eyes twinkled and he laughed loudly, tugging her towards him again by her arm, his lips pressing against hers.
pythia, a supernatural rewrite. phantom traveler, p.3
read it on ao3.
words: 14k
notes: hello!!! on the wings of an absolute ARMY of betas, here is a fresh new chapter for you!! since the last one was a little short i took the time to really flesh this one out. I'm a shy idiot who is SO bad at responding, but i see your comments and they mean the world to me. i literally have a folder on my computer full of the sweet words this fic has been given, and i think i've re-read the comments in that folder at least a million times over by now. ty so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy!! bloody mary is next!
a very special thank you to my beta readers, bear, M, venice, feeb, and daff, who easily made this my best chapter yet. thank you specifically for keeping me coherent and sane lol <3
PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 4th.
You don’t have to be psychic to know precisely what your mother is going to say when she answers the phone. She’ll pick up on the fourth ring with an occupied, scathing drawl and say, Look who finally has cell service.
Alright. So you’re not the best, most communicative daughter in the world. You call when you can, you honestly do, but there’s not exactly loads of emotional bandwidth to spare on the road. Peeling off all the layers of case anxiety and Winchester grief takes a while, dammit!
Maybe you’d feel less guilty if you vented to Sam or Dean, but it’s kind of lousy to bitch about Mom-stuff to, uh. Yeah. The boys. You could use a simple, uncomplicated statement like, talking to my Mom reminds me of how much of a disappointment I must be to her, and Dean would hear matricide instead. Sam’s blank, uncomprehending look wouldn’t be much better. Looks like you’re alone on this one.
When there’s a natural break in the day’s long research-fest the three of you are riding, you slip away, pace beside the Impala for a while, then finally bite the bullet and call her. Cars whisk through the slurry of snow on the road. Your phone charms rattle in the icy breeze. One ring, two rings… She knew you were going to call, she could sense it, but of course she has to torture you… three rings, four.
“I didn’t know cell service was so hard to come by in Pittsburg,” Beth greets you, sounding preoccupied. Damn, do you know her well or what?
“Hey, Mom,” you sigh. The wind is loud, so you pull your phone further down your face and try to come up with an excuse that is even halfway reasonable. “Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been ages since I’ve been around the boys, and I guess I get a little caught up with them sometimes.”
This is objectively true. She used to have a rule about you getting your homework done before they came over, purely because you forgot about everything and anything else the second Sam and Dean entered the house.
“Forget those losers. You’re my baby, I love you most,” Beth gushes, and you understand that this is her way of saying that you’re forgiven. Both of you have fallen victim to the Winchester spell before, so she can’t exactly blame you.
You’re a little embarrassed by her mushiness, but a relieved, bubbly laugh jumps out of you. “Alright, consider them forgotten. Now… I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m gonna ask you a question, and I need you not to freak out or overthink it, kay?”
Beth snorts. “You mean my two jobs as a mother? Go ahead, shoot.”
This is not the kind of question that you just “shoot,” though. It takes you a moment to string together how you’re going to ask this, and of course, you’re nothing but graceful and delicate about it. “...What do you know about demons?”
Your mother doesn’t say anything for a long, yawning second. Still, you can sense her rising swarm of questions and outrage all the way from Pennsylvania, and you try to stop her onslaught before it starts. “Hey! No questions! Just answers. I promise I would tell you if this was outrageously dangerous.”
“Then you’ve already broken your promise,” Beth utters, slipping into her Sage Grandmaster Psychic voice. Just hearing it makes you deflate. She predicts, “...Let me guess. You’ve felt nauseous. Suffocated. Hungry, but everything you eat comes right back up again.”
You toe a chunk of ice on the asphalt with your boot, grumbling, “...Yeah.”
“Then you’re lucky,” she reveals, her words still ringing with the same crystal ball clarity from your childhood. “That means you haven’t come into direct contact with it yet. I’d hope you never would, but… you are your father’s daughter…”
You know your mom. You know that’s just her way of warning you about the kind of danger you’re in, here, but all the comment does is bolster your resolve. Damn right. You are his motherfuckin’ daughter.
“Tell me,” you push.
Beth sighs through her nose. There’s a squeak on the other line, and you can imagine her at home, dropping heavily into the massive, millennia-old armchair she always took her readings in.
“Demons… well, I won’t explain to you what you can already guess. They’re unlike most legends we know of, because everything that’s written about them is utterly true. Most spirits that walk the natural earth are here to feed—vampires, werewolves—or to take care of unfinished business. But demons… they come to earth to steal, kill, and destroy.”
Welp. Your mother is truly a pillar of optimism. You’d been hoping she’d say something along the lines of, don’t worry, sweetheart, they’re just really messed up ghosts. Instead of, y’know. The most evil creatures man encountered in the bible. Bible, capital B. An uncomfortable, existential shiver rolls down your spine. Now this was something you could bitch to Dean and Sam about.
You’d grown up surrounded by the idea of demons. Even before you’d fully understood that monsters were real, sometimes you’d slip into your mother’s reading parlor while she was gone and play a game with the strange, segmented star pattern on the giant worn-smooth carpet. Don’t hop on any of the lines! Only step in the points of the star! Or, jump from sigil to sigil!
The one time you’d gotten carried away and played for too long, your mother had appeared through the beaded curtain with a stiff frown on her face. Don’t play on the devil’s trap. It’s not a toy.
There was the fraying devil’s trap in your mother’s parlor room, which was one of the hundreds of sigils burned into your mind at a young age. You’d shaken hands with demon hunters before. Most of the rituals your family practiced were in Latin; and the list went on and on into oblivion. You’d always known demons existed, but as you pace the parking lot and take in what Beth is telling you, the ramifications start to stack. Demons. Actual, literal demons. The thing that took down flight 2485—the suffocating, unimaginable presence from your vision—was a real-life demon. When you’d stood in the skeletal remains of the plane and reached out with your Gift, you’d been sensing the lingering presence of a fucking creation of Lucifer. What the actual fuck.
In a strange, backward way, you’re kind of relieved. Anyone would be fainting all over the place in the presence of an actual, real-life demon. Especially somebody like you, with all their senses turned up to 100. It makes sense that you were having such intense reactions before.
What the fucking fuck. You’re suddenly grateful to be on the phone with your mom.
You wandered toward the Impala, (checked first that you weren’t wearing the kind of jeans with the little studs that would scrape the paint), then leaned against it. “...Um. Okay. That’s just… awesome… How do they get… up here, then?”
“I’m not sure,” your mother hums, thinking. “Your great-great-aunt Miriam wrote in her records that they find their way top-side on their own. Bugs through cracks, that sort of thing. Apparently, there used to be a whole lot more of em’—in Miriam’s day it was a Proctor’s job to shove them back where they belonged, but… I dunno.” Beth helpfully jokes, “Maybe we got most of them.”
You huff out a laugh, but it’s not the most sincere. “Maybe we did,” you cough. “But, um, do we have any Proctor family secrets that could help me out here? Did great-great-aunt Miriam have a trunk somewhere full of demon-killing grenades or something?”
Beth smirks. “Great-great-aunt Miriam turned the house into a brothel and carved terrifying sigils in all the ceilings. That’s all we got from her.”
Of course. How could you possibly forget? “Oh, huh. I was wondering why we have old chains and whips in the basement. That fills in a lot more for me, thank you.”
Your mom barks out a laugh at your joke, which gets you laughing too. The sound trails off. There’s that funny pause where you both remember what you just said, then start giggling all over again—and man, does it feel good to just have a moment with your mom. The boys both have an unforgiving radar for “bonding,” and the second they realize that you love them and they’re your friends, they creep right back into their shells. Neither of them were very good at absorbing that sort of thing.
Your mom is just as skilled at spoiling the moment.
“But, seriously…” She stresses. “Please be careful. Avoid contact with these things at all costs, especially with your Gift. It’s made to find the truth, and demons are made of lies. Not a good mix. They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to. This is a lot more hands-on than you should ever be with your Gift, ____.”
“...Right,” you say through your teeth.
This is the part where you start awkwardly shoving in a goodbye without coming across as an asshole. You open your mouth, about to say something stiff and unsure, when you sense a spike of alarm ripple out from where the boys are still researching in your motel room.
Phone call forgotten, you jolt off the Impala and whip towards the door. Not a second later, Dean’s slipping out onto the stoop and sweeping the parking lot with a calm, guarded stare. He doesn’t look at you—just gestures you inside, holding the door open. Even from the parking lot, you can make out the insane amount of notes and papers Sam has coated your motel room with.
“Jerry just called,” Dean utters. “The surviving pilot from 2485? Chuck Lambert? …He just went down in a plane crash.”
You snap your phone shut and follow him inside.
-
The three of you head to the site of the next crash as fast as you can. But first, you have the pleasure of watching the boys play Winchester Telepathy when you insist on coming along. They’re still worried. You would be too, in their position. (In fact, if the roles were reversed, you’d probably chain Sam to a radiator and call it a day.) But Chuck went down in a twin plane, not a massive, two-hundred-person graveyard, so your Gift should have the legs to handle it.
…And knowing what you’re dealing with has steeled your confidence. You weren’t slashing at the dark anymore, even if what was in the dark was, um. Proof that hell exists. After days of being totally screwed over by this thing, you finally had even the slightest leg up on what was going on. You were going to take that win and run with it.
Chuck’s twin plane was hardly a twin anymore; both the engines had been shredded, the white body of the cockpit twisted like a wrung-out washcloth. The plane had dove so hard into the farmland that the snow around it had melted. You still kind of felt like tossing your lunch, but more out of sympathy than psychic backlash. People had been in that plane. The thought made you taste bile.
Sam and Dean only hover a little bit (a lot) while you open your Gift to the wreckage. You take your glove off with your teeth and touch your right hand to the ashen, snow-soaked remains of the pilot’s chair… and there it was again, the leeching, seeping, violating presence from the vision that’d brought all of you to Pittsburg. A demon.
Your Gift wrings out another scraggly, disconnected vision for you. Chuck was beyond anxious to get back in the saddle after 2485. The co-pilot, Lou, had pep-talked him like any good friend would, reassuring him that the flight would go smoothly. After that, everything—gassing up the engine, takeoff, and the brutal, horrific crash—was blotted with poison ink. Every time you tried to steer towards Chuck with your senses, it was as if the strip of film playing your vision had been burned away. His face had been scratched out of every frame. He had become something else; something terribly familiar.
The research Sam had compiled began to link with what you’re seeing. You could feel, even through the leftover wisp of the demon’s presence on the plane, that it had done this many times before.
You jolted to your feet, scrubbing the palm with the eye tattoo off on your slacks. Dean and Sam reeled back, since they’d both been looming an inch behind you as you worked.
“What’s the verdict, doc?” Dean said, bracing himself.
You turn from the wreckage and bee-line straight for the road, eager to avoid a repeat of last time. The boys follow your lead. They fall into step on either side of you, and for once you feel like the specialist Sam always said you were, complete with stern-faced bodyguards.
“Full-on Pazuzu, just like last time,” you confirm, cursing. You shove your glove back on and stomp through the snow. “I-I get it now. God, it feels so fucking obvious. It’s—it’s playing. It finds these disasters, or it makes them, and then it picks off all the survivors one by one. Chuck Lambert, George Phelps. It possessed them. Like some sort of twisted cosmic-order thing.”
Sam pulls a face. “Final Destination style?”
“Minus the hot girls and the tanning beds, apparently,” Dean pouts.
“It’s trying to finish them off, boys,” you say, swallowing hard. “That’s something we can work with. If it’s only using disasters to do the job, then…”
“...then we need to see if any of the survivors are flying soon,” Sam realizes, finishing your thought.
The second the Impala’s on the road again, Sam is fishing out the passenger manifests from the first flight and chasing down any phone numbers he can find. There is a part of every hunt where your run is forced to become a sprint, and this is that turn-over moment, tensions ramping high. What once was seven people is now five.
As Dean hauls ass back to Pittsburg, you and Sam get to calling. You thank the Mother Goddess above for shitty, awful customer service, because posing as some lousy Delta Airlines representative has Dennis Holloway sitting in seat 21A and Kathleen Willard (seat 25E) swearing off flying for good. Sam uses a similar tactic on Blaine Sanderson (seat 14D). The two of you take the safe bet that the parents of Ava Struder (seat 1C), an unaccompanied minor, aren’t fucking idiots dumping their kid on another flight the second she survives one. That leaves you with Amanda Walker. A flight attendant on 2485… because of course, this job can never be easy.
Sam tries her phone. While it rings, you cross your fingers and hope that she has quit her job and started a new life as a dedicated couch potato. Sam’s forced to leave a message. He snaps his flip phone shut with a curse and throws it into the footwell, where it clatters against his boots.
You curl a cold hand around Sam’s shoulder, soothing, “Gimme the list, baby. I’ll try her emergency contact, at least find out where she is.”
Sam sulkily passes it to you, never once shifting under your hand. You do get a small, grateful look from him over his shoulder, and the urgency and anxiety there makes your gut twist. It would be more than easy to comfort him, to stroke your fingers through his hair, to rub his collar and tell him everything’s going to be fine.
But you’re a shit liar, so you open up your phone and make the next call. Sam’s lingering gaze ducks back down into his lap.
-
Of course, your luck continues to flourish. Amanda doesn’t answer her phone. But her sister does, and she informs you that Amanda, being a flight attendant, is in fucking Indianapolis for a flight. Indianapolis. As in, a good five-hour drive from Philly—and in the complete opposite direction of where you were going. Dean barely waits until the road is wide enough to turn the Impala around. The u-ey he hits sends you, and all your stuff, careening from the right end of the bench all the way to the left.
The drive is not fast. Staring ahead and silently revving yourself up can only waste so much time, so you pull out the mini sewing kit from under the seat and do your best to patch a rip in Dean’s jeans, struggling to thread the needle even more than usual. You feel a bit like a bad hunter distracting yourself from what’s ahead, but just one of you stuffing the car with anxious brooding is enough. Sam passes back a sudoku booklet for you and then goes straight back to his thousand-yard stare.
He used to be excellent when things came down to the wire like this. After years spent in empty motel rooms, counting pennies and waiting for John and Dean to come home, Sam’s patience was unimaginable. But losing Jess… had tilted his axis. These last few hunts, you’ve noticed how crazed he gets on the last couple steps to the finish line—when none of you are sure if there’ll be anybody to save. It happens. But you’re scared of what another round of it could do to Sam, even with a stranger like Amanda; he cared so much…
Dean isn’t happy, either, but he at least has something to do. He alternates between playing brain-melting Metallica or forgetting to reload the tape, so the drive is a strange mix of music you can feel in your eardrums and silence that’s just as loud. The first piece of levity you get is thirty straight minutes of Dean over-explaining the album to you. And, thank god you ask, because Dean rattling on about the “bass and drums feeding off each other” and the “musical integrity of a locked-in rhythms section” bring Sam out of his trance. He pries his eyes away from the rolling fields of snow, scrunches up his face, and sighs, “Can we at least listen to ‘...And Justice for All?’”
You’re an excellent tactician, so you use this opening to nudge them both toward the most surefire argument starter in the Winchester handbook: What’s the best album of all time? It would’ve been harder to lure flies into honey. Dean argues more with himself than he argues with the two of you, dancing indecisively between Zeppelin II, Dark Side of the Moon, and at least twenty other albums that you are vaguely aware exist. Sam outlines that there is a difference between someone’s favorite album (Californication in Sam’s case) and the best album objectively by sales (Thriller).
All three of you play into the argument more than usual. Guess you’re not the only one desperate to think about something other than the two hundred other people who might die tonight. By the time there’s enough of a break in the conversation for you to throw your hat into the distraction-ring, you’re thirty minutes from the Indianapolis International Airport.
“Both of you are wrong,” you decide. “There’s only one reasonable answer to that question, and it’s Rumours.”
Dean audibly grumbles, and when the Impala jams to a stop in front of a red light, he dramatically points at you in the rear-view mirrors and declares: “You are obligated by hippie, witchy-girl bullshit to love that album, Proctor. And it’s good, but it’s not the best. It’s mostly…” he flashes you a mean, big-brother smile, “girly music.”
You know you’re right, so his comment rolls right over you. Cooly, you remind him, “Nuh-uh. Sam loves Fleetwood Mac, too.”
You’d figured that was a good counter-point, since Sam was hardly girly. The hand he was using to keep his notepad on his knee was all kinds of veiny and calloused, and on top of being taller than Dean, he was a lot more comfortable with his masculinity. He didn’t have mile-long lashes or glazed donut cheekbones, either.
Sam hums in agreement, like you knew he would; the two of you listened to Go Your Own Way and The Chain endlessly before he left for school. Sometimes he’d even dance around the attic at home with you.
Dean side-eyes his brother, then barks out a hearty laugh. “Case in point.”
Sam elects to pretend he didn’t hear that, and instead turns around to talk straight to you: “I mean, the end of Silver Springs alone…”
…Maybe if Dean listened to more “girly music,” he’d have more women melting over him the way you melt when Sam says that. Even though you’ve gotten used to having him in front of you again, there are moments like these where you’re stunned by how similar the two of you still are. Dreams would play in your attic and Sam would already be offering you his hands, gangly and shy and bright red for you and only you…
You listened to Silver Springs a lot after Sam started dating Jessica.
INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 4th, night.
All three of you must’ve been hyper-planning what to do the second the Impala parked, because you fan out as soon as Dean jams the break.
Sam uncaps the travel-sized hand sanitizer from your purse and empties it out onto the pavement. You’re a little sad to say goodbye to pumpkin cupcake, but then he starts pouring as much holy water as he can into the teeny bottle, and you’re reminded how clever he is. When Dean gives him a weird look, Sam explains, “3.4 ounces or less per liquid item, dude.”
“Shit,” Dean curses. Right. Travel size restrictions. That cuts your only physical weapon against the demon in half—or into a fucking fifth, I guess. But it’s something. “At least he’ll fuckin’ smell good when we send him to hell. Great.”
You give Sam the marshmallow pumpkin latte sanitizer, too. You’re going to look painfully suspicious walking into an airport with nothing but hand sanitizer and an occult journal, but there’s nothing you can do. There’s no time to check bags or trudge through security lines. Hopefully you won’t have to board, but knowing your luck…
You’re about to go peeling out of the parking lot at top speed, when you turn your boot and feel the warm piece of metal pressed against your ankle. Shit. “God, this is stupid,” you curse, and drop onto a knee. You lose the pocket knife in your boot, then dig around for the loose rock salt shells rolling around in your pockets. There’s a visible pout on your face when you abandon your iron knuckles. Anything that’d be caught by security or picked up on a metal detector goes straight into the trunk.
When you pull your butterfly knife out of your bra, Sam is suddenly very interested in the color of the sky.
The boys follow suit. By the time you’re through the doors and among the harried, criss-crossing crowd of travelers, you’ve lost ten pounds in weapons each. Dean grumbles the whole way about feeling naked. Everything in the airport is overstimulating, even at this time of night. The long, endless squares of glass looking out over the runway reflect the too-bright lights in big glossy spots, and the air is flooded with a constant stream of intercom updates and civilian chatter. You duck and weave all the way to the departure schedule, which is just the right font size to make you anxious.
Sam scans the chart. “They’re boarding in thirty minutes.”
Shit. You wrack your mind for something that could coax Amanda off her flight. But the gears in your head are suddenly muddy, and Dean’s faster than you, anyway. His eyes dart around the floor of the airport. “Okay… we still got some cards to play. We need to find a phone.”
Sam and Dean dart off like twin bomb-sniffing dogs. You move to follow them, but something tethers you in place. The buzzing, bustling commotion in the air pitches up, and then your ears are ringing, and your whole body is stinging with the ugly leeching feelings from before. The demon. It’s close.
You blindly walk in the direction your internal Winchester compass gives you, and just when Dean’s about to take a courtesy phone off its hook, your body extracts the phone from his hand on autopilot. For a brief flickering moment, you’re not yourself. Your powers talk through you.
Your Gift foresees, “That won’t work. Your only option is to board the plane.”
The boys exchange an unsettled look. For a second you’re confused why they’re giving you their Freaked Out faces, then you feel the hollow plastic of the phone in your hand, and you realize you’re a whole twenty feet from where you started. Man… you hate the whole psychic-possession thing. Just for fun, your Gift loves to take over and course-correct you when it thinks you’re being stupid. You drop the phone back on its hook with a heavy click. It takes Dean a second to answer, and he’s still giving you that look. After a long pause, he knocks up his chin and not-so-happily mutters, “...Uh, okay.”
Sam, at least, has learned to roll with your weird psychic bullshit. His voice is soft with conviction. “Fine. Plan B, then. We gotta get on that plane.”
You run your palms down your face, then steel yourself. There’s no other way, and no time to second-guess. Even your Gift has decided it’s your best plan. “Okay. Fuck it.”
The usual authority in Dean’s voice hikes up with a note of panic. “Uh, woah. Let’s just hold on a second–”
“Dean,” you wince, and your hands drop heavily at your sides. “We gotta. I’m sorry.”
Sam, per usual, reads Dean’s hesitance as something else. “That plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board. And if we’re right, it’s gonna crash. We have to–”
You watch as they have their usual back and forth; Sam, eager to throw himself at this, and Dean gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It’s easy for you to sense the steam of real, nail-biting terror radiating off your best friend. You feel Dean’s fear all the time–and even then it’s hard for you to picture him being afraid of much of anything, much less planes. It’s even harder for Sam to look past his little brother glasses.
“...Flying?” Sam puts it together. His voice is understanding, but super confused. “You’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Dean flails. He fists his hands as he talks, swaying back and forth to try and work up the nerve. He glances at you, the only other witness to his weakness, just once. “Why do you think I fuckin’ drive everywhere, Sam?”
Sam is genuinely stunned. Slapped-in-the-face stunned. But he takes it in stride, and, also glancing at you only once, he blurts out: “Alright. Uh, I’ll go.”
The anticipation of boarding the flight is making your skin prickle with anxiety, and you can’t help but inch back toward the ticket counter as they talk. But when Sam says this, without question or complaint, you’re instantly stepping up to his side and demanding, “Then I’m going with you.”
You brace yourself to shut down the argument you know is coming, but this Sam continues to be different from the guy you knew four years ago. This answer is just as easy for him, too. “Okay.”
Not, you’re staying here, or even, I won’t let you risk yourself like this. Just a plain and simple, okay. It bugs you. You don’t even have time to dwell on it, though, because Sam’s blatant courage tugs Dean over his fear.
“Man…” Dean utters, face twisted with nervousness. He gives in with a helpless scrunch of his shoulders, and taking that as permission, Sam twists around to buy your tickets not two seconds later.
You both watch him rush off, neither of you over the moon about this situation. Dean’s so anxious that his hands are clammy, and you can tell because he clutches at the sleeve of your jacket like a little kid. He knocks his forehead down on your shoulder with a groan, and your palm automatically loops around to give his back a soothing rub.
“This is fucking… awesome,” Dean gripes. “No guns. Can’t even bring a damn bottle of holy water. Is there some kind of psychic Xanax you can give me?”
Maybe some of your Gift drains into your voice when you promise, “We won’t have to worry about that. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Dean doesn’t make his Freaked Out face this time. He does, however, bump his forehead against your shoulder again, and sink into your touch with a rough sigh.
FLIGHT 424 - Dec. 4th.
You’d felt bad for Dean the whole time he’d struggled to get on the plane. Now, you kind of felt like choking him with your bare hands.
So many people crammed into one space was enough to flatten your Gift with the weight. Adding Dean to the mix, shoved shoulder-to-shoulder against you with his jitters ramped up to eleven, made you feel like picking your brain out with a fork. Your Gift ping-ponged between Dean and Sam, making you bounce between chattering your teeth with fear and thinking things like, wow, I just love the Dewey decimal system.
Maybe it was a good thing. You’d much rather be in one of their heads than yours.
All day, you’d done a pretty good job not obsessing over the things your mom had said over the phone. It was hard with so much time to marinate in the car, but the massive weight of the existence of demons only slammed on top of you once or twice. Boarding had managed to keep you occupied, but then the colossal body of the plane had shuddered and heaved its weight off the tarmac, leaving all chances for escape behind on the ground.
A part of you was resigned to it; it is a simple fact of your life that evil things are real. So what’s one more, right? But at the same time, you thought about the cross Sam wore under his shirt… you thought about being one of those things, being “made of lies,” like Mom had said. That, too, had been gnawing at you—what had she seen to learn all that? How did she know that a demon would “tear into your mind?” The Vague Psychic Thing is fun, until you’re on the receiving end.
“Can you sense who it’s possessing?” Sam’s smooth, calculating voice interrupted your thoughts.
…Oh, right. You’d gotten so swept up in your own head, no doubt influenced by Dean’s incessant foot-tapping, that you’d totally forgotten to scan the plane. Tilting away from Dean and his panic, you subconsciously shifted toward eerily calm, level-headed Sam. Just catching a wisp of the clean cologne he wears cools you down a little bit. Okay. No more freaking out—it’s game time.
You’d hoped that the white noise of the flight would settle your nerves, but the air tasted painfully sterile, dry, and cottony against the back of your throat. Everything felt like cold metal touching an open nerve. If the demon’s influence wasn’t making your powers touchy, then the woman across the aisle definitely was, oozing with homesickness as she watched Indianapolis shrink far below—or maybe it was the guy two rows back, replaying an argument again and again in his head—or maybe the other two hundred fucking people stuffing the plane with their boredom and their tiredness.
You push your knee into Sam’s. He pushes back.
After a tense beat, you whisper to him over the chatter of passengers, “Too many people. There’s no way I can narrow it down to one person—not unless they’re right in front of me.” Sam’s gaze turns expectantly to Dean, who’s still in full-on dissociation mode. He’d spent the whole boarding process humming tracks from St. Anger, and you knew he was really going through it, purely because he’d stopped and restarted Some Kind of Monster three different times now. Poor guy.
One of the things that made the three of you such a natural team was your ability to rotate leadership. In moments like these, with Dean way too wigged out to take charge, you’d usually step into his shoes without much trouble. But Sam has fielded your fainting spells and panic attacks all week, so he’s already got a pep-talk prepared for the two of you.
“...Okay.” Sam checks his watch. His voice still has that touch of classic Sam softness, probably because he knows how hard this is going to sound: “Stay focused. We got thirty-two minutes and counting to track this thing down, figure out who it’s possessing, and perform a full-on exorcism.” You’re about to make a comment about how blissfully easy he makes things seem, but Dean beats you to it. He snipes, “Yeah, on a crowded plane. That’s gonna be easy.”
You snap one of your bracelets against your wrist a few times, thinking. “Who would it want to possess?”
This gets Dean’s head in the game. Easily, he recites: “It’s usually somebody with some sort’a weakness, y’know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through. Somebody with an addiction or emotional distress.”
As he explains this, you unlatch Dean’s claws from their death-grip on your arm and give the top of his hand a little soothing pat. Your gaze remains fixed on the pattern of the seat in front of you. “For a regular demon, maybe. This thing might not even need a chink. It wants maximum damage here—so maybe it’d go for the pilot?”
This is not a soothing thought. Checking his watch again, Sam suggests, “Or Amanda… Surviving a crash like that? I’d be pretty messed up if I was her. We should check both.”
