₊˚⊹♡ lovegame | sam winchester x reader | part one
a/n - HI :D i am SO excited to have the muse to be writing again omg and i am even more excited for this series hehe i have so many parts already planned out. ty to everybody who has still been reading my fics while i’ve been gone / waiting for me to post again ily guys :( happy reading !!
cws - fem!reader, 2.2k words, established dom/sub contract, dom!sam, smut, lawyer!sam, use of “sir”, fingering, minor aftercare, finger sucking, praise
requests are open for this series
other fics can be found on my masterlist
By five o’clock, the day was dragging by. She’d finished up all her paperwork by two, so for the past couple of hours all she’d had to do was meet clients in the reception and bring them to his office for their scheduled meetings. Whenever she told people that she was a secretary it was often shrugged off as something meaningless, and though it had never been what she’d aspired for, her job could be difficult. In the months she’d been there she had learned a lot about law and business, professionalism, and most of all how people were assholes. She’d had two separate people try to argue that their scheduled meeting was that afternoon when it was in fact not, and a higher number of male clients hitting on her as they waited their turn.
It was a little exhausting, but there were plus sides. Her healthcare plan, for one, was much better than any place she’d ever worked. The salary wasn’t terrible, the commute there and home wasn’t so bad, and-
Her phone on her desk rang, and she picked it up without glancing at the caller ID.
“Can you come in here for a moment, please?”
Her eyes flickered up to the door adjacent to her desk at the end of the hallway, the plaque on the front, Mr. S. Winchester.
Right. And him.
She got to her feet and tucked her chair back under her desk, smoothed her skirt out as she rounded her little corner and went over to the door. Two knocks against the door, then she stepped inside when she heard him calling her.
Sam was sat behind his desk, laptop open, papers and books piled neatly at the side of his desk that he’d been using all afternoon.
Some days went by and she barely saw him, spare once in the morning and once in the evening when he came back after court. Other days, he spent all day there. Those days she liked best.
“Shut the door, please,” he didn’t look up from his computer until the door had already clicked shut, room quiet spare the tap tapping of his keyboard. When he did finally look up, his eyes took a sweep over her before they eventually landed on her eyes. “Have you finished all of your work for today?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded.
“Good. Come here.”
Her heels scuffed against the carpeted floor of his office as she walked over to him, hesitating at the side of his desk as he shut the lid of his laptop. Behind him were bookshelves filled with expensive looking books she rarely saw touched. The wall was lined with framed certificates like Postgraduate Diploma in Law, Samuel W. Winchester. There was a framed picture of a woman on the bookcase, as well as another man, family she presumed. Everything was so neat, so organised, even the stack of papers on his desk was tidy.
Sam sighed, fingers popping the buttons of his cuffs so he could roll up his sleeves. To anybody else it would’ve looked so casual, just a long day behind him.
She wasn’t anybody else.
“I said here.”
His voice had deepened just a smidge and had her stomach clenching as she rounded the desk to be stood in front of him. All muscle and long legs in the suits he wore every day, she couldn’t help but just stare.
Sam’s foot pressed to the floor to spin his chair to face her. Long legs were spread enough to leave room between them for her as his hands came up to hold her hips, tugging her forwards until her shin was pressed to the lip of his chair, his thighs pressed to hers.
“Don’t be so shy,” he murmured, hands skimming up from her hips to her waist, where he cupped her ribs just under the curve of her breasts. “You look so pretty today, have I told you that?”
She breathed around the bubbling arousal in her gut. “No.”
His eyes lifted. “No?”
“No, sir.” She quickly corrected, flushing.
It was one of his rules, the addressing. One of many rules, actually. When they’d started this… arrangement, he’d made her sign an actual contract before he’d even touched her. Okays, limits, safe words, responsibilities, and rules. The dress code, the titles, the unwavering trust she had to have in him otherwise this just wouldn’t work. He told her to jump, she asked how high, so on and so forth. It had only been a month since she’d scribbled her signature at the bottom of the contract that she knew he kept in the third drawer down on his desk, locked away with other more important documents. They hadn’t gone too far, not really. She stayed professional during the work day, came when he called, and so far they’d only played in the confinements of his office. She’d cum more bent over his desk or in his lap more than she had in her own bed. Sometimes it felt embarrassing, mostly it felt thrilling.
“Hm,” a large hand lifted to cup the side of her face, and Sam’s thumb pressed into her jaw, tilted her head down towards him. “I guess I’ll have to make that up to you, won’t I?”
“Yes, sir.” She breathed, an aroused twinge in her gut.
His eyes seemed to have darkened as his free hand slid downwards, between her thighs. His fingers that disappeared beneath the fabric of her skirt were warm, against the skin of her legs, then against her pussy where he cupped her through her panties. Her breathing hitched and her fingers curled into her hands at her sides — she never touched him without permission, she never did anything without his permission. It was just how this worked.
“Hold onto my shoulders,” Sam murmured, as his thumb found the bead of her clit, circling with a horrible pressure that made her legs feel like jelly.
Her hands landed on his shoulders, fingers gripped tight as he touched her. Pleasure shot up her belly and she whimpered, shifting on her feet. “Sir,” she breathed, squeezed her eyes shut as he pressed a little harder and more dizzying between her legs. “Do you- mmh- do you want me to sit on the desk?” It was where he usually put her, when she wasn’t in his lap.
“No,” he murmured. “You can stay standing for me. And open your eyes.”
Her eyes snapped open to see him lean closer, his mouth warm against her throat where he started kissing and licking. If there was one thing about Sam it was that he was careful. He never left marks where other people could see, they were for his eyes only. Above the collar his kisses were gentle and wet.
His fingers had dipped beneath the fabric of her panties and she moaned as a finger slipped into her slick heat, stroking against her walls in a way that made her ripple with pleasure.
“Unbutton your blouse,” he murmured against her throat. “and tell me how that feels.”
Her left hand gripped tighter to his shoulder to compensate as her right left, trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons one by one. “Good,” she breathed, moaning as a second long finger slid in beside the first, stroking at her front wall. “Fuck- fuck, so good.”
“Yeah?” His kisses travelled down down down until his lips were dancing over the dip of her cleavage, licking at the soft flesh of her breasts that weren’t covered by her bra. A set that Sam had said he liked two weeks ago, that she put on more frequently than others. She hadn’t even owned much nice underwear until this started, since then she’d prioritised buying some when she could. After Sam had fucked her with her most embarrassing day-of-the-week underwear on — to make it worse she was wearing tuesday on a friday — she’d not let herself get in that situation again.
His fingers stroked forwards and pressed against that spot and she moaned, head falling forwards to rest against the top of his, willing to be able to sit back onto the desk but wanting more than anything to impress him, to do as he said.
“Oh, honey,” he cooed, voice sickly sweet, murmured against her collarbone where he’d been sucking a mark into her skin. “You’re getting close, aren’t you? Don’t you have something to ask me?”
She whimpered, fingers screwing into his shirt as her legs started trembling. “Please.” She whispered.
His tongue clicked as he sat back, green eyes meeting hers. “You can do better than that.”
“Please- ah- please can I cum-”
The look on his face could only be described as satisfied. Sam’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, drinking her in as she trembled and moaned in front of him. Just two fingers had so much power over her. Nobody had ever known her body as well as he did, and she wasn’t sure anybody ever would.
“Please can I cum, what?”
“Please can I cum sir?” She whined, desperation laced in every word, between every letter. Her pussy had started to pulse deliciously around his fingers, it wasn’t long until she had no control over her orgasm, and she’d cum without permission before, she knew how sore her ass would be on her commute home if she did.
Sam’s thumb found her clit as he continued fucking up into her with his fingers, and he nodded. “Go ahead, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”
It only took two more curls of his fingers for it all to crest and she whined, gripping his shoulders for dear life as her cunt rippled and her stomach clenched, stealing breath from her lungs. He kept fingering her until she'd ridden it out, twitchy and whiny with his fingers in her overstimulated pussy. She was panting as he pulled out, and watched as he lifted his hand out from under her skirt. Her cum was stringing from one finger to the other as he held his hand out in front of her with one simple instruction, “Suck.”
Gladly she took his fingers into her mouth, moaning around them at the familiar taste, her taste, and didn’t think much as he stood from his chair, free hand pressed to her waist to guide her back until she could have the relief of leaning against his desk.
He didn’t pull his fingers out of her mouth until she’d caught her breath, and by that point it was like a switch had flipped inside of him. She was handed two tissues and a bottle of water from beneath his desk, opened before it was pressed into her hands. As she sipped the water he stepped closer once more, his fingers — now wiped clean with a third tissue he’d used for himself — buttoning up her blouse and tucking it back into her skirt.
“Are you alright?” Sam’s voice had softened, as had his eyes.
She nodded as she finished drinking, bottle placed behind her on his desk. “Yes, sir,” she breathed. “Thank you.”
His eyes flickered over her face before he leaned down, and his mouth was pressed against hers. Slow, lazy, his tongue licked at her lips but never pressed further, kissing just to kiss. She moaned against his mouth regardless, brain a little floaty and not thinking much as her hand reached for his belt. “Do you want me to-”
“No,” his fingers closed around her wrist and pushed her hand away. “You’re done for today, honey.”
She frowned, unable to help it. “But you didn’t even get to cum, are you sure?”
“I said no,” though his words were tinged with that dominance he lifted her hand up and kissed her fingers. “I’m alright. I just wanted to touch you today,” as quickly as he’d taken her hand he let it go, stepped away completely, instead turning to gather his papers and books. “Are you going to be alright getting home?”
She nodded a little dumbly. This was the part she never liked. Sam was always so quick to finish up and get it over with, whereas she’d have happily spent hours in his office, pleasing him and being pleased by him.
“Good. You’re done for the day, thank you for your help,” when she didn’t move he looked up at her, and for a moment she thought he might come over and kiss her again. He didn’t. “You were a good girl for me.”
That was enough. Her brain buzzed happily with the praise, unable to help her bashful smile as she finally pushed off of the desk. Her legs were still a little shaky but nothing she couldn’t manage. “Thank you, sir.”
She left him to finish up his own work, gathering her things from her desk and making her way out. On the train ride home, squished in her seat between other passengers, earbuds drowning all the noise out, she thought of the way his fingers had felt pressed inside of her, his lips on her skin, voice in her ear. She felt herself getting wet at just the thought of him, and it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d had to go home and touch herself to the memory of what had transpired that day. Nor would it be the last.
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heya guys, if I could borrow your help again that woukd be awesome; theres an account on tumblr (@/thatangelwriter) whos been stealing fics word for word from @chxrrywines. this account has stolen two of her supernatural fics, and i have good reason (but no proof bcs I don't read cod fics) that other people have had their cod fics stolen. if yall could hop on over to @/thatangelwriter and report, that would be great. nobody deserves to have their content stolen, especially by someone who claimed in their pinned post that their work is originally theirs. keep an eye out for this kind of thing, if you see someone's work stolen by am account, let the OP now about it and report the account (if you see my works out there from someone else, please tell me)
hi coming out of my cave because i’ve just found out that someone has been stealing my fics :/ circled the time stamps so you know i’m not lying
this person posts for multiple fandoms so i’d just check to make sure they haven’t stolen anybody else’s work !! i scrolled through their account and saw clark kent and simon riley posts so there’s a chance they’re all stolen :/
stealing peoples work isn’t cool !! thank you @samlou and @tusk-rumours for letting me know ilysm <33
Summary: Weed can have an array of effects on people. Some get tired. Some get a feeling of intense euphoria. Some eat everything they can find in their fridge. And you? Apparently, getting stoned makes you really want to fuck your best friend. Or, maybe, it’s not the weed at all.
CW: Marijuana use, shotgunning, mutual pining, oral (f!rec), fingering, protected piv, praise kink, sweet Sam, littleee bit of a size kink, lots of communication, aftercare, soo much domestic fluff it’ll make you sick
WC: 13.4K
When you started at Stanford University, you weren’t expecting anything special.
Sure, you were excited. Ecstatic, actually. Hell, you worked your ass off for four years, and maintained a weighted 4.0 GPA, just for this. So when you received your acceptance, you were over the moon.
