My name is Rome. I'm 24 year old fem leaning enby (she/they), long time fan fiction lover and aspiring writer. This is the blog I use to share recommendations and save stuff for myself to come back to later. Feel free to follow along and share any thoughts or recs you have!
I follow from @romansfall and am hopefully gonna have the guts to start my own writing blog soon lol
Asks are always open to share thought on our collective fictional boyfriends lmao <3
𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams (p2) || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: 18+, angst (sam is a little bit mean UNINTENTIONALLY, but he'll make it up to you), pining, porn with plot, confessions, friends to lovers, oral sex (m! + f! receiving), munch!sam, switch/soft dom!sammy, canon typical violence
➶ summary: how will Sam deal with the fallout from last night? unfortunately, not very well.
➶ word count: 17.5k
quick note: um...sooooo heyyyyy... SURPRISE!!!! Yall have waited way too long for the next installment of this and i just couldn't bare having this sit there until the 11th. thank you all so freaking much for the love and support on the first fic - had me smiling and giggling every time <3 i hope this was worth the wait
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part one back here
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here
Sam doesn’t flick the light switch on. No, not yet. He needs to be in the complete, utter darkness so that it dulls the blindingly sharp edges of guilt.
His jaw clenches tight as he tries to swallow, throat constricting further as he replays whatever that whole thing was.
Oh god. Oh god oh god.
He knows he likes you – knows he loves you. As sure as he knows his own name. Sam.
But Christ, what the fuck? That – that – was not okay.
You’re a freak, Sam.
The bathroom air feels stale against his tacky skin, the salt from his sweat tightening it, probably making his white singlet now a patchy damp grey. Breaths come in shudders. His chest heaving and nostrils flaring. Heartbeat thundering in his ears and throat, hammering at the insides of his wrists. The chill of the tiles underneath his clammy feet mix with the horrid heat pulsing from his body to make him feel like he’s superglued to the floor.
His still semi-hard but softening cock twitches momentarily in his briefs, and he’s suddenly brought back to the sickening wet patch in his boxers starting to dry. Sam groans in disgust, neck craning forward to see how bad of a mess he’s made, but realising there’s no light for his eyes to adjust to, so he throws his head back into the wooden door with a flat thud.
He lifts off the surface with a huff as he starts undressing himself – ruined boxers dragged down each leg first, followed by his singlet ripped over his shoulders – still in the dark, “That was wrong. That was so wrong.”
Sam drops the dirty clothing in a mound to the left of the door, then flicks the light switch up. The overhead fixture splutters to life with a cough, making him wince and quickly scrunch his face up as the bright, searing white light burns his eyes like he was being smote. Hunched, he pads over to the shower, pulling at the grimy glass door and reaching in to turn on the shower head.
He pauses for a second – does he turn the water to hot to scald and scold himself; to burn that even now still persisting hunger for you out of his body and dull the crushing shame of what he’s just done? Or cold to strip him and his undeserving, uncontrolled, and unrequited love for you down into individual parts, clean it all from his filth, and bind it back into something he can quietly survive with, maybe sometimes (selfishly) enjoy, in proper private.
Sam opts for the latter.
He decides to only shut off the cold water when it no longer bites, which, thanks to the roadside motel’s rusting pipes, isn’t very long.
He sulks out of the glass cubicle, cursing at the lack of a bathmat, then reaching out for his hanging towel – still slightly damp from his earlier shower – and running it roughly through his hair, before swiping his face and dragging it down the rest of his body to dry himself off. Sam goes to hang the towel back on the hook, but is met with the realisation that he didn’t bring any clean clothes into the bathroom. Fuck.
It’s really not his night.
A frustrated groan leaves him, head tipping back and blinking up at the ceiling in such tired defeat like it might magically produce at least some underwear for him – because knowing his luck? You or Dean (god forbid it’s his brother) will wake up and ask why he’s had another shower. At this time of the night.
Sam wraps the sodden towel around his hips and walks towards the bathroom door. Just as he’s about to grab the handle with his left hand and flick off the light switch with his right, the pile of his dirty clothing skims the bottom of his vision.
Ha. Great, Sam thinks, barely able to look at it as he rolls his eyes away in disgust.
Bending down, he scoops up the reminder of his crimes in his left arm, straightening back up and turning the overhead fixture off to plunge himself back into darkness before stepping out into the shared room.
Although he can’t currently see anything, he can hear the ceiling fan still whirling above his head, pushing a now mildly warm current through the air that brushes past the raising hairs on his arms.
In the doorway, Sam shudders as he lets his eyes adapt to the low blue and silver lighting and shadows of the moon seeping in through the windows by the shared bed. The bed with you in it.
He can’t focus on you. Not right now.
He blinks a little stupidly, eyes scanning across the room and over worn, dated furniture, books with jutting out pages that are stacked in short, lopsided mountains, bags by the tv that– bags. Bags with clothes in them. His clothes. That he needs right now.
Sam silently shuffles past Dean’s bed over to his own duffel, crouching down to drop the ‘used’ clothing to the side of it and scrounge through the clean and orderly packed clothing to find another pair of boxers and a singlet to wear. He finds what he needs, pulling them out with a quick soothing sigh, and tucking the materials to his right side, then standing up and returning to the safety of the pitch-black bathroom to dress himself. Once the towel is hung back up, Sam quietly closes the bathroom door behind him and pads back over to his bag.
He’s staring down at the small heap of grimy, intermingling clothing like it’s personally offended him. Because it has. And really, it would offend anybody else who saw it, too.
Normally, he’d fold his dirty clothing in a neat pile, ready to be taken to a laundromat whenever necessary during a hunt. There’s already a heap next to his bag from yesterday. However, Sam doesn’t think he should leave evidence of his night emission out in the open. So, swiftly, he squats back down, both hands rummaging through the duffel to find a plastic bag that can hide at least the visible source of shame.
“That’ll do,” he whispers to himself when he finds it, reaching to his left and stuffing that mess into the plastic bag, and shoving it deep into his own duffel.
He rises, a slow and audible breath dragging from him. Then he turns back to the bed. Back to you. His eyes fall on your sheeted figure. You’re still fast asleep.
He takes four steps towards the bed to end up at his side, shins resting against the mattress as he looks down. His eyes glide over you and god, you’re so beautiful; your lips are in a sweet, gentle pout, softly parted as you take in and exhale small huffs of air, your lashes lightly fluttering for a second, then stilling as the ring and pinky finger of your right hand twitch.
He could reach out and touch you if he wanted. He does want to. But no, that’s creepy. And after what he’s done tonight, he knows he deserves nothing less.
Sam’s gaze lifts from you, almost taking physical effort, as he realises he may have left a gross wet patch where he was sleeping. He gulps, preparing himself for the damage, then scanning along the open space to assess with clinical precision.
There’s nothing there but the crumpled lines of the fitted sheet.
Oh thank god. Sam thinks he probably wouldn’t have survived the night – no, the rest of his life – if his cum had stained the bed.
Okay. You’ve got this, Sam.
With one quick, task-driven nod, carefully, he sinks himself onto the mattress next to you – years of hunting guiding his long limbs and breath into almost perfect silence. First, he sits. This is not something to rush. Then, once he’s certain he hasn’t woken you due to the weight change, he lifts just the corner of the flat sheet up and shifts to raise his right leg onto the bed. Finally, at last, he rolls his body smoothly into the open space.
He drops the sheet over him and wriggles ever so slightly, lightly spreading his arms and legs, lifting his head once, twice, and nestling into the pillow as he settles into the somewhat comfort of the old, lumpy bedding. Springs only letting off a faint, almost silent creaking.
You did it. Sam smiles to himself, almost feeling like he should give himself a pat on the back. Everything’s okay.
He closes his eyes, attempting to fall back into a deep and hopefully uneventful sleep, and a solid, warm limb grazes and crosses over his left arm, reaching to the middle of his chest. Smaller, warm hand splayed carefree, the palm and fingertips burning through his singlet to reach his skin. Sam seizes, neck almost snapping as he turns to you, eyes wide and frantic as a sudden wave of panic sweeps entirely over him that you’ve woken up.
He’s fucked it.
But when his gaze locks onto your face – eyes flicking between every space and curve to account for any movement, open features, anything that’s changed since he last looked at you – your own are still closed. Your mouth is softly shut now, though.
And then (and he’s so sure he doesn’t imagine it), Sam hears a small, content, so content, noise leave your throat as you rub your left cheek against your pillow.
Nope. Nope nope nope. He’s not doing this.
He wants your hand there. God, he really wants it there. He’s desperate for your touch, in whatever way he can have it, which is just so fucking selfish of him. He knows it. Beats himself up about it every day. But this can’t be happening. Not right now. Not after what’s happened, after what he’s done. He’s too dirty to have a touch so pure as yours on him.
Almost painfully, Sam carefully grabs your wrist with his left hand, fingers wrapping gently, timidly, around the bone to lift your arm off of him and place it back in the small space between you both.
He slips out from under the sheet and slides himself off the bed, fumbling a little this time as his legs twist under him and his feet miscalculate the distance from the mattress to the floor.
When he fully stands, he frowns, heart aching at the sight, his need for you. Sam has to get out of here. He turns his head to the right to look at the bedside table, specifically seeking the digital alarm clock – it reads 04:55. Way too early to go get coffee, even for Sam.
“Fuck.”
He spins on his feet and rushes back to his duffel to dress himself – sweats pulled up his legs, then a long sleeve flannel, unbuttoned, flung around his shoulders.
The only safe place he can go is outside.
He squints to locate some shoes, opting for his runners because god knows how long he’s gonna have to be gone for. Without even lacing them, just tucking the strings into the sides, Sam almost runs for the door, snatching a set of keys on the wooden table as he passes it.
Quietly, so quietly, he grabs the door knob and turns it, pushing the door with measured pressure, then slipping out through the crack without daring to turn back to look at you.
By the time Sam gets back to the motel, the sun is already warm over the red wooden panelled roof. He doesn’t know how long he’s been gone for, but it was long enough to devise a plan. A solid plan, he thinks. All he’s gotta do is keep his distance from you – limit any sort of verbal or physical (especially physical) contact with you. It won’t be long; just until the case is done. Which is hopefully only a few days. Then Sam can rent a car or something and say he needs to go visit an old friend back at Stanford and will be gone for a couple days.
Solid.
Heat is already brimming in the morning air, the crunching gravel parking lot offering some relief underfoot as Sam walks across it back to the room. Another hot day. Great.
If he’d really thought about it, actually used his usually analytical and cool-tempered brain, he wouldn’t have worn these stupid – now almost fully soaked through – sweatpants on the walk.
Sam pauses at the door, hand outreached for the handle, as he takes in an attempt at a deep and calming, centring breath. It doesn’t work.
“Ah! There you are, Sammy.”
It’s Dean.
Thank god.
“Was just about to send out a search party for you,” he says, quickly looking up from his seat around the other side of the wooden table as his younger brother steps through the doorway. Dean’s eyes fall back to the book splayed in front of him, then – they flick just as quickly back up to Sam, face scrunched, “You wore that for your run?”
Sam pays him no mind, walks straight past him to his duffel, “Didn’t run. Just needed some air.”
“Right.” A pause. “Well, next time you ‘just need some air’, can you take your damn phone with you? Had us both worryin’ about you.” Pages shuffle. “All for nothin’.”
Sam doesn’t say anything. Just riffles through his bag to find a change of clothes for the day ahead. He hears Dean sigh, “You better go tell her you’re back.”
That makes Sam stop. Still crouched, he turns back to his brother and stares at him blankly, a little dumbly. Dean’s already turned towards him, looking at him, eyes sweeping over his face, trying to discretely track any sign of a reaction. Unsatisfied, Dean says your name like it's the most obvious answer in the world. Probably because, now that Sam thinks about it, it is. His brother exhales, shifting his body and attention returning back to the pages in front of him as he leans forward, left elbow braced on the table to prop up his head, “She’s in the reception askin’ abo–”
“Oh Sam! You’re back!”
Shit.
Sam can just see the wisps of your hair to the right of Dean’s face as you come in through the door. He struggles to complete a swallow.
You can do this, Sam. You can do this.
“We were getting a bit worried about you,” you close the door behind you, beginning to walk towards the table, “‘specially cause Dean and I tried to call you to figure out where you’d gone and your phone was here.”
Sam doesn’t respond. Just shifts his neck back to his bag on the floor in front of him as he sifts through the clothing. His clean clothing.
He smells the coffee before he hears you place a cup on the table with a soft thud, Dean mumbling a thank you. To his horror, you don’t take a seat, no; you keep walking. Walk right around Dean’s chair and stop right by Sam’s right side. Your hips level with the side of his face.
Fuck.
“Here, take this one, Sam. I’ll get another.”
He’s frozen. He can see your legs in the far corner of his right eye, denim shorts finishing mid-thigh – but he can’t look at you. If he did, all he’d see is your face above him, looking down at him. Like you had last night. When he was buried in between those warm bare thighs, soft flesh and muscles bracketing and tensing around his head–
He shakes his head. Returns to searching for proper pants and a shirt.
Truthfully, he does want one, but he can’t risk touching you. He’ll just go get one afterwards. He’ll have to be discrete, though, make sure neither you nor Dean catch him. Although he can’t see you, he’s sure you’re nodding your head in that slow, rolling motion you do when you’re listening and processing something. You’re probably exchanging a quick, confused glance with Dean.
“Okay...” God, you do not sound convinced. “Did ya have a good run? Interesting outfit choice you’ve got on there.”
“Um– yeah, no. Didn’t go for a run.” It sounds so much like he’s being short with you. He hates it.
He hunches over more, digging further into his bag as frustration starts to kick in. Not at you – never at you – but at the fact he can’t find his stupid clothes.
“Oh? What were you do–”
“He needed some ‘fresh air’.” The way Dean says it pisses Sam right off.
“Ah. Okay.” You’re not buying it. But you don’t push him. And for that, he’s so thankful. “Well, I just spoke with the man at reception about the kids in the paper and he sa–”, Sam stands abruptly, having found what he needed, and almost collides with you.
You’re wide-eyed. Brows raised, mouth parted in shock at the sudden almost contact. Sam jerks back reactively. His feet stumble, left one tripping on his duffel, but manages to save himself at the last second from fully falling.
Both of your hands, even the one still holding the rejected coffee cup, fly out from your sides to try and grab him. They stop just short of his body as Sam stabilises himself, your hands hovering mid-air, “Sorry, Sam. I– I didn’t mean–“
A rattled breath leaves him, “Y–you’re fine. My fault.”
His eyes drop immediately from yours, skirting and staring down at the thin carpeted floor, but not before he briefly catches the skin of your bare forearms left uncovered by the sleeves of your loose flannel bunched at your elbows. Sam can’t move, otherwise he might touch your arm or your hair or your beautiful face when he does.
You seem to notice this; sidestepping to the right, a little skittish, to give him plenty of room to walk past.
He stands there for a beat, blinks rapidly a few times, then moves, “I’m…I’m just gonna go and... get changed.”
You nod once from the corner of his vision as he passes you before he almost slams the bathroom door shut behind him.
When Sam emerges, showered again and now dressed in appropriate clothing for the day, you’re sitting at the small wooden table over by the wall with Dean, muttering softly and somewhat excitedly to each other, pointing at notes in your journal and shoving opened research books and scanned newspaper sheets in front of one another’s faces.
You don’t look up when he comes out.
But Dean does, craning his neck to the left behind him to track Sam as he passes the table. He shifts back to focus on you as Sam returns to his bag to put the used clothing in a neat pile next to it, “Sam, we think we’ve got it.”
Sam stands straight, arms crossed over his chest, gaze focused on his brother, preparing himself to listen to Dean speak.
But there’s just silence.
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Sam realises he’s waiting for you to start speaking. When you don’t, Dean kicks at you underneath the table, releasing your attention from the pages you’re staring down at with a small, annoyed sound as you look up at Dean, then to Sam. Sam doesn’t miss the way your big eyes snap away from his immediately and back to Dean’s, then down to your book when it clicks that you’re meant to be talking.
“Oh, um– yeah so...” Sam almost gets entirely lost in your voice right away.
You’d found the article online three days ago: One Teen Dead, One Hospitalised After Suspected Murder-Drowning by Mystery Figure in Local Sanatorium.
Dean had waved it off, said ‘they probably got high and decided to go for a dip, needed a cover up and said they had a ‘Grave Encounters’ moment’.
But you paid him no mind, continued on by saying ‘who drowns in an empty pool?’
Dean’d paused at that – and Sam, equally as curious as you but also wanting to back you up, said ‘we’ve gone on hunts for much less’.
And that was that.
When the three of you arrived in town yesterday, you did your preliminary checks – located the Sanatorium, talked to a few locals about the teens (who then directed you to head to the newspaper office to go over their archives), and established there was only one bar within a 45 minute drive radius. Dean has his priorities.
Sam had gone to the office, scanned the articles he thought would be relevant, then met back up with you at the local library. Dean had busied himself by slinking around the perimeter of the derelict Sanatorium, all its doors blocked off by police.
Before the incident, the one where Sam came in his underwear asleep because he thought he was eating you out, you and Sam had sat at the table together with his laptop, your notebook, and several scanned newspaper sheets in between you both, while Dean was comfortably splayed on his bed with several books for research.
With a ‘I think I’ve read the same paragraph four times’ just before 2am, you’d all called it a night.Then, this morning, while Sam was out getting some ‘fresh air’, you went to talk to the gruff receptionist who ‘smelt like stale wet laundry’ and had that ‘back in my day sort of attitude’(which Sam knows really grinds your gears), finding out that the ‘stupid local teens’ regularly went to ‘that ol’ haunted Sanatorium’ as a ‘dumb rite of passage’ because ‘kids these days got nothin’ better to do, ‘pparently’.
The morning’s research so far had pointed to the cause of death for one teen and hospitalisation of the other being from a pissed off ghost – a nasty doctor who used to secretly experiment on some of his patients and was killed during a major patient breakout.
A simple salt and burn.
‘–Well, I don’t think that, but Dean does. And we all know that Dean is always right–’
‘–Yeah. ‘Cause I’m the oldest.’
You snorted. ‘Whatever, old man.’
Cute, Sam thought.
He wanted to ask what you thought you were all hunting – because you’re smart; your brain considers every possibility, doesn’t let the small or seemingly insignificant details go missed, and you’re a very good hunter; one of the best he knows, and also? He cares what you think – but that would mean having to talk to you.
So Sam just stands there like a butter knife with no butter – technically functional, but not contributing to anything at all. A few nods here and there, maybe one or two ‘yeps’.
When you finish detailing all the research and opinion points for consideration, both you and Dean look up at Sam, clearly waiting for him to say something final. Maybe disagree or question what they’ve offered, because ‘Sam is the best researcher’ (your words, not his. He remembers it fondly when you first said it, the heat that had bloomed in his face and down his neck, the way his heart and chest had swelled). Well, Dean definitely is staring at him, and just in his peripheral vision, it looks like you are, too. Sam can’t be too sure, though. He didn’t look at you the entire time you were speaking – and he’s not about to start now. Can’t start now.
“So, Sam, what do you think?” You sound a little unsure. Timid. Like you’re a nervous student waiting on the teacher to tell you if your answer is right or wrong.
Oh sweetheart. He doesn’t want to make you feel insecure or uncertain.
But he still can’t look at you. “Sounds good.”
An awkward, prickling silence festers in the air. It’s so heavy. Sam could blame it on the summer heat leaking into the room through the old, draughty walls, under the gaping motel door, but he knows it’s not that.
He gulps, words flying around and ricocheting off the walls of his brain as he tries to breath a bit of air back into the suffocating room. “So what’s the plan? We go to the doctor’s grave first? Salt him and burn him, then head to the Sanatorium after nightfall? Make sure he’s gone for good?”
Not looking at Sam, Dean rises from his seat, closing the book in front of him, “Nah, doc’s already been cremated. But the Sanatorium’s got both his hands out on display ‘cause he was this top shit amphibious surgeon who they wanted to commemorate or something – so we needa burn ‘em”
“Ambidextrous, Dean,” you offer absentmindedly. Dean throws his left hand in the air, waving you off.
A small, suppressed grin tugs on Sam’s mouth, “That’s sort of weird.”
His brother shrugs, bending slightly to reach into his jacket hung over the back of his chair to find the car keys, “It’s a weird town.”
Sam notices you don’t move. How quiet you are. Normally, you’d be the first one up, gunning for the door, pushing past and shoving Dean, giggling, as you both race to the car. Not for any real purpose – just because you both can and you think it’s funny. Because ‘not everything in our lives has to be so damn serious, Sammy’. He likes how well you get along with his brother. Means that if you did want to be with Sam, maybe even marry him, life would just be so damn easy, so perfect.
Sam, not a very helpful thought to be having right at this moment.
But he risks a look at you. Because god does he miss looking at you. And when his eyes find your still-seated body, he realises you’re already looking at him.
Shit.
His eyes flick instantly back to the open space in front of him as he tries to play it off, starts to pat himself down as if he’s looking for the spare motel keys or his phone.
Sam didn’t have enough time to properly read you, but you looked...embarrassed. Maybe even a little bit hurt. Is that because of him? Christ, it’s definitely because of him. Fuck. This is not going to plan. He’s totally fucking up any abysmal chance he had with ever getting with y–
“Are you looking for this?”
Sam freezes. His breathing hitches, heartrate slowing like he’s prey playing dead, like motion might kill him. You’re closer, now. Sam slowly raises his head up. You’re not sitting at the other side of the table anymore – you’re standing in front of him, right arm outstretched with his phone in your hand.
He needs to remedy the situation. Just a little bit. Not look like such a complete asshole. So he meets your gaze, tracking you as you take in a quick, audible breath, “Y-you left it in your yesterday jeans. Thought you might’ve forgotten to take it before you left this morning.” Your eyes flick away from his, down to the phone still hanging between you both, “Took it out after we called it. Just in case.”
Sam swallows. For a second, just like he had last night when he passed you the tv remote, he considers spreading his fingers across the phone so that his fingers graze yours as he takes it from you. It’s been so long – too long – since he’s just touched you. No intent behind it. Just contact. But he can’t. “Thank you.”
He takes it, carefully, from you between his left thumb and two index and middle fingers. You give him a tight small smile, one that doesn't reach your eyes. Your hand drops back to your side, almost with a brushing motion as if you’re trying to shake off having to have touched something of his.
Sam notices it. Feels it. Like a metal nail scraping against something rawing – a thin, sharp, scratch slices right over his heart.
He goes to open his mouth, but you turn around towards Dean, waiting by the now opened door, before Sam can say something. Whether it would’ve been something to fix this or make it worse – Sam doesn’t know.
He watches as you quickly look up at Dean when you pass him on your way outside. His brother looks down at you, offering a small, kind smile, and the thrumming wound inside Sam tears open just that little bit more.
Dean’s head shifts back to Sam, eyes barely catching as he skims over him, then tips his head in a silent order to leave.
Sam sighs, then reaches for the spare set of the motel room keys still on the wooden table and follows you out the motel.
By the time Dean closes the door behind Sam, you’re already waiting by the back right passenger door – the side Sam needs to be on – arms crossed over your chest, back leaning against the Impala and away from the two approaching brothers as you take in the surrounding mountains and summer scenery.
You don’t show any sort of acknowledgment of you noticing when Sam reaches the side you’re on, only moving to turn and open your door when Dean unlocks Baby.
A wall of heat drifts over Sam as he slides in, the leather interior already heating up the air.
“Phew, hotter than Hell in here,” Dean whistles as he shuts his door, buckling himself in, then plugging the keys into the ignition, “Well, not quite.”
Rolling his eyes at his brother, Sam places his phone still held in his left hand into his lap to drag the seatbelt across his chest and click it in. The engine rumbles to life, made louder by you rolling down the backseat window behind Sam. Joan Jett & the Blackhearts’ Bad Reputation starts as the cassette player kicks in – your attempt at expanding Dean’s music library – while both Sam and Dean echo your movements, letting a gentle wind current flow through as the car reverses over the gravel carpark and pulls out onto the road.
Sam turns his head to the passenger window, watching paddock after paddock fly by on the way to the Sanatorium as he tries to distract himself from overthinking. His right index finger begins unrhythmically tapping against the side of his right thigh, left leg bouncing restlessly. The repeated movement makes his phone sitting in his lap slip in between his thighs, causing Sam to shift his neck to look down at it. He pockets the phone into his jeans, then turns back to look out the window. A moment or two passes before a cold horror slashes straight through him.
His phone. In the jeans he wore yesterday. Oh fuck. You didn’t see his underwear, did you?
No, Sam. You wrapped them up in the plastic bag. Shoved them into that little pocket near the bottom. The jeans he worse yesterday were in the pile next to his duffel. You wouldn’t have seen it.
Right?
“Dude, what’s with the ice maiden this morning?”
The rising panic building in Sam as he stares wide-eyed out the window is splintered, neck jerking to face his brother, “What?”
Dean throws his head back to the right, motioning towards you sat silently in the backseat, “You’re being so weird to her this morning.” Sam’s face tenses. He doesn’t dare look back at you; his head and eyes starting the movement to the left to look at you, but stopping and snapping back to the front before he reaches too far. Dean stares at him, noticing the restrained and twitchy movements, then continues with a brow raise, “Weirder than usual. Than your Sam-weird–”
“Shut up, dude.” Sam half-whispers, half-hisses, tone clipped and low. Despite the wind whipping past his ears and the loud music, there’s every chance you can still hear them talking.
Dean ignores him, eyes shifting back to the road ahead, with a small smirk brimming, voice needling, “Jeez, d’ya wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or somethin’?”
Sam’s nostrils flare.
“I’m jus’ sayin’”, Dean’s head tilts slightly to the left for a beat, fingers rapping on the steering wheel – and Sam knows it’s to punctuate his point, “if I’m picking up on this weird emotional brick wall thing you’ve got goin’ on, then–”
“Just drop it, Dean. Seriously not in the mood for it.”
Jaw so tight his teeth might crack, Sam leans sharply forward and cranks up the stereo dial, huffing with irritation as his back returns to the leather bench and he resumes staring out the window – face now in a deep scowl – deliberately drowning out any possibility for his brother to ask any further stupid questions.
“There’s a way in through the graveyard out the back of the Sanatorium. Underground entrance that’s covered by some bushes,” Dean says as he turns Baby’s engine off, “Don’t think the cops know it’s there – ‘s how the kids have been gettin’ in.”
The three of you are parked at a little lookout a couple hundred metres away from the Sanatorium – a lookout tucked off a shabby forgotten road with an even shabbier carpark, surrounded by looming trees so tall and dense that the sunlight barely makes it through the canopy.
“How the hell d’you find that out?”, Sam questions as he unbuckles.
Dean tilts his head, clicking his tongue, “Saw some kids smokin’ pot when I was out here yesterday, thought they might know a thing or two, so I flashed my badge and told ‘em I’d lock ‘em up unless they told me how to get in.”
You scoff – and without looking, Sam knows you’re rolling your eyes, “What made you think they knew something?”
Dean twists back to you with a smirk, “Just a hunch, sweetheart. I’m full of ‘em,” finishing with a wink.
You give him a dismissive yet amused 'mmhhhmm' before opening the car door and sliding out.
Although Sam has no right to be, especially today, he can feel a flicker of jealously briefly tighten his chest, a low heat creeping up his neck and through his head.
Dean follows your movements, smoothly lifting himself off the front bench and closing the door behind him, leaving Sam in the quiet of the Impala all by himself. He sighs deeply, raising his left hand up to his face to massage the bridge of his nose.
It’s not even 10am yet and already Sam’s wishing for the day to end.
He makes an adjustment to his original no-contact-with-you plan. A little contact is okay, he tells himself. Just act like you had when you first met her and not like she’s got the plague. Or that you dreamt about kissing her and making her whine and moan and cum with your mouth and tongue.
Easy.
Despite his limbs still dragging as he climbs out from his seat, Sam moves with a slight more confidence than he had back at the motel. As he closes the door, he sees you and Dean are both standing behind Baby’s popped boot, words passing between the two of you that Sam can’t quite make out. You’re in the middle, on the right side of Dean, meaning if Sam walks over to you guys (which he kinda has to so that he can get some weapons), he’ll have to be next to you.
Okay, Sam. Breathe. Just go stand next to her.
He walks around the car, dried dirt crunching under his shoes he moves to the back and stops next to you. You’re ducked, busy riffling through and grabbing the essential bits and bobs – some salt, a crowbar, some matches, a flashlight, and... a knife?
Sam raises his left arm, gesturing towards the weapon in your hands as you start stepping back and away from the trunk, “What’s the knife for?”
You raise your head towards him briefly, giving him a small, sort of friendly smile, “Just in case.”
Sam goes to open his mouth, but Dean cuts in, saying your name with a gruff tease and a shake of his head, “You know you’re gonna look like a real idiot when we’re done here.”
You raise your left hand up in an acknowledgment of Dean’s snipe before spinning around and heading towards the wooden picnic table. Sam looks back to his brother after his comment, but Dean isn’t looking at him – eyes watching you walk away before sliding right back to the hunting arsenal in front of him. Sam exhales, starting to feel agitated again, then hunches and reaches in to also grab what he needs, while Dean takes a step to the side, left leg resting against the taillight and left hand loosely holding onto the boot’s lid as he waits for Sam to finish.
When Sam steps back to signal he’s done, Dean closes the trunk and locks the car. But instead of walking over to you, he just turns around and leans against Baby’s hood. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there in silence. Sam knows this move – Dean’ll have the palms of his hands against the car, just on the edge, fingers tapping expectantly for Sam to look at him as Dean contemplates if what he’s about to say is worth the reaction his brother might have, if he’ll even listen to him, consider his ‘words of older brother wisdom’.
Sam raises his brows, head still dropped downwards and eyes purposely not meeting any part of Dean, as he finishes tucking in the weapons he grabbed. He takes in a deep inhale as he goes to speak, but before any proper words form on his tongue, Dean lifts himself off the Impala and starts walking towards you.
It makes Sam lift his head. To pause, look for where his big brother’s gone; the brother who’s always meant to pull him back from the edge of a bad decision despite Sam’s persisting objections, talk some sense into him ‘because big brother’s know everything ‘nd someone has to teach the annoying little brother the rights and wrongs of the world’; the brother who’s just made it across the carpark and started talking to you, making it strikingly clear that Dean doesn’t think whatever he thinks is plaguing Sam right now just isn’t worth it.
Sam knows he’s being an asshole. And the fact the Dean won’t step in, even though Sam told him to get lost?
Well, the feeling in his chest is something he can’t name, but it’s along the lines of irritation, anger. But also dejection. Disappointment. And maybe a bit of shame.
Great, Sam thinks, lips pressing into a tight line.
Walking towards you both, he sees you’re perched on the table surface with your feet on the wooden bench, Dean standing in front of you. He notices you look at him – still continuing to talk to Dean – before your eyes flick a little too quickly back to his older brother, your face faltering a little.
Ouch.
Dean must notice it, too, because he turns towards Sam, but doesn’t offer more than a jerk of his head to the woods.
You jump off, waiting for Dean to move first, then following behind him once he starts walking towards a rough path through the trees which Sam assumes is the direction of the Sanatorium.
Normally, Sam and you would be walking side-by-side, close enough for him to catch your perfume that makes him pull in a deep inhale, smile and get a little lightheaded and flushed every time he smells it, your shampoo, too.
He’s too far away from you to do that this time, though. Maybe three steps behind. Further apart than he truly wants to be, but still the shortest amount of distance that he’d consider to be safe.
Nobody says anything the entire trek, the only sounds that meet Sam’s ears are of twigs snapping underfoot and soft bush moving aside, the occasional bird call ringing around the three of you. Maybe someone does say something, but Sam just doesn’t hear it. Or maybe, just neither of you say anything to him.
The quiet means last night’s dream that poor Sammy’s being trying so hard to keep at bay creeps back into his mind. Every time he tries to push it away, a scene paints itself in front of his eyes, demanding he relive it – your hand cupping his jaw, fingers stroking his face; his hand on the curve of your neck, keeping you as close to him as humanly possible; your warm, kiss-swollen lips; his legs tangled with yours; how wet your underwear was, how wet you were; your legs over his shoulders; the sheets fisted in your hands as he lapped at you; your hands pulling at his hair...god, how you tasted—
“Where’s all the cops?” Sam almost walks straight into the back of you. You’ve stopped just before the edge of the clearing that backs onto the Sanatorium, a mass of dilapidated and overgrown grass-covered headstones ahead.
He should probably take a step back. Or away. To the side. Something. You really do not need to feel how hard his dick is right now.
With a small shuffle backwards, Sam refocuses on reality in front of him. From at least where the three of you are standing, all the police cars are gone. No officers in sight.
And, just as Dean had said, the ‘secret’ entrance into the Sanatorium is there, peeking out through some small trees and a couple bushes that have seen better days, a stairwell fenced by a row of rusted metal spikes on either side as the cement steps disappear down to a weathered wrought-iron door.
Dean tsks. “Guess it’s their day off,” he starts walking towards the shrub covered pit off to the edge of the graveyard, “lucky us.”
You turn your head to watch him walk away, “We should still be careful. Just in case they’re still here or they come back.” You’re right. Dean’s being his usual too reckless self. But you look back at Sam – a quick, tight-lipped smile flashing (which Sam notices again, doesn’t quite reach your eyes) – before following after his brother.
A deep, weary exhale leaves Sam, his chest puffing then deflating with the breath for a steadying moment, then moving his legs to trail after you.
Rust and stale moisture fill Sam’s nostrils and lungs as the three of you walk through the damp underground passage. It’s pitch black, save for the three light streams from your flashlights swaying with each step.
Sam knows your nose is scrunched at the reek without even seeing your face. You always do that when there’s a bad smell. And Sam’s ribs always feel too damn small to contain the overflowing of warmth and tender swelling pooling in his heart and lungs from your reaction.
Dean’s humming of ‘Enter Sandman’ can just be heard over the hollow echoing of footsteps, only pausing as you come to the end of the hallway, the transport corridor finishing at an open doorframe leading to a cement ramp.
The three of you make your way up, coming to another door that spits you out into one of the Sanatorium’s hallways. Windows clouded by years of grime line the front wall, weak daylight filtering through the dirt. Dust coats every surface, and rotting windblown leaves are scattered under a partly smashed window.
The three of you shine your torches down both sides of the passage, trying to figure out your bearings. Sam’s light lands on something big and blue ahead to the left and he squints his eyes, “Hey guys? I think there’s a map over there.”
The three of you make your way over and sure enough, he’s right – it’s a large enamel directory map, roughly two metres squared, white lettering and lines marking out corridors and rooms, some graffiti scratched into it.
You all study it for a minute. Then you speak, “Dean, do you wanna check out the West Wing? I think that’s where the doc’s hands are – and I know how badly you wanna see them.”
Oh no.
“We’ll go through the East Wing–”
No no no no no.
“–it’s pretty big and splits off into all the patient bedrooms, so we’ll cover more ground that way. See if there’s anything else of the doctor’s on display that might cause him to stick around and murder some more curious teens.”
Shit.
“We can meet back up at this point here–,” your finger landing on a spot on the map.
Fuck.
“–this bridge or whatever that connects the two wings – I’m betting that’s where this supposed pool–”
“I, um–,” Sam interjects, “I think you should go with Dean.”
The room stills. Suddenly. Violently.
Maybe Sam didn’t think this fully through.
You and him always go together when you split for a hunt. It’s not even discussed; it’s just instinct.
But he can’t be alone with you today.
He sees the hurt crack across your face as soon as the words fall from his mouth. His suggestion like he’s ripped your already rawed and bruising heart straight from your chest with his bare fingers and nails, ground it into almost nothing between his teeth, and spat the bloodied remains back in your face.
Your lips part, brows cinching in visible confusion as you process what he’s just said. You try to recover as quickly as possible, but Sam sees the way your eyes start to glaze, reddening at the edges, mouth closing at a slight downwards curve. Your jaw clenched tight, throat working to swallow.