You’re happy to spend the little time you have left wisely, so you’re quick to push out of your seat and get moving. Dean puts on a brave face and follows your lead. There are only two ends of the plane to check—this thing can’t hide forever. Just when you start to do an awkward side-shuffle to nudge Dean out into the aisle with your hip, the whole plane thrashes top to bottom, and there he goes, dropping like a rock back into his seat. His spike of panic is so genuine that you end up dropping with him.
“Come on!” Dean hisses through his teeth. “That can’t be normal!”
You and Sam immediately get to shushing and soothing him, and suddenly you understand how married couples feel when their kid starts crying on a flight. Shifty eyes in other seats pretend they’re not glaring at you. Summoning as much strength as you can to share with him, you drop a hand on Dean’s shoulder and order: “Breathe, dude. You’re okay.”
“I’m not fuckin’ four,” Dean whisper-shouts, sulking flat back into his seat.
“She’s right,” Sam whispers back. Should it be worrying you how much he’s been agreeing with you lately? Stern, he says, “Listen—if you’re panicked, you’re wide open to possession. So you need to calm yourself down. Right now.”
A weird part of you is grateful that Dean is having a rough go of it, because it’s giving you something to focus on. You’re usually pretty good with planes. But for a minute there, when the turbulence had hit, your mind had defaulted to oh shit, this is real, we’re all going to die. A slideshow of the last crash had blitzed through your thoughts. Thoughts that had nothing to do with the anxiety you were picking up from Dean.
You know you despise it when Dean uses his Parent Voice on you, so you try not to use it on him when you urge, “C’mon. I think Amanda’s in the back of the plane. I’ll check up front.”
Dean gives an unconvinced, “I’ll go talk to her,” then makes grabby hands at Sam’s pockets, “pass me one of the hand-sanitizers. Fuckin’ uh, pumpkin latte—don’t gimme that face, _____, not all of us can tell with just a look. What if it’s in her?”
“It’s a bit more than a look—” you begin to clarify, but Sam stops your back and forth with a shake of his head. He pulls out the little orange plastic container of your pumpkin cupcake holy water and passes it to Dean.
“We should try to conserve what we got,” he warns, passing you the only other weapon against the demon (marshmallow pumpkin latte). “Go more subtle—if she’s possessed, she’ll flinch at the name of god.”
Now that you’re running out of both time and options, the second Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out into the aisle on coltish legs, you take the opening and bolt out of your cramped middle seat. Anything you can do to get closer to finding this thing will make you feel loads better.
You start down the aisle. As the chatter of the boys fades into the all-encompassing thrum of the plane behind you, you take slow unhurried steps past each row of seats, soaking up what you can get. A girl listens to music in her headphones. A businessman clicks away at his laptop. Each of them you comb over with your powers, and each pass feels like scooping your hand into a bowl of tacks and waiting to get stabbed.
They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to, Mom had said. You waited for that moment, steeling your nerves the closer you came to the cockpit. If the demon’s on this side of the plane, and it sensed you, would it immediately press into your mind? Would just being near you snap its presence to you like a magnet? You didn’t like the mental feeling that gave you; the stark secret-seeking white of your Gift clashing with the black choking smoke that’d been chasing you all week. When you spoke to a spirit through your Gift, it felt like you were touching fingertips through a curtain. Would it be like that? Would this demon press its claws through the veil and dig around for something to tear, to grab?
The other flight attendant on board pushes past you with her cart, leaving no barrier between you and the cockpit. Behind you, bobbing in a sea of blurry people, your Gift could distinctly make out Sam (practicing the exorcism) and Dean (talking to Amanda). You’re just a few paces from the front exit of the plane when a man emerges from the bathroom cabin, and—
He twists to meet eyes with you. Expecting you.
You’re flashed a clever, haunting smile, then—a set of glossy void-black eyes.
You wait for it. And in its own way, the presence of the demon does overpower you, bringing the heavy-as-the-sky, parasitic feeling from your visions into the real world. For a long ringing moment, you are blasted with dark leeching power hot enough to singe the entire front of your body—like a nuclear bomb had dropped down just a few steps from you. It is spidery and vicious and knowing and awful—
…but the conquering sensation never comes. Beth had said that it would root into your mind, that just feeling it with your Gift, as you are right now, would tear you to pieces. Yet all that really happens is you staring at it and it staring at you, before it shoulders its way through the cockpit door and disappears inside. The only thing you really experience is the shock of seeing it in somebody, puppeting around a person with dreams and thoughts and memories.
For a few moments, you suck down heaving breaths through your nose and stare at the closed door.
Something about it nagged at you. Besides the obvious—how different it felt compared to what your mother had described—you swear you felt something else, some ringing sense of strangeness that you just couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the fact that you’d just made eye contact with a real creature of hell, an evil spirit, whatever. But you made eye contact with evil spirits all the time. This was… closer to home than that. Underneath the writhing mass of bloody, black ink that made up the demon, your Gift had recognized something unimaginably familiar.
Sensing the demon in person had reminded you of… of a sensory memory, almost. It smelled like… warm static. The old staticy TV in your house, the ancient one that sat square and unattractively on your Mom’s slanting sideboard in the living room. You remembered her crystal ashtray propped up on the top, the fizzy sound the TV made when you’d shut it off…
On the nights when it was just you and Sam home, and the house felt so big and empty that the silence throbbed in your ears, the two of you would set up a fort in front of that TV and watch old horror movies well past your bedtime. The silly effects and the dated acting were easy to tease together. You’d much rather watch movies on the newer screen in your Mom’s room, but for whatever reason, Sam insisted on the clunker in your living room.
Y’wanna know somethin’ cool? He’d asked you once, running a finger through the film of static bubbling on the surface of the glass. A little bit of the static in TVs is actually radiation leftover from the Big Bang. How weird is that? Something so old and powerful, picked up by this random piece of junk.
Sam always crashed first, leaving you alone with the white static the TV defaulted to when the movie ended. You could vividly remember how your shoulders bumped against the hard floor through the thin sleeping bag the two of you had shared—how Sam’s warmth had seeped into your shirt where he was curled up behind you, his soft sleepy breaths tickling your hair.
When you’d pulled his arm around your waist to snuggle, a spark of static had shocked you through his touch. When you’d closed your eyes and tried to go to sleep, you swore that the ancient, cosmic hum of the static in the TV ebbed and flowed at the same exact time as Sam’s breath.
In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh. Crackling as he breathed.
It wasn’t the demon you were scared of anymore. The ancient, ever-present sting of static you’d felt deep down inside it… that scared you a million, a billion times more, because—
You felt that static every time you felt Sam.
_
It’s like trying to describe the smell of your childhood home.
Logically, you know your house must smell like something. But when you’re in one place long enough your brain filters it out as background noise, and it becomes something you can only notice after a long time away.
You’d known Sam since you were in diapers. Back then, the meager threads of your Gift were already taking him in and absorbing him into your memory. Eventually, you felt him so often that all the pain and optimism in his core, all the stuff that made Sam himself, had smoothed out into warm, familiar background noise to your Gift.
Then he’d left for Stanford. Four years passed, and the only exposure your Gift had to him was the flimsy thread stretched two thousand miles down to California. Because it’d been so long since you’d sensed him in person, hugging him outside his apartment had been like stepping into your home after a long time away—for a brief moment, the filter over your psychic perceptions of him had lifted. You’d sensed for the first time what had always been there, buried deep. The Static.
At the time, you’d gotten so swept up in Sam, Dean, and the adventure of finding their Dad, that it was easy to get sidetracked. Things came up. You got used to Sam again, and his Static faded to background noise.
Until you’d felt that demon with your Gift.
A demon. A creation of Lucifer. You’d always remember what Sam felt like—you’d never forget the smell of home—but in one of them?
Your mind whirls with so many questions that it flat-out pops, failing you. Pulled along on a cloud of white noise, you somehow manage to turn away from the cockpit and start back down the aisle. The demon is possessing the pilot. You have forty minutes, less than, to exorcize it and save the two hundred people on this flight. These are all truths floating around in your head, but no matter how much you try to circle back to one, the static of the demon overcomes you again.
Static. You think of Sam, the crackle of his soft raspy voice through the phone. Your heart is pounding in your ears, thudding away in your chest like a piston. The static had burned in the demon, burned like busted speakers and smoking plane wreckage. Little pins all over your skin pressing in. The space you have until you make it to Sam’s seat seems to yawn, your footfalls sluggish and shivery. Why do they feel the same? Why does he feel the same? The static of the demon worms under your fizzing skin, bubbling, boiling—
You stop in front of Sam’s row, and he’s already looking at you when you get close. He asks you a question. You stare at him, the whole world filled with that awful roaring buzzing, the air tight and dessert dry in the back of your throat. Even though he’s right in front of you, you feel like you barely see him—just the vague burning outline of him in your powers.
Sam reaches out to grab your wrist, tugging it away from the long marks you’re viciously scratching into the flesh of your arm. The touch of his hand causes a literal static shock to jolt from his fingers to yours. You yelp in surprise, but it’s—
It’s different. There’s a similarity, definitely, between what you sensed in the demon and what’s always been in Sam… but his Static is hot chocolate warm and fuzzy and so good. Melt-in-your-mouth good. Your surroundings filter back in, and there are his soft, worried eyes looking up at you under his brow, and his big hand soothing over the irritated skin you’ve scratched raw. Sam. The same Sam he’s always been.
…Whatever it is, whatever weird connection you’ve just made, you’re sure there’s a lot more to it than Sam having something in common with a demon. Right?
Sam takes one look at you, your insane reaction, and your mysterious reappearance, then easily puts two and two together: “One of the pilots?”
“Co-pilot,” you tell him, and one of your absent-minded hands drifts up to scratch at your arm again.
And again, Sam fishes his fingers around your wrist and pulls it away. Now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t un-notice it. His touch makes your fingertips and the ends of your ears tingle, and not completely in the boy-crush way. In the psychic way.
He asks, “You gonna be okay? We got twenty-two minutes.”
That jolts you back to life. Twenty-two minutes until this plane is smoking ashes in a Pennsylvania cornfield. Though the last ten minutes have easily overcomplicated all twenty-four years of your life, you won’t have a life period if you don’t see this job through. When Dean returns from investigating a very un-possessed Amanda, he feels the exact same way.
Your resolve hardens, and you manage to give Sam an absent-minded smile. “I’ll be fine.”
There’s no time for arguing. Dean and Sam unanimously agree that the only possible place to exorcize the demon would be in the back, where Amanda is, since you can’t exactly jump the guy in the middle of economy. You don’t exactly like the idea of roping her into this, but Amanda’s the only one who could potentially lure that—thing to the rear of the plane. It is the world’s shittiest ambush. But by the time the three of you decide what to do, you’ve burned ten whole minutes on anxious chatter. A shitty ambush is the only plan you’ve got.
Dean starts down the aisle for the back of the plane. You stare at nothing for a beat, and only remember to get out of your seat when Sam nudges your elbow. He presses his lips together like he wants to ask you the million-dollar question (“Are you sure you’re okay?”), but there is literally no time. In a haze, you shuffle out of your seat after Dean and make a feeble attempt to get your head into gear. Sam does not make it easy. One of his broad hands brushes against the small of your back as you both squeeze out of the row, and you feel like you’ve just gone down one of those static-charged plastic playground slides.
Your Gift is exaggerating it. It has to be, right? Making big connections out of little things, picking at a fresh bruise. For weeks, you’ve been crammed into a little car with Sam, into teeny motel beds with him with no room between you. Why hadn’t you felt it? Why now? Not when you were four, napping in the same bed after playtime—not when you were twelve, and Sam was the first person outside your family that your Gift had connected with. Had it always been there, living inside him? Had you missed it?
You reach the back of the plane. Amanda is there, a pale, blonde flight attendant straight out of a commercial. You are dully aware that you have twelve minutes left before the demon makes its move, always on the forty-minute mark (...and you don’t like the line suddenly drawn between Sam and such an old, biblically evil thing).
The boys talk. A familiar conversation occurs over your head, which might be why it’s easy for you to tune out. Your mind returns again to thoughts of Sam, so intense and loud in your head that it all fizzles out to nothing, and you’re left standing there with the air pressure making your ears ring. Sam. The demon. It’s stupid and intangible and you’d have no fucking clue how to explain it out loud, but your Gift is made to find the truth. Something inside that demon exists in Sam, too. Something.
You try to reassure yourself that maybe, just this once, your Gift is wrong. Maybe this is the demon getting into your mind—learning your deepest fears and bringing them to life.
Sure enough, Dean’s charm and Sam’s earnest face must win Amanda over, because she flits out of the back room like a frightened bird. The boys peer through the curtain to watch her go, the two of them as still and sharp-eared as twin watchdogs. You’re slapped back to life by the sudden tension in the room, and quickly scuttle up behind them. Right. Amanda’s getting the co-pilot. These next ten minutes will determine the rest of your life.
In the same beat, you and Dean ready your holy water, and Sam gets the written exorcism from their dad’s journal out in front of him. There’s no need for the three of you to say a word. An understanding passes between each of you, hammered in from years of hunting as a team. Sam slides up next to you and Dean gives you a firm nod, squashing your last wisps of fear. You’re here to do a damn job.
A man’s voice floats toward the closed curtain to the back room, followed not-so-closely by Amanda’s. You’re glad she’s not the first one into the room—because Dean instantly slams a fist into their face.
The co-pilot—or really, the thing inside him—goes sprawling. You’ve got a strip of duct tape bridled over his mouth before he even fully collides with you, and for the blissful moment you have him pinned, Dean gets another fierce hit in.
While he’s still stunned, you whip the co-pilot to the grated metal floor. Dean clambers on top of him and keeps him there with a firm fist twisted in his rumpled button-up.
Amanda panics, “W-what are you doing? Y-you said you we-were gonna talk to him—!”
“We are gonna talk to him,” Dean grits.
Then, you’re hosing him down with holy water, splashing it brutally in the man’s pain-twisted face. Your gut clenches with empathy. Did the demon leave his body already? You’re terrified for a moment that you got the wrong guy… until you smell the smoke. It’s not just sulfur, but full-on dead body bloat, steaming up from the big black boils that spring up where the holy water hits skin. You get a mouth and noseful vile enough to make you gag. This thing fighting you? This is definitely not a man.
Amanda watches the demon’s skin sizzle, the usual terror and confusion on her face. “O-oh my god, what’s wrong with him?”
You pour all the psychic clarity and calmness into your voice when you whip around and tell her: “It’s going to be okay. Be calm, go outside the curtain, and don’t let anybody in. Can you do that, Amanda?”
You don’t stop to listen to her answer. Sam’s already tearing through the opening to the exorcism at ninety miles an hour, his pronunciation punchy and fatally clear. That had been one of the less exciting parts of the five-hour drive here; when Sam had run through it over and over, re-training himself. One misspoken word could get everyone on this plane killed.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”
The demon thrashes viciously in your grip, twisting and contorting under Dean in ways the human body can’t bend. Bile rises in your throat as you hear a snap, then two, as the demon does everything it can to buck Dean off. By the time you go to stun it with another splash of holy water, it’s more of a dribble. That’s your first mistake.
Two people are not nearly enough to keep this thing down. It gets a hand loose that instantly sends Dean flying, and before you even see where he lands, it cranks your head all the way to the left in one vicious slap.
Your whole face is blasted with red, stinging pain. You go down hard, smashed sideways into the cramped wall.
The pain stuns you out of the headspace you built to distract yourself, and all at once the presence of the demon is thrust upon you. The black, molten psychic power of it crackles through your body, filling your nose and mouth with the same terror hanging in your visions all week. Until you realize— It fucking backhanded you.
Trying to see past the dots swimming in your vision, you mindlessly shove off the wall, snarling with rage. No fucking way.
And then it speaks (to Sam?), and in the fizzing noise of pressure in your ears you hear it promise, “I know what happened to your girlfriend!” The constant stream of Sam’s exorcism stops cold.
When the demon speaks again, its voice, a spectral twist of the co-pilot’s and something older, drooled with pleasure. “She died screaming,” it rasped, “Even now, she's burning.”
A lot happens in the next precious seconds. First, the little circular light flushed flat to the back cabin’s ceiling explodes. Just—bursts, in shock, spraying sparks and glass all over the little room. You’re stunned enough as it is getting hit in the face, so one more thing to fuck up your vision doesn’t help. But you heard what the demon said to Sam. Through the suffocating evil flooding your mind, you feel the sharp spike of hurt and rage and grief in your best friend—and that’s the precise moment when you decide that you’ve had e-fucking-nough.
These last few days have not been winners. And though you live a pretty shitty life with an impressive amount of shitty days, even before you got to Pennsylvania, your streak of bad luck had only just gotten started. This demon has screwed with your Gift on an unimaginable level. Your last few nights have been plagued with nightmares straight from hell, and your days haven’t been much better, riddled with useless visions that get more and more disconnected every time you faint. It made it even more obvious than usual that you’re deadweight for Sam and Dean. They had to handle your boiling water burns and your freakouts, not to mention your mood swings and your unhelpful visions.
The demon hurt Dean, which is enough to get your teeth grinding. And Sam—it had cut him much deeper.
You wanted to tear it apart. You wanted to reach into it the same way it had reached into you, dig in with your nails, and rip something out. Your mom’s words buzz in your head: contact, truth, lies, rip, apart. Rationally, you know you should listen to her warning. If just looking into its eyes has forever changed your view of the man you’ve loved since you were little, then looking deeper could kill you—scramble your mind. You know that. But beside the rage and exhaustion fizzing under your skin is this desperate need to know.
Demons are made of lies. What if it was lying about Sam? What if it had screwed with your Gift in some new way, tweaking the image of him in your mind? It had to be lying. The Static in him, as warm and as good as you swore it was—it came from something evil. Sam. The man you love, the boy you’d fallen in love with, his soft sleepy breaths as he lays on the floor beside your bed, his freckly arms swimming in his too-big sleeves. How could any part of him be evil? He couldn’t be. N-not your Sam. How could he ever have something like that inside him?
You need to be sure. Consequences be damned.
As the demon rears up to keep snarling in Sam’s face, you slap a hand over its forehead—reach in—and start ripping.
_
She died screaming.
Sam can’t pull a full breath in. The words burn through his body like a syringe of poison, spreading from limb to limb. The demon snarls up at him, its foamy spit hitting Sam’s face and its teeth snapping around Jess’s name—until.
_____’s hand seals over the demon’s face. The demon’s jaw snaps shut. There is a terrible hanging moment where Sam’s brain struggles to connect the touch to what she’s doing; she never, ever psychically connected with the full face of her palm tattoo. Even with her mom Sam knew she put up a barrier, reading Beth with the smooth back of her knuckles instead.
Shit. Another fresh shot of horror lances through him. What the hell is she doing to it?
The effect is instant. Whatever button _____ had just hit, it activates every horror-movie, Exorcist-level instinct in the demon’s body. Surprised yelps echo down the back of the plane as the lights violently flicker. In electrified, strobing flashes, Sam sees it. The co-pilot’s body is diagonal on the floor one moment, and then it’s arching its back three feet in the air, lurching up into ______’s palm like she’d hit it with a defibrillator. The demon floats up and stays up.
…Until Dean brings it smashing back to the floor again, throwing his weight on top of the co-pilot. He barks, “Sam!” Right. Whatever she’s doing to it, it’s the only working distraction they’ve got. Slapped back to focus, Sam stutters out where he left off: “...O-omnis congregatio et secta diabolica—” It’s a blessing that he makes it through the next lines of the exorcism. Sam pours all of his willpower into keeping his eyes on the stained notebook page it’s written on, no matter how many times his gut begs him to check on her. All he can do is have faith. This is what she does—when Dean’s not strong enough and Sam’s too weak, she finds a damn way, come hell or high water. Sam has always had endless faith in that. So when the whole plane gives that terrible shudder that he was expecting, and then tips, and tips, and tips into a full pitch forward, Sam grips that faith with both hands. The demon’s power ripples through the rest of the plane. Everything descends into chaos. Past the curtain, the lights go out in one silent burst, followed by the explosive, concussive screams of the passengers as the oxygen masks drop. Movies are unfortunately good at capturing this precise moment, but nothing could ever replicate the way Sam’s belly swoops as all five hundred tons of the plane heads straight for the ground. Sam and Dean both go flying, crashing sideways into the walls of the back cabin. The turbulence rips the journal from his hands, and of course, with their fucking luck, it goes skidding through the curtain and down the aisle to ricochet under the seats. “Grab it!” Dean screams.
Sam can’t hear him. He staggers into the open doorway of the back cabin, clutching the frame for dear life. A terrifying, unnatural howl whistles through the cabin, even louder than the wails of the passengers. Its wind flutters his hair around his face and sends luggage toppling out of the overhead bins. For a moment, Sam wonders if the plane’s been hit or the demon has done something—but no. It’s her. He flattens himself to the floor—or rather, gravity flattens him—crawling on his belly towards the shadow of the journal under the seats. The passengers sob and shriek. The air is singed with smoky fear, and riding that same fear, Sam surges ahead, lunging for the book where it’s lodged between tossed luggage. He has to twist to get his hands on it, and it’s then that he feels it.
Down the aisle behind him, the wind drags luggage and loose papers into the void-like darkness of the back cabin—where the great, cleansing, sweeping power of her is fighting the demon. Sam believes in what he’s seen; Sam believes in angels.
She’ll buy him enough time. He knows she will.
Sam’s hands don’t shake as he pries the journal open to the right page.
“Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus,” he shouts, and the words ring as clear and clean as a bell. The plane tries to toss him again, but Sam grits his teeth and persists, “audi nos!”
He waits. Sam sees it more than he hears it. Deep in the blackhole darkness of the plane’s cabin, something red and fiery flashes to life… flickers… and dies.
Maybe he’s imagining it, but he swears he feels the demon fizzle out. The heaviness in the air melts away. The lights, which Sam realizes had been snapping on and off, turn on for good. The hissing of the turbines spins to its normal hum. The plane swooshes back up with a slow coasting motion, then sets itself back on its peaceful forward track.
Gasps and sobs of relief chorus all around Sam, and sprawled in the middle of the aisle, he finds himself doing the same. Overhead, the pilot’s voice crackles reassurances over the intercom. As big wuffs of air cycle in and out of Sam, he waits for the moment for his heart to stop thumping, for the big “we won” moment to wash over him—but it never really does. It sits with him. For a long terrible moment, he is on the bed in his apartment in Palo Alto, Jessica’s blood boiling holes in his neck.
Even now, she’s still burning.
INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 5th, early morning.
Somehow, amid all the noise of swarming paramedics, feds, airline authorities, and stunned 424 passengers, Sam manages to remain lost in his own head. He clenches his jaw til’ his ears pop. How had it known about Jess?
The terminal is quickly packed. He’s not in airports often enough to know whether they should be packed at one in the morning, but he’s gonna guess not. It is all background noise for him. Passengers whirl past, getting cleared by cops to go home, and Dean subtly nudges the three of them into the leaving crowd. Sam has a vague notion that he’s putting one foot in front of the other, but everything feels distant and hazy. His neck blazes with that terrible tingling feeling, and he digs into it with his nails until Dean stops him.
“Sam,” Dean orders, dipping his head towards the direction of the parking lot. Apparently Sam isn’t cooperating well. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here.” For a brief moment, the awful burning feeling covering him in a fog parts long enough for him to think, and Sam realizes that he doesn’t know where _____ is. Panic lances through his chest so fast that he sobers all at once, and he opens his mouth to panic more—until he sees her, scrunched up behind Dean.
Well, clutching Dean. Left shameless by whatever she saw in that demon’s head, she’s got Dean’s hand and wrist in a deathgrip, trailing him so close that her shoes catch the heels of his boots. She does not look good. Her eyes are big and wide and she looks straight through everyone and everything, still tethered to the other dimension her powers live in. She’s got her elbows pressed into her ribs and her body bunched up so tight that Sam can almost feel her psychic overstimulation from where he’s standing.
“S’okay, sweetheart, ” Dean hushes, the first in a long, quiet string of reassurances.
Sam stares at her. Even if she’s in her own world, she must be able to feel it, ‘cause she physically leans out of his way. That should hurt him—should make him burn with sympathy—but instead, all he can think is, she would know. She would know if the demon was lying. Sam’s connected with her like that—there’s absolutely nothing to hide, even if you wanted to, so there’s no way she couldn’t see if the demon had been telling the truth.
The line of people seeping through security to get out of the airport slows to a stop, making way for the pack of paramedics hauling 424’s copilot away on a stretcher. The black boils from the holy water have left his body entirely.
He’ll ask her once. He has to try. Sam lets the two of them in front of him, Dean, then _____, almost pressing her face into Dean’s back. When they’re stopped in line, Sam lifts a hand to touch her—but stops himself, not wanting her to feel any worse. “_____,” Sam swallows, trying to keep his voice even. “What did you see? H-How did it know about Jessica?”
Before she even has the opportunity to answer, (if she can even hear him), Dean swings around to shoot Sam a pained look. “Dude, look at her. Now is not the fuckin’ time. Let her get a full breath in before you start with the interrogations, okay?”
Sam recoils. The gnashing, rebellious fire he usually saves for Dad pours out here, instead, and before Sam knows it he’s snarling back, “I can’t ask one question about my dead girlfriend?”
It lasts only for an instant, but Sam gets to watch in real time the way that hit lands. He’s aware that it’s deeply fucked up of him to enjoy throwing Jess in Dean’s face, but it is his backward, comforting reminder that she was a real person; not a four-year-long fever dream he invented to escape. No one says her name but him anymore. At least, when he talks about her, someone else is forced to feel something too.
Dean sets his jaw. He makes the mistake of trying to turn towards Sam, which _____ thinks is an attempt to shake her off—and she lets out this awful, hoarse sob sound that stops them both cold.
Sam feels like a rail spike has been driven through his chest. Dean gives him a look, then mercifully drops it.
Immediately, Dean’s wheeling her back in and soothing her. The angle at which she’s clinging to him is awkward for all three of them, so he endures her trembling and hitching little sobs as he peels off her hands and re-arranges them. Dean loops an arm around her back so he can stroke her shuddering shoulders, uttering, “S’okay, kiddo, s’ all over… ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you…”
And of course, because Sam can never exist in peace, he watches the way ______ drops all her weight onto Dean and feels his chest squeeze. Suddenly, he’s very aware of what four years have changed between her and his brother.
The rush back to the car is silent, but for _____’s little sniffling breathes. After making it out of the blistering lights of the chattering airport and out into the peaceful snowy parking lot, things calm down.
Four separate times Sam thinks about reaching out to comfort her. The Gift always leaves her freezing cold, and early December in Indiana on top of that has her making audible little shivering sounds as they walk. Sam’s boiling under his coat. He unzips it, then zips it up again, unsure if she’d even want it. Dean gets her in the car and puts a warm blanket around her before Sam can get over his indecision.
They just saved two hundred people. In hindsight, that’s a massive win. Maybe if the demon hadn’t said what it’d said, and maybe if it hadn’t reduced her to this, Sam could celebrate. Seeing her so messed up always throws him. Less than an hour ago, she was the powerful psychic that used to have Dad clutching his telepathy-blocking charm under his shirt.
Sam scrubs his hand down his face, staring blankly at the trembling lump of blanket lying across the backseat. Now, she’s… whatever she saw in that demon.
Dean tucks her feet up onto the seat, then nudges the door closed with his hip. Sam stares past him, through him, at her silhouette in the Impala’s dark glass, because that’s somehow easier than looking at Dean.