But you’re smart. You kept your expectations low. Spent the first few weeks entirely focused on learning the campus. Made sure you knew all the best study spots. Memorized what to and what not to eat in the meal hall.
By week two, you could navigate to your classes so well, you could do it blindfolded.
So, needless to say, when you’re so zeroed in on being the perfect student, making friends doesn’t come easy. Or, it didn’t, at first.
But then he came along.
The first time you ran into him, you were rushing out of your dorm, because you were ten minutes behind schedule. Well. Your own, personal, made up schedule… so technically, you were late for absolutely nothing. But that’s not how it felt.
You’d been running to the elevator, since you lived on the ninth floor, absolutely determined to get to the library to study by six o’clock sharp (which, unfortunately for you, was in three minutes).
That’s when you heard a yell. A deep, masculine voice, calling out for you to stop the doors before they could close. You didn’t.
Which, hey, maybe that’s rude. But you weren’t exactly in the mood to be holding doors for people (you could’ve), not when you were late (you weren’t).
It takes all of four seconds for you to realize your mistake, though, because he makes it into the elevator anyway. Oops.
When he slips inside the small space, the first thing you think is holy shit he’s tall. Like, at least six-foot-two, well over. No wonder he made it, with those legs.
You make a point of not looking him in the eye, after you’ve just very rudely blatantly ignored him. But he doesn’t kick up a fuss. He doesn’t say anything, actually, which is almost worse than being pissed. Just breathes quickly from his little sprint, and nods at you when he leaves. Huh.
You thought that would be the end of it. Stanford is a big school, after all. But, because you have the worst (best?) luck in all of history, it wasn’t.
You start to run into him. A lot. He’s kind of hard to miss, being massive and all (and gorgeous), so you notice. You meet him a couple times in that same elevator. A handful of times in your meal hall. Once or twice in the library. After a week, you’re almost sure that you’re being stalked—until you realize he just lives in the same dorm building as you.
One day, a day that you were not late, and you were standing in the elevator, you saw him. He was walking towards you, or, more likely, the elevator. He didn’t call out, or run. But this time, you held the door. He smiled.
And fucking Christ, he had a beautiful smile.
It’s that day that you learn that his name is Sam. He’s from Kansas, but his family moved around. A lot. He’s in his first year, just like you, but he’s studying pre-law. He likes to read. Doesn’t really party, but he’s not opposed to a fun night every once in a while. He hates Halloween (damn psychopath). Oh, and he’s six-foot-four. You were close.
Somehow, despite your absolutely terrible first impression (which you have apologized about. A lot), you and Sam become friends. And then best friends. Until by the beginning of your third year, the two of you are practically attached at the hip.
He knows everything about you, and you know everything about him. You study together. You grab breakfast, lunch, and, occasionally, dinner together. He knows your coffee order. He knows what shampoo you use. He knows that you crack your knuckles when you’re nervous, and grind your teeth when you’re focused. Hell, he knows everything down to your favourite pair of socks: the fuzzy ones with dogs on them, that you wear every time the two of you curl up in his dorm to watch a movie.
Which, actually, is your plan for the night.
You show up at Sam’s dorm at exactly ten o’clock, decked out in fluffy candy cane patterned pajama pants, because c’mon, it’s finally December, along with a black tank top. (Oh, and your socks. Always your socks.)
The halls are quiet. The only sound is the radiator buzzing at the end of the hall, the shuffling of your slippers on the carpet floor, and the crinkle of your chip bag as you manoeuvre the handful of items you’re carrying to knock on his door.
He’s swinging the door open before you get the chance, though. Smiling down at you with those sweet puppy-dog-eyes, messy bangs falling over his forehead. He’s just as ready as you are, plaid pajama pants low on his hips, and some loose t-shirt. Well. It would be loose, if it wasn’t for Sam being fucking ripped.
Not that you’re paying attention to that, or anything.
“Hey,” you greet, pushing past him before he can even invite you in, like you own the damn place. Because at this point? It’s yours as much as it is his.
“Hope you’ve picked a movie already, because I really don’t want to watch you scroll through the menu for thirty minutes.”
Sam steps aside, watching you with an amused smirk on his face, an unlit joint slotted between his fingers.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he teases, nudging the door closed with his sock-covered foot. “Didn’t realize we were on a strict movie-watching schedule tonight.”
You make your way to his bed, dumping your collection of snacks onto his bedside table, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, and M&M’s, before settling onto the pillows. You pry open the bag of chips you snagged without a word, but you roll your eyes at his teasing.
Sam watches you with a look on his face that’s a little hard to decipher. Mock annoyance, yes. But there’s more. Something almost fond, that makes your heart skip a beat.
He follows after you a moment later, though, flopping down on the bed next to you, long limbs stretched along the length of the mattress. “But for your information,” he adds, pointing at you with that joint like it’s his finger, “I have picked one. A classic. The Thing.”
Oh, of course. Of course he chooses that one, again, like the two of you haven’t seen it more times than you can count.
Deep down, you know why. He does exactly this, every time it’s his turn to pick a movie. Picks something you’ve both already seen. So that way, when you inevitably start rambling about something stupid, he doesn’t have to pause or rewind. He can just listen. Because he’s sweet like that.
You don’t comment on it, though. You just hum at his words, and pop a chip into your mouth.
There’s a fleeting moment where he just studies you. The way you made yourself at home. The way you look so at ease, relaxed. He even glances down at your socks for a moment, and you swear his expression changes again. Full of affection. Affection that only comes from seeing something that’s so you.
But then his eyes flicker back to your face, and he laughs, watching you stuffing a handful of chips into your mouth without any shame.
“…Sun Chips? Really? After last time? You said those were the reason that rat found my dorm—”
You cut him off by smushing your hand against his mouth, and his brows pinch together, nose scrunching up in such an adorable way that your face warms up just a little. Somehow, though, you manage to keep a straight face.
“Don’t talk about that rat, Winchester, or I’ll kick your ass.”
An empty threat? Probably. But you still grimace at the memory. Stanford may be a nice school, but the dorms are old. And apparently, not rat proof.
He peels your hand off his face, acting like it takes a lot more effort than it really does (because, c’mon. You’ve seen those biceps), before he’s speaking again.
“Fine, no rat talk,” he agrees, showing you his palms in mock surrender. But because he thinks he’s hilarious, and because he’s an ass, he continues. “Though, for the record, you screamed. I calmly assessed the sit—”
You cut him off by jamming your elbow into his ribs, which makes him yelp, before breaking out in a laughing fit that is way too boyish for a massive twenty year old man. And way too cute.
He does it on purpose, really. Riling you up so you shove him, pinch him, flick his forehead, before giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s masochism, seriously.
Even through your attack, a smile creeps its way onto your lips. Hard not to, when he’s laughing like that, with the worlds prettiest smile on his face, dimples and all.
Sam mutters to himself, something about not knowing why he puts up with you, as he leans for the remote. Said remote is on his bedside table, or, literally right next to you, so why he doesn’t just ask for it, you’re unsure. But this means that he quite literally stretches on top of you, all massive, two-hundred-something pounds of Winchester, and you can tell he’s doing it on purpose.
“Sam!” you protest, but you can’t hide the laugh that comes along with it, as you shove him playfully. He doesn’t stop, though, you see that dimple popping, grabbing the remote with mock innocence.
The closeness means that all of his Sam-warmth is pressed against you. ‘I run hot’, he always says, which is the understatement of the century, based on how he feels like a human furnace over you. And God, you can smell him, all masculine and woodsy and so him…
Jesus Christ, what are you doing?
By the time he leans back to his side of the bed, your face has gone a little red. If he notices, he doesn’t bring it up. Just leans back against his pillows with an exaggerated sigh, clicking play, then tossing the remote somewhere on his blankets. That’s something for the two of you to worry about later, when you’re tearing his dorm apart to find it.
The opening notes of ‘The Thing’s eerie track creep in as he scoots just a little closer, just enough so your shoulders touch, and he fidgets with the joint in his fingers like he’s spinning a pen.
“Comfy?” he asks, quietly, and his voice isn’t full of playful teasing or mock-annoyance anymore. No, it’s fallen right back into sweet, soft Sam, that makes you feel like your insides have been set aflame. Your heart does a stupid little somersault.
“Mhm,” you hum, and you have to forcefully ignore the sparks that are currently exploding under your skin where your shoulders touch. Get it together.
To distract yourself, and maybe as an excuse to get a little closer, you lean forward, grabbing hold of his blanket, and you tuck it over the two of you. You let yourself fall into a more reclined position, melting into his sheets.
You make it all of five minutes into the movie, watching the helicopter chase the ‘dog’ with a grimace on your face, like you haven’t seen it a hundred times over already, before you’re breaking the silence.
“So… do you know what you’re doing for Christmas break this year? It’s in, like, two weeks, which is insane,” you start, crunching a chip between your teeth. “I’m still deciding if I want to book a plane ticket home…”
Sam smiles like he anticipated this (he did), and makes no move to pause the movie. He just stares at the screen, but tilts his head towards you slightly as he speaks.
“Two weeks? Jesus. Don’t remind me. I still have to study for finals…”
He runs his hand over his face, before letting his head fall back against his headboard with a thud.
“Honestly? I’m staying here. Again.”
It was an answer you expected, but you hum all the same. Sam was never the type to go home during holidays, or, well, ever. He barely spoke about them beyond the odd comment about his brother, Dean.
He finally turns to you, just slightly, elbow propped up on the mattress. “I mean, we’ve got heat now that they ‘fixed’ the boiler, so no more sleeping in ten layers like last year. And campus is practically empty, anyway. Can study wherever.”
You let out a little laugh at that, memories of receiving Sam’s whiny phone calls ringing through your head, when you’d slipped away after dinner on Christmas Eve just to call him. ‘It’s freezing,’ he’d complained, ‘I can’t even feel my ass!’
“Oh, yeah? So no more waking up not being able to feel your fingers?” you tease, turning to look at him, movie forgotten.
He hums in response, nodding exaggeratedly like this is the most important conversation in the world, before continuing. “Uh-huh. I mean, why fly across the country for a week for a family who doesn’t even do Christmas, when you can stay where it’s warm, and eat half-cooked turkey in meal hall?”
“Wow. Great upselling, Sam,” you tease, but you can’t keep the smile out of your voice.
“Just saying. It’s kind of nice. Lonely, maybe, but I can always… y’know…” he makes a rolling motion with his fingers, before bringing that damn joint to his lips, still unlit— and you get the idea right away.
“Get really high?” You prompt, raising a brow at him, and judging by a look he gives you with a shrug, you’re right on the money.
“Right,” you laugh, looking up at him, and that’s when you see it. Really see it. The glimmer of something in his eyes, something like pleading. Like those puppy eyes are asking you to stay without him saying it himself. “Well, since you make it sound so great… maybe I’ll stay back this year.”
His expressions changes immediately. Disbelief, at first, then softening into something so quietly excited, that your heart rate picks up a little. He smiles again, the kind of smile that brightens his whole face, and you can’t help but return it.
“Really?” he asks, like you’ve just told him he won the damn lottery.
“Why not? I mean. I flew home the last two years, it wasn’t all that great, and then I was all jet-lagged when classes started back up,” you explain, but Sam really didn’t need an explanation. No, he was excited as soon as the word ‘maybe’ left your lips.
He doesn’t respond to you right away. A little lost in his own thoughts, by the looks of it, and you don’t comment on it. His eyes flicker over you, that dopey smile on his face, before he briefly looks at the bedside table, then back at you.
“Well… since you’ve decided…” he starts, stretching his long arm over you, towards the nightstand (so he can reach without leaning over you. Huh). “We can count today as the first day of holiday break. Let loose.”
He snags the lighter off the tabletop, bringing it back to his lap, but not without making sure he elbows you in the head first. Asshole.
But even with the lighter in his palm, the joint between his two fingers, he makes no move to light it. Simply fidgets with it like it’s personally offended him. You raise a brow.
“You gonna smoke that, or just stare at it?” you ask, teasing, and he shoots you a look.