You’ve really done it now, you idiot, Sam chastises himself.
“Oh.”
The silence is absolutely suffocating. An incredibly sour, guilty taste scars his mouth.
“Um...okay,” you turn to Dean – too quickly, practically forcing Sam out of your sight – as you speak, voice quiet, wavering a little, clipped, “Let’s go, Dean.”
Oh god.
You move, as if any slower and you might completely fall apart right on the spot, straight past his brother down the shabby grey hallway leading to the West Wing as Dean stares at Sam like he just shot him. His face is scrunched incredulously and head shaking, hands raising in a stunned question, mouthing each slowed syllable in ‘what the fuck?’ back at his idiot younger brother.
Sam can feel his heart hurt. Physically fucking hurt. Maybe even tear fully in half. Someone’s skinning the layers off one by one of the lurching muscles, each shredded layer dropping to the pit of his chest to sink him down to somewhere lower and darker than Hell itself.
Dean turns away from Sam – a sharp, cutting scoff leaving him that he definitely wanted him to hear – and starts after you with a quick run, leaving Sam alone by the map as the dragging silence and dark closes in around him and his crushing, pathetic mess of feelings.
“God, you are such an idiot.”
Sam’s stalking through the East Wing, jaw tight, movements snapping but twitchy as he tries to stay focused on the hunt.
“It’s not her fault you had a dirty sex dream about her – just ‘cause you can’t keep it in your damn pants.” He’s muttering to himself now, because he knows himself well enough (at least that’s what he tells himself) that dealing with his stupidity and ineptitude internally will just make him self-combust. Good, actually. Maybe then he’d feel even remotely clean again. Or maybe you would forgive him for hurting you because he was dead and he wouldn’t have to worry about facing you again.
What a cop-out.
“She’s your friend, Sam, fur-rend. Don’t subject her to your depravities.” He sighs, flashlight slicing through the space in front of him as his shoulders drop, that too familiar and well-worn feeling of defeat knowing that you would never reciprocate his love once again making itself proudly comfortable in every muscle and vein within his body, “She deserves better.”
He passes doorways, bedrooms, turned over chairs and scattered paperwork, filthy and torn open mattresses with stains he doesn’t want to think too long or hard about. Footprints of different sizes – probably from teenagers over the years – disturb the debris on the floor.
How on earth is he meant to explain, apologise for his callous, fucked-up behaviour when he sees you next? ‘Oh sorry, I was just sort of going through it and decided you had to take the full brunt of it’. Yeah. Real nice. Asshole.
Sam walks into a tiled room – maybe a medicinal closet – where murky vials are scattered across benches and tables, some still filled with mysterious and sickly liquids, others cracked and dry but still just as gross. He picks up one that’s still whole, turning it over in his fingers to try and decipher the faded writing.
That’s when a high, blood curdling scream cuts straight through the air.
Your scream.
The glass that was just in his hand smashes, thick fluid sludging across the ceramic flooring, as Sam drops it and sprints out the room, blind sprinting down the corridor.
Oh no.
He yells your name. Frantic. In terror. Scanning. Doorways pass in a blur. His footsteps slamming. Flashlight jolting wildly in one hand, fractured light thrown across the walls and floor, crowbar gripped and ready to slash in the other.
Sam didn’t think about this – the fact that you could get hurt and he wouldn’t be with you.
He’s shouting your name. Over and over and over. The words tearing apart his throat as he skids around corners, lungs burning, something horrible rising hot and fast and violent inside him.
You’re screaming his name now. Desperate. Urgent. Fear and pain bleeding. But it’s getting louder, so he must be going in the right direction.
He reaches a room with a large pool – the pool – and he sees you. Finally.
You’re crouched in the far right corner of the drained pool, down at its deepest end, your back to him and facing the walls hunched over and trembling, sobbing. Hands at your face.
Sam calls your name, voice scraped and shot, relief filling his lungs at finally finding you, but thorned panic still simmering underneath his skin at the unanswered question of your screaming. Are you hurt? What happened? Where’s Dean?
Moving from the doorway, he quickly surveys your body to check for any sign of injuries as he jumps down into the empty pit, boots smacking the pool’s tiles as he runs to you. With his left hand, still holding the flashlight, he reaches out to touch your shoulder, his voice already softening when he says your name again.
Just as his fingertips graze your shoulder, Sam’s entire body is thrown backwards through the air by a sudden explosive force.
His back hits the floor with a hard cracking sound, the air punched straight from his lungs. Flashlight and crowbar flying out from his grip and clattering somewhere far out of reach.
Sam tries to suck in a breath, breathe some air into his head to think, process what the hell just happened. Instead, something else starts filling his lungs. Something he can’t see, can’t feel outside his body.
Water.
Warm, suffocating water.
He’s drowning.
Sam tries to move his hands to grab at his neck and chest, to push himself up so that he can claw the bodiless but choking water out – just something – but his arms are pinned flat to the cold tiling.
He doesn’t question why you did that – how you did that – he can’t, because his head’s flooding. Literally. Black spots, rimmed by hot blasts of colour, start forming in his vision.
Slow, smooth footsteps are padding towards him. He can feel the vibrations. The pressure in his lungs and head is building faster. Taking over every single pathetic inch of his helpless body, no space left now for any single thought but one.
I’m going to die.
He does.
Almost.
A thick, chunky slashing sound splinters in the air.
Sam immediately begins spluttering, the heavy pressure evaporating in a sharp, brutal release. Cold air burning its way through him with each gulping breath.
He blinks harsh and rapid, clouded vision starting to clear back into reality, and you’re there above him, looking down at him; wide-eyed, panting heavily, a panicked expression across your face.
Feeling starts to come back to Sam’s limbs as Dean suddenly appears behind you up along the pool wall, gun at the ready, wearing a harrowed look and just as on edge as he stares at you both, “What the hell happened?”
“Was a Mimic,” you push out, voice breathless but still tight with adrenaline, chest puffed from an inhale then dropping, “Not a ghost. Told you, Dean.”
If Sam thought the car ride to the Sanatorium was quiet, the ride back to the motel is fucking death itself.
There’s no music blaring – in fact, no music at all. Silence, except for the rumbling of the Impala when Dean presses his foot down on the accelerator too quick.
At yours and Dean’s demand, Sam’s in the backseat, lain across the warm black leather as he drags himself back from the hunt. His lungs and head hurt, so does his back from the impact of hitting the hard pool tiling, but he’ll be okay. Physically.
You and Dean are both in the front. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. Sam adjusts himself, body shuffling to try and slide himself up to sit against the car door, but wincing at the movement and change in pressure. He carefully lowers himself back down with a shaky breath, defeated. He’ll just have to try and talk to you from here. He calls your name, hoarse and quiet, “how did you know what to do?”
The way Sam’s positioned on the backbench means that all he can see is the back of your head, a little of your left side. You look down at him over your shoulder, eyes flicking briefly back to the moving road ahead, before turning your whole body slightly in the seat to face him as you speak, left arm bending over the bench, “I’ve, uh, hunted one before – they’re like Crocottas, I guess? Maybe a sub-species or something; copy the image and voice of someone you um... love.” Your voice drops on that last word, face flushing, eyes nervously skirting away from him, down to the space between you and Dean, then back to Sam, “But they don’t get you to kill yourself. They usually do that fun part for you.”
You offer him a small smile as you finish your sentence while Sam’s jaw ticks, your left thumb rubbing nervously over your index finger before shifting your body back to face the front of the car.
The three of you ride the rest of the way back to the motel in complete silence. Well, verbal silence, at least. Sam’s stomach tightens sickeningly as your words relentlessly repeat over and over and over in his head, ‘copy the image and voice of someone you love’.
Did you hear him screaming your name?
Did you see yourself on the pool floor with him?
Sam’s pulled out of the scattered thoughts and horrors whirling around in his head as Baby slows, the sound of gravel kicking up in a low scatter audible from the tyres rolling into the motel carpark. Dean parks, the brakes groaning softly then the keys jangling as the rumbling engine goes silent.
Sam sees your head disappear as you hop out the car first, the passenger door closing behind you almost within the same second. He slowly begins to push himself up to also get out, but when he does manage to fully sit upright, he realises Dean hasn’t moved.
“Dean—”
“You better fucking make it up to her.” His brother’s still facing the front, tone low and stern, disappointment and fury edging. Sam swallows. Here come those words of older brother wisdom that he was steeling himself for earlier. “She just saved your ass back there and all you’ve done today is be an absolute dick to her.”
“I—I know.”
“Seriously, Sam. All she does is look out for you. Look after you. And I thought you... you two...” A few moments pass while Sam waits for Dean to continue, but he doesn’t, save for a frustrated huff leaving him. Clearly, his brother’s initial chew out of him is finished. But Sam knows better, knows there’ll be more later, back at the Bunker.
Sam’s throat is even drier, cutting, head starting to prickle with static and shame as he turns in the seat, opening the car door and sliding out. He expects his brother to follow after, but instead, the car engine kicks up again. Sam’s barely taken a step away from the Impala as Dean reverses out the carpark without even looking at him.
A little stunned, Sam looks towards the motel room, expecting that you’ll be standing by the door, wearing a just as confused expression as he is. But you’re not. He can see the room’s door is slightly ajar, so you must have a set of the keys and already walked inside.
He takes in a ragged breath, steadying himself for the inevitable uncomfortable; facing you, and giving you the biggest, most desperate and guilt-ridden apology known to all of humanity – no, to every species of the world and beyond.
Working the words and tone, the pauses and inflections in his stupid brain to make sure he doesn’t somehow make this whole thing somehow any worse than it already is, Sam takes the first step towards the room and feels like he’s learning to walk again.
Time to be alone. With you.
He’s watching you, digging through your duffel bag, as the door closes behind him with a soft click.
Here goes nothing.
Sam starts with your name, careful, like it’s the first word to ever be spoken, then pauses, “Thank...thank you fo–”
“It’s fine. Don’t mention it,” you cut in, still crouched, not looking at him. Your voice is steady, finishing on an uptick, but Sam can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way.
Fuck.
He stands there, frozen, unsure of what to do or say. He’d considered that you might shut him down, but he didn’t think you’d do it before he even got the first sentence out. Before he’d even been able to apologise.
“Are you feeling okay?” you ask, rising before turning to face him. Sam notices you giving him a quick once over from head to toe, shoulder to shoulder, “the Mimic didn’t hurt you too badly?”
Even after he’s been the biggest asshole to you, you’re still worried about him. It makes him feel exponentially, catastrophically worse.
“Y—yeah. Thanks to you.” You smile but don’t meet his eyes. “Just a bit of a sore back. Maybe a little head trauma to add to our library.” The Battle Scars of Alexandria – a little recurring inside gag of yours and Sam’s. He doesn’t know exactly when it started, maybe sometime back on a hunt in Mississippi (he’ll have to check the journal later), but it keeps you both accountable, and never fails to make a smile crack from either one of you.
Only this time? It does fail. You just nod, “Do you want the first shower or...”
Superb.
“No, you have it,” Sam exhales with a light smile, “Don’t think Dean’ll be in any competition for it, either – he’s off somewhere.”
You start walking towards the bathroom, a clean change of clothes looped in your arm, “Probably to that bar we saw yesterday. Told me he wanted to ‘see if there were any hot chicks’ earlier when we were in the West Wing together.”
This is going so incredibly well.
“I’ll be quick,” you say softly from the bathroom doorway, left hand splayed over the wooden frame, offering him a small smile. Sam nods appreciatively, a nauseating ache shrouding his heart and settling low in his stomach, before you close the door.
You are quick. And Sam follows with the same efficiency.
When he steps out of the bathroom in pants and a grey shirt, the ceiling fan is going again. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the shared bed against the wall, pillow propped up behind your lower back, wearing a singlet with a new pair of denim shorts. Sam notices that you’re fidgeting with the bedspread, staring down at the fabric bunched between your fingers. You’re nervous.
You look up from your lap at the noise of him stepping into the room, “Sam, can we– can we talk?”
And for the first time today, yours and his eyes meet and stay. Gazes locked in a charged, fragile silence.
Sam swallows, blinks once, twice quickly, then nods, hands flexing by his side. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”
Shit. Okay. Here we go.
You’ve got a timid smile on your face, eyes dropping back down to your fingers as he walks around Dean’s bed. The bed squeaks under Sam’s weight despite the careful way he gently lowers himself down as if not to scare you, deciding to sit opposite you on Dean’s bed, sensing that being on the same bed as you might not be such a good choice given what he’s about to tell you.
Sam brings his hands into his lap as your eyes flick quickly up to look at him, then down to the space between you both, gaze almost unfocused.
You take in a sudden, deep wavering breath, your hands twisting together as you begin to speak, “I’m just gonna get it out of the way–um, about this morning... in bed...”
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
You did know.
You know that he came in his underwear. Next to you.
Dreaming about you. About going down on you.
You’ve known the entire day.
And Sam’s been the one giving you the cold shoulder, acting like a complete and utter douchebag, when you must be horrified, disgusted by hi–
“I’m really sorry about putting my arm over you.”
What?
“I... I didn’t think it would make you uncomfortable because we’ve... you know... we hug, and we’ve like–cuddled–before. And that’s not an excuse! I just... I think my half-asleep-mind thought it would be okay, but proper awake me knows that I really should’ve asked you first...”
Sam’s looking at you like you’ve just told him the sun is green.
“I’m really sorry for making you uncomfortable, Sam,” you’re looking up at him now, earnestly, your voice impossibly soft, “I’d never want to do that.” Your gaze drops, again. Guilt-ridden. Ashamed because you think you’ve hurt him.
“And I know that’s why you were gone this morning and why you’ve been avoiding me today – and I don’t blame you at all – I’m just...hoping that I can make it up to you and we can go bac—”
“That’s not why I’ve been avoiding you.”
That makes your eyes shoot up to his, “What?”
“That—you putting your arm over me this morning—that’s not why I’ve been...”, a stuttering breath leaves Sam, “...a gigantic but very stupidly apologetic dick to you today.”
“Oh.”
A beat.
“Um... what....what did I do?”
Sam sighs, half-smiling. Of course you think you’ve done something wrong. Oh sweetheart. “I...” You’ve been truthful with him, laid yourself bare and fragile for him to judge. You deserve only the exact same from him. But the hollow churning, twisting burn happening in his stomach might just make him throw up.
Here goes fucking nothing, Sam tells himself.
He lifts his brows, shaking his head a little, “I had a dream. About you. Last night.”
No words leave your mouth. It opens, then closes. Then opens again, brows furrowing and raising with each movement of your mouth.
“I’m—I’m not proud of it.” He quickly adds, mouth dry, eyes flitting, nervous at your (lack of) reaction.
“What sort of dream?”
You’re staring at him, body stilled and a flicker of something Sam can’t quite decipher flashing over your face.
His mouth tightens at your question, a heavy, burning flush crawling out from his chest and up his neck, into his face. He clenches his jaw hard, the bone popping. Adam’s apple bobbing through the dry swallow he tries to take.
Sam thinks he can almost hear each cog turning in your brain as you piece together what he’s just admitted to you. And what he isn’t saying. You make a small ‘oh’, realisation beginning to rise. Then you look to his side of the bed that you’re sitting on, eyes widening as the truth hits you, then back to him, “Oh!”
Yeah...
“Is that why, um– was it...no...uh...” You seem to say more to yourself than to him.
But Sam knows exactly what you’re wondering, what you’re asking – did it make him cum?He can’t blame you. If you told him that you’d had a sex dream about him, he’d also be morbidly, pervertedly, guiltily curious. So he gives a slow, heavy nod, biting his bottom lip, saying what he thinks is perhaps a vague enough but not-too-crude admission that still gives you an answer, “I, uh, had to take a shower.”
The floor beneath his feet could crack wide open and engulf him whole, and he would gladly say ‘thank you’. Thank you thank you thank you.
You move your head in acknowledgment. Understanding and processing this revelation that he’s a freak. And now you’re not looking at him. Shit.
“What—” you take in a sudden breath, clear your throat, “what do you mean when you say ‘you’re not proud of it’?”
Sam rubs his mouth with his left hand. The right words seem too big yet too small, too much and too incomplete all at once. You look up at him, big eyes completely unreadable as you watch him.
He starts with your name, then exhales loudly, “You’re one of my best friends. And—and I shouldn’t have dreams about you like that,” he pauses, tongue poking the inside of his left cheek, “I don’t... don’t want things to be different between us. For you to feel weird or uncomfortable around me.”
God, he can only hope he’s said the right thing. And if he hasn’t? Well, hopefully he’s said enough good over bad. Sam watches your throat work, still holding your measured gaze. You’re biting the bottom corner of your lip, clearly thinking about something. Weighing up his sins and about to deliver his punishment.
But there’s something... different... on your face.
Something he doesn’t think he’s seen before.
“Would it make you feel better if I said I’ve also had a dream, um – like that – about you?”
What?
Sam thinks his whole heart stutters, starts beating impossibly faster. Harder. Pulse in his throat, vibrating almost painfully up the left side into his jaw and head.
“Look, Sam,” you continue, and there’s a low, beautiful blush dusting your cheeks, your hands are twisting again, “I care about you. A lot. And I know you care about me a lot too, but– oh fuck it, I care about you in a different way, too.”
Christ. Are you saying what he thinks you’re saying?
“And it’s okay if you don’t feel that way.” Fuck. You are saying what he thinks you’re saying. “I don’t.... expect—but I just want you to know that it’s okay. Everything’s okay. We’re okay— at least on my end...”
You’re rambling, now. You’re so fucking cute.
“Can I kiss you?”, Sam cuts in.
A small, airy laugh escapes you. “God, yes,” you breathe with a high end. It makes Sam chuckle fondly, his heart going painfully soft. “Even if it’s just to shut me up.”
There’s a stupid, wide grin on his face that he can’t stop from showing as his gaze drops from you for a moment, then rising back up to your face, “It isn’t, but if it helps...”
You huff, leaning forward to grab the pillow he slept on and throw it at him in response. Sam catches it with ease, tucking it into his right arm as he pushes himself up and moves over to your shared bed. Just behind him, he drops the pillow at the end of the mattress as it dips while he settles into the new spot, bending his left leg on the bed and tucking his foot into him while his right leg hangs off the side. He feels the mattress shift as you re-adjust yourself, leaning forward to crawl over from the other side of bed and sit opposite him cross-legged.
You’re facing each other now. And Sam might actually explode from the giddy, heating anticipation of it all. He’s suddenly aware of all his limbs and muscles; his chest visibly rising and falling as his breath drags in and out of him, his arms and legs suddenly feeling like they don’t belong to him, low humming electricity tingling through his fingers.
There’s still a gap between your bodies, maybe one and a half of his hands. It’s that line, again – of friendship that you’re both teetering on crossing and won’t be able to untangle yourselves from, won’t be able to go back to what once was if this goes badly.
Sam really hopes it doesn’t go badly.
Your eyes drop down, noticing that space. Your eyes lift back up to his as you inch closer to him, your right knee bumping his left leg, and Sam’s mouth parts as he inhales then swallows.
Your body starts leaning forward, towards him, and Sam is already moving before he realises it. Your right hand falls lightly on Sam’s left ankle, the touch so light yet grounding that it somehow steadies and unravels him all at once.
Both of Sam’s hands twitch by his sides. He doesn’t want to lock you out of having control by holding your face with his hands, just in case you change your mind about wanting him. He wouldn’t blame you.
But he still needs to touch you. So he moves his right arm to touch your left knee, palm barely against your soft skin.
You’re so close now. Sam can feel your breath tickle his face. Eyes are on lips, breaths slowing, syncing. His nose bumps your face, softly, and then you both slowly close your eyes.
When your lips touch Sam’s, the world all suddenly makes sense.
Sam thought his mind would be racing, a scrambled blur, a mess of every thought and word and everything else if he did ever get the chance to kiss you. But it’s silent. At peace. For one of the very few times in his pained life. Something warm and dizzy is unfurling beneath his ribs. Maybe it’s his heart.
You make a small, soft sound. A hum. And Sam doesn’t mean to, but his control slips for just a second, and he pushes further into you, to have more of you, to taste more of you. Your fingers tighten around his ankle at the movement, and then you mirror him, push forward into him.
Fuck.
Sam makes a low, almost broken noise at the contact, and he can’t help but give in to the consuming hunger to move even more into you.
Neither of you pull back as the moment stretches. Even when it should end, fade into a soft, sweet pause. He should probably pull back, right? Tell you how long he’s been wanting, needing to kiss you; how fucking sorry he is for being such an idiot; how he also cares about you in a different way–loves you. But he can’t tear himself away from your lips.
Instead, the kiss grows needier. More desperate. Pieces of Sam’s hair fall forward to graze your face as both yours and his breathing gets heavier, louder. His lips are sliding so easily against yours, and he can feel the warmth of it, how wet and unsteady its turning as something darker, primal builds more and more between you both.
Sam’s right hand flexes on your knee, starting to slide up and down a few inches, thumb grazing and pressing into your bare skin, fingers grabbing softly at your flesh. Goosebumps are rising under his touch, your skin growing with heat.
You begin rising slightly on your knees, steadying your weight with your left hand on his lower right thigh. Sam’s left hand moves from his side to grab your jaw, thumb against your right cheekbone, fingers and palm splaying across the side of your head as he angles you gently to deepen the kiss. You hum again, content and a little breathless. Sam’s already completely losing himself in you.
He feels your tongue swipe briefly at his lips – tentative and warm, wanting more of him – and he responds by softly biting at your bottom lip, making you gasp. And Christ if that sound doesn’t make his dick go instantly rock hard. The tension in his stomach and groin and balls tightening and dizzying.
Your grip on his thigh tenses, and he can feel the way you smile against his lips, “So tell me, Sam, what exactly we’re we doing in this dream of yours?” you mumble low and teasing, still kissing eagerly at him.
God, the way you say his name like that is so fucking dangerous to what little restraint he has left that he’s holding on to for dear life.
Sam’s mouth curves into a crooked grin at your question. Emboldened, he kisses you twice, heavy and unhurried, before starting to trail hot, dragging kisses across the right side of your jaw, “I might’ve been in between your thighs.” A light but sharp bite to your skin, making a deliciously heady moan fall from your mouth, then soothing the mark with the heat of his tongue and lips. “Makin’ you feel really good.”
“So good it made you cum?”
He chuckles lightly against the space between your jaw and your ear, a hint of embarrassment tinging his ears, but a dark coil burning low in his stomach, extremely turned on at your unfiltered words. “Think that just means I get a hell of a kick out of givin’ you pleasure,” he cooes with a squeeze to your upper left thigh.
“Well, Sammy,” you begin, shifting your right arm up from his ankle to touch his chest, your palm flattening there as your fingers trace so slowly up towards his collarbone – his shirt still separating you both, but doing absolutely nothing to stop the hungry burning of your touch, “I’d like to show you what happens in my dreams first, if that’s okay.”
His dick pulses at that, a wet patch of his underwear making itself proudly known. He pauses against you, warm wet lips still pressed to yours. Shit? Shit. As he pulls back just a little, left thumb rubbing tenderly across your cheek, right hand gently kneading at your plush thigh, you have this soft, seductive look on your face that almost makes Sam let out a very pathetic whimper.
“Of—of course.” You smile at each other, all dimples and teeth and nerves, before you lean forward to kiss him again, but this time with something Sam thinks might be the something he’s been pining for, but doesn’t want to name, doesn’t want to impose on you. Just in case.
“Can you move up the bed for me, please?” You motion with a small flick of your head back. He nods, rising as you shift closer to the wall to allow him to move to where you want him.
When he settles, you crawl up after him – an image fanning the fire sparking hotter and hotter somewhere deep inside him – and get him to lie down with his back against the mattress, still covered by the bedspread. You swing your right leg over him first so that you sit across his lower stomach, your right hand bracing against the plane of his chest to support yourself in the movement, both his hands coming to hold your hips. The heat from your skin with the weight of your body as you press against his own makes Sam’s heart swell in a warm, heavy roll, a light-headedness drifting over him. You both breath in, staring silently with shy smiles at each other for a soft moment as Sam’s fingers begin rubbing slow, gentle circles over your flesh.
Although he successfully fights the urge to flip you over and make you a whining mess below him, he knows without a doubt that you can definitely feel the prominent bulge straining in his pants by your ass.
Your warm hands move to cup his face as you lean down. Sam strains his neck to meet your lips, aching to have them on him again already, and the kiss pushes his head back into the pillow underneath him. A small, pleased sound leaves him, and then you grind your hips back and down lightly, testing, over his cock. He stutters a gruff moan, hands flexing before grabbing at a meatier part of you, making you giggle softly and stupidly beautifully against his mouth. “I like that sound, Sam.”
You move your mouth down to his neck, slow, measured touches of your lips and tongue to him, lingering just long enough to make his body buzz. Sam’s so sure that if you weren’t on top of him, tethering him to this fading bed, the weightless earth, he’d probably float away.
Heat and intensity grows as you begin sucking, paying particular attention at a hollowed part of the curve, before licking a long stripe over and up his neck, grazing your teeth at his right earlobe. You’re already making him feel too good, too powerful, the feeling of you sliding down his body, the changing pressure of your weight on his muscles, only adding to the euphoria.
He’s already missing your lips against his, but he can’t help the way his hips jerk up at you every time you kiss at him through his clothing, electricity trailing. You kneel between his thighs, hands outstretched and claiming at his waist as you press a kiss to his bulge, making Sam moan your name, brows drawing together, hands tightening their grip of the sheets in desire. You hum in acknowledgment, saccharine and smug, and when Sam’s eyes look down at you, your fingers quickly working at the button of his jeans, the metal teeth rasping as you pull down the zipper, he sees a telling damp mark of precum leaking through from his tip.
His heartrate is thundering. Almost choking. You rid him of his jeans, his proud, thick and slicked cock springing up as his boxers go down with them. Then you pause, still knelt between his legs. Sam’s eyes flick to your face, worry quickly threading through his focus and brain working frantically over your movements to determine if you’re okay, if you’re second-guessing what’s about to happen or if you’ve changed your mind or–
“Fuck, Sam. You’re...you’re even bigger than I thought you’d be.”
Sam knows he’s big. He’s a big guy. Got long limbs and all. But hearing you say that sends a bolt of white, breath-taking heat straight to his balls, and a helpless groan leaves him. Cheeks reddening a little, Sam dips his chin briefly, bashful, before his gaze returns back to you, grinning so wide at him.
“Hope I can take you.”
Oh fuck me.
You shuffle, leaning weight on your forearms over his thighs and hips, and then, with the most seductively heart-swelling grin that Sam’s ever seen, you lower your mouth, lips parting as you slowly, carefully, begin to take him in.
“Holy shit,” Sam breathes, head falling back onto the pillow as intoxicating, wet heat surrounds his tip, bone-deep pleasure sweeping over him, making the muscles in his legs tense.
Sam feels more than hears the breathy chuckle come from you, the softness of your lips rolling just over the sensitive ridge of his swollen cock head, tongue bumping his leaking slit, before you pull back up, lips grazing along the reddened skin of his tip.
At the next dip of your mouth, your tongue slides along the underside of his sensitive, red tip, pressing flat against and around him. Sam grunts at the sensation, hips stuttering up in lapsing control as you run the tip of your tongue along his ridge and let more of his hard length into your warm mouth.
You still, only for a few seconds, eyelids hung low, moaning with him still in your mouth, “Mmhhmm, Sammy. Knew you’d taste so good.”
He’s going to go crazy. You’re going to make him go crazy.
You start bobbing your head, the motion guiding his tip to slip further and further down the back of your tongue. Sam raises his right hand from his side, resting it heavily on top of one of yours holding the upper side of his thigh, the warmth of his palm pressing into your knuckles. You hum as Sam’s breathing quickens, turning ragged, nostrils flaring and mouth gaping. The sound of your heated and wet mouth sliding up and down his cock is fucking maddening, overwhelmingly erotic.
His brows are pulled up in sweet, shuddering ecstasy as he holds back whimpering, trapping the burning ache in his chest, but the pleasure you’re giving him is making it a herculean task. Sam is strong, though. He can hold it back. Right?
You hollow your cheeks, beginning to suck him, your spit and his pre-cum combining to make the movements deliciously lewd and sloppy, working him up and up.
“That—hng, shit. You feel so good.” He’s trying so fucking hard to not thrust deep into your mouth – he’s worried he might hurt you, might make you choke on him.
Lids hung low in desire, you look up at him, meeting his hungry gaze on you. Your left hand squeezes at his thigh before sliding out from underneath his right one atop of yours, only to lace and interlock your fingers with his as you continue building the starved bliss swimming in his body, the tenderness and intimacy of it in such a dirty, salacious moment incredibly heart stopping. And completely undoing.
Sam feels it. The tension coiling low in his stomach, his balls pulling tight. Quick. Too quick.
He squeezes your hand twice.
“Sweetheart–,” he rasps, head straining off the pillow, trying to keep it forward to watch you, indulge in you, but only failing as the intense rushing feeling and pleasure of your tongue and mouth on him becomes too much, “–y-you need to– need to stop– I wanna– fuck–wanna make you feel good. Feel good with my cock.”
You moan filthily around him, the vibration almost tipping him right over the edge, as you pull your mouth off him with a dick-twitchingly erotic noise that sears its notes into his memory, looking up at his panting and tensed face over his heaving chest from under your lashes. He doesn’t miss the way a wet string of saliva is still connecting you to his throbbing cock, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m sure we can do something to get you ready again.”
Oh. He catches your tone.
And who is he to deny you from enjoying yourself?
“Yes, ma’am.”
There’s a ridiculously sexy smile on your face that makes Sam’s hips uncontrollably flex up just a little as you lower your face back down to his cock, placing a deceptively sweet kiss to the swollen tip once, before letting go of his fingers and wrapping your left hand around his length. Your right hand moves to between his thick thighs, beginning to gently massage his aching balls while your mouth opens again to let your tongue run over his leaking slit and around the head’s ridge.
As your fingers close around his slicked cock, you squeeze it slow twice, then start a measured stroking movement, your grip tightening as you reach his head then loosening as you slide back down to his base. You repeat the motion, drool pooling down from your lips and mouth to make each run velvet smooth and mind-numbingly hot and pornographic, your right hand fondling his left ball, then moving to the right, igniting the pleasure.
But poor Sammy can’t stop the pathetic, needy whimper (that you definitely hear) rip from him this time at the renewed, devoted attention of your hands on his taut and ridiculously sensitive body.
Fuck.
Searing heat shoots up the back of his neck all the way to the crown of his head, creeping over his face, prickling his cheeks. His body goes rigid, worried you’re going to stop – because fuck, that was embarrassing.
But you don’t. No. In fact, you moan, deep and hard, the sound reverberating through his cock and washing over his body as you give him more, squeezing with your left hand what you can’t fit in your mouth while you take his length further down your tight, warm throat, his swollen tip bumping the back and making you gag as you mumble a low ‘mmm, good boy, Sammy’.
Oh.
Oh.
Christ, that’s way too hot.
He whines, even more wantonly, hips jerking up in a quick stutter at your touching, your praise. Sam didn’t know he’d like that, that he needed your praise – needed more of it like air – that he could possibly get any more fucking turned on than he already was.
You chuckle this time, he can feel it in the way your lips curve in a smirk when they glide back down his length, a hard suck following when you come back up.
Sam’s breathing shallows, chest flaring, the muscles of his entire body tensing as he lets himself give in to you. Now, unapologetic and desperate. The taut coiling in his stomach is winding again, numbing heated pleasure creeping over his skin and flowing throughout him, his fingertips and toes curling and beginning to tingle.
Your right hand lifts from between his thighs, reaching up to the middle of his lower chest before your nails press into his skin to rake down and over his abs – sharp, angry red marks left glowing behind. The hand slides to his hip, moving almost underneath him as you grip his flesh to try and rock him into your mouth, moaning for him to give you more. He surrenders, his hands grabbing at the sheets beside him, his entire body desperate as he begins to feel his cock swell.
You look up at him, nodding your head frantically, your mouth tightening around his tip and tongue swirling faster and sloppier while your left hand starts to pump and twist his cock, deepening the intense, white-hot burning inside him, “Please, Sam. Please cum down my throat.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
He’s gone. His stomach and abs seize as the first euphoric wave pulls him under. Sam cums hard, mouth slackening and brows scrunched, a swear with your name drowned by his shamelessly loud and broken moaning, his eyes rolling up and his upper back and head lifting off the bed as three long, hot white ropes spurt into your mouth. You continue working him, your hand slightly slowing, drawing out his pleasure for as long as possible as you swallow him down through each wave.
Your mouth switches between softer, more careful sucks and licks of his sensitive cock to ease and guide him down. Sam realises he’s covered in sweat as his back meets the bedding again, bliss and warmth flowing through him from head to fingers to toes.
Gently, you take him out of your mouth, big, lust-blown eyes meeting one another’s.
“Holy shit.”
You giggle, sweet and seductive, wiping along your bottom lip and the sides of your mouth with your thumb before sliding it into your mouth, sucking and then licking it with your tongue to make sure you don’t miss a single drop of him, “Good, Sammy?”
God, I wish I could eat you.
He responds with a low and wrecked, feral moan as he grabs your arms and pulls you up into a filthy, claiming kiss, all saliva and heat and longing hunger for you, tasting the salt of himself on you. A sharp noise leaves you, surprise at the sudden contact, before you kiss him back with just as much unbridled need as him.
Sam’s lips never leave you as he manoeuvres you, manhandling your body under him as he drops his weight, rolls his hips into yours. You moan, high and wanting, your fingers fumbling for purchase on his big shoulders, running up the nape of his neck and tangling in his soft curling hair.
His dick should be softening, maybe twitching in overstimulation, but Sam can already feel the blood pulsing into his swollen tip again, bare skin prodding insistently at a warm soft spot of your inner right thigh.
“Sam. Sammy.”
Oh he needs to hear you calling his name like that when he’s between your thighs.
He groans against your lips, the kiss urgent and demanding, “I know, sweetheart. Gonna take good care of you – such good care of you, yeah?”
It’s not a question; he just wants you to know that he means it, but the way you nod urgently at him only spurs him on, makes his stomach and balls tighten and twist almost painfully in arousal.
Sam braces himself on his left forearm against the mattress, hand cupping the side of your neck, bare legs shifting to bracket your left one, while his right hand moves in between your bodies, snaking slowly down the expanse of your clothed stomach, past your navel, down to the button of your shorts. Your breath hitches, hips thrusting up at his heavy touch, and you push your mouth up into him. Unbuttoning it with devastating precision, Sam drags the zipper down like his sanity depends on it. If he’s being honest, though, it does a little.
The thought that he should go slower, take his time with you as his fingers and palm slip hastily over your mound crosses his determined, lust-driven mind. Next time. Next time.
Despite still being separated by your underwear, he groans possessively as the pads of his index and middle fingers finally touch you where he most desperately wants his face to be, fingers separating as they run down the outsides of your puffy folds before sliding back up through your slit to give you one, two measured circles of your clit, making your body flex up at him. You’re perfect. How could you not be. “God, you’re fucking soaked. Could probably taste you through your damn shorts.”
You smile, fingers tightening your greedy gripping of him, whining against his lips with a breathy ‘mmhhmm’.
Sam places one last lingering, searing kiss to your swollen lips before he takes his right hand out from between your thighs, repositioning both his arms to either side of your body. Lifting himself up from his forearms to his hands, he lowers slightly and begins to ease himself down the bed, down your body. He dips his head, his lips leaving a heated, wet and branding kiss to each spot where your nipples are peaking through your bra and singlet. It makes your back arch, breasts bumping into his face as you moan softly.
Smirking, pride stirring, a breathy huff slips past his lips. He looks up at you from just below your breasts, keeping eye contact with you as he continues his slide down your torso, shifting his leg still between your own lower first. He can feel his heavy and hard cock sticking to his shirt-covered-stomach, already ready and desperate to go again. His right hand pulls up the hem of your singlet to expose the soft warm flesh of your lower navel, dragging it further up to your waist and ribs, scattered kisses dotting your skin. He bites at a spot to your right, teeth sharp but careful, rolling his tongue over it and tasting the faint glow of your shower gel and light sweat, then blowing cool air at the blooming mark, your breathing going quick and shallow, sucking in air.