The smattering of snow growing on the asphalt makes the whole world sound muffled. Sam feels like he’s talking to empty air when he croaks, “It knew about Jessica.”
“Sam,” Dean calls, softer this time. Asking for Sam to look at him. When he manages to heave his head up, Dean’s face is firm and reassuring. “These things—they read minds. They lie, just like Beth said. That’s all it was. Don’t let that thing get into your head, okay?”
Sam forces himself to nod. They both spare the shaking shape in the backseat one more look, then Dean’s rounding the car for the driver’s seat, and Sam’s sliding in next to him without another word.
PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 5th, night.
Green. It had to be the ugliest color a motel room could be, Sam thought as he stared at the empty room. The walls were this sad limey green color that managed to look awful even in the dark, some parts made even limey-er by the huge neon green vacancy sign right outside their window. Their room was parked right next to it, so there was no escaping the sign even with the curtains pulled shut.
You and Dean, who were positioned right under the ugly green light, had somehow managed to fall asleep anyway. The only sound in the whole world was your soft breathing across the room and the crackle of the ancient TV.
Right now, it was playing a rerun of some televangelist in a big shiny white suit. He paced the screen on mute as Sam watched, curled on his side, laying diagonal to face the screen. Nightmares were so common for him now that the hardest part of the battle was getting to sleep in the first place. His strategy was to get so bored and so tired that his body would simply have nothing else to do but crash. Bored was the key word—Sam had tried reading, sudoku, and counting cars as they whisked by, but all of that occupied his mind too much to work. Tonight was another night where his mind was just too full to sleep.
He hoped Dean was right. He prayed that the demon had just been lying, lips pressed to the cross he kept under his shirt. Most days, Sam dropped into bed and sent off a brief prayer before the fight for sleep began. Tonight, though—tonight was one of those nights where he clasped his cross in both hands and poured his heart out. Sam prayed for his brother, his Dad, and for you, like usual, pleading for protection and strength. Sam prayed for Jessica, too.
(But never for her forgiveness—he knew he didn’t deserve that).
When Sam had first started getting comfortable with prayer, he’d always worried that he was being greedy or selfish by asking for so much. Health, food, lunch money, for Dad and Dean to get home okay. Now, it’s a natural comfort to him. To open yourself up to something higher than you, to give up your pride and ask for help—that is a mark of holiness. Goodness. Sam closes out his prayers and feels clean.
Across the room, Sam hears the covers in the opposite bed shift. He squints sleepy eyes at your silhouette, and even sluggish and drained, the shifting colors from the TV and the vacancy sign illuminate you like something not entirely from this world.
You pad over to his bedside. A soft, ice-cold hand shakes his arm. When you get up close and realize Sam’s awake, you scuttle back in surprise. “Uh.”
Sam shoves his face into his pillow. With his mind still on Jess, it’s hard for him to look at you right now. “What is it?”
It’s funny. From the moment you got off flight 424, you’d been glued to Dean’s side. Sam had kept his teeth pressed together through the entire thing, watching from a distance as you reached for Dean, spoke to Dean, took the food Dean gave you. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d figure you were avoiding him. Now you’ve decided you want something from him?
The second you touch his arm, every wisp of jealousy in Sam dries up. Not at all in the mood to be touched, he squirms out from under your hand and hoarsely repeats, “What?” You speak to him for the first time in hours. You sound rough and broken, and the edge of that awful sob from earlier today threatens to tip into your voice. “Can I…?”
Sam keeps his face planted in the pillow. At first he’s unsure what you’re even asking for—until you drop a hand on the mattress and he feels your weight tilt closer, wanting to… to lay with him. Like when you were little. When you share beds on the road, there’s often space left between you. That’s not what you’re asking for. If that’s what you wanted right now, you’d be in Dean’s bed.
The soft, choked little voice he can’t resist begs, “I just need to feel you.”
The last sliver of guilt and self-loathing that Sam has been holding onto instantly slips out of his grasp, hearing that. For the millionth time since this morning, he’s reminded of how awful he was to you. You’d been brought to the brink with your powers in a way they hadn’t seen in years, and Sam chose that precise moment to freak out. He wished he’d been better to you. Maybe he can’t pray for Jess’s forgiveness, but he can work to earn yours now.
Sam shuffles back on the mattress and opens the covers for you. “C’mere.”
As quiet as a mouse, you duck under his arm and slip under the covers. Sam immediately realizes that he should’ve fucking braced himself or something, because holy shit, you are so close. He accidentally gave you very little room in the already small bed. To keep from tumbling off the mattress and onto the questionable carpet, you reasonably and logically slot right up against him, your back against his chest and your heads on the same pillow. Holy shit, he did not think this through. Sam has very few gentlemanly places to lay his arm. And even if he found one, your icy cold hand picks up his warm one and—right, okay, you take it and wrap it right around your middle. That’s fine too. Cool. Awesome.
Okay. Forgetting every way he could sabotage this for himself for just a moment, Sam realizes that he missed this. God, he missed it so much. You wiggle back into his body and Sam gives you a big, indulgent squeeze around the tummy, earning this watery little sigh that makes his already racing heart zing out into orbit. Friendly snuggling became a lot less friendly when you were pushing seventeen instead of nine, so Sam hasn’t allowed himself to properly, um… cuddle you… in ages.
That isn’t even the best part. That little squeeze makes him realize just how pleasantly cold you are, a wonderful ice cube in blazing hot soup. Sam’s practically cooking under the covers—and that must be perfect for you and your chilly hands, because you make the same pitiful happy noise that Sam does as you get comfortable against each other.
Maybe if this were any other moment, after any other day, that would be something you might laugh about together. Instead, Sam’s prayers are filled with you and your incredible burden. He hesitates to go all in and hold you like he wants to… until your breath makes that tight, hitching sound again, and Sam’s sure you’re holding back tears. Screw it, Sam thinks. He’ll take care of you this time. Sam presses his face into your hair and entwines your hands on your belly, unsure of what to say and yet wanting to say so much. Dean can’t hold you like this—this is something you only want from Sam.
You both go still. Sam feels you hold your breath. His legs are itching to shift under the covers and your hand awkwardly holds his, the two of you afraid to disturb the magic.
Your thumb slowly caresses along the flat side of his hand. His heart leaps into his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to relax. You need this. Finally, it’s his turn to comfort you.
Sam swallows hard. There’s no way you can’t feel his heart thudding away, inches from popping clean out of his chest. Neither of you are stupid. If Dean were to wake up, you know exactly what this would look like to him—to the cleaning lady, to the strangers out on the street. But right now, in this frozen moment, there’s no one awake in the world but the two of you and the TV. It is so, so wrong. But when you touch him, Sam feels clean.
Bit by bit, you adjust to one another. Your breath syncs up. The whole time, your eyes never move from the TV, but if Sam focusses he swears something washes over him—that same great, sweeping, cleansing power from the plane, as light as moth wings on his skin. He has to bite back his smile. If you did that to anyone else, they’d find you creepy as hell.
After what feels like forever, you plainly croak, “It was lying about her. It was made of lies.”
That hits Sam like a slap to the face. That’s… yeah. That sounds right. He absorbs the impact as best he can, because although his faith was thin, Sam trusted Dean’s word and he trusts yours, too. There’s—so much that he feels about that, but he doesn’t want any more of his grief to overwhelm your Gift. Sam’s not naive. No matter how good of a person you are, no matter how considerate and understanding and empathetic you can be, Sam knows that talking about Jessica brings you some level of pain. It hurts him, too. And he has zero clue where that conversation would even begin, so he stores his shame and his loss and gives a shaky nod.
Instead, Sam asks, “...What did you see? When you looked into its head?”
Right. Cause’ that was such a better question to ask her, Sam.
You go silent. It’s a weighty, knowing silence, one that chokes the whole room. Sam readies himself for whatever you’re about to share with him. Admittedly, he’s curious. When the Gift was something new in your life, Sam used to pile on question after question about what the world felt like to you. ‘What does it feel like when Dean’s happy?’ A car motor turning on. ‘What does my happiness feel like?’ Dimples and a mystery being solved. ‘You’re joking.’ Not even a little. It fascinated Sam—how does a demon feel in comparison to a regular spirit?
“...It was just an evil spirit, Sammy,” you dismiss. “That’s all.”
Sam highly doubts that’s true. If it was just a spirit, then why did it screw with you so deeply? What had you seen in its head that had scared you? You, of all people, who was built for this? He knows there’s something more here, but after this week and all the ways you’ve fought to avoid being a burden, the fact that you’d crawl to Sam for comfort is a sign of surrender. You’ve given up. Clearly, you don’t want to talk about it. Sam isn’t going to push you. God knows he’s done that enough.
When Sam doesn’t push you, you shudder out a wet sigh and pick up his hand. At this point, Sam expects you in this state to do something weird—and sure enough, you do. You pick up Sam’s hand and you just stare at it. Just stare. Your thumb presses into the meat of his palm, almost like you’re looking for something. Feeling him. Sam’s heart gives another pathetic, noticeable throb. Feeling him and being close to him is, after everything, still a source of comfort for you. His cheeks burn.
Just to fill the silence, Sam whispers, “I’ve lost a lot of my calluses.”
Per usual, his little creep says nothing. You’re still feeling him. Your other hand comes up to investigate too, adding even more soft gentle touching to Sam’s already overloaded system. Your thumbs press into the center of his palm (reading it, maybe?), then over each bump, confirming for yourself that Sam’s real.
Maybe he’d be a bit more resilient if you were doing this to him in a crowded diner or a rowdy college party. Instead, Sam can feel the rise and fall of your breath through your thin shirt, and it’s the only sound in the dead world besides the buzzing static on the TV.
Your gaze turns to the TV. The fingers caressing his hand stop cold.
Sam says your name. He can feel your heart thud thud thudding deep in your chest, like rabbit’s feet hitting snow.
Again, absorbed completely in your own task, you don’t answer him. You roll over very suddenly under the covers. Sam hopes for a minute that being face to face with you will give him some answers, but the flash of your face he sees only serves to scare the shit out of him. You give him no time to process before you’re full-body hugging him, shoving a hand between his side and the mattress and fisting one in his shirt to bodily haul him against you. Sam sputters out a sharp noise and awkwardly slopes his hands down your back. The sudden intimacy gives him a whole world of shameful butterflies and freaks him out enough, but…
You looked terrified. The same bone-deep horror you had on your face after you saw the demon in person—when you trudged up to Sam with those haunting Proctor eyes, staring straight through him and right at his future. What had you seen in that demon?
Sam tries to speak, but you talk over him, just as haunted as you’d been on that plane.
“I love you. So much, Sam. You know that?”
It’s not a sweet, reminiscent kind of question. It is a genuine, unironic, please-tell-me-the-truth, You know that?
Sam’s brain stalls. “...Yeah. O-Of course.”
In case that wasn’t worrying enough, your hands needily grasp at his back, refusing to let Sam go as you duck your face into his shoulder. Sam can feel your entire body trembling from head to toe, can feel your hot breath on his neck choking back tears. “You’re a good person,” you tell him, insisting. “The best to me.”
“That’s—”
“I can feel it, okay?” You snap. One of your hands slips up his chest to smooth over Sam’s heart, and you squeeze him against you, promising, “Here. Right here.”
…Okay. Consider him officially freaked out. Sam manages an unconvinced, “...Thank you.”
You’re so wound up that you’re gritting your teeth, digging your nails into his shirt and clawing him as close as possible. This has to be an effect of what you saw. Which is strange, because that… whatever that was, did not feel like psychic possession or a psychic panic attack or any kind of psychic anything. It felt like you, trying to convince Sam that he’s a good person. It strikes a cold, dark chord somewhere deep within him that he doesn’t like. You’re just… you’re just reacting to what the demon showed you. You’re overwhelmed from stretching your Gift so thin. T-that’s. Yeah. Regardless, you’re scared. You need him. That, at least, is something he can work with.
“Shh,” Sam coos. He rubs a warm hand from the base of your scalp all the way down your back, then up, and back again, repeating the soothing motion until his arm goes numb. “You’re tired. Let’s go to sleep.”
You mumble something non-committal under your breath.
Sam hushes you, blindly reaching for comforting things to say. “S’ okay. You’re okay, baby. You can fall asleep on me.”
Maybe the demon showed you visions of Sam getting hurt. Something. That would explain this, maybe. He fixates on it, purely because it’s a problem in front of him that is much easier to think about than how scared he is for you, and worse, how much he loves this. Being your person. It’s a stupid, selfish thought to have in a moment like this, but—Sam wishes he could take care of you like this all the time.
As your frantic breathing smooths out into a clear, easy in-and-out, Sam wonders, wherever Jess is, what she would think if she saw this.
He closes his eyes and tries to steady his own breathing, the TV still crackling away on the dresser.
this whole series is absolute genius, but this chapter specifically? man, this is some top notch stuff. the way the whole Sam-has-some-demon-in-him thing is introduced, with the static, the background noise and the feeling of home.
how sick this fucking show would’ve been if it had been written by you, istg, critically acclaimed masterpiece!!!!!! i am completely in awe, i genuinely can’t wait to read the rest
(also, i live for the musical references and the silver springs part about sam and jess absolutely GAGGED ME. the conflict on Sam’s part is just *chefs kiss*)
I discovered your blog a little bit ago (back when your requests were off) and got super excited when I saw that you wanted a Sam Winchester request!
So I was wondering if you could write a fic where the reader is insecure about her stretch marks, but Sam reassures her and shows her that he has stretch marks too from growing so quickly and much when he was a kid going from tiny to giant in like a snap. Reader is obsessed with them now that she’s seen them (and wants to lick them ;)) snd there’s so much appreciation on both sides. Thank you so much!
Love your writing!
.⋆｡Natural Matching Tattoos｡⋆.
Sam Winchester x plus size reader
You never liked your body but you love Sam and he adores every part of you so maybe you should let him show you just how incredible you are
Warnings: self deprecation, fat phobic thoughts, stretch marks, fear of rejection, fluff, implied smut, reassurance
WC: 997
Minors DNI
Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library
Hunting was apparently not a great form of exercise, you thought as you stood in front of your full length mirror dressed in nothing besides a bra that should’ve been thrown out years ago and your laundry day underwear. With a critical eye, you glared at the overhang of your stomach, the seam between your thighs where there should have been a gap but especially the shimmery skin stretched too far along your body.
You tilted your head as you traced those lines with the tips of your fingers. How many things had you tried to get rid of them? How many years have you spent avoiding mirrors just because of this? You sighed dejectedly, your entire body sagging with the weight of your hate. You were exhausted with it, it ate away at you until there was only a speck of the love you once had for the body you inhabited.
“Princess, have you seen my- oh.” Light from the hallway streamed into your room, casting a new light upon yourself which you immediately turned away from, and instead met the deep hazel eyes of your barely official boyfriend. Sam filled the doorway, his presence overwhelming.
“Sam.” You could barely breathe out his name with the massive weight of shame sitting on your chest. You felt his gaze burning into your skin as he took in every inch of your mostly naked body. Your vision wavered as tears began to build.
Yet he said nothing. “I-“ But no more words would come. This was what you feared most, that he would finally realise that he could do so much better than you, that you could never compare to Jess or Eileen or even Ruby. As you braced yourself for heartbreak, Sam stepped closer, lost in a trance.
Your arms curled around your stomach and you looked away, squeezing your eyes shut. Your fingers brushed the tell-tale smoothness of some of your stretch marks and suddenly you wanted to scream. Why couldn’t you just be fucking normal, you wanted to shout at yourself, why couldn’t you just lose the weight before he saw you naked for the first time. You expected to hear him insult you or say that you had a pretty face for someone so big, but then, just like he always managed to, Sam surprised you.
Far softer than you could ever imagine a man like him to be capable of, Sam cupped your forearms, prying them away from your body and leaving you vulnerable to him. You whimpered under your breath. There was a moment of quiet where all you could hear was his heavy breathing and your own pounding heartbeat and then-
“Gorgeous.”
His large hands hovered over your hips like he was handling a piece of precious artwork. The calloused tips of his fingers grazed the fat along your pelvis in reverence. “I always thought you were beautiful, but now, I can’t believe that you’re real.”
“Sam-“ Part of you wanted to stop him, to push away his affections but the way he cradled you and looked at you with those big hazel puppy dog eyes, you didn’t think you had the strength to stop him. He gave you that stupid grin of his that showed off his dimples and made his entire body light up. “But my stretch marks.” You managed to stammer out as some sort of last ditch effort to get him to realise the truth.
Finally he laid his hands on your skin and your mouth snapped shut. His thumbs brushed against said stretch marks, leaving behind a warm, buzzing sensation that you could feel in your bones. “What about them?” He murmured but you could tell that he was already lost in the texture of your skin.
“They’re ugly.” You admitted like it was some shameful secret. Sam froze for a moment and gazed deeply into your eyes.
“You really think that?” You nodded. Your skin was cold where he let go of your hips, it made you wish that you had just kept your mouth shut and let him love those parts of you that you hated.
You jolted forward to try and grab at his hands but they were already pulling at the buttons of his flannel with a determined look on his face. You gave an embarrassed squeak as suddenly, Sam was topless in front of you, his perfectly sculpted torso so achingly close to your hands. “Then you must think mine are ugly too then.”
In the soft light of your bedside lamp, you could see the silvery lines that trailed up his slim hips, starkly contrasted against his tanned skin. They were almost identical to your own and they were beautiful, like silver threads that had been placed upon him like jewels. You couldn’t help but reach out to them, desperate to feel them beneath your hands.
Sam chuckled deeply in his chest but did not try to stop you as you laid your palms flat against his toned stomach. “How?” Was all you could manage to say besides something else incredibly impolite about your boyfriend’s body.
“I’m 6’4 princess, and Dean will absolutely attest to the fact that I grew over a foot in one summer. I was bound to get some stretch marks.” You hummed, now understanding why Sam had been so distracted by your own body moments before. “Still think stretch marks are ugly?”
You shook your head without hesitation and he beamed. “’S like we have matching tattoos.”
A soft kiss was pressed to your temple as he once more wrapped you in his arms to hold you close. “That’s my girl.” You sank into his embrace, content and warm. The weight of your insecurities was slightly lessened with someone you so dearly loved taking some of the burden and you couldn’t be happier about it. Well, there was one thing.
“Can I lick ‘em?” Sam’s laugh reverberated through the room.
omg i just saw this and i’m guessing you meant the guessing game which i’m glad you prayed ‘cause that fic was the reason i was mia I FUCKING DIED OKAY?!
Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, mentions of drugs and alcohol
Author’s notes: Y’all we are sO CLOSE to the smut I promise. I almost ended this series with this one but (spoiler alert) I felt like I just couldn’t until some smut happens. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Lmk what you think <3
—
You’re pretty sure you’re dreaming.
Because there’s no fucking way that you, a regular, ordinary Stanford freshman, are actually standing in the living room of one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. And there is definitely no way that he’s making a trip downstairs to the communal laundry room in his apartment building to wash your shirts that he accidentally spilled a drink on. And there is definitely, absolutely, no motherfucking way that he’s eye fucked you tonight. Multiple times.
You pinch yourself. Hard.
You’re not dreaming. Here you stand, in Sam’s apartment, wide awake, waiting for him to get back with your laundry. A feeling akin to getting zapped with 5,000 volts of electricity surges through you at that realization, and it sends you scrambling to find Sam’s bathroom. You stagger into it and find that, much like the rest of his apartment, it’s pristine; and for some reason, that only makes you want to fuck him more. You shudder. Your eyes land on the mirror and you stare at your reflection; you look like you’ve done approximately 20 lines of cocaine — your cheeks are a deep red, and your pupils are blown so wide your eyes almost look black. You turn on the sink and bend to splash some cold water on your face. You pat your face dry as gently as you can with a hand towel, and then press your now icy hands to your cheeks. You shut your eyes and try to take in some deep, calming breaths, and while the exercise does help tone down your arousal, it does fuck all for your nerves.
After a minute you open your eyes and gaze at yourself in the mirror, and decide a pep talk is in order. You inhale and exhale one last time, and grip the edges of Sam’s sink. “Calm. Down.” You command your reflection firmly, pressing your lips into a thin line to emphasize your point. “He’s just a guy. And if you want to fuck this guy, you have to chill out. He’ll be back in a few minutes; until then, you have got to get a grip. Fix your hair, fix your makeup, whatever. But calm. Down.” You push away from the mirror, feeling slightly calmer but also a little silly. You play with your hair, trying to muss it in a way that’ll look effortlessly sexy. When you’re satisfied, you dig into your jacket pocket for your lip gloss and mascara and touch up your makeup. After you’re finished primping you attempt to make sexy (but not too sexy) faces in the mirror, but quickly drop the act out of embarrassment.
At this rate, you’ll never get laid again.
You shake your head and leave Sam’s bathroom, turning the light off as you do. You make your way over to his couch and plop down on it, and you’re pleased to discover that it’s just as comfy as it looks. You take off your jacket and the zip-up hoodie Sam lent you, deciding to neatly fold the latter, placing it gently on the coffee table, your own jacket lying messily beside you on the couch. You smooth your hands over your denim-clad thighs and take in a shaky breath. You rack your brain for something, anything, to occupy your thoughts until Sam returns. Oh fuck, Sam is gonna come back soon. The thought makes you shiver, and you find yourself compelled to dig through your jacket pockets for something to touch up your makeup again. You once again pull out the lip gloss; it's your favorite because the sheer pink color has a flirty, girlish quality to it, which has traditionally worked very well for you, and you pray that history repeats itself tonight. You smooth another thin layer on your bottom lip and rub your lips together in a way that hopefully won’t ruin your gloss the second you start talking.
You drum your fingers nervously on your legs and let out a puff of air. Your stomach is flip flopping like crazy and you’re not sure how much more of this you can take when you hear footsteps out in the hallway. You jump, your heart beating wildly in your chest, and you feel your hands start to shake and sweat with nerves. But the footsteps recede, and you draw in a slow breath while you sink back into the cushions of the couch and curse yourself for being the stupid, turned on, nervous wreck you are.
No sooner do you start actually relaxing than the door to Sam’s apartment swings open and you shoot to your feet, whipping around to face the entryway. Sam closes and locks the door behind him in a very deliberate manner, and you swallow the knot that’s forming in your throat, clenching and unclenching your hands at your sides. He looks as wound up as you feel, which is a small comfort. He draws a shaky breath as he turns, his eyes raking up and down your frame swiftly, triggering another wave of uncomfortable horniness. The pair of you lock eyes and you need his clothes off now, right now, and you’re about to tell him as much when he speaks.
“Your, uh, clothes should be done washing in about thirty minutes,” he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and continues, “a-and I figured I’d put them in the dryer after that. Wouldn’t want to get you soaked more than once tonight.” Your face feels like it’s on fire, and Sam’s eyes widen so much that it would be comical if your nerves weren’t making you feel as if you’re about to throw up. His face turns scarlet as he realizes the implication of his words. “Jesus, fuck, I-I meant your shirts, I wouldn’t want your shirts to be soaked, n-not—”
You can’t fucking take it anymore. You don’t even need your itch to drive you at this point; you’re acting of your own volition. You cross the room with a determination that stops Sam’s stuttering apology dead in its tracks, and once you’re in front of him you grab his collar and pull his mouth down to yours. Sam groans and the sound almost makes you cum on the spot, but then he spins you so you’re pinned against his door and kisses you back with a ferocity that makes your head spin. Your hands fly to the back of his head and root in his hair while his arms wrap around your waist, pressing you against the solid wall of muscle that is his chest, and a moan bubbles out of you before you can stop it.
Somehow, Sam manages to pull you even closer and laves his tongue across your bottom lip. You part your lips, allowing him access to the inside of your mouth, and Sam slots his tongue against yours. Your tongues dance together, fighting for dominance until Sam runs out of air and has to pull away panting. You start to plant sloppy kisses down his neck, leaving a trail down to his collarbone, and Sam laughs breathlessly. “Y-you’re insatiable,” he gasps, turning his head to face you. One of his sinfully large hands comes up to the back of your head and pulls you off of him and you bite your lip in order to suppress a whine. His hand smooths your hair away from your face and comes to rest against your cheekbone as the other moves to cradle your jawline. You are completely malleable at this point; you are his to do with however he pleases, and he knows it. Sam gives you a syrupy sweet smile and a traitorously blissful smile spreads over your face before you can even try to stop it.
“Hey.” He sighs as his eyes take in every inch of your face, his thumbs now caressing your jaw and cheek. “Hey,” you breathe back, your hands snaking up to loosely grip his wrists, and he clears his throat, bracing himself for whatever it is he’s about to say. “I really like you—” he states gently, and you can feel the but coming from miles away and suddenly the incredible weight of your stupidity is crashing down on you, breaking your euphoric trance, “—but I want to do this right.”
You blink.
Oh. Well. That’s not what you had expected.
“I wanna take you out on a date, i-if that’s okay. You know, get to know you. I don’t want this to be just a hookup; I mean, you seem like a really cool girl, and I—” you stop his rambling in its tracks by placing a finger against his plush lips. An intoxicating tidal wave of relief and giddiness floods your gut, and you feel like you’re about to be swept away with happiness. His mouth makes an adorable “o” shape in surprise, and you give him another smile, barely containing your excitement. “That sounds more than okay. I’d really like to get to know you, too, Sam, and I certainly don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” Sam grins, really grins, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards as he does. “Yeah?” You nod, your flimsy facade quickly giving way to your dorky elation. “Yeah.”
You barely get the word out when Sam dives back in for another kiss. You let out a squeak in surprise, which in turn prompts a laugh from Sam. Soon the two of you are giggling so hard it’s hard to stay upright, much less kiss. But the two of you give it a valiant effort, connecting your kiss-swollen lips over and over, passing breathless laughs between each other. Eventually the two of you manage to stumble over to Sam’s couch, and while at first you’re kissing whilst sitting side by side, things quickly take a turn for the horizontal. Sam’s hovering above you, pressing against you in all the right places — well. Except for one place, but you figure that that will come soon enough — no pun intended.
You resist the urge to rub your thighs together for some friction and gently push Sam away from you. Sam’s brow knits together in concern, his eyes sweeping your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. “Everything okay?” He inquires, his voice soft and genuine. You nod, pursing your lips. You feel hot and itchy and your core fucking aches with want. You take a deep breath to steel yourself. “Yeah, it’s just…” You wet your lips and manage to rush out, “I’m just really turned on right now and I know you said you wanted to do things right, and I do too, but I’m afraid that if you don’t get off of me right now I’m gonna fuck you stupid.” The words escape you in a rush and you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for Sam’s inevitable awkward shuffle off of you and the even more awkward solitary walk you’ll shortly be making out Sam’s front door. But Sam doesn’t get off of you, and you never leave the couch. Instead, after it feels like hours have gone by, you slowly open one of your eyes to look up at Sam. His face is crimson and he blinks down at you slowly, his eyes glazed and unseeing. His head drops down to your shoulder, and you can’t be sure, but you’re almost positive a small whimpered “fuck” leaves him as he does.