“Maybe I was trying to be polite,” he smirks, tilting his head at you, those cute little bangs falling over his eyes. “I’d like to not give you a contact high every time I breathe, thanks.”
He says it like he’s joking. Keeps that little grin on his face, all light and sweet, but you know there’s something genuine underneath it. He’s gotten high around you before, God, more times than you can count—but he’s always so cautious first. Like he’s worried he’s doing something wrong. Making you uncomfortable.
If there’s one thing Sam Winchester will never do? It’s make you actually uncomfortable on purpose.
The first time he got high around you, at the beginnings of your friendship, he’d been careful. Asked if you were sure it was okay, probably, like, over a thousand times before he even rolled it up. Then a few more times for good measure once it was, before finally taking the first hit, and offering it to you. And oh, when he found out that you don’t smoke, at all? He felt like a prick.
But that was two damn years ago, and even after your constant reassurance… he still tiptoes around the subject, like the little people-pleaser he is.
“Sam,” you start, voice dropping low, almost like you’re a mother scolding her child. “It’s weed. I’m not going to be poisoned from second hand smoke.”
He rolls his eyes again, a little dramatically. “Whatever,” he grumbles, like he’s annoyed with you, but you don’t believe it for a second.
There’s another pause as the joint dangles between his fingers, before he exhales the world’s heaviest sigh. “Since you insist…” he teases, before flicking the lighter. The flame catches, shadows dancing across his face as he takes a slow pull, and leans back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed.
He holds it for a moment, letting it fill his lungs, before letting out a deep exhale, tilting his head away from you (ever the gentleman). Smoke billows from his lips in a steady stream.
You try not to get distracted. You really do. But watching the orange flame illuminate his face just right, the way his lips curl around the joint, his eyes closing as he inhales, the sharp curve of his jaw twitching as he exhales…
Jesus Christ, you’re so fucked.
Something about it is almost domestic. The warm sheets. The movie playing in the background. The smell of weed wafting through the room. Shoulder to shoulder with Sam.
He exhales again, the weed taking effect. Not quite a high, not yet—he’s a seasoned smoker, after all—just enough to take the edge off. He sinks deeper into the mattress, eyes opening back up, and he stares at the TV for a moment like he’s in a daze.
And oh, he stretches slightly, just getting comfortable, and his bicep flexes as it moves across his chest.
…Not that you’re looking, or anything.
Before you can be tempted to do something stupid, like, lick Sam’s arm, you speak up.
“Can I try?” you ask, voice coming out so quiet, you’re not sure he heard you.
He did.
His eyes widen immediately as he turns to you, brows furrowed. “What?” he questions, and based on the way he sounds, you’d think you’d just told him you were dropping-out and becoming a stripper.
He looks more than a little shocked, to say the absolute least. He’s watching you like he expects you change your mind, or turn around and say ‘just kidding’, before bursting out into laughter.
But when you don’t, the surprise melts away into confusion. Just a quiet intensity, and a little something that looks like excitement.
“Are you serious?” he asks, sceptical, and you almost laugh at the way he’s staring at you. Like he just can’t believe that you, a college student, may want to hit his joint.
“Yes, I’m serious,” you respond, and this time, you can’t hold back your amused snort. You decide then and there that confusion is a very cute emotion on him, puppy eyes and all. “I mean. I’ve been curious, y’know? And what better person than you to show me the ropes?”
His gaze drops to the joint, looking at it like it’s betrayed him, before flicking back to you, brows pulling together.
“You’ve been curious?” he laughs once, short, disbelieving. “For two years, you’ve watched me do this, and now tonight? Tonight’s the night?”
You shrug, and despite his words, his fingers are already turning the joint between the two of you, offering it to you with a careful kind of hesitation.
“Alright,” he relents softly. “But slow. One hit. And don’t inhale like I do. It’ll wreck you.”
Those words make you raise a brow, because, one, you don’t understand what the hell that means. And two, there’s that gentle concern behind them. The kind that never fails to make you just a little fidgety.
After a moment’s pause, you take the joint from him tentatively, like you’re trying to disarm a bomb, not smoke some pot. His hand lingers just slightly, fingers brushing yours in that stupidly electric way they always do. Jesus, what the hell’s going on with you tonight?
When his eyes meet yours again, they’re a little wide. Soft. Nervous. Heart-wrenchingly sweet, to such a degree that you have to advert your gaze before your cheeks flush all over again.
There’s a few beats where neither of you move. Like the silence between you is heavy, charged. But then you snap out of it, and realize that you really have no idea what you’re doing. Sam seems to have the same realization a moment later, because he mumbles something about ‘corrupting the innocent’, before shifting again.
He sits up, scooting closer to you so his side is practically pressed against yours.
“Okay, hold on. Wait,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to the joint between your fingers. “C’mere for a minute.”
He motions for you to lean forward with a crook of his finger and a little head nod, and you roll your eyes at his sudden serious tone before complying.
“Hold it between your fingers. Bring it to your mouth. Then, when you take a hit, pull in air without actually breathing in, like you’re sucking on a straw,” he instructs, voice low. “And don’t fully inhale it into your lungs. It’ll burn less. Shallow.”
You blink at him. Once, twice, then a third time for good measure. Right. Okay, then.
What?
You take in what he’s saying, you really do. The problem? None of it makes any goddamn sense.
And c’mon, you’re not the kind of person to lie to him. This is Sam, after all. So, you look him dead in the eyes, faces only inches apart from where he’d made you lean forward. And in the most deadpan tone you can muster, you respond simply:
“What the fuck does any of that mean?” you ask, and the question hangs in the air for a moment, before you laugh. “That sounded more complicated than those case studies you do in Criminal Justice. What do they teach you law-boys, how to make everything sound impossible?”
“Pre-law,” he corrects, not at all phased by your little dig, before leaning back, and turning his body just enough to look at you properly.
His eyes are still so warm. Crinkled at the corners in that way they get when he’s trying really hard to not full-on cackle at you.
“Okay,” he drawls, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause. “Forget the lecture. Just… here.”
Before you can protest, or really fully process his words, he takes the joint gently from your fingers again. “You trust me?” he questions, and all he earns from you is a look. A ‘what kind of question is that?’ look, which apparently is enough for him.
Because slowly, deliberately, he brings the joint to his lips, taking a small hit. Holds it in his mouth for a beat.
Then he leans in just slightly, closing that lick of space between the two of you. And before your brain can catch up, or think holy shit, is he about to kiss you? His lips brush yours. Soft. Warm. Over too fast, barely even touched, but long enough for heat to flood your system, and lets the smoke slide between your parted lips before pulling back.
“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice low and rougher than before, eyes searching yours with a mixture of nerves and something dangerously close to hope. “Learned?”
You can’t answer. Not right away.
Because holy shit, Sam Winchester just half-kissed you.
What the fuck?
There’s a beat where you don’t move. Completely stunned, even just for a moment. But then you process that he’s exhaled smoke into your mouth, and you breathe in. Not at all like a straw, and not at all shallow like he’s told you.
It burns, and it takes less than a second for you to break out into a coughing fit.
At the sound of your coughing, and the sight of your eyes watering, Sam’s concern comes rushing back like a tidal wave. He’s already moving, one palm finding your shoulder, the other smoothing over your back.
“Woah, woah, slow down. Breathe,” he urges, running his hand gently up and down your back. “Told you not to inhale like me,” he teases, before his voice drops low again. “You okay?”
There’s real worry in his voice now, and a furrow between his brows. But he can’t help it, he still grins. And you could swear his cheeks look a little pink.
“Yeah, I’m fi—” you’re halfway through a choked cough when it hits. It’s like your senses all relax at once, giving way to something lighter. Deeper. Like your heads filled with air. It’s not intense, but it’s certainly new. “—Woah,” you mumble, lifting your gaze, the burning subsiding.
And when your eyes find Sam’s, puppy eyes so full of worry, his brows pinched together so adorably? You’re not sure if you’re closer to laughing or whining at the sight.
“Slow,” he repeats again with a soft, huffing chuckle, watching your eyes go glassy while the coughing fit finally subsides.
“You sure you’re good?” He asks quietly, eyes still narrowed with concern. His hand is still on your shoulder, and he’s leaned into your space like he’s afraid you might suddenly pass out.
That little bit of carefree, heat-of-the-moment confidence seems to have died out, and he looks almost shy. Maybe a little guilty, like he’s done something wrong. “Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Sam.”
You cut him off before he can spiral. Maybe it makes you weird, but seeing him all sweet and concerned, leaning into you, holding you like he’s worried you might fall? Yeah. It’s sort of doing it for you, in some fucked-up way. Not to mention the fact that your lips are still tingling.
“I’m okay. It just feels… new?” you start, you melt into his touch just a fraction further. You don’t mention the half-kiss. Not right away. Instead, you continue, voice slightly dazed, and you can’t contain the little laugh that slips out. “Good new.”
He looks hesitant for a moment, like he’s not sure if he believes you. But whether it’s the look on your face, or your words, he relaxes. And when he laughs with you, warm and soft and God, you could get lost in it; his shoulders fall loose, letting go of some tension.
He studies your face again like he’s searching for any signs of nausea, or, God forbid, discomfort. But all he finds are flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.
“Yeah?” he prompts, and that boyish smile makes you feel all tingly. Butterflies rising in ways they shouldn’t, in places they shouldn’t. You’ve felt it before, of course you have. Deep down you know you’ve been falling for him for years.
But, apparently, getting a little high makes it a whole lot harder to ignore.
“Uh-huh,” you nod, inhaling a breath that comes out more shaky than it should. “Really good new. As in, wanting more…”
He swallows hard.
He almost looks conflicted for a second before he speaks, but there’s no doubting the way his gaze flicks to your lips for a fraction of a second, before he’s clearing his throat.
“More?” He echos, eyes finding the joint still held between his fingers. “More as in… another hit? ‘Cause I swear, if you end up flat on your back because you take another one right now…”
Yeah. That image is doing absolutely nothing to help your racing thoughts. Flat on your back, in his bed, under him… you certainly have no objections.
And you catch it. The implication behind those words. Because taking another hit doesn’t just mean taking in more smoke: it means his lips brushing against yours again. Teetering into uncharted territory all over again.
“Just… more,” you whisper, eyes trailing over his face, and the way your gaze lingers on his lips mirrors his own actions just moments ago.
His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, you swear he sees right through you. But then that soft smirk comes back, the one that makes your stomach flip, and he lifts the joint slowly. He gets it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “One more hit.”
He takes it himself first, not deep, just enough to warm the tip, and holds it in his mouth just like the first hit. Then he leans in again. Closer than before.
And when his lips meet yours this time, still soft, but less hesitant, it’s not just smoke that passes between the two of you. It’s everything.
He doesn’t pull away once all the smoke has been passed to you. You could blame it on the fact that it means you have to hold the smoke in your mouth for a moment longer before inhaling it. But the way he lingers?
Yeah. It’s not because of the smoke.
When you break away to inhale, neither of you pull back. Not really. The moment just holds. Smoke exhales from your lips, creating a haze between you, your breaths mixing in the few inches of space between your mouths.
His free hand is at your cheek, thumb skimming over the edge of your jaw almost reverently, and when he finally does pull back, it looks like it takes physical effort.
He keeps those pretty eyes on yours the whole time, watching those blown-out pupils grow wider, a hint of a smile on his lips. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so low, it’s barely even audible.
“…How do you feel?”
How do you feel?
That’s a loaded question. Your head is all light and airy. The touch of his hand on your cheek feels dialled up to a hundred. It makes you feel warm, intensely so. Flushed. Needy. And those butterflies? Yeah, they’re fluttering pretty low tonight.
But you don’t say that.
“Feeling… a lot,” you murmur after a moment, and you really can’t stop your gaze from dropping to his lips just once. And oh, he definitely caught it.
His breathing changes, just slightly. Deeper. Slower, like he’s trying really hard to steady himself (and failing). His thumb brushes your jaw again, the movement absentminded, and this time, it lingers.
“Me too,” he admits, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the hum of the movie that’s been long forgotten. His eyes drop to your lips just as yours did.