Big, warm, calloused yet tender hands gripping at your hipbones, Sam pauses at the space between them, making sure that you’re looking at him. Your nostrils flare, “You’re such a tease, Winchester.”
“Well,” he rasps, dark and dangerous, your name hanging in the air as, kneeling, he begins pulling down your shorts without breaking eye contact, “you seem to be enjoying it.” You bite your bottom lip, blushing and grinning, eyelids hung low as you lift your hips and move your legs to help and watch him as he slides the shorts down your legs. Sam brushes a kiss to your bent right knee as he draws the fabric lower. You kick them off, a little impatiently (Sam notices), letting them fall somewhere out of sight to the floor.
And when Sam’s gaze drops to between your now parted thighs and he sees your underwear, well, fuck. He knew you were wet – could feel it – but your underwear is literally soaked through with your arousal, outlining every curve and dip of your wet cunt.
An absolutely fucking rough, animalistic groan tears from him, the exhale rattling his bones.
Sam thinks he almost blacks out for a few seconds as a possessive hunger drags over him. He drops back down in a sharp, controlled motion to kneel lower between your plush thighs, beginning to peel off your drenched underwear. He can’t wait any longer. He’s not patient enough.
A small shiver runs through your body as the air of the motel hits your core. He settles hurriedly, his thick cock throbbing against the firm mattress, precum dribbling from his slit and smearing the bedding beneath him.
Gonna have to burn these sheets afterwards.
“I gotta be honest with you,” he murmurs, a little wrecked, guiding your legs over each of his broad, muscled shoulders, “I made a fuckin’ mess when I did this last night.”
“Jesus, Sam,” you moan low. He knows he looks like a wild, rabid animal with the way the blacks of his pupils are blown wide, mouth gaping and panting, drooling. He slides his grabby, greedy hot hands up the outside flesh of your thighs, over your hips, fingers gripping at your waist, palm cupping the soft curves. Muscled forearms deliberately push your thighs against the sides of his head, the pressure and warmth adding to the growing, fever haze he’s swimming in.
Just like he’d done last night, Sam starts slow, reverent; kissing the softest part of the inside of your left thigh, then shifting to the right one to place an equally as tender yet heated kiss. He looks up at you from between your thighs, admiring and drowning in how the colour of your irises is almost fully swallowed, the way your chest is rising and falling in weighted, staggered pulls. His shuddering warm breath brushes over your pussy, his nose nudging at your slicked clit and swollen folds. With a heavy inhale, he takes in the first heady scent of you, blooming across his senses as if he can taste you through the air alone.
Fucking fuck fuck fuck.
You start squirming, hips slightly twisting and hips bucking. Oh you want him badly.
Sam’s not a cruel man. He’s enjoying this, how badly you want him to eat you out just as much as he does, how it’s making your body react so much in anticipation. But making you wait any longer after today is cruel. So he pushes forward, letting the tip of his tongue run from the top of your puffy slit all the way down to your soaked, clenching entrance.
“Oh, fuck—” a sinful, heavenly gasp cuts you off, and fuck that sound needs to go straight into a museum, your right hand flying up from your side to grip the pillow under your head, left hand flexing hard by your hip, scrunching up the bedsheet.
Fucking. Christ. You somehow taste even fucking better than he’d fantasised as you flood his mouth and nostrils. Rich and warm and smooth and sweet, intoxicatingly and simply you. This – everything – is so much better than last night. So much better.
“Fuck,” Sam groans, “fuck. You taste too fucking good.”
He means to go slow, make sure that he doesn’t hurt you by going too fast or do something that isn’t pleasurable, but Sam can’t help himself as he licks you again, this time really pushing his nose and flattening his thick tongue into your cunt, and his cock jumps between his stomach and the bedding below him. You both whimper. Maybe an attempt at trying to say the other’s name, but lost entirely to the sensation of and pathetic need for each other.
Sam didn’t realise, but his eyes had closed, rolled so hard to the back of his head that if you weren’t just as consumed as he was – your head tipped back in soft radiating, tingling pleasure – you would’ve only seen bits of white peaking from underneath his fluttering eyelids.
He moans heavy and deep and rough into your heat, then buries his face into you to show you just how starved he is for you.
Despite the almost violent urge to suffocate in you, Sam begins small, slow, measured kitten licks at your clit and wet puffy folds, doing everything in his willpower to keep his heavily hooded eyes open and locked on you.
Soft, high gasps shatter around him as his big hands dig into you, thumbs pressing into the front of your waist as his splayed fingers curl and grip at each of your ribsets. He’s already getting drunk on it, on you, in him and all around him.
I hope you let me do this every night, Sam thinks.
He can feel the sheets beside his head shift as you claw at them, chasing to move and grab something. “You can pull on my hair, honey. It’s okay. Show me where you want me,” he says with your name, somewhere between a weak coo and a pleading beg, “Show me how you want me.”
Sam sucks your clit into his mouth and your left hand shoots to his head to bury in his hair. He moans in encouragement, the feeling of your fingers and nails running through the soft brown curls and against his scalp lighting up every single nerve in his entire body, leaving a pleasant, warm tremor to roll through him.
He tests something from his dream, licks the left side of your folds and rubs his nose in a circle over your clit. And fuck. Fuck. You look like you might cum then; mouth slackening and brows pulling into the most beautiful, holy scrunch as your hips buck off the bed. Sam grins, dark and hungrily, moving his left arm from his hold on your waist to drape over your hips and press you into the mattress to keep you, pin you in place so he can keep making you feel like that.
Maybe he does still have some of those psychic abilities...
The muscles of your stomach under his forearm shudder and tense as Sam’s tongue starts moving up and down your cunt – spit, slick, and heat coating his chin and cheeks and nose, sliding down his throat as his mouth works to swallow every single bit you give him.
You’re even more responsive to him than he could’ve possibly dreamed or hoped. He’s in heaven. This is his heaven.
“Sam—Sammy, oh my god,” you cry, voice high and needy.
There we go.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Makin’ you feel good with my tongue? My mouth?” Unable to speak, you tug the locks of his hair in your left fist in response, making him grunt, brows cinching and hips rutting into the mattress below him. “Good girl,” he growls against your soaking sweet and heady heat, words vibrating up into your core, doubling his efforts, “Keep tellin’ me– need to...need to know how good I’m makin’ you feel. Please.”
You whimper, and he’s greeted by a fresh flush of wetness when he licks into you again. Your hand releases from its grip, nails scraping down and over his scalp, palm pressing to push him further into you. Devour more of you.
Fucking yes yes yes.
Desire is pulsing in his blood and ears, pulling deep in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter.
You start writhing, trying to roll your hips, grind up into his face as Sam increases the speed and swirling of his tongue and lips; the wet, lewd squelching sound of him hungrily eating you out mixing with the desperate, feral noises coming from both of you and reverberating off the motel walls.
Sam pushes his tongue into your gushing hole, making you clench around him at the intrusion and giving a new, beautiful sound he’s cataloguing. Your breathing’s getting tighter, higher, thighs tensing, shaking around his head, the heel of your right foot digging into his clothed back as the pleasure from his movements builds and builds and builds.
Oh you’re about to fucking cum.
“Yes, baby, yes,” he slurs, shaking his head side to side then up and down, dragging his curled tongue over and through your puffy folds, messy on your clit, “Just like that. I know, I know— doing so well for me, honey. Just wanna cum, don’t you?”
“Unngh, ye—yeah. Fuck, Sam!” He can’t help rolling his hips and cock into the mattress – it’s all feeling too fucking good. You feel too fucking good.
Your right hand is suddenly over his one across your hip, palming into the back of his hand, nails biting at the skin. Sam hopes you leave long, pretty red marks and scratches, dark purple bruises that’ll be a reminder of how completely undone you both are.
He’s feverish. Hands hot and heavy, tight in awe and indulgence of your bare flesh against his touch. Loose, wet brown curls cling in damp strands to his forehead as he starts grunting, whimpering into your pussy, burying his face impossibly further into your slick warmth, sloppily mouthing and slurping and lapping at every part of you he can reach.
A seraphic mixture of his spit and your arousal is dripping down onto the bedding below you both, marking it in a sticky, filthy, widening wet patch of sin and lust, and too-long-harboured, needy, aching love.
Definitely burning the mattress.
There’s a sound.
Not from you. Not from him.
Metal scraping against metal.
Sam only just registers it over your high, desperate moaning and the way your soft, warm thighs are twitching, tensing, pressing firm against his ears as your back starts arching.
With a surge of fear, he stops his movements between your legs, rushing to lift himself up. You realise at the same time, a pained sound leaving you, heaving heavily as you sit just on the precipice of your orgasm, panic stiffening your body. Sam starts ripping at the sheets underneath and around you to pull them over your body, to shield you from the cock-block-of-a-brother named Dean Winchester.
“Dean, stop!” Sam shouts, scrambling for the bedspread and rolling over the top of you to the side closest to the door so that your half-naked body now shivering with adrenaline is even more protected.
But Dean? He doesn’t hear his brother.
No, he swings open the door, one hand holding onto a plastic bag presumably filled with a hearty, greasy takeaway lunch, a six-pack of beer in the other.
Dean pauses as his eyes land on the scene before him – his brother; flushed and panting, hair wild, face smeared and glistening with something wet, in bed. With you. Both of you under rumpled sheets. Clothes scattered on the floor.
“Oh– hah– oh fuck.”
“Dean, just get out!”
The older brother stands in the doorway, motel door wide-open as he looks away from the scandalous and unexpected situation of you two in the bed in front of him, head shifting around in every direction and unable to stop anywhere, “Sammy, you sly dog. When I said ‘make it up to her’, this,” he gestures vaguely with his right hand at you both, “wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Dude!” Sam yells, while you loudly groan Dean’s name at the same time, annoyed and exasperated, but equally as mortified.
“Alright! Alright! I’m leaving.” He chuckles, backing out the door with his eyes stuck to the motel floor as he pulls the door shut with him, food and alcohol still in his grips.
Sam turns his head back to you, ducked in front of his broad chest, legs slightly tangled with his own. You peep up at him, face red, brows and nose crinkled in embarrassment.
Both of you burst out in laughter, Sam dipping his jaw with a shake of his head, then rolling to the side and falling back onto the mattress with a groan from the bed springs, eyes facing up at the whirling ceiling fan.
He huffs, nostrils expanding with a sheepish, dimpled smile creeping across his face as his gaze shifts back onto you lying beside him.
“Well, shit.”
OOPS. sorry for leaving yall in the lurch. again. BUT NOT NEXT TIME. YOU WILL BE REWARDED FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I PROMISE.
and a GIGANTIC thank you to my lovely @theedaythatnevercomes for proof-reading this first - would be lost without you ❣️ AND @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for their formatting support 💗
(i'm not going to lie, I was really nervous about posting this. like almost hyped myself out of it. i hope it somewhat satisfied. please let me know :) )
tag list for yssttwdimd:
@ukor02 @chaoticsunball @sourpinkvelvet @ohangeleyes @cursedbysukuna @bad-wolf1991 @lunaleah @vines-climbing @megafangirl @littlemadamred @neutralizedair @hollyfranklin @let-it-sn0o0ow @sunnyteume @neenaisawesome @withjust-a-bite @sturnlover2003 @manly-man-whore @rulesareshadesofgrey @i-is-for-inspiring @lushfruit @thefairlyaveragegatsby @skel-skell @daughterofthemoons-stuff @angelcritterz @samstarship0 @oyounhouriyat @yolsworld @buckysdogtagss @tylermckeebby @millietozier @mazzaroni-cheese @samiwinchester444 @liliana-111 @sammy-simp @starr-jazz @angrleyes @y2kr0se @fandomhopped @winterstar67 @samsleatherjacket @alice-ace299 @rubyrubydoo09 @dangerouslyglimmeringnavigator @snomsnoom @importantzinehorsefan-blog @ughiloveart
Dean x Reader
Summary: You and Dean get hit with a curse, one that really hates distance. And it keeps tightening the longer it lasts. Seems like you’re stuck side-by-side now… good luck with that.
Word Count: 1.6K
Dean knows something’s wrong the second you both stumble out of that warehouse, gravel crunching under his tired feet, sharp beneath the quiet night sky. Silence stretches all around, but it’s heavy, almost suffocating, and there’s a weight on his chest, pressing down with every shallow breath.
He forces in a deeper one, telling himself he’s just tired. He’s not twenty-five anymore after all. Step by step, he keeps up behind you until his fingers brush the cold metal of the Impala.
“Man… that was rough,” he exhales, sliding into the car and letting his shoulder slump against the leather seat. Another breath in, and then a glance your way, and another, just to make sure you’re okay. He has to make sure, and he has to double-check.
He sees your eyes do the same, scanning him quickly, and his chest tightens. Then he realises he can finally take a little more air in, and he nods to himself, swallows down the night, or at least tries to.
“What the hell was that?” you groan, slumping in the seat next to him. “I’m beat.”
“Yeah… you’re telling me,” he murmurs, turning the key in the ignition.
The road to the motel crawls beneath the tires. It shouldn’t feel this long, but every mile drags.
The seats are comfortable, and the night sky presses down in quiet reverence. Normally, you’d drift toward the windows, imagining the lives inside the houses you pass. Not tonight. Tonight, your bones ache and your head feels too heavy to wander. So you just close your eyes and breathe, letting the darkness carry what little energy remains.
When you finally get to the motel and step into the warm shower, something nibbles at the edges of your awareness, prickling under your skin, weightless but warm, sliding inside. You rest your head against the shower door and breathe in, breathe out, letting the water wash over your tired bones, soothing with its steady passage.
It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, easy for the most part. That’s why you hadn’t even told Sam. The guy deserved one weekend at Eileen’s without the job breathing down his neck.
And you and Dean… well, you were bored out of your minds, and Lebanon, Kansas, doesn’t exactly offer much in the way of fun. That was all the rationale you’d needed.
And now here you are, dragging yourself out of the shower like an eighty-year-old woman with arthritis.
Dean is staring off into space when you return to the room. Sitting on his bed, he frowns at… something. Probably his own thoughts; it wouldn’t be the first time. Then he looks at you, eyebrows scrunched. “You feel… weird at all?”
Oh, here we go. The start of every nightmare.
“Uh, just tired, I guess. Why? Something wrong?”
“Nah,” he waves it off. '‘S probably nothing. Must be gettin’ too old for this crap.”
“Yeah, reading my mind,” you comment as he heads for the bathroom.
The nagging feeling is still there, just a breath away, crawling toward your insides again, but you’re too damn tired to care. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, when your brain can handle more than one thought at a time.
So you lie down and close your eyes, letting the warm hum of water from the shower and Dean’s low, lazy humming lull you toward sleep. The sound is steady, grounding, and for a moment, it’s enough to make the creeping weight inside fade to the background.
The edges of the motel room blur soon enough, and you’re pulled into another world. You’re standing in a quiet field at dusk, the air soft, smelling faintly of wet grass and earth. An ache coils in your chest, tight and heavy.
You’re walking towards Dean, and every step takes effort, but with every inch you close the distance, the weight eases, melting under the warmth of his presence.
He stands a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on you.
You step closer, the grass brushing your ankles, and finally, your hands meet. His fingers curl around yours, firm and warm, and the ache dissolves, replaced by something else: longing, and a hint of fear that this feeling could vanish at any moment.
“So cruel,” he murmurs, “making me wait for so long.”
You lean closer, drawn to him, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, warm against your skin, and he whispers, “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“How I feel about you.”
Your chest tightens, and you snap awake, gasping slightly, trying to draw in deep, steady breaths to calm yourself. The motel room is dim and quiet. Across the small space, Dean lies in the bed next to yours, chest rising and falling in a slow, familiar rhythm.
You shake your head at yourself, as if chastising the dream for affecting you so deeply. Slowly, you turn your back to him, curling slightly under the covers. You try to push the dream from your mind and sink back toward sleep, but his words keep returning, echoing through your mind, impossible to ignore.
Your breathing steadies, if only a little, and eventually, the darkness of sleep draws you back in, this time into a dream without him.
—
The morning drifts by soft and easy as you and Dean head back to the bunker, music blasting, wind lifting your hair out the open window. Dean drives like he always does, one hand on the wheel, steady, familiar.
A full night of sleep has worked wonders, and you already feel clearer, lighter.
When you glance over, he’s tapping the rhythm out on the wheel, mouthing the lyrics, and something in your chest unclenches. You’re both safe, and you’re going home.
“You know, been thinkin’,” he says eventually, lowering the radio a notch. “Could do a little reunion tonight. Invite some folks over - Eileen, Charlie. Would be nice.”
“I’d love that, but… can we do it tomorrow?”
“Why?” His head snaps toward you, not sharply, just enough to show he’s alert. Worried. “Something wrong?”
“No, no,” you say quickly. “I just… have plans tonight.”
Another glance from him, this one slower. A crease forms between his brows. “Plans?”
“Yeah. The guy from the case in Lebanon last week.” You try for casual, shrugging. “He asked me out. Figured it wouldn’t hurt.”
Dean’s mouth tightens, just barely. “Didn’t know you were lookin’ to date. Far as I remember, you said you—what was it—‘can’t see yourself in a relationship.’”
“I did say that,” you admit. “I don’t know. Something about it felt… Right enough to try, I guess.”
“Yeah,” he says, one syllable, quiet. “Right.”
He nods, like he’s agreeing with himself, not you. His jaw flexes once. Then he turns the radio back up, not loudly, just enough to fill the space that used to feel easy.
He doesn’t drum anymore, doesn’t hum, doesn’t even glance your way.
He just grips the wheel a little tighter and stares at the long road ahead.
—
Sam’s already back at the bunker when you and Dean come down the stairs. He’s texting, smiling at his phone – no mystery there. “Hey, guys,” he calls, hearing your steps. “Where were you?”
“Just a hunt,” Dean says. He doesn’t offer anything else, doesn’t even slow down. He barely drops the duffel on the table before walking straight out of the room. His footsteps echo as he moves away. Maybe they’re not even that loud, maybe you’re just too tuned into him.
The second he crosses the threshold, though, something slams into you.
Your stomach twists violently, nausea climbing your throat. Cold sweat beads on your skin. You grip the table with both hands to keep yourself upright as your vision blurs around the edges.
Sam says your name sharply and is at your side in a heartbeat. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I… dunno,” you manage, breath hitching. “Don’t feel so good.”
He steadies you with a hand around your shoulders. “Sit down, c’mon.” He guides you into a chair, and you’re barely seated before he runs out of the room, toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab you some wa—”
He doesn’t finish.
“Dean!” Sam shouts suddenly, and he’s running again… not toward the kitchen at all. “Dean, what’s wrong?!”
Fear surges so hard through you that you force yourself up, legs trembling. You manage only a step or two before another wave of nausea knocks the breath out of you. The room tilts, and you cling to the table, trying again, needing to move, needing to see.
Then Sam drags Dean into view.
He’s pale, ashen, and barely standing on his own. His knees buckle once before Sam hauls him upright again.
“C’mon,” Sam says urgently, arm locked around his brother’s waist. “C’mon, Dean, it's gonna be okay.”
The moment Sam drags him fully into the room—
Everything stops.
Your nausea.
The shaking.
The fog eating at the edges of your vision.
Gone.
You straighten instantly, breath clearing, as if someone just flipped a switch.
Dean blinks hard, like he feels the sudden shift too, and stands a little straighter, letting go of Sam’s arm. His breathing evens out, colour returning to his face.
“The hell?” he mutters, looking down at himself.
Sam looks between you and Dean, eyes wide, concern tightening his jaw. “Okay,” he says carefully. “What is going on with you two?”
Though your vision has cleared and your legs are steady again, the moment holds you fast. It lies heavy in your stomach, thick with a fear you can’t name. Because when your eyes find Dean, breathing but shaken, you know this isn’t over. Whatever has marked you has marked him too, and it’s only just begun.
---
Part 2
---
Dean Tags: @hobby27 @foxyjwls007 @hotgirlsshareaccounts @katiejade @missyoudean
who's gonna write Lucifer eating a bribe candy he thought was from Beelz, but was actually from Asmodus, thus creating a problem he needs readers or alastors help with 👀
Summary: Life is just another game, and so is afterlife. The question is, will you able to beat the odds, and your competitor Vox?
Notes: (1) This chapter takes place before events of season 1. (2) I don't have major gaming experience but I've done my research but if there are mistakes pls forgive me lol. (3) Inspired by this ask sent by @drpepperdemon
CW: none (there will be future smut)
Word Count: 4.5K
Also on my Ao3.
Chapter One: Respawned
Not many people got their dream jobs.
Most settled. Some endured. Others spent their lives counting down the hours until they could finally go home.
You considered yourself lucky.
Ever since you were a kid, video games had been your escape. And somehow, against all odds, you turned that love into a career. You worked for a gaming company, helping build worlds people obsessed over for hours at a time.
Better yet, people actually liked what you made.
The company profits skyrocketed whenever your projects launched. Online forums tore apart every teaser frame you designed. Streamers praised the visuals. Fans made theories about details you'd added at three in the morning while half-asleep on energy drinks.
It felt unreal sometimes.
Success was addictive.
At first, you told yourself the late nights were temporary. Just until the next deadline. Just until the next launch. Just until the next patch.
But one successful game turned into another. Then another.
You stopped sleeping properly. Meals became optional. Energy drinks became meals instead.
Your apartment slowly transformed into a second office — sketchbooks piled across the floor, unfinished character concepts glowing on multiple monitors, code and artwork blurring together after forty hours awake.
Yet you couldn't stop. Because what if the next game wasn't perfect? What if people stopped caring? What if someone else made something better?
So you pushed harder. Until your body finally gave out before your mind did.
The last thing you remembered was the glow of your computer screen.
Dying, surprisingly, wasn't the end. It was more like a loading screen.
When you opened your eyes again, the world looked wrong. The sky glowed a violent red.
Hell.
Huh.
Your first coherent thought had been: So religions were onto something after all.
Your second had been: Technically… I respawned.
Honestly? That made the situation significantly easier to process.
The adjustment period had been rough. And somehow, against all odds, you adapted frighteningly fast. Turns out years of online gaming translated surprisingly well into survival.
Learn the map. Learn the enemies. Learn which idiots were all bark and which ones could actually kill you.
Most importantly? Learn your abilities. That part had taken longer.
At first, your powers appeared randomly — strange flashes of abilities surfacing during moments of stress or excitement.
Then you noticed the pattern.
Every power came from a video game character you'd played during your human life. And considering gaming had consumed most of your existence…
You had a lot of options.
One of your personal favorites came from an old survival horror obsession.
Long black claws suddenly extended from your fingertips with a sharp metallic shnk.
You admired them thoughtfully. "Lady Dimitrescu," you mused proudly.
The sinner across from you paled. "What?"
Your claws slid effortlessly through him. "Wrong answer.”
You weren't stupid. Hell rewarded power, yes — but it also rewarded patience.
Plenty of Overlords before you had charged in screaming, only to end up scattered across the pavement two weeks later.
The Overlords still standing? They were clever. Ruthless when necessary. Careful when it mattered. You paid attention to people like that.
More importantly, you had no interest in making pointless enemies.
Enemies were exhausting. They wasted your time.
They forced you to constantly look over your shoulder wondering when they'd strike next. They dragged you into petty wars and stupid politics and endless revenge cycles.
Frankly, it sounded annoying.
You already spent enough of your human life stressed over deadlines. You refused to spend your afterlife stressed over idiots too.
No.
What you wanted were allies.
Connections.
Information.
People who owed you favors.
In your experience, loyalty bought with respect lasted far longer than loyalty bought with fear.
You learned names. Learned territories.
Learned which Overlords valued loyalty, which valued entertainment, and which ones would stab you over a mild inconvenience.
You learned how to make yourself useful.
You offered services before threats. Favors before fear. It worked disturbingly well.
Turns out people were far less likely to try killing you when you solved problems for them.
Of course, that didn't mean you were weak.
The few sinners dumb enough to mistake your friendliness for vulnerability usually learned otherwise very quickly.
Preferably after screaming.
Of course, you learned about the Vees too.
It would've been impossible not to. Their faces were everywhere.
Massive glowing advertisements stretched across Pentagram City buildings. Giant screens played endless commercials. Products, clubs, music, technology — the Vees had their claws buried in nearly every form of entertainment Hell consumed.
They were impossible to ignore.
Especially Vox. The television-headed Overlord practically radiated ambition through every screen in the city.
Loud. Charismatic. Controlling. The type of person who always needed to be the center of attention.
You took one look at his empire and immediately decided: Absolutely fucking not.
An Overlord like that didn't tolerate competition. And considering your abilities revolved around video games — one of the fastest growing forms of entertainment in Hell — conflict between you felt almost inevitable.
So you did the sensible thing.
You stayed far away from the Entertainment District.
While other ambitious sinners flocked toward the Vees hoping for recognition, power, or fame, you deliberately built your territory elsewhere.
Far enough that Vox wouldn't care. Far enough that his attention stayed pointed somewhere else.
You weren't afraid of him.
You just understood something many sinners didn't: Powerful people became dangerous the moment they considered you worth noticing.
And until you were strong enough to survive that attention comfortably…
You preferred staying off his radar.
Ten years passed in Hell far quicker than you ever expected them to, until eventually your name no longer sounded unfamiliar when spoken among Overlords, and sinners had begun associating your territory with cutting-edge gaming technology powerful enough to rival Hell's existing entertainment industry.
You had built your empire carefully during those years, avoiding unnecessary wars while steadily expanding your influence through innovation rather than brute force, because unlike many sinners who arrived in Hell drunk on ego and desperate to prove themselves, you understood that the most dangerous people were often the ones clever enough to let others underestimate them.
Unfortunately, success had a tendency to attract attention no matter how carefully you tried avoiding it.
It started, strangely enough, with an adult VR game.
Valentino first heard about it through his employees, many of whom had become increasingly distracted during work hours while rambling excitedly about some new immersive experience spreading through Hell faster than most recent entertainment trends, and while that normally wouldn't have interested him much — Hell was filled with desperate addicts constantly chasing the next pleasurable distraction — the sheer obsession surrounding this particular game eventually caught even his attention.
According to them, the technology felt almost impossibly realistic, with environments detailed enough to blur the line between simulation and reality, responsive AI advanced enough to adapt naturally to a player's behavior, and sensory feedback so convincing that several sinners reportedly forgot they were inside a game at all.
Naturally, that intrigued Valentino immediately.
So one evening, motivated partly by curiosity and partly by boredom, Valentino decided to test the game himself, lounging lazily across his couch while smoke curled from the end of his cigarette and neon lights reflected across the sleek VR headset resting over his eyes.
And the moment the simulation loaded around him, his amused expression slowly shifted into genuine interest. By the time Valentino removed the headset, his sharp grin had widened considerably.
Any pervert in Pentagram City would've sold their soul for another hour inside that simulation.
Valentino exhaled smoke slowly before tilting his head toward one of his employees lingering nervously nearby.
"Alright, cariño," he drawled smoothly, "who made this little masterpiece?"
The answer arrived quicker than expected.
Valentino laughed softly beneath his breath at that, his gold tooth flashing beneath the dim neon lights as genuine excitement settled into his expression. "Oh," he purred slowly, already fascinated. "I need to meet this hermosa chica."
It had been a good day.
The kind of good day you appreciated more after spending years in Hell, where chaos could erupt without warning and carefully built plans often collapsed beneath somebody else's tantrum, greed, or ego.
Business was thriving, several new VR systems had sold out almost immediately after release, and the newest expansion for one of your more popular games was already receiving overwhelmingly positive feedback from customers throughout Pentagram City, which meant the rest of the week would likely proceed smoothly.
For once, things felt stable.
Your office remained pleasantly quiet aside from the faint hum of holographic monitors floating around the room, each displaying separate reports regarding profits, server stability, manufacturing requests, and upcoming release schedules, while neon light from the city below filtered through the massive windows behind your desk and painted the room in shifting shades of crimson and violet.
Honestly, you had almost started relaxing.
Then the doors slammed open.
Your assistant hurried inside so quickly she nearly stumbled over herself, hair disheveled and expression unusually tense as she clutched a tablet tightly against her chest.
Immediately, you knew something had gone wrong. Salina rarely panicked.
"Boss," she said quickly, slightly breathless from rushing through the building, "we have a visitor."
You barely glanced up from the holographic screen in front of you. "And?"
Her hesitation made your stomach sink before she even spoke again. "...One of the Vees.”
Silence settled heavily throughout the office.
Slowly, you leaned back in your chair. "Which one?"
Salina swallowed. "The Film Overlord. Valentino."
For the first time in several minutes, your thoughts went completely blank.
Ah. So this was happening now.
You had known this day would eventually come ever since your technology started spreading beyond your own territory, because there was simply no realistic way to build an entertainment empire within Hell without eventually drawing the attention of the Vees, especially once your products began rivaling the quality of their own industries.
Still, knowing something would happen eventually did not make the moment itself any less irritating.
Your fingers tapped once against the armrest while you silently considered your options.
Refusing to meet Valentino would be insulting. Meeting him carried its own risks.
And if Valentino was here personally instead of sending an employee or messenger, then that meant this visit mattered enough for him to invest his own time into it, which was never a comforting realization.
Worse?
If Valentino knew about you now, then it was only a matter of time before Vox did too.
That thought alone was enough to make exhaustion settle behind your eyes.
You exhaled slowly before rubbing a hand against your temple. "Well," you muttered dryly, already feeling the beginning of a headache forming, "can't exactly pretend I'm not home."
Salina gave a nervous laugh.
You straightened in your chair again, expression smoothing back into calm professionalism despite the calculations already racing through your head, then waved your hand dismissively toward the door. "Let him in.”
Valentino was exactly what you expected.
Excessive.
The doors to your office opened once more and the Overlord entered with the kind of effortless confidence only possessed by people who had spent decades believing the world belonged to them, his fur coat dragging behind him while expensive perfume and cigarette smoke followed close after.
He walked like he owned the building already.
And yet, despite the arrogance dripping from every movement, you immediately understood why so many sinners willingly gravitated toward him.
Valentino was charming. Dangerous people often were.
His grin was warm enough to appear inviting while somehow still carrying the unmistakable edge of something predatory beneath it, like a beautifully decorated trap waiting patiently for someone foolish enough to step too close.
Naturally, you smiled anyway.
Rising smoothly from your chair, you stepped forward and extended your hand politely across the space between you both. "Welcome to my humble abode.”
Valentino's eyes flickered across you with open interest, visibly lingering for half a second too long before amusement curled across his face, and instead of shaking your hand as expected, he gently took it within his own before lowering his head enough to press a theatrical kiss against your knuckles. "Pleasure is all mine, querida.”
You resisted the urge to sigh.
Because beneath the flirting, you knew better than to mistake beauty for harmlessness in Hell.
Still, if Valentino wanted charm and performance, you were more than capable of playing along.
Your smile remained perfectly composed as you carefully slipped your hand free from his grasp before motioning casually toward the seating area near the center of your office. "Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Valentino settled into the chair like a king accepting tribute rather than a guest entering another Overlord's territory, crossing one leg over the other.
You snapped your fingers once.
Instantly, two glasses materialized onto the low table between you alongside an expensive bottle of liquor pulled directly from your private collection, courtesy of one of the small reality-warping perks your demonic abilities allowed.
Valentino's brows lifted slightly at the display. "Fancy," he purred.
You had every intention of keeping this conversation controlled. Ideally, this meeting would end with Valentino satisfied, mildly entertained, and leaving your territory without deciding you were either a threat or a potential acquisition.
Realistically, you already suspected things would not remain simple for very long.
Still, you leaned back comfortably into your chair, swirling the liquor lazily within your glass before offering him a measured smile. "So, to what do I owe the honor of a Vee visiting my little corner of Hell?"
Across from you, Valentino grinned like a cat presented with cream as he took a slow sip from his drink before answering. "I came across something interesting you made."
Your expression remained politely curious. "Oh?"
Valentino leaned further into his seat, spreading his arms as if discussing fine art rather than whatever insanity was about to leave his mouth. "Cariño, that little VR setup of yours is practically the perfect equipment to jerk off—”
"Your point, Val?" you interrupted immediately, voice dry enough to cut through the room before he could continue elaborating in increasingly graphic detail.
The interruption only seemed to amuse him more.
He laughed softly, cigarette ember glowing brightly as he tilted his head toward you with obvious delight sparkling behind his eyes. "Straight to business, huh? Cute.”
You simply stared at him.
Valentino eventually relented with exaggerated disappointment before continuing more seriously, though the playful edge never fully left his tone.
"My point is that your tech is incredible. Hell's obsessed with it already, and honestly?" He gestured loosely with his drink. "The sluts you've been using inside those games are only half decent.”
Valentino either noticed your expression or simply didn't care, because he continued speaking without hesitation.
"You've got revolutionary technology paired with random nobodies when you could be using stars instead." His grin widened knowingly. "Your games would reach twice the audience overnight if people recognized the talent involved.”
You rested your elbow against the armrest thoughtfully while piecing together where this conversation was heading.
Your eyes narrowed slightly in understanding. "...Angel Dust?"
Valentino practically beamed. "See? I knew you were smart.”
Hell's most famous porn star partnering with your VR technology would create an absurd amount of attention almost instantly, and annoyingly enough, Valentino was probably right about the profits such a collaboration would generate.
This, at least, you could handle.
A business deal was infinitely easier to navigate than emotional power games or unpredictable violence, because unlike most sinners in Hell, contracts and negotiations tended to follow understandable rules, and while Valentino was undoubtedly manipulative, you trusted greed far more than you trusted kindness.
Greed was predictable.
You could work with predictable.
Leaning back slightly into your chair, you allowed a pleasant smile to return to your face as though the proposal had not immediately triggered three separate calculations regarding future profits, potential risks, and how much involvement from the Vees you were willing to tolerate before it became a problem. "A very magnanimous offer, Val.”
Across from you, Valentino nodded with the confidence of someone fully convinced he was, in fact, the most charitable creature in existence, one gloved hand resting dramatically against his chest while he exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.
"I know, querida. I'm practically a saint."
The urge to laugh nearly escaped you.
Instead, you calmly took another sip of your drink while Valentino continued speaking.
"A very simple deal, señora," he purred smoothly. "I provide the talent, you provide the fancy technology, and we split the profits fifty-fifty.”
You kept smiling. Mostly because visibly reacting would've been impolite.
Slowly setting your glass down atop the table between you both, you folded your hands together neatly while tilting your head just enough to soften the rejection into something conversational rather than confrontational.
"Very..." you began carefully, voice smooth as silk, "...generous of you, yes."
"But you see, your actor would only really be necessary for the body scan and voice work. Most of the actual labor, programming, environmental rendering, behavioral adaptation, animation processing, and response systems would still be handled entirely by my employees.”
You watched the exact moment Valentino realized you were negotiating back.
It was subtle. A tiny narrowing of his eyes.
You smiled pleasantly anyway. "So," you continued lightly, "perhaps something closer to sixty-forty would be more reasonable?”
Valentino stared at you for several seconds before suddenly laughing, rich and amused enough that the sound echoed faintly throughout the office.
"Oh, I like you."
You suspected that statement should have felt significantly more threatening than it did.
"Y'know," Valentino drawled smoothly, voice dripping with amusement and something significantly more dangerous beneath it, "I'm sure we could negotiate a little more, hermosa."
You already disliked where this was going. "Could we?”
"Mhm." He leaned further forward, resting his chin lazily against his hand while smoke slipped between his sharp teeth. "Maybe I help ease that pretty little mind of yours, yeah? One good fuck and suddenly fifty-fifty don't sound so bad anymore.”
You resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.
Because objectively speaking, the offer itself was not the problem. The problem was everything attached to it.