“Are.. you… okay?” You tentatively inquire, afraid that you’ve somehow broken this beautiful boy’s brain. You feel him shake his head slowly, and with a deep breath, Sam pushes himself off of you, raising up so that he’s sitting beside you on the couch. You awkwardly scooch over to make room for him, and assume a sitting position yourself, not entirely sure what’s about to happen. Sam swallows, and you raise an eyebrow expectantly, pulling your knees to your chest.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just…” he trails off as he sinks back into the couch cushions, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. You shift slightly closer to him. “Yeah? You’re just what?” You murmur, resting your chin on your knees. Sam squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m just… promise you won’t laugh?” He winces. You nod. “I promise. What’s up?”
Sam takes in another shaky breath and opens his eyes, turning to look at you. “What you said. I really, really want that. You… have no idea how much. A-and I’m having a hard time… controlling… myself.” He says, his words coming out in a slow, deliberate manner. Your face flushes scarlet, and you feel very warm. “O-oh. I see.” Sam nods. “Yeah. It’s dorky, I know. It feels like I’m a freshman in highschool all over again.” He laughs awkwardly, and you’re quick to jump to his defense. “I don’t think it’s dorky. It’s… nice.” Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Nice?”
“Yeah, nice. Kind of… hot, even. It’s… well, it’s nice. To be wanted like that. Especially by a guy like you.” Sam looks extremely puzzled by that, and shifts closer to you. “A guy like me? What do you mean?”
If you felt warm before you are burning now. “W-well, I mean, you’re um, you’re funny. And smart. And you’re really… sweet. Most guys aren’t like that. Especially n-not really, uh…” you clear your throat. “…Especially not really hot guys.” You avert your gaze, suddenly fascinated with the wood grain on Sam’s apartment floor.
You feel Sam’s fingers gently slide under your chin and move your head to face him. You don’t know what you expect to see when your eyes meet his; but what you’re definitely not expecting is how soft and tender his gaze is. Your lips part, and Sam swoops in for a kiss. This kiss isn’t like the others; it’s not fueled by wanton need, and there’s no rushing. It’s undoubtedly passionate, but in a pleasantly understated way. It feels like someone has stirred up the embers of your arousal in your gut, and when Sam pulls away, your lips chase after his. He tucks your hair behind your ear with a grin. “What was that for?” You whisper.
“Well, I just got a string of compliments from a really, really pretty girl, and I really, really wanted to kiss her.” Sam murmurs, his face inches from yours. “Do you think she minded?” You shake your head. “Not at all. You should probably give her another kiss, though.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Well, something tells me she’ll give you another compliment if you do.”
Sam nods slowly. “Ah, I see. So a kiss equals a compliment, then?” Now it’s your turn to nod. “Uh-huh. And Sam?” You husk, trailing your hand up Sam’s chest to fist in the front of his shirt.
Content: Explicit sexual scenes, oral (f receiving), creampie (wrap it up, kids), dirty talk, rough sex, dom Sam, fluffy/funny aftercare (it’s crucial)
Summary: Your plan for making the boys dinner goes awry, leaving you alone with Sam in his bedroom, and coming to terms with a kink that only Sam Winchester can fulfill.
A/N: 🤭
"C'mon,' you strain, reaching for a high shelf in the cabinet. Apparently Sam and Dean didn't find a need for a stepladder in the bunker. Your calves screech in protest as you reach for a jar of pasta sauce, your fingers brush the bottle, but not enough purchase to grab it.
A long arm reaches above your head, grabbing the sauce in a large, familiar hand. Sam hands you the jar with a smile.
You took it from his hands and chide, "Not everyone's as vertically gifted as you and your brother, you know. Y'could be more inclusive and invest in a stepstool."
He leans against the counter you'd been setting ingredients on. Sam's eyes scan over your form as you open the pasta sauce.
"You know you can ask us for help, right?"
"I was gonna make dinner for us, I didn't want to make you guys help me," you reply Sam stands fully now and looks over your shoulder. You crane your neck to look up at him, "How's the weather up there?"
Sam chuckles lightly, "You know, I could tease you about your height. It'd be pretty easy."
You turn back to the counter and place freshly-washed vegetables on a cutting board. Unsheathing a knife from the knife block, you keep conversation with Sam.
"I don't have a problem with being short," you bump your hip sideways into Sam's leg. He does the same to you, except the direct strike in the ribs knocks you off balance, stumbling over.
He's able to snatch you up to safety before you bust your ass on the floor. Now cradled in Sam's arms, a rush of comfort comes over you in his stable grip. His hands catch your waist, with his long fingers spreading broad across your torso. Fuck, together they could probably go around most of your waist, and those fingers...
You snap out of your stupor to find Sam smiling down at you. His eyes linger on yours long enough for your mind to wander, wondering who would lean in first. Stolen glances at each other's lips, hitched breath, low-lidded eyes, it was a perfect concoction for Sam to kiss you.
Beneath him, you're so delicate in his arms, as if you'll break if he isn't careful. It was in his own reflexes to catch you, but the feelings that rushed through him afterwards were something deeper. Almost instinctive that in any moment with you like this, hushed and ogling, would lead to something more. Forget dinner, he thought, he could just order something for delivery.
At least, after he's done with you.
"Sam," you whisper. Maybe you hadn't been paying attention, but his face is now just inches from your own.
He finds himself leaned over further, close enough to share the same air, breaths mixing.
You smile nervously, and to your relief Sam gives one of his own. But he doesn't break away - doesn't help you to your feet to cut vegetables for the dinner you were kindly making for him. It couldn't matter much now that he's holding you like this.
"Sorry," he replies, barely audible. You wave your hands in dismissal and place them around his neck. The air shifts as the movement brings you ever closer, your lips no more than three inches away from Sam's.
"It's okay," you whisper. Soft, hazel eyes wander over your face and flicker to your lips, seemingly stuck there until Sam takes a risk he'd been waiting for.
Relief washes over you when his lips meet yours. After all this time, it turns out that he had the guts to break this tension, and everything that had been bottled up could now overflow. You let a deep hunger overtake your body, purely going on instinct as Sam embraces you. Sam sighs into your kiss and swallows a moan it drew from your throat, whiny and eager.
Sam nips at your bottom lip, tugging at it tentatively with his teeth. You do the same in response, only harder. Testing the waters. Usually a dangerous game, especially with a Winchester.
Your hands had made their way to his broad shoulders - his lean muscles flexing and stretching as he moves his hands over you, meandering from your waist, spanning from your shoulder blades to the top of your ass. His fingers toy with the fabric of your clothes, like he was trying to unwrap a present too early and didn't want to rip the packaging.
“Not here,” Sam says, his words slurring like a love-drunk fool, “Can’t do this here.”
He breaks the kiss and leaves you panting for more; there's a new darkness in his stare, one that makes you shudder. You give him a smile, wiggling in his grip to the pasta sauce jar, and shut it closed.
“What about dinner?”
You raise an eyebrow at him, “You seem like you have other plans.”
He was caught red handed, but you weren’t declining the advances. If anything you spurred them on as much as he did.
Sam slowly releases you from his grip, setting you stably on your feet. Not once have his eyes left you, even if you weren’t paying attention - Sam was set on this goal, you’d given him the ‘yes’ he needed, and he intended to make good on his commitment.
Patience was wearing thin for Sam. He ogles at the sight of you bent at the waist, putting the pasta sauce and veggies back in the fridge. The curve of your ass sucks him in whole, as if there were nothing else in the room.
A hand settles on your ass from behind, cupping and kneading gently. You let out a shuddering exhale before standing and turning to Sam.
The softness of your voice surprises you, “Where do you want me?”
The ball was in his court. Sam looks you over coolly, his hands kept to themselves in his pants pockets. Your eyes drift lower and pause on the large bulge in Sam’s pants, straining slightly against his thick jeans.
“My bedroom,” he said plainly.
—
There was little time to brace yourself for Sam’s next move. You're pressed against the wall before you can protest, although you wouldn’t dare object to this.
Sam grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you up, wedging your hips with his own, keeping you steady. A new hardness presses against your core as Sam juts his hips into you, pure instinct taking over his movements. His cock twitches in his jeans - he needs to watch his cock sink into you, to watch your face contort in bliss when he bottoms out in your pussy.
There was nothing small about Sam Winchester - he's a Goliath of a man, towering over you at any given time, with thick broad muscles that send a rushing heat to your sex. If your intrusive thoughts ever won, you were sure he could toss you around like it was nothing.
But now, you didn’t have much choice but to stay pinned to the wall, where you and Sam both grind your hips desperately, letting out lilted moans and grunts against each other’s skin.
The friction on your swelling clit was rough and warm, with Sam's cock perfectly nestled atop your drenched slit. Each rough push shot pleasure through your core, but it wasn’t enough for your aching cunt.
“If you need me to stop, you tell me, okay?” he emphasized. You shook your head at him. You wouldn’t break so easily, but if anyone were to shatter you apart, it could happily be Sam.
Your lips found his ear, after staining yourself up his long torso, “I’m not gonna break that easily, don’t worry.”
“Oh, yeah?” his voice deepened as his lips found your neck, eagerly nipping at your skin and making you whine. "Let's test that theory."
You gripped the hem of your shirt and shimmied it over your head, casting it to the floor carelessly.
Sam’s eyes trail over your chest, still beautifully bound by your bra. Their softness served as an undeniable invitation for his mouth to lower. He dips his head to greedily nip and suckle at the supple skin, leaving red and purple splotches in his wake.
You grip at his hair, urgently tugging him closer, as if the direct contact could never be enough to satisfy. Each of your soft moans is echoed with a low groan from Sam’s chest. He had doubled over, completely encapsulating you in his clean scent, now thick with a lustful musk.
Two fingers found the band of your bra, unclipping it with the utmost ease, and cast it to the floor with your shirt. Through panting breaths, Sam works off his shirt, though his lips have no hesitation to return to your exposed chest, and found a pebbled nipple between his teeth, rolling and biting to bring out a symphony of moans from the both of you.
Your hands lunged for the waistband of your pants. Sam took notice and sighs happily against your skin, his warm breath like a gentle wave across everything you'd exposed to him. Above you, Sam grew more unhinged with each passing second, grabbing and biting and kneading your flesh like a man starved.
Sam's lips capture yours once more in a tangle of tongues and teeth, exploring one another as if it was your only chance to do so. His tongue grazed the roof of your mouth, swallowing a deep moan that erupts from deep within your chest. He assesses your position and grows frustrated. It would be difficult to remove your, or his, pants without risking dropping you to the floor.
As quickly as you'd been slammed into the wall, Sam tosses you onto his bed, but stays standing at its foot, his hands reaching for his belt buckle. All else in the room vanished as you watch him remove the thick denim, shoving it down his legs to the floor. His cock strained against his boxers, throbbing and twitching to be free.
"Those," Sam nodded his head to your pants, "off."
The sudden dominance springs you into action. Your hands fly to your waistband and wiggle them off of your hips, down your thighs, and kick them away. Your soaked panties act as your final barrier, barring you from what you so badly needed.
Sam returns to his hunched position over you, letting his hands rove over your exposed thighs and ass, pawing at you greedily. You reach down to the band of his boxers, and slip your fingers under the elastic, inching them down until you felt a resistance against it - Sam's cock fights against the removal, straining your short arms until Sam reaches down to aid you.
The head of his cock springs up to smack against your covered core. You gasp softly at its warmth, your neglected cunt tightens around nothing of substance, an empty hole aching to be filled with something substantial.
"Feel." This was Sam's only order as he tugs your hand down to his length, coaxing you to wrap your small fingers around the middle of his shaft.
He's thick and warm against your palm, with a thick vein creeping up its underside to the tip. Your mouth waters at the way his cock twitches eagerly in your hand, and you slowly begin to pump along his length, making Sam hiss through his teeth.
Sam's voice is lower than you'd ever heard; it sends a heat directly to your teased pussy, now bracing against the base of Sam's cock. Its length covers most of your abdomen, casting your body in its silhouette in the dim lamplight of the room.
"Jesus..." he remarks wistfully, trailing a free hand up to his tip, pressing into the soft flesh of your belly.
Beneath him like this, Sam can finally see the scale of his cock to your insides, mapping out precisely where he'll settle inside of you. You whine softly as his cock drags another stroke over your soaked folds - the abrasion from your underwear was no longer tantalizing, but rather a nuisance.
His breathing becomes ragged, "I need to taste you."
The words shudder through you as Sam's lips work through the valley of your breasts, showering kisses along your middle, and finally he settles between your thighs. Sam places a kiss atop your clit, still kept out of sight by your soaked panties. Two fingers hook into the waistband and tug downward, sliding the soiled garment off of your shaky legs and to the floor behind him.
Cold air strikes your slit as Sam pries it open with two thick fingers, teasing at your aching hole, spreading the wetness around your cunt.
"Are you always this wet when you think about me?" his voice tremors through you. You nod quietly and hold your breath as Sam's head dips lower. All you can see is his rich brown hair cascading over your belly before warmth spread through your core, leaving you moaning at his first touch.
With the way his tongue teased at your clit, Sam may as well have set you ablaze. Your skin radiated a warmth unlike no other, rolling in waves as the cold of the air shocked your most sensitive areas.
"Sam," you whine, carding your fingers through his soft locks. You tug on him gently to push him further.
He pays no mind to your plea, and instead wraps his toned arms under your thighs, pulling your pussy flush against his thick tongue. It flicks your clit perfectly, and pairs with his lips as he suckles on the sweet bundle of nerves.
The taste of you makes Sam groan, his cock straining against the mattress beneath him. Above him, your moans and cries are a siren song, calling him to the bottomless sea of his desire. He pictures what lies ahead - you, sprawled on the bed, blissed out from his tongue and cock, sated and sleepy from a relentless pounding.
That image is pasted in his mind as he laps at your cunt, occasionally dipping his tongue into your tight entrance, and tasting your innermost parts. You arch your back at his touch, sighing his name like a prayer. His restless tongue toys with your hardening clit as pressure builds in your belly.
Sam creates a rhythm on your clit that sends you unfurling under his touch, mewling and whining and moaning slurred versions of Sam and please and need you. But he refuses to give more. Not until he can taste your release directly on his tongue.
The tightness in your belly snaps, breaking you apart until you're crying Sam's name against your hand, clasped firmly against your mouth. His tongue lolls over your clit even still, skyrocketing the shockwaves of the orgasm and making you whimper. Your slick coats his tongue and fills Sam's senses. All there is is you, your sounds, and your delicious cunt.
"Fuck," mumbles Sam, his voice reverberating through your convulsing sex, clamping down onto nothing.
You whine in response. All thought and sense had escaped your mind, now shattered and cast off to a void in the back of your mind. Sam laps up your juices and swallows, savoring every last drop your body had to offer.
The cold air of the room kisses your exposed cunt as Sam rises to his knees, his heavy cock bobbing above your abdomen.
"So small," he remarks, lining his cock over your stomach and admiring just how much of your body he'd overtake.
You'd surely be sore for days afterward, which sent a flush of pride through his chest. His cock ached to carve you hollow - to leave you gaping after a thorough fucking, to shape your pussy perfectly for him.
His hips rear back as he positions himself with your wet hole, shining with your slick, beckoning him inside. Sam's eyes meet yours when he notches the head of his cock past your entrance, surveying your expressions as he slowly filled you out. The girth of his cock could practically split you down your middle, stretching your little pussy to wrap perfectly around his shaft.
"God, you're so fuckin' tight," Sam groans, ogling at his own cock as it spread your pussy open. His hands press against the backs of your thighs and push them toward your chest, angling himself so the both of you could share the view.
He sighs, "Look at that - such a big cock, stretching out your tiny pussy, just for me."
Astonishment, teasing, and lust filled his tone, and something else. Something more primal that has your walls fluttering around Sam's cock.
You gape at the sight of his cock entering you, and you finally come to terms with exactly just how big he is. Your pussy is stretched blissfully wide, swallowing his length with earnest. Sam slams his hips and strikes deep, the head of his cock brushing against your cervix.
Each thrust is harsher than the last and all you can do is stare at the brutality your pussy is being subjected to. You cry out as Sam's cock crashes into you, every time, without fail.
At this point, there's no hiding the reality of what's behind Sam's bedroom door. If Dean, or anyone else, heard you, let them. Bliss overcomes your senses and dulls all rationality in your muddled mind.
There is nothing else that matters - just the overwhelming size of Sam Winchester and his remarkable cock.
He whispers your name like a summons, meeting his eyes with yours as he presses your body into the mattress. A hand presses into your tummy. Sam gasps softly and takes your hand to replace his own.
"Feel that?" his purrs, pressing onto your hand to deliver some pressure. As he thrusts in you can feel a shift in your insides, until you feel a firm strike of the head of his cock against you palm.
You look to him with wide eyes and find a wicked smile plastered on his face.
Sam crouches over you, enveloping you with his large size, encasing your body with his. He leans toward your ear, "Can you feel it up here, baby? Because I can. I can feel how tiny your cunt is before I go in and stretch it out."
He pushes deeper, to let you really feel it, "I can feel how you try to fit me, and how just tight you're getting, 'cause you're gonna cum, aren't you?"
A dumb nod follows his question, making his grin widen across his lips. No words form on your lips, only shaky wanton moans reply to his commentary.
"I know, sweetheart, feels good," Sam coos, slowing down his movements to draw out a raw cry from your throat. His cock drags through your walls until its head is all that remains, and slams in harshly.
Your cry is on the verge of a scream, but Sam does not relent. There is no plea to stop or slow down, because this is all you'd been dreaming of - to feel a comforting helplessness under someone far larger, to be at their disposal and usage.
A growl leaves his throat, "So fucking small... I bet you feel like you could break, huh? With my cock this deep inside you, your little pussy can barely take any more, can it?"
Your walls clench around him in reply, pulling Sam in deeper until his balls slap against your ass, now pairing with the obscene squelching of your abused pussy.
Between the lilting moans and quieted pleas from your perfect mouth, Sam issn't sure how much longer he can last. He vows to himself that he will not give in to it yet, not until he feels it. He needs to feel the way you wrap around his cock when you cum.
He needs to be the reason you finish, this time and each orgasm after.
"You've been waiting for this. You've wanted this the whole time - someone big and strong to pound your little pussy 'til you can't stand. Because you want a thick cock splitting you open." Sam stammers through the last few words - his own comments are bringing him closer to the brink, but you've already reached yours.
You shudder around him harshly as your orgasm hits you full-force, leaving you no room to ride it out as Sam's pace quickens. His breath hitches at the sensations flowing through his throbbing length - he hisses when you clench around his sensitive tip, leaving his gasping as he fucks you faster. Harder. Deeper.
His cock plunges into your cunt, hitting that same spot in your tummy as he mentioned before. Sam's hand presses against your abdomen, adding a glorious pressure that has you climaxing again in a matter or seconds.
"Thaaaat's it, attagirl," he encourages. "Such a tight little cunt, but she takes me so well."
The words flow through you like fire, sending you over the brink once again and leaving you whimpering beneath him. Sam smirks, knowing he's doing his job right, he has you exactly where he wants you, pinned, helpless, and impossibly full.
"Please... S-Sam," you whisper.
He laughs, pounding you so roughly you can barely brace for the slam against your cervix, "Can't handle it, can you, baby? I thought you said you don't break easily."
Your soft cries reach his ears as you slip into that thoughtless void of your mind, moaning with each strike.
Sam's lips brush over the shell of your ear, "You think you're so strong, but I'll break you. I'll have your cunt so bruised you can't think about anything else - only me, because this pussy is mine, do you understand?"
A reply doesn't come, only the sounds of your moans fill his ears. Sam delivers a harsh slap to your ass, thrusting his cock as deep as he could manage. You let out a long moan but still don't reply.
"Who's pussy is this?"
The words form on your lips and fall out feebly, "Y-yours."
He kisses your forehead, but does not let his hips falter, "That's right, angel. All mine."
Pressure builds in his abdomen, his balls growing tight as his own release crept up from behind. Sam nips at your earlobe, his words clang through you with a primal desire.
"And since this pussy's mine, I'm going to fill it."
The swift relentless pace resumes, crashing into your hips to verge on soreness, your tight cunt still wrapping perfectly around him, and Sam's name falling past your slacked mouth. Sam's eyes screw shut as his own orgasm finally approaches, and his cock begins to twitch.
He unsheathes his cock from your warm walls, aiming directly at your now gaping pussy. Sam pumps himself fervently as his cum spurts from his cock, right into your stretched hole. You stare in awe as his cum seeps into your cunt, the angle of your hips inviting it all in.
Sam hisses, "Keep it all in there."
You pant as you try to recover yourself, but Sam plunges his cock into you again, making you let out a low, drawn-out moan. He strikes as deeply as before, his movements are urgent, borderline predatory, insistent to have you bred nicely.
"Keep it in there, and don't you dare fucking waste it."
His movements start to slow - the thrusts are languid and gentle until Sam finally pulls himself out of your abused pussy. He grips your thighs and lowers them until you can finally breathe freely again, gasping in the cool, refreshing air.
"There you go. Deep breaths, honey," Sam coaxes, running his hands along your sore hips, massaging gently into the aching flesh. You do as you're advised and calm your breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Sam did the same until he slumped into the mattress next to you, groaning into the sheets.
You smile lazily at him, "You okay over there?"
Sam nods into the bed, still letting out a low groan, "Y'fuckin' drained me."
Pride wells in your chest. You giggle at him, earning you a playful slap on your thigh. Your giggle turns into a hearty laugh before you nestle next to Sam, eyes fluttering shut with fatigue. He takes notice and nudges you.
"Bathroom, no UTI's for us today."
You retort, "Sam, I don't think I can even walk properly right now."
He shifts and rises from the bed, scooping you into his arms and lifting you to his chest. Your laughs echo around the room as Sam Winchester takes you to the bathroom, ever the gentleman.
Hi! Thank you all for your patience as i get out of my lil' brain funk. I hope you enjoyed!
If you liked this fic, reblog to show others! Who cares if we're depraved little animals?? don't you just wanna go apeshit???
anyways ily, and i hope this fic gets the love it needs cause i had a wonderful time writing it >:3
Stanford era!Sam Winchester x fem!Reader. Swearing, sexually suggestive/explicit language, brief mention of serial murder and Ted Bundy. Still no smut but we’re getting closer (mwheheh >:3). Takes place around 2002-ish
Author’s notes: Hey y’all!! I’m so sorry it has taken me so long to post this. I could give you a whole spiel about why it took so long, but all I’m gonna say is bitches be crazy and life be crazier. Enjoy part two of The Itch!!
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Sam’s looking at you, bangs falling in his eyes, pink lips slightly parted. His cheeks are flushed, and you spot a cute little mole on the side of his nose that you hadn’t noticed in the dim lighting of the house. Meanwhile, the itch is back in full force, and it refuses to be silenced. Your mind presents you with images of that mole peeking up at you from between your thighs, and you feel like you’re gonna explode, so you cast your eyes downward. Your eyes land on where both of your hands rest your dropped, soiled shirts, your fingertips barely touching. You slowly look back up at Sam through your lashes, and notice that his expression looks… hungry. His eyes are dark and unreadable, and you’re busy trying to work out if he feels what you do when he clears his throat and hurriedly picks up the shirts and shoves them at you before scrambling to his feet.
You rise as well, holding your shirts to your chest, feeling more than a little disappointed and very, very awkward. You’re unsure of what to say or do to break the tension when Sam speaks. “Um, if you want I can take you to my place and wash those for you. It’s not far; just five minutes.” He’s looking down at his feet, but the sliver of his face that you can see through his bangs is beet red. Your heart is beating wildly against your ribcage, and your eyes are glued to his frame. Your mind is spinning out of control and your thoughts keep flip-flopping from holy shit maybe he does like me to stop projecting your horniness onto this poor stranger, you psycho. You realize Sam is looking at you now, his face expectant, and everything inside you seems to freeze. Your heart stops beating and your breath hitches. He cocks his head to the side and you finally exhale with a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be really nice, thank you.”
Sam nods gently, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Of course. We can leave whenever you want; parties aren’t really my thing, so I’m ready to go whenever.” You look back at the house. “Honestly, I’m good to go now. I just need to get my jacket from the hall closet before we leave,” you say, looking back at him. He’s nodding slowly, his eyes unfocused but trained in the direction of the house. “It’ll only take a minute, so you can wait out here if you want,” you continue. Sam looks at you and nods. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll go ahead and get the car started.” You smile at him, and you can’t be sure, but it looks like he gulps. “Alright then. Go team,” you quip, pointing two finger guns at Sam. Chuckling, he points his own finger guns back at you, and before you start to walk back he takes the shirts from you and says something about holding them so you don’t have to carry them the whole time. Walking back to the house, you can feel the itch like a burning in your chest, a swirling mix of excitement and tense energy. Just be cool, you think to yourself. He’s just a guy. A really hot, really tall, really sweet guy, but a guy nonetheless. Just be cool and everything will be fine.
With a deep breath, you plunge back into the house and muscle your way through the crowd to the hall closet under the staircase in the living room. Thankfully, there’s no one in front of the door, so you manage to squeeze inside and retrieve your jacket. You pull your phone out of one of the pockets and flip it open. You hastily text your friends that you’re leaving as well as a brief description of Sam — just in case. You don’t really see him as the serial murdering type, but you know damn well that you can never be too careful. No one thought Bundy was a killer either, after all.
You wait a couple of minutes for a response from one of your friends, but it never comes. You roll your eyes. Oh well. If you do get murdered, at least the cops have a place to start. You close your phone and shove it in the pocket of your jacket after you pull it on. You’re starting to feel quite cozy in all of your layers, so you push out of the closet and back into the living room. Before you know it, you’re crossing the lawn to Sam’s car. He’s already sitting in the driver’s seat but he steps out when he sees you coming. He opens the passenger door for you like a gentleman and a new generation of butterflies take flight in your stomach, fluttering in rosy bliss. The smile you bestow upon him as thanks is just the right mix of genuine appreciation and alluring shyness. “Thank you,” you purr, your voice laced with a level of confidence you didn’t think you possessed. Sam’s face flushes with color, and if you weren’t sure before, you are now; Sam’s into you. On some level, Sam Winchester is into you. Holy shit.
You’re about to say fuck it and plant a kiss right on his mouth when Sam does something you’re not expecting. He moves in a little bit closer to you, crowding you just enough, and ducks his head down a bit. Your heart is beating in your throat and your brain is short-circuiting when he breathes a hushed “you’re welcome” into your ear.
Holy. Shit.
And then he pulls away, a smirk plastered proudly on his face. His eyes twinkle as he leaves you gaping on your side of the car. He slides into the driver’s seat and you shakily climb into the car, trying desperately to regain your composure. He notches the car into “drive” while you buckle your seatbelt, and you can see his pleased expression in your peripheral vision.
You don’t think you’ve ever been more wet in your entire life.
Silence has just settled over the car when Sam turns his head slightly towards you, keeping his eyes on the road as he pulls away from the curb. “Wanna hear some music? There are some CDs in the glove compartment.” You hum your assent, grateful for something to break the silence, and for something to focus on besides the dampness in your panties. You open the glove compartment and find that there’s a small metallic blue CD binder in the otherwise empty compartment. You reach in and pull it out, setting it on your lap before you unzip it. You see that Sam has quite the motley collection; Red Hot Chili Peppers, Elvis, Deftones, and Celine Dion, to name a few. You take out Californication, the most recent Chili Peppers album, and pop it into the CD player. As the first song on the track list starts to play, you twist in your seat to face Sam.