And when he leans in this time? There’s no smoke between you. Just him. Warmth radiating off of him like a furnace. He doesn’t bring the joint back to his lips, doesn’t take another long drag. No, this time, he gets so close, that your noses brush together.
And when your lips meet, this time it’s real.
He inhales into the kiss, soft and warm, like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gentle but sure, holding you just close enough that you can feel his heartbeat through the small space between your chests.
It’s not rushed. Not desperate.
It’s Sam. Careful, present, full of something quiet and deep. The kind of kiss that’s been building up for years, hiding behind stolen glances, shared blankets, and late-night talks.
When your lips part, only because neither of you can breathe, it’s only an inch. Your foreheads rest together like neither of you want to risk being apart.
“…Okay?” he asks, voice low, and a little unsteady. Like he’s half-way to falling apart from a single kiss. Careful and sweet, in that overly worried Sam Winchester way that makes your heart just ache.
You don’t miss a beat before responding.
“So much better than okay,” you whisper, and then your lips are chasing his all over again. Like you got one taste, and you’re already addicted.
His lips are just so soft. And he’s so gentle, so reverent, holding onto you with those strong arms like you’re something precious. Like you’re made of porcelain.
The second your mouth is on his again, his eyes flutter right back closed. He reaches past you just far enough to chuck the joint into his ash tray haphazardly (because oh yeah— maybe making out with a burning joint in your hand isn’t the best idea), before his hands are settling on your waist.
The only thing buzzing between the two of you now is pure heat and need that’s been building for years. His fingers trace across the sliver of exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your pants, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, tingling up your spine in a way that makes you shift. One of your hands is trapped between you, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you steady, the other sliding into his hair at his nape.
His fingers flex against your skin like he’s fighting the urge to grip your waist, to really feel. Dig his fingers into your flesh, leave pretty marks that he can look back at and know this is real.
He resists, just for a moment, before the intensity wins, and he’s hauling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. And when your legs settle around his hips, the sound that escapes his chest is almost desperate.
You let out a high pitched mewl of your own, one that is swallowed by him immediately, drinking up every little sound like a man dying of thirst. His breathing is laboured, coming out in little puffs from his nose that warm your cheek.
He breaks just far enough to look you in the eyes. Breathless, flustered, and disheveled: hair messy from your fingers, lips pink and slightly swollen, and that look on his face that tells you he’s barely holding back from ravaging you.
But still, even with that spark in his eyes, the flame in his chest, he presses his forehead against yours again. Slow and honey-sweet. Like he needs a moment to catch up with his thoughts.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and his voice is rough around the edges. His words tumble out like he didn’t have time to catch them, and the warmth that blooms in your chest feels like fire.
The look on his face is… intense. More intense than a random kiss between best friends. More intense than some high mistake that’ll be long forgotten by the time the sun rises. Intense like something you’ve been aching for for years, but have never allowed yourself to admit. If you thought your brain was going wild before, then it’s going bat-shit crazy now.
After a moment of silence, nothing but the sound of your pants blending together, you speak.
“Tell me… tell me this is real,” your voice is barely audible, but he hears. He always hears you. “Tell me this means something to you. Because if… if it doesn’t, I don’t know if I can—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
His expression shifts instantly, eyes locking on yours with a fierceness that steals your breath.
“No,” he says, voice low and steady, like steel wrapped in velvet. “Don’t.”
At first, those words scare you. The doubts flow in like a wave. You fucked up. You’ve ruined this. The best thing you’ve ever had, and you ruined it—
But his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw like you’re something sacred.
“This is real,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a whisper from yours. “This has been real for longer than I’ve let myself admit.”
He swallows hard. The hand on your cheek shakes in a way that you only ever see from him before a difficult final.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, voice cracking slightly, and he grimaces at the sound. “Not because I’m high or lonely or drunk on whatever movie-night thing we have going on…”
A beat, and his eyes stay locked on yours. Like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.
“You. It’s always been you.”
For a moment, it feels like time has slowed. Like the world has stopped spinning on its axis, and the only thing left is this. Like the only thing left is him.
“…Yeah?” you whisper, half disbelief, half unbridled need.
Your expression must be blank, or maybe he can see that you’re barely even a breath away from breaking down under his palm, because he looks almost panicked. His eyes are wide, almost pleading. His jaw is so tight that you worry he might break a tooth. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.
“Fuck, Sam… you have no idea. No idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” you say, shaking your head like you can’t believe this is real. Your hand that’s slipped free from his hair has found your forearm, pinching hard enough to bruise.
“It’s always been you. I just… I didn’t know how to say it without ruining this. Without losing you. I can’t… I can’t lose you, Sam. I can’t.”
The truth rushes out before you can stop it. All that fear. Fear of losing the one person who knows you, really knows you.
He starts shaking his head before your words even fully leave your mouth, and his free hand brushes your fingers off your forearm. Because he noticed. Of course he noticed.
“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he leans in, pressing a soft, almost desperate kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, before whispering against your skin.
“I’ve been terrified, too, you know. Of saying the wrong thing. Of pushing too hard. Of ruining us,” his breath hitches like he’s choking on his words. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”
Another kiss. This one’s slow, deep, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into it. You swear his tongue darts out to brush against your bottom lip like he’s dying for a taste.
He moves to pull away again. Probably to search your face for doubt. For any implication that he’s fucked all this up, despite everything you’ve said. Because Sam Winchester is nothing if not thorough.
You don’t let him.
No, not a second passes before your lips find his almost desperately. Deep, and full of need, every ounce of longing poured into the action.
His big hand splays along your back, and he’s pulling you closer, bodies flush together like he’s trying to erase every bit of space that’s left between you.
His fingers find the edge of your shirt, slipping just under the hem, like he can’t stand not touching you. The long digits slide under fabric in patterns that are almost rhythmic.
Your head feels like it’s spinning. Waves of pure need pulse through your veins with each gentle circle of his thumb. Your brain is still caught up in everything: that this is real. That this is happening. Because holy shit, you’re making out with your best friend.
You’re making out with Sam.
And you really, really never want to stop. You swipe your tongue along the seam of his lips, pressing into him with just a little more force, your hand finding his hair again. A silent question.
Can I?
And oh, the answer is abso-fucking-lutely, because Sam doesn’t miss a damn beat before his lips part.
It feels like an electrical current runs through your spine when his tongue meets yours, hot, feverish, and holy Jesus.
And when he groans, deep and ragged, it goes straight to your core.
He cups the back of your head with those massive hands, tilting you just slightly, so his tongue can slide against yours. Teasing, tasting, like he wants to memorize the moment.
He doesn’t even pull back to start trailing his lips across your jaw. He mouths at your skin, slipping down to your neck, tongue darting out to lick your pulse point just to see you squirm. And oh, the second a moan slips past your lips?
Sam is done.
He shudders like you’ve just ripped through every defence he’s built up over the years of pretending this wasn’t what he wanted to do. His thumb brushes along the strap of your tank top, sliding it down just slightly, his teeth grazing softly over your collarbone. He mouths at your skin with fever, sucking softly before releasing with a pop, and smoothing over with his tongue. Yeah. That’ll be a mark tomorrow.
Between peppered kisses against your neck, he murmurs, voice rough, almost pained. “You gonna drive me crazy, or let me taste you properly?”
He doesn’t let you answer the question, or even think about the implication (holy shit, he doesn’t mean—?) before he’s nipping your pulse point just hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound just about drives him wild.
He’s barely holding back now. Like he’s lost in the feeling of you, and you have absolutely no complaints in the matter. Your fingers fist his hair like it’s the only lifeline you have left. His hands slide under your shirt completely, palms hot against the small of your back, pressing you close where you’re perched in his lap.
And when you whimper? That’s it.
He flips you gently onto the bed beneath him in one smooth motion, hovering over you with dark eyes and kiss swollen lips. But despite the way his pupils are black with desire, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t press his weight against you.
“You… you’ve gotta talk to me. Tell me if we’re going too fast,” he breathes. “Need to know if I can keep going. Please.”
Your heart aches at his words. They’re just so… him. Sam, the man who’d die before he did anything you didn’t want. Before he took anything that wasn’t his to take.
“I want this. I want you, Sam,” you say, and your voice sounds way more wrecked than you’d intended. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”
His eyes scan your face, taking in your words, your flushed cheeks, the way you look sprawled beneath him.
His hands slide up your sides, your collarbone, down your arms, thumbs tracing a circle at your wrists. Not even sexual, just feeling you like he can’t help it. He watches the way you shiver, and swallows. Hard.
Then his brows furrow, like he’s thinking, or lost in a thought, and for a moment, he looks almost conflicted.
“…How… how high are you?” he asks after a beat, and his voice is so low, that you barely hear it.
You blink at him for a moment. Because you’ve wanted this for so goddamn long, that you know it’s not the weed. Not just being lost in the heat of the moment. Fuck, you’d barely even taken a full hit. But this is Sam, after all. Terrified of misstepping.
You almost shake him. Grab his shoulders and knock some sense into that thick Winchester skull, but you don’t.
“I’m not,” you tell him, voice earnest. “Two, barely there hits. Nothing.”
He starts again, more insistent this time. “But it was your first time, you don’t know your—”
“Sam.”
Your voice cuts him off on the spot before he can spiral. Before his brain can twist things, or panic his way into thinking he’s doing something wrong (he hasn’t). Taking advantage (he’d never). Because you know him.
“I’ve wanted you for so long, Sammy,” the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and you don’t take it back. But instead of chastising you like he usually does, he just… softens. “All of you. Not just this. Everything.”
He hesitates for just a beat longer. His eyes rove over your face again, taking in every little nuance. Your blown pupils. Your swollen lips. The way your cheeks and collarbones are tinged pink. Your hair fanned over the pillows, his pillows, like a halo. His hand moves, smoothing over your fluffy pajama pants like he’s trying to soothe you, or himself.
“You’re sure?” he asks, just one more time. Because he has to know. (No matter how crazy it drives you.)
You nod, before realizing that that might not be enough for him, and you run your hand along his forearm. Soft. Soothing. “More sure than anything,” you say, and you’re not sure your voice as ever sounded so honest. “Are you?”
His hand stills on your thigh, but it doesn’t move. Stays warm on your pants, a comforting weight.
“God, yes,” he whispers, voice low and raw. He leans down again until his forehead touches yours. “I want it all with you. Not just sex. The movies in pajamas, the stupid socks, the morning coffee runs… just us.”
Warmth pools heavy in your chest, and a wave of emotion crashes over you. Emotions you haven’t let yourself feel out of fear of overstepping, of ruining what you have.
You let out a shaky breath before you’re nodding again, “Yeah. I want it all. With you.”
He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t have to.
He settles over you again, his lips finding your throat. He kisses down your neck like he’s tracing a map he’s memorized in his dreams, slow, reverent, but with an edge of pure hunger that makes your pulse jump.
Each touch of his lips sends heat spiraling low in your stomach. And when he nips at that spot just below your ear, you gasp, and he groans, deep in his chest like you’re undoing him.
His hands slide under your shirt again, this time peeling it up slowly, giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. Fuck, you never would, you arch into his touch instead.
When the fabric clears your head and falls away, he stares down at you like you’re something holy. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”
His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts just enough for your breath to hitch. But he doesn’t rush. He won’t—not with you.
Instead, he kisses lower. Slow, open mouthed, each one a promise. A vow written in heat and need.
When his lips finally reach the waistband of those stupid Christmas pants, the little fuzzy candy canes soft under his fingers, he pauses. Looks up at you from under his lashes. Still asking without words: Is this okay?
Uh, hell yes.
You’re half lost in the feeling of his lips leaving wet marks along your bare skin, and half in the way he looks over you. Lips swollen, eyes dark with desire, hair messy from your fingers tugging at the chocolate locks.
You’re nodding before your brain even fully catches up with the movement. Because somehow, his gaze is a thousand times more intoxicating than the weed. “…Please, Sam.”
That’s all he needs.
Slow and deliberately, he hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of your hip. His lips follow. A hot, open- mouthed kiss pressed just above your pelvic bone that makes you jolt beneath him. Another follows, then another, each lower than the last as he peels the fabric away.