Entangling yourself too deeply with the Vees sounded exhausting on every conceivable level.
Getting personally involved with one of them? That sounded less like a good decision and more like willingly signing yourself up for a migraine that lasted several decades.
Still, flatly rejecting Valentino carried its own risks. So instead of refusing, you carefully chose the safer option.
Ambiguity.
Leaning back into your chair, you allowed a thoughtful smile to curl slowly across your lips while meeting his gaze evenly.
"Perhaps," you said lightly, voice smooth enough to sound teasing without becoming encouraging, "I'll take you up on that offer when needed.”
You decided it was best to secure the agreement before he found another opportunity to derail the discussion entirely.
Setting your drink aside once more, you straightened slightly within your chair before offering him a composed smile.
"So," you said smoothly, "do we have a deal?”
"Mmm." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Si. I think we do."
Good.
Because while this partnership certainly came with risks, the benefits were difficult to ignore.
You extended your hand across the table toward him once more. This time, Valentino actually took it properly.
His grip was warm and firm, claws brushing lightly against your skin while his thumb dragged slowly across your knuckles in a way that felt entirely deliberate before he finally shook your hand with dramatic satisfaction. "Pleasure doin' business with you."
"Likewise.”
You gently withdrew your hand before moving back toward your desk, holographic screens flickering softly around you once more as professionalism settled naturally back into place.
"I'll have the official documents sent over within the week," you informed him. "My legal team will finalize distribution percentages, licensing permissions, image rights, and usage restrictions before production starts.”
Valentino let out a soft whistle behind you. "Damn, you really are all business."
Three months later…
Vox was having an exceptionally boring day.
The massive monitors lining the walls of his office flickered endlessly with live broadcasts, profit reports, social media trends, surveillance feeds, and viewer statistics flowing faster than most sinners could process, though Vox himself barely paid attention anymore as he lazily spun in his chair with one leg thrown over the armrest, claws tapping impatiently against the polished metal.
His assistant practically stumbled into the room looking seconds away from cardiac arrest, hair disheveled, tie crooked, and face pale enough that Vox briefly wondered whether someone had actually died.
Ethan barely managed to catch his breath before blurting out.
"Sir— sir—!”
Vox didn't even bother turning around fully yet. "What's got your panties in a twist?"
"Sir, our profits dropped—"
Vox let out an exaggerated sigh, finally swiveling his chair toward the trembling assistant. "Oh my God, Ethan, you burst into my office like somebody blew up the tower. What is it this time? Point-one percent? Point-two?”
Market fluctuations happened constantly.
Some weeks viewers preferred violence. Other weeks they preferred pornography, drama, or whatever idiotic trend Hell collectively hyperfixated on for forty-eight hours before moving onto the next shiny distraction.
It was annoying, sure, but hardly worth interrupting his afternoon over.
Ethan, however, looked ready to faint. "N-no, sir..." he stammered weakly.
Vox narrowed his eyes slightly.
Ethan swallowed hard. "...Thirty percent.”
Silence.
Complete, horrible silence.
Then Vox's left eye spiraled violently across his screen. "WHAT?!"
The shout exploded through the office loud enough to make Ethan physically flinch backward while several surrounding monitors glitched simultaneously from the sudden spike of anger radiating off the Overlord.
Vox shot upright from his chair so quickly it crashed backward onto the floor behind him.
"T̷̛̰͍͗̈̉̏H̴̰́I̶̬̜̅̂̾̍R̸̮̟̂̆̎̓͊T̵̟͌̾̓͘̕Ỳ̵͇͔̻̈ ̵̨̡̱͔̠̀̋̀̂Ṕ̸͚̼̘̕Ẽ̷̗͈R̸̖̭͇͈̞͐̓C̶̥̒͑͆̿E̸̐ͅN̶̘̈́̎̓ͅT̸̝̞̪̑̈́̚?̴͔̗̐̓͐͘͠!̷̢͖̘͕͂͛" he screeched, voice distorting into static halfway through the sentence. "HOW THE FUCK DO YOU LOSE THIRTY PERCENT?! WHAT ARE THESE USELESS IDIOTS EVEN DOING DOWN THERE?!”
Ethan looked moments away from tears. "W-we checked the broadcasts, sir! Nothing malfunctioned! No outages, no competitor releases from the other districts, no major scandals—"
"Then where the hell did the audience go?!"
Ethan hesitated. The assistant visibly sweated beneath the weight of that sharp glare. "...Gaming platforms, sir."
Vox froze.
Slowly, very slowly, his screen flickered into an expression of pure disbelief. "...Excuse me?”
Ethan shakily pulled up several holographic reports onto the monitors surrounding them, displaying rapidly increasing sales figures, user engagement spikes, and consumer activity centered around one specific entertainment company that had apparently exploded in popularity over recent months.
Gaming experiences advanced enough to keep sinners occupied for days.
Vox stared at the reports silently while static crackled dangerously around the edges of the room.
Then his smile appeared. Which, unfortunately for everyone present, was significantly more terrifying than yelling. "Who," Vox asked softly, dangerously, "is stealing my fucking audience?”
By the time Vox reached Valentino's studio tower, static was practically sparking off him in visible waves while nearby screens distorted violently as he stormed through the building, employees scattering out of his path immediately after one look at his expression.
Nobody stopped him. Nobody was stupid enough to try.
The doors to Valentino's private chambers slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls. "VALENTINO!"
Inside the room, Valentino barely reacted.
The moth Overlord lounged lazily across an expensive sofa beneath dim pink lighting, one leg draped over the armrest while smoke curled slowly from the cigarette balanced between his fingers, looking entirely too relaxed.
Val glanced toward Vox without the slightest hint of concern. "Damn, papi," he purred lazily, smoke escaping his mouth in a slow stream, "what's got you so angry?”
Vox crossed the room in seconds. One clawed hand shot forward and grabbed Valentino harshly by the front of his coat. "Did you seriously sign a fucking deal with that newbie Overlord?!" Vox snapped, screen flickering furiously. "And with Angel Dust too?!”
Valentino barely blinked. Which somehow made the situation worse.
He simply looked down briefly at the fist crushing his coat before lifting his gaze back toward Vox with bored amusement.
"Well, hello to you too."
"VAL!”
"Relax, cabrón."
"Relax?!" Vox barked incredulously. "Our numbers just dropped thirty fucking percent because sinners are too busy drooling over some gamer freak's tech to watch my networks!"
Valentino raised a brow. "...And?"
Vox stared at him like he had just personally committed treason.
Valentino shrugged, easily taking himself out of Vox's grip. "What does it matter?" he asked casually. "We're still makin' huge profits.”
Vox looked genuinely offended. "You're kidding."
Valentino rolled his eyes before finally shoving Vox's hand away from his coat and straightening the fabric with visible annoyance. "Ay dios mío, you are so fucking dramatic sometimes," he muttered before sinking back onto the couch. "The tech's incredible, the customers are obsessed, and Angel's already doubled merchandise sales just from the announcement alone."
He took another slow drag from his cigarette. "It's good business.”
Vox looked moments away from exploding. "Good business?!" he repeated sharply. "Val, that thing is literally competing with us!"
"Then compete better.”
Valentino didn't even look up while saying it, smoke drifting lazily around him as though he hadn't just stabbed directly into Vox's biggest insecurity.
Because that was the real issue, wasn't it?
Not the money. Not even the profits.
It was the fact that someone had entered Vox's industry and succeeded.
Valentino watched Vox pace furiously around the room for another few moments before finally waving his cigarette dismissively through the air, entirely unimpressed by the television Overlord's ongoing meltdown.
Honestly, Val found the whole thing amusing.
Vox only became this agitated when something genuinely managed to get underneath his skin, and apparently some elusive little gaming Overlord hidden halfway across Pentagram City had accomplished that without even meeting him yet.
"Ay, calm down already," Valentino sighed lazily, smoke curling from between his sharp teeth while he sprawled comfortably deeper into the velvet couch. "I'm sure you'll come to some kinda settlement once you meet."
Vox immediately stopped pacing.
Valentino continued before he could interrupt. "Don't we got that Overlord-Hellborn gala coming up soon?”
Calling it a gala was honestly generous.
Sure, there was expensive alcohol, lavish decorations, live performances, and enough luxury to make lesser sinners drool on sight, but beneath all the glitter and theatrics, the event functioned more like an enormous networking battlefield disguised as a celebration.
The Overlords used the gathering to extend influence beyond Pentagram City and into the other Rings of Hell through partnerships with Hellborn merchants, nobles, corporations, and distributors, since Hellborn demons possessed something sinners did not: the freedom to travel between Rings.
Any Overlord serious about expanding their power attended.
Which meant every major figure in Hell would be present, including you.
Then a grin stretched slowly across Vox's screen.
Valentino immediately recognized that smile.
It was the one Vox wore right before becoming somebody else's problem.
Vox adjusted his coat slowly, grin widening. "Well then," he said smoothly, voice crackling faintly with anticipation now instead of rage, "I guess I'll just have to introduce myself properly.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
notes: yes, Salina here is the same character in Hazbin Guarantee song. the next update will be on 8th june! lemme know if you wanna be tagged!
A mini-series about Sam and Dean both falling for the same girl and thinking she should be with the other. Little do they know, she's got some feelings of her own for them. Both of them. No wincest
Main series complete, may add stories to it in the future
Universal tags for the series: SMUT 18+ MDNI, no use of Y/N, no wincest, pining, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it.
Read it on Ao3
Careful Stares - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Sam's POV, mentions of Dean
Sly Grins - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Dean's POV, mentions of Sam
Untamed Soul - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Reader's POV
Tangled Sheets - SMUT 18+ MDNI, Threesome
Oneshots
Cake by the Ocean - Summer Snapshot Challenge, fluff
Too Hot to Handle - Fluff
Cold Front - Fluff
Kinktober; Tease and Please - SMUT 18+ MDNI
Kinktober; Sweet Surrender - SMUT 18+ MDNI
Kinktober; Sin Wears a Suit and Tie - SMUT 18+ MDNI
Summary Sam Winchester might just be the finest man you’ve ever met. Tall, handsome, with a heart of gold and a boyish smile that makes your heart melt, right along with other parts of you. After a long hunt, you decide to take him with you to your motel room. It’s supposed to be just a hook up, a night of fun.
It turns into so much more.
CWs Sam gets cuffed and edged and turned into a stuttering mess, the way God intended. Hook up turned sexual revelation? Plus a touch of fluff at the end.
18+. 10.9k words.
My Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ My SPN masterlist
Sam and you more stumble and fall than walk into your motel room, your jacket already hanging off one of your shoulders, his hair ruffled by your hands going through it. His lips are pecking at you, kissing you in a way you had not expected Sam Winchester to kiss you - hungry, searching. He was all coy softness and sweetness at first, but something inside him has popped and it’s like he’s been let off the leash.
“Did I already say that I don’t usually do stuff like this?” he says against your lips just as you throw the door shut behind him, and you laugh, which only makes him drag you closer.
You stop kissing him for a moment, press your chin against his as you look up into his eyes, his breath fanning over you and yours over him, as you run your hands along his sides, excited to get to what’s underneath.
“And what’s this, Sam?” you ask, mesmerized by his dark eyes that seem to be a different color depending on how the light hits them. That’s one of the first things you noticed about him, days ago, when this whole prolonged salt-and-burn, hunters-united thing started. They just look dark at the beginning, then green, then brown, sometimes even blue. Now that you finally - finally - have the chance to see them up close, you’re still not sure.
Sam’s hands wander down your body as he keeps eye contact, squeezes your ass.
“Hook up with strange women I’ve only known for a few days,” he says, some of that slight cockiness coming out of him making you bite your lips.
“We can wait if you want to,” you say, tone teasing. “I don’t want you to abandon your–”
Sam shuts you up with a rough kiss, one you moan at. You drag at him, to get him further into the room. His hands go to your shoulders and you briefly let go of him so your jacket can drop off you, then bring your hands back to his neck, his nice, slender, strong neck before pulling back again.
“So,” you say, surveying his face, “what do you like?”
Sam studies you as well, seems to think, which is nice to see. Lots of guys you’ve been with have been mortified at talking about the deed before doing it, which is a good litmus test to weed out anyone you probably won’t have a great time with. But then Sam leans forward, kisses your cheek, then your jaw.
“I’m good with anything,” he mumbles against you, and while you don’t doubt your own skills, you know that’s not true. It might give you reason to pause, but Sam is just too delicious of a catch to give up on him.
“Do you like it sweet?” you say, moving and kissing his cheek in turn. “Or rough?” You move to his other cheek, nipping at it which makes Sam flinch, then grin. You take his big hands where they’re roaming your body, interlace your fingers with his.
“Do you like to be the boss?” you say, then move his hands away from you and behind his body, hugging him, which isn’t that easy with his absolute tree trunk of a torso, and makes you both giggle. “Or do you want me to take the lead?”
It’s minor, but you see the slight twitch in Sam’s gorgeous face and you squeeze his hands behind his back.
“Do we have a winner?” you ask, voice curious and low. Could you be so lucky and have run into this absolute specimen of a man, and then on top of that he likes for you to be in charge? Sam swallows.
“Is that…” he starts, “would that be something you’re into?” Instead of answering, you move your lips back to his mouth, kiss him deeply, arousal pounding away between your legs at the softness of his voice and eyes. Sam’s breathing becomes heavier at the kiss as he searches your lips out, chases them when you pull back.
“I’ve got those silver cuffs I usually use on werewolves,” you whisper against him and a stuttering breath leaves him, before the corners of his mouth twitch. He moves your hands back to your front, laying there for a second before he pushes them up with his, up to your breasts, covering them with his humongous paws and squeezing, dragging another moan from you.
“I can easily get out of those, you know,” he says and you giggle, making Sam grin before you shake your head.
“I don’t think you’re gonna want to, baby,” you answer and something in Sam’s face changes, something you’re not sure is good or bad at first, but then he dives in, kisses you hard, almost desperately. Your hands go back into that delicious mop of hair, pulling a little at the roots, which elicits something like a mixture of a groan and growl in Sam that goes straight to your pussy. He’s pawing at you, squeezing your skin and flesh all over before finally pulling back again.
“But,” he says, voice a little shaky, “but can I, can I eat you out first?” You huff, which comes out as one long, drawn out exhale, because, yeah, the boyishly handsome, tall, bulky man who has made you drip from wetness since the first moment your eyes met over an upturned grave four days ago can eat you out if he wants to, sure.
“Get your clothes off,” you pant at him, and like a good boy Sam listens, his hands shooting to his own jacket, tearing it off his shoulders as he begins undressing himself.
Meanwhile, you step back, walk over to the round table in the room where your bag is sitting after you tossed it there when the hunt was done, and all you wanted was to grab a shower before meeting up with the other hunters in a nearby bar to cheers to a job well done. You thought about Sam, there, under the hot spray of water, your hands running along your slippery skin. Hoping that exactly what is happening now would happen later.
You rummage through the bag as you hear Sam continue his undressing behind you, fabric ruffling and as much as you would prefer to watch, you really wanna find those cuffs. You do, along with the key and then you turn around, your breath catching in your throat for a moment.
Sam is just pulling off the white v-neck he’s been wearing under his shirt - a striped number that would look butt ugly on anyone else, but on Sam somehow highlights his strong, gorgeous features even more. The pulling off of the t-shirt reveals his torso, which is, to be totally honest, ridiculous. You could kind of guess at his build (and have been for the past few days), but you didn’t know it would be quite so delicious.
Immediately you want to dip your tongue into every single divot you can reach - especially those intense v-lines leading down to his crotch. You make a mental note to spend some time on them once you have him trussed up.
“Take off the rest,” you say, making sure he knows it’s an order and not a suggestion, and the corners of his mouth twitch at it. You walk over to the bed, put the cuffs and key on the side table, briefly raising the key so Sam can see where it is. He nods. Then you begin undressing yourself.
Sam’s just unbuckling his belt but slows considerably in the process as you begin pulling up your shirt. It’s the black one that has a little row of buttons at the top, the one that makes your tits look absolutely phenomenal, and the effect hasn’t been lost on Sam as you noticed at the bar. He’s been subtle in his staring, but you caught him, once or twice. He always looked away. Maybe he really doesn’t do this a lot.
You drop the shirt on the ground, then go for your own pants, but not before raising one eyebrow and nodding at where Sam’s hands are resting on his belt.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you say. There’s no point in raising your voice - it’s low and clear. You’ve known for a long time that being in charge doesn’t lie in being aggressive, at least not the way you like it. You want the other person to be willing to submit. Oh, and Sam is willing.
He starts undoing his belt, which just on its own is gonna be an image you’ll keep in your backpocket for a rainy day. You pull down your own jeans, wiggle your ass to get out of them and it makes Sam grin. Goddamn it, he’s cute. How does he oscillate between that and scorching hot so seamlessly?
You kick your shoes off at the same time as Sam does, and by the time you reach him again, you’re both only in your underwear. You sling your arms around his neck, kiss him again while his hands land on your side and squeeze your flesh there. You feel the tension of it but no pain - he must be holding back.
You separate your lips from him, look into his eyes and Sam looks back. Without looking away, you bring your hands up to his chest, lay them flat on the warm and soft skin there, then slowly begin running them down, making sure to touch as much of him as possible on the way. Sam keeps watching you, only briefly blinking, twitching, when you reach the waistline of his briefs.
You halt, watch him, his lips slightly moving, the anticipation making it feel like there’s electricity in the air between you two. When you push your hands in his lips part slightly, and then you find him, needing to close your eyes.
“I’m gonna be honest with you,” you say when you open them again, gently running your fingers along soft skin, hardness budding underneath, “I’ve been thinking about this since I first saw you shoulder that shovel.” Sam gives a broken grin, his Adam’s apple bobbing and just because it’s right there, you move forward, press your mouth against his neck. Sam’s hands wander to the back of your head in response, holding you close.
Eventually, Sam’s hands got your shoulders, tugging at the straps of your bra. You let go of him, drag your hands out of his underwear to bring them to your back, undo the clasp and Sam drags it off you, drops it immediately to bring his hands to your breasts. He cups them, gently, runs the pads of his thumbs over your nipples. You sigh.
He leans his head down, kisses the top of your shoulder and you begin gently pushing him backwards, towards the bed. Sam hums against your skin and it makes you smile.
The backs of his legs meet the bed and his hands leave you, disappointingly, but it’s so he can drag your panties down. He needs to lean way, way down so you push down on his shoulders, getting him to sit at the edge of the bed.
Your panties fall to the ground and Sam's eyes wander down your body. It could be your imagination, and you're not sure how much you can trust your senses anymore, but you're pretty sure his breathing picks up when they land on your pussy. He licks his lips, like a man dying from thirst seeing a glass of cool water. This boy is a miracle, you think.
You step close to him, your nakedness feeling so right, as he looks up at you from where he’s been looking. His hands go to your waist, pulling you in and then you’re standing over him, very aware of his hardening cock somewhere below your pussy, still hidden in his underwear. But Sam doesn’t even pay attention to that, instead stroking and exploring you with his calloused but gentle hands.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says and you can’t help the smile that breaks out over your face. Goddamn this man. He is hitting all the right buttons. You’ve never hooked up with anyone as earnest and sweet. He just seems to be so completely free of pretense. It could be scary. But it’s not.
You bring your hands to his face, cup it, take a second to just look at him, then nod slowly.
“Show me what you got, Sam,” you say and you just have time to see the glimmer in his eyes before Sam grabs you, presses you against him and then flips both of you around. You’re too aroused for your hunter instincts to kick in, so your back is meeting the bed with Sam over you before you know what is happening. Instead, you moan, grab his face, kiss him hard. His hands are running along your sides, almost frantic, before focusing on a single spot, like he’s trying to control himself.
His lips go to your neck, his broad chest and back heaving with his heavy breathing, and then he continues moving down, and you remember his previous request. Can I eat you out first? It nearly makes you gush, especially when Sam’s lips land on your collarbone, tongue running over the rise of it before he moves further down. Look at that, you think. A man of his word.
He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, the pressure intense, then lets go and licks over it, making you press your chest up against him. He moves to the other one, mouths at it, and you press your thighs together, roll your hips, not wanting him to stop but looking for some kind of release.
Sam must notice, lets your nipple drop out of his mouth, then looks down your body. He turns, looks back up at your face. You must look like you’re about ready to blow, even though he’s barely done anything. He grins, the goddamn cockiest grin you’ve ever seen and one of his hands goes to your knee, travels down to the inside of your thigh and then, meanly, horribly, stops there.
“Keep your legs open,” he says, and you chuckle, both at him and how hard it is to open them up, escape the little bit of friction you were getting.
“Fucking tease,” you mutter and Sam’s grin widens. “I’m gonna get you back for that.” Sam presses his lips against the spot between your breasts, then looks up at you again.
“I’m coutin’ on it,” he says and you need to bite your lip while you file that to-do away for later. Tease him. Yeah, you can do that. You’ll do more than that. He doesn’t know what you have in store for him.
With a self-satisfied smile, you push yourself deeper into the mattress, and Sam begins kissing you again, a sensual, slow trail down your front. One kiss he lands next to your belly button and it makes you giggle. You feel his lips smile against you. Goddamn.
He shuffles around, gets into position before moving lower. You have no idea how he can be comfortably arranging his long body on the bed in this way, and then he lowers his head, his breath fanning over your pussy and you don't care anymore.
He kisses you high on your thigh, slow, lingering, where he presses his entire face against you, like he can't bear not to be as close as possible. Another one, closer to the inside, and then another one, closer yet.
You would love for him to just dive right in, but the way his slow approach makes you feel like you'll drown the poor guy down there isn't bad either. You're panting and almost shaky when his lips finally graze your own lower ones.
A small gasp leaves you as Sam explores you, kissing you there, then the tip of his tongue presses against you, softly first, then harder. Your legs are as wide open as they can be and when Sam gently sucks that little bud of nerves into his mouth, it's a good thing he slung his arms around your thighs when he made himself comfortable, because you might break his nose otherwise with how hard you press yourself up against him.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan, hands shooting to his hair. It's pure instinct, to press him closer against you, look for any part of him - the strong chin, the broad nose, anything - to find more stimulation. You stop a second later. Or you would, if Sam didn't give the most exquisite low moan when you press him down.
You let up, just barely giving Sam room to talk. He uses the chance to say only one thing.
“Do it again,” he gasps, breathless. Good Lord up in heaven. Of course you'll do it again.
You press him down again, and while he presses his tongue flat against your clit, a deep, lustful groan travels up his throat, making you feel like you're vibrating right along with him. He moves his face, creating stimulation, and you can't - or almost can't - help the ways your lower body moves along to find more - more friction, more tongue, more lips, more Sam.
So you keep going. With Amazonian strength you push your head up, look down your body and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. His eyes are closed, eyelids fluttering like he's in fucking heaven. The image spurns you on so much that you begin rolling your hips more, now essentially face fucking Sam. He doesn't seem to mind.
“Oh God, so fucking good, Sam,” you pant, carding your fingers into his hair, pulling near the roots. “You're gonna make me come so fucking hard.”
Sam can't answer, for obvious reasons, but he groans again, long and loud and deep. It's all building inside of you, all coming to its inevitable conclusion, and when you see Sam's strong back heaving in lust and exhalation, reacting like this to making you come on his face, it's the last straw.
A crescendo of yes yes yes fuck yes Sam leaves you as you come, riding his face from below, hands gripping his hair so tightly you'd be surprised if they didn't come away with tufts of it. You throw your head back, moaning so loudly it almost counts as a scream, all reason and self control lost as waves and waves of delicious pleasure carrying Sam's signature wash over you.
You drop down, both from your high as well as your body against the mattress below you. You’re breathing hard, shaky and shuddery. Distantly you feel Sam has returned to kissing your thighs, but blindly you reach for his arms, try to pull him up towards you.
He understands, pushes himself up and crawls over you. He lands a few fleeting kisses on his way up, and then he’s over you, and you chuckle at seeing him. His hair is messy, which is mostly your fault, your wetness making his chin and mouth glisten. You bring a hand up, wipe it over his face and then pull him in, kiss him deeply.
Sam lays himself over you, held up by his elbows, and his weight on you is perfect. You wrap your legs around him on instinct, bring him close to you and grind yourself up against him. You’re still sensitive, but it’s worth it for the feeling of his bulge pressing against you.
In response, Sam stops kissing, pressing his forehead against your temple while he presses himself against you, moans.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he pants and you could return the compliment, but instead you bring your hand up, grabbing his jaw and making him look at you.
“Lie down on your back, right now,” you say and something comes over Sam’s face, something so vulnerable and excited and intense. You haven’t seen this expression on him yet.
He kisses you again, then pushes himself up as you unsling your legs from around him, rolls off you and lands on his back. You push yourself up and when he’s positioned himself and is looking at you, you crawl over to him, crossing the distance. It’s not a long way but you see the way it makes Sam’s breath catch in his throat.
You kneel, take a second to look at him. He’s long, you think, just everything about him, his legs, his torso and the bulge in his briefs isn’t promising anything different either. You stay like that, let your eyes roam over him until you see him shift. Then you look for another moment. Make sure he knows who’s calling the shots here.
When you see him starting to squirm you move, your own self control starting to wear thin. Without ceremony or giving Sam time to prepare, you raise your leg and swing it over him, straddling him around the waist. You’re very aware of your pussy pressing against the soft skin wrapped over the hard muscle of his abdomen. You lean forward, reach for the cuffs then settle back down.
Sam looks up at you as if you’re some kind of deity. His lips are slightly parted, beautiful, pinkish lips, roughened from kissing and licking at you. He’s breathing hard, his body raising and falling, changing the intensity of contact between your most intimate parts and his stomach. You wonder if some of your wetness has transferred to his skin. It must have.
You’re just about to ask him whether he wants his hands only tied together or cuffed to the bed, when Sam raises his arms, muscles there rippling, brings his hands up to the headboard. The thing’s perfect for tying a big, strong man to it and you lean forward. One of his wrists goes into one cuff, and you’re about to wrap the other one around the metal bar of the headboard when Sam speaks up.
“Both,” he says and you look down at him. His eyes are large and pleading and for a second, it almost throws you off. It’s not sexual, the need in his face, not exactly. It’s different. It’s all encompassing.
“Are you sure?” you ask. You’re all about exploring, but you don’t want Sam to put himself into a position where he might freak himself out. But he nods, slowly, looking into your eyes. He swallows.
“I trust you,” he says, voice calm.
It shoots straight to your heart. He trusts you. He just had his face buried in your pussy and you’re about to ride him, but somehow that is the most intimate thing he could have said.
“Okay, Sam,” you say, no flirtiness in your tone, just clearness. You want him to understand that you get it. That you grasp the kind of vulnerability he is allowing himself.
The click of the second cuff sounds incredibly loud in the room. Sam pulls against them, just a little, just to test. Then he sighs. He sound fucking relieved.
You look down at him as you settle again and when he looks away from the cuffs and at you, you lean in to kiss him. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and caring, nothing like the frenzy energy you both had earlier. You’ll return to that and you plan to bring Sam even further, a plan now clearly forming in your head. But for now, this kiss is a pact. I’ll take care of you, it says.
While you’re still interlocked, you move a little. Just a tad, just a slight back and forth motion. It makes you press your still sensitive pussy against Sam and you make an involuntary sound in the back of your throat. Without another word, you sit up, hands resting on Sam’s sculpted chest as you begin rubbing yourself against him with purpose.
Sam looks down, watches, then looks up at your face again, his breath coming faster. He likes this, you realize, and you could scream from joy. That you are so on the same wavelength. You’re almost not touching him, not getting him off in any way, but with how his breath stutters you’d think he’s tickling the back of your throat. Later, maybe. If he’s good.
“Maybe I won’t fuck you after all,” you say, and there’s just a second of panic in Sam’s eyes, before your gazes meat again and he understands. Understands that you’re doing this for his benefit. He presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose.
“Maybe I’ll just do this,” you say, completing another delicious drag along him that does absolutely nothing for him but still makes his eyelids flutter. “Maybe I’ll just use your body and keep making myself come over and over.”
“Yes,” Sam breathes, closing his eyes. He’s squirming, just a little, shifting, but you’re not allowing him any satisfaction.
“Would you like that, Sam?” you ask, and you’re not sure he can hear you from how absolutely blissed out he looks. “Me riding you but you never getting off. Your big cock just hard and painful and so full, but never feeling me?”
Sam’s throat contracts, that damn Adam’s apple bobbing like crazy. He’s so beautiful. You move your hands a little, skin rubbing on skin, then gently run your fingernails over his shapely pecs. Sam groans again. Officially your new favorite sound.
“Would be a shame,” you say and Sam blinks his eyes open, watches you with rapt attention for whatever decadent punishment you have next for him. “Shame to not feel you that way.”
Without another word, you lean forward again, but this time you don’t kiss Sam, despite the way he tilts up his face towards you being immensely tempting. Instead you press your lips against his collarbone, sucking against the skin there, hard, until you know it must hurt a little and then stop. The next one goes high on his chest, with the same pressure.
To go further, you must climb lower on him, but you sure don’t mind when you move, ass bumping into the hardness in his briefs. You smile to yourself, but don’t let that steer you from your path.
You go lower, lips grazing one of his nipple before you gently nip at it, making Sam’s breathing stutter. You chuckle to yourself, then move your face to look up at him. He’s raised his head to watch you and you make eye contact with him before pushing out your tongue and running it over it once, making Sam’s mouth drop open. Then you keep going lower.
You reach his stomach, his abs, kiss them all over, run your fingertips over them gently. He really is quite the catch. You didn’t know men like this existed outside of the covers of glossy magazines.
Just above his naval, you get a sudden urge, open your mouth and graze your teeth against him. The skin is too taut to manage to actually bite him, but it makes Sam’s cock, still in its fabric prison just underneath your chest, twitch so hard you feel it. It makes you nearly dizzy.
Then those damn v-lines. Just as you promised yourself, you run your tongue through that valley, the taste of salty skin and Sam-ness unmistakeable. God, you would just love to eat him up, you think, as the tip of your tongue tickles along the intense outline.
Sam is nearly vibrating at this point. He’s doing a good job at staying in place, but the way he’s sucking in breath, the way his muscles all over tense and then relax. It’s like watching dark clouds move quickly along the sky. He’s a natural spectacle, this guy.
You look up at him, stop touching him, when your face is above his crotch. Wait for him to catch himself enough so that he looks at you. You make sure you make eye contact before you continue.
“You’re being really good, Sam,” you say, “so let me reward you.”
With that, you press your mouth against his clothed cock. The reaction is instantaneous, Sam pressing his head back into the pillow under him, moaning so loudly and deeply the neighboring rooms can probably hear you. Yeah, you did that. That’s your work.
You do it again and the reaction is just as intense. With deep satisfaction you see Sam wrap his hands around the metal bars of the headboard, squeezing them so hard his knuckles go white. With those damn arm muscles bulking under his skin, he could probably make true on his earlier words and break himself out of the cuffs. You’re not sure that he actually could, but you’re very satisfied that he doesn’t even try.
You bring your hand up, tired of waiting, and pull the waistband of his briefs down. His cock springs free, comes to rest against his stomach. Velvety and meaty, just like the rest of him. Like you thought earlier: specimen.
You pull the waistline a little further, let it slip under his balls, which look soft and pillowy, leave it there. You look up again, open your mouth, push out your tongue and run it once along the length of him.
A long sound leaves Sam, something like an aaah fuuu but he seems incapable of finishing the thought. You sure don’t mind. Not with how perfect he feels under your tongue. There’s one vein that you’re especially infatuated with, and you flick your tongue over it, gaining more incoherent rambling from Sam.
Next, you push your opened mouth against his balls, suckle gently. When you look back up at Sam’s face, you see a slight sheen of sweat collecting on his deeply rippled forehead. Oh, he hasn’t seen anything yet.
“Please–” Sam stutters and you keep watching him, try to see if he’s gonna be able to vocalize what he wants. He swallows, then simply repeats himself: “P-please.”
“What, Sam?” you ask, ceasing your touching on him. “What do you want?” Sam opens his eyes, swallows again, looks at you, trying to gather himself.
“Can you…” he stutters, “with-with your mouth?” You smile a small, devilish smile.
“Inside, you mean?” you ask and Sam quickly nods. You could make him say it, not do it until he gets all the words out, but the truth is, you’re basically salivating. So this is as much for his benefit as for yours.
With gentle fingers, you take his cock in your hand, bringing it up. Lick your lips, for show as much as for smoothness. You lick a stripe along the underside and when you reach his head, wrap your lips around him.
The sound Sam makes this time is different. It sounds like he’s getting into a hot bath. It’s relief. Satisfaction.
You’d never admit to it in court, but your eyes fall shut on their own accord at the taste of him, the heft, and you moan around him. Slowly you begin bobbing your head up and down as Sam perfectly fills your mouth, like he was made for exactly this.
If Sam was responsive before, he now becomes unfettered. He keeps moaning, deep, rich sounds, voice cracking while he mutters confused words and half-phrases. Yes and fuck fuck and oh G-god and more please more. He’s a full on mess at this point, pulsing and twitching between your lips.
You pop off him, continue stroking him while you catch your breath, using the chance to look at him. He looks beautiful, undone. You feel a not insignificant rush of pride at how quickly you unraveled him.
Just then, Sam’s eyebrows go up, his hips slightly bucking as his gaze falls on you. You slowly shake your head.
“Don’t come,” you say, voice low. Sam’s breath hiccups and then he nods.
“I won’t,” he says, seemingly getting himself under control, at least somewhat. “I promise I won’t.”
“Tell me when you get too close so I can stop,” you say and Sam nods again.
“Yes,” is all he manages because the next second you are taking him into your mouth again. Sam grunts, back to that deep, full bodied moaning while you begin taking him deeper. It’s only a minute before he speaks up again.
“O-okay, okay,” he says and you raise your head, let him drop out of your mouth. “I-I think I need a break.”
Part of you is disappointed. You were really enjoying what you were doing. But another part of you lights up with the idea that hits you.
So you make your way back up his body, stopping at some of the previous sights, nuzzling them again. When you come up to Sam’s face, he has a soft, dreamy smile on his lips. You kiss him, deeply, then catch his lower lip between your teeth, pull a little. It makes his grin break through everything else that’s going on.
“Ready for me to keep going?” you ask, voice low. “Or are we gonna have a problem?” The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch. He seems to be a little bit back to himself and you can’t deny that the slight cockiness in his expression makes you all the more excited to drive it out of him again.
He raises his head, tries to reach your lips with his but you pull your head back, gaining a frustrated grunt from him before you finally give in, let him kiss you. You pull back just a little, stay close to him.
“You wanna fuck me, Sam?” you ask, even though it’s very clear that if anyone will be doing any fucking, it’ll be you. Details, details.
“Yes,” Sam replies, voice low, his lips ghosting over yours in an attempt to kiss you again. “Wanna feel you.”
You push yourself up again, to a sitting position, pressing your pussy against Sam’s cock in the process. You run it along him, slowly. Sam closes his eyes again, rolling his neck, before he looks up at you again.
“Feel how wet you make me?” you ask and Sam nods.
“That feels so good,” he answers, “but I want to be inside you.” You raise your eyebrows.
“Making demands, are we?” you ask and Sam grins, boyish, wide, unguarded. He gives you what in his current state passes for a challenging look.
“Like you haven’t been imagining what my cock would feel like deep inside you?” he asks and your mouth drops open, but it turns into an excited grin, only mirrored on Sam’s face. You shake your head, press yourself against him, which makes Sam go back to groaning.
“Cheeky boy,” you say, pressing your face against the side of his, making sure he hears you. “Sounds like I’m gonna need to teach you a lesson.” You pull back again.
“Please,” Sam says, turning serious. “Please, I… I need to learn.”
It nearly knocks the air from you. His words, the way he looks at you. Maybe it’s just your horniness making you nearly obtuse, but is there something more here? This doesn’t feel like any hook-up you’ve ever had. This feels different. More concrete. More fulfilling than… well, pretty much everything else ever.