“You’re not a serial killer, are you? Because it would be kind of a downer if this was just some elaborate ruse to murder me in your basement or something.” Sam snorts at that. “No, I’m not a serial killer. But even if I was, do you think I would freely admit to it?” You shrug. “Maybe. You could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security.” Sam’s bobbing his head thoughtfully, and you continue. “Or you could just be a very honest serial killer.” Sam makes a small humming noise, and the car goes silent for a while, which leaves you cringing at your stunted attempt at a conversation. Sam takes a deep breath, and in a rush he says, “But even if I were a serial killer, I could never kill anyone as pretty as you.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire, and you’re blushing so hard you feel like Pepé Le Pew. You search the recesses of your mind desperately for some sort of witty and equally flirtatious comeback, but the only thing you can come up with is, “Well. Guess I’m safe then.”
You mentally beat the shit out of yourself.
It’s not long after that exchange when Sam pulls up in front of an apartment building. He pulls into an empty space in the crowded lot that sprawls out in front of the building, and gently eases the car into “park”. The two of you unbuckle, but before you can exit the car Sam reaches behind his seat and grapples around for something. You can see a sliver of his stomach from this angle; toned and tanned, with a nice happy trail that leads into the jeans that are slung tantalizingly low on his hips. His boxers peek teasingly over the waistband of his jeans, and your mouth suddenly feels very empty.
You snap your eyes to the front windshield as Sam twists back around, your cheeks burning. He holds a plastic bag out to you, the kind that you’d get at a dollar store, and you can see that he’s used it to store your shirts in it. You take it, and when you meet his gaze you can see that he’s barely concealing a smirk. Your stomach drops and you realize that he knows you were ogling him, so you stutter out your thanks as fast as you can while you frantically exit the vehicle. Sam smoothly follows you, closing his door and locking the car with the fob. You stand awkwardly in the shadows, clutching your little bundle. Sam lopes over to you, taking his sweet time, and you get the sense that he’s fucking with you on purpose. Your itch is back, and it seems that the game is very much on.
You follow Sam to the complex, and he stops outside the main entrance to pull his keys out of his pocket. He opens the glass door and holds it, allowing you to go in first. “Thank you, sir,” you curtsy before walking in, grinning. Sam grins as well, and gives you a little bow. “M’lady.” The grin on your face widens, and you let out a giggle. You’re in a small entryway, and you’re currently facing the glass door that lets you into the lobby. There are two long and narrow glass panes on either side of the door, and through them you can see the interior of the lobby. It’s completely deserted; even the front desk has been abandoned. You see a few love seats facing the elevators, and then a small “exit” sign on a far wall above a door. Next to the exit door is another door that reads “stairs”.
Sam opens the door to the lobby, but this time he goes in first, which you don’t mind. You’re just happy to be here. You still can’t quite wrap your mind around the fact that you’re here, with your coffee shop Adonis, on the way to his apartment. Jesus Roosevelt Christ, you think you could squeal. Even if nothing happens, even if all you get out of this impromptu trip is freshly laundered clothes, you’ll be satisfied.
Well. Your itch won’t, but that’s a problem for your right hand to solve.
You follow Sam through the lobby, taking in the rest of your surroundings. Some wilting plants in big ceramic pots have been pushed into the corners of the lobby, and a few muted watercolors have been hung from the walls in an attempt to add more color to the otherwise drab space. You’re snapped out of your trance-like state of observation by the sound of the elevator button being pressed. Sam moves away from the button, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and you get the impression that he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. Maybe it’s nerves; you aren’t sure. You decide to break the silence.
“D’you go to any of the universities in the area?” You inquire, clearing your throat, even though you’re fairly certain you already know the answer. Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m a first-year undergrad at Stanford. You?” You nod, folding your arms over your chest. “It’s my first year at Stanford, too. But I think I might transfer to Palo Alto next semester.” Sam cocks a brow and smiles lopsidedly. “So you’re studying psychology, then,” he says, and you smile, too, and throw your hands up in mock surrender. “You caught me,” you chuckle. “What about you? What are you studying?”
“I’m pre-law,” he says, and he appears almost shy when he says it. He drags a hand through his hair, mussing it a bit, and it falls back in a way that looks effortlessly perfect. Damn him.
“Pre-law; that’s cool. What kind of law are you interested in practicing?”
“Well, the goal is to become a defense attorney. But I’m also really interested in environmental law,” He adds, his passion for his studies evident in his eyes, sparkling hazel star shows that you get the privilege of experiencing firsthand. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He clearly wants to divulge more about his degree, but he restrains himself. As you step in the elevator, you ask, “Can you tell me more?”
Sam’s sheepish smile turns into a full-scale grin, and he wastes no time on diving in. He tells you about why he chose pre-law, details his coursework, shares some funny stories from classes, and the two of you get so engrossed in your conversation that you actually miss your stop on his floor. It’s only when the elevator is called back down to the lobby and a new person steps in that you realize. Sam turns scarlet and apologizes profusely. You tell him that it’s alright, and you give his forearm a reassuring squeeze that seems to abate some of his nervousness, but not the tent that you pretend not to notice forming in his pants.
After an awkwardly silent elevator ride, the other passenger exits onto the seventh floor, and you continue your ascent. The elevator dings again on the twelfth floor, and Sam steps out first. “It’s the second door on the left; room 1203.” He explains in a murmur. There is an unbroken quietness on the twelfth floor, probably due to the late hour. You check the time on your phone; it’s nearly one in the morning. You stifle a yawn, suddenly very sleepy despite the throbbing you still feel in your core. You blink to try and combat how heavy your eyes suddenly feel, but the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps in the carpeted hallway makes it even harder to concentrate.
Sam slots his key into the lock and opens the door with ease. He holds it open for you, the chivalry routine but not unwelcome at this point. You trudge into his apartment and he flips the switch on, basking everything in a soft yellow light.
Sam’s apartment is a studio. To your right, there’s a small kitchenette and dining table complete with two chairs. Directly in front of you, a bed has been pushed against the far left wall, and it’s been neatly and almost militarily made, with a few blankets and fluffy pillows resting on top of the gray comforter. Across from the bed there’s an extremely comfortable-looking and well-loved sofa that faces a wall-mounted TV and a slightly scuffed-up coffee table. You notice that the walls are devoid of any type of art or posters, unlike the lobby. There are also no plants or rugs to be seen. The decorations and attempts at making the space feel more homey are kept to a minimum, which confirms your earlier suspicions about Sam’s anti-consumerist tendencies.
You hear Sam closing and locking the door behind you, so you move deeper into the apartment to make space for him. Your heart begins to thump. You turn to watch him lock the door, and you notice that he has some kind of decorative macrame hanging from his ceiling eight beside his front door. It’s made of some kind of woven rope-like material, and in the middle of it you recognize a pattern that you’re faintly aware protects against the evil eye. This highly decorative and spiritual display doesn’t seem to match the rest of the decor in Sam's apartment, nor does it seem to match Sam as a person. But, again, you just met the guy, and far be it for you to judge anyone’s practices or beliefs.
Sam turns and notices you looking at his display, and he flushes. You’re starting to notice that whenever you discover something personal about or of personal value to him, Sam becomes embarrassed and almost defensive. You wonder what kind of life he must have had that has made him so secretive and protective.
You gesture vaguely to the macrame. “I really like your display. That’s a protective symbol against the evil eye, right?” Sam nods, glancing at it, his head ducked. “Uh, yeah. It’s found in a lot of Mediterranean and some Central and Western Asian cultures. Actually, there are even mentions of similar symbols or wardings used in Abrahamic religions.” He explains, his words coming out slowly and carefully. He worries a hand over the nape of his neck and jawline, and you nod, processing the information. His eyes snap up to look at you, and he looks not unlike a deer in headlights. You gesture to the macrame again. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know all of that stuff? It’s really impressive.”
Sam swallows thickly. He looks like he’s about to vomit and you’re about to apologize for being such a massive bonehead when he exhales, seemingly pulling himself together for a response. “I was really into folklore and mythology growing up, and I’ve taken a few classes on it here. A-at Stanford, I mean.” He braces himself as if you won’t believe him, but you just nod in a way that you hope seems nonchalant and accepting. Your itch has slowly started making its presence known once more, whining at you, begging for satisfaction. You decide to let your itch win this round. “Smart and cute. Nice.” You blink at him, slowly, allowing a gentle smile to sweetly spread across your face. You hold your breath, hoping that he doesn’t respond adversely to your flirtation. Sam flushes pink again, and his eyes take on that hungry look again.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, and the air is so electric that it makes your hairs stand on end. You can feel your heartbeat in your core and your body seems to be radiating some sort of electromagnetic current that’s pulling Sam towards you. Your heartbeat grows louder and louder with every step he takes until eventually it’s all that you can hear. Sam’s towering over you now, and you swear your heart is beating out of your chest like you’re a goddamn Looney Tunes character. He bends down slowly, and…
… And he takes the plastic bag of shirts from you. He straightens up, a devilish smirk plastered on his face, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I’m gonna run these down to the laundry room. Make yourself at home.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
—
Author’s notes: That’s it for part two!! I really wanted to make this part longer, bUT I also really wanted to post something because I know it’s taken me a dick year to get this out. I hope you enjoyed and let me know if you want to read more of this fic!
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5)
Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB.
Word Count: ~11k.
Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could.
THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3
Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!
FIVE YEARS LATER
The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.
But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.
Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.
On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.
He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.
But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.
The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain.
This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.
It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.
Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?
The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.
You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.
You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.
Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.
By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—
—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.
There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.
You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.
On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.
Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.
You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.
You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.
Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.
Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside.
He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.
He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.
You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”
Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”
There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.
“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”
Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?
You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.
Your throat locks up with tears.
Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”
Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”
Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.
“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.
There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.
“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.
You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.
He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”
When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”
Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.
“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”
Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”
You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”
You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.
Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.
“You’re really not saying yes?”
Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.
Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.
“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”
You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.
Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.
After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.
“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”
This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.
He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”
This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.
“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”
You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”
Okay. Weird.
Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”
They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?
But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”
Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.
You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.
He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.
The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.
“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.
There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.
“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”
“Can I help?” Sam asks.
You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”
“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”
Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”
You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.
When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.
“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”
You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.
Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”
You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”
…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”
That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”
You squint at him. Liar.
“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”
A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.
Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”
“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”
Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”
Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”
A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.
It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him.
You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!
There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.
“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”
Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.
You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”
Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”
The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.
Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.
You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—
—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.
In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”
Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.
The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.
He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.
The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.
It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already.
Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.
Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—
You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.
“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”
You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?
He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”
You stop.
This is. This is new.
There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.
Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.
“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.
He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.
It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to.
He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.
…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.
“Sammy,” you sob out.
“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”
He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.
“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.
Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.
“Take it off,” he rasps.
This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.
“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.
You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.
He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”
Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.
You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”
It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”
A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.
You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.
“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”
Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.
“Then don’t.” He begs.
If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.
You’ve never seen him take this way before.
He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.
You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
“God,” Sam utters, spellbound.
You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.
You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”
Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”
The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.
You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”
“Yes, doctor,” you tease.
Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.
“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.
You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.
This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.
Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”
And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.
By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.
Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”
“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”
“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.
Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”
Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.
The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”
As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”
Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”
Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.
Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.
“God, I love you,” he moans.
Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.
…Wait.
“What?” You register, slow.
Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.
“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.
There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.
“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”
You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”
It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.
“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”
“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.
He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.
“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.
When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.
“Sammy!” You choke.
That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”
Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.
You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—
…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!
“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”
The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”
He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.
“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.
You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”
You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—
In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.
A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”
If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”
You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”
His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.
“Tell me you love me again.”
Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.
You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”
The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.
With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”
“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.
You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.
When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.
“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.
Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you.
“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”
“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”
Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.
You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.
“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.
The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.
You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?
Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.
What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?
Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”
He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness.
Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”
Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.
Lie to me, you’d begged him.
…And Sam had.
_
The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.
Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.
He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.
Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?
Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.
The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.
Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.
To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.
You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.
“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.
…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.
You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.
You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”
…That’s not what the note says.
You read it.
Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…
Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—
…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.
“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”
Pythia - A Supernatural Rewrite. Dead In The Water, p1.
read it on ao3. masterlist.
words: 11,982
notes: this could technically be considered part .5, since we don't get into anything episode related until next chap - but i thought it was important to give u more bg on Reader!! same goes for the dean-centered parts of this episode, since for this one i'm giving you some HEAVY sam time. enjoy your cutesy but sad motorcycle not-pining.
i referenced some spn neat spn fics for this one. though you don't have to read them to understand this ep, i highly recommend it since they're so damn good: Stop Hitting Yourself by Rokhal, Fire of Unknown Origin by britomart, And Rage Is Mingled With His Grief by StillWaters1. yeehaw!
i also wanted to clarify that i don't like when people give reader inserts last names + premade parents, but our psychic reader has both for the sake of the plot!! you'll love Beth and Ray trust me ;)
enjoy <3
next part: dead in the water, p.2
EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - NOV. 14th, midday.
The first snow would be hitting soon. After a childhood raised off the river here, you’d learned to feel it in the air. Fall was not the powerful, crowned buck it’d been in October; the roads of your hometown were foggy, the buildings seemed flatter, and the grass was packed down into dry gray-blonde sheets. Sometime in the weeks you’d been gone, the buck had suffered an arrow wound and was waiting for the cold to set in.
You propped your head on the chilled window of the backseat, watching the industrial brickwork and buckling sidewalks whisk by. Little avenues of rain runoff emptied into street grates. Kids spilled out of your old high school, rushing onto the sidewalk to start the trek home. Your brain instantly associated these sights with the end of a hunt—more specifically, Dean dropping you off at your apartment to go off on his own. Wistfulness dragged in your gut. For the first time in more than two years, you and the boys were going home together.
Instead of taking a left for your apartment, Dean pulled into the right turn lane and turned up the rock station. He always claimed that your hometown was the only city he’d been in with decent radio. The guys at your Dad’s old autoshop job loved Dean, so he always borrowed their garage when he was in town. You had vivid, amber memories of Dean working on the Impala there, and between asking you to hand him wrenches, he’d hum soulfully and cheesily along with what was on. So many of your quiet moments were filled with that sound, like an instrumental break in the soundtrack of your life.
“Shouldn’t we call ahead?” Sam asked, closing the book he’d been reading. How he could process letters, never mind a whole book, while Dean and Dean’s music were on full blast, you had no clue. He tilted to look back at you. “Your mom won’t be upset if we just drop in, will she?”
“Are you kidding?” Dean answered for you. “Sammy, think who you’re askin’ about…” He shot a superstitious look to the building as he pulled in, smiling. “Lady probably already knows we’re here.”
Dean parked in the slim alley behind the store, like always. The house had been in your family for a couple generations, and from the back, it definitely showed. If you squinted at the brownstone long enough it seemed to have this tilt to it, like an old man putting his weight on his cane. You’d always thought of the Proctor house as a hyper-vigilant, eerily silent butler—it had all the unease of a haunted house combined with the stateliness of a gentleman. The windows had elaborate iron frames. The roof was lined with ornate, detailed trim (with all sorts of hidden sigils you’d been trained to recognize). Your mother claimed the brick they’d made the house with had been mixed with salt, but you weren’t sure that made it possible for the place to still be standing. Knowing the house you’d grown up in, it’d probably find a way to tough through it anyway.
The gate to your mother’s back garden was locked, so you took the side alley around to the front. The face of the Proctor house was far more unassuming; the entire first floor had been gutted and renovated into your family’s business, Lucky You Antiques and Collectibles. A wall of faded glass advertised the furniture your mom had repolished, the upcoming Thanksgiving deals, yadda yadda—nothing explicitly psychic, except for the grand eye decal on the front door. At this time of day it cast an arching shadow all the way to the register. You tried not to shiver at the sight of it.
“Shit,” you said, patting down your jacket, “I left my keys in the trunk.”
“I’ll run back,” Sam was saying, but Dean had already shimmied past you, circled through his keyring and slid his own copy into the lock. “I got it,” he said, innocently, and gestured you inside.
Lucky You was closed for the day, so Dean opened the door to an empty front room gleaming with glass figurines, books, and antique furniture. Everything was sprucey and dark, with an ever-hovering cloud of faded cigar smoke. Tightly-spaced aisles juxtaposed circles of armchairs and coffee tables for sale. Even day to day it never really looked the same way, but something about it as a whole hadn’t changed a bit since you were little. There were still identical notches carved into the bookshelves where you’d knocked them over roughhousing with Dean. Your mom had never replaced the lightbulb in the back corner, since that was Sam’s job and she just never found the time to do it herself.
The centerpiece of it all was a huge, threadbare carpet the length of two Impalas. It used to be a product, but it’d sat there for so long that eventually it was absorbed by the store. Dean used to joke that it was the mother of all dust bunnies, since every time, without fail, Sam would choke out into coughs when he crossed it. Dean watched Sam enter first with a strange look, like he was waiting for the past to recreate itself.
You found yourself doing the same. The last time Sam had been here, he’d been half as tall and half as filled out in the shoulders. You’d noticed when you’d reunited with him (especially when you’d hugged him), but the change was even sharper in a familiar place, where you could overlay the image of gangly past Sam with his current self.
But Sam didn’t cough once crossing the rug. Instead, he scratched at his neck in the anxious way he’d been doing since Jess died, completely unaware of you and Dean, and said idly, “Your mom needs to check the devil’s trap underneath this thing—all the walking’s probably rubbed it right off.”
“I’d almost forgotten about that,” you said, sliding in after him. You wondered what made him think of that. “I’ll remind her—or Dean can put it on his list.”
Sam turned on his heel, hands in his pockets, and cocked an eyebrow at Dean. He enunciated, “Your list?”
“Yeah,” Dean shrugged one shoulder, and twisted around to lock the door behind the three of you. “Sometimes the girls are too lazy to do stuff, and I gotta earn my keep, between Beth’s food and ____’s—” he gave you a dry look, “blessed company. So I do favors.”
“Chores,” you corrected, slyly. “And shut up, dick, you love my company!”
Dean flicked your ear as he passed, and sauntered down the cramped employee hall that lead upstairs. Again, he unlocked the door and held it open for you, blighting out the sun with a glowing, mischievous smile just for you. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’.”
Opening the door to the stairwell was like passing through a portal. On the first stair, you were met by the crescendo of Elvis dancing down from the second floor. The familiar sound of your mother’s records coupled with the smell of lunch launched you back into high school, kindergarten, and all the memories in between. You remembered Sam standing guard here with a shotgun on his lap after you’d been attacked. You remembered tip-toeing down these steps to go drink with Dean. You remembered talking to the portraits of the seers before you, who followed you with their eyes even now.
Needless to say, you kept your focus on your footing.
The second floor of the house was a stark contrast to the gloomy back-garden and commercial front. All the polished paneling in the walls, the harsh brickwork, and the dramatic, smoky lighting had been replaced and overlaid with your mother’s retrofuturist decorating. Your grandmother had left behind a ton of 50s’ stuff that your mom loved too much to throw out. Ever since you were little, she’d been utilizing it. You, Sam, and Dean passed the wall of the front hallway pasted from floor-to-ceiling with vintage diner signs, most of them rosy-cheeked women selling Coca Cola or hot dogs. The three of you kicked off your shoes.
“Ma!” You shouted over the swaying music. “We’re home!”
No one emerged. Behind you, Dean was the first out of his boots and was already clearing his way to the kitchen archway. He scuttled across the checkered linoleum and landed happily in the mock-diner booth, the one your mother had repaired a thousand times, and cackled like a maniac. Laid out on the kitchen table was lunch—your favorite, Dean’s favorite, and Sam’s favorite, each on its own plate.
In one hand, Dean scooped up the huge bacon burger your mom had pan-grilled for him and uttered ravenously, “Beth, I would kill for you!”
“She must be busy upstairs,” you chuckled, and turned to Sam, “I think she made you—”
Sam had lingered behind to remove his jacket. It looked like something had caught his eye on the corner turning into the living room, something low to the ground and carefully preserved. He was running over it with delicate fingers, and hearing your voice, he looked away, embarrassed. Or maybe it was closer to shame.
You shuffled closer to get a look. At about the height of your hip, there was a soft pink line that had faded with time. ____, age four. It cascaded up a little bit, then was joined by a red marker, Sam, age three, and above that in green, Dean, age six. The lines mingled. They lapped each other, especially in Sam’s case, or clung in pairs until certain ages. You could plot out the fierce height competition you’d had with Dean in middle school. It was clear on the chart that the last time you’d been taller than both of them was at ten, just before Dean had hit puberty. Sam was a late bloomer. He wasn’t even close to becoming his behemoth self until 1998; Sam, age 15.
Sam stared at his most recent mark on the wall, letting his hand fall back to his side. He didn’t say anything—just looked and looked, like Sam, age 19, could take him back in time if he brooded on it hard enough. By then, he’d beat you out, had already started doing pre-law online, and was level in height with Dean. That had been four years ago.
You glanced at the hall behind you, where your mother had yet to appear, then at Dean, completely absorbed in his burger. “Hold on a second,” you told Sam, and started hunting around the kitchen junk drawer.
“You don’t gotta…” Sam cleared his throat, but you were already pushing him gently into the wall with a hand on his chest. He clarified, “I’m not your brother. You don’t have to…”
“No, but you’re my family,” you said, without pause. “What kind of best friend would I be if I left you out of a family tradition?”
He didn’t care that much about resisting after that, because soon he pushed his heels into the wall and straightened his back. You had to stretch a little, but without any fuss you were able to set a warm palm on his hair and draw a new line well above the others. Sam, you wrote, age 23. The other marks had all been written in your mother’s loopy handwriting. ____, age 19, and Dean, 21, matched all the others, so your addition at the top seemed out of place. You choose instead to think of it as the crowning jewel of your childhood, of all those lines. Look, it seemed to say, we’re still together after all this time.
You thunked the marker down in a nearby pen cup, then brushed the smeared ink on your jeans as you admired your handiwork. “Hm,” you preened, “Finished. Only took… what? Twenty years?”
Sam looked demure. He dipped his head, and asked no one in particular, “Have we really known each other that long?”
“Feels longer,” you remarked. Dean was loudly enjoying his burger in the other room, and you rolled your eyes at him to avoid confronting how soft Sam’s voice sounded. You thunked him on the back, grinning, “I guess we can officially say we’re never getting rid of each other, huh?”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, eyes swimming with enough honesty and emotion to make your chest cave in, only to drop it all at once. You followed his gaze over your shoulder.
“There you are,” your mother greeted, her voice rendered quiet and disbelieving. She was smirking to suppress a well of emotion, and twisting constantly at a used, dusty rag she’d been using to clean. “I was just getting your room ready, ____…”
You were a spitting image of Beth Proctor, in ways so surreal and specific that you’d always figured it was a part of the family genes; each and every psychic Proctor wore the face of a long-dead ancestor. An ancestor who you thought was beautiful in a severe, Mona Lisa sort of way. At least in terms of your mother. A secret loomed permanently in her eyes, which at this moment were flush with building tears. There was a graceful, haunting air to her, which only made it easier to imagine her peering into a crystal ball or divulging everything about a person with just a look. Beth was a real seer.
She sniffed. “Are all three of you…?”
On command, Dean appeared in the kitchen archway and Sam stepped into the natural light of the open living room, each on either side of you. “Present and accounted for,” you beamed, and Dean wiggled his fingers in a wave over your shoulder, “Hi, Ma.”
Your mother’s eyes drifted across you and the boys, her thoughts a hundred years away. She propped her fists on her hips, swelled up as sternly as she could, and shook her head. Dean started inching further behind you, just in case you were kids again and Ma was about to deliver the scolding of a lifetime—for sneaking out or being reckless or worrying her sick. Instead, Beth scrubbed her tears across her wrist.
“Damn you,” she cursed, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Sammy, baby, c’mere.”
It took Sam two steps to close the gap between them and hug her just as hard as she hugged him. He was easily two heads taller than her, but the way she scooped him close made Sam look eleven again, when he knew about the hunt but was too young to do anything about it. What he’d said barrelled right into you as they embraced: Have we really known each other that long?
John Winchester had only a few places he could leave his boys when he went off hunting, and the safest and easiest place was the Proctor House. The building itself was warded. Your mom knew the truth—about him, about the world—and knew how to take care of kids. Looking back, you imagined it had started small. John had nowhere else to take infant Sam and toddler Dean. He’d probably insisted it would only be a one-time thing, but then it’d happened again and again and your mom had cared less and less.
You’d been a real lonely baby, she’d told you once, sewing with the window open. The evening light had layered over her face like stained glass. I was so worried about you… You hardly cried. You barely made any noise at all, and you didn’t really like to play with toys. All you wanted was to hear me and your dad talk to you.
It occurred to you, as your mom hugged a man who wasn’t her blood, that the boys were here because of you. Things would be different otherwise. If you’d been a happy baby, if she’d put you in normal daycare to make normal friends, if you’d even breathed a word about being scared of John or not liking his sons, none of this would have happened. But you’d been alone and quiet until two other lonely and quiet kids walked into your life, so it didn’t matter if Sam wasn’t your mom’s blood.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, honey,” she was murmuring to him, but Sam was saying the exact same thing to her. They separated and Beth cupped one side of Sam’s face, the eye of her right palm pressed flat to his cheek. “I went to the apartment,” she told him, somber, “I couldn’t sense much, but I did get your car—it’s down in the garage, if you ever need it.”
Sam sunk into his shoe-soles. “Thank you,” was all he said, and a blue shadow passed over your mother’s face.
It went unsaid that she knew everything that had happened. You never were sure how much she knew exactly, even in comparison to what your own gift showed you, but for a brief second all of it seemed to flash across her face. She drew her palm away from Sam’s cheekbone, and on instinct you pressed your nails into the flesh of your right hand.
“You make Dean look like a shrimp,” Beth chuckled, and Dean grumbled in offense. She hooked an arm under his back and the other around your shoulder, and like you, bloomed under the relief that the three of you were with each other again. “Hello, sweetpea,” she smirked at you, then at Dean, “And oh, hush, you big baby. You jealous ‘cause you want a hug too?”
“No,” Dean scoffed, snapping his arms down to his sides. “I, uhm, just don’t want all this nice food to go to waste. Seein’ as you made it all special, n’ everythin’...”
Your mother shared a conspiratory, amused look with you in the corner of her eye, inviting you into her secret for just a moment. Even as an adult you felt she didn’t do that with you much, but sharing the Gift gave you both a strange understanding. As much as you hated her covering for John… Like her, you’d seen the future, and there were some parts of it that just couldn’t be shared or spoken. She’d been at this a lot longer than you might ever be; and she was your mom, so you wanted to trust her.
“You’ve got that case, up in Manitowoc,” she said, (a statement of fact), “I figured you’d be stopping by, and I figured I should give you something better than road food. Get on in there and sit down. Dean, you want a beer?”
The four of you migrated into the kitchen, Dean at the lead in order to reunite with his burger. “Sure,” he said, and Beth jut up her eyebrows until he added, “—please?”
You slid into the booth where your plate was, and noticed, conveniently, that your mom had put you in the corner with Sam. The booth wasn’t the grand dining hall you remembered it being as a kid, so Sam had to fold his legs and shove into your space a little to fit. Maybe it was a little too obvious that it didn’t bother you, because you caught Dean squinting at you over his lunch. Just to remind him who he was messing with, you tapped your teeth and stuck your tongue out at him—Dean found the lettuce you were pointing to and pouted as he worked it out of his incisor.
“Can I have a beer too, if that’s okay?” Sam asked. He picked up his fork and turned over the salad Ma had made for him, warmed with gratitude. It really had been a while since he’d eaten anything homemade. “This looks amazing. I don’t know how you have all the time to put this all together, Beth.”
