if there is a character that I haven't added but you would like (as long as it doesn't go against my boundaries) you are more than welcome to send a request :]
summary: you and sam try to navigate your inexperience and shyer tendencies
tags: inexperienced reader, shy reader, sam being the sweetiest and cutiest and helping you feel comfortable when you’re overwhelmed, use of sweetheart/honey
And you did care. Quite a bit, actually. So when you did finally get into a relationship with the gentle giant you’ve come to know and love, you found yourself at somewhat of an impasse. You’re not really sure how to express the affection you have for him, and it frustrates you endlessly that it doesn’t feel easier to just… do normal couple-like things.
You weren’t the most well-versed person in romance; not for lack of the desire for it but simply your life hadn’t worked out that way thus far. Sure, some nights were lonely, but it was enough to just be living well with the people you cared about.
But Sam, observant as ever, has come to know exactly how you show your feelings for him. He’s not even sure you realize that it’s what you’re doing, which is all the more lovely to him. It always brings a smile to his lips when he notices the way you take care of him almost subconsciously; bringing him snacks/water when he’s gotten lost in a book, suggesting a nap or a walk at just the right time when he needs it most. He thinks you might be psychic, or possibly just more maternal than you realize, the way you’re so tuned into his needs.
It makes his heart ache when you seem at a loss for the same amount of consideration being shown for you. Of course, that was how your relationship had come to be in the first place. He noticed you, and made it clear that he did. And yet every time it happens, it’s like your brain short-circuits a little. You’re not sure how to take it. Leave it to Sam to remain heartbreakingly patient with you, though. He never seems to resent your little mini freak-outs; only ever meeting them with a gentle smile and kind eyes. He loves you even when you get spooked by love being given to you so openly.
In turn, you can’t help but feel more and more frustrated with yourself. He’s some patient angel of a man, and you’re some kind of Schrodinger’s cat for normal function. Fine when no one’s observing you, but when you’ve got those hazel eyes that follow you everywhere and knock you off your rhythm, you’re doomed. He’s good at looking away when he can tell it’s making you too nervous, but your poor heart really can’t take much more of this.
So you resolve to try and get more used to these things. You end up initiating more, curling up next to him during movies and linking your pinky with his shyly. He holds his breath each time, like he’s worried he’ll scare you away if he makes so much as a sound. You’re almost cat-like to him in that way, opening up to him slowly but surely. He feels like he’s won the lottery each time you get closer.
Linked pinkies turn into you playing with his long fingers, and for a moment you forget to feel nervous. His hand is so big and warm, and he just lets you mess with it to your heart’s content. He wouldn’t dream of taking it away from you; as far as he’s concerned, that hand belongs to you now. You squeeze the pads of his fingertips, trace along the inside of his palm. He murmurs something about it feeling ticklish, which makes you smile softly despite yourself. The world feels quiet and good for once. No big bad to go hunt down, no apocalypse incoming. Just you and Sam, watching a movie you’ve both seen plenty of times before, enjoying each other’s company without any expectations.
“… thank you for always being so patient with me.” You murmur softly, your head having wound up on his shoulder a little while back. Your eyes are still trained on the movie, feeling a bit vulnerable in talking to him about this.
You watch his hand gently tangle with yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “There’s nothing to be patient for, it’s not like I’m waiting for something specific to happen. I just like being with you.” That soft voice of his is going to kill you someday.
You peek up at him, met with that tender look he gets when all he can think about is how much he adores you. He would love you just as much if you never gave him the time of day, so to him, every single moment with you feels like more than he could even ask for. A shy smile tugs at your lips, followed by a similar one on his. Maybe you weren’t the only one who gets a little nervous with it all.
“I get a little… frustrated with myself, sometimes. I feel like I should be better at this by now.”
He hums thoughtfully, carefully brushing a lock of hair from your face. “I know you do, sweetheart. But y’know, there’s no timeline for this. I know you can feel…” -He pauses to search for the right way to phrase it- “pent up, at times? Does that sound right?”
You chuckle softly and nod. That’s exactly how it feels. You care about him a lot and want to get comfortable with showing him right away, but your gremlin brain takes over and reminds you of how awkward you are, making you feel like a balloon that’s been expanding dangerously for months without any recourse. All that love with nowhere to go except into little acts of service that feel safer to you than other displays of affection.
A soft chuckle escapes him as well, somewhat proud he was able to supply the right words for your experience. “Which sounds understandably frustrating. But I think some of that frustration will lessen a bit with time, and as you get more comfortable with me and with being in a relationship.”
“Any way to speed up that process?” You quip with a bewildered half-smile, drawing a genuine laugh from him, his eyes crinkling warmly.
“I think you’re doing a great job already.” He promises with an earnest smile, eyes shining with adoration. He can see the efforts you’ve been making to try and get more comfortable, and he would tell you how proud he is if he didn’t already know you’d get embarrassed about it. He can’t really hide it though, it shows in his expression as clear as day. Still, you’re grateful he knows you well enough to try and say it in a way that won’t make you shrink into yourself again. That’s one of the many things you love about Sam Winchester. He always considers you, from the way he talks to the way he looks at you.
You hum softly, heart fluttering gently in your chest. It’s much more manageable than the usual hammering sensation he seems to cause in you. You turn your head back to the laptop screen, your cheek squishing against his shoulder. Any remaining nervous energy gets transmuted into the way you continue to play with his fingers.
“… Do you ever feel pent up like that…?” You ask softly after a while, realizing it could be hard for him to have to hold back on the ways he wants to show affection.
You peek up at him while he’s thinking, trying to intuit his thought process via facial expression. He’s not one to lie, so you’re not worried about that, but you are deadly curious about his answer.
“Yes and no?” Frustrating angel man. “For the most part I’m satisfied, but there are moments where I can get that… what’s it called? Cuteness aggression?”
His answer draws a bright laugh from your lips, your eyebrows raising in surprise. “You get cute aggression over me?”
He grins boyishly, making your heart nearly jump out of your chest. “That I do. Sometimes unbearably so. It’s a real problem, honey, don’t laugh.” Your snort-laden giggle only makes his eyes shine brighter, wanting to hear more.
“Sounds troubling.” You muse through your laughter, unable to hide your fondness for him. “How does one even deal with such a problem, pray tell?”
“My best guess is squeezing you to death, but that presents a whole new set of problems.” He jokes, awarded by another beautiful laugh from you, just as intended. He wants to be the one to make you laugh like this forever.
“I can imagine.” God, he loves your smile when you’re amused with him.
You think for a moment on his conundrum, still gazing at him with that empathetic gaze he loves so much. “… I mean… I might still get embarrassed about it, but you can hug me when you want to. When the cute aggression hits.” You offer, even though you know you’ll probably get all weird about it when it really happens.
His features melt into a gentle understanding smile. He can tell when you’re trying to offer something you’re not fully comfortable with yet. So, he makes his counter-offer: “How about… if you’re feeling up to the hug but still feeling kind of weird about it, we find some way to get those nerves out of your system afterwards?”
Your head tilts inquisitively, prompting him to explain more.
“Well, you seem to feel calmer when you have some sort of… outlet. Like with my hand.” He lifts your hand that had been messing with his. “Is there anything that you think could help get out those nervous feelings when you’re feeling overwhelmed? Any sort of immediate instinct on what you’d want to do?”
You pause to think. “Punch a wall?”
He has to bite back a laugh. You’re too charming in his eyes. “Maybe something that would do less damage to you and/or the walls.” He pauses before lifting up both his hands, palms towards you, a little lopsided smile on his lips. “D’you think hitting my hands would work?”
“What, like sparring?” Your eyebrows knit as you try to understand.
“Yeah, kind of. Just getting out some of that excess energy.” He offers kindly, his head resting against the back of the couch as he continues to gaze at you warmly, his hands still lifted toward you.
He’s so ridiculous. You might be the one with cute aggression now. You let out an exasperated little huff and take up his offer, your knuckles meeting his palms as if you were the world’s least committed boxer. And yet somehow, the rhythmic impact of each gentle hit seems to genuinely ease the tightness in your chest, like clouds parting to reveal the sky after a storm. A soft sound of amusement escapes you.
“I can’t believe this works.” You mumble, shaking your head with a small grin as you continue to hit his hands one at a time. Leave it to Sam to find a solution. ”It’s weirdly calming.”
“Doesn’t feel too bad on my end, either.” He muses, clearly enjoying the half-hearted fury of fists against his palms. In some ways, it seems to help calm him too. He’s read somewhere about different types of self-regulation techniques before, but he had never really gotten the chance to try any out until now.
Eventually you run out of steam, your hands tangling lazily with his. He’s never seen you look so unfazed by his touch and his presence before. Almost thinks he’s dreaming with the sheer serenity of the moment. He doesn’t want to do anything to break the spell, so he just stares at you with a soft awe, filing it all away into his heart for safekeeping. His hands are yours to fiddle with as you wish. Now and whenever you need them.
You don’t even realize the relaxed smile that’s been on your lips for the past few minutes. It’s like you’ve been given a perfect preview of your relationship later on down the line, from when it will feel easier for both of you. The thought prompts your smile to widen as you return his gaze. You and Sam seem to meet perfectly in this gaze, like he’s witnessing the same sneak peek into your future. There’s both an ease and a promise being held in the air. You almost feel like you could laugh from how light your heart feels. Something about this moment has provided the reassurance that you needed; you can take as much time as you need to figure out how to exist with him, and it doesn’t mean you’re falling behind. He’ll be ready to meet you where you’re at, wherever that might be. You just gotta let him into that turbulent mind of yours, and he’ll keep you company as the storm passes.
It’s like you’re able to see him more clearly in this moment, your nerves and anxieties having stepped aside for the time being. He’s your Sam, and he’s happy you’re here with him. It feels good knowing one day, probably sooner than you realize, those worries that cloud your view of your time with him won’t be the ever-present third wheel tagging along on dates. It’ll just be you and Sam, together in clarity. You give his hands a squeeze, and his lips part into that wonderful smile. Things will be okay.
a/n: And that’s my attempt at writing! Let me know if you liked it, I honestly don’t know how to feel about it lmao
I’m tagging @violained as their mystery anon that decided to start my blog because of themmmmm, they always write the loveliest stories and I’ve enjoyed getting to read them and send them little thoughts and things~ (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ
lowdown ☆ soldier boy discovers a deeply effective way to ruin your ability to form a coherent sentence. butcher discovers a deeply effective way to ruin everything else.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2574 ride style ☆ smut!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, pet names, hair-pulling, thigh-gripping, light restraint, possessive behavior, soldier boy being smug beyond reason, accidental supe yeeting
liv's log ☆ ya'll are getting fed. you're welcome 🤒
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
“jesus fucking christ, ben.”
your voice breaks around his name, which is humiliating enough without the low sound of satisfaction that answers it.
morning has been trying to happen outside the room for a while now. thin light slips through the blinds in pale, uneven lines, catching the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the belt hanging half-off the chair, one boot abandoned near the edge of the bed like it made an attempt at escape and failed.
somewhere beyond the walls, the safehouse has started waking in pieces—pipes knocking, footsteps passing faintly down the hall, a cupboard opening and closing in the kitchen. none of it matters. not with soldier boy between your thighs, committed to making sure you never contribute a useful thought to society again.
he’s been down there for what feels like forever and somehow not long enough. the sheets are pulled over his head and shoulders, turning him into a broad, shifting shape beneath the fabric. you can feel every movement—the slow drag of his tongue, the press of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way his big hands hold your thighs open to prevent you from closing them.
you fist the pillow above your head, back arching when he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance up to your clit and sucks gently.
the wet heat of his mouth is obscene.
he groans against you like he’s the one getting devoured, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“ben—” you gasp, hips twitching.
he doesn’t answer with words. instead he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over your clit. the dual sensation makes your toes curl.
you bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying not to moan too loud, but it’s useless. the sound slips out anyway, breathy and broken. under the covers he makes another low, satisfied noise. he’s fucking enjoying this. you can tell by the way he keeps pressing closer, nose buried against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough. his shoulders shift as he works you open, fingers thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays glued to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that has your thighs trembling around his head.
“you taste so fucking good in the morning,” he mutters, voice muffled under the sheet. he drags his tongue through your folds again slowly, collecting every drop of wetness. “could stay here all goddamn day.”
you reach down blindly and grip his hair through the fabric, tugging. just enough to tell him you’re losing your mind. he chuckles darkly and rewards you by sliding a third finger inside, stretching you open while his tongue circles your clit faster.
your legs shake harder. the coil in your stomach winds tighter with every wet stroke, every curl of his fingers against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
you’re panting now, chest heaving, free hand clutching at the sheets beside you.
he senses it. soldier boy already knows exactly when you’re about to fall apart. he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and humming while his fingers fuck you deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the quiet room.
your body tips over the edge with an ugly, breathless gasp you barely manage to bury against the back of your wrist. every muscle draws tight at once, then breaks apart beneath the force of it. the sheets twist under your fingers. your head pushes back into the pillow. your legs clamp around his shoulders before you remember that breathing is generally considered useful.
ben keeps you there through it.
not stopping. not letting you squirm away even as you’re twitching and oversensitive, he keeps licking slow, lazy stripes through your soaked folds, fingers still buried inside you. gentle now, but insistent. like he’s not ready to let the moment end.
“ben… fuck, i can’t—” your voice is wrecked.
his mouth brushes your thigh once more.
“you can,” he answers, voice rough and smug under the covers. “give me one more, baby. i’m not done with you yet.”
you stare at the ceiling, hair messy against the pillow, chest rising hard beneath the shirt you never bothered pulling off. “you are so incredibly pleased with yourself right now.”
he pushes the sheet back just enough to look up at you. his hair is a mess, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with pure hunger. the sight alone makes your stomach flip. he looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, cheeks flushed, stubble wet with you.
“you say that like i didn’t earn it.”
you let your hand fall over your face. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
he presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your soaked folds before crawling up just enough to rest his chin on your lower stomach. the sheet pools around his shoulders now, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the thick muscle shifting as he settles between your legs again.
you peek at him from beneath your arm, still trying to catch your breath. your body feels liquid, humming, but the ache is building again under his gaze. soldier boy looks up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening with your release. he looks obscene. beautiful. entirely too proud of himself.
he turns his head and presses a slow kiss to the inside of your left thigh. his stubble scrapes gently against the sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine. then another kiss, higher this time, closer to where you’re still throbbing and slick. his rough thumbs stroke soothing circles on the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you exposed.
you can’t look away.
his eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, watching every flutter of your lashes, every small twitch of your mouth. it feels more intimate than it should—the way he studies your face while his mouth worships your skin. like he’s memorizing how you fall apart for him.
“ben…” you whisper.
he answers by dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe up your inner thigh, tasting the mess he’s already made of you. then he dips lower again, nose brushing just above your clit as he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your body. his breath is hot against your soaked center.
you feel yourself clench around nothing, aching for more.
finally, he lowers his mouth again. this time it’s gentler. almost reverent. his tongue slides through your folds in one smooth, unhurried drag, collecting the fresh wetness that’s leaked out of you since your first orgasm.
he groans quietly.
his thumbs keep stroking your thighs, rough pads pressing into soft skin, grounding you while his mouth works you open again.
you let out a shaky breath, fingers threading back into his hair. he hums in approval and pushes his tongue inside you.
the sensation is overwhelming in its softness. he fucks you with his tongue in slow, deep strokes—pushing in, curling slightly, dragging back out. wet, filthy sounds fill the room as he laps at you, savoring every drop. his nose nudges against your clit with every forward thrust, giving you just enough friction to make your hips twitch.
“fuck, ben…” you moan softly.
his eyes flick up to yours again. they’re half-lidded, drunk on the taste of you. he holds the eye contact as he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two thick fingers, sliding them in easily. then his mouth returns to your clit, licking slow, broad circles around the swollen bundle of nerves. the combination is devastating.
he doesn’t rush. every movement feels luxurious. his fingers pump in and out of you in a steady rhythm while his tongue traces lazy patterns over your clit—circling, flicking, then pressing flat and dragging up. every time your breathing hitches, he adjusts, finding the exact angle that makes your thighs start to tremble again.
you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. you can hear it. the slick glide of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth devouring you.
your arousal coats his chin. drips down toward the sheets. soldier boy doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, it makes him more eager. he groans deeply when a fresh rush of wetness meets his tongue, like the taste of you is driving him insane.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you gush.”
his words send heat flooding through you. you roll your hips against his face, chasing the building pleasure. he lets you use him, eyes never leaving yours, watching with dark satisfaction as you start to lose control again.
his free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher until he can palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between rough fingers. the added stimulation makes you cry out softly, back arching. the floorboards creak in the hallway. he pinches lightly, then soothes with his thumb, all while his mouth stays working between your legs.
you’re trembling harder now. the second orgasm is building slower than the first but deeper—a heavy, coiling heat low in your belly that threatens to drown you. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging harder. soldier boy moans in response, the vibration making your toes curl.
he curls his fingers inside you again, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. his tongue flicks faster over your clit, matching the rhythm of his hand. the floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks a second time. closer. you can feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder as your body prepares to give him exactly what he wants.