All you know is that you need Sam inside of you. That you need to know what his face looks like when he is, what he feels like. Because if your bodies fit together half as well as your brains seem to, this might be the night of your life.
“Okay, Sam,” you say. “Let me take care of you.”
His expression goes soft then, something deep and vulnerable in his eyes. He gives a final, slow nod.
You press yourself up on your knees, reach between your legs, finding Sam’s warm thickness. You lead his head to your pussy, all while he keeps looking into your eyes, barely blinking, and you can see moisture collecting over the intense palette of colors in his irises, but still he doesn’t look away. Then you lower yourself, letting him slowly slide into you.
There’s the stretch, your mouth dropping open at it, but you are wide open and ready for him. The thick head slips into you and you rock your hips gently to keep working yourself down on him. Sam takes a stuttering breath at the sensation as he stares down at where the two of you are meeting.
“Fuck,” he grunts, “fuck, your pussy feels perfect, that’s so–” He stops there, drops his head back again and you couldn’t agree more. But now that you don’t need to hold his cock anymore since he’s far enough inside of you, you use your hand to reach up, grab Sam’s jaw, turn it to you.
“Look at me,” you gasp, and you feel him nod in your hold when he does. You have a hard time keeping your own eyes open, but then you’re not the one who’s being taught a lesson.
With a deep sigh, you sink all the way down, taking all of him into you. You are so filled, like you’ve been closed off to the outside world. Just filled with Sam Sam Sam.
He is, just as you’re thinking that, tugging at the cuffs again. You focus on him, watch him panting there below you.
“Fuck, I wanna touch you so bad,” he groans. It’s tempting, to have those big, strong hands exploring you, squeezing your flesh the way you could squeeze him inside you. Have his fingers find your clit. But that’s not what the two of you are doing.
You roll your hips, making Sam moan and you suck your lip between your teeth as you feel him move inside you, kissing your walls like you kissed his mouth.
“But you are touching me,” you say as you keep moving. “Can’t you feel it, Sam? Right there, do you feel that?”
Sam’s gaze drops back to your pussy, watching as you let part of him slip out of you only to gather him up again immediately.
“I feel it,” he says, voice cracked. “Feel… feel how warm you are. Fuck, you’re so soft.” You nod along to his words.
“And you’re–” you start, then interrupt yourself when Sam bumps into a special part of you. “Oh, right there, Sam, fuck, that’s so good.”
It’s not like Sam has any control over how he’s fucking you, but you don’t care. Especially not when he groans at your words.
“Keep going,” he begs. “Please, please, say it again.” You roll your hips harder.
“You’re going so deep, Sam,” you moan and he shudders at that. “So nice and deep and good, you know exactly what my pussy needs, don’t you?”
You keep going and a moment later, Sam presses his head back, eyes squeezing shut, lip pulling up.
“Fuck, I’m gonna–” he says, and you can feel it, the pulsing, his orgasm announcing itself. So you stop riding him.
For a moment you think you waited too long. Sam sort of trembles and for a moment you wonder if he did come, but it’s brief, and then he’s blinking his eyes open. You shake your head slowly.
“Did I say you were allowed to come?” you ask.
It takes a second for anything to register on Sam’s face. His lips move, like he’s trying to say something. His chest is still rising and falling and you just watch him, this beautiful, perfect man you’ve bagged. You’d think his brains were leaking out his ears with how dumbfounded he seems. Then he understands.
“I-” he says, then clears his throat. “No, you didn’t.”
“Exactly,” you say. You let your hands slip off Sam’s chest, bring them to your breasts, gently massaging, keep watching him, the hungry, no, starving look in his eyes, before you let one hand slowly wander down your front.
“So you better don’t,” you say and then your fingertips are grazing your clit.
You see Sam swallow, as if he’s steeling himself, and then he nods, almost imperceptible.
Gently, you begin petting yourself. Sam’s making you so nice and full, the pressure within you making even the soft touch feel like a hundred volt snapping though you. You keep going, a little harder, a little faster, the feeling of it so good, running from the roots of your hair to your toes.
“Yes, Sam,” you sigh. “Just like that. Just like– oh yes, oh God, fuck, baby. That’s it.” Your eyes have fallen shut but you open them again, look down at Sam. He looks concentrated, focused. You might have stopped moving, but you’re sure he can feel what your own touching is doing to you.
You continue, your other hand twisting your nipple while slowly the pleasure in you builds and builds, becoming thicker, more graspable. Your hand leaves your breast, goes behind you, resting on Sam’s leg as you lean back.
With the change in angle, Sam presses against you so perfectly that an involuntary whimper leaves you. Without meaning to, you roll your hips, Sam groaning loudly again. But you’re close. So close, it’s almost within your reach.
So you keep going, fingers quickly rubbing you as you grind down against Sam. You moan loudly, then again, as your orgasm comes barreling towards you, hits you like a brick to the head. Sam’s thickness intensifies the feeling and you can feel yourself twitching and shaking while soft, warm pleasure envelops your body.
You moan as the long release washes over you, still grinding to prolong it, so it’s lucky you hear Sam at all when he speaks.
“Shit, I’m gonna, wait, wait, wait–” he pants and you barely register it. You lean forward, plant your hands on his chest and press yourself up, letting him slip all the way out of you. That’s how you remain, pleasure still coursing through you, slight shivers making you smile softly.
At last, you blink your eyes open, look down at Sam. His face is pressed against the side of his arm, eyes screwed shut while he’s inhaling and exhaling through his nose. You look down, quickly, at his cock lying there below you. There’s your own wetness but it doesn’t look like he came.
Still panting, you lower yourself, lay your chest on his.
“Good boy,” you press out between heavy breaths. Sam makes a sound in his throat before he turns his face, eyes slowly opening. He looks completely destroyed. He’s trembling like a leaf in the wind, you notice next.
You lean forward, kiss him, but he’s barely able to return it. The intense climb without reaching the peak must be taking it out of him. For just a moment, so close post-orgasm, you want to relieve him from the tension, let him come. But something about his face gives you pause. Something in his kiss.
“Do you want to keep going?” you ask and he nods, immediately, clear on what he wants. Well, you’re not gonna talk him out of it. You push yourself up a little, both your upper and lower body, reach between you again, press Sam back into you.
He slips in so easily this time and the stimulation is just on the other side of uncomfortable. But then you move and it’s perfect, immediately intense and deep.
“Oh yes,” you sigh while Sam goddamn whimpers. The sounds coming from him are so perfect that you keep going, almost uncaring if you’re gonna carry him too far. You just need to keep hearing those noises.
You run your hands over Sam’s chest as you keep riding him and when you see his eyebrows drawing together, you slow again, nearly come to a full stop. The breath Sam takes is so deep and desperate that it shakes your body along with his. You wait for a few seconds, allow his stimulation to die down, then begin again. Sam actually grits his teeth, broad chest rising and falling so hard you’d think he just ran a marathon.
“Fuck, I can’t– I don’t– oh, please,” he starts moaning, but then you stop again, having learned what the tell tale signs of Sam about to come are: brows pulled together, upper lip pulled up, shoulders tensing.
“Fuck!” he curses, and it comes from deep inside him. You clench down, squeeze him inside you, this delicious man-giant you’ve brought to his knees.
“You’re all mine,” you whisper, squeeze him again, making him groan. “That nice big cock inside me belongs to me now. Isn’t that right, Sam? You’re all mine?” He looks so torn up so you begin rolling your hips again, slowly, slowly.
That's when Sam’s self control snaps. If he had his hands to himself, he’d probably spin you around, pound you into the mattress until you forget your own name, until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. But he doesn’t, so he does the only thing he can.
He widens his legs, angles them up far enough to push you forward. You catch yourself with your hands on the mattress below, a surprised yelp leaving you. Sam plants his legs wide and starts thrusting up, hard and fast, fucking into you, shaking your entire body.
The stimulation is sudden and intense, and makes you moan loudly immediately. His thrusts are uncontrolled and you are caught by the way his legs are spread, keeping yours wide apart and you in place. Your eyes nearly roll up as you steady your body to meet his thrusts, and when you finally focus on him again, you look down.
Sam is still gritting his teeth, the look on his face desperate. He’s looking at you, maybe to see if you are alright with what he is doing, and your expression must give him a clear indicator.
“F-fuck, Sam,” you moan between thrusts, the loud slapping noise of skin on skin filling the room as Sam fucks you good and deep, and then you close your eyes, another orgasm crashing into you. You whine loudly and Sam braces his legs, keeps himself pressed deep into you, and apart from the occasional muscle twitch, contains his movement as you come around his dick, moaning loudly and wantonly.
You slump forward, cheek landing on his shoulder as you keep grinding yourself against him, making Sam hiss. You press yourself against him, looking for closeness and since he can’t hold you, hug you, he presses his chin down against the top of your head. You stay like that while you try to catch your breath.
“What the fuck was that?” you ask and a broken chuckle leaves Sam.
“Just wanted you to come again,” he answers. You scoff, bring your hand up and stroke his chest.
“I could have done that,” you say, making your voice slightly petulant and you hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.
“Yeah, but I…” he starts, stops briefly. “I wanted it to be me doing it, you know?”
With all the strength you have, you push yourself up, look at Sam’s face. He looks so serious. You bring your hand to his face, pet his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes at that, making your heart flutter.
“Sam,” you say and he opens his eyes again, blinks at you. You look deep into his eyes, the rings of blue and spatters of what almost looks like gold. “Are you gonna let me take care of you now? Really this time?”
Sam presses his lips together, then nods. With that, you are moving again, rocking back and forth slowly.
You run your fingers across Sam’s skin again, look over his face, trying to take in every detail. The light stubble. He must have shaved this morning, not before going to the bar. Three moles - one next to his nose, and you can’t help but lean forward and press a gentle kiss against it.
When you pull back, Sam’s eyebrows are pulled together, his eyes glistening, so you push yourself harder down against him, then stop. In response, he lets out a long breath.
You wait a few seconds, then begin moving again. Sam’s eyes fall shut again and you kiss his jaw, then his neck. He is moving in and out of you now as if you were made for each other, so you pick up your speed.
When you look at Sam’s face again, there’s a tear at the corner of his eye. When he opens it, it dislodges, rolls down first his cheek and then off the side of his face from the angle he’s holding himself.
You see the small panic in his face immediately at you having seen. The worry that you’re somehow gonna be put off. You’re not entirely sure what brought it on, whether it’s the orgasm you keep just out of his reach or something else.
You lean forward. The tear is gone from your reach, has landed somewhere in the pillow below him, but you press your lips against the wet trail of it, pick the wetness up with your tongue. Sam’s breathing stutters, so much so that you almost get worried, but instead of looking at him, you kiss his cheek again. Only then you pull back.
The way he looks at you is difficult to interpret. A mix of unsure and something else, something like deep, helpless lust. You push yourself up higher and begin riding Sam again.
You go faster this time, rolling your hips, letting him slip out of you then pushing him back in, your movement smooth and quick, filled to the brim over and over. Sam keeps watching you while you do, picking up your speed even further.
“You feel so amazing, Sam,” you breathe, and it’s the truth, but you’re not just talking about what’s happening between your legs, but in your chest as well. “You feel so beautiful.”
Sam whimpers, his lips trembling, but you don’t let up. He feels as comfortable and right inside of you as anyone ever has. You go faster yet again.
“I want you to come inside me,” you moan. “God, I want you, Sam.”
Sam makes a noise you can’t quite read, then his nostrils flare.
“Please,” he says again, his voice thick. “Please, just please.”
You don’t know what he’s begging for exactly, but there’s only one thing you can still give him. You ride him harder, faster, Sam clenching his jaw at what at this point must be overstimulation. You can see he’s approaching that edge again and then it’s like something inside him breaks, a sob leaves him, and another one, another tear dislodges.
He probably expects you to stop again, but you don’t. Instead you whine through your own intense feelings as you keep riding him.
His own orgasm surprises him, because Sam widens his eyes and then presses them shut, sounds unlike anything you’ve ever heard leaving him, his noises traveling through you. He’s gasping for air, muscles twitching and he presses his hips up, searching more of you out just as you feel him spill inside of you.
Sam’s chest is heaving and you watch him, run your hands over him to try and help him find his way back to himself. But it doesn’t stop, it’s not dying down and just as you begin wondering if something is seriously wrong, his eyes fly open, focusing on you.
“Get me out of this,” he says, wrists rattling in the cuffs.
You do it immediately, hand going to the table, grabbing the small key. You open the first one and Sam slips his hand out, the skin red where he pulled against it, and you just have time to curse at yourself for not putting in any padding as you unlock the second one, and then Sam suddenly has his arms around you and is moving you.
You think for a second he’s trying to get you off of him, but instead he turns the both of you, your back landing on the mattress, Sam still over you, never having slipped out of you.
In the next second, he's kissing you. Harder and needier and lovelier than you’ve ever been kissed before. His palms are fluttering all over you, like butterflies unsure where to land, he can’t pick a part of you to hold first. You taste the salt of his tears on his lips and bring your legs up, wrap them around him.
Sam pulls his face back, looks into your eyes and then, to your utter shock, begins fucking you again. He just came, but you can still feel him hard inside you, and on top of that, his hand shoots into the small space between your bodies and he finds your clit, begins rubbing it quickly.
Your head drops back at the sudden and exquisite pleasure, and Sam presses his face against your neck. His kisses against your skin aren’t gentle, he’s sucking the skin so hard it’s painful, but it’s perfect. You manage to moan his name and feel his lips move when he speaks against you.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants. “What the fuck did you just do?” You card your hands into his hair again, drag his face away from your neck so you can bring your head back up again. You want to look into his face when you come.
It doesn’t take long. In what feels like seconds, hot pleasure is building inside you again and you just have time to say his name again before Sam fucks you into a deep and violent orgasm.
He’s not far behind you. You don’t know how he’s able to do it again, but you know that he presses his mouth against yours while you both moan for and because of each other, as you explode as two but become one.
When you come back from the bathroom, wearing your sleep shirt, Sam’s head shoots up. To your disappointment, you see that he has put on his briefs and t-shirt. You stop a few feet from him, hands going behind your back.
“Are you leaving?” you ask. Sam shifts where he’s sitting at the end of the bed, elbows on knees, arms crossed in front of his body like he’s trying to protect himself.
“I didn’t know if maybe you wanted to be alone,” he says, avoiding your gaze again. He’s been doing that since he pushed himself out of you. You have no idea what happened, but if you had to guess, you probably saw something he didn’t want you to see. Maybe the tears, maybe the desperation with which he fucked you. You’re not sure. Whatever it is, you didn’t mind it.
You step closer to him, careful not to breach his personal space but wanting to make it clear that you want to be close to him. You press one sock-clad foot forwards, into Sam’s periphery.
“What do you want, Sam?” you ask, voice gentle. He continues staring down at the floor, where your foot is.
“It’s just that one person typically leaves,” he mumbles. You can’t help the smile that comes into your voice.
“I thought you didn’t do this kind of thing a lot,” you reply. This time, Sam looks up. His face looks open, like he’s just torn his heart out of his chest and asked you what you think of it.
“I don’t,” he says, voice cracking a little.
“Well, this is just what I personally think,” you say, slowly kneeling. Sam blinks in surprise but then you are there before him. This way you can fully see him and he you. “But this wasn’t exactly my usual kind of hook-up.”
Sam swallows, maybe unsure what you mean.
“It was,” you continue, deciding to simply take the plunge, “much, much more than that.” Sam’s features soften.
“For me too,” he says, voice low. You nod.
“Good that we’re on the same page,” you continue and you think you see the slightest twitch of a smile on his lips. You move your hand up, cup his face. He doesn’t flinch away, instead presses his face against your palm, closes his eyes, as if the touch is both pain and balm at the same time.
“Come to bed with me, Sam;” you whisper. “Stay.” Sam nods against your hand.
You stand, your hand going away from Sam’s face and instead going to his hand, holding it. When you tug on it, he follows you, stands as well. You walk him to the side of the bed, let him climb in first. He elects to lie on his back, one hand resting on his chest as he looks up at the ceiling. You lie on your side, watch him. It seems like he’s waiting for something but doesn’t have it in him to ask.
“I always sleep much better,” you say and Sam turns his head to you, listening intently, “when I get some cuddles after I’ve been fucked stupid.” Sam blinks again in that absolutely adorable way he does, then a wide smile breaks out over his face. You tilt down your face, look up at him playfully. “Think you could stand to have me stick to you like a barnacle sticks to a rock for a little bit?”
Wild joy and warmth spreads through your chest when Sam actually chuckles. He rolls on his side too and you scoot closer to him. His arm goes around you, pulling you in and against his chest, so all you have to worry about is getting your arms around him too. You don’t manage to wrap him all the way up, but you’re nicely intertwined by the time both of you are done shuffling around.
You can hear Sam’s heartbeat where you are pressed against his chest. Good, strong. You close your eyes, sure you’ll drift off any second.
“I feel like I should explain what happened back there,” Sam says and you open your eyes, look up, seeing mostly heroic chin and jaw before he looks down at you, dark eyes worried.
“There’s nothing to explain,” you reply. “Just looks like maybe we tapped into something intense?” Sam nods slowly, sniffs.
“Yeah,” he says, looking into the room again.
“Is there something you want to explain to me?” you ask and Sam looks at you again. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He seems to be thinking for a moment.
“I felt really safe with you,” he answers finally, voice low like he’s afraid someone will hear him. “I don’t… that’s not always the case.”
Your heart breaks for him, but you try not to let it show. Instead you bring your hand up, brush a strand of hair out of his face.
“I’m glad you felt safe,” you say. “I did too. And I also felt really, really good.” Sam gives you a soft, lopsided smile.
“Good,” he says. He looks at you for a moment, then his arms tighten around you again and you press your face against his chest.
Sleep comes quickly.
You’re woken by the horrible sound of a phone ringing. You sigh, wonder for exactly a second at the mop of soft hair pressed against you before you realize it’s Sam. He moves, disentangles himself from you which you only comment on with a complaining groan, sits up.
The good news is that the ringing stops. It must be Sam answering because he grunts something into the phone, and then says: “Yeah, I’m up, I’m up.”
You turn, look at him. He’s sitting at the side of the bed, one hand laid over his eyes, rubbing, in what you can only guess is an attempt to get the sleep out of them.
“Yeah,” he says again, “yeah, no, I got it. Yeah, I’m… I’m in her room.” With that, he turns around, looks at you. He smiles when he sees you’re awake and you smile back at him, trying not to worry what your hair looks like. Sam turns back around and then, and your heart drops a little at that, stands up, begins rushing through the room, collecting his clothes.
“No, I–” he says, then presses his lips together. “Shut up, Dean.” Despite the disappointment that Sam is clearly getting ready to leave, you can’t help but giggle a little at what you guess is Sam’s brother teasing him.
Sam closes the phone with a snap, turns to you, his jeans in one hand.
“Hey,” he says as you sit up, arms going around your knees.
“Hey yourself,” you reply. Sam grins, then looks apologetic.
“That was my brother, he… we got a case, he’s outside, apparently,” he explains and you nod.
“No rest for the wicked,” you say and Sam nods, chuckles a little. He steps into his jeans, pulls them up. Shoving his phone into one of the pockets before going for his socks and shoes, needing to hop a little to get into them. You watch him with a smile on your face.
Sam is pulling his shirt over his shoulders, shrugging it on and then buttoning it, almost seeming shy, when he speaks again.
“I had a great time,” he says, looking up at you through his bangs, like he doesn’t absolutely deserve to be locked up for looking at you that way when he’s about to head out the door. “A really great time.” You purse your lips.
“So did I,” you say and then Sam reaches for his jacket, shrugs that on as well, before his hands awkwardly go to his side.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” he says and you nod, let your eyes graze over him again. He turns, walks towards the door and opens it just a bit before he stops, turns around again.
“Hey,” he says, and you think he’s trying to act casual, “do you think I could, you know, get your number? Just in case…” He shrugs and your heart beats a little faster at his awkwardness.
Without answering, you get up, still only wearing your sleep shirt that barely goes over your ass, as well as your socks. You look at Sam’s face as you walk towards him, keep your gaze there and his smile slowly disappears as you come closer, his expression becoming more intense. You reach one hand into your bag on the table, then drag out the sharpie you keep stored next to your notebook.
With that, you cross the rest of the distance to Sam, stand close to him. You can just see past Sam out the door, his brother’s car idling right outside, but you don’t really care if Dean sees you.
You take Sam’s hand, uncap the sharpie with your teeth and quickly write your number on the back of his hand. He watches you and then you close the pen, look up at him, into those gorgeous eyes.
“Don’t lose it,” you say. “I’m expecting you to call.” Sam’s eyes go over your face and then without saying another word he wraps his arms around you, pulls you in and kisses you deeply. You return the kiss, one arm going up to get a final feel of Sam’s thick hair between your fingers.
At last, he lets go of you, his face staying close while he looks deep into your eyes, then grins awkwardly.
“I gotta go,” he says and you nod. He tears himself away, just so, his hands seeming almost reluctant to leave you and it makes you smile. He clears his throat, hands running over his sides, before he nods, then chuckles. You can’t help but grin along.
“Alright,” he says, throwing one more look at your face, then turns, moves out of the door. You take a step forward, lean against the doorframe, look after him.
You watch as Sam walks over to the car, gets in, needing to almost fold himself in half to fit, big boy that he is. He shifts in place for a second after closing the door. Dean is looking past him right at you, so you raise one hand in greeting. Dean raises his eyebrows, then turns to Sam, says something. Sam just rolls his eyes, but then, just as Dean starts the engine, Sam turns back to you. Watches you, your eyes meeting over the distance, and then, way too soon, the car is moving away.
You keep standing there until it’s off the parking lot, waiting for a moment for a break in the cars passing and when it does, you finally turn and walk back inside, let the door shut behind you. You grab your phone off the ground where it fell out of your jeans when you discarded them last night, let yourself drop down on the bed.
There’s a message from an old lead, telling you about a potential case two states from here. A friend checking in. Then the phone buzzes and you open the new message from an unknown number.
Took me everything not to walk back in with you standing there like that. Let me know when you’re available. I don’t mind the ride :) S.
You actually laugh before rolling on your side, getting comfortable. You read the message a few more times, eyes going over every single letter, especially the S. at the end. You notice you’re grinning like a fool.
With a sweet giddiness in your chest, you hit Reply and start typing.
(Sam Winchester x female reader x Dean Winchester)
Summary A case leads you to a Supernatural convention. You can't help but tease Sam and Dean about their notoriety, but then it turns out you are in the books, too. And there's some stuff in there you don't want the brothers to know about.
CWs Sexy thoughts but no sexy actions. Supernatural book series. Conventions. Awkwardness. Cheesy book covers. Secret crushes.
Rated Teen. 3.7k words.
AN There's a spiritual, more explicit sequel, Horror is one thing, but being forced to live bad smut? Enjoy! Or cringe. Either is fine. 😄
Sam x reader x Dean masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
“It’s so… lifelike,” you say, moving your head a little so you can see better through the reflection of the glass.
“Very funny,” Sam says, and his voice tells you that he doesn’t think it’s funny in the slightest.
“I mean the hair, the shoulders, the ripped jeans, blood-dripping axe, the…”
You narrow your eyes, trying to see. “Is that a harmonica?” you ask. Sam leans over you, so close you can smell his aftershave.
“I think it’s supposed to be a knife?” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure.
“I think it’s a harmonica,” you say, turning around and he leans back, while he looks at the glass case behind you with pain in his eyes. “I mean you’re famous for your mouth organ skills,” you conclude, grinning proudly at making that sound as dirty as it does.
Sam doesn’t appreciate the joke, his face full of horror while he does the cutest little pout.
“I hate this,” he says, still looking at the book in the case behind you. Supernatural, by Carver Edlund. Whichever volume this is, it has Sam and Dean on the cover in worrying and completely impractical states of undress, fighting hordes of what are meant to be demons but look more like gremlins.
It has been your utmost pleasure in the last fifteen minutes to torture Sam with how he is portrayed on these covers. They’re ludicrous and over-the-top but if anyone could pull off the no shirt, ripped jeans, harmonica playing look it would be Sam. Or Dean.
Speaking of, he walks up in just that moment. “I hate this,” he says, echoing his brother. You don’t. You actually love this.
Sam looks at Dean. “Anything?” he asks. Dean shakes his head.
“I guess Chuck isn’t here so he can’t help us,” the older Winchester replies, and then asks immediately, voice annoyed: “How in the world is this happening again? The second time people are getting attacked by ghosts at a Supernatural convention? How?”
Sam nods, then scans the crowd moving around you in the lobby-turned-fan-shop of the hotel you’re in.
“At least Becky’s not here this time,” he mutters.
“Guys, guys, guys,” you say, raising your hands, “you are looking at this completely the wrong way.”
Both brothers look at you, Sam still like he is about to panic, Dean like he is about to punch someone in the face.
“You guys are legends here,” you tell them. “Rockstars. WWE champions.” The last one you direct at Dean, but the angry look doesn’t leave his face.
“Except nobody knows that we are real,” Sam says, “and no one can know.” You shrug.
“But still,” you say, “don’t you think it’s kind of cool? That all the people here adore you?” Another shrug, and then you add: “At least in theory.”
Sam gives a deep sigh and Dean looks at the book on display behind you.
“Alright,” he says finally, slapping his hands together. “I say we go with journalists. We’re here to cover the convention for a local paper.” Sam nods.
“Sounds good, let’s get going,” he says and starts walking.
Dean hangs back just a second, turns to you. He points at the book cover.
“My hair doesn’t look like this, does it?” he asks, voice lowered. You suppress a grin.
“No, of course not,” you say, giving an assuring nod as you pat him on the shoulder. Dean doesn’t look convinced and then you follow Sam.
Several guests in the hotel have reported sighting of people in their rooms at night, some saying they were flickering, like on an old TV. There’s been cold spots and things moving, but no one’s gotten hurt yet, except for one guy who got freaked out and fell down a few stairs, spraining his ankle.
The only reason you’re even checking it out is because you were just a few towns over, finishing up a case.
When you pulled into the hotel parking lot and saw the banners, Dean nearly turned the Impala around on the spot. It was only after you told him that innocent people might be getting hurt that he begrudgingly parked the car. Sam meanwhile had gone quiet and a little pale.
So often, they’re so similar but so often they’re not.
“It’s easy for you, you know,” Dean is saying to you while you are walking through the lobby, “it’s not like your every thought and private life is just put on display, for everyone to read.”
“Hey!” you say, sounding a little offended. “I must be in there somewhere, right? I’m your trusty sidekick, I don’t at least get a mention?” Sam chuckles a little.
“Probably,” he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Would be weird if you weren’t.” You nod.
“Damn right it would be,” you reply. “It would be downright—”
“Oh my God, you guys look great!” you hear a voice close behind you. All three of you turn around.
There’s a couple standing behind you. He’s got his arm around her shoulder and she has a hand on his chest and is grinning at you, eyes wide. They’re not in costume like the majority of the other convention goers are, but they are merched the hell out. His t-shirt has one of the book covers on it and hers the words Winchester Family Business. It’s actually kind of nice.
“Thanks,” you say instinctively, although you’re not sure why. The guy points at Sam, and goes: “Let me guess, you’re Sam, right?”
You think duh before you understand what he means. He thinks he’s cosplaying as Sam.
Sam takes a second to get it as well. “Uh yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
“Makes sense because of the height,” the girlfriend says, “but I think you’d be a better Castiel, looks-wise.”
You look at Sam just to see an entire identity crisis go over his face.
“And you,” she says, looking at Dean now. “You look great!” Her boyfriend nods. “Real strong on the whole Dean vibe.”
Dean actually looks flattered and you make sure you remember to tease him about that later.
“But,” the girlfriend says, and then her eyes land on you and you panic for a second. She shakes her head appreciatively. “You know a lot of people don’t manage to pull it off, but you’re rocking it.”
“Rocking…it?” you ask, feeling your mouth go dry.
“Yeah!” she says, her face excited and she says your name. When she sees that you’re not picking up what she’s putting down, she waves her hand, gesticulating towards you. “I mean you got her down perfectly. The hair, the outfit, the devil-may-care attitude while still being a little cutie.”
And yeah, okay, it is flattering, so you can’t really blame Dean, especially not when the guy says: “Like Faith and Buffy had a kick-ass baby! Basically the perfect woman!”
His girlfriend pokes her finger into his side, but she’s laughing. You shrug, the comparison definitely getting to you.
“I’ve often thought so,” you say. The girlfriend squeals. “That’s totally something she would say!” Looks like your character work is on point.
Of course Sam has to ruin the rainfall of compliments. “We’re actually here from a local paper,” he’s saying, and if there was a subtle way to throw him an annoyed look you would do it. “Anything… unusual happen since you guys have gotten here?” The couple look at each other.
“Not really,” she says, “but we only got here this morning. We couldn’t get time off work earlier.” So they probably can’t tell you anything regarding the sightings.
“Thanks anyway,” Dean says, and you’re about to turn away, when the woman says: “It’s a fun idea, by the way, going as the love triangle. Just makes sense.”
You freeze and you’re pretty sure so do Sam and Dean.
“The love what now?” you say after a second.
“Love triangle?” she confirms, looking at you. When she sees the clueless look on your face, she puts her hand over her mouth.
“Oh crap,” she says, “are you not that far in the books?” Then she’s motioning towards her boyfriend’s shirt. He pulls the strap of his bag away so that you can see better as you take a step closer to him.
Like you already saw earlier it’s one of the book covers, the number telling you it’s a recent one. It has Sam and Dean on it, again, half-naked, looking like they work for Rent-a-Highlander. But there’s a third figure on the cover. You step even closer to see.
It’s a woman. She’s wearing a red, skin-tight dress that’s flayed in places and has a sword in her hand. She’s also leaning her back against one of the guys, the one who’s supposed to be Sam, long hair blowing in the wind, his hand on her hip and his sculpted chest pressed against her back, while the other guy, who’s supposed to be Dean, ripped shirt barely covering anything, is facing her, cupping her chin.
Your eyes go wide. “Oh. My. God.”
“Oh my God,” you say, again.
You can’t stop saying it, as the three of you weave your way through the crowd, Sam leading since he can see best where you’re going.
You say it again because what you just saw isn’t sinking in.
“What’s the matter?” Dean says behind you, snarkiness in his voice. “Isn't it nice to be adored?”
You whip around to throw him an angry look and promptly walk into Sam’s back, since he’s stopped. You almost jump back. Any kind of physical contact seems loaded right now.
“Let’s go over here,” Sam says, pointing to a seating group in a quiet corner. When you reach it, you plop down in one of the chairs. You’re tempted to say oh my God again but luckily Sam starts talking first. “Okay, we gotta find some people who have encountered the ghosts, assuming it is ghosts.”
He’s purposefully not looking at you, instead scanning the room. “Maybe we should split up, meet up again in an hour and see what we found.”
Okay, so he is just completely ignoring this. Very Sam. Dean, on the other hand, is not.
“That dress would just be so unpractical,” he says, apropos of nothing. “But damn, it was ripped in all the right places.” You look at him, eyes wide as saucers.
“Seriously?” you hiss at him.
“What?” he says, raising his hands. “You’ve been making fun of us from the moment we got here. I can’t do the same?”
You’re lost for words because as uncomfortable as it is, he’s not totally wrong. You’re kind of reaping what you sowed. You make a secret vow to yourself to never, ever do any sowing again.
“Guys!” Sam says, making you and Dean look at him. “Focus?” You shake your head. “Yes, you’re right. Ghosts. Hauntings. Work.” Then you take a deep breath.
You can’t get that cover out of your head. It’s so cheesy, over the top. Silly. But damn it if the idea of being between Sam and Dean like that isn’t making you feel some things. Clearing your throat, you bring yourself back to reality.
“Maybe splitting up is a good idea. And like you said, we meet back here in an hour and compare notes,” you say. Sam nods.
“Okay,” he says and then he is walking away. No see you later, no good luck. He is just walking off. What the hell?
You look back at Dean and you are about 99% sure you catch him looking at your boobs.
“I really hope you’re not imagining that dress on me, Dean Winchester,” you say, and Dean makes a face that tells you that is exactly what he was doing.
You huff, then get up and walk away too.
Love triangle is ridiculous.
For a love triangle to happen, there would need to be flirting. Maybe kissing. There hasn’t been.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
Flirting with Dean is easy and you slip into it all the time. Sometimes it’s just teasing, but other times…
Other times it takes on a different quality. Dean looks into your eyes a second longer than he needs to, until you feel your breathing getting a little heavier. He checks you out and compliments you but some of his compliments are so specific, so genuine that it flusters you.
Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t flirt with you at all, but then you don’t know what it would look like for Sam to flirt. Instead, he does small things he doesn’t need to do, pays attention to things that would escape anyone else's notice. He helps you take off your jacket when you’re hurt and can’t move your arms or shoulders so well, his fingers grazing your skin lightly, making it feel like they’re shooting off electricity. He stands close to you, closer than he needs to, so that you brush up against him when you move.
But love triangle? you think, as you’re talking to the third group of people that hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Love triangle is just ridiculous.
The group you’re talking to is two young women and a guy. They’re nice and are happy to talk to you, but no ghost sightings.
Ironically, one of them is dressed as a ghost. “Old Halloween costume,” she grins when you complimented her on it.
You’re chatting about the convention and that everyone’s waiting for a new book to come out, while you hold a little pad and a pen in your hands, to look all journalist-y. They’re talking passionately amongst themselves about where the story is going. You can’t help yourself – you have to ask.
“So what do you guys think about the love triangle?” you ask, trying to act as unaffected as possibly.
“I know some people don’t like it,” the girl dressed as a ghost says, “but I love it.”
The guy, dark hair and glasses, nods. “Yeah,” he says, “I think she’s a great addition to the story. I mean, no offense, I like the old books too, but geez, I think we all had enough of that sausage fest.”
The second girl, short bob and freckles, laughs. “There’s only so many scenes you can have with the brothers miscommunicating while they are in emotional turmoil. These books need some sex!”
You all laugh. The books aren’t the only ones, you think.
“Plus,” ghost girl says, pointedly looking at you, “she is super hot. Have you seen those covers?”
You remember the cover, of course, remember the way Sam was grabbing your hip and Dean tilting up your face. Well, not your face, not your hip.
Whatever. This is confusing.
“But isn’t it awkward?” you ask, still not able to stop yourself. “I mean someone’s bound to get hurt, right?”
Freckles shrugs. “Maybe,” she says, “I just hope she ends up with Sam. I mean, Jesus, he’s so controlled and then there’s that scene where he thinks about what he wants to do to her? How he just wants to let his control slip, press her against the wall and make her his?”
You swallow, just as Freckles makes a head-exploding-sound. “Too hot.”
“I don’t know,” Glasses says. “I like her with Dean.”
“Dean’s too much of a playboy,” Freckles interrupts him. “He’ll never settle down.”
“That’s what makes it so romantic,” Glasses responds, leaning forward. “He’s never been in love and then he meets her and he can’t have her? Duuude.”
He sighs, then grins, before he adds: “Plus you know he must be a beast in bed.”
Laughs all around again while you pretend that you are totally fine and not turning into molten lava. To distract, you turn to ghost girl.
“Who do you think she should end up with?” you ask. Ghost girl shrugs.
“Why pick one?” she says. “She should just take both. She fantasizes about it, after all.”
You just have enough time to think holy crap, your spank bank material is in these books, when you hear Dean behind you: “Who fantasizes about what?”
You whip around, and Sam and Dean are standing right behind you.
“Nothing,” you say immediately. You turn back to the group.
“Thank you,” you say, raising your note pad that you have written absolutely nothing into. “I appreciate you talking to me.” The wave at you and then you get up.
“Anything?” you ask Sam and Dean in a low voice, hoping they won’t ask what you were talking about.
“I think I got something,” Sam says. He fills you both in: the people who have notices the cold spots are all on the same floor. So that’s where you go.