“God,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
His hands are warm on your thighs, squeezing your soft flesh with a groan that he can’t quite keep contained. And for a moment, he just… looks.
Pupils blown wide. Barely even breathing.
Your face flushed. How could it not? The way he’s looking down at you like you’re some kind of angel, even in your mismatched, plain cotton bra and panties, silly little dog socks reaching mid-calf. Yet he’s staring like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world.
His thumb brushes over your inner thigh. So close, but not where you need it, and you have to resist the urge to just pull him where you want him.
“You’re everything,” he says, pressing a trembling kiss just above your knee. “I’ve thought about this… about you, just like this… for so long.”
Another kiss, higher now. Slower.
His breath fans across sensitive skin as his hands gently part your thighs wider, giving him better access. And when you whimper again, because holy shit, this is really happening— his eyes flutter shut.
Then he looks at you one more time, eyes wide and full:
“Can I taste you?”
Your brain short circuits. Because, um, what?
He says it like it’s not just for you, but also something he wants. Something he needs. And that just about takes you apart right then and there. But you’re still… nervous. So while your core aches for it, your voice comes out low.
“You, um. You don’t have to do that…” you whisper, but even then, you don’t pull away. Don’t close your thighs.
“I want to,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there’s nothing he’d rather do.
Oh.
Still—you crack your knuckles where your hand is resting against the sheets, and he notices. He always notices. His gaze drops to the nervous fidgeting, the way your hand clenches and unclenches, and his gaze softens. He catches one of them, bringing it to his lips, a gentle, soothing kiss.
“Hey… we don’t have to,” he promises, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Not if you don’t want to. There’s no rush.”
It’s so tender. So fucking sweet that your heart feels like it might explode in your chest. So despite the nerves… he breaks you down, just a little. So finally, the need wins.
“…Fuck, okay. Yeah, please,” you plea, and his response is immediate. Lips trailing down your inner thigh with wet kisses that have you aching.
Your fingers fist his shirt subconsciously, tugging the fabric at his shoulders, and he doesn’t hesitate. With one hand still cradling your thigh, the other reaches up to tug his shirt over his head, the movement stretching at his muscle, skin glowing faintly in the golden light.
And holy fuck is he ever beautiful. But you barely have any time to ogle (or do something stupid, like drool), before he lowers himself again. His mouth finally meets your centre, soft at first, just a kiss through soaked cotton, and he groans like he’s the one being worshipped.
You’re halfway through a whine when he hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them aside.
“Christ,” he breathes, sending a jolt of need through your core. “You’re fucking drenched…”
One slow lick, from bottom to top, and you arch off the bed with a cry. “Holy shit, Sammy—”
He wastes no time practically tearing your panties off, and before you can even whine or complain, he’s hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders, fluffy-sock covered feet meeting his muscled back, and his mouth is back on you.
His hands lock around your hips, holding you down as his tongue moves with slow, torturous precision. He’s studying you, how you twitch when his tongue flicks just above your clit, how you whimper when he dips his tongue just a little lower.
He loves learning, always has. That was one of the very first things you realized about him, when you first became friends. And now? he’s learning you.
He flattens his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your cunt, thumbs sliding through your lips to spread you open for him. Each pass is slower than the last, deeper somehow, not just physical. Like he’s not just tasting you, but claiming you. Drinking up your juices like a starving man.
One of his fingers slowly circles your entrance, just teasing, and you sob out his name like a prayer. He lifts his head, lips glistening, and smirks. A real one. Dangerous, and yet so tender.
“What do you need?” he asks, voice rough as gravel mixed together. But it’s laced with teasing, like he wants nothing more than to make you squirm. “Use your words, and I’ll give it to you. Promise.”
Your hips try to roll, just once, like if you move just enough, that finger might slide inside. Because that tone is just not fair. But you can’t. Not with his strong arm pinning you to the bed.
“I—fuck, I want… want your fingers, please,” you all but beg, and your cheeks burn immediately. You almost want to tug on his hair to chastise him for turning you into a mess, but you’re too worried he’ll stop.
He hums, low and approving, like your pleads are the best sound he’s ever heard. And those vibrations? Yeah, they shoot through you like an electrical current.
One thick finger slides in slowly, just to the first knuckle, testing, watching your face like a man studying salvation.
“So tight,” he groans, pressing a kiss just below your navel as he sinks deeper. “You take me so well.”
Apparently, Sam Winchester has a filthy mouth. Which is not only insanely hot—but should be illegal.
Then a second finger joins, the stretch making you cry out, and Sam? He thrusts slow, curling them just right. Rubbing circles over that sweet spot inside of you like he knows your body better than his own.
His mouth never leaves you. Tongue circling your swollen clit as his fingers work in and out, building rhythm, heat, pressure, until you’re trembling beneath him. The room fills with sweet, sopping wet sounds with each glide of his fingers, only drowned out by your blissed out moans and whines.
He finds the perfect rhythm. One that has you teetering right there, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers fisting his hair like you never want him to go. Pleasure sizzles in your core like a firework about to explode.
“Oh my God, Sam, Sammy, fuck—”
The sounds that slip from your lips are too incoherent to be words, and far too loud for a dorm room with such thin walls. But you’re way too far gone to notice, eyes rolling as your back bows beneath him.
And holy shit, they only ebb Sam on. He speeds up those perfect, thick digits, curling and rubbing against that spongy part inside of you with fever, his lips sealing over your clit as he sucks. Hard. Cheeks hollowing as he gives you everything.
The wave of pleasure that crashes over you just then is intense.
Your back arches off the bed, thighs squeezing his head, your head thrown back with a cry that’s muffled by his palm because God, those thin dorm walls are a death sentence.
But you still make noise. Sam’s hand somewhat saved your dignity, but you let out high-pitched desperate whimpers into his hand, your cunt clenching around his fingers like you’re trying to keep him inside forever.
He doesn’t pull those fingers out. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps thrusting slow and deep, riding out every euphoric spasm with soft kisses to your inner thighs, and quiet murmurs of: “That’s it… let go, baby…”
When the last of the tremors finally start to fade, he eases those thick digits free with one last teasing stroke. He eases your legs off his shoulders with so much gentle care, and crawls up your body like a man claiming what’s always been his.
Lips swollen. Chin slick with you. Eyes wild and proud and so in awe that it takes your breath away. And when he kisses you this time, you taste yourself on his tongue. And damn if it doesn’t make your pulse jump all over again.
It’s dizzying. You can’t help the way you moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole like he’s craving it. Your body is still shaking with aftershocks, tingling and sensitive, but you can’t help but crave more. Like he’s turned you into nothing but a greedy mess.
He only breaks the kiss to let you breathe, before his lips are brushing every inch of your face in reverent little kisses as he presses you further into the pillows, settling between your trembling thighs like he belongs there.
He takes a moment to look at you, like you’re a masterpiece, and something about it just makes your heart just flutter. His lips quirk up in a smirk that he just barely is able to stifle, like he does when you know he’s about to tease you, but the look in his eyes is dark. Hungry.
“You’re a bit loud,” he says, that familiar playful look on his face. “I don’t even think you were that loud when you saw that ra—”
Immediately, you clamp your shaking hand over his mouth again (and holy shit his lips are still all wet from you), and you can feel him smiling against your palm.
“S-shut up, Sam!” you laugh, head falling back against the pillows, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lingering arousal.
But if there were any remaining nerves— they’re long gone. Because only one person can make you feel like this. Only one person who can make you feel so fucking good, then turn around and make you laugh.
“You’re insufferable. And way too fucking good at that,” you breathe, letting your eyes flutter closed.
You’re still panting, still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm when he peels your hand off his face. His expression shifts into something softer. Something sweet.
He presses a kiss to your palm before letting go, then drags his lips to your wrist, your forearm, the soft inside of your elbow, each one slower than the last.
“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs against your skin. “Making me wait three goddamn years to do that.”
His hands slide up your sides again, fingertips dancing just under the edge of your bra. Then he stops. Looks at you, eyes tender, filled with silent question. You don’t waste any time nodding, arching just enough for those nimble fingers to unclip your bra with ease, sliding it off.
He stares shamelessly like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world, before his head is dipping back down. Pressing his mouth back to your throat, trailing along your collarbone, while his warm hands cup the underside of your breasts, thumbs swiping over your pointed nipples softly.
It’s sweet. It feels fucking good. And he’s still not pushing, even when you can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric of his pants pressed against your thigh.
“…Sam?” you whisper, and he answers with just a hum, sucking a mark into the soft flesh on your breast that will definitely be purple tomorrow. “I need to feel you. Please.”
He groans, low and rough against your skin, and you can feel his body tense above you.
“Yeah,” he whispers, lips leaving a soft, wet trail of heat across your chest, tongue peaking out every so often to get a taste. His hands find your hips again, fingers curling against the sensitive skin beneath your ribs.
“Anything, honey. Anything you want.”
You can’t help but let out a strangled whine at the feeling of his lips, the deep tremble of his voice. The skin-on-skin of his bare chest pressed against yours electrifying.
But then he pulls away.
Rude.
Peels those plaid pajama pants off, along with his boxers, in one clean movement, before crawling back over you.
And holy fuck, your eyes widen, mouth going a little dry at the sight. You knew Sam was a big guy. You have eyes. But apparently, he’s very well proportioned. As in—fucking huge.
“Jesus Christ, Sam…” you murmur, unable to peel your gaze away from the long, thick, hard, and aching sight of the gorgeous man in front of you. You weren’t aware cocks could be so… pretty. Your eyes are filled with desire. Need. Longing. And, yeah, maybe some nerves. Because holy shit, is that supposed to fit?
He notices the way your hips twitch, and his thumb comes to stroke your hip in a way that says you’re alright. You’re safe with me.
“Relax,” he coos. “I’ll go slow. Anything you need, honey, I’ll give it to you. Anything at all.”
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle and sweet, so your eyes meet his again. “But I need you to talk to me. Can you do that, baby?”
You nod, melting into his palm like you were just made to be held by him. You can physically feel your body relaxing, easing into that familiar trust just from looking at those sweet puppy eyes of his. Fuck.
“…Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Your hands wander as you speak like they have a mind of their own, trailing over his toned chest, down his abdomen. “You’re just… fuck, Sam. You’re perfect.”
A beat. And because you can’t help it:
“And massive.”
That earns a laugh out of him, low and teasing, his cheeks flushing pink in that sweet boyish way. But when your hand dips lower, fingers wrapping around him almost reverently, thumb sliding over the head, pre-come pearling from his tip, he freezes.
A gasp tears from his throat, low, ragged, like you’ve just lit a fuse.
“Fuck,” he grits out through a clenched jaw, hips jerking into your hand once before he stills himself. “You gotta tell me to stop if it’s too much. I—I don’t want to hurt you.”
His voice is strained, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. But then you stroke him again, slow, curious, and he shudders. His forehead dropping to your shoulder with a groan that vibrates through both of you.
His hand finds yours, not to guide it, but just to press it tighter for one sinful second, before sliding it off of himself with a shaky breath.
“Please, I need you,” he groans. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel.”
You want to keep touching him. Want to stroke his pretty cock until he feels just as good as he made you feel. Until his come paints your chest, and he’s twitching under your touch.
But more than that? You want him inside of you. Need it.
“Fuck, yes,” you all but beg, and he sneaks another soft kiss before he’s moving.
You watch as he leans over you, every hard muscle in his abdomen rippling, bicep flexing where one hand rests by your head, and you have to resist the primal urge to just lick his skin. Like your brain has gone full cave-woman.
You hear a drawer open, the rustling of foil, and then he’s settling back between your legs, little square packet in hand. A condom. Without any prompting, or you having to ask, because that’s just the kind of man he is. And it only makes you want him more.
There’s a beat where you just watch him, until you freeze. Your hand reaches out to catch his wrist.
“Wait, Sam,” you start, and just as the words come out, his expression shifts. Pure concern, already pulling away, so you speak fast. “I, um. I’m allergic to latex.”
He blinks at you for a moment, but then the panic in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it came. Instead, they soften into something so warm that you have to resist the urge to squirm or hide.