“ben—fuck, i’m close again,” you pant, voice breaking.
he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, burying his face deeper between your thighs. his shoulders flex as he works you harder, fingers pumping faster, tongue relentless. his groans are constant. low and hungry, like he’s getting off just from the way you’re falling apart on his mouth.
your thighs start shaking uncontrollably around his head. your breathing turns ragged. the pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. you’re right there— right on the razor’s edge, muscles locking up, vision starting to blur at the edges—BANG BANG BANG!
the sound tears through the room hard enough to punch every thought clean out of your head.
you jolt.
not gracefully. not in any way your body will forgive once the adrenaline wears off. one second, you’re hovering right on the edge of something devastating, fingers twisted in soldier boy’s hair, every muscle pulled tight around the promise of release. the next, panic fires through you on instinct and your legs clamp shut around his shoulders before shoving outward with considerably more force than either of you expects.
the sheet shifts violently.
the mattress jerks beneath you.
soldier boy disappears.
there’s a heavy thud beside the bed, followed by a silence so complete it feels medically concerning.
your eyes widen. your chest is still rising too fast, skin flushed, legs trembling from an orgasm you were approximately three seconds away from having before the universe decided you had experienced enough joy for one morning.
outside the door, butcher speaks with infuriating calm. “need you in the kitchen, love. five minutes.”
you stare at the empty space between your thighs where ben’s head had been moments ago.
then you lean cautiously over the side of the mattress.
soldier boy is on the floor. actually on the floor. one broad shoulder is pressed against the rug. the sheet has followed him halfway down and is now tangled around his waist in a undignified knot. his hair’s wrecked, mouth still wet, expression blank with the pure disbelief of a man who has survived bullets, explosions, decades of torture, and the collapse of several governments only to be thrown out of bed by a startled woman with questionable reflexes.
for one horrible second, neither of you speaks.
his eyes lift slowly to yours. “what… the fuck?”
you wince, still breathing hard, thighs trembling from the ruined orgasm. soldier boy is sprawled on the floor like a disgruntled greek god who just got kicked out of olympus. the sheet is barely covering his hips, doing nothing to hide the very obvious, very angry erection curving against his stomach.
“i panicked!” you whisper-shout, sitting up on your elbows. “butcher knocked like he was trying to break the damn door down.”
soldier boy pushes up on one elbow, glaring at you with pure betrayal. “you threw me.”
“i didn’t throw you.” you try, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.
he completely ignores you. “with your legs. i was two seconds from making you come so hard you’d forget your own name and you launched me like i was a fucking football.”
“you’re the one with super strength! how was i supposed to know i could actually move you?”
“i was distracted,” he growls, gesturing sharply at his glistening chin and the very obvious evidence of how thoroughly he’d been enjoying himself. “my face was buried in your pussy.”
your face burns despite the fact that modesty left this room a long time ago. “yes, benjamin. i was there.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
“oh, please. you survived.”
“barely.”
you stare at him. “you’re bulletproof.”
“not the point.”
outside the room, butcher’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. soldier boy pushes himself upright with the offended dignity of a man attempting to pretend he didn’t just get launched—nay, yeeted—off a mattress in nothing but a tangled sheet. he stands, muttering under his breath while he searches for his clothes.
you bite the inside of your cheek. “you know, training really has paid off.”
his head turns slowly. “don’t.”
“hips first,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “shoulder follows. fist last. apparently, legs are also very effective.”
“keep talking.”
“maybe tomorrow we can work on your balance.”
he catches his shorts from the floor and drags them on with an irritated movement. “you caught me off guard.”
“grandma at bingo all over again.”
his eyes narrow. “you think this is funny?”
you look at the sheet still hanging crookedly from the bed, then at his wrecked hair. “a little.”
“unbelievable,” he mutters, bending to retrieve his shirt. “my girl throws me off the goddamn bed seconds away from seeing heaven, and thinks it’s funny.”
the words pass so naturally beneath the rest of his complaining that you almost miss them. your mouth parts, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, too busy being insulted by the entire morning to notice the silence that follows. by the time his face emerges again, you have rearranged your expression into something far safer.
“butcher’s waiting,” you remind him.
he looks at you for a beat. then he steps back toward the bed.
“ben.”
“relax.”
one hand catches the back of your neck. he kisses you before you can argue, rough and unhurried enough to make your breath catch. the taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, warm and indecent, and the smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing when he deepens the kiss for one lingering second before pulling away.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. “we’re evening the score later.”
then he walks out, leaving you flushed, disheveled, and staring after him while butcher calls your name from the kitchen again.
The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.
A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.
His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.
“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.
His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.
His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.
His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.
“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.
And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.
Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.
And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.
You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”
His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”
lowdown ☆ soldier boy spends the ride home pretending he’s not jealous. he lasts approximately three minutes after the van doors open.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 4821 ride style ☆ smut !!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sex, rough wall sex, blowjob, possessive behavior, hand over mouth, bruised knuckles, jealousy, soldier boy being demanding, unsafe levels of tension in a crowded safehouse
liv's log ☆ took us +55k words but we're finally going at it!!
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the safehouse is loud before the van doors finish closing.
not the sharp, ugly kind of noise that follows somebody stumbling in with blood down their face or butcher dragging a new disaster over the threshold and calling it useful. this is different. relieved. restless. too many voices moving at once because the mission actually went well and nobody quite trusts that yet.
frenchie is talking before his shoes touch the floor, holding the black electroshock device up between two fingers with the pride of a man returning from war. “she performed beautifully,” he announces.
“you electrocuted the deep?”
hughie appears from the hallway so quickly he almost walks into annie. his hair’s messy, sweater sleeves pulled low over his wrists, eyes moving between frenchie, the duffel, you, and the very obvious red mark starting to rise across your knuckles.
“oui, petite hughie,” frenchie says.
“saw it with my own bloody eyes,” butcher confirms, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who spent the whole mission sitting inside the van at a safe distance. “fish boy’s probably still explainin’ himself to a seal.”
hughie blinks. “a seal?”
you barely have time to answer before annie catches your wrist carefully, turning your hand toward the kitchen light. “did you punch deep?”
“sadly, no,” you grin brightly. “some vought guy that was reaching for a radio. i’m saving kevin for a later time.”
annie gives you a look that says she’s too aware of your commitment to being difficult and is choosing not to rise to it. “sit down.”
“it’s fine.”
“sit.”
you sit at the edge of the couch because there’s no point pretending you’re going to win against annie when she uses that voice. the adrenaline is still buzzing beneath your skin, bright and uncomfortable, making your limbs feel lighter than they should. your knuckles throb when you flex them just enough to make the memory satisfying.
hips first. shoulder follows. fist last. clean hit. the vought employee went down hard enough that the clipboard flew out of his hand. you keep seeing it in quick, stupid flashes: the startled look on his face, frenchie’s grip closing around your arm, the two of you running while papers scattered across the dock and the deep twitched dramatically behind you.
no blood. nobody dead. nobody hurt enough that your brain has to crawl back into that warehouse and stay there for the night.
good mission.
annie disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a bag of ice wrapped inside a dish towel. you take it from her before she can press it against your hand herself. “i can manage.”
“clearly.”
hughie drops into the armchair opposite you, eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that makes him look almost boyish and innocent. “wait. go back. there was a seal?”
kimiko perches against the armrest beside him. frenchie settles near the table with the duffel, already dragging the stolen drive free while mm opens his laptop. butcher hovers behind them, cigarette tucked behind one ear, attention divided between whatever information they stole and the story he already heard through the comms but apparently intends to enjoy twice.
“the deep was giving relationship advice,” you say.
hughie’s face tightens. “to the seal?”
“yes.”
“about another seal?”
the question makes you tilt your head. “uh, i think so.”
“did it seem helpful?”
you look at frenchie. frenchie considers the question with grave seriousness. “the seal appeared emotionally resistant.”
“he brought fish to her cove after she asked for space,” you explain. “it was a boundary issue.”
annie’s mouth drops open slightly. “you’re kidding.”
“i wish i was.”
hughie stares at you for one silent second. then laughs. the sound catches you off guard badly enough that your own mouth moves before you can stop it. a small laugh slips out, then another when frenchie starts reenacting the deep’s expression with insulting accuracy, eyebrows pinched together in solemn marine concern.
the ice pack sweats against your knuckles. your shoulders loosen by a fraction.
you don’t look toward the hallway when heavier footsteps approach. soldier boy has been quiet since the van. you feel the shift in the room before you see him. the blunt weight of his attention.
frenchie is halfway through describing the snitch’s moustache in full detail when soldier boy appears near the living room entrance. he looks at you, jaw is tight enough to show beneath the rough shadow along it. his shoulders haven’t come down from the docks. something in his face still carries the same irritation he wore in the van, meaner now that there are walls around it and fewer immediate reasons to pretend it is only professional concern.
hughie follows your gaze and stops talking. annie looks over her shoulder. butcher, unfortunately, notices everything.
soldier boy grunts out a “need you.” that is it. not your name. not could i talk to you. not a glance toward the others suggesting privacy might be socially beneficial before announcing whatever this is. just need you, flat and direct, like he has already decided the rest.
you blink once. “right now?”
his eyes narrow slightly. “now.”
for one second, the room is so still you can hear the faint hum of mm’s laptop from the table. hughie looks down at his hands. frenchie turns toward the drive with sudden, passionate interest. mm doesn’t look up at all, which somehow makes his refusal to get involved more obvious. butcher’s mouth starts to curve around something deeply unhelpful.
annie takes the ice pack back from you slowly. “i’ll put this in the freezer.”
your face warms. “thank you.”
“mhm.”
soldier boy turns away before you stand. of course he does. apparently, the possibility that you might not follow has never occurred to him.
you catch butcher watching when you get up. his eyebrows lift by the smallest amount, cigarette still tucked behind his ear, expression rich with the private satisfaction of a man discovering a new form of leverage he absolutely doesn’t deserve.
you point at him as you pass. “don’t.”
“didn’t say anythin’, love.”
“your face did.”
“handsome face, that.”
“nightmare face.” he grins.
soldier boy is already halfway down the hall. he doesn’t take you to your bedroom. that would feel too familiar. too obvious after the nights he has spent there taking up your bed, complaining about your mattress, making himself at home in a place neither of you has been brave enough to call shared.
instead, he pushes open the door to the empty room near the back of the safehouse. plain walls. narrow bed. a chair shoved into one corner. a window with the blinds drawn against the afternoon light.
he steps inside. you follow. the door closes behind you with a quiet click.
you turn toward him. “well?”
soldier boy leans back against the door for half a second, eyes moving over you once. not the quick assessment from the van, searching for damage beneath the places another man touched. this is slower. your jacket. your shirt. the jeans sitting snug across your hips. your wrist where the deep grabbed you. your mouth.
“blue tide summer?” he says.
you stare at him. of all the ways this conversation could start, you should’ve known he’d choose the one most likely to make you consider violence. “are you serious?”
“dark blue wristband,” he continues, voice rough with disbelief. “little trident logo.”
you fold your arms. “you were listening very closely for someone who spent the entire mission pretending he didn’t care.”
“hard not to hear you giggling like an idiot through the comms.”
“i was distracting him.”
“you were having the time of your life.”
you laugh once, sharp and incredulous. “oh my god.”
“thirteen years ago and you still remember which fuckin’ color bracelet you wore.”
“i was fourteen.”
“fourteen-year-old you had shit taste.”
“fourteen-year-old me had limited options.”
“guy talks to seals.”
“he was helping a friend through a difficult breakup.”
soldier boy pushes away from the door. the movement is slow enough that you have time to register it. not enough time to decide what to do with your pulse when he crosses the room and stops in front of you. close but not touching. not yet.
“you think this is funny?” he asks.
you tilt your chin up. “a little.”
his mouth pulls to one side, but there is no real amusement in it. the frustration has followed him home intact, restless under his skin, searching for somewhere to go. “he had his hands all over you.”
“he touched my back.”
“grabbed your wrist.”
“for two seconds.”
“two too many.”
your chest tightens at the echo from the van. you shouldn’t enjoy this. the whole thing is absurd. the deep is not a threat to whatever strange, half-built thing exists between you and soldier boy. he’s barely a threat to himself near open water and an emotionally complicated seal.
but soldier boy looks furious anyway. not because he thinks you wanted the deep. because he hated watching someone else touch what he’s started thinking of as his before either of you have agreed to anything sensible.
you narrow your eyes. “you’re jealous.”
his stare turns flat. “of fish sticks?”
“you nearly climbed out of the van.” you breathe out through your nose, fighting a smile because smiling would only encourage him and apparently encouragement is no longer necessary. “you hated hearing me laugh with him.”
his jaw shifts. there it is. small. ugly. honest enough to be dangerous.
you wait.
he looks at your mouth when he answers. “i hated hearing him breathe near you.”
the room changes—no lightning strike, no sudden soft music—just a quiet loss of oxygen, your body reacting before your mind has the dignity to object.
soldier boy steps closer. the back of your shoulders meets the wall. the space between you disappears and leaves you with the blunt heat of his body crowded against yours. one hand’s braced beside your head, the other catches your waist. rough. familiar. possessive enough to make your stomach pull tight.
you breathe in. “you dragged me in here to complain?” his eyes stay on yours. “or are you planning to make a point?”
that does it. his mouth comes down on yours hard enough to knock the next breath out of you. you kiss him back immediately.
your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even though closer has become largely theoretical. his hand tightens around your waist, dragging you flush against him. his mouth moves against yours with the same rough certainty it did the night before, except there’s nothing restrained about it now. no last-second thought. no mission waiting in the morning. no line he intends to respect simply because one of you might regret stepping over it too quickly.
the kiss turns filthy almost immediately. tongue, teeth, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin when his mouth slips from yours and catches at the corner of your jaw. you tilt your head instinctively, giving him room, and his breath leaves him in a low sound that makes heat drag down your spine.
“fuck,” you whisper.
“getting there.”
you almost laugh. it dies when he bites lightly beneath your ear and your fingers tighten in his shirt. your bruised knuckles complain immediately.
his hand catches your wrist, dragging it away from his shoulder before you can put more weight against it. “quit using that hand.”
“i punched a man.”
“yeah.” his gaze drops briefly to your knuckles. something satisfied passes through his face. “saw.”
“and?”
his mouth finds yours again before he answers properly. “clean hit.”
the praise lands somewhere deep and embarrassingly tender beneath the heat. you don’t get time to examine it. soldier boy hooks your uninjured arm around his shoulders instead, positioning you the way he wants you, then catches both your hips and lifts.
you gasp against his mouth.
your back presses into the wall. your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, jeans pulling tight between your bodies while he settles you against him like your weight is nothing. his mouth drags down your throat. your head tips back against the plaster hard enough to make the blinds rattle faintly beside you.
“someone’s going to hear,” you whisper, though your body has apparently decided this isn’t a meaningful concern.
“then be quiet.”
his hand slides beneath the edge of your shirt. hot palm. rough fingers. skin against skin. the contact makes your whole body jolt. soldier boy’s mouth curves against your neck when he feels it, smugness finally slipping through the anger. he drags his hand upward slowly, learning the line of your waist and the soft warmth of your stomach with the same shameless entitlement he brings to everything else. his thumb presses into your side. his fingers spread wider.
“still laughing?” he asks near your ear.
“still jealous?”
his hand tightens. “careful.”
you know better than to ask. you do it anyway. “or what?”
his eyes lift to yours. green gone darker in the thin light coming through the blinds. his mouth is swollen slightly from kissing you. hair messy from your fingers. expression rough enough to make your pulse jump.
“you really need everything explained to you?” he asks.
you pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him again instead. he makes a low, approving sound and drives his hips against you. the friction punches a moan out of your mouth before you can swallow it. soldier boy’s hand leaves your stomach and closes over your mouth. the movement is quick. firm enough to stop the sound dead against his palm while his eyes stay fixed on yours. your breath catches through your nose.
“you gonna be good for me, doll?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy near your ear.
your entire body goes hot. you glare at him.
his mouth twitches. “if only you were always this obedient.”
you bite lightly at the heel of his hand.
“brat,” he says, almost fond and not remotely soft.
his palm slips away just long enough for his mouth to take yours again, swallowing the smaller sound you make when he rolls his hips between your thighs. there’s no patience left in either of you. not after the night before. not after the dock. not after an entire van ride spent refusing to look at each other for too long because butcher was sitting close enough to weaponize eye contact.
your fingers drag beneath his shirt. muscle and warm skin, solid under your palms. his body feels unfairly built, every inch of him hard where you’re soft, heat collecting quickly beneath your touch. you push the fabric higher. he breaks the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt over his head and throw it somewhere near the bed.
then he’s back—mouth at your throat. hands at your waist. broad chest pressing into you while your fingers find his shoulders and cling there, careful of your bruised knuckles this time.
his hand moves to the button of your jeans. the button comes loose. your zipper follows. “lift,” he says against your mouth.
you do. he gets your jeans and underwear down far enough to make the entire situation feel suddenly, brutally real, fabric caught awkwardly around one ankle until you kick the rest away and nearly lose your boot with it. soldier boy laughs once under his breath, rough and mean. “smooth.”
“shut up.”
“you always this graceful?”
“you’re welcome to leave.”
“not a chance in hell.”
his hand slides between your thighs. your breath catches so sharply it almost becomes a sound. he looks at your face when his fingers find you wet already, his expression shifting into something dark and deeply satisfied.
“think fish sticks could do this to you?”
his thumb circles slowly, once, and the shape of whatever insult you meant to throw at him disappears before it reaches your mouth. “fuck,” you breathe.
“yeah,” he says, eyes fixed on your face. “thought so.”
you grip his shoulder with your good hand when his fingers press into you, the stretch immediate and sharp enough to make your legs tense around his hips. he works you open with none of the delicate patience another man might use to prove something about himself. soldier boy is rougher than that. direct. watching every change in your expression while his thumb keeps dragging over you until your breathing turns unreliable and your head tips back against the wall again.