The hallways of the hotel are abandoned since everyone is downstairs at the convention. There’s no sign of any ghostly activity, at least not until you walk ahead, scanning the hallway in front of you, and suddenly Sam says your name and you feel his hand wrap around your arm.
He pulls you back and you just see a presence appear in the exact spot where you were standing a second ago. It shrieks and then disappears.
It would be scary but you are very much distracted by the fact that when Sam pulled you back he pulled you towards the wall and you are now between it and him, his heaving chest at the surprise right in front of you.
How he just wants to let his control slip, press her against the wall and make her his.
You need to take a deep breath. Sam looks down at you, his big hand still around your arm.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Mmh hmm,” you reply, since words are hard.
“That wasn’t a ghost,” Dean says, stepping closer to you two. Sam turns to him and lets go of your arm.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“Death echo,” you just manage to mutter. They both look at you.
“It was quick but I think I saw a gunshot wound,” you add, sort of proud of how steady your voice sounds now that you're saying more than two syllables. “If it was a ghost it would have attacked me. I mean, I basically walked through it.” Sam nods, thinking.
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Dean nods as well, looks at you. “Smart. That’s our girl.”
He must be a beast in bed.
And yeah, your voice probably wouldn’t be so steady after he says that, so you decide to just smile and nod.
“Death echoes are harmless, right?” Dean asks, turning to Sam. His little brother nods. “They are. They can be reminded that they’re dead, but it usually just works if someone they have a connection to does it.” You swallow to steady yourself.
“I think I might have an idea,” you say.
It's a minor spell that you learned years ago. The ingredients are basic and easy to get, and Sam says the incantation while Dean draws the pentagram on the wallpaper in the hallway.
“They’ll just think it was some fans,” he shrugs at you.
The death echo makes another appearance and the spell helps to remind it of its death. The spirit passes on, the cold spots disappear and it’s another day of work well done.
You’re almost sad to leave because the people you were talking to were nicer than the folk you run into on your normal cases.
But you’re also glad to be getting out of there. You don’t need anymore reminders of how hopeless and complicated your crushes on the two brothers are, and you certainly don’t need any more sexy ideas put in your head.
You climb into the back of the Impala, sitting in the middle, while Sam and Dean get into the front. A big sigh leaves you involuntarily.
You gotta put this behind you. Nothing good lies that way.
You notice then that Dean hasn’t started the car, so you look up, and you see both of them looking back at you.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
“Look,” Sam says, sounding a little uncomfortable, “do we need to talk?” At your wide eyed stare, he adds: “About the love triangle thing?”
Oh God, you cannot even express how much you do not want to talk about that. So you decide to just lie.
“It’s just part of the book,” you say, doing your best to sound convincing. “I mean I know Chuck’s a prophet and all, but come on, he must have made some stuff up, you know? Besides, sex sells! Everyone knows that.”
Sam nods, but Dean doesn’t drop it.
“Right,” he says, and then sort of looks down, you don’t know at what, “so you’ve never dreamed of two pairs of strong, calloused hands running over your body, exploring every inch of you, making you feel small and desired?”
Your eyes go even wider, if such a thing is possible, because, yes, absolutely you have, but how in the world does Dean know that?
“Or,” Sam adds, suddenly not so awkward-looking anymore. He reaches his hand and Dean hands him whatever he’s been holding. Sam brings it up over the seat where you can see it, and it’s an edition of the book that has the three of you on the cover.
Sam reads from it, eyebrows raised. “Or lying between two big, solid bodies while their practiced mouths make you shudder in ecstacy, screaming your lust to the heavens as their manhoods undo you again and again?”
Dean guffaws.
“Damn,” he says, “you have a dirty mind.”
He turns and starts the engine, music blaring from the stereo.
You slip lower in your seat, your hands going over your face, hoping the earth will simply open up and swallow you down as the car starts moving.
“This can’t be happening,” you mutter.
You peek between your fingers and Dean is drumming on the steering wheel, while Sam grins at you.
“Pretty hot,” he says, and then turns forward as well.
→ honestly, i think sam would react in two ways. the first being "ouch, that must've hurt," and then "actually... that's really hot". i think sam initially wouldn't really care for piercings but if someone came along that had nipple piercings, he wouldn't be able to look away after seeing them peeking through your shirt. his imagination would go wild even without looking at you.
if you were to tell him you had them done, the first thing he'd do is wince. he'd then ask if it hurt. he'd definitely pretend like he's not already noticed, though. the pink in his cheeks always give him away.
It’s not something you plan to reveal.
Not because you’re ashamed, but because it’s yours. A small, quiet piece of yourself that you’ve never really felt the need to announce. Sam’s seen you bruised, bloodied, exhausted beyond reason… but this? It feels different. Softer. Stranger.
It happens on accident.
You’re in his room, half-dressed, digging through one of his drawers because he swears he has a spare shirt in there somewhere. He’s pacing behind you, rambling about lore, about symbols, about anything but the way the tension in the room has been building for weeks now.
“Check the top drawer,” he says, distracted.
You do—and your shirt rides up just slightly when you reach.
There’s a pause.
Not the kind where Sam’s thinking. Not the kind where he’s connecting dots. There's stillness. The kind that makes your skin prickle.
You turn your head. “Sam?”
He’s frozen.
His eyes flick up to yours almost immediately, like he’s trying to be respectful, but there’s something there—something warm and curious, and maybe just a little bit undone.
“I—uh,” he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
“You didn’t,” you say, even though he definitely did.
Another beat passes. He looks like he wants to say something, and for once, Sam Winchester is struggling to find the words.
“They’re—” he starts, then stops himself, cheeks flushing faintly. “I didn’t know.”
You shrug, suddenly very aware of yourself. “Yeah. It’s not exactly hunt conversation material.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes him at that, easing the tension just a little. He steps closer—not crowding you, just… there. Grounding.
“Does it hurt?” he asks quietly, and the question is so Sam it almost makes you smile.
“It did,” you admit. “Not anymore.”
He nods, like he’s filing that away, like it matters.
His gaze flickers again. Appreciative, in a way that feels almost reverent.
“They suit you,” he says finally, voice low. The words settle over you, warm and unexpected. “Yeah?” you tease, trying to lighten the moment.
“Yeah,” he repeats, flustered, but more certain this time. “I mean—it’s you. It fits.”
There’s something in the way he says it. About you. About how he sees you—every version, every detail—and never once looks away.
Your heart stutters.
“Good to know,” you murmur.
𓆩♡𓆪 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒄𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒕,,
→ i don't think cas would really understand the appeal. he knows it's a sensitive area (obviously due to knowing how humanity and the body is made), but just wouldn't get it. he does understand the appeal to change how you look, whether it's through changing your style or dying your hair. or in this case, getting piercings. it doesn't matter how you look to him, it's how much you should appreciate yourself and love yourself for how you were made. you're really just enhancing your body. though you can't expect much reaction from him, as your partner he'd know how much you love it when he admires them.
i do think that once he sees them through your clothing, he'd feel a rush of something like adrenaline go straight to his head that shows him why there's an appeal, especially if he can't look away.
Castiel notices everything.
That’s what makes this tricky.
You’ve been together long enough to know he doesn’t miss details—not in the way humans do. He catalogs things. Observes. Learns. And yet somehow, this has gone unnoticed… or at least, unmentioned.
Until now.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, changing after a hunt, too tired to think about modesty. He’s behind you, speaking—something about a case, about angels, about things far bigger than the two of you.
And then he stops mid-sentence.
“…I was under the impression that—”
Silence.
You glance over your shoulder. “Cas?”
He’s looking at you.
He's completely focused, head tilted slightly, like he’s encountering something new and trying to understand it. His gaze flickers, precise and unblinking, before returning to your face.
“You have altered your body,” he says.
You blink. “That’s one way to put it.”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like approaching something fragile.
“May I ask why?” he continues, voice softer now out of curiousity.
You shrug lightly. “I wanted to. I like them.”
He considers that. You can practically see the gears turning, the way he processes human choice, autonomy, identity.
“I see,” he says after a moment.
Another pause.
“They are… symmetrical,” he adds.
You stare at him. And then you laugh—because of course that’s what he notices first.
“Cas,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s your takeaway?”
“I am still learning what aspects humans find significant,” he replies earnestly. Then, quieter, “But I believe this is one of them.”
Something in his tone shifts—subtle, but there. Less analytical.
His hand lifts, hesitating in the air between you, giving you time to stop him if you want to.
You don’t.
His fingers brush your arm instead—light, grounding, respectful. He doesn’t cross any lines.
“They're important to you,” he says, more certain now.
“Yeah,” you nod. “They are.”
He studies your face, not your body this time, and something softens in his expression.
“Then they are important to me as well.”
“You’re staring again,” you point out gently.
“I am observing,” he corrects.
You raise an eyebrow.
A beat.
“…I may also be staring,” he admits.
You laugh again, softer this time.
“Good to know.”
He inclines his head, like he’s just learned something valuable.
And later, when he wraps his coat around your shoulders without being asked, when his hand lingers just a second longer than necessary—
You realise something.
Castiel doesn’t react the way humans do.
He doesn’t get flustered or shy or bold.
He accepts you.
Every detail. Every choice. Every piece of you.
SUMMARY: Cursed objects are always pesky little things, unpredictable and dangerous. But coming across a very powerful aphrodisiacal piece of jewelry while you're actively struggling with your unrequired feelings for dean might just be the worst experience so far.
WARNINGS: okay here we go. porn with plot. pining. light angst. fluff. self-esteem issues. reader is in katniss everdeen's level on misunderstanding signals. shameless smut. sex pollen (kinda). multiple orgasms. masturbation. oral sex. fingerfucking. unprotected piv. creampie. shifting dynamics. blood kink (subtle and not so subtle). light choking. lots of spit. im sorry. love confessions. fluffy ending. that might be all.
𓏲ּ𝄢 PLAYLIST 𓏲ּ𝄢
“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”
“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it.
“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”
“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”
Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse.
Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this.
You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town.
You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead.
Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.
But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square.
You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.
When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened.
“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”
You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after.
You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.
“So, are we thinking witch?”
You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip.
Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—
You needed to focus.
“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”
Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”
You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on.
The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.
Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.
All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder.
Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound.
Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him.
It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice.
Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet.
You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness.
You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity.
Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place.
You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room.
“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground.
There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches.
Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.
“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”
The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks.
“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic.
You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?
“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”
You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper.
Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy.
He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling.
You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky.
The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.
You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed.
Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one.
One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one.
You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away.
It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be.
It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy.
You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.
Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.
You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.
The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close.
His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut.
His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny.
He looks like Dean.
The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels.
Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.
“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”
You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty.
“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns.
“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”
“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”
“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”
He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust.
“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”
“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”
You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”
Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess.
“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.
No, I don’t. Not really.
You’re glad when Sam chimes in.
“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”
Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life.
“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”
With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.
When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close.
“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.
“De—”
“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”
You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.
You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”
Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now.
Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.
Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.
“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam.
He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place.
You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.
Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light.
It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.
Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.
Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders.
You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.
“Guys, I think I found something.”
Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other.
There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer.
The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials.
And the hexbags.
“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”
“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”
All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion.
Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.
Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid.
He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones.
He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless.
The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.
It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.
“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.
You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt.
Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises.
Of course, someone like that could not be human.
His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you.
“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”
You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis.
Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face.
That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either.
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist.
“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”
Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.
“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”
The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit.
Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.
“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”
“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun.
“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”
He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur.
“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.
It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire.
“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.
“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times.
You hope he’s not getting a hard-on.
“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.
“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”
You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.
“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”
Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time.
“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”
“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you?
“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”
“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.”
Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close.
“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”
His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one.
“But you already are, aren’t you?”
You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces.
“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”
“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”
Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act.
You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.
“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”
Shit.
Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse.
Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.
“What did you do?” Dean snarls.
When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate.
“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”
Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.
You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying.
“—me! I took it! Kill me!”
Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back.
“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”
“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”
You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed.
Disgusting, from the very start.
“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—”
Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.
“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”
“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”
“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”
Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over.
“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”
It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure.
The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before.
“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”
“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before.
Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry?
They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.
“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.
A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”
Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull.
“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”
With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches.
Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh.
“...we gonna do?”
“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”
“...don’t know w…”
“...research in the car. Come on.”
Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories.
Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal.
“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”
You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you.
It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.
Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.
You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get.
Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you.
“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”
“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”
He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe.
For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.
Shut the fuck up.
Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.
The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.
“Sam.”
Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now.
Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—
“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”
“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.
“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”
“But—”
Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Just like that, you’re plummeting.
The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain.
Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.
Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.
“You told me to let her go!”
“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”
The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately.
You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.
You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well.
Divinely, intrinsically sick.
Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body.
Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air.
The wave has passed.
“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”
You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame.
“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”
Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse.
Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little.
Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car.
“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
The car ride is hellish.
You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones.
It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police.
But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.
“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”
You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement.
You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again.
Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.
How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.
I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.
The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?
“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”
Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.
Dean.
Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.
Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.
Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands.
It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs.
The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.
Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh.
He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.
When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.
The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline.
Finally, you have your first orgasm.
There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.
All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.
The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium.
This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive.
Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?
Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”
“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”
“...We can come back later.”
“No, No.”
You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.
“Come in, it’s okay.”
You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.
The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off.
“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”
You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”
Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag.
The bliss starts to turn into tar.
“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.
“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously.
“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”
“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”
“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”
“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”
You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”
“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”
Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him.
Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.
Sam whispers your name, you shake your head.
“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.”
Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick.
Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this, for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good.
He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.
You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.
By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.
Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
You haven’t seen Dean in a day.
The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours.
Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter.
It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.
But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.
You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back.
Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.
Not too soon after that, the fantasies started.
Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat.
You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down.
Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.
But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head.
It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind.
But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast.
After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.
Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much.
He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body.
You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.
You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.
You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.
Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing.
After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society.
You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.
You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.
You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.
“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“You’re what?”
You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.
You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all.
They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.
“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”
“The fuck you are!”
That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.
“Excuse me?”
Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”
You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you.
“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him.
How fucking dare he.
“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”
“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”
Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.
“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”
It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.
“That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”
“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”
“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.
“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”
The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”
You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete.
But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.
“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”
Oh.
You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.
Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong.
You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.
“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”
Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl.
“Guys—”
“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.
“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”
To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve.
“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”
Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs.
It doesn’t help how infuriated you are.
“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut.
“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”
A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal.
It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.
“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”
You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—
Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.
But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—
White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead.
It’s Dean, finally.
You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.
It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs.
When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support.
Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere.
“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”
Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now.
Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.
“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you.
You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”
With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips.
His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around.
“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”
You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.
Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take.
Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”
You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere.
“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”
A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”
Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.
You’ll be okay?
Probably not.
Sam chuckles, shaking his head.
I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.
With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.
“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?
“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”
So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.
“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”
It hits completely different now.
“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white.
He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm.
“You know damn well.”
“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”
“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”
A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream.
“But you never look at me?”
“What?”
“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”
“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”
With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips.
But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony.
“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”
“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”
“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”
“Stop it. Now.”
You can’t.
“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”
Your name, again, imploring.
“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”
Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did.
“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”
You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you.
It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.
You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder.
“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”
He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.
“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”
He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.
“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”
“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement.
His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it.
“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”
You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.
But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.
All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction.
“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”
You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more.
“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”
You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.
“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”
Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.
“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”
A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there.
“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”
“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”
Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse.
Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang.
The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release.
He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.
You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him.
He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride.
“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”
Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”
“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."
“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”
That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside.
“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”
With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders.
“Dean! What are you—”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”
It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.
You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex.
“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”
“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”
“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”
You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”
“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”
He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead.
All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge.
“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”
You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.
“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”
“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”
“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.
“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”
“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”
That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.
“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”
“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”
“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”
“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”
“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”
With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.
He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.
Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you.
His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes.
“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”
When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.
You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.
“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”
“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy.
“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”
“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”
Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful.
“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”
“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”
“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.
“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”
Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust.
You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.
“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”
Oh, he has no idea.
His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.
They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.
“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”
He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body.
“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”
“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”
Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.
“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”
You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar.
“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”
Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.
“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”
You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.
It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.
“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”
It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.
The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure.
You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face.
You bite down on it, hard.
Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering.
“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”
You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm.
The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage.
For a second, they’re all one and the same.
You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.
“...love you, love you, love you, love you.”
You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.
“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”
There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here.
“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”
He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls.
“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”
He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy.
It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.
You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.
“Repeat it.”
Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.
Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze.
“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”
His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints.
You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless.
It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s.
“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”
“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe.
“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”
Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”
Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open.
“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”
With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate.
You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal.
You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.
“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.
You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”
“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.
“I love you, you fucking dork.”
Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.
You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, you were perfect.”
You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well.
Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours.
“Did I—?”
“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”
Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”
You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.
“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”
You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours.
“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”
“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”
You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
But then, it dawns on you.
“The cuff!”
You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull.
With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck.
“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”
This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore.
Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.
You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.
“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction.
As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.
Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open.
Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”
“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”
“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”
Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.
“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”
Someone knocks on the door, loudly.
“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”
Shuffling, prolonged and awkward.
“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”
Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart.
“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”
You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.
“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”
“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”
NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.
it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.
anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!
𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: pining, forced proximity/one bed trope, sexsomnia, friends to ???, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), munch!sam, is this exhibitionism?
➶ summary: sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.
➶ word count: how long is a piece of string? 5.1k words apparently...
quick note: inspired by one of my fav fics ever by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (please go read it and their other work!!!) - genuinely think about it daily…
┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆
Road tripping is simultaneously your favourite and least favourite thing to do with the Winchester brothers.
When a hunt takes you far away from the bunker - where there’s nothing but forest after forest or field after field, town after town, and stateline after stateline - you feel most at home when you’re on the road in the four walls of that sleek and purring black metal machine that etches memories onto your body like you’re a vinyl record. Blaring rock ’n’ roll music (and the occasional pop tune, but Dean will deny it despite him tapping along on the steering wheel) down the highway, bickering on acceptable answers for a game of ‘I spy’, and a never-ending mixture of sweet and savoury treats keeps the three of you going for hours. Sometimes, you’d wish the hunt would never end.
The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, sometimes make you wish that God would come down and smite you himself.
If you’re lucky enough, the three of you secure two separate hotel rooms where everyone gets their own bed to sprawl out in.
On those other days where you’re not so lucky, though, the sight of only one set of keys dangling in Sam’s hand and his tight-mouthed look as he leaves the reception makes you and Dean both groan and roll your eyes.
In this event, the brothers would both insist that a lady “even one as rough as yourself” was never to take the floor and had to take one of the two beds, while they rock-paper-scissored each other on who took the couch (if that was even an option). Dean usually drew the short straw…
Although you appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed regardless of the groaning noises the old mattresses would make under the tiniest amount of weight, or how musty and thin the bedspread was, the squabbling and sardonic chivalrousness of the brothers really started to grind your gears. After a couple months of this set-up, and a few sore backs later, your frustration peaked and you snapped at how ridiculous and stubborn they were being.
Now, a single-motel-room-stay means you rotate between who you share one of the two beds with because you’re smaller than the two 6-foot giants to hunt with, and the easiest to sleep next to. Lucky you.
A road trip hunt with a Dean-bedshare means headphones or heavy sleeping pills are a must - that man snores like his life depends on it. Whilst you’ll never be cold in a bed with that human radiator, he does also love to starfish, which means space is a bit of luxury.
Sam gets nervous when it’s his nights.
He knows this sleeping arrangement is less than optimal for you, especially when you’re with Sam because he’s just so big, and you’re just putting up with it because you care about both of them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make sure you’re as comfortable as you can possibly be.
When he knows it’s his rotation, Sam replicates the bed positioning in your room at the bunker by pushing the motel bed into the corner of the room furthest away from the door so that you can be against the wall, where you feel safest. A present (read: security blanket) from being a hunter for so many years.
So after Baby pulls into this cross-country hunt’s motel carpark just before midnight, a late spring heat still simmering in the air, and Sam returns with only a single set of keys, he knows this week is going to be difficult - it’s his turn with you.
Sam’s had a crush on you from the moment you fired a shotgun shell filled with salt past his head at a particularly nasty demon who had him in a chokehold one squeeze away from death. But he’s loved you since the night you cried into his shoulder after you’d lost an entire family to a Wendigo eight months ago. He’d rubbed your back in soothing circles to calm you down, burying his nose into your hair and whispering it’s okay repeatedly. He could never turn back from that night.
The ceiling fan whirs quietly above, the wind current soft in the room. Sam is stripped down into a white singlet and black sleep shorts on the bed’s left side, the top sheet covering his legs as he lies with his back propped up by a pillow against the motel wall. The bedside table lamp to Sam’s left colours his body in a faint yellow and orange so that he can read while he waits for you.
He’s moved the bed already, now tucked under a large window where silvery clouds glow outside in the sky.
He tries to act nonchalant when you open the bathroom door and step out into the shared room, a light baggy shirt sitting half-off your shoulder that finishes just above where your sleep shorts end. He tries not to gawk at your exposed thighs, hunching his shoulders and dipping his head down to stare at the book in his hands to distract himself.
The bottom of the bed dips on its right side by the wall as you sit to watch the crappy soap opera on the TV. Sam slightly lowers his book to peek at you as you mindlessly plait your hair at the edge of the bed. He admires how soft you look. If he had the guts, he’d crawl behind you, kiss your shoulder, and do your hair himself. He’s watched you enough times to know how to do it, but most importantly, how you like it done.
Dean’s already called it a night. His snores not quite drowned out by the TV.
“Do you want me to keep the TV on?”, you call to Sam as you tie off your plait, still facing the TV.
“Uh, no,” he replies softly, “not unless you need it to fall asleep?”
“No, I’ll be okay.” You half turn your body to smile at him, before putting out your hand for Sam to pass you the remote. His heart stammers as you make eye contact.
Sam’s noticed you only really have the TV on during the night when you’re sharing a bed with Dean. He’s not quite sure what that means, yet.
He rests his book on his lap to grab the remote and leans forward to hand it to you. He thinks about spreading his fingers across the remote so that your fingers graze his as you take it, but decides against this. The TV clicks off.
Sam watches as you climb up the bed and pulls the sheet back for you to hop under. Although you make him nervous, he wishes he could do this every night.
You settle in the bed - Sam bookmarking his current page and placing it on the bedside table before turning the lamp off. He shuffles down the bed and rolls onto his right shoulder so that he’s facing you at eye level.
You both stare at each other, silently and serenely. Your face is laying against your pillow, the top of your right hand resting in your left palm just under your jaw. Moonlight caresses the right side of your body and Sam thinks you’re glowing; angelic. He worries you’ll hear his heart beat thundering in his chest if you listen into the mattress carefully enough.
A couple inches separate your bodies - perhaps three-hands-wide. It’s an acceptable amount of space for two close friends, but that boundary could easily and quickly be crossed. A small shift forward by your hands, your legs, or your face is all it would take.
A particularly loud snore leaves Dean’s chest, making both of you quietly giggle.
“God, he’s so loud”, Sam groans.
“I know. I think he could take on a lawn mower with that snore”, you chuckle.
“Maybe even a Boeing 747.” You snort at that. Sam’s heart leaps at making you laugh.
You both chat for a bit about the day, as well as life in general - a key element to your routine when sharing a bed with Sam. Every feature of your face is lit so sweetly. He can see how your nose scrunches and your eyelashes flutter when you passionately talk about something you like. Sam knows that when you fall asleep later, he’ll sneakily admire your face in its unguarded state, with the soft beautiful noises that fall from your lips when you’re deep in sleep. He thinks that might be his favourite view.
“Goodnight, Sammy.” You smile softly at him.
Sam returns your comment, his voice dropping to a whisper as he says your name.
You nestle in the bed to get yourself comfortable for sleep, before closing your eyes. A small sigh leaves your nose.
Sam looks down at the blanketed curve of your waist. It moves gently with the rise and fall of your quiet breaths. You were so close to him that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. He really wanted to.
With his index finger, Sam traces the dips of your body along the mattress in the small space between you both. His eyes close briefly as he imagines how you’d feel against his fingertips. He does sort of know how it would feel, though - he’s grabbed your arm and your waist when you’ve slipped in front of him; he’s held your hand when he’s pulled you up onto a wall you’re too short to climb; and he’s felt you shoulder to shoulder and back to chest when hiding from some monster hunting you. Sam just wishes he could touch you in a way other than a friend does… Like a lover would…
His eyes drift open and they return to your face. When they reach your eyes, he realises you’re staring right back at him. He freezes.
“Hi,” you whisper sweetly, shifting your head a little, “can’t sleep?”
Sam’s not sure how to react. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights. How long have you been awake? Did you notice him looking at you? Could you see that it was a look of more than a friend? Of someone who longed badly to reach out and touch you?
He shakes his head timidly against his pillow at your question. Sam is suddenly aware of the heat from your body. He himself feels like a nuclear bomb about to self-destruct. “I think it’s the heat.”
You hum. “I’d offer to turn up the fan, but I think it only has one speed.”
There’s a beat of silence. “How about we take the sheet off, Sammy?”
The way you say his name makes his stomach flip. He doesn’t have time to react as you sit up on your left arm and lean over him to rip the sheet off, your breasts pressing briefly across his chest. Sam’s nostrils flare and he takes a big swallow, his throat bobbing noticeably. He tries to stifle a groan and not think about it.
When you lie back down, you’re closer to Sam than before. Maybe one-and-a-half-hands-wide separate you now. “That better?”, you ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes. God, you’re so close to him. He can smell the faint remains of your perfume from the day. It sends a rush through his body and warms his chest.
Sam notices your eyes glide over his face, stopping for a moment on his lips. A gentle smile appears on your face, then your eyes return to his. Sam feels his cheeks redden, his breathing quickening and lips parting. He can’t tell if he wants you to keep looking at him like that or if he wants to bury his face in the sheets.
You shuffle a few centimetres closer, your lips also parting. Your eyes are locked with his. “Good.”You reach out and squeeze his left bicep. He tenses, waiting for your soft, warm hand to return to your side. But it doesn’t. It just sits there on his skin. His eyes snap down to look at your small hand on him. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and looks back at you.
He swears he sees a glint in your eyes, something with a suffocating heat simmering behind it, that is asking him to touch you. He tries to pass it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then your hand starts to rub tenderly up and down his arm. You’ve never touched him like this before. It’s simultaneously calming yet maddening. It ignites the nerves under his skin with each slide.
You both sit in silence for a minute.
But Sam’s mind is racing. Is this really happening? He hears your breathing speed up. Do you actually want me the way I want you? Your hand pauses on his arm. Keep touching me. He sees you looking at your hand, beginning to move it back to your side. No. Don’t take your hand away, please.
Sam swallows again, thinks fuck it, and finally gets the courage to touch you. He tries to be slow and tender, but he moves too fast, grabbing your wrist hanging midair between your bodies. It makes you take a sharp inhale at the sudden contact.
He goes to speak, but words fail him. Jesus, fuck. He blinks a little stupidly, adjusting his grip to be softer, then slides his hand up your arm to your elbow. He briefly stops, inhales, then moves his hand to rest down on your waist.
He’ll hit his head against a wall if he lets this moment pass.
Sam’s hand falls on the band of your sleep shorts, a small section of your skin is exposed where your shirt has ridden up. He echoes your movements on his arm ever so slowly. You let out a small sigh. Or was it a little moan? His hand flexes.
Your legs move first, finding his knees to press yours against; followed by your hips, so close that he knows a roll of yours or his hips would cross that boundary of friendship forever; your chest, maybe a finger apart; and then your face.
You tilt your head up slightly, your nose brushing his. Your lips are so close to his that your next breath out ghosts his mouth. He can smell your toothpaste, now. A growing heat blooms in his groin.
That beat of silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s heavier. Sam’s ears burn - a mixture of love, need, admiration, and hunger. Another beat passes. The low whirring of the ceiling fan blows the electric current running between both of you.
You lift your hand to cup the left side of Sam’s face. Your thumb strokes once against his jaw. His eyelids flutter. Sam’s fighting the urge so hard to not just grab your hair and smash your face into his.
“I dream about you touching me, Sammy”. The words fall so effortlessly from your mouth Sam thinks he misheard you. Then you lean in.
A very quiet whimper escapes his throat as your lips carefully meet his. It’s warm, sweet, fearful, relieving.
Fuck.
Sam can feel you humming faintly against his lips. Fuck fuck.
Your fingers, stilled on his face, slide to the back of his head to bury themselves in his soft brown hair. At first, they curl gently, tenderly rubbing his head. Then you tug - not hard - just enough to bring him in deeper to the kiss, to tell him you want more. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Sammy,” you breathe against his lips, eyes hooded. His hand on your waist is heavier. His touch turns to a grip. He can feel the goosebumps rising on your skin.
The gap between your bodies closes as you roll your hips into him, he groans into your mouth, his brow scrunching. Sam can’t ignore your breasts pressed against his chest, now. And you can’t ignore his thick and hard cock nudging your core.
Both you and Sam have clearly forgotten about Dean in the next bed over, snoring lightly. Or maybe neither of you care. But who can blame you, you have more pressing matters at hand.
Your hand is still buried in Sam’s hair, tugging more frantically now. Sam’s right arm moves from underneath him to grab the side of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer. He can feel your pulse thudding in his hand. It’s as quick as his deafening his ears.
This is it, Sam thinks. Don’t fuck it up.
Sam’s nerves dissipate for a second as he rolls on top of you. The kiss changes. The sweetness and uncertainty still lingers, but it’s shifting into something more messy, more sure, more desperate. His legs bracket yours; his left pressed firm between your thighs and his right on the outer side of your left.
Your left hand replaces your right in his hair as you move it to Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his flexing muscles as Sam’s left hand starts kneading the flesh of your waist. His thumb is rubbing deeply into the side of your navel.
He doesn’t ever want to stop touching you.
Both of you are panting into each other’s mouths. Each kiss is searing, your teeth nipping his lips. Your bodies meet with every roll, stroking the fire blazing between you. When Sam delivers a particularly deep grind into your hips and core that makes you gasp, your back arches. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip in the next kiss.
Sam pulls back, just a little, his forehand dropping to yours. Your chests are both heaving. “You are so beautiful.”
It makes you roll your eyes, grinning, “Shut up and keep kissing me.” He smiles and leans back in.
This is not the time to say “I love you.” He decides to show you, though, by doing the next closest thing to it.
He inhales. “Can I…can I keep going?”, he sheepishly asks against your lips, beginning to slide his left hand down to the side of your hip, pausing, then down to the top of your thigh that’s just covered by your shorts. Your panting fans his face.
“Please.” Your mouth moves down to his neck, biting and leaving hot open-mouthed kisses along his damp skin. “Take whatever you want from me.” His breath stutters, eyes darkening. There’s no uncertainty, now. It’s all primal.
Sam grabs your jaw with his right hand, pulling you back up into a long, deep, and passionate kiss. Then his mouth begins to trail down your body.
He feels feverish. You want him. You want him.
The way you’re laying in front of him, eyes sparkling with dilated pupils, smiling at him like you love him. Could you love him? God, he doesn’t know what to think. Or how to. He just knows what he wants.
“I want to make you feel good,” he groans your name into your clothed sternum. He hears your breath hitch, breasts rising to bump his face. Mental note: come back here afterwards.
Sam moves to kneel between your legs and continues kissing down your torso, “I’ve thought about how you’d look under me”, he hums on your right rib set, both hands now positioned at the top of your thighbones gripping the flesh, “how soft you’d be ”, he lifts up a section of your shirt, making your breathing quick and shallow, “how you’d feel against me”, he bites and sucks at this newly exposed spot to the right of your navel, “how you’d sound if I got to touch you like this.” A low moan falls from your mouth, head lulling backwards into the pillow, hips rolling into his face. He huffs, smirking.
Sam’s face pauses at your lower waist; his nose is sitting against your short’s waistband and his mouth ghosts the middle space below your hips. His jaw clenches, closing his eyes briefly as his breath stutters again. Two thin layers separate him from where he so desperately wants to be. Fuck, he’s wanted to do this to you - for you - for what seems like an eternity. He pushes his forehead down into you slightly to centre himself. Don’t cum yet don’t cum yet.
You call his name at his lack of movement. It’s so needy. It makes him salivate.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s never called you that. At least not while you’re awake. You don’t seem to tense or flinch, so he thinks it’s okay. He hopes he can call you it again tomorrow.
Sam’s hands slide back up along the outside of your thighs to your waistband, making you shiver. His fingertips rest on your waistband and he looks up at you, dark and hooded eyes boring into yours; he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You smile softly at him and lift your hips eagerly so that he can ease your shorts down.
He swallows, and gently guides your sleep shorts down your hips, then your thighs, your calves, and then your feet.
Just one thin layer now.
Sam can already see your arousal soaking through your underwear. Oh fuck. A wrecked groan rumbles in his chest, his hips rolling into the mattress.
God, the sight of you. Maybe he should just bury his face in your pussy now, underwear still clinging to you, and make you cum like that. He doesn’t want to tease you like that tonight, though. Maybe next time.
His hands, planted on your thigh bones, grip the newfound flesh. You feel just as soft and warm as he had imagined. Goosebumps from your skin prickle under his palm and fingers. His cock twitches against his sleep shorts, and the restriction makes him muffle another groan.
“Christ,” he purrs, kissing the top left corner of your underwear, “look how wet you are,” he moves to kiss the right side.
You sigh breathlessly, reaching for Sam’s left hand to caress it, “It’s all for you, Sammy.” He hums in satisfaction at your words.
Okay, okay, he thinks to himself. Focus, Sam.
Both hands grab the elastic of your underwear to roll down your body. The scent of your arousal hits him almost instantly and he parts his mouth, panting. His nostrils flare - you smell so sweet. It’s enough to thicken the fire blazing inside him, especially his cock. Drool is pooling in his mouth.
Sam can hear you above him, whining slightly at the air change near your core. Sounding just as desperate for this as he is.
He moves both his right index and middle fingers along your mound, mesmerised at the way your body shudders and hips buck at his touch. He pauses just above your clit before shakily running his fingers through your folds, down to your opening. A sharp gasp falls from your mouth and your brows scrunch, back arching away from the mattress.
Fucking hell you feel like heaven itself. The heat and wetness from your folds makes Sam lose awareness of his surroundings for a second. All his senses are focused on you. He feels like he’s on fire; blood pulsing hotly through his veins, each breath rushing through his chest like a dry wind sparking embers.
He pulls his fingers away, eliciting an instinctive whimper from you, your hips lifting off the bed.
Sam stares at his fingers, dumbstruck - he was glistening with your arousal in the moon light. He brings his fingers to his lips with a shaky exhale before putting them in his mouth. A low and broken moan escapes his chest as he sucks them, his tongue swirling his fingers, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting and committing to memory something seraphic. It makes him want to cum right there.
“I’m gonna make a mess,” Sam moans your name hoarsely, his voice laced with both awe and heated reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”
Your chest is rising and falling rapidly with each second that passes with Sam’s face sitting right by your heat. Your eyes are locked with his, pupils blown wide out. Your mouth is gaping in desperation. He feels feral. Hungry.
Sam guides your legs to sit over his shoulders. Both of you shuffle slightly to get comfortable - he wants you both to be here for a long time.
His hands move to hold both your thighs so that they rest against his face. He drops his eyes from yours to stare at your core - arousal glistening across your folds and dripping down onto the mattress - and it stirs something possessive in him.
Sam lowers his head to your slit and breathes you in, nose brushing your slick warmth as he exhales a groan so low and guttural it rattles through your bones.
He’s changed his mind. This was definitely his new favourite view.
He starts slow, careful - Sam kisses the soft part of the inside of your left thigh, echoing on your right, before the tip of his tongue enters your sweet slit and slides down.
Dear God. The taste and scent of your core floods his mouth and nostrils. Your left hand flies from the side of you to cover your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You both whimper needily at the sensations; you into your hot palm and Sam into your heat.
But when he licks a long wet stripe from the bottom of your folds to your clit so slowly that your hips buck and a pornographic moan shatters from your lungs, Sammy can’t help himself.