“I know,” he soothes, dropping his free hand to your thigh to run his fingers over your heated skin. “The, uh. The gloves, remember?”
…Oh.
Right. Nearly three years ago now, just a few months into your first semester. You’d been in a biology lab, doing some dissection—and whether you were just too excited, or too nervous to ask the professor for nitrile gloves, you’d ended up with a reaction.
And who fussed over you, practically sprinting to the pharmacy to buy you some antihistamines, not leaving your side for hours following? Sam.
But that was years ago. And it hadn’t come up sense.
So for a few beats, you don’t respond. Staring at him with what had to be a pretty blank expression, because he immediately starts talking again.
“They’re latex free. Polyiso, uh… something,” he rambles, cheeks turning a cute shade of pink. “I can show you the box, if you want. Or—we don’t have to do this. We can stop. No hard feelings, I promise, baby—”
“No.”
You cut off his rambling immediately. Because fuck, stopping? That’s the last thing you want.
But you’re just caught up in the implication. Because why would he, a broke college student, just… have latex-free condoms, knowing they’re more expensive? Unless…?
Unless he bought them for you?
The thought makes your heart rate pick up just a fraction. Makes you burn just a little hotter for him. Because holy fuck, he really has wanted you just as much as you’ve been wanting him.
“I trust you. More than anyone,” you assure, locking eyes with him again. And when you find them—they’re so warm. “I need you.”
His eyes never leave yours.
For a second, you see it. The nervous hitch in his throat, the way his usually-steady hands tremble just slightly. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s you. And for Sam? That changes everything.
He rips the wrapper open, rolling the condom on slow, before he’s settling back over you, bracing himself above you with his elbow bent next to your head. The other reaches out just to brush your hair back from your face.
“You’re sure?” he asks, just one last time, needing that confirmation. And when you nod, he presses a kiss to your cheek.
Then, one hand guiding himself, he pushes forward. Just the thick tip at first. A slow stretch that makes you gasp and your back bow beneath him.
He freezes almost instantly, concern flashing across his features. “Okay?”
You nod again, can’t even speak, brain already going a little stupid, but the way you reach up to grab his shoulders tells him everything.
So he moves. Starts to slide deeper. So damn slowly, like he’s trying to savour every sweet inch. And fuck, is it ever a stretch. But he makes it better.
He touches you like he can’t survive without feeling your skin under his fingertips. Hand traveling along your face, down your side, squeezing your hips. His body trembles like he’s about to snap, pressing messy kisses to your chest, your collarbone, whatever he can reach.
His thrusts are so gentle. One small push, then he pulls back so just the tip remains inside, then sinks back just a little deeper. Every thrust allowing you to feel just a little more of him, thick and pulsing inside your dripping heat.
Before long, his hips settle against yours. He’s buried so deep that you think you can taste him. You can feel him everywhere. In your lungs, your bones, your soul. It’s so much, and yet—you need more.
Your core pulses to accommodate him, and it feels like you’re near stuffed to the damn brim. Like his tip is resting at your cervix, and you have to take a shaky breath to just relax. “…Oh, God, You’re so… fuck…”
“I know. I know, honey,” he coos, so soft and sweet that it makes you shiver. “You’re doing so good. Taking me like you were made for me, huh? So perfect…”
You moan right then and there, because who the fuck let him sound so hot, all blissed out and pussy drunk?
His damp skin glistens like honey in the low light, and you can hear how he’s holding himself back with each hitch of his breath. Can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the sweat beading at his temples, the taut lines of his muscles flexing with restraint. He’s trying to be so careful.
He doesn’t move for a beat. Just stays, hips flush to yours, fingertips smoothing over your waist like he’s trying to soothe you. Give you time to adjust, even when he’s practically trembling.
But despite how gentle he is with you, how much he cares, and as much as you adore how sweet he is, you’re not made of glass.
“Sam?” you murmur, hands that were gripping his shoulders loosening to lace around his neck, and he hums against your throat. “You can move, baby. I’m not going to break.”
He stiffens. Just for a moment.
“…You sure you’re alright?” he asks, and his voice is ragged. Strained like every second of stillness is agony. But he waits. Because that’s Sam. Always putting you first.
When you nod, rolling your hips, just once to take him impossibly deeper, he shudders, a broken sound tearing from his throat.
Then he pulls back, just an inch, before sinking in again. And holy shit, it feels heavenly.
Slow at first. Deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that make your breath hitch with every thrust. Each movement sends sparks spiraling through your core, stretching pleasure from every nerve like they were just made for him.
“God, you feel…” he breaks off in a low groan against your neck, your soaked core pulsing around him when he grazes deep, and he presses fevered kisses along your jaw. “So tight. So damn perfect.”
He starts to pick up the pace, still careful, but no longer holding back that hunger that’s begging to be sated. And when his hand slips between the two of you again? Find’s your clit with slow, maddening circles?
That’s it.
Pleasure explodes in your core like firecrackers, pure heat spreading from your lower belly though your limbs, your tight heat spasming around his cock uncontrollably.
“Oh my God, you—s’fucking good—” you cry, neck craning back against the pillows, and he nips at your heated skin like he wants to ruin you. The sounds should be embarrassing, they really should. But with how you’re feeling? You really don’t care.
He growls, low, possessive, almost proud, and then he’s shifting.
One hand slides under your ass, lifting you just slightly, hiking one thigh over his hip, and suddenly, he’s hitting you deeper. The new angle makes your vision whiten at the edges. You can’t even speak, just a sobbing gasp as he thrusts again and again. Harder this time. Not rough, but relentless, slamming into you with a new kind of fever that moves your entire body with the mattress.
The sweet combination of him petting your clit while he drives into you at a dizzying pace has you seeing stars, and suddenly, you can’t contain the sounds anymore.
Moans. Mewls. Whimpers, whines, cries—everything, far too loud for a goddamn dorm room.
And when the heavy tip of his cock glides along that spot deep inside of you, white hot pleasure igniting in your core, you learn that, apparently, you’re some-what of a screamer.
His hand covers your mouth so fast, almost instantly, the movement so instinctive that it would almost be scary if it wasn’t so fucking hot. It’s not cruel, he’d never hurt you, but in a way that makes your stomach twist with need.
But he still doesn’t stop. Just slows his pace a little, still hitting right there, and his fingers ease up on your clit.
“Shh… you’ve gotta be quiet, yeah? Can you do that for me, baby?” he murmurs, hips still driving into you. His palm is warm, fingers splayed wide as another choked cry spills into them. “We have plenty of time for that during the break. When it’s just us. Then I’ll find out just how loud you can get for me, okay, honey?”
You’re not sure you’ve ever been more excited for Christmas in your goddamn life.
The words seem to hit you just as much as a physical blow, and all the combined pleasure has you shaking beneath him. And despite his words, he snakes his hand back to your slit, pinching your clit just once, so you let out another cry muffled by his palm. And when you do? That dimpled smirk on his face only grows.
Bastard.
“You gonna be good for me, huh? Gonna quiet down?” he teases, and you nod almost frantically before he even finishes his sentence. He grins again. Cocky, heated. He knows it’s a lie. “…You’re not fooling anyone, baby. Not with how you’re clenching around me… fuck.”
Even then, he pulls his hand back just enough to let a whimper slip free as his cock drags along your sweet spot with perfect precision, then he teases your clit again.
Harder this time.
You arch off the bed with a strangled moan, and he captures it, mouth crashing down over yours like he’s starving for every sound, every twitch of your body beneath him. And holy shit, he’s relentless.
You can tell he’s on the edge of losing it himself. His brows are pinched, his breaths are coming out ragged, and he can barely contain the moans of his own that slip right into your mouth.
If it wasn’t for his mouth covering yours, you’re almost sure you’d be reported to the RA. He feels fucking perfect, hot and thick and deep, stars shattering behind your eyelids with each perfectly timed thrust.
You know you’re getting close. Practically dripping around his cock, sucking him in like a vice, your legs shaking around his hips, pleasure drawn tight enough to snap.
He groans, watching your face like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You’re so close, aren’t you? Look at you, shaking f’me already…”
His thrusts turn sharper, each one hitting your g-spot like a goddamn homing missile. His thumb finds your clit again, not just pinching this time, but drawing tight, slick circles over the swollen bud.
“Come on. Let go for me. I’ve got you,” he all but growls into your ear.
He kisses the side of your neck, one soft, sweet press that contrasts his hard movements, then bites down just as his fingers move just a little faster.
It’s too much.
You shatter. Back arching off the bed, nails raking down his back as pleasure detonates through every nerve ending. A full-body wave of pure white heat that steals your breath and leaves you gasping his name into the air. Cries of ‘Sammy’ and ‘holy shit don’t stop’ muffled only by his lips.
Sam doesn’t stop. He rides out every spasm with slower thrusts, still hitting so goddamn deep, as if he’s savouring every pulse around his aching cock.
“Sam, oh my—fuck, s’much—” you break off in another cry, incapable of holding back the pleads as pleasure explodes through you.
He can tell you’re already oversensitive when he slows a little, always so damn considerate, even when his eyes are darkened nearly black. He presses a kiss to your cheek, your forehead, your hair. “Just breathe for me, baby. That’s it…”
And the way he says it? Like he’s aching, voice rough, ragged, and desperate. Like it’s killing him to ease you down instead of chasing his own high.
He presses his forehead against yours, each puff of his breath fanning over your lips. “Can you keep going f’me, honey? Can you take it?”
And oh, fuck, can you ever.
“Mhm, please, fuck…” you barely manage the sound through your shaky breaths. But even through the overstimulation, the intense sensitivity shocking your nerves with each movement, it still feels so fucking good.
And you really, really want to see him fall apart.
His hips stutter forward at your words, a choked groan leaving his throat, hard and desperate. The angle shifts just right, so he’s hitting that spot again, and you can feel him pulsing inside of you. It’s so much. Almost too much.
“You take me so fucking well, I can’t—” he chokes on his own moan as his body jerks, just once, twice, hips slamming into you with uncontrolled need as he spills into the condom with a sound that goes straight to your core.
You’re not sure you’ve seen anything so beautiful. His face screwing up in pleasure, abdomen clenching tight, biceps flexing where they’re caging you in.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t move.
Just collapses gently onto his forearms bracketed around your head so he doesn’t crush you, face buried into your neck, as if trying to hide just how wrecked he feels. But still, soft lips press a kiss behind your ear. Tender. Quiet
You don’t let him hide, though. Your hands slide from around his neck to his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. Deep, passionate, and so full of emotion. He holds onto you like you’re something fragile.
His mouth moves gently against yours, each kiss soft and slow, like he doesn’t ever want to stop. But he does pull back just barely to rest his forehead against yours, and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he’s staring straight into your soul.
One hand slides through your hair, smoothing the sweat-slicked strands from your forehead. “You okay?” he whispers, voice thick, and sweeter than honey.
Are you ever.
Your thumb traces circles over his jaw, his cheek, like a moment spent not touching him is a moment wasted, and it takes a second for you to catch your breath enough to speak.
“Uh-huh. Fuck. So good.”
Your response, so filled with exhaustion and lingering pleasure, has him huffing out a little laugh. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lips curving up against your skin. “Still think I’m insufferable?” he teases, because of course he does, and you roll your eyes.
“Yeah. And annoying,” you shoot-back, but there’s nothing but fondness in your voice, still trembling with aftershocks.
He can tell you’re overstimulated, your walls fluttering around him like your body is trying to milk him dry.
“…Sensitive, huh?” He murmurs, not a real question. Just knowing. He slowly eases off of you, leaving you to whine at the loss of his weight. “Sorry, sorry…”
Your eyes flutter closed, but you can hear rustling as he strips off the condom and tosses it. The sound of his footsteps on the creaky dorm room floor. The light over his tiny sink flicking on, then water running.
You reopen your eyes just to watch, and suddenly, you’re right back there. In that sweet, domestic bubble the two of you have been mingling in for years between not-date-dinners and movie nights you have to pretend are platonic.
When he returns he’s got a warm wash cloth in one hand, but he stops at the edge of the bed, just looking at you like you’re something sacred. Then, that soft, dimpled smile. The one only you ever get.