“quiet,” he reminds you.
you bite down on your lower lip. he watches you do it and swears beneath his breath.
somewhere beyond the closed door, a cabinet shuts in the kitchen. footsteps move faintly through the hallway, then fade again. the safehouse remains full of people. mm and frenchie are probably already pulling apart the stolen drive. butcher is almost certainly standing near the table with a look on his face that makes future humiliation inevitable.
soldier boy’s fingers curl inside you. you forget all of them.
your hand catches at his wrist. “ben.”
his eyes snap to yours. the name does something to him every time. you know that now. it moves beneath his expression like a bruise pressed too hard, pain and want twisted too closely together to separate. his mouth finds yours again. slower for half a second. then harder.
he pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you breathe out something embarrassingly close to a whine.
“impatient,” he mutters.
“stop teasing.”
his eyes narrow. you have enough time to regret saying it before he sets you down just long enough to undo his belt. the metal buckle clicks loudly in the small room. your mouth goes dry.
you kick your jeans the rest of the way free while he shoves his trousers and underwear low enough to free himself. the sight of him should be unfair at minimum. thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
you stare.
his hand closes around his cock. one slow stroke. eyes on your face. “problem?”
“unfortunately, i’m only human.”
his mouth twitches. his hands return to you. hips. thighs. lifting you back against the wall. your legs lock around his waist. his cock presses against you. both of you stop breathing properly. soldier boy looks at your face. not softly. not asking something he can’t say. just giving you the second you need.
you tighten your legs around him and pull him closer. “do it,” you whisper.
he pushes into you.
the stretch knocks every thought out of your head at once. your mouth opens around a sound that doesn’t make it far because his hand closes over it again immediately, palm warm and broad across your lips while his other arm braces hard beneath your thighs to hold you in place.
“quiet,” he says through clenched teeth, voice rougher now.
you breathe hard against his hand.
he gives you a second. barely enough for your body to adjust around him, but enough for the ache to turn into something hotter, fuller, impossible to ignore. then he draws back and thrusts into you again, deeper this time, the force driving your shoulders harder against the wall.
your fingers dig into him.
his forehead nearly drops toward yours. breath mixing hot against your face while his hips move with an unforgiving rhythm that makes your legs tighten around him and your body jolt against the wall with every thrust.
the room narrows down to pressure and heat and the rough drag of his cock inside you. the muted sounds trapped behind his hand. his breath turning harsher every time your body clenches around him. his eyes fixed on yours as if looking away would cost him something.
“fuck,” he mutters. “that’s it.”
you make another sound against his palm.
his gaze sharpens. “you like the whole goddamn house hearing you?”
you shake your head quickly.
“could’ve fooled me.”
his hand leaves your mouth only long enough to kiss you, hard and messy, catching every broken breath before it becomes too loud. you kiss him back with whatever coordination remains, nails dragging down his shoulder, body moving with his.
his hand slips between you again. your entire body tenses when his thumb finds you. “oh, ben—”
his palm covers your mouth again. “what did i say?”
you stare at him, furious and breathless and so close to losing every remaining scrap of control that it feels humiliating. soldier boy looks entirely too pleased by that.
“there she is,” he murmurs. “mouthy until it matters.”
you bite his palm again. harder this time.
his hips snap forward with enough force to make your eyes roll shut. “fuckin’ brat.” the words hit low.
so does the next thrust. and the next. each one rougher than the last as his control frays, his hand firm over your mouth, his other arm holding you against the wall like he could keep you there forever if he decided the rest of the world could wait.
the pressure builds too quickly. your body already overstimulated from his fingers, from last night, from the whole horrible day of wanting and waiting and listening to him pretend jealousy is just another form of irritation.
your thighs shake around his waist. he feels it. “look at me.”
you open your eyes.
his breathing is wrecked now. face tense. hair falling forward. jaw tight with the effort of staying quiet himself while his thumb circles harder and his cock keeps dragging deep enough to make every thought fracture apart.
“come on,” he says, voice low. “give it to me.”
your body breaks around him.
the orgasm hits hard enough to make your back arch off the wall, every muscle drawing tight at once while the sound tears against his palm and dies there. your vision blurs. your fingers clutch at his shoulders. heat rolls through you in sharp waves, knees pulling tighter around his hips while he keeps moving through it, rough and relentless, dragging the pleasure out until it tips almost painfully sensitive.
“ben,” you cry against his hand.
his forehead drops near yours for half a second. his breathing comes apart completely now, every inhale rough and uneven, his chest moving hard beneath your palms as he tries and fails to keep quiet.
you catch his wrist and pull his hand away from your mouth. “put me down.”
his eyes open properly. dark. unfocused at the edges. still hungry enough to make the words catch briefly in your throat. “what?”
“down.”
he stares at you for one second longer, like his brain has stopped cooperating with the rest of him. then his hands shift beneath your thighs and he lowers you carefully enough to be insulting after everything else. your feet meet the floor. your knees nearly fail you.
his hand catches your waist immediately. “easy,” he mutters.
you look up at him. his chest is still rising too fast. his mouth is swollen. there’s a flush climbing along his neck, disappearing beneath the line of his jaw, and the sight of it makes something hot curl low in your stomach all over again.
you keep your eyes on his as you sink to your knees.
the floor is hard under you but you don’t care. your legs are still shaking from the orgasm he dragged out of you, thighs slick, heartbeat loud in your ears.
soldier boy stares down at you. his cock is right there, thick and flushed dark, still wet from being inside you. it twitches when your breath ghosts over it.
“fuck, doll,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
you wrap your hand around the base first, giving one slow stroke just to watch his abs clench. then you lean in and lick a broad stripe up the underside, tongue pressing flat against the vein that runs along his length. he hisses through his teeth, one hand flying to the wall for balance.
you take your time at first. swirling your tongue around the head, tasting yourself on him, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just under the tip until his hips jerk forward. a fat drop of spit slides down your chin already.
you look up at him through your lashes as you open your mouth wider and slide him inside. he’s thick enough that your jaw aches after only a few inches, but you push further anyway, cheeks hollowing.
“shit—that’s it,” he groans, low and rough. his free hand finally lands in your hair, resting heavy there. like he needs the contact.
you bob your head, taking him deeper each time, saliva coating him, dripping messily down your chin and onto your shirt. the wet sounds are obscene in the small room. you relax your throat and take him further, until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base and your eyes start to water.
you choke. a small, wet sound that makes his grip tighten in your hair.
you pull back, spit wet on your lips, and stroke him with your hand while you catch half a breath. your mouth feels swollen already. your chin is damp. his cock shines with spit under your fist, and soldier boy stares at the sight like it might kill him.
“still jealous?” you tease.
his eyes snap to yours. a mistake. a wonderful one.
his hand on your hair pulls your mouth back to him. “open.”
your pulse kicks as you obey.
he slides back across your tongue, and this time, he doesn’t let you tease. his hand guides you down, firm and filthy, until your lips stretch around him and your throat starts to resist. you gag, soft and wet, nails dragging down the hard muscle of his thigh as your eyes sting.
“there you go,” he breathes.
your hand grips the base of him, working what your mouth can’t take, spit slipping over your fingers. he holds you there for a second too long, just enough to make the room blur at the edges, then lets you pull back with a messy inhale.
a string of saliva breaks from your lower lip to the head of his cock. his control takes visible damage. “look at you,” he says, voice thick. “all that attitude, and now you’re drooling on my cock.”
you dive back down, faster now. messy. greedy. your head moves in a steady rhythm while your tongue works the underside. soldier boy’s breathing gets louder, rougher. his hand shifts in your hair, fingers tightening, starting to guide you.
“yeah… just like that. good fucking girl.”
the praise hits low in your stomach. you moan around him and his control slips another notch. his hips start moving, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. he fucks your mouth with growing urgency, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over.
you choke again, throat convulsing around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. spit drips freely now, soaking your chin, running down your neck. you don’t care. you dig your nails into his thigh harder and take everything he gives you.
“fuck—i’m close,” he pants. his voice is completely shot. chest heaving. abs tight. “gonna come in that pretty mouth if you keep—shit—”
you look up at him and hum, eyes watering but steady.
that does it.
his hand fists tight in your hair, holding you in place as his hips stutter. he comes with a broken groan, thick and hot across your tongue. pulse after pulse, salty and warm, filling your mouth until you have to swallow around him. he keeps thrusting through it, shallow and desperate, panting your name under his breath.
when he finally stills, you keep him in your mouth a second longer, sucking gently, milking the last drops. only then do you pull off slowly, gasping, lips shiny and swollen, chin a complete mess.
soldier boy stares down at you, chest still rising and falling hard. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, smearing the spit and cum there. something soft flickers across his face for half a second—too raw, too honest—before he tucks it away again.
you stay on your knees a moment longer, looking up at him. he hauls you up by the elbows, kissing you deep and filthy even though his taste is still in your mouth. his arms wrap around you like he’s not sure he’ll let go anytime soon.
the safehouse is still noisy outside the door. voices, laughter, the faint clack of keyboards. none of it feels real right now.
you press your face into his bare chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down, and try not to think about how much you like being held by him after he’s fallen apart. how dangerous that is.
he doesn’t say anything else. just holds you tighter, nose buried in your hair, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing and doesn’t know what to do with it either.
cw use of baby, pretty, sweetheart. kisses and cuddling !
⊹ dean lets you trim his hair. he sits on the closed toilet lid with warm hands holding your hips, looking up at you with shiny eyes, feeling much too fuzzy inside. he likes the feel of your fingers brushing over his scalp. you'll hook a couple beneath his chin to tilt his head this way and that, and he leans into the touch completely.
"you're good at this, baby."
he loves how close you are, how soft you feel under his palms. when you finish and set down the scissors, he draws it all out, not wanting to get up yet, and presses his face to your stomach. gives soft, chaste kisses to your navel.
"couple minutes," he mumbles. "wanna stay here, pretty."
⊹ dean likes washing dishes with you. bumps his shoulder to yours and loves the way your smile blooms all pretty, your quiet laugh. he listens to you talk about your day, so fond, it spreads fast through his chest. silence is good, too. it lasts until he flicks water onto your cheek with his fingers.
⊹ mornings are very slow with him. you often wake with his nose shoved against your neck, his body partially curled over yours, radiating amber heat. his lashes only flutter when your fingertips petal down the light freckles of his bicep.
"sweetheart," he breathes. "y'smell good."
he keeps you in bed for a long, long while.
⊹ taking care of you comes very naturally to him. whenever you fall sick, he makes sure you're resting properly and bestows very careful kisses to your dewy cheeks and forehead. he replaces tissue boxes once emptied and tucks close to your side when you pull him in. doesn't care if he catches the bug, just wants to make you feel better.
Summary You beat Sam at chess for the first time, and you are a very ungracious winner.
CWs Domestic bunker fluff. Sam being the sweetest boyfriend. I know jack about chess.
953 words
AN This is an old one I'm bringing over here from AO3. Enjoy!
SPN masterlist | Sam Winchester masterlist
You’re staring down at the board in front of you, thinking hard.
Sam taps his finger on the table twice and you shoot him a threatening look.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t play dirty,” you respond, looking back at the board.
He chuckles a little. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
That’s when you see it.
You raise your hands, link your fingers in front of your mouth so Sam doesn’t see the grin you’re suppressing.
Dean always tells you you have a horrible poker face and unfortunately he’s not wrong. It’s a bad combination with how competitive you get.
You’ve only been playing chess for a few weeks, always thinking before that it would bore you. But then Sam found this beautiful chess board in the bunker, his eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. You knew Dean wasn’t going to play with him so you saw it as your girlfriend-ly duty to step in.
You started playing, him explaining the rules to you, and before you knew it, you were enjoying it. So now you and Sam spend many of the long afternoons in the bunker hunched over the board, in deep concentration.
So much for the good news.
The bad news is that Sam has been winning. Every. Single. Game. Of course he’s good at it, he’s the smartest guy you know. And he doesn’t brag about it or rub it in your face. When he wins, he just kind of sits back, nods. Sometimes you think he actually feels bad.
Once you think you caught him trying to purposefully loose, and you nearly wreaked havoc on his ass. You’re competitive, not fragile. He didn’t try losing again after that.
And now here you are, and after weeks of practice, you think you just might have him.
You breath out slowly, trying to hide your excitement. Then you take one hand away from your face, make your move. You immediately bring it back where it was because Sam doesn't seem to notice, is thinking about his own move.
Now that it's his turn you use the chance to ogle him a little. You enjoy chess, but this part ain't so bad either.
He sits there, leaned forward over the table, arms crossed in front of him. His lips are pinched together in concentration, his brow a little furrowed. It's a damn good picture.
He must notice your gaze one him, because he looks up at you.
"Nothing," you say, before he can ask what's going on. "Just checking you out."
He grins a little, looks back at the board.
"Like what you see?" he asks, casually.
"Not too shabby," you reply. "Could be a little faster at chess, though."
He looks back up at you. "I thought no playing dirty?"
"Yeah, that goes for you," you say, like it's obvious. "I need every advantage I can get."
Sam smiles, clicks his tongue, looks back down. Then he raises his hand, makes his move.
This time you can't hide your grin. He walked right into your trap. You move your knight.
"Checkmate," you say.
Sam looks stunned. He stares at the board, his eyes going back and forth.
You throw your hands in the air and make a whooping sound, because being a gracious winner is for tall guys with beautiful hair, not for you.
Sam leans back and grins. He looks proud and impressed. It makes your heart melt a little, and you almost don't want to make the fact that you beat him your entire personality. Almost.
You put your fist in front of your face, holding an imaginary microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, friends at home, we are here covering what might be the coolest, most savage chess win of all times."
Your sound more like a sports announcer than a news caster, but that's a detail you don't worry about.
"We are here today," you continue, "with Samuel Winchester, who will answer the question: what is it like to have a girlfriend who is not just beautiful, not just intelligent, but also a menace at chess? Samuel, what can you tell us about this experience?"
You scoot up, leaning over the table to hold the fake mic into Sam's face.
He sits up, leaning closer. "It's actually Sam," he says into your fist.
You make a buzzer noise, even though that makes the whole thing more of a talkshow host impression. Whatever. You beat Sam at chess. Accuracy is for losers.
"That is actually incorrect! The correct answer is that it's the best thing in the world, and that she will be getting foot rubs from you for eternity."
You hold the mic back to him, giving him a chance to defend himself, but instead he smiles.
"I was going to do that anyway," he says, and than he wraps his hand around your wrist and quickly bites your finger.
He lets go and you put on a stunned tone when you talk back into the mic again.
"Gentle viewers, it seems that he just bit the reporter."
Sam makes a face. "I bit the microphone. Wait, you're supposed to be a reporter? I thought you were a game show host."
You roll your eyes. "Details, Samuel, details." You swish your hand around in front of his face. "Don't have time for details when I'm winning."
He grabs your hand from where it's waving around and holds it up to his face. Just when you think - hope - he'll bite you again, he kisses the back of it.
"I don't need to win. I already got the main prize," he says.
So cheesy, you think. You grin at him and he smiles back and you won at chess and all is well.
Thank you for reading! ♡
Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth.
☕Support me by buying me a coffee!
summary: sam's raised you from the moment you were born until adulthood. getting hurt on a hunt shows you that while you're not a child anymore, you'll always be sam's kid
pairing: sam x daughter!reader ft. dean | genre: angst w/ fluffy ending | word count: 7.1k
warnings: reader is sam and jess's daughter (no physical features described, although reader is written to be white), sam is trying his best to be a good dad, typical hunting injuries, scared sam, one use of the word 'fuck' (he's scared okay ? leave him alone </3), caring dad!sam and dean being a good uncle
notes: requested !! we trying something new and different this time !!!! t'was a fun experiment, i've considered writing dad!sam before but never with a reader as his kid, so this was kinda fun :] also i think i should mention; reader is written as an adult in this fic. italics represent the flashbacks, normal text is the present btw :]
taglist
It happens so fast.
One second, you’re off to his right, gun held in front of you with the kind of military precision that comes from years of learning to keep yourself alive in the toughest battlefields. You’re scoping the room, checking all the shadows and the corners, just like Sam taught you. One foot in front of the other, steps quiet but sure, toes of your boots testing the ground under them with each movement, assuring the floor is sturdy enough for your weight. The safety clicks off, fingers readjusting their grip on the gun and wrapping tight around the handle, thumb sweeping along the barrel once. Something cracks and your head whips around, Sam wincing just slightly at the force of it, ears listening for words from you or Dean, eyes watching for the thing you’re hunting.
The next second, you’re falling, and you’re falling hard. Your body curls in on itself, thrown backward with a force Sam’s never quite seen before. Or maybe he has, but he’s never seen it directed at you. You land, body bending backward in a way that would be almost comical to Sam if it wasn’t happening to you before his very eyes. A trail of red immediately curls down your temple, trailing back into your hair and staining the strands some raspberry colour that would be pretty if it weren’t made of your blood. A dark patch of it blooms on the fabric of your shirt, soaking into the cotton and sticking the fibers to your skin. Your name gets caught in Sam’s throat before it makes it out of his mouth, the letters dying on his tongue the moment they appear.