You were just so responsive to him.
He does it again. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattens and moves down and up the length of your folds, collecting everything - spit, slick, and heat. He groans, deep and rough, as he buries his face further into you like he’s starving.
Sam extends his tongue to lap at you, kitten licking and slurping at your slit, encouraging you to give him more of your slick wetness. Your body twitches at every roll of his tongue, every suck of his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his brows scrunching and curving in sheer desire, indulgence, and love.
He couldn’t see anything else outside of you. You were fisting the sheets, hips twisting and legs flexing.
“God, yes, Sammy, right there, right there, Sammy, fuck.” You cry quietly, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, Sammy, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
Sam ruts into the bed like an animal, fucking himself against the mattress. He can feel his rock hard cock pulsing and leaking with precum.
“Keep talking,”he begs weakly, voice muffled against your core, spit and arousal dripping down his chin, “Tell me…tell me how good it feels. I need to know I’m making you feel good, sweetheart, please.”
Fuck he hopes you’ll let him do this again.
Sam’s tempo increases as his tongue begins circling your clit, lightly sucking it to draw you deeper into his mouth. His nose is pressed firmly into you - he wants to suffocate on you.
Loose curls fall onto Sam’s forehead, dampened by a mixture of his sweat and your sweet arousal coating his face as you grind into him and he buries himself in you.
Neither of you can stop moaning.
His fingers are gripped hotly and tightly on the flesh of your soft thighs. He means to be gentle but he’s too desperate for you, and he knows there will be purple bruises there in the morning. He’ll kiss them tomorrow to say sorry if you let him.
Sam’s head moves with every roll and turn of your hips so that his mouth stays attached to your clit and folds. Listening to your breathing and feeling how your body moves, he’s learning that you really like when he licks the left side of your folds and rub his nose on your clit. Your mouth falls slack when he does that.
He kisses sloppily and hungrily up and down your heat, wetness smeared across his face and nose. His tongue slips down to your entrance to work inside you. A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips. If you sound like this when he’s eating you out, he can’t wait to hear you when you cum.
“Sammy, I’m-I’m gonna…“ you breathe out, too flushed from the building pleasure to finish your sentence. He feels your body tense and moans at your movements. You were going to fall apart in front of him. God, he was about to do it. He was about to make you cum. He shoves his face further into your heat.
“Please, sweetheart,”he growls against you, vibrating through your wetness, “please cum for me.”
Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting Sam’s hair in pure ecstasy. “Sam…” you moan, uncontrollably, body shuddering. You take a loud inhale, mouth wide open and….
A hot wet flush spurts around Sam’s groin, jerking him awake.
“Fuck!” He swears quietly to himself.
His hips roll once, then still. He’s panting harshly as his eyes fly open. It’s pitch black. He can’t see anything. He pauses for a beat while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can hear the ceiling fan still whirring above.
Did I just have a fucking wet dream?
Yes. Yes he did.
Sam groans quietly to himself, scrunching his brow in embarrassment and disappointment in himself.
That was stupid, Sam, stupid, he bullies himself.
Sam lifts himself onto his forearms, sweat dripping down his body onto the bed. When did I fall asleep? He turns his head to the left towards the window - to you - to see if you were awake, or even there. You are.
He can just see how your lips are parted slightly, nostrils moving lightly as you inhale and exhale soft breaths. You’re still asleep.
Jesus Christ.
The sheet is still covering both of you, but you’re curled towards him in a foetal position. Your right arm is outstretched, hand resting sweetly next to his pillow. It must have been quite close to his face…
Sam carefully slides his right leg out from under the covers and onto the floor first, then his other leg, as he gets out of the bed slowly so he doesn’t disturb you. God knows this would be the absolute worst time for you to wake up and see him like this.
The moving air current from the fan hits him like a winter’s gale, making him shiver.
He wobbles past Dean’s bed, who is deep in sleep and (of course) starfished across the mattress. Reaching for the bathroom door, Sam grabs the handle and turns it cautiously to open the door. He flails briefly for the bathroom light switch, finding it, then softly clicks the door shut behind him before turning it on.
Sam leans against the door, back pressed firm against the cold wooden frame and head repeatedly hitting it faintly.
I am in so much trouble.
┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆⋆┆ ┆ ┆ ┆
Oh my poor Sammy. Somebody give this man a cuddle.
If y’all enjoy this, I have plans for a second part, but let me know your thoughts!!
And to the lovely anon in my inbox with the Sam request - if you're reading this, I SEE YOU!! I am writing your request as we speak 💚💚💚
if y'all do anything today - Read. This. fic. !!! I am so so so hoping for a part two because WOW I love the writing style of this! Sam def needs a cuddle and to perv out crazy style
𓍯𓂃 all the things i wish i could do if i could have you || dean winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: 18+, MOC!Dean, angst, pining and possessiveness and perversion, jealously, unprotected p in v (quip your dick before you pip), oral sex (mentions of f! + m!receiving), masturbation (m!), sexual fantasies, dean grappling with actually feeling emotions, misuse of underwear (I’m so sorry) (no I’m not), light alcohol consumption, violent/dark imagery, best friends to (technically) lovers, slow burn, porn with plot -- please let me know if i miss anything!
➶ summary: it’s Dean’s birthday. He knows he’s meant to be having a good time and focusing on all his friends and family celebrating him, but all he can seem to think about or see is you. Especially what he would do if you were his.
➶ word count: 9.7k words
quick note: so i gave up trying to write this fic as a one-shot because there was just too damn much i wanted to say, so i decided to split it (despite the poll) because otherwise it's nearly 30k (i know. what the fuck). p.s. peep a reference to that little speech of Dean’s in s9ep8 somewhere in here <333
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here
It’s a Thursday night in the bunker.
Some shitty pop song with a bass so deep it rattles the balustrades of the bunker’s war room is blasting. Long coloured streamers are hanging off the handrails, balloons littered everywhere across the cement floor. The bunker’s big lights are off, but the room is lit softly by the yellow glow of a few lamps. Voices are chatting lively. Someone’s laughing. A ginormous ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, handwritten in big bold lettering, is taped to the wall opposite him.
Dean would hate it all if it wasn’t your doing.
“Your life is something worth celebrating!” you had beamed at him during Christmas dinner a month ago, a green paper crown hanging low over your forehead as you punched his left arm. Sure it is, sweetheart.
Birthdays as a hunter aren’t something to celebrate, in Dean’s honest (and indisputable) opinion. They are an egregious and inescapable reminder of the person you were a year ago. Of the people you once had around you that now lay stiff six-feet under, buried in the cold hard earth, or burnt into dark grey ashes lost in the wind. Of the stupid wishes you made as you blow out the burning candles that things will change, be different, be better this time round. They never are.
Another birthday, another year of losing yourself. Piece by piece is ripped from you until nothing remains. A gaping void threatening to suck anything and everything in.
There are many ways to patch over the deep, ugly empty spaces left behind, though. Sam fills his with exercise, disgusting smoothies, and taciturn suffering. For Dean, they’re replaced by copious amounts of booze, self-loathing, and women.
But Dean couldn’t say no to you. He never wants to. So here he was, a cold beer bottle stinging his right hand, and a dark look on his face as Sam and Garth chatted heartily on each side of him about their favourite ‘close call’ hunts – no, now they’re talking about the best way to kill a ghost. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s not listening.
He knew since the Mark had buried itself in his body – stuck its thorns in and latched onto every single atom – that you, Sam, everyone was trying to be nicer and more patient with him. You all worried about him. Pitied him. It made his skin crawl. Not with disgust, but something close to it.
Maybe last year, last birthday, he would’ve actually really enjoyed himself. Being surrounded by friends, family, everyone laughing and smiling, dancing, talking. He takes a swig of his beer, the bottle’s rim wetting his lips as the sharp sour liquor lulls his taste buds. Yeah, he thinks, old him would be over the fucking moon to see everyone he loves happy and together like this. For him. It would’ve made his heart glow.
But the Mark’s changed Dean. Changing Dean. More and more every day. It nests deep in his bones, knotting itself between even the tiniest of crevices and ligaments and tissues; courses violently through his thick, hot blood and burns his chest.
When Dean agreed to you throwing him a birthday party, he’d had one condition. No presents. You’d huffed at that, rolling your eyes with an annoyed smile.
“Come on, Dean,” you’d tilted your head to your right shoulder, “what about if we all get you a joint present?” Dean had shaken his head. Said “there’s nothing I want.”
He had lied, though. Dean did want something for his birthday. He wanted you.
You’ve been a part of the Winchester brothers’ lives for four years now. On a mission from Crowley to find an Alpha Arachne, they’d wandered upon you separating the head of the monster-of-the-week from its body with a particularly sharp blade you named ‘The Fairy Godmother’.
Why?
“Because she grants their wish for death after I’m done with them.”
Dean had rolled his eyes, smirking. Scoffed a sharp laugh at your words – undecided if you were too smart for your own good like most young hunters are, but in all honesty, a little turned on at your sureness. After you swiftly split one newborn vamp from head to chest and another from shoulder to breastbone, however, during an accidental team-up when the three of you were ambushed two weeks later in what you had all thought was an abandoned mansion with maybe five or six – not nineteen – vampires, Dean realised that you were right. He never questioned your abilities again.
You were like a stray cat back then. Surviving on nothing and anything. Smart, self-dependent, and sceptical. You still are those things, just a little more... settled, now. Like a well-loved, but still slightly feral, house cat.
They didn’t see you again after that night until one of the very few times where you’d bitten off more than you could chew a couple months later in a few states west.
It took Sam knifing a demon in the back about to perform biokinesis on you – hanging upside from the ceiling, bound by your feet – and Dean carrying your pummelled and bruised body, limp from exhaustion and bone-deep pain, back to their motel room and tending to your wounds for you to consider their friendship.
But you’d slotted so quickly and easily into their lives after that moment that the three of you didn’t know how you’d ever lived without each other.
And friendship had blossomed just as swiftly and effortlessly – a genuine buckle your knees from gut-punching laughter; look for first in a crowded room; always have your back, front, and side; and tell your deepest, darkest secrets to but maybe not the type of secret that ruins a friendship secret friendship.
And Dean’s deepest, darkest secret?
He’s fucking in love with you. Despite his damn hardest attempts at suffocating the feeling, smothering it with a pillow over the face and burying in the mud that tiniest glimmer of hope that you could like him – because he didn’t want to ruin something good with something bad like him – he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help being in love with you. In every humanly and unearthly way possible.
And he really shouldn’t be. He’s completely and utterly undeserving. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
But man, he couldn’t help trying to impress you. It made him a bit dorky, drowning in emotion rather than confidently swimming in his usual womaniser swagger.
He practically always opens Baby’s door for you (barking at Sam to get in the back when you’re under the weather and need to see the road ahead, and sometimes even when you’re not sick and he just wants to sit next to you), he’ll get you your favourite snack from every Gas-N-Sip without you ever having to ask because “you need to have your energy, gorgeous”, and he pinches you affectionately when he tries to compliment you and tell you that you’re beautiful (you’ll shoot him a suffering look, squirm, tell him “shut up, Dean”).
He always asks if you’d like the last chip to his burger meal (even if he’s still a little hungry) – but you also do the same for him, so that’s just a little thing that you do for each other that Dean thinks is just what best friends do.
He’ll puff out his chest and stand a little taller when you’re near (because maybe you’ll look his way again), make sure he’s walking your pace to keep in time with your steps just so he can maybe bump your arm or leg or hip; he has your favourite hangover drink prepped and ready for you in his bedroom the next morning after a night of always well-earnt drinking (he’s totally not Pavlov-ing you, at least not intentionally), and he lets (read: welcomes when) you lean on him while he rubs your back to help you fall asleep. He really likes doing the last one.
But he was sure you thought he was joking, just messing around with you or something. Being friendly. He didn’t know how to show you he meant everything he did. But maybe you did know he was being more than just friendly. You just simply weren’t interested. And he never wanted you to feel pressured to be with him – romantically or platonically or familial-ly. After all, he was poison. Everything he touches turns rotten or gets hurt and dies.
You’re giggling with Charlie over by the large wooden table that you’ve pulled from somewhere and set in the middle of the room. She’s closest to Dean while you stand over on the side of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, moving this and that on the table to make room for more things, animatedly talking and bustling, smiling broadly. A mountain of bowls is filled with Dean’s favourite snacks, party ha– is that liquorice?
Dean sighs. Fuck, you really do know him.
A soft black top is fitted across you. The neck cuts just below where the line of your breasts begins, the curve of your chest contoured sensually yet delicately. He’s seen this one before, once on a hunt when you had to flirt with a local greasy cop to get much needed information on some Djinn victims after Sam and Dean had blown their FBI cover before they’d even been able to use it there.
Dean’s jaw tics at the memory of the cop’s eyes gliding over your clothed breasts at the front of the small country town station while him and Sam had sat in the car, two sets of binoculars out. You’d smiled, before slowly and calculatedly sliding your right hand across your collarbone to move your hair behind your shoulder so that the cop’s eyes would be drawn to your chest unobstructed.
It had worked.
He’d glanced down, Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a gulp, and peeked at your bare, beautiful skin and the swell of your breasts while you were asking him about any possible leads he had. Jackass. But who could blame him – Dean does it himself all the time. When his eyes had returned back to yours, you’d tilted your head in the exact same way you had when you begged to please get Dean a birthday present.
Dean couldn’t hear what the cop had said to you, but he made out the words “copy”, “file”, and “just for you”. The sleasebag had smirked and winked slyly at you, walking inside the station – a disgusting bile of venom and detest crawling up from Dean’s stomach or some other sordid, rotting dark hole from within him, an almost snarl twitching across his mouth – while you turned quickly to the car to give them a covert grin with a thumbs up – before the cop came back out with a copy of the investigation file and gave it to you. When he handed over the file, Dean had noticed a little piece of torn paper accompanying it. You’d noticed it, too, looking down at it with your mouth slightly gaping, eyebrows raising gently. Sam had chuckled, impressed, but Dean had scoffed and rolled his eyes hard; he knew without so much as even seeing what was on that shitty little piece of paper that the douchebag was telling you to call him. When you had looked back up at the cop, it was with a small shy smile as you nodded and pocketed it. It had looked like a genuine smile, too... When you got back to the car, Sam hadn’t even let you buckle your seatbelt before he jumped you from the front passenger seat and interrogated you about what was on the paper. You’d flushed bright, not meeting either of their eyes as you handed Sam the file and shuffled a little in your seat. “Nothing important”, you had muttered, but unable to hide the bashful upturn of your lips.
Dean hadn’t been able to show the same enthusiasm as his moose of a little brother had, keeping his face emotionless (or at least he had tried to) and frozen to the front as Baby’s engine roared into start. Extra loud just to piss off the jerk still standing at the landing of the station’s cement entry steps. His grip on the steering wheel was bone-breaking all the way back to the motel as Sam flicked through the file’s pages, reading out key bits of information. Dean hadn’t dared turn to look at you, he knew it would carve a cavity into his heart that would tar beyond recognition, but his eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror to still see you. Watch you. You just stared out the window, head forward but jaw resting on the palm of your right hand, left arm tucked across your waist, eyes almost unfocused with an odd expression on your face Dean couldn’t decipher, occasionally adding a quick hmm or a soft that’s interesting to Sam’s monologue.
Dean was in a foul mood for the rest of that day as a result – couldn’t wait to leave the shitty town and its stupid slimy cop in a blast of dust torn up from Baby’s back wheels – but the three of you managed to chop the monster’s head off with a silver knife and lamb’s blood that very night. He’d had no right to be mad – not at you, just mad in general – because after all, you’d saved the day with your breasts. And he’d never had the guts to make a genuine move on you before then. Because he didn’t deserve you.
If that had happened while Dean had the Mark, though, that wouldn’t have mattered; he would’ve flung open the car door long before that ugly piece of paper had even been passed to you or thought of – as soon as the cop’s salacious gaze had dropped to ravage your chest even though that was the whole point of what you were doing – stalked silently over to you both while you were still talking, seized the cop’s left arm and snapped it so quickly, so effortlessly – like it was a pathetic matchbox stick and the only thing that would light and torch that stupid scribble of his out of existence – that the jackass’ collar bone would tear right through his skin with a scream.
A low burning sensation on Dean’s right forearm pulls him back to the present. He absentmindedly scratches at the Mark, taking another swig of his souring beer and refocusing on you.
Dean can’t hear what you and Charlie are talking about – the music and close-by chatter blocks his ears – but whatever you say to her makes her grip her stomach and keel over laughing, hard. You lean back, hips shifting forwards in a laugh that echoes Charlie’s.
He can tell you’ve had three, maybe four drinks by the way all your movements, reactions, sounds are amplified. Eased.
Dean likes when you’re tipsy. You get this soft rosy glow on your cheeks that makes you look otherworldly, if that was even more possible; your body moves in loose rolls, hips swaying in a way that makes Dean’s head so dizzy. Your head will lean back impossibly further than usual when you laugh, just like it is now, and your eyes and nose crinkle sweetly where they meet. And man, you giggle at everything. It makes Dean’s chest go all warm and fuzzy.
You also flirt with him more.
Is flirt the right word? Dean thinks.
Hmm, maybe not.
But you’re definitely different. You touch him more, differently. You laugh at him more, differently. You look at him more, differently.
He knows he has some sort of sexual effect on you. A quiet part of him thinks you might feel the same way about him as he does for you, but the fear that maybe you’re just being nice to him, or that maybe you are attracted to him but wouldn’t want all of him – the dark, ugly, putrid parts that are the true him, the true Dean – keeps him sober enough from getting drunk on any thought of love. After all, life was never that good to Dean – it would give him small, flickering good, like you holding his hand with a soft smile, laughing at his crappy jokes, leaning into his chest with a sweet sigh – but never something good like you loving him. So he holds his breathe in those moments, hoping that when he does die, again, it will be during one of those good.
And maybe he does indulge just a little in the moments where he can get you... bothered.
Dean wishes you had come with him earlier in the day when Sam and Cas had forced him out the front door of the bunker for an “obligatory birthday drink”. Maybe he could’ve sat next to you, thigh-to-thigh, in the booth of the shitty little bar a town over they had driven him to and whispered in your ear about the particularly nasty and detailed dream he’d had the night before about you cumming with his face shoved in between your plush thighs just from him moaning into your sopping wet folds. He would have simpered it hotly into your ear just low enough so that Sammy and Cas wouldn’t – no, couldn’t have heard him, right? The reaction you would give Dean at the mere thought they had heard him would be worth it all if they had. Just to see you blush. Hear your breath catch in your throat. Whine. Maybe see you press your legs together to find some friction. Would your eyes have rolled back? Gone black with hunger, desperation, need for him?
But you and Charlie had needed Dean out of the bunker so that you had full range to decorate the place in all sorts of loud and obnoxious ornaments that reminded him yet another year had taken yet another piece of him with it. So, in spite of the Mark just to please you, Dean had pushed down the displeasure festering from the infliction and left.
When you pass a plate to Charlie and walk around the table to her side, he can see that you’re wearing a dark burgundy skirt. It finishes midthigh. His breath hitches, painfully.
It’s a rare look from you. You’re normally all blood and grime. Filth plastered across your full cheeks, splattered down your forearms where your sleeves are pulled up and shading all the dips and curves, staining your jeans fitted tight over your ass. If Dean’s being honest, though, seeing you like that gets him going in ways that it really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t end up looking like that after nearly every hunt...
Your bare legs are a new sight, however. Of course, Dean’s seen your legs before; when you’re sitting all comfy and warm in your sleep shorts just before bed on the couch next to him (you’ve got this one pair that gapes deliciously in between your thighs – and the amount of times he’s fisted his throbbing cock in the darkness of his bedroom to the idea of sliding them and your underwear to the side so he could drive his thick cock in and out of your pulsing and gushing core over the couch arm...), or first thing in the morning in the kitchen when you yawn and stretch the sleep out so hard that your bed shirt rises just a little, and he can see your stomach extend (he has this idea that you’re most sensitive on your left side and so when he does open-mouth kiss and suck and bite at it, that’s where you would moan and whimper the most and loudest), or when you’re fresh out of the shower, goosebumps rising and water still clinging to your skin here and there (he’s growled at the thought of how you would actually feel when you’re wet and covered in slick).
But the finish of your skirt showing off the gentle lines of muscles and softness of your legs is making Dean want to slowly, messily, teasingly lick all the way up the inside of your warm thighs. He wonders how many times he’d have to do it until you begged him to fill every inch of you up with him and his cock, his cum.
And then there’s your ass. What he wouldn’t do t– well, fuck. You’re bending over the table to grab, what, a camera? that you’ve left on the other side, mindlessly lifting your right leg to give yourself some extra reach, tiptoeing on your left foot, and your skirt rides up. Just a little. But it’s enough to make him question if you’re wearing any underwear. Dean has to stifle a groan. Almost chokes. His eyelids closing briefly as his eyes roll back in absolute need. An ache is building in his balls, dick already hard against his left thigh.
The Mark is telling, demanding him to just walk over to you, grab the back of your neck and turn you so that you face him, and take you right there on the table. The bowls and plates you’ve set so neatly and precisely would smash into millions of pieces on the floor as he shoved them to make room for your back, his mouth latched to yours as he kissed you hard and wet, teeth clashing and hot spit drooling. The wooden table would rattle, scratching the floor with every grind and rut of his hips into yours.
He wouldn’t tear your clothes – he knows how attached you are to them, even if the Mark wants them obliterated – but they’d be snatched from your body within seconds.
And that sweet slide of him into you? Fuck. He can feel you clenching and vibrating around his thick cock, wet squelching every time he bottoms out. The most pornographic moans spilling from your mouth shattering in the air of the war room. Your legs would fold around Dean, heels digging into the flexing muscles of his ass to spur him on and keep him close. Inside you.
Oh how scandalised everyone would be. Let them see. See how fucking badly he wants you. Needs to be buried deep within your soaked heat. How good he would be at fucking you until you were sobbing and screaming his name. Cumming hard again and again around his dick like it was the last thing you’d ever be able to do. Fucked stupid. And Dean – Dean would just keeping fucking your ruined pussy through each and every one of his own orgasms because he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to stop once he started. Your beautiful, hot collective mess dripping onto the floor.
No.
He doesn’t want anybody else to see you like that – naked, desperate, wanting – ever again. Only him.
Dean never used to allow himself to think too long about you in that way. You were one of his best friends. And you had been for years. With him and Sam through the thick and thin.
You had your own bedroom in the bunker, decorated with all these things that were just so uniquely you; brushed your teeth together with Dean every night (which Sam had aptly – but not without a teasing edge – named “your special night time routine”, which you both always rolled your eyes at); watched reruns of both yours and his favourite tv shows (no matter how many times he refuses to say he enjoys it and was actually invested in your trashy guilty-pleasure one); patched each other up carefully and tenderly after particularly bad and painful hunts; and did each other’s laundry because “that just makes your life easier that way”. Dean hates reading, but he’d listen to you read aloud a book, an encyclopedia, the back of a fucking Betty Crocker cake mix, any day.
The outlandish and the mundane. Anything and everything just to be in your presence.
And best friends don’t think about each other like that – naked and skin on skin, grinding and rolling into each other, biting and panting and licking, marking one another as theirs – right? That’s how Dean used to think.
But sometimes, when he was deep in sleep, and his mind bypassed any sort of humanly control he had over himself, he’d dream about kissing you. It would usually be in different places; maybe the bunker’s kitchen, in the backseat of Baby, at a low-lit bar, or during an intense hunt because you just finally couldn’t keep your hands off of him for any longer – but his favourite setting was definitely in your bed. Where the soft sheets and fluffy pillows exuded your perfume, your shampoo, and simply you, and enveloped all Dean’s senses. There would be careful touching and heated grabbing, the soft and rough feeling of all over each other. His hands would be everywhere, tracing every inch and curve of your body. Yours would be tangled in his hair and clawing up his back or down his arms. The two of you moving together, pressing, pulling, grinding. And then there were the sounds you both would make when he’d hit that sweet spongey spot deep inside your clenching walls – the one where your stomach would go hot and gooey and his cock would twitch violently and desperately – everything just building, building, building until it all just...
He would wake up messy and ashamed the next morning. Whenever he saw you that day, a suffocating heat would sprout in his chest, sit heavy in his stomach, vine up his spine, prickle on his face, and grow – despite his hardest objections – in his groin.
But that was before the Mark.
Now, Dean spends most nights groaning into a pillow and cumming into his hand or on his lower stomach at least once, maybe twice before bed to all the obscene positions he could have you in. He had to move onto toilet paper to clean himself up after an off-handed comment from his brother about how quickly the three of you seemed to be going through tissue boxes despite no one being sick.
Around two months ago, while you and Dean were doing your laundry together, you’d cursed and bent over the washing machine to reach down its side to pick up a fallen sock. He’d already been watching you from behind your back, fantasising about you on your knees and desperately gagging on his thick cock and clawing at his thighs while the washing machine rattled, begging desperately Dean Dean please cum down my throat, when he spotted a dirty pair of your underwear on top of your laundry basket by your feet. They were black, with a little flower pattern and lace trim, also black. He hadn’t even thought twice or blinked before moving silently like he was hunting a monster to grab and stuff them in the back pocket of his jeans. Poor, sweet you hadn’t noticed – too busy groping blindly and huffing after your runaway clothing – then returning the heels of your feet to solid ground and turning to Dean with a huff, your brows pulled and eyes soft, a little pout as you asked if he could reach it. He’d given you a casual smile, with a sure, princess, before he’d effortlessly fished out your sock and thrown it in the machine.
Later that day, after you had brushed your teeth together and gone to bed, Dean had walked very quickly to his room – his dick already straining against his jeans and leaking with pre-cum – and locked the door with sacrilegious precision. He didn’t think anyone would be coming in, but he wanted to make sure that he would definitely not be interrupted. He’d practically jumped onto the bed, lust and impatience discarding all his clothing in a path of destruction and hunger to the mattress, and reached into the bedside table to take out your dirty underwear that it’d been safeguarding since that morning. His erect cock taut against his lower abdomen had jerked at the mere sight of them again. The soft lacing an almost unbearable texture as he rubbed them in between his index finger and thumb, making a low tension blossom in his stomach.
Fucking hell.
His right hand had tentatively gripped his cock, stilling for a second. Something in the back of his horny-filled brain had banged on the door to his self-control and respectability centre and screamed at him hey, this is weird. This is really fucking wrong. That shame he knew all too well had started to prickle the nape of his neck, seeping down each vertebrae of his spine.
But then another voice spoke, from somewhere inside his mind’s control room.
I don’t care. I want it, the voice had hummed. It was one much lower, sinister, indiscernible – like it was floating in the air, infecting anything and everything inside that room. He knew it was the Mark.
With a shaky breath, Dean’s left hand had pushed the inner gusset into his face, specifically his nose and mouth, so that he could breathe you in in every possible way. They’d smelt so good; a heady euphoric mixture of your lotion, a little bit of sweat, and the light musky but sweet warm scent of your cunt – and the kick it gave him? Went straight to his fucking head and balls.
A deep groan shattered in the darkness of the bedroom, his mouth watering, brows scrunching, and his right hand began slowly jerking and twisting his slickening cock.
And with the first uncontrolled thrust of his hips into his hand, Dean forgot that dying voice of reason and sensibility.
He’d pictured you. Above him. Sitting on his face; the inner part of warm, lush thighs pressing firm against the sides of his face and scratching along his stubble with every grind down and roll of your hips, knees spread wide apart. His large, rough hands were looped around your thighs, holding you secure to his hot and pooling tongue and mouth, his solid nose and jaw. His fingers gripping into the soft fat, moving muscles. Whines and huffs of air spilling from your lungs, eyes rolling back not in the cute way you do when you scold him or he tells a particularly bad (but charming) joke, but in utter pleasure. Ethereal in every aspect.
Man, it had been the best orgasm of his life. The Mark had made his blood burn in ecstasy, pumping the drug-like sensation through every nerve running from his toes to his fingertips to his head. His hot spendings splattering across his hand and heavily heaving stomach and chest – a bit even reaching the hollow of his neck – ruining the bedsheets below him as his hips had bucked uncontrollably and he’d moaned your name repeatedly, unashamedly loud, and a little pathetically into the crotch of your underwear. A burning rush coursing his lungs that felt not like he was weightless and flying, but backflipping off a cliff into open ocean. Only when he had finally resurfaced, gasps subsiding into full breaths, and turned to grab some toilet paper to clean himself of his mess, did he realise he’d been so eager to cum that he’d forgotten to get a new roll.
He’d paused. Right hand and arm hung mid-air. Then he looked down at your soft used black underwear, still in his left hand. The voice that used to be in charge of his self-control and respectability centre was nowhere to be seen or heard as he’d slowly moved your clothing across his stomach and chest to wipe away the drying white liquid. It had sent a new hot wave of arousal straight to his stomach and balls, his dick already hardening again and a groan clawing from his throat as he savoured the view of his cum mixing with your dirty underwear. You and him. Together.
He’d been chasing that feeling again every night since. But no pornographic fantasy could match or even come close to it. He knew then it would only happen again when you finally let him inside you.
Maybe Dean’s not changing. Maybe he’s always been this perverted for you. He just needed the Mark to show him who he really was.
Dean raises his right hand to neck the remainder of his beer as you, camera in-hand, start towards where he, Sam, and Garth are standing together by the wall. You’ve got an off-kilter bounce, swaying a little side to side with each step, and a big rich smile on your face. A quiet grin tugs on Dean’s face and he can feel a warm glow dancing across his heart and lungs and ribcage. The Mark also tingles. That’s one thing that neither the hunter lifestyle nor the Mark has taken away from him – you. Yet. He hopes it never will. He’ll have to wait until his next birthday to find out, though.
The conversation between Sam and Garth peters off as they both notice you approaching. When you reach them, Dean realises you’re holding something behind your back with your left hand, but he can’t see it.
“Hi, boys,” you chime, your eyes darting to all of their faces in greeting. Garth happily nods his head in an upwards motion as an acknowledgment. Sam returns your smile and says your name.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” Dean replies gravelly, tilting his head a little to the left. Your eyes dip to the floor. There’s that beautiful blush.
From the corner of his left eye, Dean can see his younger brother give him a weird, almost inquisitive look – eyes narrowing, brows creasing a little, mouth slightly parting as if he’s about to say something but decides against it.
Sammy had once – maybe two and a bit years ago – tried to ask Dean (key word: tried) if he had feelings for you. Dean had almost punched him in the jaw for even suggesting such a thing, the glare alone warning the younger brother he’d done something he probably shouldn’t have.
Dean was glad Sam was a university-educated man and knew not to ask him about it again. And he never did.
But in all honest truth, he did actually have feelings for you then. Dean just hadn’t known himself that he did, or maybe he was just figuring it out and didn’t want to put a name to it. He’s never been very good with letting people in. Or allow himself to feel anything beyond self-disgust.
So that night, in true Dean-fashion, he’d gone to a local dive bar and made out with some chick in the disabled bathroom to forget about the whole situation – Sammy asking, and the whole idea that he maybe liked, or even wanted, you in more than just a best friend way. It just so happened, a total coincidence, that the girl Dean had chosen looked like you.
But he doesn’t like to think about that night. Dean knows now that nobody could compare to you.
And now, he wants everyone – especially you – to know how much he wants you. Needs you. He can thank the Mark for that possessive flare.
“I, uh,” you stutter, pulling your left arm from behind your back, “forgot to give you guys these earlier.” Three party hats stacked like a matryoshka doll appear in front of you.
With a cheeky smile, you move your hand in front of Garth for him to take a purple one, then to Sam for the blue one, “and a sparkly green one for the special birthday boy”. As you hand the final one to Dean, he deliberately glides his left hand over your own. He can feel the softness and warmth of your backhand with his calloused fingertips as he runs them smoothly from underneath your hand to the tips of your fingers along the bones, before slowly grabbing the angular hat from you. Your eyes meet Dean’s green ones, holding his gaze. He notices you’re not as flushed now, but a rosy air still floats on your cheeks.
God, he thinks, if only you knew what I’d do to have you.
Not just in the biblical sense. Not a hot one night tangle of legs and grinding of bodies where you wake up the next morning filled with embarrassment or regret or that was fun, but I don’t want anything serious with you. He knows that would cauterise him so severely he’d never able to feel anything ever again.
He needs to be more than a body that could comfort you for a few hours during the dark of night. He needs you for the whole night. And for the next morning, the day, and evening, too.
He would do anything you asked him to, if he hadn’t already made that abundantly clear.
He’d fight – no, slaughter every demon, angel, monster, and human to have you be his and he be yours. Tear not just every limb from limb, but snap every single bone as easily as a rotten branch in the middle of winter.
Dean stares so intensely into your eyes like he’s trying to communicate that through some hoodoo or something. The way you’re looking back at him, as if you’re also trying to tell him that – that you would do all that for him – makes him feel like a summer wind is sweeping through his chest to feed the bushfire sparking there, his veins carrying the embers across and throughout his body to ignite and be entirely engulfed by you.
He’s sure you can feel it, too. Or maybe it's the Mark’s doing.
Garth is already sporting the purple decoration – visibly excited – and Sam is just pulling back the elastic of his own blue one under his chin and sliding the hat over his forehead when your eyes leave Dean’s, and he’s so sure that your pupils are a little bit bigger, eating at the colour of your irises. You take a big inhale through your nose before your mouth parts and you suck in air. Your chest moves with the breath, and Dean watches your clothed breasts also rise.
Oh, sweetheart.
He shifts a little in his jeans, his dick throbbing between the soft cotton of his briefs and his muscular thigh. He can’t help that he likes seeing the ways something he says or does affects you. It makes him feel high. Indomitable. Yours.
“Dean, don’t grumble,” you start as if you’re approaching a wild animal that could rip your throat out in a blink, your right hand holding the camera and raising it to your chest with a repeated twist of your wrist, “but I’m going to be taking some photos now.” Sam chuckles, giving his brother a knowing side glance before turning around and taking a few steps to his left to bend down and put his beer bottle on the floor away from their feet. Garth does the same to the right of Dean.
But Dean’s still looking at you.
Impossible to look away, turn away. Not that he wants to.
It’s just you and him in that moment.
No noise. No smell or taste. No background and no foreground. Simple.
And then, there’s that tilt again to your right shoulder, a sweet smile flowering.
Anything for you, he thinks.
With a fake exasperated huff and roll of his eyes – a quiet smirk threatening to give away his irritated and tough guy persona – Dean turns his back to you briefly and follows Sam and Garth’s movements, his empty beer bottle clinking twice on the cement, before returning to face you and shuffling back in between the other two to pose.
Dean places his right arm around Garth’s shoulder while his left settles across Sam’s back. He pulls them both in tight so that they sit in the pit of his shoulder and arm joints, and for a second, he feels Sam freeze, then relax and return the gesture by placing his right arm along Dean’s shoulders and neck. Sam’s right hand just reaches Garth, whose left arm pulls Dean into a firm side hug. Dean notices the tension still vaguely emanating from Sam, his back muscles stiff against Dean’s forearm and bicep, breath stilled almost completely like he’s worried he’ll scare off Dean if he so much as thinks too loudly. Sam attempts to regain his composure with a small exhale he tries to shelter.
But Dean doesn’t react. He’s sure that Sam is probably taken aback by the unexpected show of brotherly love and something he hopes might mean the Mark’s dark hold is dwindling and Dean is finally coming back to himself.
How wrong poor Sammy is.
You grin at the scene of your friends together, then take a few steps back, closing one eye and squinting with the other as you raise the camera to your face. You take a step forward, then half a step back. “Ah! There we go.” You hum, clearly happy and satisfied with the framing of the scene in front of you.
The two boys on either side of Dean smile broadly, genuinely. And it’s not that Dean’s faking it – his smile is just as big – but he’s definitely putting some of it on for you.
“Okay, guys. Here we go. 3...2...1...aaaand...”
The camera makes an electronic beep as your index finger pushes down on the button.