Ma squinted at him, then relaxed with realization. “Of course. Sorry… For a second there, I forgot you’re old enough to drink,” she chuckled and disappeared into the retro, rounded-off fridge to one side of the kitchen.
When Sam’s head was turned, she hung in place and devoured the three of you with her eyes. You could feel her basking in it, memorizing the sight of each of you, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Both of you had been captured by deja vu today. The world was right when Dean was chowing down across from you and you were fighting Sam’s legs for territory under the table, like always.
Ma cleared her throat. “And I enjoy cooking, you know that, Sam. I’m just happy to have somebody to cook for. Sometimes the neighbors or our regulars will come up for dinner, but it’s not every day I get to treat my biggest eaters.”
The smell of your favorite lunch wafting up from your plate held all the power of a comfort potion, and after the first bite you felt the tension wound in your joints dissolve. It tasted like summer wind, when your mom would pack a picnic and take the three of you to the park…
Once, a group of little kids your age had begged the boys to join their baseball game in the field there, probably imagining their tough, jaded faces made them amazing players. Sam had just left soccer behind and was eager to play a sport. Dean was all for schooling some punk middle schoolers. You remembered him, maybe thirteen or fourteen, helping you off the grass, assuming without question that you were invited too—because they’d asked Dean, and you followed him around like a third arm. But the kids wouldn’t bite. All that dumb playground shit about girls and sports and cooties. It hadn’t felt great, but Dean used to throw that same kind of stuff at you because he was a bit of a stupid kid, so you were used to it. Sam had insisted that he wouldn’t play without you, sporting a mean grin that looked a little strange on his shy face. You’re losing your best hitter.
Still, the kids had shoved you off. Both the boys had really wanted to join—they didn’t get the opportunity to play without getting in trouble for not “lying low”, so you figured they’d give up and go play without you. It was fine. Sam was lying; you were an awful shot. You were the girl, so you were used to it.
That’s when your mother had emerged from the trees, glowing in the high noon sun, the shadow of the baseball she was tossing and catching in one hand bouncing across her face. You still remembered the white sundress she’d worn. She’d known, she always knew, so she’d packed a ball and a bat too. Let’s play our own game, she’d suggested, and her little army of three had merrily lined up after her. With Dean as pitcher and Sam in the outfield, she’d taught you to hit. You insisted to this day that the wooden bat she’d brought with her was flimsy, but Sam and Dean swore that it was solid all the way through—that your eleven-year-old self had really splintered it in two hitting a home. They’d gone wild, Sam waving the ball around, Dean picking you up and running in circles, the two of them chanting: Mean Swing! Mean Swing! Mean Swing!
You wondered now if your mom had orchestrated it somehow, but that would be impossible. As afraid as you were to go home, to this old ass house with its older portraits, there were other, better things to come back to.
Beth pulled a chair up to the edge of the table, resting her elbows across the back. She laid two beers down in front of the boys, the kitchen windows throwing soft blue-gray light across her figure, and watched fondly as Dean opened his. He took one sip, and the moment he put it down you captured it and stole one of your own.
“You hear anything from our Dad?” Dean asked, putting every ounce of his focus into the napkin under his plate.
“No,” your mom was careful to reply, “but you don’t have ta’ worry, he disappears like this often. I’ve learned not to be too stressed about him, but for your sake I did put word out. I’ll keep looking, but you know your dad—his list of hunting buddies is as short as my patience. I’m not going to hear much.” Her eyes slid away from her hands to you, and you got the impression she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “____? You’ve been real quiet.”
It wasn’t a malicious probe. She was just curious, and by the soft fondness in her face you felt like she was fascinated by your inner world. You talked plenty about Sam being the only one to be genuine about understanding your Gift, but your mother was right there beside him, not just understanding but appreciating, too. Sometimes she looked at you like she knew she’d given you a terrible burden. Neither of you like the Gift. Other times, there was relief and pride there, where it looked to her as if you were doing everything she wished she could do. Run away from your last name. Run away from the parlor, and the eye brand you shared.
(But still. She’d always read with the palm of her hand, eye forward, and you hid behind your knuckles instead).
For a moment you considered pushing back on the John thing, but if your mom was choosing to cover for him, she’d go to grave about it. After all, you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for Sam or Dean. The future could give each of you all sorts of reasons to protect them.
“Just remembering things.” You answered her, thumbing your carnelian ring, “How long has it been since we’ve had a movie night?”
“I think it’s too cold to put up the projector in the garden,” Ma said, tapping her lip, “but we can always use the TV in the living room—thing’s busted to shit, but it’s not awful.”
Dean threw an arm over the back of his bench. “S’ not giving you trouble again, is it?”
“No, it’s useable,” Ma lifted her head, “but actually, Dean honey, now that you’re finished, the bathroom sink’s all broken again. Do you think you could…?”
Dean was already up, dish in hand. “You got it,” he said, and jabbed a finger between you and Sam, “Just don’t pick anything stupid, capiche? No girly shit, or nerdy shit, or whatever you girly nerds like to watch in your free time.”
As soon as Dean had dragged the toolbox out from under a cabinet and disappeared with it, you knocked your arm against Sam’s and conspired, “So… Legally Blonde?”
Sam broke out into a hesitant, closed-lip smile. He seemed a little caught off guard by the joke, but he was your minion before anything else, and indulged most of your evil plans. “Nerdy. Girly. Sounds like a plan to me.”
“You’re my favorite,” you elbowed him, maybe fishing a little too hard for something to cheer him up. If it was possible, in any sense of the word, to cheer someone up after losing someone like Jess.
It seemed to have an effect, even if it was a minor one. Sam’s lip quirked, “I know.”
“Thank you, Han and Leia,” your mother said, dryly, and mirrored Sam by folding her neat hands on the tabletop. “Now… tell me about, your, um…”
She was going to bring up Stanford, then realized what a terrible idea that was. You filled in, “...Our last hunts?”
“No,” your mother laughed, recoiling a little in her disapproval. Seamlessly, she rolled into another subject, and you were forced to fight a little with your own awkwardness. Ma said, “Oh, I remember. These last weeks I’ve had this brother and sister coming in for readings…”
She descended into the story, keeping you and Sam entertained while dodging the subject of Stanford, where you’d been for the last month, and why you’d been gone in the first place. There was no need to talk about it. Ma already knew, and watching Sam act less and less like himself just hurt all three of you. Sometimes she’d reach across the table to squeeze his closed fists or push your plate a little closer to you, but beyond that she only observed Sam for a reaction. This was not just the kid she’d half-raised walking back into her life, but a porcelain vase scrambling to patch the cracks as they came.
Sam spent most of the time chewing slow and unwinding slower. Of course, him being the way he was, he was just thankful she hadn’t scorned him for getting out while he could. He knew he hadn’t just left John, Dean, and you behind, but Beth and Bobby too.
“That reminds me,” Ma hummed halfway through one of her stories, “That cousin hunter duo, the two girls from Arkansas, they came in last week and asked to see you. I told them that I could help them if they’d like, but they insisted on only seeing you! As confused as I was, I gotta admit, I was a little proud—they’re your first regulars, baby!” She bustled over to the sink, her palm winking at you as she walked, “I got my first customers like that a little earlier than you, when I was nineteen. But I guess you beat me out, what with the boys getting fortunes from you when you were little n’ all.”
Since her back was turned toward the sink, you were allowed to physically deflate. “Oh… I don’t remember them.”
“I gave em’ your number,” your mother brightened, and started to arrange the dishes for washing. “Honestly, I’m surprised your address book isn’t full! You’ve always been better than me at the personable part of it.”
Pathetically, you glanced at Sam like it was even possible for him to help you, and played with your carnelian ring. “The visions come easier to you.”
“Oh, but that doesn’t matter if you can’t talk to them. It’s more important to care about the people you’re giving visions to, if you really want to help them.” Ma glanced at you over her shoulder, crow’s feet wrinkling with her sigh. “I’ve been at this so long that I suppose I’m a little desensitized—but you, you always give a little piece of yourself away when you give your readings. I always wished I could be that giving.”
Sam cleared his throat, and with it you felt a bit of your composure gouged out of you. “Let me help with that,” he said, and filled her other side to assist with drying the plates.
Ma snorted, “Sam—”
Before she could get anything out about him sitting back down, Sam’s voice bowled right through her. The timbre of it was calm but forceful, and just the hint of memory in it knocked the breath out of you. It was the tone that started every argument he had with John—the voice swearing that he knew better, the voice that in another, luckier version of this life, would make him a damn good lawyer. Your fists snapped shut beneath the table.
“She is really giving,” he agreed, with just enough heat to make your gut drop. “Every day, she’s out there straining her Gift, n’ working it to the bone for people she hasn’t even met. I never really got to see her doing both until now, being a hunter and a Proctor.” He snapped a cabinet shut, and punctuated, “But she can do both.”
Your mother sharply dropped a bowl into the filled sink. Biting your tongue, you watched her raise her all-seeing gaze to Sam’s, a reply stirring in her throat. But she cared about the two of you too much to press him or you or his grief. This argument had been stirred between the two of you for years now. It came back into circulation every few months, so there wasn’t even a little anger in her face. She just tilted her head at him, curious, and sorted through what he’d said. It’d been two years since Sam had stood up for you at the smallest threat, and something about that had made your mother emotional.
(Sam had never cared about hunting. He despised what it meant to be a good hunter, and that left you wondering what he meant by that. That you could do both).
“I suppose I haven’t seen her do both, then,” she said.
And she let it go.
_
You were dreaming, but a part of you was bracing for a vision.
Usually the distinction between the two was obvious. Your own dreams sat in the cloud of your mind, the edges of each image or moment fizzing with your consciousness. Visions on the other hand totally subtracted your presence, simply dropping the feelings and pictures on top of you. It was the difference between a touch from your own hand versus the touch of a stranger’s. Ironically, it was safer to get visions of someone you didn’t know. Seeing the boys or your mother always hurt more.
That’s why you weren't certain this was just a dream. The fog of your own mind blurred the corners of every frame, but it hurt, buzzing in your beehive skull. It had to be a combination of both or something else, the clear future blended and muddled by your more human dreams.
You were dreaming as Sam: standing barefoot in the mud, watching a hunting cabin burn even in the rain. The drops were hissing against the choking, smoking blaze, not strong enough to make a difference but persisting anyway. A part of you, the Sam part, knew that even a hurricane couldn’t cleanse the fire. Your fingers and lips were blue with cold. But something inside you, living in your blood, was singeing you from the inside out. It was so hot that you ripped off your jacket and your pajama pants and itched, because your limbs were frosting over but you’d started the fire. Dean was hauling you up, and you were driving, and driving, and Dad was pissed and terrified. I forgot to blow the candles out, you—Sam—sobbed, but he knew he was lying. He didn’t sleep and he didn’t touch wood or candles or go near the fireplace at Bobby’s, because through the walls he’d heard Dean ask: Was it the thing that killed Mom? And Dad had said, I’m going to find out.
Had he?
Sam—you—were on your stomach, sinking into your mattress. Something hot dropped onto your neck. A second time. Both tears of molten iron slid down your skin and into your collar, and you knew without looking that there was an altar on your ceiling—knew without looking that Jess was being sacrificed there, even if the dream forced you to look. You saw her. She was crying, and mouthing Sam’s name. The room dissolved into skin-bubbling cabin flames.
You, or Sam, were standing on the side of the road—and then you were sure it was Sam, because he could feel you behind him, desperately trying to coax him back towards the Impala. A dog had been clipped by a truck and left in the grassy ditch. At a distance, it didn’t look like a dog. Just the vague outline of roadkill. All Sam could see was the waves of bloody blonde hair in the grass and all he could feel was the air puttering out of him, hitching and heaving. Your hand was cupping his back, then his neck, and Sam flinched. The blood had burned into his skin.
Then Sam was somewhere else, anywhere else. A motel or a house, it didn’t matter. He was in bed on his stomach again, hand clamped against the cresting sobs searing out of him. He knew what came next. It always happened, no matter how hard he fought or prayed before he went to sleep. Sam was pushed onto his back. Some nights it was Dean or Jess or Mom, and he always knew when it’d be Mom because, paradoxically, hers were always the most vivid. But this time it was you; and you were trembling with terror but you were also braving it, like you always had for him, and a seeping wound smiled its way across the belly of your nightgown. You didn’t scream. You just wept, staring at him. You didn’t say Sam’s name or cry out for him. All you said was, it’s okay, and that terrified him more than anything.
The molten blood dripped. Sam was too pinned to even squirm, to twist away, so the blood splattered onto his cheek and slid neatly into the closed line of his mouth. He could smell the iron. It tasted… It tasted…
You woke up, heart roaring in the ringing silence.
The memories of the dream sludged together, poorly translating in the transition from sleep logic to waking logic. You ran your tongue over your lip, feeling the dry, cracked skin there, and jolted up in bed.
The third story of the Proctor House was technically the attic, and on nights like these, it felt like it. Your childhood bedroom was shrouded in blue darkness, the kind that could take a limb if you dared to put your arm inside it. The room was made darker in contrast by the long square of silver moonlight carpeting the old floorboards. Your curtains fluttered on their own, shifting even when the wind wasn’t murmuring through the cracks in the panes. The entire house seemed to breathe, a dying man on a respirator, his death groaning through the walls and door frames in the old house. What sat between the cresting whispers of the wind was easily worse: long, disturbing silences that watched you sleep.
You stopped. There was a gentle crackling noise, like something was putting its hands flat to the windows and pressing. Sleep was still muddling your brain a little, so it took a bit for clarity to melt back into you, and for you to remember:
The rest of the day had been spent in your mother’s living room, you crammed in between the boys on the couch and your mom lounging in her wingback. Dean stopped suffering through Legally Blonde about twelve minutes in and started to enjoy it, the stress melting out of him through contact with your shoulder. Squished between him and Sam, you lent one ear to the movie and another to Sam and Ma talking avidly about the book he was reading. That had dissolved into another movie, and after that Ma had called it a night. Being on the road so long had killed the three of you, so you disappeared up into your old bedroom and the boys insisted on taking the living room. For a few minutes after you heard them fighting over who would take the couch. Then Ma had thrown an uninflated air-mattress out at them and told them to shut up, followed by a night’s worth of peaceful silence.
All of it had passed in a sunny haze, even if the first snow was fast approaching. As you’d brushed your teeth you’d felt a sense of impermanence, though, and argued away the feeling with your reflection. John wasn’t coming to pick the boys up tomorrow. The next few weeks wouldn’t be canyons of radio silence. Your wish had come true, in the ugliest possible way.
Now, you crossed the clinging silence of your room on light feet. Your dagger hung casually in your other hand, just in case. In this house you didn’t technically have to salt the room, but you’d already finished the windows when you remembered that. Similarly, it was second nature to wake up at random to check the lines, so in the navy darkness you crouched before your closed bedroom door and straightened the granules with the flat of your knife.
The only sound in the entire house seemed to be the soft scrape of the blade against the floor. Then, the softer squeak of the stairs just outside your room.
Brandishing your dagger, you held your breath. Someone’s lungs hitched. You didn’t want to wake the whole house if this wasn’t a demon or a hunter breaking in, so you quietly wedged the ancient door open and peered out. It was cast in total darkness. The pale blue moonlight from your room seeped out into the hall and passed through the banister, throwing ghostly shadows across a broad figure’s back.
Immediately, you dropped your dagger on your dresser and stepped out. “Sam?”
He didn’t turn around. His shoulders were trembling like the shivering muscle in a horse’s flank, scaring away flies. The bone-deep, unconscious sort of shaking that no actor could mimic, that didn’t look right on a person in real life. Sam’s head was tilted back to get the full scope of the staircase’s wall.
The pictures there were hard to discern in the dark, but Sam had wandered back to them so many times in his life that he didn’t need to see them. He always lingered on the stairs whenever you passed them. Beth had given Sam his own copies of them ages ago, but if you had to guess, Sam wasn’t magnetized to the wall because of the memories there. He always came back to them because of what they represented.
Most of the photos, in their mismatched frames, were of you. There was a grouping of your baby photos, each little ___ in lace dresses and pink hair bows; a cute-faced toddler on her father’s shoulders, wearing matching biker shades and smolders; you being kissed to death by your mom after your first day at school. Somewhere along the way two strangers had crept in. Sam saw a framed candid of an eight-year-old, long-suffering Dean wiping finger-paint off your face, which was glowing with pure admiration. (Because at age six, there was no one cooler to you than Dean Winchester). The one Sam hovered over the longest was of you and him, fresh to driving and posing for junior prom. A few more dotted the physical timeline of your life; the giant werewolf snowman you’d made together, Sam’s spelling bee victories, Dean and Ray—your dad—working on cars together.
Most of them, including the ones with Sam and Dean, were in one massive frame. It was inscribed with, the love of a family is life’s greatest gift.
“Sammy,” you touched his shoulder over the banister, praying for a response. “Did you—did you have a nightmare?”
It was so quiet that you could hear your heart aching, and like a question mark it didn’t have a precise sound—just a change in inflection at the end, an uptick or a downtick. The sound of worry in your chest was unquestionably a downtick.
His nickname drew him out of his paralysis. Sam swiped his wrist across his eyes, and hovering on the stairs, a soft weeping hiss seeped out of him. “I-I didn’t wanna wake you up,” he said through his teeth.
You rounded the newel and dropped down a step as silently as you could. Sam turned, now level with you on different steps, and softened in surprise. “Hey, what’s—” you started, but shut your mouth the moment you met his open, searing gaze.
“You’re crying,” Sam said at the same time as you, reaching out.
You tongued the corner of your lip, tasting salt there. You really were crying. “Huh,” you said, and maybe you should’ve been a bit more bothered by it than you were. “Don’t worry, m’ okay. I must be picking up your feelings a bit.”
Sam’s expression collapsed with remorse. “God, I didn’t even think—I-I didn’t mean to affect you—”
You took Sam’s hovering arm and drew him into an exhausted embrace, bundling both arms around his neck and taking as much of his weight as you could. The difference in height between your steps gave you a rare opportunity to be just as tall as him, which was new and yet nostalgic. He used to be the perfect height to hug you. But this hug was for him, no matter how much he wanted it to be for you, too. Sam held strong and then immediately sunk, trusting you to catch him. The unconditional faith he put in you never failed to make your tear ducts burn, so no matter what you kept the two of you standing.
Another sob jerked out of him, and Sam dug his face into your shoulder and let it all out. But after two weeks of this, his well of tears had already dried, and all the bottling he’d done hadn’t contributed anything to their stores.
“It’s okay,” you soothed, shakily, “just breathe with me for a minute.”
Sam dug his fingers into the back of your sleep clothes, heavy and feverish with loss. He flinched away when your hand cupped his neck, which was raw and red from all his phantom itching, and you thought about stroking his hair instead. You were always the affectionate one—but you didn’t want to push Sam, not now. Not when it could mean you were filling someone else’s role.
You felt Sam’s hand tap across your back, slowing with realization. He twisted the fabric of your nightgown in one hand, and slow, mounting horror filled your chest as his palm pressed carefully into your belly. Searching for a wound that wasn’t there.
Sam pulled away, voice almost too broken to hear. “...Why are you wearing this?”
It was an oversized, long-sleeve shirt for sleeping in. The fabric was light blue—but in this light, it looked white, and the Nightmare on Elm Street text at the bottom looked like a gaping, crimson wound…
Your hands snapped to Sam’s shoulders, forcing him to look at you. “I’ll change.”
“M’ sorry, m’ sorry,” Sam repeated, “You don’t have to, I just—”
“Shh,” you said, feeling beyond stupid, “You got nothin’ to apologize for. Now, go in my room and get comfy. I’ll be back in a second.”
Sam didn’t look so sure. His legs were braced to run, ready to turn tail and forget he’d bothered you at all, but you were already slinking past him down the stairs. He uttered your name to argue, but you shut him up with a warm squeeze of his hand. “Don’t make me chase you, idiot. Go on. We’ll have a sleepover, just like when we were little.”
The fight in him died, and Sam, probably feeling a little pathetic, dropped his numb shoulders at his sides. He pressed his lips together and trudged into your room. You waited until his shadow interrupted the moonlight, then crept downstairs and hunted around for supplies: meds, water, and snacks.
When you returned, you were a little impressed with yourself for not waking up Dean. He had a sixth sense for these kinds of things, and as much as you loved the guy, you hadn’t had any serious time alone with Sam in two whole years. His brother had sort of been hogging him. Sam must’ve realized this too (or maybe you were projecting), because when you returned, he was sitting on the floor beside your bed—not fighting to go back to sleep under your watch, per the month’s routine.
Sam had also turned on your lamp, warming the void-like corners of your room with buttery light. In the most detached, innocent way you could manage, you thought to yourself that Sam looked beautiful. His face was too heartful and sweet to belong to cold, blue darknesses. You thought about the last time you’d been alone with him, when he’d left for Stanford. Vile, self-loathing bubbled up out of you without your permission. You changed into a comfy flannel in the bathroom and tried not to think about it—you had moved on and Sam had moved on. Simple math.
You closed the heavy door of your bedroom with a click, and with the barrier between you and Dean’s bloodhound ears, you could talk at a normal volume. “Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?”
Sam’s hands stilled in his lap. “No. Probably not.”
“Fine by me,” you shrugged, and glided past him to the record player on your table. Compelled to do something with your hands, you mechanically popped in one of your mother’s oldies records and lowered the volume to comforting background noise. Maybe that would keep Dean from waking up at the sound of your voices.
“Your dick of a brother has been hogging you. It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve sat down and just talked like this.” You plopped down next to him and brought your knees up to your chest, already plowing through the bowl of blackberries. “Pray to whatever god you believe in, Sam, because I’m about to unleash on you two whole years of bottled-up rambling.”
His lip quirked. “Dean doesn’t sit through your scientific conferences?”
“In the beginning,” (and what a strange phrase that was to use; there was a beginning and now an end to Sam’s absence in your life), “he tried, I think. But after two days of me explaining black holes to him, he sorta gave up.”
Sam emptied some headache meds into his hand. “How’d you do it, then?”
“Do what?” You tried to avoid thinking about how wet his eyes still were.
“Survive.” Sam snorted. “I mean, last year was huge for all the stuff you geek out about—all those exoplanet discoveries, the Mars rovers making it past their expiration date—”
You slapped Sam’s knee and practically shrieked, “Or finding proof of water on Mars!” He started smiling, so you hooked an arm around his shoulders and shook him until he was laughing at your excitement too. “Water—you know, the stuff microbial aliens might’ve lived in? Oh my god, don’t even get me started!”
This was around the marker for when Dean would say, trust me, I won’t. Even if you were putting on a bit of a show to goad better feelings out of Sam, you knew by now that you were probably being annoying and backed off.
“By all means,” Sam leaned in, his eyes glittering with interest. “Microbial aliens?”
For that reason, it was really his fault that neither of you fell back to sleep. Microbial aliens turned into wendigo sleeping patterns, and that changed hands into an hour-long discussion of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Sam had tried Twilight, but the vampire lore had annoyed him too much for him to finish reading it. Stanford had kept him pinned to his law books beyond that. This derailed into another hour of complaining—”If I were a vamp I’d be so damn offended!”—about the accuracy of supernatural literature, which passed in the blink of an eye. You did a dramatic reenactment of Rick Grimes riding through zombie-infested Atlanta in volume one of The Walking Dead, including the impressions Dean did when he read it with you. Sam was in stitches.
The rhythm of the conversation felt circadian. You graduated from the rug to curl up on your bed, just an inch away from the edge so you could incline your face toward Sam’s. He hadn’t moved from the floor, but unwound there, wrists on his knees and a constant laugh in his chest. You buried any thoughts of his moles or the pencil-bump on his middle finger under your tongue, which was cottony from the hours of talking. He offered you the last sip from his water. You rolled onto your belly and took it, shamefully wondering if his lips had touched the same place on the glass.
“Dean actually read it with you?” Sam scoffed, brows disappearing into his bangs.
“Zombies. Guns. Apocalypse drama. That is so up Dean’s alley,” you snickered, dropping the glass on your nightstand. “We kinda got each other into comics again last summer—he forces me to reread Batman Year One every few months, for the culture.”
Sam’s face had been a canvas for honest color the last hour, so you noticed too quickly when that changed. This time, he did a pretty solid impression of you innocently detaching yourself.
“You and Dean are closer than I remember.” He commented plainly. Jealousy looked strange on him.
You hummed. “What d’ya mean?”
“You guys… read books together now. Share tapes, cook together… I don’t remember you doing anything like that when we were kids.” Sounding surprised, Sam added, “You’re best friends.”
Hearing that, you couldn’t help yourself. It was impossible not to burst out laughing. Sam’s head swiveled hard to throw you his, c’mon, give me break, brand of bitchface, so you humored him.
“We’ve always been best friends,” you promised. “Must’ve been less obvious then, cause’ you and me have always had more in common than me n’ Dean, but he’s always been my best friend. You both have.”
Sam ran a finger around the rim of the blackberry bowl, staring into the dredges like he could read them. “I guess I’m just thinking of how things were when I was, um, going to leave. I thought you two were,” his eyebrows raised, “...falling out.”
The because of me went unspoken by him, but you got the feeling that Sam didn’t fully grasp the battering ram he’d hit you with by leaving. John became even more ferociously driven. Dean had phases of clinging to him with both hands or going cold on you both, because he wanted his family together but couldn’t believe John had driven Sam away in the first place. It was hard to watch, but even harder to participate in. There was no doubt in your mind that Sam had made the right choice. You believed it enough to endure John booting you out for “putting ideas in Sam’s head,” and made sure to spit in the guy's face before hitchhiking home. There were all sorts of similar screaming matches at the time. Some nearly physical.
Dean had hunted you down himself, despite John’s orders, then paradoxically snarled at you for arguing with his dad at all. It encompassed the hypocritical loyalty he had for his father so perfectly that it only made you more upset. Thing was, you always turned to Sam when you felt that way—so by the time Dean’s energy for yelling hit empty, you were bunched up on the side of the road and sobbing into your hands. A part of you had hated him for not trying harder to support his brother. You’d killed yourself watching Sam walk away, and then a second time defending his choices from John. Dean hadn’t done a damn thing.
One more angry thought and you would’ve never spoken to him again. But you understood Dean, almost as much as you loved him, so you knew that his inaction weighed on him even more than it weighed on you. Given a second try, he would’ve fought tooth and nail for Sam to live the life he wanted.
Sam had every, every right to leave. Still, half of your soul had severed when he escaped. That was one thing you had in common with his brother.
But Sam hadn’t witnessed any of that. All he’d seen was the nuclear argument the week he’d left, and now magically you and Dean were attached at the hip. Two years of silent, methodical work had occurred when his back was turned, which was something you felt he deserved to know about.
Sam’s gaze was open and curious, so you didn’t shy away.
“We almost had a falling out, yeah,” you murmured, picking your nails. “I was pissed at Dean and he was pissed at himself. But if I’m being honest with you—and you can’t even hint that I said this, Sam…your brother was real lonely.”
I know I was too, you wanted to say, but the words tasted like a guilt trip. Sam could guess, anyway.
“He had Dad. And you.” It sounded like something he told himself often.