You’re nestled in Sam’s arms, one arm under your shoulders and the other under your knees, head lolling against his chest as he cradles you close. He remembers doing this with you when you were just a little kid, running to him in your carefully tied shoes, asking for him to carry you. He’d scoop you up and hold you close, just like he is now. Except this time, it’s not to comfort you after a scraped knee, or to swing you through the air while you ask if this is how it feels to fly. This time, it’s to move you from the Impala to your bedroom, mind only half paying attention to the mud and droplets of your blood that Sam’s boots track through the bunker. Dean’s somewhere ahead of him, opening the door to your bedroom and disappearing immediately to find supplies; needle and thread, no doubt. Alcohol too, for the cleaning, and maybe a bit to take Sam’s mind off of the fact it’s his daughter’s body he’s putting back together.
Sam lays your body carefully on the bed, only partly paying attention to the blood that’s staining your bedsheets. He’ll change them later when he knows you’re not bleeding out in his arms. He arranges your limbs carefully, settling each one into a position that will be comfortable if you happen to wake up while he’s working, but also keeps the areas he needs accessible. Something about your lashes fluttering softly against your cheeks reminds him painfully of Jess; you’ve inherited the little things. That shine in your eyes when you learn something new that you’re particularly fond of. The little smile you give Sam when he brings you a book, or breakfast, or some random trinket he thought you might like. The rosiness to your cheeks when you’re out in the sun, and the way the sun glances off your hair like it belongs there, tangled in the wild strands.
He goes to stand, goes to meet Dean for the supplies, but something stops him. Your body looks so fragile lying there, hands curled lightly around the ghost of your gun that he’d taken off you in his haste, hair blown around you like the cracked halo of a fallen angel. The strands spread against the pillow, the same spider webbing as the cracks in the ceiling above you, and for a brief moment, Sam is too afraid to look up lest your body be trapped there like Jess’s was. He thanks whatever gods exist every day that you were in the other room when it happened. That you never saw your mother up there on the ceiling, burning. That he had the conscience to scoop up your little body and clutch you close to his chest while Dean guided him through the thick smoke of the fire.
One trembling hand brushes the blood-smeared hair back from your forehead, your skin looking so pale and ashen under the clinical bunker lighting. Sam yearns for the colour to come back to your cheeks just from his touch alone, but he knows it’s not going to happen, not unless he can fix you up like he promised to on the drive back home. His quivering cracked lips press a soft kiss to the skin of your forehead, a ghostly press of skin on skin that he hopes fruitlessly will wake you up like it woke up all those fairy tale princesses he used to tell you about. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it softly and moving only when Dean comes back with the materials, setting them on the table and resting a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“I can do it, if you want,” Dean says, jutting his chin in your direction.
“No-. No. I have to,” Sam replies, shaky, clearing his throat. “I have to.”
“Sammy, y’don’t have to do anything.”
“Dean-.” He swallows hard. “I have to.”
Then, quieter.
“I promised her I would.”
Dean nods, eyes darting around the room. “You don’t have to do this to yourself.”
“I’m her father, Dean. I need to do this.”
“Sam.”
“If she wakes up, I need to be there. I promised her I wasn’t gonna leave her for anything, Dean. Not even this.”
Dean sighs. The heavy kind, that sits in his ribs and pushes its way out. He’s not mad; he’s far from mad. He’s just absorbing it all, taking everything in and sorting it out in that Dean Winchester way. He’s never seen his little brother this scared. Not when John died, not even when Sam himself died. Back then, he was brave, sacrificing himself in ways nobody should ever have to. Now, there’s an anxious tremor in Sam’s hands that will only stop when you’re stitched up and as comfortable as you can be.
“Alright. Alright, Sammy. You’ve got her.”
Sam nods. “I got her.”
When you hit the floor, Sam’s world goes dark. Everything stops existing. It’s just you, on your back, blood trailing down your skin and onto the cobbled tiles underneath you. Skin already losing colour, but your eyes stay open, terrified, watching. You try to speak, but nothing comes out other than a garbled sound of pain and fear that could be ‘Dad’ but could also be ‘help’, or ‘no’, or ‘please’. Sam’s never moved this fast before, because suddenly it’s his kid on the floor, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to you immediately. The monster makes a taunting sound that could be laughter, disappearing somewhere else, in search of a new target; Dean. Somehow, the fact Dean’s in danger doesn’t even cross Sam’s mind, not when you’re lying there just in his reach.
He clambers over to you, shoes catching in chips in the stones, slipping in the growing puddle of your blood at your side, voice already going rough from screaming your name. His hands hurriedly run up and down your sides, assessing the damage, pressing at your skin and fluttering away when you wince at his touch. His palms come away stained red, the colour draining from your face at the sight.
“’S that mine?” you ask weakly.
“No, sweetheart. Don’t think about it.”
“Dad-.”
He watches you with sad eyes, the kind that are scared and trying not to show it around you. The kind that’s hoping he’s sealed all the cracks in his heart well enough that he doesn’t start bleeding out with you on the floor. The kind of eyes that look at you and understand you need to know the truth about your situation.
“Did you hit something when you fell?”
You frown, already slipping into unconsciousness.
“Hey, hey. You gotta look at me,” Sam says, panicked.
“’M looking.”
“Did you hit anything?”
You slowly shake your head, groaning. “Nail.”
“Nail?”
You nod, swallowing. “Nail. Fingers. Fingernails.”
“They cut you?”
“Yeah.”
You blink, slow. “Dad?”
“Right here,” Sam says. “I’m right here.”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so small and quiet that it shatters Sam’s heart down the middle and breaks the halves into a thousand small pieces. They pierce his body, flooding his veins with hundreds of tiny knives, sticking into his skin like the spines on a burr. Poison in his body, blood running cold.
“It’s okay,” Sam promises. “You’re okay.”
“I’m not,” you reply.
“You will be. ‘M not gonna let anything happen to you.”
You smile, soft and slow, warm in the way that melts Sam’s heart. “I know.”
The blood is sticky in its half-dried state. Both Sam’s jacket and your shirt cling to your wound with the persistent attachment of a nightmare in waking hours. Sam feels bad for having to take your shirt off, pointedly looking away from your bare chest as he works at the wound on your side. A cursory examination of your back determines it’s nothing more than horrifically bruised, your skin already starting to turn a mottled blue and purple patchwork. Sam distantly remembers Jess bruising easily, and he’s forever glad you don’t seem to follow in her footsteps; but when you do bruise, you bruise nasty, the kind of bruise that sticks around for weeks longer than it needs to.
Dean took the liberty of threading the needle for Sam. A wise decision, given how bad his hands are trembling right now. He wouldn’t be able to hold the needle straight enough to thread it, let alone hold the thread steady to slide it into the eye. Instead, he reaches for a rag and soaks it in alcohol, whispering an apology to your unconscious form as he presses the rag to your wound. Your muscles flinch around his touches, a low whine that’s almost impossible to hear dragging itself from your chest with the energy of a man who’s been buried alive and risen from the grave. Sam wipes away at the edges of your wound with tenderness, the rag coming away pinker and pinker each time.
When he turns his attention to your main wound, he shrinks back on himself in pain. Not physical pain, because he’s not the one with a raw, angry wound in his side. Mental pain, the kind of pain that comes from believing you’ve failed the very thing you promised yourself to never fail. The kind of pain that comes from promising your dead girlfriend you’ll take care of your baby and protect her with your life and now seeing her lying there injured on the table before you. Sam swallows harsh, the sound catching in his throat and struggling to get down. Your fingers twitch against the sheets, a feeble attempt a reassurance. Sam’s lips quirk up of their volition, because a twitch means you’re alive, and in a bid to protect your privacy, he hasn’t been looking at the rise and fall of your chest so much as he’s been listening for the weak sound of your breaths.
The steady in and out of the needle through your skin makes Sam sigh heavy every time he thinks you’d be groaning in pain if you were awake. The mottled bruising on your skin is only getting darker the longer he works, and he’s afraid for you when you wake up and the feeling of it all hits you at once. He’ll have to make sure he brings you painkillers as soon as he’s done here, so that they can sit on the table and be ready for you when you decide to come back to his world. He works in silence, only pausing to wipe away blood or clear his throat before addressing Dean every time he pops in. Dean keeps his distance as promised, because he knows better than to distract Sam from this mission to keep you alive. But he talks, telling Sam anything and everything that comes to mind, in an attempt to keep his brother’s head on straight. Because when you wake up, and it is a when, not an if, Sam needs to be in his right mind to care for you. Because you’ll be asking for him if he’s not there, and as much as you love Dean as an uncle, nothing reassures you more than Sam’s steady presence, calm and right.
Tying off the last stitch, Sam dresses your wounds with careful precision, treating you as if you were awake and there to tell if something pinches or sits wrong, or too tight. He doesn’t dare try and put a shirt back on you, instead settling for spreading a clean sheet over your body and tucking it under your chin like he did when you were small. Something in him cracks at the bottom sheet being a little bloody, but he promises himself that’ll be the first thing he does tomorrow morning. Dean will help lift you while he changes the sheets, and Sam will settle you in the way you like. A clean cloth is run over your forehead by Sam’s hand, much steadier now that you’re breathing normally again and the lines on your face have devolved into something like casual acceptance of the pain. He’ll help you shower later, when you can sit up for long enough to sit in the bath.
In and out. In and out. It’s all he can think of while he kneels beside your body on the floor. In and out. One, two, three. In and out. In and-. Out. Quicker and quicker he breathes, each lung full of air compressing his chest from the inside out, determined to find a way out of his body that isn’t through his mouth or his nose. It shoves itself against his rib cage, rattling his heart and squeezing it until it’s too big for his skin and too small for his body to hold on to. It falls to the floor under his knees, spilling out onto the ground in the kind of way that can never really be recovered. Hands shaking, he reaches for your shoulders, tapping them, shaking them, determined to keep you awake and moving if it’s the last thing he does. The spirit isn’t even on his mind anymore, because there’s something more important to worry about; you.
Sam can hear Dean yelling something in the distance, something heavy and harsh and laden with curses. The kind he normally wouldn’t say around you even though you’re an adult. The kind that says he’s just as scared for you as Sam is, because something bad is happening to someone he loves, and he couldn’t prevent it. Sam knows there’s a harsh kind of vengeance in Dean’s blood right now, hand no doubt gripped tight around the lighter and another around his rock-salt gun as he digs up the bones. There’s a flicker of light when Dean drops the lighter into the ground, the pale colour of the flames only making your corpse seem more ashen-faced and cold, lips turning blue against the night air. You’re still breathing, and Sam counts each breath reverently, hands fluttering over you because he needs to keep them busy. He moves from your face down your body, checking and re-checking the state of your injuries, cataloguing them with the kind of careful precision that burns him from the inside out if he does it wrong or misses a spot. If he misjudges the condition you’re in, he’ll never forgive himself for it; he already won’t forgive himself for letting you get hurt like this.
The voices yelling in his head are loud. They scream your name, and Sam’s pretty sure half of them scream your name through his throat, the sounds raw and ragged and accompanied by rough pleas for your safety and promises you’ll be okay. His chest hurts, eyes burning with unshed tears, because he can’t let you see him cry. Not now, not when you need him to be strong enough for the both of you. He’ll cry later when you’re awake, and he’ll shamelessly let his tears track down his cheeks and drip into your hair. Now, he has to be strong, he has to be brave, he has to be what Jess made him promise to be for you. He has to be your saviour and your guardian angel, and he has to be the one bright light in the darkness of your life.
A scream rings out, one that sounds unearthly and harsh. It tears through the air like it’s ripping it apart at the seams, collapsing in on itself and echoing outward in the kind of death shriek of a dying spirit. Dean’s voice shouts something in triumph, boots scuffing on dirt as he kicks a bit over the dying embers. He keeps talking for Sam’s sake, voice getting louder and clearer as he enters the room you’re both in. Dean’s face goes pale at the sight of you on the floor, and even paler still at the sheer panic written across Sam’s features. It takes a lot to phase Sam, especially now given all that he’s been through. And this rocks him to his very core.
Sam’s arms are warm where he scoops you up, cradling you against his chest with your head over his heart. He runs, as fast as he dares to run without jostling you too much. You’re not awake anymore, but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel any pain, and that doesn’t mean Sam won’t stop acting like you are. He talks to you as he runs, murmuring softly to you the same way he did when you were small and woke him up when you had bad dreams. He’d cradle you then too, running a hand through your hair and talking to you for hours until you fell back asleep against his chest with a tiny hand clenched into the fabric of his shirt. Now, your hands rest uselessly over your stomach, bouncing when Sam takes a longer stride and hits the ground harder. He rests a hand over your head when he bundles you into the back seat of the Impala, stripping off his jacket and pressing it against your wound. He slides in beside you, your head on his lap and his hand in your hair, keeping pressure on the jacket over your wound while Dean drives as fast as the car will let him go.
Your bedroom in the bunker is quiet, the only sounds coming from your and Sam’s breathing, and the persistent hum of the ancient heater. The pipes in the walls spring to life briefly when Dean showers, the click of water starting to rush through the metal making Sam jump in his seat at the side of your bed. He’s taken a chair hostage from the kitchen, pulling it through the halls and setting it beside your bed, angled so that he can see the doorway and keep an eye over your sleeping form. You’re sleeping for real, he knows. Not the unconsciousness from earlier; this is true sleep, and he knows by the way your breaths have stayed steady but slowly become full. No more stutter on the inhale, no more fluttering air on the exhale. A proper breath, full in its entirety, passing lightly through your nose with a hint of a sound. A light, breathy sound, one that’s not properly snoring but isn’t nothing. The same kind of sound Jess made in her sleep when Sam had her tucked against his chest after night spent studying.
Immediately after settling you in under the blankets, Sam went on a mission. First, a thicker blanket, because your room has a habit of being colder than the rest of the bunker for reasons he hasn’t quite figured out yet. Second, a glass of water and painkillers, which he sets carefully on the table beside you. They taste awful and Sam knows it, but he also know given the extent of your bruising, they’ll probably be the first thing you ask for once you can formulate proper questions. Third, at Dean’s insistence he takes the quickest shower known to mankind and gives himself the grace of putting on clothes that aren’t stained with dirt and blood. Washing the pink down the drain feels like he’s getting stabbed all over again, but the moment it’s gone brings him the kind of relief he never thought he’d feel again.
Now, he sits vigil at your bedside. Not even a book in hand, because reading means taking his eyes off you, and taking his eyes off you means he could miss the moment you wake up. He doesn’t consider the alternative, because he has to believe that you’ll wake up. You always do, he reasons with himself. You’re a Winchester. Winchesters don’t get the blessing of death so young. Each rise and fall of your now covered chest is tracked by his eyes, Sam’s hand occasionally drifting toward your wrist and taking your pulse. Counting the numbers steady in his head, an eye on his watch to count a whole minute. It spikes once, somewhere around five in the morning, and Sam murmurs to you under his breath like he did when you were young until the furrow in your brow disappears and whatever dream plagued you has passed.
With nothing else to do but watch you sleep, Sam talks. He doesn’t dare fall asleep; not tonight. Not when you’re vulnerable to your injury, and not when he’s vulnerable to his emotions. He couldn’t sleep even if he tried, his mind running a hundred miles an hour and throwing the worst at him from every angle. So, he talks. He tells you things he knows he’s told you before, and he tells you things he’s kept secret and will keep secret until the day he dies. He tells you things that would make you cry if you were awake, and he tells you the little things from when you were young that would make your face flush red in embarrassment. He tells them because he has to. He needs the silence in the room to understand how important you are to him. He needs the bunker to understand it has to wake you up at some point and bring you back to him. Sam needs his daughter, because without you, he’s not much of anything.
He tells you first about when Jess told him she was pregnant. A mistake, he knows for a fact. They were in college for heaven’s sake, neither of them had the time for a baby. But that wasn’t going to stop him from loving both his girls with everything he has, because Sam is nothing if not a lover. He tells you about how he cared for Jess, making sure he attended lectures in her absence and brought her review packets and textbook work and set up exams so that she could take them without having to go very far. He tells you about how he sat beside her just like this in the hospital, watching the both of you sleep after you were born. He tells you about bringing you back to the apartment, and how much it meant that his college friends were there for him and Jess; helping out when there was homework and studying to do, keeping you entertained while they wrote exams, bringing you little gifts when they saw you.
Sam doesn’t tell you about the fire, because he can’t bring himself to talk about it right now. The fire that killed his lover has no place in the room today, not when you’re lying there just as immobile as she was on the ceiling. Instead, he tells you about the first night he took you on the road with Dean, the night after the fire. Where he sat with you in his lap the entire drive, and worried incessantly about how he was going to explain a nearly seven-month-old baby to Dean. Dean didn’t seem to care very much beyond a bit of casual teasing.
Then, he worried about how he was supposed to tell his dad about you. John, the man Sam swore he’d never become. The man who responded to everything with anger, the one who never explained why he was angry, the one who let everyone flounder in the confusion of being in trouble and never knowing why. Everything Sam hates about himself, he hates because they’re the parts that are most like John. Everything Sam tolerates about himself, and everything he loves about you, he loves because they’re nothing like his father. They’re every bit like Jess, or maybe him, or even a little bit of Dean. The parts that reminds him that he’s more than his father’s failures.
After that, he hops around a bit. He doesn’t follow a timeline anymore, because everything he tells you doesn’t need a date and time to mean something. Sam talks about all the late-night conversations he had with Dean about you. About whether it was better to leave you with Bobby, even though it tore him up inside to let you out of his sight. You, the last living proof of Jess. The part of his life he treasured the most. He talks about all the times he made Dean promise that no matter what, you come first. All the times he sat Dean down and said that if the both of you are in danger, Dean has to promise to get you safe before he even thinks about coming back for Sam. No heroics to try and save the both of you at once; just a solid promise that you come first, always. He tells you about bringing you to school and the joy he got from meeting your friends, and then he tells you about how much it hurt him to have to take you away from those friends. He talks about all the memories of your childhood with the people who meant the most; Bobby, the roadhouse gang to an extent, the tiniest bit of joy John got from learning he was a grandfather. A poor excuse for one, but still one, nonetheless.