“Hey,” he says quietly, like the moment is too delicate for anything louder.
He sits beside you and gently drags the cloth over your skin, slow, careful strokes across your thighs and most intimate parts, just enough to clean without being too much on sensitive nerves. His touch is so tender that it makes your heart ache.
When he’s done, he tosses it aside and climbs back against the pillows, tucking the blanket over the two of you, pulling you close against his chest with a deep sigh. Your legs tangle together beneath warm sheets, your fuzzy socks smoothing against his calf.
Your head finds its favourite spot, the dip between his shoulder and collarbone, and when his arm wraps around you, he places a kiss to your temple.
Neither of you speak. He just takes the remote in his hand (after finding it buried under his pillow, of course), rewinding the movie since the credits were rolling. Picks up a bag of M&M’s off his bedside table, ripping them open, and hands them to you. Like taking care of you is just second nature for him.
And maybe it is.
And lying there, in his arms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is exactly where you want to be. So different than before, and yet? Exactly the same.
AN: Another one from my AO3! If you couldn’t tell… I wrote this at the start of the month, lol, but at the time, I didn’t quite understand tumblr (and I still don’t quite have it 🤣). But anyway, I’m a sucker for Stanford!Sam, and am a firm believer in stoner!Sam. Sue me.
As always… if you have any (Sam) recs, ideas, questions, God, anything, please don’t hesitate to leave an ask!
(Dividers, yet again, are from @saradika-graphics)
- summary : after dating sam for a while, during your first time with him, he's surprised when he finds out how dirty you can talk. divs by toastray wc 2.1k
cw heavy makeout, dry humping, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, pet names "baby", brief descriptions of male anatomy, creampie, breeding kink if you squint, aftercare, sweet sam
sam was never the hookup type. after jess it took him a while to even think about kissing someone else.
he became good at burying it, until he met you. it was passing thoughts he pushed down until the only option was his hand helping him out.
besides all the joy and love you show him, dating you has brought back those feelings he's been repressing. sam was always fine being patient, but with how you look, it's been hard.
he's so attracted to you, in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. he wasn't ever pushy, excusing himself to the bathroom, thinking of your mouth around his cock instead of his hand. shooting spurts of cum down the shower, as his neediness washed away.
it would work for now, even if he dreamed of more. hunting alongside dean and sam didn't make your relationship easy, you didn't have much time to just the two of you.
but today was different, you woke up with a mission. dean would be gone, went to see a movie he's been talking about all month. that left you and sam.
sam woke up earlier than you as usual, comfortable in his grey t-shirt and jeans incase he needed to step out, while you stayed in your pjs.
before your boyfriend could put himself to work, submitting himself to scanning all news outlets for the next case, you crawled into his lap. he was reading a book on the dingy motel bed, denim covered legs taking up all the space.
his chin tilted up as you settled in his lap. "hi." you spoke softly, eyes shining as you admired the pretty man infront of you.
"hi." he smiled, putting the book on the table beside him.
"you look good." you said, hand moving to stroke his shoulder. he seemed surprised, he was used to you complimenting him, but this felt very different.
"you too." he muttered shyly, a soft pink spreading across his cheeks. his hands moved cautiously to settle on your hips, you leaned in then.
your lips crashed into his softly, he made a cute noise, his hands tightening around the fabric of your sleep shorts. you hummed against his mouth, hand reaching to rest on his neck as you kissed him deeper.
he groaned, tongue swiping against your bottom lip before you opened your mouth wider. you felt him hardening against you, pressing right where you needed him most.
you moaned as you kissed him sloppily, sucking on his tongue when he let you. his breathing was unsteady before you started rocking. sam sighed happily, breaking the kiss to watch you.
his lips were parted and swollen. a perfect shade of pink, and his hazel eyes glistening as he took in your figure. braless under your regular sleep shirt, and your shorts riding up as you moved.
"so pretty." he breathed, hand moving to hold your waist, leaning in to kiss your neck. you let out a groan, letting your fingers tangle in his hair.
you could hear the noises as he sucked soft marks on your skin, air fanning while he breathed out his nose.
you moved faster, more desperate, definitely soaking your shorts. he had to be fully hard now, he felt so big. he groaned against your collarbone.
"fuck sam." you whined, the grind against him bringing you closer to the edge along with his noises.
he looked up at you, he was truly a sight, hair tousled, eyes dilated with lust, soft lips begging to be kissed.
you caught his lips in yours again, fully stopping your movements. his hands roamed your body, squeezing your breast softly, happy when you moaned into his mouth.
you left a few parting kisses before pulling away. the room felt hot, the fabric between you not helping the heat coursing inside you both.
"sam," you spoke, hands moving to the hem of his shirt "let's get these clothes off hm?"
his eyebrows shot up, "are you sure?" eyes pleading for reassurance, he's fantasied about this moment countless times but never imagined it'd feel this perfect.
you nodded, "i'm sure." admiring the man in front of you, perfect in both personality and appearance, always making sure you were okay no matter what.
he smiled, letting your hands pull his shirt over his head. he was built, softly tanned skin and toned abs, moles scattered across his stomach.
you looked back up at him, his eyes already on you, full of love & lust. his hands reached for your shirt before pausing, waiting for your nod of approval before pulling it off.
your breasts fell free, his eyes following your body. "god." he swallowed, adam's apple bobbing while his thumb stroked your thigh. "you're so beautiful."
you felt flushed, head turning to the side to laugh "don't make me nervous.." he chuckled, looking down before apologizing.
you laughed again, moving off him to pull your shorts & panties down. sam unbuckled his jeans at the same time, zipper opening as he slid his pants and boxers off.
you could feel his eyes on you, all clothes tossed beside the bed before you looked at him. "you're perfect y'know that?" he smiled, cheeks flushed pink as he spoke.
you returned a soft grin, "could say the same to you" you let your eyes scan his body, your throat drying up at the sight of his cock.
he was bigger than any guy you've slept with, twitching against his stomach, precum dripping down his blushed tip.
the sound of his laugh took you out of your daze, "now you're gonna make me nervous." he joked, doing that awkward smile he does.
"sorry.." you shook your head, frowning with a tender look on your face before settling back on top of him. your knees bracketed his thighs, heart beating fast in your chest.
he watched you carefully, checking for any signs of discomfort, he wouldn't find any. you were right where you wanted to be.
"by the way i'm on the pill, we don't have to use the condom unless you want to?" you spoke hesitantly, eyebrows creasing as you looked up at him.
his eyes dilated further, mouth parting before he spoke "that's fine with me, only if you're comfortable–i haven't been with anyone in a long time."
you smiled at him, heart full with your love for the man "i haven't been with anyone else either." he looked at you like you hung the damn moon, watching as your hand moved to grip him.
up close it was even prettier, twitching in your hand, slight curve to it, vein up the middle with good girth and length–god he was pretty everywhere.
you gave it few strokes before rubbing it between your folds, coating it in your wetness before pushing it in. you braced both hands on his chest, watching his stomach tense before seeing his face.
his mouth was wide open, cute tongue prodding out, watching you sink down on him. you grinned before sighing. he was stretching you out, it felt new yet pleasant.
you both moaned as you bottomed out, skin to skin, his hands moved to grip the plush of your waist.
"you're so tight." he groaned, head falling back. you let out a shaky breath before grinding against him, your eyes rolled back. "fuck sam."
he grunted roughly, thrusting up to meet your grinds, fingers making small indents in your skin. "you feel so perfect–keep going baby."
you listened, moving faster, whines spilling out your parted lips. "fuck–you're so deep, stretching me out so good."
he almost choked–taken completely aback by your words. "shit.. your mouth," he almost whimpered, eyes shut as his lips stayed parted.
you felt him throb inside you, it was taking everything in him not to cum right there. "didn't know you could talk like that."
you flushed, still making small movements, hands steady on his stomach. "sorry–it slips out.." you said breathy, almost embarrassed before he spoke.
he twitched inside you again, hips still meeting yours, "don't–fuck, don't be, drivin' me crazy."
you smirked, growing a confidence before getting closer to his ear. "yeah? like it when i tell you how good you feel? how big you are? i think i feel it in my stomach sam." you whined, feeling him rut into you harder.
"god–that's so fucking hot." he groaned, you smiled in response, pulling back to kiss him, hands holding his face, speeding up your drags along his cock.
he was a whiny mess, hands traveling to your stomach, gripping at any part of you. he wanted to be all over you, his mouth trailing down your neck and breasts.
you sighed, hand moving to grip his messy hair. you changed between small grinds and circles against him, the friction bringing you closer and closer.
in the next moment he held your waist tighter, quickly turning you over without pulling out. your mouth fell open in a high moan at the position change.
"shit–look at you.." he moved slow, eyes scanning over you, his hands passing over your stomach, noticing a bulge outline on your pretty skin. "feel that? how deep i am?"
you whined, eyes shut at the lewdness of this man's voice. "sam," you breathed "fuck–yes i feel it."
he thrusted slower, almost reverent, soft sounds of skin slapping echoing along with the squeakiness of the cheap bed.
"say that again, wanna hear you." he groaned, he was practically mumbling at this point, completely drunk off you, hands gripping your supple skin.
"feel it s' deep, you fuck me so good baby." your back arched as he sped up, hitting your g spot perfectly, string of moans falling from both your lips.
"you're so good for me." he babbled, leaning in to kiss you. it was wet and hungry, faint taste of coffee on his tongue, his pace struggling not to falter while his mouth stayed on yours.
his head trailed down your body, leaving hot open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone and breasts, smoothing over the blooming marks from earlier.
one hand of yours was gripping the sheets, the other on his neck, it felt like pure bliss. the drag of his cock along your fluttering walls was heaven-like.
he groaned against your skin, feeling how you clenched harder. "fuck, gonna cum–where do you," he gritted before you interrupted,
"inside, come in me please." you begged, hearing him make a noise too similar to a whimper, his thrusts uneven and speeding up as he chased his high.
his head was buried in your neck, hair brushing your cheek as more moans fell out his lips cracked and high pitched.
your wetness coated his thighs, squelching heard throughout the room and maybe the neighbors too.
"fuck!" he gasped, his hips stuttered, once, twice before burying himself at the hilt. his cock throbbed as he spilled into you, perfect white ring around his base.
the pressure brought you completely over the edge, "ah, sam!" your hands gripped him closer, arching off the bed, eyes rolling and shutting at the same time.
he moved slowly against you, helping you ride out both your orgasms. he watched where your bodies connected, the urge to push his spend back in was strong.
he sighed happily, sweat covered skin glowing in the light. your chest heaved as you came down from your high, head still thrown back and eyes struggling to open.
he pulled out with a hiss, fingers near your warmth as he watched his cum leak out of you. "fuck.." he dragged out, eyes glistening while he gaped. you couldn't help but throb at the sight, his abdomen tensing and his softening cock twitching as he looked at you.
he snapped out of his daze, looking at your pretty, but fucked out face, hand coming up to rest on your cheek. "you look so beautiful, did so good f'me." he sighed, toothy smile making your heart ache.
you held yourself up with your elbows, noticing his eyes fall to your breasts quickly as you breathed heavily.
"god, you're telling me i'm gonna get that all the time? that was the best sex i've ever had." you laughed airily, shaking your head, thinking about what you just experienced.
he huffed, soft grin tugging at his lips. "i feel the same way." he stroked your cheek before getting up, grabbing a towel to wipe you up, even though the sheets were another story.
he was gentle, knowing you were still sensitive, smile never faltering as he cleaned you.
"thank you, givin' me the special treatment here." you joked, nervously scratching your neck while you watched him. he looked up at you, eyes filled with much adoration.
"you deserve every bit of it, i'll do it any time." he spoke so gentle, a tone that showed he would do anything for you. this was the first time of many, and you both were looking forward to that.
sam obsessed w his girlfriend, he can’t stop kissing or touching her. something smut please !!
⋆˚꩜｡ can't get enough,
summary. sam's obsessed with you!
pairing. sam winchester x gf!reader ( f )
wordcount. 1036 genre. smut!!
warnings. explicit sexual content (heavy making out, grinding, detailed foreplay, touching, no full penetrative sex), obsessive/possessive affection (consensual, loving intensity), language, moaning/groaning/whimpering
<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷
The motel door clicks shut behind you and Sam doesn’t even wait for the deadbolt.