You exhale quick. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna also take one with the flash – ‘s that alright?”. Your face stays covered behind the viewfinder as you flip the camera between landscape and portrait to figure out the best angle.
You’re so cute when you’re focused.
The three boys all respond with a variation of yes, and you count down again. The electronic beep sounds, and then there’s a flash.
“Ohhh perfect!” you gush, bouncing on your toes as you pull the camera down to flick between the two photos. You’re so giddy with excitement. Pure elation. “Really perfect, guys. You all look great.” Your eyes shift up to look at the three of them, and a warmth glides across Dean’s chest again and melts into his lungs to dissolve any air that keeps him upright.
The Mark makes it all finally clear at that moment. Dean knows then that he has to do something. Tonight. No more questioning. No more holding back.
He’s allowed to have you.
An idea – simple, easy to execute – pops into his mind. “Can we see it, sweetheart?” Dean calls, voice dripping in honey. Sure, he wants to see a photo of the people he cares about smiling and happy, but in honest reality? He’s really plotting to get you close to him.
Your mouth opens in an ahh as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that the boys would want to see the photo.
You shuffle over with a happy wiggle, hair swaying side to side behind your back with each quick step, and stop right in front of Dean so that the three boys can all see the camera. Your back is but a few centimetres away from his chest.
Perfect.
Sam and Garth both lean in over each one of your shoulders, a small section of muscle or bone or maybe a piece of clothing touching you in a reasonable, close friendship way. A rush of searing jealously and anger surges through Dean’s veins, an acrid tang to his mouth, his right arm stiffening and hand flexing suddenly and painfully, and he knows it’s the Mark. A violent scene of brown beer bottles smashing, jaggered glass piercing pink skin, and thick, red blood trickling down Dean’s hands and fingers onto the bunker’s harsh grey cement floor flashes in front of his eyes.
Pure corruption of even the most innocuous.
But Dean inhales, steady and quietly. Closes his eyes for just a second and focuses on you. He will not let himself be consumed by the Mark. For you, he can’t afford to. But he will listen to it when it tells him he’s allowed to want, love, have you. He’s forbidden himself from you for far too long.
Dean can feel the warmth rippling from your body, and it calls to him like he’s a ship lost at sea; dark, crashing waves tearing him apart piece by piece and swallowing him into the cold unknown abyss, and you – a lighthouse, his lighthouse – are a glowing, warm light, the only thing that could guide him to safety. Come to me, Dean, you call. Come home.
It’s like the Mark wants you to save him.
Dean opens his eyes, then closes the tiny space between you and him by calculatedly pressing his solid frame firm to your softer body. Your heat is heavenly. Intoxicating. It makes the blood flowing to the Mark thrum loud with each heartbeat.
The new lack of space between you both means Dean’s chin is now angled at the crown of your head. He’s never been quite this close to you in this way before and his head starts to swim. He shifts his face a little, tilting his jaw to brush the left side of your own face so that it rests just above your ear. His stubble makes a scratching sound against your hair, and a tingle runs over his nose, spreading across his cheeks and running down his neck before flowing out to his fingertips through his arms. His nostrils flare at the scent of your shampoo as it hits his lungs like smoke. Or maybe it’s your conditioner. Whatever it is, it smells good. He needs more.
Dean’s right hand has relaxed now, and he moves it from his side to place it on the clothed curve of your waist, the triangle hollow between his index finger and thumb shaping to the dip. The pad of his thumb nestles against a lower bone of your rib set, his other fingers splaying across your front. He fits like he belongs there. Because he does.
This wouldn’t be the first time he’s touched or grabbed your waist, but those times have never been quite this intimate. This good.
You lean back into him, your lower back arching a little to shape to him, mindlessly. You try to hold the camera still for the boys behind you to look at the first photo, but it shakes a little in your grip.
From this new angle where you’re resting against each other, Dean can see the way your eyelashes dust your rosy cheeks as you pulse and breathe. A wave of tenderness he’s still learning to feel, to understand, floods his brain and heart, and he wants to feel them against his fingertips when he touches your face, or watch them flutter with each claiming thrust of his cock gliding in and out of your dripping and tightening cunt, burying himself so deeply inside you before pulling out almost all the way, just to the swollen ridge of his cock head, before driving himself into your heat again and watching your pretty eyes roll back with your pretty eyelashes.
The fabric of your shirt is soft against Dean’s rough fingers. He begins to rub your side with his thumb. Slow. Certain. Claiming.
A small, sharp sound escapes you. It’s the type of deep inhale you take to fill in your lungs when you’ve forgotten to take a proper breath in a while. Automatic. Natural.
After all, you’ve been running around like a headless chicken for the last four hours, setting up decorations, preparing food and booze, and doing everything else in your quiet devoted way for the party. Never demanding or even expecting Dean’s attention, but always receiving it. Never wanting anything from him like everybody else did. But even if you did, he’d give you anything and everything you ever wanted.
That would make sense in Sam and Garth’s brains, Dean rationalises – your breathing being wonky after making sure that everyone, especially Dean, was having a good time.
But Dean knows that isn’t what made you reset your nervous system.
It was him.
A deep heat pools lowly in Dean’s groin at this divine knowledge, his dick stiffening impossibly harder between his left jean leg and thigh, and he suddenly realises he’s started leaking as his briefs wet with pre-cum. His hand petting your waist flexes and he bites back a groan that almost chokes him.
“Alrighty”, you hum with a rising inflection at the end, “here’s the first photo”, and your head lulls back onto Dean’s right shoulder as you turn to look from Sam to Garth to see their faces and gauge their reactions. Dean almost breaks his spine fighting the urge to grind his hips into your ass.
“...aaand here’s the second one.” Your head tilts forward to look back at the camera, and it guts Dean to feel your warmth and weight leave his chest. He almost follows you forward, chasing your body. But then you return as quickly as you left, and there’s this proud smile on your face as you look at the photo that makes any pain Dean could ever battle wash away.
Your head turns quickly from left to right again to look at Sam and Garth, but then you glide your head to the edge of Dean’s right shoulder and look up at him.
“What do you think, Birthday Boy?” Your left cheek rests into Dean’s chest, the question vibrating through your body, and Dean can feel it ripple in his chest and fingers, and he knows he’s meant to be looking at the camera, but you’re so beautiful like this. He should just lean down and kiss you there. He will kiss you there.
He goes to move, but stops himself almost immediately. A sharp sting cracks across his right forearm, and his lungs constrict.
The Mark is screaming at him. Do it. Take her here. Take her now.
But Dean knows he won’t be able to stop himself once his mouth is on your skin. He wants to worship every single part of you and draw out all your holy sounds in every way possible. And he needs a bed for that.
So instead, he tightens his grip on your right side and drops his voice, gravel smothered in honey, “Perfect.” Dean’s green eyes lock onto your soft lips, pausing for a breath before moving to your left eye – a pause again, slightly shorter, though – then across to your right, and he’s not talking about the photos.
You blink up at him, a little dumbly, mouth parting slightly, and now your breathing is really wonky.
A satisfied smirk curves on his face at your reaction. Good.
Someone’s calling your name, but you don’t respond. You’re still staring up at him, dropping your gaze to Dean’s plush lips as he wets the bottom part with the tip of his tongue. He applies more pressure to your waist as his thumb begins to rub deeper, and he can see a dark, needy look growing in your eyes. The air between you two feels like it’s disappearing, pulling your bodies together as if the other was the only source of oxygen to fill your collapsing lungs.
Sam clears his throat, a dry cough climbing from his chest, and Dean knows without looking that his brother is pressing his lips to a thin line, eyes flickering awkwardly around the room and rubbing the skin between his left cheek and nose bridge with his left thumb nail. Neither of you seem to actually notice him – well, Dean consciously chooses to ignore him.
Your name echoes through the war room again, and your eyes leave Dean’s to find the source of sound. Dean follows your gaze, not before he takes in a maybe not-so-subtle glance at the exposed flesh of your clavicle and the top of your breasts, and he sees Charlie beckoning you with her left hand in rapid movements to come over to the other group where she’s handing out more party hats.
You take in a breath, nodding. “Coming, I’m coming!” you shout over the music, waving quickly in acknowledgement. You pull your head away from Dean’s shoulder – the Mark clawing at the bones and muscles in Dean’s chest to make you stay – and turn your head upwards, smiling warmly at the three boys to show your gratitude at letting you capture the memory.
Dean doesn’t immediately remove his hand from your waist, instead letting the palm of his hand and splayed fingers drag slowly down your hip, past your thighbone, to reach the end of your skirt. He considers slipping his index finger under the hem to graze your bare thigh, oh how warm and soft you’ll be...what sweet little sound will you make when my fingers touch you there?
His palm starts to prickle. Sweat. Just like the Mark is. And now his breath wavers. Goes wonky.
But before Dean acts on the thought, you start walking over to the other group, along with all the air that was just in his lungs.
And Dean’s not quite sure, but there might just be a sway in your hips that’s just for him.
Maybe you do know the affect you have on him. Maybe you do want him the way he wants you.
And man, Dean feels as though he’s run a marathon. Not that he’s ever done that, but still.
His eyes track you as his hand returns to the side of his jean-cladded thigh, and the growing wet patch in his briefs where the swollen tip of his dick is pulsing is ruining.
Dean can feel Sam’s stare singeing the hair and burning the skin on the left side of his face – did Sam see the way he was watching you? Maybe his fingers skirting the flesh of your bare thigh? Or was it his breathing? – before the younger brother turns around to grab both his own and Garth’s unfinished beer bottles on the ground.
Dean doesn’t answer the look, though. You’re far too captivating.
Your body is bopping unrhythmically to Blondie’s Rapture playing on the speakers as you cross the bunker’s floor. Dean chuckles lowly at the sight, his eyebrows scrunching and heart imploding, and the feeling seems to cool the burn of the Mark like a balm. If you turned back and saw him laughing at you ‘dancing’, you’d blame it on the alcohol in your system, but Dean knows better – you just move like that when you’re happy. You pass the wooden table, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them into your mouth, before continuing over to a congregated group of Charlie, Cas, Sonny, Jody, Rudy, and Donna, who are all laughing at something Cas has said. Probably his new (attempt at a) joke about a box of antique coins that were so worn out he couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Funny.
As you reach the other group, there’s a sudden movement in front of Dean’s chest, fracturing his fixation on you. He looks down slightly, and Garth is holding out a cold and freshly opened beer bottle for him. Dean’s eyes meet Garth’s, who gives him a closed but warm smile, tilting the bottle towards Dean. He takes it with a quick nod and a thanks.
The bottle is wet and icy against Dean’s heated palm and fingers. He can feel his pulse, each long thrum, against the numbing cool. He raises the bottle’s finish to his lips and takes a long swig, rolling his shoulders back with a relaxing shudder as he swallows the cold liquid and briefly closes his eyes.
Sam and Garth have resumed their chatting and positions on each of Dean’s sides when his eyes reopen. Dean looks towards the other group in search of you, but can’t find any inch. His brows crease.
“Think we’ll be summoned for a group photo?”, and Dean’s hunting gaze is broken, turning to look questioningly at his brother, who motions to the left of him with a jolt of his head.
Dean follows the movement and spots a tripod set up on the other side of the room, facing the wall of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign.
Garth does a full body rock on his toes, nodding his head several times in quick succession, “Yes. Yes, that’s very smart of you, Sam.”
Dean and Sam look back towards Garth, brows raised.
“Garth, are you drunk?” Sam interrogates with an astounded tone and smile.
The string bean rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, “Dudes, I’ve drunk two whole beers. Of course I’m drunk.”
And Dean, old Dean, without the grip of the Mark Dean, would have let out a hearty laugh.
He did laugh after the first time Garth got drunk. Remembers it well.
But it won’t feed the Mark, so Dean forces a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, shakes his head in a ‘disbelief’ manner, and pulls his jaw to his chest so that neither Sam nor Garth can actually read his face.
When Dean lifts his head back up, he sees Rudy, Donna, and Jody walking over. Donna has her classic broad grin, dragging an eye-rolling but smiling Jody along with her, while Rudy follows, playing with the white elastic of his red party hat.
“Hiya, boys!” Donna bubbles, coming to a stop in front of Dean with Jody on her left and Rudy to her right, “thought we’d come over and see what you rascals were up to.” She wiggles her eyebrows at the three of them in front of her.
This is good.
Dean slides his arm to half hug, half clap Sam’s back, and looks at him with a sly, promising smile. “Sammy here was just telling Garth about the time we kicked ass at a Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie in good ol’ Kansas.”
Sam’s head snaps towards Dean in confusion, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Donna gasps in excitement, “Oh geez, that sounds scary!”
It definitely was for Sam.
“Go on, then!”
Yes, Sammy, do go on.
Everyone’s eyes are completely locked on Sam. Dean can tell he’s still clearly confused, but because he’s Sam, he’ll play it off. He knows his brother too well. And Sam does, with a somewhat composed exhale and a squint of his eyes back at Dean, before starting the story.
Dean’s left arm returns to his own body as he takes another sip of his warming but still refreshing beer and smirks in triumph. He can finally plan tonight, now. With no interruptions.
oh guys i SOOO hope you like this one!! feedback and thoughts are ALWAYS welcome so please let me know <333333 can't wait for yall to read the next part - she is juicy juicy, genuinely just pure smut for like 10k of it.
and a MASSIVE MASSIVE thank you to my best friend @m3owdypartner for listening to all my dramas with this fic and being my sounding board - I LOVE YOU!!!
Sam Winchester x F! Reader; Dean Winchester x F! Reader
Series Summary: After working with the Winchesters for years, you decide to test the waters and hopefully tempt the brothers into maybe giving into something all three of you want.
Content Warning: 18+. MDNI. Sexual tension. Explicit language. Flirting. Banter. Heavy petting. Sex Toys. Vaginal fingering. Thigh riding. Hand job. There will be no wincest. (I will try to remember to update as it goes.)
AO3 Link
This is my first time trying to make some sort of mood board so all I can say is that I tried. 😅
Inspired by @ambiguous-avery Three Hearts, One Flame series. I'm sorry I keep tagging you, I just want to make sure you get the credit you deserve because I love that series so much! 🩷
Temptation: Getting out of the shower, you try to tempt the boys into making a move. 1.4k word count
Charm: The next day, without wasting any time, each of the boys make a play to kiss you. 1.3k word count
Disarm: You decide to make Sam his morning smoothie before his run. He might need a cold shower rather than a run when you are done. 1.1k word count
Stunned: You just want to show your appreciation, and make Dean a pie. 1k word count
Entice: During a hunt, Sam decides to use the alone time with you to his advantage. Dean finally figures out that you know about the bet. 2k word count
Insight: Celebrating a successful hunt at the bar, Dean and Sam confront you about the bet. 1.6k word count
Undeterred: Back in the bunker, Sam and Dean decide to step up their game to break your willpower, but will they be successful or can you hold out? And more importantly, do you want to? 2.2k word count
Retaliation: When Dean cooks dinner, you and Sam have to clean the kitchen after. Sam decides he is going to show you just how good he is with his fingers. 3.1k word count
Mesmerized: In the following days after you and Sam have a moment in the kitchen, you find Dean working on the Impala in the bunker’s garage. You aren’t sure why he has been avoiding you, but hopefully you can patch things up. 3.5k word count
Exposed
Bribery
Invitation
Arrangement
Retribution
Fixation
Enamored
Desire
Gravitation
Title/Order of story is subject to change. But this is my plan currently.
Update: 4/10/26: I decided to change some things around and pull two stories. I'm still planning on writing them, but I was struggling with trying to find a way to continue the storyline with them. So I am putting them on a list of extra moments. But this is the main storyline.
When I post the next one tomorrow, we are officially light at the end of the tunnel with this series. I am so excited for everyone to read Exposed. I just edited it, and I really like how it turned out.
I just wanted to say thank you to everyone following this and encouraging me. This wouldn't be what it is without you guys!!! 🩷🩷
ⓘ contains . . mild sexual tension, intimate/romantic themes, suggestive situations, sensual sauna setting, female reader, leaning more towards fluff
word count . . 1,536
‧˚꒰ based on this ask ‧୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
୧ ‧₊˚ Thank you everyone for the support on my previous post so here are some more luffy thoughts ^^
୧ ‧₊˚ guidelines . nothing yet in masterlist !
The island was hotter than anyone expected. The kind of humidity that clung to your skin and made the air feel heavy, sticky, like it wanted to push you down. The crew had scattered, some exploring, some napping, leaving you and Luffy trailing behind him, following his unpredictable sense of “adventure.”
“C’mon!” he called, running ahead without waiting. “I found something!”
You laughed, chasing after him, your shoes squelching in the damp sand. “Luffy, slow down!”
But he didn’t. He never did. His energy was boundless, infectious, and impossible to resist. And so, with a playful groan, you sped up, catching his hand as he tried to dart past a rock formation.
“You’re slower than me!” he said, grinning, tugging you along.
“I’m not trying to be slow!” you protested, laughing.
Eventually, the path he dragged you down ended at a small, rustic bathhouse tucked behind a grove of palm trees. Steam curled lazily from the building, and the warm scent of wood and hot water hit your senses immediately.
“Uh– what is this?” you asked, curious, glancing at the wooden sign.
“A sauna!” Luffy said proudly. “Come on, it’s perfect. No one else is here!”
You raised an eyebrow. Luffy had a way of finding adventure in everything, even something as mundane as a sauna. But the heat that rolled off the building, the rising steam… it was strangely inviting.
Inside, the sauna was small, intimate. The air was thick and heavy, the warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. Luffy had already stripped down to his usual shorts, and you felt a flush creep up your neck—not because you were embarrassed, but because the air made every movement feel more intimate, more personal.
He grinned at you, oblivious, tugging you gently toward the wooden bench. “Sit here. It’s warm."
You settled down beside him, trying not to notice how close your legs were. The heat made it almost impossible to breathe normally, and every movement felt slow, deliberate, as if the sauna had suspended time.
Luffy didn’t say anything at first. He just sat, shoulder brushing yours, hand resting lazily on the bench near yours, close enough to touch if either of you moved. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was soft, comforting, electric.
He glanced at you sideways, that goofy, mischievous sparkle in his eyes softened into something else. Something quieter. Something unspoken.
“You’re really warm,” he said, voice low.
You laughed softly, the sound swallowed a little by the steam. “It’s the sauna.”
“No, you.” His smile was shy, a little unsure, but it made your chest tighten. “I like being close to you.”
You turned slightly to meet his gaze, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, the heat of the sauna and the warmth of each other. His usual chaotic energy was gone, replaced with this quiet focus. He was just Luffy, looking at you like you were the only person in the world.
He reached slowly, almost hesitantly, and brushed a damp strand of hair from your face. Your eyes met his, and you saw it—the way he couldn’t hide how much he wanted to be near you, the way his hand lingered just a second too long.
“You feel different here,” he murmured, voice rougher, more intimate. “Like, I don’t want to move. I just want this.”
Your heart raced. There was something in the way he said it, in the way his gaze softened and his body leaned just a fraction closer, that made your chest burn. This wasn’t silly Luffy. This wasn’t him joking or teasing. This was earnest.
“I feel it too,” you admitted, voice barely above the steam-filled air.
He grinned, but it was quiet, almost shy. He leaned closer, until your shoulders were touching fully, and every movement felt heavier, slower, charged. His hand moved, brushing your arm lightly, and you didn’t pull away.
“Hey,” he whispered, tilting his head toward you, “can I?”
You nodded, because you already knew the answer.
He leaned in, forehead resting lightly against yours, just close enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath. The heat of the sauna, your skin so close, the subtle scent of the island and the steam—it was intoxicating.
For a moment, time stopped. Luffy’s usual energy, his recklessness, his chaos—all of it was gone. There was only him, and you, and the quiet intimacy of being together, sharing something private in a world that was usually so loud.
He smiled softly, brushing his hand against yours, lacing fingers without saying a word. You rested your head slightly against his shoulder, letting yourself melt into the warmth, the closeness, the safety of him.
And in that moment, with the heat pressing in, the world outside forgotten, you realized something simple, undeniable this—just being close, just being near him—was everything.
Luffy didn’t need to be dramatic. He didn’t need to be loud. He didn’t need to fight or run or show off. Right now, just like this, he was perfect.
And you didn’t want to move.The steam wrapped around you like a cocoon, thick and warm, muting the sounds of the island outside. Every movement you made sent small waves through the air, making the room feel smaller, more private, more… yours.
Luffy didn’t speak. He rarely did here. It was like the silence was part of the intimacy—the quiet acknowledgment that being near each other was enough. His shoulder pressed a little more against yours, his hand still lightly holding yours, and it made your pulse spike every time he shifted.
He tilted his head slightly, just enough that your hair brushed against his cheek, and he let out a soft hum—not a laugh, not a “haha,” just a small, contented sound. Your heart clenched at it. It was rare to hear him like this, so quiet, so focused entirely on you.
Every glance he gave wasn’t chaotic or teasing. He wasn’t distracted by the sauna’s heat or the thought of adventure. He was watching you. Observing every subtle movement—the way your lips parted slightly, the way your hair fell over your shoulder, the curve of your eyes as they softened at him. And in the way he looked at you, it wasn’t just affection—it was admiration, wonder, and a touch of awe.
He shifted again, just a little closer, and you realized the small difference in your breathing. His hand slid up to gently brush your forearm, his thumb tracing tiny circles in a rhythm that felt instinctively comforting. You didn’t move away. How could you? He had a way of making the world narrow down to just you two. The heat, the steam, even the noise of the island—none of it mattered.
He leaned forward, tilting his head toward yours, as if asking permission without words. And somehow, you didn’t need him to ask. You leaned in too, letting the warmth of your forehead meet his, letting your breath mingle in the humid air.
Luffy’s hand finally moved fully to hold yours, fingers curling together, tight enough to feel like an anchor without feeling forced. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand absentmindedly, and you could feel how grounded he was, how sure of wanting this closeness, this quiet intimacy.
He didn’t kiss you—not yet. Not in a dramatic way. Not with shouting or chaos. He just stayed there, close enough that your shoulders pressed together, that your legs brushed, that the small shared heat of your bodies made the moment almost electric.
And yet, he didn’t need to. He didn’t need words or grand gestures. Just being near you—just watching you, holding your hand, breathing in the same hot, fragrant air—was enough.
He shifted slightly so his cheek rested near yours, just brushing your temple with his jaw. You could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and calm, and it sent a warmth spiraling through your chest. You realized he wasn’t just holding you physically close. He was holding your attention, your trust, your focus. He wanted this intimacy, this shared space, to be real, gentle, and slow—not chaotic, not rushed.
Luffy’s eyes softened as he finally dared to look directly at you, really look, the kind of look that made it obvious he wasn’t joking, wasn’t teasing, wasn’t distracted. He wanted you. Entirely, utterly, simply.
And in that quiet, warm sauna, you realized that the chaotic, adventurous Luffy could also be this patient, gentle, and fully present. That the way he held you, not with force or intensity but with care, could be more intoxicating than any grand gesture he’d ever made.
You let your head rest just a little more against his shoulder, hand intertwined with his, heart racing but strangely calm. For the first time in a while, you didn’t think about what would come next, what anyone else might say, or what the world outside would demand. You just existed here, with him.
And Luffy, he was exactly the same. Not loud, not reckless, not chaotic. Just him. Just Luffy. And just you.
The heat, the steam, the gentle brush of skin and hand—it was enough. And somehow, that made it feel like it would always be enough.
hi!! i love love love your writing and i wanted to make a request or two since i sea they were open, ofc you can ignore whichever :) i was wondering what your take would be on a jealous reader after seeing Sanji flirting with the bar girl in that scene in whiskey peak, i was thinking maybe reader is a strawhat who tries to hide what they feel for him as to not cause trouble in the group as well as not believing in their crush being requited, maybe another crewmate (whoever u feel like!) can notice and approach them to talk, which sanji sees and worries. pls make it as angsty as u want, if anything don’t let it be unrequited, let the reader have a somewhat happy ending (?), or even make it a two part where the reader gets heartbroken after seeing him take the women upstairs and they get cold with him. im sorry this is quite long and ambitious i just wanted to give u some ideas!!! thankful for whatever u do! 🫶🏻
"Somebody to someone" - Sanji x Reader x Zoro
WORDCOUNT: ~2.5k
The bar is filled with music and chatter. Although the sun set a few hours ago, the place remains just as lively as before. Tomorrow is far away, even imagined. Whatever difficulties its arrival shall bring are of no concern to the people at the bar. In their mirthful hearts, that night is all there ever was and will be.
The bottle almost slips out of Sanji’s hand. The well-practised trick is saved only because of his dextrous fingers and quick thinking. He doesn’t let on – the flirtatious smile on his face never falls. Sanji, however, knows all too well what caused his little-big distraction. Before he allows himself to dwell on that, Sanji pours the mixed drink into a glass and serves the woman at the counter. The smooth and suave facade remains unchanged.
Out of the corner of his eye, where most people see dancing shadows and creeping nightmares, Sanji watches his personal horror: you’re sitting next to Zoro, by the bar, laughing at something he has just said. Your hand is holding the man’s arm as you excitedly ask him a question. The corner of Zoro’s lips raises slightly, twisting his mouth into a sly smirk. He takes a sip of his beer, still staring at you and drawing out the anticipation. Finally, he gives you a short, casual answer. Your eyes widen in surprise and you laugh loudly, head thrown back. Sanji doesn’t miss how Zoro’s smirk turns into a smile.
Maybe that’s the kind of man he needs to become? A nonchalant, beer-and-peanuts, more-brawn-than-brains sort? To his own surprise, Sanji considers that for a moment. Just as quickly as the thought appears, he realises there’s a considerable obstacle: he could never be nonchalant about you. Being blase in the face of your affection would be stupid at best and completely delusional at worst. A fool would never realise the blessing put upon him, while a madman would think he is deserving of it. Sanji lets out a bitter chuckle. What a ridiculous thought! To be your equal, not a dog lying at your feet. There isn’t a course of history where that could become a reality for him. Sanji shall always be an unimportant planet spinning around the marvellous sun of you. While he’s grown to accept that fact, he’s never quite made peace with it. He can acknowledge an undeniable law of nature, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.
Sanji’s attention is diverted by a sultry voice all too close to his face:
“I’m not sure what I’d like tonight. Something sweet and strong, maybe?”
His eyes meet the beckoning gaze of two beautiful women. Something should stir inside him at such a gorgeous sight, yet he’s wholly uninterested. They’re smiling at him, awaiting his response. Sanji notices the mischievous glint in their eyes, instantly recognising their thoughts and desires. He could call them his own but their name would always be yours.
Sanji hears your laughter again. Jealousy and anger claw at him, his chest tightens. At that moment, he still longs for the woman who would never look his way, while two other women put their dignity on the line to have his attention. Maybe Sanji is finally ready to accept what he’s always known – you’re never going to love him the way he loves you and it’s utterly useless to dwell on that.
“You’re in luck, ladies,” he answers. “I know just the taste to have you begging for more.”
The women laugh at his words. Both of them lean forward, luring Sanji’s eyes to delve lower than good manners allow. He accepts the silent invitation. He’s a free man, after all. Sanji has no duty to another; he never made a vow of unyielding love.
Sanji once again prepared a cocktail in a highly gimmicky and impractical way. Despite the pretentiousness of the show he’s putting on for the beautiful strangers, there’s a lot more smoothness in his actions. His movements appear calculated.
At first glance, a handsome man doing his best to impress women is akin to an exotic male bird performing a dance to entice a female mate. To Sanji, however, the ritual has the complete opposite purpose. As naive as people in love tend to be, he believes that he can pour out his affection along with some vermouth; that logic and feelings are nothing more but lime juice and rum, mixed together into something new and more palatable than they are individually.
Sanji’s attempt at distracting himself from you seems to be working for the most part. Those two women are definitely enjoying both his cocktails and his attention. He even manages not to seethe with jealousy when he hears your laughter. He knows Zoro isn’t that entertaining. The sound of your happiness pierces his chest as though someone had touched an unhealed, open wound. Sanji forces his thoughts to go elsewhere, not dwell on how he’d risk everything to be the one making you laugh. Whether it’s a method of moving on from someone who could never love him or actual masochism, in those moments, Sanji turns his flirting up a notch. It’s all naive – he tries to convince himself that if he can seduce another woman, then he’s not really in love with you. Stuck between anger and sorrow, he might realise it was never going to work.
The true moment of reckoning comes with the proposition. When he is asked to join the two women somewhere more private, Sanji can’t help but glance in your direction. Tears are almost pooling in his eyes as he sees you lying with your head on top of Zoro’s shoulder. Sanji understands. Some may call it closure but to him it’s just a bitter end to a sad movie. You hope for a happy ending only if you haven’t read the synopsis.
Anger, jealousy and disinterest in the two women all mix into something unspeakably heavy. It churns inside him, making his entire body numb. His heart clenches painfully. When Sanji thinks he can’t take that anymore, the agony subsides. Now, there is nothing. Pure hopelessness. Pure apathy.
Sanji agrees and follows the two women upstairs. They don’t notice his sudden change in mood. Maybe he can pretend, even if for a few hours, that he’s more than some fun to them; that, in some capacity, they care about him.
He just wants to be somebody to someone; someone to you.
Although Zoro doesn’t have the inclination to embellish his stories, you still can’t quite believe what he’s telling you. It’s just too ludicrous.
You laugh at the conclusion to yet another unbelievable story. Thinking how talented Zoro is in terms of getting into all sorts of trouble, you shake your head slightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Sanji leaning over the bar counter, whispering something to an unfamiliar woman. She giggles and blushes in a way only befitting juvenile girls. Suddenly, it all comes back to you – every sweet word and sensual touch shared with other women but never you. It’s happened too many times for it to be just a coincidence. No, Sanji is actively denying you his affections.You know you’re too grown to be dwelling on such matters but in your heart of hearts, you’re just a woman in love. It’s impossible to argue your way out of something irrational.
Zoro lets out a heavy sigh. “Okay, what is it?” he asks, visibly annoyed. “If you keep staring at him like that, everyone will know your little secret.”
As much as his teasing irritates you, Zoro is correct. In fact, it was your stare that made him aware of your love for Sanji. You swore him to secrecy, accidentally giving him wonderful leverage to get whatever he wanted without complaints.
You lay your head on crossed arms on top of the bar counter. When Zoro takes a sip of his beer, you watch him from above your shoulder. The lighting of the bar accentuates his features, making his jaw look a little sharper and his lips plumper.
“Am I being stupid?” you ask.
The man raises his eyebrows. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
His answer makes you roll your eyes. “Zoro, I’m serious.”
“Me too.” He stares at his bottle for a moment. Despite his teasing, he’s actually considering your question. The silence ends with his sigh. “Right now, he’s trying to be all smooth with some random girl he’s never seen before and you’re sitting here all alone.” Zoro meets your teary gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. “Does that answer your question?”
“Yeah,” you whisper more to yourself than him. Thoughts and feelings scattered, you continue to quietly watch Zoro drink. Right then, as a drop of condensation runs along the beer bottle, do you realise that Zoro might yet hold important answers. You sit up, momentarily invigorated. “You’re a man, Zoro.”
He gives you a questioning look. “How observant.”
The quip earns him a playful slap on the shoulder. You almost miss the look of amusement on his face. He’s clearly enjoying getting under your skin. “I mean, you know what men think. What they like. So what is it that I’m missing?” You point to yourself. Zoro looks you up and down in the same way one might review a dinghy. “Am I not sexy enough? Or smart enough? Pretty enough?”
A short-lived silence falls between the two of you. Zoro stares at you for a moment, pondering what to answer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. There’s a strange tension in his posture, as though he’s unsure whether he should share something with you. His gaze scatters, focusing on anything that isn’t you. Whatever words he has in mind, he dismisses them and instead says:
“You should ask the slimy waiter himself.”
Your groan makes Zoro tighten the grip on his bottle.
“Oh, that’s such great advice, Zoro.” The deadpan delivery is enough to make your point. “I never would have thought of that myself. Excuse me for a minute while I go up to Sanji and ask him directly why he’s flirting with every woman he meets but not me. That should go down well.”
Zoro is still avoiding your gaze. Although it would be more accurate to state that he’s not avoiding it per se – something else has caught his attention. A mischievous smirk appears on his face.
Still holding a bottle of beer in his hand, he points across the bar with one of his fingers. “I think that’s your answer.”
Your eyes follow in the right direction. There, you see a scene about as shocking as it should be obvious: Sanji is talking to two women, clearly admiring their exposed chests. None of them seems to be holding onto, even pretend, good behaviour. Judging how vigorously he begins to mix their drinks, Sanji has just gotten his favourite kind of tip.
“That’s–...” You hang your voice before you can say something crude. “I’m gonna need another drink.”
Zoro, the man that he is, opens another beer for you. The glass is cold and wet with condensation. First, you hold it against your cheek, enjoying the chill on your hot skin. When you finally take a sip, you have a moment of questioning Zoro’s judgement. You’ve had beer before, you’ve had bad beer before, but the taste of this one made you realise that “bad” is a bit too broad a category. Honestly, how could Zoro drink one after another? Maybe all the awful alcohol he’s drunk in his life has burned off his taste buds. Or, more realistically, he appreciated the effect, not the palate.
Mixed with the beer on your tongue is a bitter sense of amusement. Is that really the man you’ve been longing for? The kind whose attention can be bought with nice bodies and revealing clothes? Perhaps the funniest part was thinking you could have Sanji all to yourself. How could such a man hold you dear if the only dear thing to him is his own desire?
The two of you are watching from afar as Sanji continues to sweet-talk two women. They’re giggling and blushing – whatever he’s saying seems to be working extremely well.
“What do you think he’s telling them?” asks Zoro.
“The women or the girls?” you answer. Zoro almost chokes on his beer, laughing. “I really don’t care at this point,” you add, in between chuckles.
“Will you do me the honour of telling me your order, ma’am?” Zoro mocks the blond man. “Such spectacular bosoms, may I sample them, ma’am? Would you kindly hit me with a shovel if it was no trouble, ma’am?”
Your howling laughter could be considered embarrassing if you had the wherewithal to busy yourself with etiquette. Tears fill your eyes for the second time tonight, except right now, they’re welcome. Seeing that his joke had landed perfectly, Zoro smiles to himself, proud of the small achievement. A thought passes through his mind: you look absolutely adorable when you squint your eyes while laughing.
As though laughter was something magical, this moment of amusement clears your head. Sanji and his easy-to-gain interest are but a speck of dust, a matter so unimportant that thinking about it is wasting energy. So what if he desires every woman except for you? There’s nothing special about publicly available affection.
When you calm down, you review Zoro’s performance. “He doesn’t sound like that.”
He’s quick to agree. “You’re right, there should be more whining.”
Too busy laughing again, you don’t notice how Zoro doesn’t let his gaze stray from you. The longer his eyes linger on your face, the wider his smile gets. In some other life, he’d be sending ‘thank you’ cards to the cook.
Lost in this newfound feeling, Zoro suddenly finds himself staring into your eyes. You’re much closer than you were before. A sense of anxiety and excitement blooms in his chest. “Good to see you smiling again,” he says, trying his best to stay calm and collected.
“Thanks, Zoro,” you answer, with a sigh. Starting to feel tired from all the emotions packed into one evening, you place your head on his shoulder. For a short moment, you get the impression that Zoro is flexing his muscles. “I know I’m not exactly cheery tonight.”
Fortunately, his voice doesn’t shake when he answers. “It’s cool”.
In the distance, you see Sanji following those two women upstairs. There’s no doubt about their intentions. As the unruly, woeful thoughts crawl into your mind again, you close your eyes. You try to focus on this moment of peace. There’s only you, disgusting beer and always reliable Zoro. Sanji is… a phantom. He continues to haunt, yes, but that's just what phantoms do. Yet, ghosts tend to disappear when morning comes. Will yours too?
You just want to be somebody to someone; someone to him.
____
a/n: uhh this has essentially turned into Zoro x Reader