He talks the entire night, hoping that his words are enough to keep away the shadowed parts of the room that threaten to engulf your figure and never let it go again. He sits with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced together and he sits until his back starts getting sore. And then he ignores it and sits longer, because you still haven’t woken up yet, and he needs to be beside you when you do. He gets up once to refill his own glass of water, and he’s only gone for as short as he possibly can be. He watches your body for any signs of waking. Every twitch of your hand, every shift of your leg against the bedsheets, every sigh from your mouth when you settle that gets closer and closer to the kind of sigh that wakes you up every morning.
At some point, he grows restless, shifting in his chair with the kind of nervous energy that comes from a man who’s been counting the hours you sleep and is getting worried you’re not waking up fast enough. He knows its morning because Dean shows up with a paper plate and some half-burnt toast, nudging it in Sam’s direction with the authority of someone who won’t leave the room until the toast is gone. Dean hovers in the corner as Sam eats, prompting him with small talk that Sam barely bothers entertaining. He gives just enough of an answer that Dean won’t press, but keep it vague, because even now he doesn’t need his brother to know everything going on inside his head.
“Should get outta that chair, Sammy,” Dean comments.
“Not until-.”
“Not until she wakes up, you said that.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
Dean shrugs, serious. “I know you weren’t. You’re still gonna wear a hole in the floor if y’keep bouncin’ your leg like that.”
Sam’s leg stills, the energy dispelling into his hands that start twisting nervously in his lap. Dean sighs, grabbing his brother by the shoulders and dragging him upright.
“C’mon, just...just stand up for a few minutes,” Dean says, quiet. “You’ve been sittin’ there all night.”
Slow, Sam stretches his aching limbs, stiff at the joints from hours of sitting cramped in the chair that’s too small for him. A yawn escapes him when he puts his arms over his head and stretches out his back, Dean’s expression turning sympathetic in response.
“Did y’sleep at all?” Dean asks, hand on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s look tells him everything he needs to hear. He’s expecting Dean to force him into the chair or maybe drag him to his own room and push him into the bed. He’s expecting a lecture about sleep deprivation being no use to you if Sam drops from exhaustion before you even wake up. He’s expecting something, anything. A shout, a curse, even a slap across the face.
Instead, Dean murmurs his name and tugs him in by the shoulders, big hands wrapping around his back. Dean doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t rub circles or trace patterns or even pat his back when a tear escapes his eye. He just stands, lightly rocking them side to side, holding Sam tight to his chest in the quiet of the room. Slowly, Sam exhales a shuddering breath into the room, giving the air something to sing about. A breath of exhaustion, of sorrow, tinged at the edges with guilt. And Dean sees right through him.
“Don’t start thinkin’ about it, Sammy,” he warns.
“’M not thinking anything.”
“You are, I can hear it in that giant head of yours.”
Sam gives him the tiniest hint of a smile. “Should’ve been faster.”
Dean’s expression crumples. “Sammy, don’t.”
“I should’ve.”
“It wouldn’t’ve mattered. Bastard was invisible the whole time, you couldn’t’ve shot it.”
“I could’ve tried.”
“You gotta stop dragging yourself for things like that, man,” Dean pleads. “It happened. It’s over. She’ll wake up and it’ll be like nothing changed.”
“Everything changed, Dean. I broke a promise.”
Dean frowns, pulling away and holding Sam at arm’s length. “Promise? What promise?”
Sam swallows, thick. “I promised Jess I’d keep her safe.”
“You did.”
Sam’s head shakes violently. “No, Dean. I didn’t. She’s lying there because I messed up. She’s lying there because I couldn’t do what I promised her I’d do.”
The end of his sentence rises, voice getting louder in his frustration. Dean shushes him with a murmur and a gesture of his hand, jutting his head in your direction.
“Okay, Sammy. Okay. I get it. But she’s alive because of you. Don’t forget that.”
Dean gives him one last hug, then leaves the room. Sam stays frozen in place, eyes watching the drag path Dean tracked to the door, the handle rattling lightly as it closes behind him. Slowly, his feet wander back to the chair at the bedside, big hands smoothing down the blankets around you shoulders and grabbing tight to your smaller one.
“Hey sweetheart. I’m sorry about all this. I don’t know if you can hear me, but-.” He pauses, sharp. “I’m sorry. I promised to protect you, and- and now you’re hurt ‘cause I didn’t do that. You gotta wake up for me, okay? I need-. I-. You gotta wake up. Please.”
Squeezing your hand once again, he lets it drop to the mattress, fingers still lingering on your skin. Your fingers twitch in reply, giving him hope that you’re approaching consciousness, but you still don’t open your eyes. He takes your pulse again, watches your chest rise and fall, analysing you. He can tell you’re slowly drifting awake; it’s just a matter of how much time he has until your eyes finally flutter open. One quick decision and he’s on his feet, walking as fast as he can to pick up some clothes for you to wear if you’re cold. A Stanford hoodie that used to be his and then got stolen by Jess before you claimed it. Sweatpants that Sam bought you years ago that never managed to fit you right yet somehow ended up being the comfiest pair you own. When you wake up, you’ll judge if you’re well enough to handle getting into other clothes.
When your eyes finally creak open, it’s midafternoon. The door to your room is slightly ajar, light from the hallway spilling in through the gap. It trails across the floor in thin stripes of warmth, yellow and gold and some dark kind of orange; the bunker lighting, you recognize. You’re home. You’re under a blanket that’s a little thin for your liking, and you can feel what seems to be a thicker one bundled up at your feet. Perhaps waiting for permission from your body to cover you or waiting for hands other than yours to move it on your behalf. Upon careful inspection, you realize you can move all your limbs, although moving anything comes with a sharp sting of pain up your side, the crinkling of bandages alerting you to the notion that you should stay as still as you possibly can.
Turning your head is slow. There’s a crick in your neck that’s getting harsher by the minute, eating up your spinal cord and tearing into the muscles of your back. Clearly, you’ve been still for way too long, confined to your back with barely any room to move from it. Finally, your eyes land on a familiar shape hunched in a chair. Long legs stretched out across the floor, socked feet with one toe sticking out through a hole in the right sock. Rough jeans, tattered and worn with a crudely made patch over one knee. Dark shirt and light flannel covering a broad chest with arms crossed in front of it, head tipped down and chin rising and falling with the motions. Dark hair and scruffy stubble covering the barely sleeping face that only belongs to one man you know.
Clearing your throat and wincing at the harsh ache in it, you tip your chin up toward him.
“Dad?”
Your voice is so quiet you’re not sure how he heard you, but he’s been tuned to you since the day you were born. Sam’s head shoots upright, hands scrambling to hold on to yours as his eyes find yours fully open and staring at him.
“Hi,” he murmurs, hands squeezing yours. “How’re you feeling?”
“Hurts,” you whisper.
He gives you a sad smile. “I bet.”
Nudging painkillers and water toward you, he leans forward so that his knees are resting on your mattress. His hand falls to the top of your head, stroking your hair as you take the medication, cradling it as you fall back onto the pillows, drained.
“Dad, what-.”
“Shh. It’s okay, kiddo.”
“I know it’s okay. I wanna know what happened.”
“You sure? I don’t wanna scare you.”
You give a soft grin. “You won’t scare me. I’m alive, see? It’s fine.”
“I- I know that. I just-.”
Your eyes meet his, and you can see the residual traces of fear locked in them. “Did I scare you?”
Sam frowns. “What?”
“When I went down. Did I scare you?”
Sam’s hand tightens on yours, then relaxes, like he’s reminding himself whatever is playing in his head isn’t real.
“Yeah, sweetheart. You did. You scared me so fucking much.”
You look up at him with those eyes; the ones that have all of Jess’s beauty and all of Sam’s persuasion.
“I’m sorry.”
He laughs, the sound broken. “Oh, god, don’t apologize for that.”
“I’m…sorry…?” you say, realizing halfway through that you’re still apologizing.
For the first time all day, Sam gets a real smile across his face, dimple finally greeting you underneath the scruff on his jaw. You laugh a little too, stopping immediately when your spine starts to ache all the way across the muscles.
“Careful,” Sam warns, steadying you.
“Did I break my ribs?” you ask, groaning in frustration.
“Not this time. Your spine might be black and blue for a month though.”
“What else?” you mumble bitterly.
Sam sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I had to stitch up your side, but…does anything else hurt?”
You pause, assessing. “My head, I think. I remember hitting it.”
Sam nods. “You did.”
You’re quiet for a moment, letting Sam rock slightly in his chair. Tipping it back on the back legs, letting it fall forward and catching it before it can thud on the ground.
“You hungry?” Sam asks, quiet. “I can make you something.”
You shrug as best you can. “I dunno. Can you-.” You gesture to the blanket. “Can you put that on, please?”
Sam nods, taking the edge of the blanket in his hands and draping it over your body. You sigh when the warmth stays trapped against your skin, settling deeper into your pillow. You remember those same hands smoothing blankets over you when you got sick as a kid, tucking pillows under your head and taking your temperature with the back of a hand pressed to your skin. You remember those hands picking you up and carrying you around, and when you got too big to be carried on the regular, those hands would rest on your shoulders and keep you from running off on him. Clasped around your hand at the park, walking with you to motel check-out desks and placing bandages over scraped knees in parking lots.
“Better?” Sam asks when you’re settled.
“Mhm. Better.”
“Good.”
Sam’s hands fiddle nervously in his lap, clearly debating what to say next. He takes a deep breath, one that makes his lungs feel like rubber balloons, and exhales slow and heavy, the kind that says he has words to say but doesn’t know how to string them together.
“I, uh,” he starts, eloquently. “I wanted to apologize.”
You freeze.
“Why?” you ask, wary.
“Because I broke our promise. I broke your mother’s promise.”
Your brows scrunch together, genuine confusion painted on your features.
“What promise?”
“I promised you both that I’d keep you safe.”
You nod. “I know.”
“And I didn’t do that. And I’m sorry. I’m so unbelievably sorry.”
“Dad-.”
“When you went down, all I could think about was what was gonna happen to you. And I froze. For a minute, I just froze. And I let you get hurt. And I’m sorry that I let you down like that.”
“It’s not your fault, you know that, right?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m supposed to look out for you. Protect you. Keep you safe. ‘Nd I didn’t and now look where we are.”
“We’re home.”
“We’re- what?”
“You said look where we are. We’re home. We’re safe. I’m okay.”
“But I promised…” he says, trailing off quietly.
“I know what you promised. You didn’t break it, trust me. If you did, I wouldn’t be lying here feeling like I got ran over by a truck. If you didn’t protect me, I’d be dead, Dad.”
“I-.”
You shift, letting him see you properly.
“When I was lying there and you told me I was going to be okay, I believed you. I always do. Because I know if you’re there, it’ll always be okay. That means more to me than this one thing does.”
Sam nods, eyes looking a little teary.
“I just worry because-.” He swallows thick around the emotion. “Because I couldn’t save Jess. And I feel awful for it because she was supposed to be there for all of it.”
“What happened to Mom isn’t your fault either.”
“I never said it was my fault. I just said I couldn’t save her. I feel like- like if I can keep you from ever getting hurt, I’ll…I don’t know. Avenge myself or something. Make up for it.”
Your features soften, heart melting a bit at the admission. Sam’s an emotional guy, and he’s never tried to hide any of that from you. But something about this raw honesty hits you hard in the chest, punching the air out of your lungs. Neither of you speak for a while. Sam just sits beside you, scrubbing a heavy hand down his face and keeping close. Keeping you steady, because putting on a calm front for you is his way of keeping himself under control. He doesn’t let more than a few tears fall, but it’s cathartic anyway.
“Hey, dad?” you say, breaking the silence.
“Hm? What’s wrong?”
You smile. “Nothing’s wrong. ‘M just hungry, that’s all.”
Sam’s eyes light up. “That’s a good sign. What do you want?”
“Dunno,” you muse. “Soup’s good.”
“I’ll bring you soup. Want anything else?”
You shake your head.
“I’ll just tell Dean you’re awake,” Sam says.
“Okay,” you whisper, settling into bed.
“I’m glad you’re awake,” Sam says. “I love you so much, sweetheart.”
“Love you,” you murmur.
Sam bends quick to press a soft kiss to your hair, thumb brushing soft against your shoulder.
“I’ll help you get a sweater on after, okay?” he asks.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re just a child. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
“I’m a whole adult,” you whine.
Sam grins. “You’re still my kid. Sit still while I get your soup, okay?”
“Okay.”
Warm soup, warm blankets, Sam’s warm hands helping you slip the warm hoodie over your shoulder. Dean’s cheery voice checking in on you when he gets in the room, poking fun at Sam for being so worried. His eyes hold the same concern as his brother though, because you really did scare the both of them. Sam’s warm arms hugging you close when he helps you settle in for bed, squeezing you as tight as he dares with one hand cradling your head like he did when you were a little girl scared of storms. To him, you really are still just his kid. And he’ll love you like it for the rest of time.
Reader taking care of Sammy while he’s all drunk and smiley!!! Trying (tragically) to aid him in carrying himself home, Dean on his other side making fun of him lovingly. He’s a happy drunk :) Maybe Sammy professes his favourite things about the reader while he’s out of his head. He’s touchy and nuzzling reader and nuzzling Dean. Maybe even gets emotional and screws together his pretty brows waxing lyrical about the two of them. The two most special people in his life. The only two people allowed to call him Sammy.
Love u!!! <3
𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮
pairing: Sam Winchester x Fem!reader
Summary: Sam gets very drunk and turns into a complete sap.
An: hiya!! This was a bit of a complicated write for me, mostly because it’s hard for me to imagine Sam drunk, and if he was to get drunk I think he’d be more of like a sad, self loathing drunk, however, this was so cute to write!! I do love a drunk Sam fic I can’t lie. I hope you enjoy it anon!!
WC: 1.3k - Sam Masterlist
You hadn't meant to let Sam get as drunk as he did. In fact you hadn't meant to let Sam get drunk at all, this was all deans doing. Encouraging him to 'let loose and drink to your hearts content' his words exactly.
Now here you are attempting to get Sam back to the motel without him and the concrete becoming acquaintances, it sounds easier than it is, seeing as he's 6'4 and two hundred pounds of pure muscle and denim, and apparently very sappy.
“Come on Sammy, work with us here" you groaned, trying to hold him steady. "what?! M'doin my best" he argued back, though he was absolutely not doing his best.
"Dean" you groaned. Dean laughed "Alright I got him" he pulls Sam by the sleeve of his Carhartt, taking the weight off of you. "Thank you" you muttered.
You fix your crumpled shirt, and glance over at Sam, he's smiling at you. Your lips curl up in amusement at his dopey smile.
"Aw look at him" Dean teases "he's got the starry eyes" he continues his steady stride as if Sam isn't completely relying on him for stability.
Sam snorts "I'm not 'starry eyed' Dean. I just… love you guys" he says
You and Dean share shocked glances, extremely caught off guard by Sam's sudden admission. Dean pats Sam on his back "yeah he's out of it" he mutters failing to hide how good it felt to hear those words from his brother.
A familiar flutter settled deep within you, one only caused by the drunken man, you smiled up at him "we love you too Sammy" you tell him, lifting his arm to wrap around your shoulder. He absentmindedly tugs you closer.
"Y'guys are the most importantly people in m'life" Sam continues, trying to keep his legs from giving out beneath him.
It's been about six years since you joined the brothers, most of that time you spent crushing on the younger Winchester so hearing those words from him made something light stir within you.
"alright big guy, don't say anything you're gonna regret in the morning" he says as if Sam's words hadn't made his night.
You smile at the small interaction while trying to hold Sam steady, sam sighs dramatically "no you don't get it, like you guys are so-" he looks at you his face blanks as if something occurred to him. He takes a breath "gosh you're beautiful." He says.
The sudden complement takes you off gaurd "I-" you laugh "thank you, sammy. You're beautiful too."
he trips over a crack in the ground and falls, bringing you down with him, somehow still sober enough to semi break your fall before you hit the ground.
He groaned in pain, and you gasped after the short lived shock wore off, rolling him over to face towards you. You looked over him for any injuries, meanwhile Dean had broken out laughing "oh classic!” He claps “that was classic, Sammy"
You stood up, dusting off your knees. You hit Dean "stop laughing, this is your fault. Help me get him up!" You demanded.
Sam watched you, pouting at his brother’s laughter. You and Dean pulled him up off of the ground. But he moves away from Dean, and leans completely into you.
Dean gives him a betrayed kind of look and you shake your head in amusement. "And she takes care f'me."
Dean stops in front of you and Sam "so what are you saying you like her more than me?" Dean teases, but Sam in this state can't really tell.
"What?!" He says " no, I just love how nice she is, and that I can always talk to her. Oh and that she doesn't leave us." He trailed off "You won't leave right?" He suddenly asks you.
You smile "not if I can help it"
Sam nods, pleased by your answer "She keeps us together, and makes sure we're healthy. Makes us take a break when where driving ourselves crazy" he continues.