“That’s what you’d think.” You sighed. “But John went quiet on us pretty quick, so it ended up just being me. Dean, y’know, kept waiting for me to shut him out. And it just never happened. He pushes people away when he gets like that… so it surprised me when he offered to help me rebuild The Chief.”
Sam had been marinating with the knowledge that John had mourned him, hands folded over each other in his lap and seared white by his own grip. It was The Chief that had him whirling to look at you again. He was suddenly on his knees at your bedside, a soup of surprise and old grief mixing achingly on his face. You thought there might’ve been some pride in those charged brown eyes too.
“You’re joking,” Sam breathed, incredulous, “Your dad’s motorcycle? I thought it was destroyed in his accident?”
You resisted the urge to lean away from his proximity, and it was all too easy to stay in. Shrugging one sleepy shoulder, your voice ticked up: “Basically. The remains sat in the garage for years, rotting away into scrap metal. Dean kept reminding me that my Dad had wanted me to inherit it, and eventually we fixed it up together.”
Sam caught your wrist. “Where is it?”
“The garage,” you sat up, grinning despite yourself. “Do you wanna see it?”
_
Like bandits, you and Sam hurtled into your jackets and planned to escape out into the night. You both knew the house by touch, so you navigated easily through the dark apartment, giggling and hushing each other as you slipped past Dean. You thought you saw him lift his head in the darkness, but it gradually fell back onto his couch pillow. It’d been a long time since you and Sam had been able to slip away together.
The garage was a stout little building across the alley, filled to the brim with the discarded memories of a dozen generations of Proctor. It was cold enough to see your breath in the air ahead of you, so you and Sam bundled close as you skirted quickly across the alley. The walk was maybe twenty steps from the backdoor, but it felt like any other time you and Sam had run off as teens. The unfallen snow waited in the silent air. Frost grew like moss on the pavement. You caught yourself preparing to turn right, which after a short walk would lead you to the nearest 24-hour convenience store. You and Sam rarely had money for yourselves growing up, so sometimes you would pool your resources and share a jumbo slushie, which you traded sips from huddled together on the pavement. It was too cold for that now.
While you fought with the garage’s side-door, Sam dropped his hands into his pockets and stared down the endless length of your street’s back alley. From here, you could make out the shadows of chain-link fences thrown across the tarmac. It was so silent you thought you could hear the tinking of moths against porch lights. You felt his hand brush your back. For no reason at all a stomach’s worth of butterflies roared over you, but you knew he was just reaching for your dagger in case something crawled out of the dark. The house was warded; not the slim strip of street behind it.
“Open sesame,” you murmured when the lock was close to giving. Finally, the ancient door groaned open, gliding inward to reveal a wealth of rich cobweb-y darkness.
A single sconce bathed you both in amber light. You threw a grin at Sam underneath it, and gestured for him to enter the slightly-terrifying, cramped murdershed. “Gentlemen first,” you flourished, smirking.
The sound trailed off—Sam was already looking at you, and intensely. The tips of his nose and ears were rosy from the cold, but his cheeks were especially red, coloring him down into his collar. He glanced away from you and lost a bit of the pigment.
“You’re twelve,” Sam muttered. But he really was a gentleman, since he graciously led the way inside.
The darkness was less intimidating once you were inside it. Your eyes adjusted after a few blinks, then you could make out everything you and Dean had left here last summer. There were huge wooden shelves of random bins and shit, then tall metal tool chests that Dean had put wheels on decades ago. The bike had been finished by spring of Sam’s first year gone, so the last time you’d driven it was the following summer. You hadn’t touched it since. That probably should’ve disappointed you and Dean, but it was less about riding it and more about the cheesy, Hallmark movie time you’d spent putting it back together.
“Here?” Sam said, approaching the heavy tarp you’d thrown over it.
“Here,” you agreed, and hit the button on the wall which retracted the garage door. The motor rumbled it up, slowly exposing the silhouette of the bike to the moonlight. “Would you like to do the honors?”
Sam found a fold in the top, hefted it up and pulled. As expected, The Chief had hosted an entire realm of spiders while you’d been gone. Sam hardly cared. A laugh bubbled out of him, ecstatic and young, and in a daze of nostalgia he ran his hands over the familiar chrome and leather motorcycle. Chief reminded you of the cowboys from Dean’s favorite westerns. She was a steely sonuvabitch, with a tall windshield, a broad, muscled body, and three glaring headlights mounted on the front. The frame was a deep water blue with soft beige accents. Even if she’d been almost entirely rebuilt, you and Dean chose to keep the quirks that made her charming.
“Man,” Sam whistled. “She looks exactly the same!”
The Impala had the toy army man Sam had crammed into the ashtray in the backseat, and Dean’s legos were still rattling in the radiator to this day. Similarly, the Chief still had the B+R heart drawn in sharpie on the saddlebags. You’d torn a line in the passenger’s perch when you were little, and your mom had sewn it shut with pretty blue thread. What was new was the long, jagged scar in the head of the body. You had tried everything to get it out, had even painted over it, but the mark from your Dad’s crash was still there.
“You and Dean did this together?” Sam asked. He acted like you and Dean had never even looked at each other before, and silently you wondered if your argument with Dean two years ago had really been that terrible. It was apparently grave enough to wipe Sam’s memory of any friendship you and Dean had ever had.
“It was his peace offering, I think,” you cleared your throat. “He arranged everything with Ma, then surprised me one day with lunch and offered up the idea. It was… It was really sweet. Dean, he’s… he can be—”
“A closed-off asshole?” Sam offered. You huffed out of your nose and swatted him on the shoulder, but it was hard to even jokingly scold Sam when he was lit up like that. He crouched beside the bike, admiring the work that’d gone into it.
“Yeah. But a bit of a sucker, too. He loves you and he loves me, and it was one of those times where he was desperate enough to show it,” you shrugged. “We spent months in this garage, fixing it up. I learned a lot from him. So… yeah. I guess this is why we’re closer than you remember.”
All the spiders grossed you the hell out, but you kind of wanted to be a big girl for Sam, so you grabbed one of Dean’s old rags off the shelf and wiped down the seat and handlebars. Sam stepped back to watch you work; there was a similar admiration in his eyes then, too.
“I love it,” he gushed, “You guys did a great job. I know it must’ve been hard for you, after your Dad.”
Sam was full of sincerity, as usual, but the fact that he talked about it at all was refreshing. It’d been more than ten years since your dad had died, but Dean still kept his mouth shut and your Mom always changed the subject. You knew that they were mourning too—he’d been a partner and teacher, as well as your father. But you’d been ready to talk about him again for a long time. Not his death, but his life, which was understandably harder. Dean and your Mom just weren’t the type to roll that way, but Sam had studied how grief festered with age. He’d let you talk.
“It made me feel closer to him, to be honest with you. I don’t know if you remember, but we used to joke that he had two great loves in his life: my mom, and the Chief,” you snickered.
“I’m sure Beth enjoyed that,” Sam replied, dryly. He hovered at your shoulder while you cleaned up the bike, close enough to put you in the bubble of his warmth.
“Oh, she pouted, but deep down I know she loved it just as much as him.” It only took a little to make the bike gleam again, so once again your hands were left with nothing to do. You tossed the rag back on a shelf, hyper-aware of Sam and the two helmets hooked on the wall. “They took the Chief on their first date. She used to say that she fell in love with my dad on this bike.”
Sam leaned against the saddlebags with crossed arms, rolling a question around in his mind. The night was so soundless that you could hear a pin drop a block down. But it was a peaceful silence, with room in the air for thought, so you looked at Sam and tried not to explode with joy. It’d been weeks now, and you were still blown away that he was here in person. That you had him all to yourself again. Standing across from you, Sam seemed to glow with the same soft relish.
Unlike Sam and Dean, you’d had the fortune of growing up in a place with roots. You had a childhood home and a hometown. When you went to school, you went there until you graduated, and people knew you and you knew them. You had friends. Girls that you’d known since kindergarten, boys who’d been coming to your birthday parties since you were in diapers. But your lunch table-mates, your lab partners, and study buddies—not even one of them could even imagine what your real life was like. What you were really like. The only people who’d ever actually understood you had all been passengers on The Chief: your parents, Dean, and Sam.
“You should take it with when we leave tomorrow,” Sam suggested, smiling down at his warped reflection in the handlebars. “It’d be real handy to have two vehicles, I think, and you can get some use out of all the work you put into it.”
You probably should. It was a good, reasonable idea, but the picture of yourself alone on your bike, chasing the Impala’s exhaust… “I prefer the Impala’s backseat. S’ more roomy,” you smiled at your shoes. “Maybe I’ll take her tomorrow. But I don’t think I could ever handle riding it by myself for long.”
“Well,” Sam hummed. He pushed himself off The Chief, and you took that as a sign to leave. Stupid, childish disappointment welled in your chest, but it was your fault for hoping for something that wouldn’t happen. Sam was tired. He didn’t have time for teenage rebellion, not now.
Sam reached over your head. You thought he was going to collapse the garage door, but instead he unhooked a driving helmet from the wall. He offered it to you, a rebellious smile dimpling his cheek.
“I’m here, and I’m with you. Shall we?”
You double-taked. Wild, fervid excitement reignited in your limbs. You took the helmet, observing him carefully. “It’s past midnight. You haven’t slept in days. Are you sure?”
Sam got a helmet off the wall for himself, but thunked it onto the driver’s seat of the bike. Then he was suddenly in your space, dropping your heart into your boots and thudding it up into your throat in one simple step, rendering you still just by coming closer. It was different when Sam was the one initiating contact. The ball wasn’t exactly in your court this time, and there was no way he didn’t see it in your face because that’s all he was looking at. The helmet was taken from your hands, then set carefully onto your hair and over your face. You could feel his hands cupping either side of your head. Sam flicked up the visor so he could see you more, and pitifully your knees turned to jelly.
“Of course I’m sure. I trust you,” he promised, squeezing your shoulders. “Now, c’mon. I haven’t ridden this thing in years! We don’t have to drive long, I swear.”
Sam tugged on his own helmet and you sighed until your chest felt tight. It wasn’t obvious that he’d been crying just a few hours before, but you could still feel it in him. The difference between now and then comforted you. He was happy; he still could be happy, once this was all over.
When he didn’t get an immediate answer, Sam slyly commented: “You know, you called me your favorite earlier today. Seeing as I’m your favorite, I think that means you should drive me—”
“Alright, alright!” You laughed. “Get on the damn bike, Winchester. Just a few minutes, then we’re coming right back. You are such a snot.”
“Your favorite snot,” Sam reminded, and didn’t waste any time hopping onto the pillion.
Your mother and father had fallen in love on this bike. You’d put it back together with Dean, who was your best friend as much as he was your brother. But Sam—he’d always lived in his own realm, where he was both within your family and outside it. He was special.
This truth dug a little deeper into you than it usually did as you mounted the driver’s seat. Sam’s gangly legs were all in your way, his knees pressing into your thighs and his chest into your back. Even with the pillion being slightly elevated behind you, Sam made that distance feel small, snuggling closer without order and getting comfortable. The seats were freezing cold and so were the handles, but Sam was a furnace that melted any discomfort down the drain. You started the bike, and it rumbled to life like it’d been patiently waiting for the day you would come back. The motor’s throaty growl hit you like a punch to the teeth. It sounded exactly as it always had, when your dad was finally home after a long, faraway hunting trip.
You thought about your dad, and how he would race to get off his bike in time to catch your leaping hug; you thought about Sam making a point to talk about Ray when no one else would, and the little squeeze he gave you when The Chief pulled out of the garage. Sam shut the garage door behind you and together you peeled out into the cool, serene night.
You knew exactly why Sam didn’t fit a Dean mold or even a friend mold in your life. You knew why he felt special to you. But it would be murder to do that to Sam now, and you’d had enough of killing lately.
Summary: High school relationships were never meant to last so when Eddie decided he wants to settle, you decide to leave. Ten summers pass and you reunite in the most unusual way; Eddie being a suspect in murder and you, his defense lawyer.
tags: mentions of blood, murder, a blackeye and cut, swearing, sexual implications ,exes to lovers (?)(pls let me know if i missed anything)
Excerpt:
The color of your lipstick suited you, he thought. It was bold but classy. He wondered if those lips would still feel the same as the last time he tasted them. Then, his brain racked up the most sensual thoughts.
His heart raced and blood pumped faster as his thoughts wonder about how those boldly painted lips would feel wrapped around his—
“Mr. Munson?” You called and he snapped out of his thoughts. He searched your face and was relieved when he recognised concern. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you okay?”
Cut it out, Eddie. She’s not here for that and neither are you.
Likes, comments and reblogs are highly encouraged 🫶🏻
If someone told 16 year old Y/N that she’d be proposed to at 20 by the love of her life, she’d tell you she’d say yes.
Stuck in a small town in Indiana, there wasn’t anything bigger than building her own little family, waiting for her husband to come home from the plant or an office job and take care of her children. She’d probably take up a job as an Avon lady for all she cared, just like her mom and they would live out the generations to come in the same bungalow she grew up in.
But little girls learn to grow out of their fairytales. Castles become big corporate buildings and tiaras are replaced by framed diplomas.
“No.”
Eddie’s head snapped up and his smile faltered. He was hesitant to look around even though it was just you, him and the dozens of lit candles illuminating the fairly neat living space in his trailer. Usually it would be littered with empty soda cans and wrappings but today, he had cleaned up every crevice. The smell of weed and smoke drowned with cheap air freshener and a bunch of wildflowers took the place of the ashtray on the coffee table.
“What?” His extended hand holding the velvet box hung awkward in the air, not knowing if he should put it down or keep it up.
“Eddie, I can’t.” You shook your head as you watched his brows scrunch up in confusion then a tinge of hurt in his eyes. You’ve always loved his eyes. A contrast to his pale complexion, his orbs were dark and full of mystery. You could swim in it and never come up for air.
Cradling your temples, you ran your hands through your hair and went up to cover your face.
The air was stiff and the room suddenly turned cold despite the warmth emitting from the candles. Eddie didn’t speak as he stood up and combed through his wild locks and stared at the silver band in the box. It was the only ring in the pawnshop that actually held value so even if he desired to give you a ring with a sparkling rock on it, he couldn’t. Was it the ring?
“Is it the ring?” He voiced out his thoughts. “Because if it’s the ring, god, I could get you a better one when we come back from the gig in the city. It’s next week- if you could just wait, I could get it for you. I’d get it for you if that’s what you want.”
You huff through your hands and drop them down. “No, it’s not the ring.”
His breath hitched in his throat and suddenly, his palms were sweaty for all the wrong reasons.
“Then what is it, baby? You can tell me.” He ran a hand through is hair, neater and well kept than usual.
When you first started going out, you told Eddie that you liked it when his hair was down and uncombed. Somehow, the curls were more pronounced and shiny when untouched. You liked it that way. So even if it was like the fires of hell came up to the surface, Eddie never tied it up and barely combed through them.
You shut your eyes and blurted the next few words before you changed your mind. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” He hurriedly put the ring on the table. “Why? When are you coming back— you never said anything about leaving.”
“I have to go.” It’s like someone is clutching your chest, crushing you like an apple or an empty can. The ends of your fingers turned cold.
“Where are you going?” He took a desperate step closer to you and caught your freezing hands in his. He ran a thumb on your knuckles but your hands remained open.
The first time he held your hand, he was fumbling mess. It had been a week since you started dating but he was afraid to over step your limits. His van broke down on the way to your neighborhood so you opt to walk the remaining mile. The leaves crunched underneath your feet as you talked about random things but you could tell something was wrong. He’d play with his fingers, put it in his pockets and repeat. You took his hand to make him stop and his hand stayed relaxed within your tight grasp.
“I can wait. I can come with you and leave everything here. I’d do anything- everything for you.” He choked on a sob, ears and neck turning red.
“And that’s exactly the problem, Eddie. I can’t take you with me. I can’t do that to you.”
Your breath escapes you when he leans his head on your shoulder. “You said you loved me.”
“I do.” You held his warm cheek. “I love you, Eddie. And that’s why I can’t do that to you.”
He pulled you in closer by the waist, closing his fist on your shirt.
“I’m leaving for college and then when things go well, I’ll find a job there.” He noticed the lack of arms around him, yours staying at your sides.
“You’re leaving me.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s for the best, Eddie. We’re not ready for this.”
“You don’t know that.” He straightened, giving you a view of his face and you hated how his lips quivered with each word.
“Then what’s best for us?” You stepped back and he let you. “We wont’t be in high school forever. Where would we live— here?”
“What’s wrong here?” His voice almost cracked at how high it went.
You let out an exasperated huff. “Don’t you see, Eddie? Everything!”
He was taken aback by your sudden outburst but a flame was ignited in him too.
“You’ve barely graduated high school. No job, no house and you choose to do this?” You pointed at the ring. “I haven’t lived my life and I want to see the world, Eddie. Staying here won’t allow me that.”
“No one is stopping you, Y/N. You can still do that.” His pleading voice was rasp and creaky, desperate for you to hear him.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” You waited for his answer but you were met with silence.
After a while, he found his tongue. “Isn’t this what we always wanted? What we always talked about? You love me, don’t you?”
“We were kids, Eddie! Wake up. That—“ You fumbled on your words. “that shit was us being kids. Dreams? Love? That can’t feed us.”
He paced slowly, thumb coming up to swipe the tear on his lip. “So that’s it, then. You don’t believe in me? In us?”
“You’re not listening to me.” Your heart thumped in your ribcage and your face grew hot.
“Yet I heard every word.” He shook his head with a mocked laugh. “I knew someday you’d leave, anyway. Trailer trash, selling weed, playing in some shitty bar. I get it.”
“That’s not fair.”
He cut you off. “You’re not fair.”
Falling on the couch, he covered his face with his elbows on his knees while you stood in front of him. The silence made you want to throw up.
“I can’t do this with you.” Your fire burnt out and this was no longer worth the fight. You didn’t want it to end like this but your time is up.
“Goodbye, Eddie.”
——————————————————
You fingers flickered the edge of the paper within the thick folder on your lap, legs crossed as your back rested against the seat.
The sound of keyboards clacking, telephone ringing and copy machines whirring scratched at your brain and you took a sip of the black coffee in your hand. Closing your eyes once it hits your lips.
You had just finished a case when your supervisor handed you another case to work on, saying it was a high profile case and he was not wrong. Every news channel had it covered and within twenty four hours, the case had gone national.
Your head snapped up at the television perched on the corner of the wall as all actions halted around you and it seemed like the world had come to a pause.
[More updates on the Chrissy Carver case. Hawkins Police say a suspect is now finally arrested and held in custody but has yet to be named. Meanwhile, students and staff at Hawkins High School hold a vigil live tonight at the school grounds. Hundreds of residents gather to show sympathy and celebrate the life of their beloved teacher. At the front of the line, her husband and Hawkins County police deputy, Jason Carver, give a teary statement.]
The screen panned over to people holding candles and students comforting one another. Considering that Hawkins was a small town, it was no doubt that the whole community was present.
[Just this morning, Chrissy was reported missing by her husband after colleagues report her unexpected absence which was considered out of character for the bubbly teacher. A few hours later, two local residents report a body found in the woods near Forest Hills Trailer Park. Within hours, police had identified the body as twenty eight year-old Chrissy Carver.]
Her pictures flashed on the screen. Some were professional shots and most were moments snapped with friends and family. You brought the cup to your lips for another sip when the seat next to you was occupied by a familiar figure.
“Never would’ve expected our first meeting in ten years to take place here yet here we are.”
A smile carved its way to your painted lips and you turn your head to face the voice. “Nancy Wheeler?”
“Years of friendship and that’s all I get?” Her blue eyes stare at yours before she lets go of the tense expression and replaces it with a chuckle. She didn’t change a bit.
“Not even a ‘hey, Nance’? My full name, really? And by the way,” She raised a hand with a simple diamond on her ring finger. “It’s Byers now.”
“Holy shit, no way.” You shifted in your seat, unable to hide your smile. “I can’t believe I missed it.”
She shrugged.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Can’t forget a friend, I guess. At least that’s me.” She gave you a pointed look and you suddenly took interest in the dull, grey carpet under your feet.
Finding your tongue, you spoke. “What brings you here?”
She gestured to the voice recorder, notepad and pen in her hand. “Heard about the news. You?”
So she did become a journalist. Good for her, you thought.
You were about to speak when you were interrupted by the metal door opening. “Ms. Y/L/N.”
Nancy was swift to stand with you and she jogged to the door, her hair bouncing along. “Chief Hopper, if you would just give me a second. Could you give any information about the suspect?”
Jim Hopper. His hair and stubble had started to grey and his belly still protruded. Though the way he carried himself had a new sense of authority in him. Nothing like he was during the Byers’ case years ago like he was lost and drowning in sorrow. You wondered how you seemed.
Shaking the thought, you hurriedly picked your things up. Tucking the folder close to your chest; briefcase in one hand, you tossed the cup in a nearby garbage can and stood beside Nancy.
“Sorry, kid. Can’t release anything to you news rats yet.” Hopper adjusted the chunky belt around his hips and sniffed harshly as he leaned on the door to hold it open for you while his eyes avoided Nancy’s.
Tilting his head as a signal for you to get in, you fixed your posture and took a step.
“Catch you later.” You whispered as you passed Nancy.
Past the metal doors was a corridor with a few other doors down. You stood still beside the chief and waited for him to lead the way.
“This way, Ms. Y/L/N.”
“Y/N would be fine, chief.” You said as you adjusted your blazer.
“Ah, have heard about you. Hawkins’ rare success story.” He stuffed his hands in his pocket as he led you down the room.
“Wouldn’t you consider yourself as a success story?” You gaze fell on the badge pinned on his shirt and he took notice.
The chief shook his head with a tight lipped smile. “I don’t like to pat myself in the back.”
He cleared his throat and directed you to enter the room. It was a standard interrogation room save for the lack of two way mirrors and camera recorders.
“He should be here soon. Good luck, kid.”
With that, you were alone with your thoughts echoing throughout the walls of the window-less room. Your heart raced and your feet tingled in your closed-toe heels as if saying ‘run while you still can.’
Taking a deep breath and leaning back on the chair, your head hung in the air as the fluorescent pendant light burned into your eyes. You reached for a pen in your pocket and rhythmically tapped it on the wooden table.
You hummed a song in your head, recited the lyrics of the song playing on the radio, thought about the recipe of your favorite food or anything that helped take your mind off the impending doom you set for yourself when you agreed to take the case.
When you heard the clinking of keys and steps on the tiled floors, you straightened your stance. You debated whether to stand and approach the door or stayed seated. You leg jerked to stand but your body resisted when three figures stood in front of the door, one standing out from the rest.
They pushed him in and your breath hitched the moment he lifted his head. There was a slight stutter in his breathing too but you didn’t notice. Not when your eyes locked in on his purpling eyes and the cut on his lip.
Swallowing thickly, you stood. “Take a seat, Mr. Munson.”
His brain buzzed at the way you addressed him. No one ever called him that, let alone you.
And you? It had been ten years since he last saw you and with a snap of a finger, here you stand in front of him. This was like a fever dream but the stinging of his wrist told him otherwise.
Your eyes fel on the hands behind his back and with each hesitant step, you heard them clink together.
“You may free him.” You stood with oozing confidence and a bite in your tone.
The officers looked at you confused but you only raised a brow and tilted your head to say, I’m waiting. It took a second but they keyed the handcuffs open and Eddie hissed while massaging his wrists.
“We’ll be in the office. Please, take your time.” He took a seat and you close the door behind the officers as they left.
You circled back to take the seat right in front of him and you bit back the wince you almost made when you saw his full form under the light.
“Mr. Munson, huh? What happened to Eddie? Where’s the familiarity?” He sat there, charges of first degree murder creeping at him and he was still the same arrogant asshole you fell in love with. Beat.
You lifted your gaze at him and held it despite wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Ten years and he still had the same effect on you. Seeing him in this situation, you didn’t know how to feel but you didn’t want him knowing so you crossed your arms and gave him a sigh of indifference.
“This relationship is purely professional.” You busied yourself with the papers in the file. “My clients are addressed as Mr, Miss, or Mrs. and you shall address me as such.”
Eddie felt his heart flinch at your tone. As if you didn’t leave him crying on the floor like a teenage boy. Here you were, in front of him in your fancy dress shirt and tight pencil skirt while he sat all beaten up. Once, you and him were just plain old Eddie and Y/N. Now, you were Ms. Y/L/N while he remained just Eddie.
“I know how to call you, professionals. I’m not stupid. Only joking, Jesus.” There was a hint of annoyance at his voice so he coughed it out.
He never expected to meet you after a nasty parting, not like this. Nobody really wants to meet their ex in a prison let alone be handled by one after a murder accusation.
A minute passed and he started again.
“Mrs.?” He was testing the waters. He tried not to let his tone reveal him too much so he averted his gaze.
“Miss.” You cleared your throat.
He watched attentively as you spoke about his rights and all other protocols. He watched as your eyes stayed focused on the paper, occasionally flickering at him to check if he understood. His gaze trailed down to your lips as it moved elegantly, words spilling out of it like bubbles.
The color of your lipstick suited you, he thought. It was bold but classy. He wondered if those lips would still feel the same as the last time he tasted them. Then, his brain racked up the most sensual thoughts.
His heart raced and blood pumped faster as his thoughts wonder about how those boldly painted lips would feel wrapped around his—
“Mr. Munson?” You called and he snapped out of his thoughts. He searched your face and was relieved when he recognised concern. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you okay?”
Cut it out, Eddie. She’s not here for that and neither are you.
His eyes opened when he heard you sigh. “I know this is a hard time for you but I need you to work with me.”
Your tone was familiar. It was the one you’d use when he would wake up covered in sweat and out of breath. You would wrap your arms around him and coo, everything’s gonna be okay.
He nodded and you relaxed on your seat. “Before we start, is there anything I can get for you? Water?” He nodded again.
The seat scraped harshly against the floor when you pushed out of your chair to talk with the officers out in the lobby. His eyes doesn’t miss the natural sway of your hips as you walked out with your pointed heels and he almost pinched himself to resist his inappropriate thoughts.
She’s here to help, don’t be a jackass… But Jesus, those legs.
He’s going insane.
—————————————————————————
“This,” You lifted the recorder in your hand. “will record everything in this official exchange just for my own use should I ever need to go back to details or the likes. Everything between us is confidential.”
He took a sip of water and nodded.
“Great.” You pressed record. “Mr. Munson, I will need you to recount all the events before the morning Chrissy was found. Tell me every thing that happened the day before and don’t miss out on any detail. I don’t like surprises in court.”
Despite the water, his throat dried up as he recounted the day’s events. He’d been under so much pressure since he got here but he knew to ask for an attorney seeing as his reputation in town has never been the best. Just his luck that this certain attorney, was you, out of the goddamn people.
He tried to open his mouth and speak but nothing comes out, not knowing where to start.
You recognised the look on his face so you decided to step in. “How about we start with the morning you woke up?”
He nodded again and started to talk. An hour in the conversation and Eddie had finally relaxed a little, though his guard was still up.
“So you go to work, there’s witnesses surely. Your co-workers, your time-in records, right? Okay.” You scribbled on your notepad as a reminder to check in later. Twirling your pen in your hand, you gesture him to continue.
He started to stutter and you watched him closely, letting him know you’re still there. “I come home at about ten and just laid on the couch. At around eleven, I receive a knock at the door. Usually, regulars come later in the night and with notice but I just thought maybe this was a quick one, y’know?”