Dean raises an eyebrow "wow Sammy, tell us how you really feel"
Sam scoffs "I am Dean, are you listening? Oh! Maybe I'm too high up for him to hear, should I lean down?" Sam asks you, you laugh out loud "you should absolutely lean down"
Dean groans in irritation as the three of you approach their room. You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough to let Sam stumble in, behind him a very amused and ecstatic Dean.
Sam flops down on the bed, a complete, uncoordinated mess of a man.
You rolled your eyes lovingly, "dean watch Sam, I'm gonna get some meds from my room. Don't let him break a bone or anything" you point at the oldest Winchester warningly.
He holds up his hands defensively "hey I am a great caretaker"
Sam lifts his head up "you're leaving?" He asks, quieter than usual. You can hear the disappointment in his voice and it almost shatters your heart "just for a moment, I need to get you meds so you don't wake up with a kick drum pounding in your head"
Sam pouts, eyebrows knitting together like it's paining him. You sigh, closing the door "okay, I'll get it later. But at least drink some water."
Sam sighs "no, I just want you two to sit here with me. We never get to do that anymore… just hang out." He turns over onto his back.
You raise your eyebrows, glancing at Dean who gave you a shrug. "Yeah. Okay we can just sit and hang out then." You move towards the bed, taking a seat beside Sam.
You gasp when he catches you by surprise, putting his head in your lap.
"Y'guys are the most importantly people in m'life" Sam repeats, his eyes staring right up at you.
You look over to Dean who has a light in his eyes that you haven't seen in a long time, he smiles, patting Sam's leg lightly "remind me to never encourage him to over drink again" he says as if Sam's words hadn't made his night.
You smile at the small interaction while trying not to look him in the eye, sam sighs dramatically "you're beautiful." He says, staring at you, from an angle you were sure wasn't as appealing as he made it seem.
Your face heats "you said that already."
Sam rolls his eyes, dismissing what you said. "and I love when you laugh, makes my whole day. Or when you finally figure out something after hours of research, y'get so excited."
His words make your brain falter, these new admissions were coming hard and hitting you like punches. The possibility of you meaning more to Sam than just a friend.
"I'm starting to feel a little left out here" Dean says from his chair, his arms folded over his chest, but you didn't miss the fond look he wore.
Sam shook his head tiredly, his eyes drooping slightly, showing clear signs of exhaustion. "You're my brother Dean, we fight, we hide stuff, but in the end it doesn't matter. It's just what we do. But I couldn't do this without you. Hunting I mean. Need you by my side, no matter what." Sam's voice trails off, as sleep envelopes him slowly.
Your heart clenched, you looked at Dean, there were tears in his eyes as he peered down at his little brother, the one he raised damn near all alone. His eyes met yours, and his body stiffened, he cleared his throat as he stood from his chair, excusing himself to the bathroom.
You smiled faintly as the bathroom door shut. Looking back down at Sam, now completely asleep, you resisted the urge to pull him tight into your arms.
Because underneath all of that hardened exterior, behind the brick walls he had built up, he was still only a man, only a human. Despite all that has happened to him, all he was destined to be, he still remained soft and allowed himself to feel. For you, for Dean, and everyone else he's lost.
You wiped away tears that traveled down the slopes of your face before they fell onto his, not wanting to interrupt his peaceful, vodka induced slumber.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. "Goodnight Sammy"
⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 .ᐟ
what's going on? ✶ — sam wants to take jess to the prom, the only problem is the fact that her father only allows her to going out if her older sister does it too. gladly for him, he has his brother. sadly for dean, he has to help sammy by trying to impress jessica's older sister.
tags ✶ — supernatural!modern au, inspired by the movie "ten things i hate about you", dean winchester as patrick verona, female reader as kat stratford, jock!dean winchester, fluff, mentions of samjess (and more to add).
ㅤㅤ AUTOR'S NOTE: ITS HERE!! after some weeks trying to decide if it was going to be a long fic i chose to divide it in four parts, they’re going to be uploaded every saturday night. i'm so excited about it, hope you guys loves it as much as i do.
“so, let me get this straight....you want me to date your little crush’s sister so you have a chance to invite her to fucking prom?,” dean snorted, looking directly at sam, who was sitting across the room—waiting for an answer. ”you better be joking.”
however sam’s gaze was still on him, puppy eyes looking at him. dean knew that when sam resorted to him it meant business, but not this kind of job. he expected him to ask for his car to go on a date with her, a couple of condoms, some sort of advice like that... not to go out with her goddamn sister.
“dean, please just, only this time..” sam pouted, following his big brother’s steps until he blocked the dorm’s door. “their father is such an asshole sometimes, the last time i went to her house he left me outside and i’d to say goodbye from her yard.”
dean ran his hand across his face, sighing loudly. he loved sammy more than anyone, he really did but his fucking romantic endeavors were going to kill him if he can even reach the age of 27.
dr. stratford was a notorious man in the neighborhood since they came to live here, some tales said that he slapped a boy on the face when he tried to date his younger daughter, jessica. he once heard a boy say that jess can’t date until her sister does it in between groans.
but the problem itself was her older sister.
“sammy, you’re asking me to throw my fucking body into a woodchipper,” dean argued back at him, crossing his arms over this led zeppelin t-shirt. “have you seen that girl? or even talked to her? that woman is a fucking menace, she—she made a frat bro cry after kicking him in the balls last month.. and you expect me to go out with her? you're gonna pay me to take out some chick like her?”
“she isn’t that bad..” sam corrected gently, a flicker of desperation glistening on his brown eyes. “well, maybe she is but.. come on dean—you’re the only guy in the campus who isn’t scared of her. i’ll, i’ll do your laundry for the rest of the semester or, or i’ll clean baby inside and out.”
dean paused for a moment, eyes glued on his brother. “using good wax, right?”
“carnauba, two coats each hour,” sam promised, putting a hand over his chest.
he let out a long and tired sigh, staring at the dorm ceiling asking why he has to do it? why him among all the losers in the campus?, why he was cursed by having a fucking lovebird as a little brother?.
“fine, but if she ends up stabbing me on the chest, it’s your fault.”
stanford’s campus quad was buzzing with loud music coming from the speakers across the yard when dean finally found you sitting on the bench, talking with it supposed to look like one of your girl best friends. you were so focused on listening to your friend that you didn't even notice he was standing right in front of both of you.
“evening ladies,” his voice drawled, cutting right through the loud background noise. “am i interrupting something?”
“actually, yes you’re. you’re in the way,” you responded, shooting him a glance that usually scared away some guys. “this isn’t any of your business, big guy. don’t you have a pool to hall or someone’s tires to slash?”
dean smirked halfway through your response, completely unfazed. “you know, i actually take the weekends off from stealing shit—”
“yeah, it looks like the part,” you laughed sarcastically.
dean chuckled trying to hide the fact that his guard was disappearing after that comment. damn that iit was complicated flirting with you, i mean, he's fucking dean winchester! it shouldn't be that hard.
“come on, girly..” dean said, falling a step near you completely ignoring that your best friend was trying to drag you away from there, yet it was impossible. “just one drink, there’s a bar downtown that only plays good music and not that feminist rage genre that you listen to.”
“have you ever been told that you're too persistent?”
“i like to think i’m quite adorable,” he added.
you huffed, picking up your pace as you held your best friend’s hand to get away. "i don't date guys who think brooding is a personality trait.”
dean didn't even get a word in before you and your friend grabbed your things and left him speechless. he mentally started cursing sam out—how the hell was he going to get near you when you were harder to penetrate than an abandoned house? damn it, that brat owes him his life if he even manages to get near you.
once you were far from campus, you stood still for a few seconds, trying to process everything that had happened: what was someone like dean winchester doing coming to talk to you? because in all the years you'd been studying at stanford, you'd probably only seen him twice in the hallway.
so again, what the hell was he doing talking to you?
you reached for the door of your car only to stop dead in your tracks when you notice some idiot left a bumper on one side of it. “unbelievable,” you muttered, digging your keys out of your bag.
“you're gonna scrape the paint right off that thing. let me help."
it was dean, again. you sighed, looking angrily at him.
“excuse you? i’m perfectly capable of do it,” you bristled, gripping your keys tighter.
“yeah, i can see that.. c’mon sweetheart.”
he plucked the keys right off your hand before you can say another thing or physically stop him. before you could scream at him, dean slid into the driver's seat, adjusting the seat back to accommodate his long legs, entirely messing up your carefully calibrated mirrors. he turned the key, and instead of a gentle idle, he gave the gas pedal a sharp and unnecessary rev that made the old engine scream.
“you’re gonna wreck it,” you shouted.
“it’s already wrecked, sweetheart. just listen to how it sounds.”
with a light impact against the door was nearly enough to make that bump in the door disappear completely, smiling broadly as he watches how your angry expression changes for a few seconds.
he stepped out, leaving the door open and the engine running. he didn't say an 'I told you so'. he didn't even gloat, just simply stood there, dangling your keys from his index finger.
you snatched them back. "don’t ever touch my car again, dumbass.”
dean didn't move away. the distance between you and him was suddenly entirely too small. he looked down at you, cocky smirk fading into a little smile on his crooked teeth.
for a split second you were debating whether to punch him or spit in his face, but before you could do anything, he took a step back and adjusted his jacket before saying goodbye at you in such a sarcastic tone that, again, you thought you should punch him to wipe that silly grin off his face.
“see you around then, girly.”
he turned and walked away, his boots scuffing against the pavement.
when he was far away from you and could no longer hear your curses under your breath echoing in the parking lot, he picked up his phone and dialed his brother's number.
“sammy,” he cooed. “i hope you're ready to buy that expensive car wax ‘cause i'm going to get jess's sister to date me, no matter what.”
lowdown ☆ an actually simple job at the docks becomes significantly less simple when an old fish-themed problem recognizes your face.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 3584 ride style ☆ mission tension!
danger on the trail ☆ suggestive flirting, wrist-grabbing, electroshock device, soldier boy experiencing emotions against his will
liv's log ☆ is kevin ever gonna catch a break??? poor guy 🪸
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
today’s mission is actually simple. which means everyone is already suspicious of it.
it isn’t labeled as easy, because that word got cut off the table weeks ago. but it’s also not simple in the butcher-simple way, where three people bleed and he insists the plan went fine because nobody was that severely injured that they needed a hospital visit. actual simple.
it’s not a gala. nobody is dressing you up and handing you champagne and asking you to flatter a supe with the emotional depth of a wet napkin. there are no crystal lights, no tiny appetizers, no rich people congratulating themselves for donating money to a problem they helped create.
so… docks.
specifically, a stretch of working harbor owned through enough shell companies to make frenchie’s eye twitch while explaining it. the water is dull and gray beneath the afternoon light, gulls screaming overhead with the confidence of creatures that have never paid rent, warehouses lined up along the concrete with peeling paint and rust spreading around the metal doors. forklifts beep behind chain-link fences. shipping containers sit stacked in crooked rows, red and blue and sun-faded white, each one large enough to hide some of vought’s best hidden secrets.
the objective is refreshingly boring.
one of vought’s dock employees developed a conscience shortly after discovering how much money butcher was willing to pay for one. he has shipping manifests, delivery schedules, and internal records for cargo that disappears between the official warehouse logs and whichever underground facility vought doesn’t want anybody asking about.
he wants cash.
you have cash.
frenchie makes the exchange. you stand nearby and make sure the nervous little traitor doesn’t suddenly decide personal integrity is worth less than keeping all his teeth. that’s it. no breaking locks. no sneaking through tunnels. no guards crawling out of walls. no knife necessary.
the knife stayed beside the safehouse sink. you looked at it once before leaving. clean and ordinary on the folded cloth where it has sat for over a week, blade angled away from the room, handle scrubbed so thoroughly there’s no visible trace of the warehouse left in the grooves.
today doesn’t require it. today is daylight, conversation, cash changing hands. nothing more.
frenchie walks beside you through the dockyard in a stained work jacket and a baseball cap pulled low enough to hide his features from the dubious cameras hanging around the lot. he carries a black duffel in one hand. you’re dressed plainly too: jeans, boots, old jacket zipped halfway against the wind coming off the water. your hair is pulled back. no lipstick. no make up. no need to become anyone particularly polished. you’re not bait today.
“our friend is waiting inside warehouse four,” frenchie murmurs, eyes forward. “office near the loading bay. nervous man with a tragic little mustache.”
“you met him already?”
“briefly.”
“and you trusted the mustache?”
“no. but i trust butcher’s dirty money.”
the van is parked across the street from the main yard, close enough to reach quickly if the exchange goes wrong and far enough away not to draw attention. mm sits behind the wheel with his laptop balanced near the center console. butcher is beside him, cigarette unlit between his fingers because mm threatened to throw it into the harbor if he smoked inside the van again.
soldier boy sits in the back. he’s not necessary. nobody asked him to come. nobody needs a walking explosion for a two-person exchange with an employee whose most dangerous quality is—apparently—facial hair. butcher told him that plainly while everyone loaded the equipment. soldier boy looked at him, pulled on his boots, and followed you outside anyway.
bored, he said. the safehouse couch became unbearable the moment you were leaving without him. you try not to think about that. you especially don’t think about last night: his weight above you beneath the blankets, his hand warm beneath your shirt, his mouth moving against yours. you don’t think about the way he stayed afterward either, taking up half your bed with the offensive confidence.
work. you are working.
static crackles softly in your earpiece.
“we got eyes,” mm says.
you keep walking, gaze moving casually over the warehouse doors.
“warehouse cameras,” mm clarifies. “exterior feed, loading bay, office hallway. quality’s bad, but i can see enough.”
“our guy inside?”
“nervously checking his watch every ten seconds,” mm says. “mustache confirmed.”
frenchie touches two fingers briefly to his chest like the confirmation means something profound. “a face one does not forget.”
butcher’s voice cuts through the comms. “make the switch. don’t linger.”
“yes, papa,” frenchie mutters.
“call me that again and i’m keepin’ your cut.”
you’re twenty feet from warehouse four when you hear a bark—not a dog. something wetter. heavier. followed immediately by the low murmur of a man speaking with the patient seriousness of somebody delivering life-changing advice.
you slow. frenchie slows beside you.
at the far edge of the dock, beside a row of thick wooden pilings darkened by the tide, the deep is crouched with both forearms resting over his knees, having a private conversation with a… harbor seal.
the seal floats near the concrete, head bobbing above the surface, whiskers twitching while the deep nods along with an expression of grave emotional investment.
behind him, a vought employee stands with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm and the exhausted stare of a man who’s been standing there far too long and has reconsidered every decision that led him to this career.
“no, buddy,” the deep says gently. “i hear you. i do. but showing up outside her cove every day after she asked for space isn’t romantic. it’s a boundary issue.”
the seal barks.
the deep’s eyebrows lift. “okay. don’t put that on me. i told you not to bring the fish.”
another bark. shorter this time. defensive.
“i know she likes mackerel. that’s not the point.”
you stare. frenchie stares.
through your earpiece, mm says, after a long and painful silence, “is he talking to the seal?”
butcher answers, “looks that way.”
the deep leans closer to the water. “listen, man… i’m saying this as a friend—you need to work on yourself before you try to fix things with her.”
the seal lets out a wounded little noise.
the deep sighs. “yeah. i know. heartbreak sucks.”
frenchie turns his head toward you slowly. you turn yours toward him.
“go,” you whisper.
his eyes move toward the warehouse door. then back to the deep. “and you?”
“i’ll handle it.”
“you always say this immediately before something becomes terrible.”
“frenchie.”
“oui. going.”
he peels away smoothly, duffel still in hand, walking toward warehouse four without rushing. the employee waiting inside is expecting two people, but one person carrying cash will do. the important part is getting frenchie through the door before—fuck.
the deep looks up and his eyes land on you. for one awful second, his expression empties. then tightens faintly around something uncertain. not recognition yet. the beginning of it. the faint scrape of a memory looking for the right place to settle.
your stomach drops. you react before he has a chance to say a single useful thing: your eyes widen, your hand flies toward your mouth as you let out a small, startled sound so painfully convincing that some private, dignified part of you quietly walks into the harbor. “oh my god!”
the deep blinks.
you step closer quickly, smiling before his thoughts can finish arranging themselves. “sorry. i’m sorry. are you—?”
his entire posture changes. suspicion loses ground beneath the familiar relief of being recognized in the correct way. his shoulders pull back. his face rearranges itself into something modest that isn’t modest in the slighrest.
“yeah,” he says, standing. “yeah. i am.”
“holy shit!” you laugh beneath your breath and touch his arm lightly, as if you cannot quite believe he exists outside a television screen. “i’m sorry. this is so embarrassing. i’m not usually this weird.”
in the van, silence. then soldier boy says, flatly, “what the fuck is she doing?”
mm does not sound impressed. “becoming a distraction.”
the deep glances down at your hand on his sleeve. then back to your face. “no, hey. it’s cool. happens more than you’d think.”
“i’m sure.” your smile brightens. horrifyingly sincere. entirely false. “god, i used to be obsessed with you.”
that gets him completely. “used to?” he asks, half-teasing.
you laugh again because apparently self-respect is a resource you are willing to burn for access to shipping records. “okay. wow. fair.”
the deep grins. behind him, the harbor seal barks. he turns toward the water. “one second, buddy.”
the seal dips briefly beneath the surface.
the deep turns back to you. “sorry. old friend. going through a rough breakup.”
“oh… poor thing.”
“yeah. they were together for almost three seasons.”
you nod solemnly. “right...”
in the van, butcher makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh strangled halfway out.
you keep smiling. “i had the blue tide summer wristband,” you tell the deep, pushing before his brain circles back toward the question in his expression. “the one from your beach-cleanup tour. with the little trident logo.”
his face lights up. “no way.”
“i wore it until the plastic snapped.”
“that was, what, twelve years ago?”
“thirteen,” you answer immediately. “you did the tour twice, but the first year had the darker blue band.”
the detail is real. that’s the humiliating part. fourteen-year-old you had opinions. fourteen-year-old you saved allowance money for that stupid rubber bracelet, wore it until it left a faint mark around your wrist whenever the weather got hot, and argued online with strangers about which campaign photo was best. vigorously.
the deep looks genuinely touched. “people don’t remember that campaign.”
“impossible to forget.”
“we picked up, like, three tons of trash.”
you glance toward the dull water. “i remember.”
“it was actually closer to two and a half. vought rounded up.”
“still inspiring.”
in your earpiece, mm says, “frenchie’s inside.”
warehouse four sits behind the deep’s shoulder. through the open loading doors, you catch frenchie crossing the concrete floor toward a narrow office at the back. he doesn’t look at you. neither does the nervous employee waiting for him near the doorway.
“tell her to stop laughing,” soldier boy says.
mm clicks through the warehouse feeds. “she’s working.”
butcher replies, far too entertained, “thought you liked her mouth.”
“shut the fuck up,” soldier boy barks.
the deep shifts half a step closer. “what are you doing here?”
“helping my cousin.” you gesture vaguely toward the warehouse without looking directly at frenchie. “he’s delivering something. i came along because he gets lost in parking lots with more than three exits.”
“that’s nice of you.”
“i’m deeply selfless.”
the deep laughs. you join him, lighter than the joke deserves. his attention stays fixed on your face.
behind him, the vought employee with the clipboard checks his watch again. “sir, we still need to inspect the incoming containers before the afternoon truck leaves.”
the deep lifts one hand without turning around. “yeah. just give me a second.”
the employee’s mouth presses into a line.
your earpiece crackles softly. frenchie’s voice drops low. “he has the drive.”
“cash down?” butcher asks.
“down.”
“then get out.”
“on my way.”
the deep looks at you again. longer this time. a faint crease appears between his brows. “you look really familiar.”
your heart gives one hard beat. you tilt your head. “i’d hope so. i just admitted to wearing your merchandise on my wrist for an entire summer.”
“no, i mean…” his gaze drags slowly across your features. not flirtatious now. searching. “have we met?”
you let your expression become startled, then shy, then mildly amused in less than a second. “i feel like i’d remember that.”
his mouth lifts because he likes the answer. still, the furrow between his brows doesn’t fully disappear.
“maybe at a fan event?” you offer, touching his forearm again. “i used to go all the time when i was a teenager. once at a mall, waited two hours and my mother complained the entire drive home because you signed my arm in permanent marker and i refused to wash it.”
the deep smiles wider. “that sounds familiar.”
it doesn’t. none of it does. but it sounds like the version of his life he prefers, so he accepts it.
his hand comes to your lower back. casual. automatic. too familiar. the same entitled placement as the clownfish gala, palm settling against the curve of your body through your jacket like fame has always made personal space flexible around him.
your smile doesn’t move.
inside the van, something scrapes sharply against metal. soldier boy’s voice comes clipped. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
mm exhales through his nose. “stay in the van.”
you shift subtly, angling your body until the deep’s hand has less room without pulling away sharply enough to make him think. “so,” you say brightly, “are you here on a mission?”
the deep’s expression falls by half an inch. “not exactly. vought likes having me around the docks.”
“because of the water?”
“yeah.” he glances toward the harbor. “i know people.”
the seal resurfaces several feet away and barks.
the deep points toward him. “exactly.”
you nod like that answered anything.
through the open warehouse door, you see frenchie emerge with the black duffel still in his hand. it looks exactly as full as it did before because the cash has been replaced by a stack of copied records and the drive tucked safely inside. the snitch stays behind, already retreating toward the office with the speed of a man who would prefer not to exist in the same place as the consequences of his choices.
frenchie starts walking toward you. calm. steady. not too fast. ready to leave.
the deep looks at you again.
his hand leaves your back. that should feel better, but his expression has tightened around a thought that refuses to stay buried. “wait—”
your smile holds. “what?”
“no. seriously.”
your pulse jumps.
“i know your face.”
you laugh softly, forcing it to remain easy. “you already said that.”
“no.” his brow furrows. “not from a fan event.”
the employee with the clipboard straightens behind him, attention finally caught by the change in his voice.
the deep stares at you, and you watch the memory assemble itself badly but inevitably behind his eyes. a gala. too many drinks. clownfish. the alley. your mouth. a needle.
his expression changes. “you!”
your smile stays in place for half a second longer than it should. “me?”
“you were at the clownfish fundraiser.”
inside the van, a door jerks open with a metallic crack loud enough to bleed through the comms. mm says soldier boy’s name sharply. butcher swears.
you don’t look toward the road. you don’t need to. somewhere behind the warehouse fencing, soldier boy is already trying to get out of the van.
the deep grabs your wrist. not hard enough to injure. hard enough that your body tenses instinctively, which only confirms the thought assembling in his face.
“you drugged me.”
“that is a deeply serious accusation,” you say, because apparently your survival instincts have developed a sense of humor at the least convenient possible moment.
his grip tightens. “you kissed me.”
“if we’re getting technical here, you kissed me.”
the vought employee takes one uncertain step closer. “sir?”
the deep’s face twists. embarrassment first. anger second. always a dangerous sequence in men who have never learned where to put either one. “who the fuck are you?”
frenchie reaches you at exactly the right moment.
he doesn’t slow down. doesn’t announce himself. one second, he’s approaching with the duffel in hand; the next, he has a small black device pressed against the deep’s side.
it’s not a normal taser. normal tasers don’t look as though they were assembled from spare radio parts, a battery pack, exposed wiring, and frenchie’s personal resentment toward safety regulations. two short prongs sit at the end, electricity snapping brightly between them.
the sound is vicious. the deep’s entire body locks. his hand drops from your wrist immediately, mouth opening around a strangled shout that barely becomes noise before his knees buckle. electricity cracks through his clothes for one ugly second, then another, sending him down hard against the dock with every muscle twitching.
the clipboard employee stares.
frenchie stares at the device in his hand. “that worked better than expected.”
the employee reaches toward the radio clipped to his belt.
you hit him. no warning. no elegant wind-up. no time to think about it. your body moves cleanly, weight turning behind the punch the way soldier boy drilled into you until the sequence became instinct. hips first. shoulder follows. fist last.
your knuckles connect with the employee’s face and his head snaps back. the clipboard flies from his hand, papers scattering across the dock in a flutter of white, and he lands flat on his ass with a startled noise that would be funny under different circumstances.
you stare for half a heartbeat. that was a good punch.
frenchie grabs your arm. “run.” right.
the two of you bolt toward the gate while the docks erupt behind you. somebody shouts from inside the warehouse. workers turn toward the noise. one of the papers from the clipboard skids beneath your boot and nearly takes you down, but you catch yourself without breaking pace.
the harbor seal barks repeatedly from the water, either alarmed or invested in the downfall of its therapist.
behind you, the deep is already recovering enough to make a garbled, furious sound. “you—fucking—”
“faster,” frenchie says.
the van waits outside the yard with one back door thrown open. soldier boy is halfway out of it, one boot already planted on the pavement, shoulders set, eyes fixed past you toward the docks with an expression that makes the deep’s continued survival look increasingly negotiable.
“get in!” mm barks.
you reach the van first. soldier boy’s hand closes around your upper arm as you pass, hauling you the last step inside with enough force to send you stumbling onto the bench. not gentle. not quite rough enough to complain about while your heart is still beating somewhere close to your throat.
frenchie dives in behind you, black device still in one hand and the duffel clutched tightly in the other. butcher slams the door. mm hits the gas and the van jerks away from the curb hard enough to throw everyone sideways. frenchie catches himself against the wall, laughing breathlessly.
butcher braces one hand against the front seat and looks through the rear window as the docks shrink behind you. “well,” he says. “that went beautifully.”
“we have the drive,” frenchie says.
“you electrocuted the deep in broad daylight,” mm actually chuckles.
“also beautiful.”
“and she decked a bloke with a clipboard,” butcher adds.
you flex your fingers once. your knuckles sting faintly, but nothing feels wrong. no blood. no blade. just the satisfying ache of a hit landing where it was supposed to. “he was reaching for his radio.”
mm looks at you through the rearview mirror. “clean hit.”
the small flare of pride catches you before you can stop it. “yeah?”
across the van, soldier boy sits back down heavily.
he should look satisfied that the job worked. or irritated that frenchie handled the deep before he could. or bored, because boredom is the lie he chose when he climbed into this van without being invited.
instead, he looks pissed. his jaw stays tight. his shoulders don’t settle properly. his eyes move over you once, quick and thorough, checking your face, your wrist, your side. the places the deep touched.
your pulse reacts before the rest of you can decide what to do with the observation.
butcher’s gaze shifts between you both for less than a second before returning to the rear window, mouth curling faintly around something private and terrible.
you can’t help yourself. “what?”
his gaze returns to your face. “take your sweet time?”
you blink. then your mouth curves slowly. “i was working.”
“looked fun.”
you fold your arms. “aw,” soldier boy’s eyes narrow immediately. “were you listening to me laugh?”
his jaw shifts. “hard not to. you were laying it on thick enough to wake the fish.”
“the fish were already awake.”
his gaze stays fixed on yours long enough that the air changes by a fraction. then his eyes drop to your wrist again. “he hurt you?”
the question comes out flat. casual enough to deny. his posture says something else entirely.
you turn your hand over once. no marks. maybe there will be faint ones later. nothing worth naming. “he grabbed me for two seconds.”
soldier boy looks toward the doors at the back of the van, as if calculating whether there is still time to go back and correct the oversight. “two too many.”
your chest tightens around something warm and deeply inconvenient. you hide it beneath a scoff. “frenchie handled it.”
frenchie lifts the black device proudly. “catch and release.”
you hold his gaze for a second, then look away before your mouth can become reckless in a van with witnesses.
butcher huffs faintly from the front seat.
soldier boy doesn’t answer. he stays quiet for the rest of the ride home with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and jealousy sitting ugly beneath his ribs where nobody can accuse him of it.
MORE SHENANIGANS WITH RYLAND AND HIS CLASS. i’m fucking crying at the thought of one of his students, a brave soul, secretly recording him during a class. and then another brave soul stepping up to the plate with the prank in motion. here’s a transcript of how it would go.
student: “mr. grace, i’m hungryyyy”
grace, still looking down at the tests he’s grading, then raising an eyebrow: “didn’t you guys just get back from lunch?”
student: “yeah, but it was nasty!”
student 2: “so gross, blegh!!!”
student: “but mr. grace, i really am hungry.”
grace: “that’s a shame. i’m sorry guys. i’d share snacks if i had any.”
student: “yeah… like, i’m so hungry i could eat (your full name).”
grace, snapping his neck up to look at his class with utter confusion: “my girlfriend?!”
cue the biggest uproar in laughter from a group of middle schoolers he has ever heard
lowdown ☆ you leave the door unlocked. soldier boy takes that exactly as seriously as he wants to.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2925 ride style ☆ bedroom tense
danger on the trail ☆ intense kissing, suggestive touching, soldier boy being possessive/crude
liv's log ☆ please, do not bring an angry mob to my door 🙂↕️ i don't know how to stop the slow burn
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
the knife stays by the sink. your door stays unlocked. for tonight, that is as brave as you get.
you tell yourself that means nothing once you’re in bed, because denial has been carrying half this safehouse on its back for weeks and you see no reason to stop contributing now. the little metal lock sits untouched in the door, too loud for an inanimate object. you look at it once, then twice, then make yourself look away.
you are not waiting.
you’re in bed because you’re tired. because training left your arms heavy and your legs sore. because the safehouse has finally quieted down. even the tv in the living room is off for once, which feels unnatural enough that the silence seems suspicious.
so, bed. phone in hand. blanket pulled to your waist. clean shirt. damp hair from the shower drying against your pillow—normal. except your screen has been dark for three minutes and you’re still holding the phone like you’re busy with it.
you tap it awake. no notifications. no messages. no convenient distraction from the fact that your entire body keeps listening for footsteps in the hallway like a pathetic little surveillance system with feelings.
you hate this. you hate that you know the difference between everyone’s steps now. butcher’s uneven stomp. mm’s solid, practical tread. hughie’s lighter, hesitant shuffle. annie’s careful quiet. frenchie’s restless, almost musical movements when he’s thinking too fast. kimiko’s near-silence.
and his. soldier boy doesn’t creep. he doesn’t know how. he moves like the world is supposed to clear a path because most of the time, it does. even when he tries to be quiet, there’s weight to him. wood gives him away. old floorboards complain. air shifts.
so when the hallway finally answers, your stomach drops and lifts at the same time.
you keep your eyes on your phone.
one step. then another. a pause outside your door.
you scroll down a page you have not read.
the door opens without a knock.
soldier boy fills the doorway in an old shirt and sleep shorts, face set into that bored, irritated expression he wears whenever he is doing something very intentional and pretending it’s just happening to him. his eyes move over the room once. quick. bed, you, window, chair. then back to you.
you lift your brows. “ever heard of knocking?”
“door was open.”
“unlocked isn’t open.”
“ah, it’s close enough,” he waves you off.
you stare at him over the top of your phone. “that legal argument work often?”
“worked tonight.”
he steps inside and shuts the door behind him with his heel—final enough that your pulse makes a stupid decision about it. you don’t move. he crosses the room like he’s done it a hundred times, which, by now, he almost has. still, there’s a difference tonight. something in the way he doesn’t hover, doesn’t sit on the edge, doesn’t arrange himself like he’s staying because you might fall apart.
he just lifts the blanket and gets in. fully. under the covers.
your mouth opens. “excuse me?”
“what?”
“make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
he settles onto his back with a rough exhale, taking up an offensive amount of mattress, one arm behind his head, the other already stealing warmth from your side of the bed because apparently conquest begins at the blanket line. “been fucking my back and neck on this tiny-ass bed for a week,” he says. “you’re welcome.”
you blink at him. “for what?”
“my sacrifice.”
“your sacrifice is stealing half my bed?”
“and not smothering you for snoring.”
“i don’t snore.”
he turns his head just enough to look at you. “you also don’t drool, right?”
your eyes narrow. “you said we weren’t making that weird.”
“didn’t say i’d forget.”
“that’s cruel.”
you huff, but it almost becomes a laugh, small and reluctant at the back of your throat. his eyes catch it immediately. the room changes by a fraction, not softer exactly, but closer. his gaze drops to your phone.
“you using that?”
“yes.”
the screen is dark in your hand again. he looks at it. then at you.
you hold his stare with great dignity before his hand moves. he takes the phone from your fingers with the casual entitlement of a man who does not believe small objects deserve to stand between him and what he wants. you make a sound of protest, but it’s weak and both of you know it. he glances at the black screen, scoffs, and tosses it onto the bedside table.
“hey!”
“you weren’t using it.”
“i was pretending to.”
“badly.”
“you came in here for attention?” you ask, and immediately regret giving the sentence a voice because it feels too close to the middle of the room.
soldier boy’s mouth curves. “you offering?”
you should say no. it’s the obvious answer. safe, clean, sensible. one syllable that would put the phone back in your hand, put him back on his side of the bed, put tonight into a shape you can survive tomorrow.
instead, you look at him for half a second too long.
that’s all he needs.
he rolls toward you, not fast, not careful either, the mattress dipping under his weight as his hand comes to your waist over the blanket and drags you closer by a few inches, the movement, blunt and sure, like the unlocked door had already answered enough for both of you.
your breath catches. “entitled.”
“accurate.”
you laugh then. quietly. unwillingly. it slips out of you before you can make it sharper, and he watches it happen like he’s been waiting for that sound all night. his hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing through the blanket.
“that better be appreciation,” he says.
“for your sacrifice?”
“damn right.”
“thank you for ruining your ancient spine in my bed.”
“there you go.”
“beautiful moment.”
“shut up.”
“you first.”
he kisses you before you can win.
the first kiss is slower than it has any right to be. his mouth meets yours with heat held back behind his teeth, almost testing, though soldier boy would rather walk into traffic than call it that. his hand stays at your waist, not soft, not gentle, but keeping you close. your fingers curl in the blanket between you because for one second, your body doesn’t know where to put all the wanting.
he pulls back just enough to look at you. his breath brushes your mouth. you should say something. probably something mean. you don’t.
so he kisses you again.
this time, you move closer before he pulls you, knee sliding under the blanket, shoulder turning toward him. his hand comes out from under the covers and grips your waist properly, fabric bunching under his palm as he drags you into the space against him. your own hand catches the front of his shirt, not with panic this time, not to stop a blast, not to ground him through fear. just because you want him there.
that thought is dangerous. you kiss him harder to avoid it.
soldier boy makes a low sound against your mouth, rough enough to send heat straight through your stomach, and then his hand slides under your shirt.
his palm finds bare skin—warm, broad, rough against your stomach, fingers spreading over the place he’s been touching all week in training with excuses stacked higher than the manuals on mm’s table.
your whole body reacts and he feels it. of course the bastard feels it. his mouth pauses at the corner of yours, and you can feel the smugness before he even speaks. “that all it takes?”
“don’t flatter yourself.”
his hand presses once against your stomach, enough to make your breath hitch. “too late.”
“asshole.”