You tilt your head. “Regulars?”
He gulps. “My customers.”
Then, you got it. “Ah.”
“Yeah.” He wanted to shrink in his seat. he had already exposed his failed life. The reason you left him and thinking about it, he did not blame you one bit.
“I open it and it’s Chrissy.”
You leaned forward, intrigued.
“I’ve never dealt with her since high school, occasionally. But nothing recent. Yeah, I see her in the streets here and there but we haven’t talked or anything. Let alone this, right. So I was shocked to see her there.”
Somehow, this reminded you of the times he’d open up to you in that hidden bench in the clearing by the school woods. You’d talk about random things, talking until the skies turned dark.
“I ask her and she says she needs something to relax or some shit. I offer her the usual shit I give to the lightweights but she says she needs something harder.”
“And did you give her?” You trailed, impatient to wait for the answer.
“Yeah.” But he shook his head immediately. “I mean, no.”
You furrowed your brows and Eddie frantically spoke to ease you again.
“No, I was going to. I left her by the door but when I came back, she was gone. I-“ His brain ran faster than his mouth. “I was gone for about five minutes, I couldn’t remember where I put the K but I swear when I came back, she wasn’t there. I looked around and called for her. I thought y’know, maybe she bailed.”
You bounced your leg as thoughts swam in your head.
“So this,” You gestured in the air, looking for the right word to use. “exchange. Did anybody see you two?”
Eddie scoured his brain. He was exhausted. “I don’t know. Usually people at the park are still out by that time but I have no idea. No.”
“No? or I don’t know?” You pushed.
He snapped. “I don’t know, okay?! One moment she was there and the next, I’m held in this fucking jail cell!” He heaved in his hands, elbows resting on the table.
You swallowed thickly and gathered your notes in one pile and stacked it inside the briefcase. Reaching for the recorder, you pressed stop while looking at your wristwatch.
Eddie lifted his head, wary of the silence. You took a deep breath before speaking.
“I’m afraid that’s all I have for today as this is very last minute, I’m really sorry Mr. Munson.”
He ran his hands through his face. “Eddie.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow to collect more information. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
You packed your things and reached for the door. Eddie caught a whiff of your perfume and he made sure to lock it in his mind.
You stepped back and rested a neatly folded scarf on the table, “Did you do it?” His head snaps up and meets your gaze.
It wasn’t necessary for you to ask clients since no matter what, you had to defend them. Apart from that, it was also inappropriate. Then, there’s the fact that they could lie. But you couldn’t help yourself.
“No.” He searched your expression but failed to see one. Your eyes had a firewall and it seemed you had really perfected your profession.
“When will they release me?” He looked hopeful and you hated it.
“Soon.” Definitely not soon.
Knowing that the Carvers had some tie in the police force, you knew this case would not be taken lightly. The incompetent police force also has the only opportunity they had to prove to the people of Hawkins that they can be trusted again after the million fuck ups they’d had before. But you don’t tell him that.
“Hope this will help to warm you, at least. Rest up.” You pushed the fabric closer to him and left without another word, closing the door with a soft thud.
He picked up the scarf and your scent hits his senses.
Silence enveloped him and his heart sunk in his chest. He’s alone again.
——————————————————————————
You flexed your ankle while your legs crossed at the knees, eyes already heavy. Outside was already dark and the LED lights buzzed from within The Hideout.
The place didn’t change much. The same old shelves of dusty drink bottles, a beat up pool table and a messy band set up. It seemed that the town of Hawkins was not much for change.
“I can’t believe you’e a lawyer now.” Nancy sipped at her drink. “A good thing, of course.”
You playfully scoffed. “And I can’t believe you married Jonathan.”
She laughed. “Yeah. Things happen, I guess.”
Somehow, she found the hotel you were staying at and invited you for a drink. You would’ve been scared but she was Nancy and barely anything gets in her way. You were somehow glad to still have the connection you had before you left. It was a little rusty but it was still there.
“So, about this case you’re doing—“ But before she could finish her sentence, you cut her off.
“Ah, ah.” You wiggled a finger in front of her. Mood, playful but mind still straight. “Don’t do me dirty, Byers. All of my work is confidential.”
She pouted and suddenly, you were transported back to when she would convince you to go to the dance with her when her mom would force her to.
“Not even just the name?” She joked.
“God, Nance, especially not the name.”
You finally felt yourself loosen up for the first time this week but the rope tightened around you and you felt yourself go dizzy as the regular broadcast of the local soccer game was interrupted.
[Breaking News. Police finally released information about the twenty eight year-old teacher’s murder. Thirty year-old Edward Munson, more commonly known as Eddie, was arrested this afternoon in relation to the case. Police say investigation is still on-going and more information will be released soon.]
The silence of the whole bar was disrupted when Nancy’s glass hit the wooden floor, shards of glass scattered everywhere. You unglued your eyes from the TV and faced her with all the blood drained from your face.
Her eyes were already on you.
You thought you still had time. The case was only officially filed that morning but they were already working fast and you had to catch up.
Hastily pulling out a crumpled fifty dollar note, you slammed it on the table and bolted out the bar, Nancy’s protest echoing in the night. You ran to your car and fished out your keys, flip phone buzzing non-stop in your purse.
You whispered against the steering wheel. “Fuck.”
okay so first of all, i’m sorry for killing miss ma’am chrissy again, i swear i love her but it is what it is. second, my google search history is now extremely sus and if anyone sees it i’ll be on the fbi watchlist. third, i have no freaking idea about laws and shit, especially laws in america, so if some of these things don’t make sense, i’m sorry but in this world, I AM THE LAW BABY. also, if you’ve reached this far, I love you!!
Eddie Munson x fem!reader
[3.3k] autumn, a horror movie, a boy that smells like sugar and spice and tastes like hot chocolate.
PART ONE - SWEATER WEATHER
Watching horror movies with Eddie had become a weekly habit, a new tradition that slipped into your life the way fall blew into town. With a burst of fresh air, warm colours, rolling in like a sudden downpour, the smell of rain and fallen leaves, spice, smoke and boy.
Eddie’s uncle had fixed you car for you, enough that it ran without screaming bloody murder, anyway. The older man had accepted a tray of homemade cinnamon rolls as a thanks, waving away the cash that you tucked in an envelope with it, telling you that he liked banana bread too, and to look after his boy.
You weren’t sure who’d blushed harder at that, yourself or Eddie, but you discovered that day that the boy looked entirely too pretty with pink, flushed cheeks.
You’d spent three Friday’s in Eddie’s trailer with him, always after work when the evenings were slipping into darkness, autumn coming into Hawkins fast. It brought sleepy mornings and gloomy afternoons, the sky already inky when you left your job at the bookstore around six o’clock and your car barely had time to heat up on the way to the trailer park before you were clambering back out and knocking on the Munson’s door.
Sometimes Wayne answered, quick to leave once he’d greeted you warmly and yelled for his nephew, always an excuse about a car auction to see, or a much needed trip to the grocery store. But he’d always wink at you both when he left and you were beginning to think the man was just trying to give you both time alone.
Not that it mattered, not really.
Nothing had happened. Not past watching movies and sharing conversation. And it’s not like you were only visiting Eddie in the hopes that you’d make out and roll around in his bed, no, not at all. You loved talking to the boy, your chats growing sleepy and slow as the night waned on and the movie credits rolled in the background. You loved the way you’d slip down the corner of the sofa, heavy with sleep and hot cocoa, toes touching Eddie’s from the otherside of the couch, knees finally bumping when shyness gave way to curiosity and temptation.
You didn’t visit in the hopes for a kiss. But that didn’t mean you didn’t want one.
Your fourth Friday at Eddie’s meant Texas Chainsaw Massacre and your turn to bring snacks. So you packed a Tupperware box full of homemade cookies, chunky orange chocolate chips buried in the thick biscuit. You picked up some chips too, just in case, a packet of red vines and M&M’s because Eddie got the munchies after a joint or two.
The cold nipped at your skin as you drove over, the threat of a drizzle looming in the dark clouds and you passed streets lined with jack ‘o’ lanterns, ugly carved faces in the lead up to Halloween. The trailer park was lit up with them too, an orange glow from each door step, the smell of cinnamon and cloves from Mrs Geller's trailer next door.
Eddie told you last time that you didn’t need to knock, not anymore. And Wayne’s car wasn’t in the drive, but you were still hesitant, fist curled and ready to tap on the front door but your hands were too full, the box of cookies threatening to tumblr to the dirt.
So you took a deep breath and opened the door, the shy squeak of the hinges announcing your arrival. The trailer was quiet, the tv on but only showing static, the low crackle of it filling the small living area. The entire place smelled like chocolate and mint, sugar and cologne from a boy you couldn’t find.
There was a pot simmering on the stove, melted chocolate bubbling gently, the source of the smell and you set your things down on the counter beside it. Before you could call out for him, Eddie appeared down the hall, his bedroom door opening to reveal him already smiling.
This Eddie was your favourite Eddie.
Grey sweatpants and an old band t-shirt, the logo faded from wear and the sun, a small hole at the collar. It showed off the tattoos on his arms, the lines of muscles there that always surprised you. He looked fresh from a shower, all soft curls and smelling like peppercorn and cedar, spicy and earthy.
He grinned when he saw you, more like beamed, really. Eddie had the talent to light up the room when he smiled, a wide, slow stretch of his lips, dimples on show, brown eyes turning to caramel. You looked at him and saw the last of summer, the first days of fall; all dark eyes and dark hair, warm like coffee, big sweaters, flannels tied around his waist, the comfort of a heavy hand on the small of your back.
“Well hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, and god it hurt your heart with how genuinely happy he looked to see you. “Whatcha got there?”
He was behind you before you could answer, almost too close, the heat of him pressed against your back, his broad chest brushing against you as he peered over your shoulder, inspecting the tupperware. His curls brushed your cheek as he leant in and you could smell sandalwood and mint.
“Cookies?” he murmured, and you warmed at how close he was, how he spoke by your ear, oblivious to the flush on your chest. “You spoil me.”
“Mhm, chocolate orange,” you mumbled back, swaying a little clumsy on your feet, your back bumping into the solid expanse of his chest and Eddie brought a hand to your waist to steady you, a small smile that you couldn't see, toying at his lips.
“They smell amazing,” he told you and he only moved to stir the hot chocolate that was still on the stove top, a large bag of baby pink marshmallows sitting next to it.
You watched him as he pulled mugs from the shelves, your favourite one in his hand first, a deep cup that looked handmade, its rim a little wobbly, the clay a pretty plum colour. Eddie filled it with hot chocolate, marshmallows blooming and melting on top and you knew when you settled on the sofa to drink it, he’d lean over and brush the sugar from your cheek, grinning when you flushed.
It was routine, it was a habit, it was a Friday night tradition that you longed for throughout the week.
“You go get comfy, sweetheart, I’ll bring these over,” Eddie told you, a mug in each hand and you grabbed the treats, eager to settle into the corner of the sofa.
The lights inside the trailer were low, the lamp by Wayne’s armchair the only other source apart from the television. It made the night a little warmer, but Eddie set the cups on the coffee table, disappearing back into his room only for a few seconds and he returned with a sweater, throwing it playfully at you.
You grinned, pulling it over your head, not caring that it mussed your hair, and the soft, black cotton swamped your frame. It was the same one he’d given you the day he’d picked you up. Your favourite.
“For someone who told me I’d never get that back, you do leave it here an awful lot,” Eddie smiled, eyes fond as he watched you pull the hem of it down over your thighs. “You’re a terrible thief, you know?”
You weren’t really thinking when you murmured happily, “it smells like you now.”
You were sure you would’ve been more mortified at your admission if Eddie hadn’t beamed, his smile lighting up the room, the highs of his cheeks turning pink and Christ, he looked so pleased at your honesty. Neither of you said anything else, you weren’t sure if you trusted yourself to, so you settled back into the sofa and didn’t look back at him until you’d drained your hot cocoa and a leatherface had killed his first two victims.
And when Eddie had managed three of your cookies, sounds of appreciation coming from his lips like sin, he’d finally turned off the lamp and stretched himself out on the other end of the sofa. The movie made the room flicker, the light low and casting shadows across the two of you like a blanket.
That easy familiarity found its way back to you both, the kind that made you lazy, socked feet tucked into the cushions, so close to Eddie’s thighs. There was a different kind of buzz in the air that night, an anticipation that came from something other than the horror movie on screen. It itched at your skin the same way, like a fizz of impatience, like knowing something was coming. It didn’t scare you as much, this feeling, not like it used to.
It’s why you let yourself slouch lower into your seat, toes pushing underneath Eddie’s thighs in the guise of seeking warmth. He didn’t seem to mind, not if his smile was anything to go by. His weight was a solid heat against you, only your feet and his leg touching, innocent by miles. But Jesus, it burned you.
Eddie Munson was all familiar touches, achingly sweet brushes of his hand against yours when he was near, a thumb swiped on your cheek, chasing marshmallow fluff and whipped cream. And in the dark, like this, he sometimes felt brave enough to push against the corner of your mouth, always fleeting. He was a hug goodbye at the end of the night, arms low on your waist, fingers always close to pressing underneath your shirt, like a heat seeking missile to warm, bare skin.
Eddie Munson was the kiss that never came.
At least, not yet.
“Cold?” he asked, brown eyes shockingly dark in the low light.
He was watching you from under thick lashes, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, fingers without his rings for once, and you ached to tangle your own in them, to let him pull you into him. You could, you thought. Why didn’t you? You wondered.
But you shook your head, smile suddenly shy and you couldn’t help but feel as disappointed as Eddie looked with your answer. Why on earth had you said no? But then the boy was trying again, throwing you another opportunity with another soft, quiet question, lips lifting at the corners like he wanted you to know he wasn’t going to bite.
“Scared?” there was a laugh in his voice, hidden like a secret, like a private joke, like he knew you weren’t but good god, what else could he say in order to get you to come closer?
You ducked your chin, hiding the smile that you knew would give you away, eyes back on the screen just in time to see leatherface grab Vanita Brock and drag her back into the house. Your gaze flicked back to Eddie, all fond and soft, lips twisted in thought.
“I mean,” you started, nose wrinkled, “he’s not the most wholesome of characters, is he?”
You were rewarded with a laugh, a huff of breath and a small snort from the boy as he pushed himself upright, leg slipping away from your feet and his back against the sofa. He was looking at you all prettily, like he was flirting, like he wanted you to not be able to look away.
You didn’t.
“I wouldn’t say leatherface is winning any awards for the best welcoming committee, no,” Eddie grinned, and then he curled his hand towards you, a soft beckon, a question.
You waited, hardly breathing.
“C’mere,” he whispered, “if you’re scared,” he added, sounding more nervous than you felt.
The boy suddenly seemed more terrifying than the movie. Eddie was scary in the softest way, all worn cotton sweats, low on his hips. He was big, brown eyes and messy curls, hands that seemed like they could hold you real tight, he was sugar and spice and a heat that wasn’t normal for autumn time. He looked like he could swallow you whole, and you ached for it.
It was alarming.
Disorientating, dizzying, how much you wanted to kiss him. A whole other type of horror. What if he said no? What if he didn’t want to? What if this wasn’t what you thought it was?
But then you were moving because Eddie was still waiting, eyes expectant on you, arm still thrown out as if inviting you in. And then it all became a little blurry because you got too brave, too impatient and your knees were squished into the cushions as you half crawled, half fell towards him, a leg thrown over his lap as you settled yourself over him, hands clutching at his shoulders.
It’s not what he meant, you were sure of it. This isn’t what he was offering. But he didn’t push you off. He stared at you though, wide eyed and slack jawed, his gaze dark like the night outside. Eddie looked surprised but not at all unhappy. His hands were slow as they made their way to your legs, like still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you, despite the way your hips were flush over his, the heat of the inside of your thighs pressed to the outside of his.
“Is this okay?” you whispered, and somewhere in the background, a girl on the screen screamed.
Eddie swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat and he nodded.
“I’ve been wanting you to kiss me,” you admitted and your voice was a low murmur, sticky sweet like the hot chocolate, like honey. “But I wasn’t really sure if you were ever gonna do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, chest hitching, your skin overly warm under the wide expanse of Eddie’s hands on your upper thighs. It burned through the denim of your jeans, it made you wanna squirm, it made you feel bold.
You caught his gaze with yours, still somehow shy from under your lashes, blinking prettily at him. You watched his jaw slacken, felt the way his fingers curled a little tighter around your legs.
“So I thought I could maybe kiss you instead,” you told him, like a secret, like a confession.
He made a choked sound at the back of his throat, eyes widening slightly before he licked at his bottom lip and shifted a little underneath you. He smiled then, softening the nerves that were scratching at the sides of your tummy, a slow, wide smile that showed off a dimple, the kind that turned his eyes the colour of toffee.
“Yeah?” he asked you and the sound of his voice buried its way into your heart.
You nodded and he tucked his chin to his chest, held tilted to look at you all shy, an achingly obvious show of affection hidden in his stare. Your bravery seemed to rub off of him though, or, maybe he’d had more of it all along.
Because Eddie nodded too, palms rubbing encouragingly up and down your legs, “go on then, sweetheart.”
Oh.
Oh.
It took you a second, maybe two, but then you were leaning in all slow, nerves fluttering, chest still, breath burning in your throat. But you pressed your lips to Eddie’s, a soft meeting, that lazy push of your mouth that made his bottom lip melt between yours.
It was fleeting, a quick but soft kiss that felt like the beginning.
You pulled back with your eyes still closed, your hands curled into Eddie’s shirt collar, like you weren’t ready to let this end yet. But you didn’t have to worry about such a thing, because when your lashes fluttered once, twice, and you peered at the boy, he was already gazing at you, grinning.
He spoke around a smile, hands trailing higher up your legs until his thumbs were pushed into the crease between your thighs and your hips. Eddie held you there, steady.
“Can I kiss you now?” he asked.
You nodded, something else blooming in your tummy at his words and Eddie brought one hand between you both, fingers crooked to beckon you again, and you leaned back in. When you were close enough, he hooked a finger and thumb on your chin, smiling when he heard your breath hitch.
The pad of his thumb caught the edge of your bottom lip, the soft curve of it and he was mesmerised by the way it turned pliant under his touch.
“Is this okay?” he murmured your own words back to you, waiting patiently until you nodded.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” Eddie told you and then he was pulling to down to meet him, fingers splaying across the length of your jaw, a slow drag into your hair.
His lips met yours again, soft like you’d kissed him, more gentle than he needed to be. He was real sweet with you, thumb pushing to the corner of your lip, coaxing you open. And then his tongue slid along yours and you let out a whimper, a soft, gasping little noise - and that’s when Eddie knew he was a goner.
You were suddenly pressed to him, noses pushed to each other's cheek in a desperation to be closer, one hand releasing his shirt so you could mirror him, your palm cupping his face, his curls trapped between your touch. You didn’t think you’d ever been kissed like that, felt anything like the way Eddie felt.
He tasted like chocolate orange, like sugar and smoke. He made noises that were as pretty as him when you pushed yourself closer, hips dragging over his and his hand flew to your waist to catch you, pushing impatiently underneath his own sweater so he could palm at the soft of your skin.
The credits were rolling behind you, the screen fading to black and making the living room darker than it had been and all you could see behind your closed eyelids were shadows and stars. Eddie engulfed you, the feel of him, the smell of him, the taste of him and it was dizzying. He kissed you like he’d been waiting, like he'd wanted it for as long as you had.
He pulled at your waist, soft and encouraging, never demanding and you felt his smile against your lips when you moved, shuffling closer so he could lick into your mouth deeper. It was dizzying, slow and lazy, like you had all the time in the world.
Maybe you did.
Another noise escaped you, a sharp gasp, ending in a little moan and it had Eddie reeling, his breath hitching, lips brushing once, twice over yours before he pulled back only slightly.
“Wanna know somethin’?” he whispered and a bubble of excitement popped inside of you, like he was trusting you with something precious.
You smiled, nodding, the tip of your nose brushing Eddie’s and he squeezed at your waist, a touch that was full of affection. He swallowed thickly, his top lip grazing your bottom one. It was meant to tease, but he gave in way too easily, kissing away your grin.
Eddie whispered his secret into your mouth, sharing the same breath, the same smile.
“I got the biggest fuckin’ crush on you, sweetheart.”
His words were sweeter than the hot chocolate on his tongue.
I didn't wanna interrupt my flow so it's all under the cut. GIFs are laced throughout as references and illustrations. Includes interview quotes, mentions of Eddie x reader, canonical events (I've never seen episode nine but That Scene is mentioned right at the end💔).
I gained quite some interest when I mentioned writing down my thoughts about Wayne a few days ago so I hope this satisfies.
The first thing that comes to mind is how kind he is, even though Joel describes him to be angry at the world for how it's treated him and Eddie.
In one interview, Joel states that Wayne doesn't come from Hawkins. He has a Southern accent, which suggests he's travelled, he's been around, drifting from place to place, and he's suffered a lifetime of drudgery and hardship. He's struggled profoundly, and yet he's so kind.
I really empathise with that and I admire and respect Wayne so much for it. It's not at all easy to have venom on your tongue, to want to cut someone with a verbal blade, and what comes out is well intentioned but spoken sharply. It's harder than it seems, being kind, and Wayne is obviously gruff. Look at how dismissive he is of Nancy, assuming she's just after a good story, but after she makes the effort to sit down and angle her body towards him so he knows she's listening, he slowly opens up and tells her about Victor Creel. She gave him the time of day, she persisted and crumbled down a little of his wall, and he gave her what he was comfortable sharing. They were strangers.
So now imagine what he'd do for someone he knew. Look at what he did for Eddie. Look at how Eddie spoke of his uncle. With pride, even if briefly, when Chrissy asked him about his living situation. If I know anything at all, it's that the Munsons love hard.
Wayne will listen to you. About anything and for as long as you need and/or want him to. He'll sit there smoking beside you, legs up on the bench near his trailer, elbows to his knees and slightly hunched forward, closed off from the world. It's a defense mechanism, it's protection, it's self-preservation engrained in him from a lifetime of hardship. He's only early forties according to his wiki page, but he's so tired.
He won't interrupt. He may ask questions here or there or make noises to let you know he's listening, but he won't interrupt you or try to derail your thought train. If you cry, he's handing you a hanky he pulled from somewhere. It's well used and loved, and it looks like there used to be daises embroidered on one of the corners. You wonder at the history of the material even as you wipe your eyes with it. He waves a hand dismissively when you thank him for the gesture, nods at you to keep talking. Don't stop 'til you got it out, kid. Is what you imagine he says. He's not a man of many words so his actions are what you need to pay attention to.
And when you're done talking, when that weight is off your chest but that lump is still in your throat, Wayne will tell you about something he's been through or about something he saw Eddie go through in the past, something which he sees similarities of your experience in, and if you listen closely, you'll hear advice. Wisdom. He'll tell you things he would have wanted to hear in that situation or things he did tell Eddie when he went through it, and the words will make you cry. It'll be what you didn't know you needed to hear until he sat there saying it, looking at you. You can and will spend hours sat at that bench with him, talking about everything and nothing and all of the fascinating spaces in between.
You can shuffle closer to him, if you want. He knows all the signs of wanting a hug and after over a decade of raising Eddie alone, Wayne knows well what it looks like when someone is too shy or anxious or upset to ask for affection. So he goes off your body language and offers it up freely. Saves you the emotional toll of asking. If you're close to Eddie, and I mean close, Wayne may even sling an arm over your shoulder in a very loose hug. Shuffle closer still and he'll smile and give you a proper embrace by tucking you into his side.
Sometimes Eddie comes looking for you and Wayne. Sometimes he lets you both have your time together. Sometimes he joins you. Sometimes he doesn't. Eddie feeds off the vibes as much as Wayne does, though Wayne is definitely more closed off and a bit rougher around the edges than Eddie. Time got to Wayne; Eddie hasn't yet been broken down. If Wayne gets his way, Eddie will forever be who he is, unencumbered by trauma like his uncle. He's had his share, it's true, but Wayne will always always do his best to protect Eddie.
(I imagine this is how Eddie sits opposite you and Wayne when he decides to join you.💕)
Wayne is gruff on the exterior but he's so kind and he's good and he's selfless. He gave Eddie the only bedroom in the trailer and sleeps on a pull out bed. In his own home. He gave Eddie a home, a place to stay, he gave Eddie support emotionally and defended him time and time again from people in Hawkins, from Eddie himself, from his past, from his abusive parents. Wayne saw what Eddie went through as a kid with his parents, Joel stated, and made it his mission to protect his nephew.
Actually, no. Eddie isn't his nephew.
I'm just gonna say what we all know to be true: Eddie is Wayne's boy. His son.
Wayne loved and cared for and protected Eddie in every possible way and I have so much respect for the way Wayne found Chrissy in his trailer and instantly knew that a) "this wasn't Eddie" and b) "you ever hear of Victor Creel?" - Wayne's been around, he knows the ways of life, and he used them as best as he could with Eddie.
On the note of Chrissy, the trauma and shock and fear Wayne must have experienced to come back from a night shift and find her in his trailer, a girl he had never seen before, and Eddie gone, and yet Wayne carried on looking for him, defending his boy from a distance, and going to work and doing his best with what he had, just like Eddie always does, while dealing with a situation of this magnitude all by himself. And then he ends up homeless, kicked out of the only place where there are traces of Eddie, because some government officials find a suspicious crack in his ceiling, and it just gets worse and worse for Wayne but he keeps going and still believes in Eddie, still looks for him, he doesn't. give. up.
And I admire that tenacity, that strength, that sheer force of will, so very much. He's angry but he's kind, he's hurt but he's teaching someone he loves how to be better than the people who hurt the both of them, he's doing his best with what little he has and out of it comes this beautiful sweet, kind, gentle, loving man, Eddie. Wayne is so proud of his son, and for good reason! Just look at him.
Wayne must have really done a number on getting Eddie to unlearn all the shit he picked up from his parents and re-learning healthier, better ways. Eddie turned out beautifully given the circumstances. Wayne did amazingly in helping Eddie to break the cycle of abuse and he was rightfully so, so proud of him. I keep saying this specifically because I can't say it enough. The Munsons love each other so, so hard, and it's heart-warming and beautiful and a real light.
I've never seen episode nine so I can't comment too much on anything between Wayne and Eddie in it, but what I do know from what little I can stomach, is that Wayne would have spent the rest of his life feeling guilty for the way he couldn't protect Eddie when he most needed protecting. Wayne would have carried that guitar pick with him everywhere, nestled close to his heart where his boy is, and he never would have forgiven himself for how the Munsons' final week was spent separated; the youngest scared, lost, alone, terrified, hungry and cold and in desperate need of a shower, and then alone and in more pain than his body could handle. The eldest, fearing for the younger, scared and worried and stressed and anxious and grouchy and fed up and pissed off with the town, and just wanting his boy back in his arms where he belonged.
What happened to both Eddie and Wayne is absolutely horrifying. It's terrible. They both deserved so, so much better. My closing statement here is that I agree that Hawkins is cursed, but I don't think the Upside Down has much to do with it. Look first to the people and what they did to the Munsons - you'll know what I mean.
Bottom line, he's the bestest uncle (read: dad) to the most metal nephew (read: son), 10/10, amazing, we love Wayne very much!!!
i lost my train of thought @pplanetcaravan - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