“there she is.”
you bite his lower lip for that. not hard enough to hurt, enough to make him pull in a breath through his nose and grip your waist tighter. his eyes darken when he draws back a fraction. “careful.”
“or what?”
his answer is his mouth on yours again, the restraint thinning out fast. the third kiss opens with tongue, and your body gives up the pretense of being reasonable. your fingers slide up into his shirt, catching at his side, his ribs, the warm hard line of him beneath cotton. he shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours under the covers, while his hand under your shirt moves from your stomach to your side, then back again like he’s memorizing what makes you forget to breathe.
and god, you do forget.
for a while, there is no knife by the sink. no blood under your nails. no freezer manuals. no warehouse. no ugly little fear waiting in every corner of the safehouse. there’s just his mouth and his hand, the heat of him under the blankets, the scrape of his stubble when he changes the angle of the kiss, the way he takes every small sound from you like he has earned it and intends to collect.
you moan into his mouth when his thumb drags higher under your shirt, skimming the lower edge of your ribs.
his hand stops. “quiet,” he murmurs, voice low enough to scrape. “or you trying to wake the whole damn house?”
your face heats. “maybe you’re just bad at keeping me quiet.”
his eyes lift to yours. wrong answer. or exactly the right one. “that right?”
you swallow. “maybe.”
he moves over you in one smooth, heavy shift, and the mattress dips beneath your back before your brain has time to organize a defense. suddenly, he’s above you, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand still under your shirt, palm flat over your stomach. too much in the best and worst possible way.
your breath goes thin. he looks down at you with that unbearable focus, hair falling slightly forward, mouth swollen from yours, eyes dark and alive with a kind of satisfaction that makes you want to shove him and pull him back at the same time.
“you gonna keep that mouth under control for once,” he says, “or do you want marvin kicking this door down and butcher making jokes until i kill him?”
you should laugh. you almost do. instead, your hand slides up his chest and hooks around the back of his neck, pulling him down the last inch.
“then do something useful with yours.”
his expression flashes.
the fourth kiss turns the room into something else entirely. his weight settles more firmly between your bent knees, not pushing too far, not crossing the line you both know is there, but making the existence of it very, very difficult to respect. the blanket tangles around his hips and your legs. your shirt rides higher under his hand. your back arches before you can stop it, and he uses the movement, palm sliding to your spine, dragging you closer while his mouth works yours open with rough, greedy patience.
his hand moves like he has been denied for too long. stomach, ribs, waist. a squeeze at your side that makes you gasp. a drag of his thumb just under the band of your shirt. his fingers pressing into your skin when your hips shift beneath him without permission. every touch says mine with the arrogance of a man who has no right to say it.
your fingers push into his hair. he groans at that, low and sharp, and the sound nearly ruins you. his mouth leaves yours, dragging along your jaw, not gentle, not sweet, teeth catching once near the edge of your throat before he pulls back just enough to breathe.
“fuck,” he mutters, and it sounds angry.
you blink up at him, chest rising too fast. “what?”
“nothing.”
“that didn’t sound like nothing.”
“sounds like you’re talking again.”
“maybe you’re slacking.”
his eyes narrow. “brat.”
his mouth crashes back onto yours, and this time you really do make a sound too loud to be safe. he catches it with the kiss, hand coming up from under your shirt to cover your mouth for half a second when he breaks away, eyes glittering with wicked amusement.
“what’d i just say?”
you breathe against his palm, eyes locked on his, and because you have learned nothing about survival, you lick the heel of his hand.
his expression goes still.
then his palm drops, and he kisses you again with enough force to push your head back into the pillow. your hands grab at him, his shirt, his shoulder, his arm, anywhere you can reach. he lets you pull, lets you scratch a little through the fabric, lets your knee hook around his side under the covers. he takes the contact like it is owed and gives back more, mouth rough, breath hot, body heavy above yours.
somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny practical voice tries to remind you there is a mission coming. vought. homelander. chamber parts. the knife.
soldier boy’s hand slides down to your thigh and pries it higher against his hip.
the practical voice dies immediately.
you break the kiss with a shaky inhale, head turning against the pillow. “jesus.”
“not even close.”
his mouth finds the side of your neck again, and this time you don’t stop the sound fast enough. it leaves you soft and broken, and he freezes for half a second, then exhales through his nose against your skin like he’s barely holding the leash on himself.
“you keep doing that,” he says, rough, “we’re gonna have a problem.”
your fingers tighten in his hair. “sounds like your problem.”
he lifts his head. there is no humor in his face now. there’s heat, yes, and arrogance, and that old entitlement he wears like it was issued with his shield and suit, but beneath it is something more focused. more dangerous because it’s not careless.
he looks at your mouth, your flushed face, the place your shirt is rucked up beneath his hand, then back to your eyes.
“tomorrow,” he says.
it takes you a second to understand. “what?”
“tomorrow matters.”
you almost laugh, except you’re breathing too hard and he’s still half over you. “are you giving me a mission briefing right now?”
“i’m saying not tonight.”
your body, traitor that it is, reacts with immediate offense. “excuse me?”
that gets the corner of his mouth to move. “heard me.”
“you start this and then pull strategy?”
“you need sleep.”
“oh, fuck off.”
“and i need you sharp.”
that shuts you up. not because it’s soft—it is. not because he says it kindly—he doesn’t. his voice is still rough, still edged with want, still low enough that it feels like another hand on you. but it lands with the same ugly tenderness all his almost-care does: badly dressed, uninvited, impossible to ignore.
you stare at him. he stares back, breathing hard through his nose like restraint is personally insulting him.
“you’re annoying,” you say, because anything else would expose too much.
“yeah.”
“and bossy.”
“mhm.”
“and in my bed.”
“yup.”
“under my covers.”
“got comfortable.”
you huff, trying not to smile and failing enough that his eyes drop to your mouth again. the heat is still there. not gone. absolutely not gone. it sits between you, waiting for one of you to be stupid enough to touch it again.
soldier boy shifts his weight off you slowly, and somehow the absence is worse. he rolls onto his side beside you, but his hand stays under your shirt, palm settling warm against your stomach like he’s decided that part remains his for the night.
you should move it. probably. you don’t. you turn onto your side too, facing him. the room feels wrecked though nothing is out of place except your shirt, your breathing, and possibly your entire common sense.
“so what,” you murmur, “you’re being responsible now?”
“don’t insult me.”
“sorry. tactical.”
“better.”
you snort, then yawn before you can stop it. his brows lift.
“don’t,” you warn.
“wasn’t gonna.”
“liar.”
“yeah.” his thumb moves once against your skin, absentmindedly. too intimate to survive if either of you names it.
you look toward the door. still closed. still unlocked. the safehouse remains quiet beyond it. nobody barges in. nobody ruins it. butcher doesn’t appear in a doorway with terrible emotional timing.
your eyes drift back to soldier boy. his face is close enough in the low light that you can see the faint shadow under his eye, the stubborn set of his jaw.
“you’re staying?” you ask.
his gaze flicks to yours. “you kicking me out?”
“i asked first.”
“i’m staying.”
your chest does something unbearably small. you ignore it with the strength of a woman who has ignored worse things and been wrong about all of them. “fine.”
“generous.”
“don’t drool on my pillow.”
his mouth twitches. “that’s your job.”
you shove his chest with one hand. he doesn’t move. not even slightly. instead, he catches your wrist anyway and tugs you closer, not enough to start again, but enough that your forehead brushes his collarbone. his hand returns to your stomach after, warm and heavy beneath your shirt, grounding in a way you refuse to unpack tonight.
but for now, his body is warm beside yours, his breathing slower than yours until yours starts copying it. you close your eyes and feel his thumb shift once, barely there, against your skin.
you still don’t touch the knife.
your sheath is still empty.
tomorrow is still coming.
but for the first time all week, you stop feeling it in your hand.
summary dean is with you always. especially when you can't sleep after a hunt !
content gn!reader, fluff, quiet comfort, unestablished relationship but dean and reader are very in love, dean is yearning badly, use of sweetheart and angel !
masterlist ♡ requested
wc 469
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Dean doesn't mean to wake you. He only wants to keep you warm, crouching low to the couch, admiring you in a way he hopes isn't creepy or unwanted. Eyes gentle, adjusting to the dark shroud of the room, he blinks and pulls a knit blanket over your body.
You're pretty in the dark. Pretty in the light.
He can barely see you. Soft puffs of your breath pillow the silence and turn it soothing. He could sleep on the floor. Stretch along the scratched, motel rug and ignore the dusty smell and ensure you're okay all night long.
"Dean," you murmur. He squints. You look dead asleep still.
"...How d'you know I'm here?"
You rustle, and tiny crescent gleams make up your eyes. His chest does something funny, patters light and sweet when you reach a hand out to his shoulder. Your thumb kisses his neck. He's glad the lights are out.
"You make noise," you whisper succinctly.
His lips tug and he smiles mild, fond, and brings your hand to slip down into his palm. He squeezes twice. Your voice snags on his ear, just subtly tense. Maybe he's imagining it, too attentive. But when has he ever let details fall to chance? He can handle being called annoying, overbearing. A small chip to take for worrying over you.
"Have you been sleeping at all?"
"...A little. My brain won't shut off."
He feels that like a velvet thud of knuckle to his heart. Familiar. You sit up and back against paled cushions, hand still caught in his.
"I'll listen, sweetheart. If you wanna talk."
You nod slow and look so far away. He'd like bring you back but feels a little out of his depth. What can he offer that isn't among the secret, tender things he wants so badly with you?
I love you. You can come to my bed and stay there forever and sink deep into the mattress springs with me.
"Wanna take a drive?" he asks instead.
Your hands together are melding heat. He watches as you lean close and his lungs hiccup when your forehead plants lightly to his. He doesn't know if he's allowed to move. Frozen as a statue, he thinks you'd be one of those smooth, marble ones in museums.
"That would be nice," you say. "Please. Thank you."
He's the only one in the world who can hear you right now. Sweetness fills every inch of his chest, it overflows in a big rise to his face, and stains your nose where the tip of his nudges.
"Yeah, angel. Anytime, c'mon."
There's a tingling to his lashes, eyelids leathery. Doesn't matter. He pulls you from the couch and isn't sure which fingers are his or yours anymore. He will drive on and on and ache.
How Supernatural Men Would React If You Rejected Their Kiss 𓂃 (I can't reject Sam i'm sorry...HE"S FINE ASF...so it's nsfw for Sam...funny btw.)
DEAN WINCHESTER !
Dean leaned in slowly, like he was trying not to scare off a wild animal. For once, there was no cocky grin, no smart comment waiting on the tip of his tongue.
Then you turned your head.
The kiss landed directly on your cheek.
Dean froze.
You froze.
Even the bunker felt awkward.
Dean pulled back and stared at the wall.
"...Well."
A beat.
"That's going in my villain origin story."
You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.
"No, no," Dean said, holding up a finger. "Don't make fun of me while I'm experiencing a life-changing event."
"Dean—"
"I just got cheek-zoned."
The betrayal in his voice was so dramatic you couldn't help it. You burst out laughing.
Dean pointed at you like you'd committed a crime.
"Look at this. Public humiliation. In my own home."
"It's your bunker too."
"Exactly. Now I can't even leave."
For a second, he looked genuinely wounded.
Then he sighed heavily and grabbed a beer from the fridge.
"You know what's worse?"
"What?"
Dean cracked open the bottle.
"I moisturized today."
The look on his face sent you into another fit of laughter while Dean muttered something about never taking emotional risks again.
SAM WINCHESTER !
Okay so here's the thing. I'm not rejecting Sam Winchester's kiss. Like, that's not happening. This man could have DORITOS BREATH and I'd still be like "yes please, more."
So when we're sitting in the bunker library at like 2 AM, both of us pretending to research but ACTUALLY just stealing glances at each other over our laptops, and he does that thing where he runs his hand through his hair and bites his bottom lip while he's reading—
Yeah. I'm DONE for.
"You okay?" he asks, because of course he notices me staring like a CREEP.
"Yep. Totally fine. Very normal." (I am NOT normal. I am thinking about climbing this man like a TREE.)
He closes his laptop. Oh no. OH NO. He's giving me the LOOK. The soft eyes, slight smile, head tilt combo that has probably caused THOUSANDS of people to make questionable decisions.
"You know," Sam says, voice dropping lower, "we've been dancing around this for weeks."
"Dancing around what?" (I know EXACTLY what. I'm just—okay I don't know what I'm doing, my brain is OFFLINE.)
He stands up, walks around the table, and suddenly he's RIGHT there, looking down at me with those hazel eyes that should be ILLEGAL.
"This," he says simply.
And then he leans in.
And you know what? I'm GRABBING him by the flannel and pulling him DOWN to me because I have WAITED long enough, thank you very much.
The kiss starts soft—surprisingly gentle for how much tension has been building. His lips are warm and he tastes like the coffee he was drinking and something uniquely SAM, and oh my GOD his hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek, and I'm making embarrassing noises into his mouth but I DO NOT CARE.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, "Your room or mine?"
"Closer one. NOW."
(His room is closer. We barely make it.)
The SECOND the door closes, it's GAME OVER for any pretense of taking things slow. Sam's hands are in my hair, my back hits the door, and he's KISSING me like he's been thinking about this as much as I have—which, based on the way he's pressing against me, he DEFINITELY has.
"Wanted this for so long," he mumbles against my lips, and okay, that's—that's doing THINGS to me.
My hands are under his flannel, pushing it off his shoulders, and Jesus CHRIST his body—I knew he was built but FEELING it is a whole different situation. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, warm skin, and when I drag my nails down his back he makes this LOW SOUND that goes straight to my—
Yeah.
His hands find the hem of my shirt and he pauses, pulls back to look at me with those EYES. "This okay?"
"Sam Winchester if you don't get me naked in the next thirty seconds I'm going to LOSE MY MIND—"
He LAUGHS, and it's gorgeous and warm and then my shirt is GONE and his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, moving lower, and oh my GOD his hands are everywhere—
We stumble toward the bed (gracefully? No. Do I care? ALSO NO.) and then I'm pulling him down on top of me and the weight of him is PERFECT, and I can feel exactly how much he wants this through his jeans and—
"Fuck," I breathe, and he GRINS against my skin.
"Planning on it."
(SAMUEL. This man is going to be the DEATH of me.)
Clothes are disappearing—when did my pants come off? Who CARES—and then his hand is between my legs and I'm arching up into his touch because FINALLY, and he's watching my face with this intense focus like he's memorizing every reaction.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, and his fingers are—OH—moving in exactly the right way, and I'm grabbing his shoulders, probably leaving marks, but he doesn't seem to mind based on the way he's GROANING.
"Sam—need you—NOW—"
He reaches over to the nightstand (of COURSE he has condoms readily available, this prepared NERD) and then he's settling between my legs and looking at me like I'm something PRECIOUS and—
"You sure?" he asks, because even now he's being RESPECTFUL and CONSIDERATE and I'm going to marry this man.
"Sam Winchester I swear to GOD—"
He pushes in slowly, carefully, watching my face, and the STRETCH and FULLNESS is—it's—I can't even THINK. My head falls back and I'm making sounds I didn't know I could MAKE.
"Okay?" His voice is STRAINED, like he's holding himself back, and that's—that's really doing it for me.
"Move. PLEASE move."
And he DOES. Slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that hit EVERYTHING, and his hands are gripping my thighs, pulling me closer, changing the angle, and—
"FUCK—right there—SAM—"
"Yeah? Like that?" He does it AGAIN, harder this time, and I'm pretty sure I'm leaving scratch marks down his back but he seems VERY into it based on the way he's cursing under his breath.
The rhythm builds, gets faster, more desperate, and he's hitting that spot inside me that makes me see STARS, and his thumb finds where we're joined, circling, and I'm SO CLOSE—
"Come on, baby," he breathes against my ear, voice absolutely WRECKED. "Wanna feel you—"
And that DOES IT. I'm coming HARD, clenching around him, crying out his name, and he follows right after with this gorgeous broken moan, face buried in my neck, hips stuttering.
We collapse together, breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied, and he's pressing soft kisses to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw.
"So," he says, slightly breathless, grinning down at me. "Worth the wait?"
I pull him down for another kiss. "We're doing that again. Like, immediately after I can feel my legs."
He LAUGHS, warm and happy, and rolls us so I'm tucked against his side, his arm around me.
Yeah. I'm DEFINITELY not rejecting Sam Winchester's kiss. Or anything else he wants to offer, frankly.
(Best. Decision. EVER.)
CASTIEL !
Castiel stared at you after you dodged the kiss.
Then he blinked.
And blinked again.
His head tilted slightly.
"Interesting."
You immediately started laughing.
"What?"
"I was under the impression we were about to kiss."
"We were."
"Then why did you move?"
The question was so sincere it caught you off guard.
"I just didn't want to kiss you."
"Oh."
Castiel considered this.
"I see."
Another pause.
"Was it my angle?"
You blinked.
"What?"
"The angle seemed correct, but perhaps my approach speed was too aggressive."
"Approach speed?"
"Yes."
"Cas, you sound like you're discussing a failed airplane landing."
Castiel frowned thoughtfully.
"That is surprisingly similar to how this feels."
You nearly fell over laughing while Castiel continued analyzing the rejection like it was a case file.
wow dude jts so awesome that your car is loud as fuck and smells worse when it drives past. thags fucking epic man. i really like how it hurts to listen to you drive past and it scares people. thats awesome man. i really like your car that makes a loud as fuck fart sound. fucking epic dude