He’s on you in the same breath—big hands framing your face, mouth crashing into yours like he’s been starving for it since the second you left the car. You stumble backward two steps; your back hits the chipped wood of the door with a dull thud. He doesn’t apologize. Just deepens the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, hungry, messy, like he’s trying to taste every second he was apart from you.
“Sam—” you manage, half-laughing, half-gasping when he finally lets you breathe.
He doesn’t answer with words.
Instead he groans low in his throat—long, ragged—and presses his whole body flush to yours. You feel every hard inch of him: chest, hips, the thick line of his cock already straining against his jeans. His hands slide from your cheeks down your neck, thumbs brushing your pulse points, then lower, mapping your collarbones, your ribs, finally settling on your waist with a grip that’s almost too tight. Possessive. Reverent.
“Missed you,” he mutters against your mouth. “All goddamn day. Couldn’t think straight.”
You’ve been apart maybe four hours—library run while he and Dean chased a lead—but the way he says it, you’d think it was weeks.
His lips find your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses that leave wet trails. You tip your head back against the door; a soft sound slips out when his teeth graze the spot just under your ear. He hisses through his teeth at the noise—like it physically hurts him how much he wants you.
“Fuck, that sound—” He drags his mouth back to yours, kissing you slower this time, deeper, savoring. One hand slips under your shirt; calloused palm skates up your spine, then around to cup your breast through your bra. He thumbs your nipple until it pebbles, until you arch into him with a whimper.
“Sam—”
“Shh, baby. Just—let me.” His voice is wrecked already, gravel-rough. He rolls his hips forward, grinding the hard length of him against your stomach. Slow. Deliberate. You feel the heat of him even through layers of denim and cotton.
You grab fistfuls of his flannel, yanking him closer. He groans again—loud, broken—and pushes you harder against the door, thigh sliding between yours. The pressure is perfect; you rock down instinctively, chasing friction.
“Yeah,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “Like that. Ride my thigh, babygirl. Show me how bad you want it.”
Heat floods your cheeks, but you do it anyway—rolling your hips in slow, needy circles. The seam of your jeans presses right against your clit with every grind. Sam watches your face like he’s memorizing it, eyes dark, pupils blown. His breathing is uneven; little hitches every time you drag over him.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, almost to himself. Then louder, desperate: “Can’t stop touching you. Never gonna stop.”
His mouth is back on your neck—sucking, licking, leaving marks he knows you’ll feel tomorrow. His hands are everywhere: one still kneading your breast, the other sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against his thigh. He rocks up to meet every roll of your hips, matching your rhythm until you’re both panting into each other’s mouths.
You tug at his hair—hard—and he whines. Actually whines. The sound shoots straight between your legs.
“Fuck, do that again,” he pleads against your lips. “Pull my hair. Please.”
You do. Harder this time. His hips jerk forward; a low, guttural moan rips out of him. “Shit—yes—fuck—”
He’s trembling now—big, broad-shouldered Sam Winchester shaking because of you. Because he can’t get close enough. His kisses turn frantic: teeth clashing, tongues messy, spit-slick. He’s grinding against you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.
You slide one hand down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, lower—palming him through his jeans. He’s so hard it must hurt; the denim is stretched tight. He jerks into your hand with a choked sound.
“Baby—don’t—gonna come in my pants if you—”
“Good,” you whisper, squeezing. “Want you desperate.”
He laughs—short, breathless, a little wild. “I already am.” Then he’s kissing you again, swallowing your moan when you grind down harder. His thigh flexes under you; the pressure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly.
“Sam—close—”
“I know. I can feel it. You’re soaking through your jeans, sweetheart. Fuck, I can smell how wet you are.” His voice cracks on the last word. He drags his lips along your jaw, up to your ear. “Come for me. Right here. Against the door. Let me feel you shake.”
You’re right there—teetering. One more grind, one more roll of his hips, and you tip over the edge with a sharp cry. Your nails dig into his shoulders; your whole body locks up, pulsing against his thigh in hard, helpless waves. Sam keeps rocking you through it, murmuring filthy praise against your temple.
“That’s it—good girl—fuck, you’re gorgeous—coming so pretty for me—”
When the aftershocks fade you’re boneless, held up mostly by his body and the door. He doesn’t stop touching you—gentler now, hands stroking your sides, your back, like he’s soothing you and himself at the same time.
But he’s still hard. Achingly so. You can feel him throbbing against your hip.
You reach down again, fumbling with his zipper.
He catches your wrist—gentle, but firm.
“Not yet,” he rasps. His eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed. “Wanna take my time with you tonight. Wanna kiss every inch. Wanna make you come again—on my fingers, on my tongue—before I even think about fucking you.”
You swallow. Your voice comes out small. “Sam…”
He kisses you soft this time—slow, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.
“I can’t stop,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “Every time I look at you I just—fuck, I need you closer. Always closer.”
His thumb brushes your swollen bottom lip.
You turn your head, kiss the center of his palm.
“Then don’t stop,” you tell him.
He exhales shakily—half laugh, half groan.
And then he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the bed, mouth never leaving yours.
The night is long.
He’s going to prove his point.
Over.
And over.
And over.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule
── .✦ requests are currently closed.
Heyyy I dont know if you are doing requests but I got referred to here by one of my fav writers, wendichester. So, Could you write a Dean X Reader, who loves sucking on cherry lollipops. And one day she gets an idea. She straddles him and swipes the lollipop on his lips, making them red and glossy. And asks him to kiss her so she can eat it off his lips. Thank you in advance ;)
summary. you love to tease dean any chance you get. and lollipops just became his favorite sweet.
wordcount. 956
warnings. suggestive/teasing content including light grinding, heavy making out, food play (lollipop), explicit language.
the impala is parked behind some nowhere gas station just off i-70, engine ticking cool in the late-afternoon heat. sam’s inside paying and probably grabbing another energy drink he doesn’t need. you and dean have maybe seven minutes alone.
you’re in the backseat—legs tucked under you, cherry lollipop between your lips, red tongue flicking against the candy every few seconds. dean’s twisted around in the driver’s seat, one arm slung over the backrest, green eyes locked on your mouth like it’s personally offending him.
“you gonna keep suckin’ on that thing or are you tryin’ to kill me?” he mutters, voice already rough.
you pull the lollipop out with a slow, wet pop. “jealous of candy now, winchester?”
“jealous of anything that gets to be in your mouth that isn’t me.”
you laugh—soft, low—and crawl forward over the seat. dean doesn’t move, just watches, throat working when you swing one leg over his lap and settle straddling him. the bench seat creaks under the shift. your knees bracket his hips. the lollipop hovers between you, glossy and bright.
“hold still,” you whisper.
he doesn’t.
his hands immediately find your thighs, squeezing once, hard, like he’s anchoring himself.
you drag the sticky cherry tip across his bottom lip. red smears in a glossy line. dean’s breath catches. you trace the curve of his upper lip next, painting him careful and obscene. his mouth parts on instinct; you swipe the candy over the seam, letting him taste the sweetness.
“fuck,” he breathes. “what’re you doin’ to me?”
“makin’ you pretty.” you lean in, nose brushing his. “now kiss me so i can eat it off you.”
dean groans—low, wrecked—and surges up to meet you.
his mouth crashes into yours, hungry. lips slick with cherry and spit. you open for him immediately; he licks inside like he’s starving, chasing the artificial sweetness you’ve painted on him. tongues slide messy, wet—cherry flavor mixing with the faint salt of his skin and the coffee he drank earlier.
you rock down against him once—slow grind—and he jerks, hips lifting to meet you. the hard line of him presses right where you want it. you do it again, dragging your clothed heat over the bulge in his jeans.
“shit—baby—” he gasps into your mouth. “you’re killin’ me.”
“good.” you nip his bottom lip, suck the last of the cherry glaze off it.
his hands slide up your thighs, under the hem of your skirt, gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. he pulls you down tighter against him, rocking you both now—slow, filthy rhythm that has the car rocking faintly on its springs.
“keep movin’ like that and i’m gonna come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager,” he pants against your throat. teeth graze your pulse point. “want that? want me to lose it just from you grindin’ on me?”
you moan—quiet, needy—fingers tangling in his hair, tugging his head back so you can lick another stripe across his swollen lips. they’re redder now, glossy with spit and melted sugar.
“maybe,” you tease. “or maybe i just like watching you fall apart.”
dean’s eyes flash—dark, desperate. “you’re evil.”
“you love it.”
“fuck yeah i do.”
he dives back in, kissing you deeper, dirtier. one hand leaves your ass to cup the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you so he can devour your mouth. the other stays clamped on your hip, guiding your movements—faster now, harder. the friction is perfect; heat coils tight low in your belly.
you break the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips. “still taste me?”
“everywhere,” he growls. “gonna taste cherry on my tongue for days.”
you grind down particularly hard—right over the head of him—and he chokes on a moan, head falling back against the seat.
“jesus—do that again—”
you do. again. and again. slow, punishing rolls that have him swearing under his breath, hips stuttering up to chase the pressure.
his hands grab yours suddenly—rough, desperate—fingers lacing tight. he brings them to his mouth, kisses your knuckles once, then pins them to the seat behind his head so you’re arched over him, chest brushing his.
“don’t stop,” he pleads—actual pleading in his voice. “don’t you fuckin’ stop.”
you don’t.
you rock faster, harder, mouths crashing together between gasps. cherry flavor fading now, replaced by salt and heat and him. his tongue licks into your mouth like he’s trying to crawl inside you. you swallow every broken sound he makes—whimpers, curses, your name over and over like a prayer.
the car windows are starting to fog.
somewhere outside, a bell jingles—gas station door.
sam’s coming back.
dean doesn’t care. neither do you.
you grind down one last time—slow, deliberate—and he shudders hard beneath you, hips jerking, a strangled groan muffled against your neck.
“fuck—baby—i’m—”
you kiss him quiet. swallow the rest of his curse. let him ride it out against you, shaking, panting, hands squeezing yours so tight your fingers ache.
when he finally stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged, he laughs—soft, wrecked.
“you’re dangerous,” he mutters.
you smile, kiss the corner of his sticky mouth one last time.
“you started it.”
the back door opens.
sam freezes halfway in, shop bag in one hand, eyes wide.
dean doesn’t even flinch. just grins—lazy, satisfied—lips still red and glossy.
“took you long enough, sammy.”
you laugh against dean’s throat.
sam mutters something about “gross” and slams the door shut again, climbing into the front seat without looking back.
dean squeezes your hands once more after you return to the backseat—gentle this time—before letting go.
“next gas station,” he murmurs, just for you, “i’m buyin’ a whole bag of those lollipops.”
Could you do a Jensen x daughter reader?
When the reader is 6 or 7, Jensen marries Danneel. The reader loves his stepmother very much and calls her Mom. One day (the reader is 16-17), her mother, who abandoned her when she was a baby, comes back and wants to take the reader. The reader is afraid of her, and Jensen protects her. While the reader is returning from the grocery store, her biological mother and her lover kidnap her and lock her in a room. The reader tries to escape, and the woman abuses her. She threatens to kill her siblings and Danneel. Later, the police find her, and she is rescued. The reader is unable to leave the house for a while and falls into depression. Jensen takes care of her.
╰┈➤ Home Is Where You Are
Jensen Ackles x daughter!reader
Daneel Ackles x daughter!reader
Summary: You love your family. Your dad, stepmom, siblings... but when your biological mom forces herself into your life it changes your life.
Warning: stalking/kidnapping/abuse
Notes: There was no way I was going to fit this kind of story as a oneshot so I hope you don't mind. I got carried away with the details and made it into a multipart series.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
You were seven years old when you stood beside your dad at the altar, holding a small bouquet of daisies as he married Danneel. The flowers had been your idea—you and Danneel had spent an entire afternoon at the florist, debating between roses and daisies until you'd insisted that daisies were "happier." She'd laughed and agreed, because that's what Danneel did. She listened to you like your opinion mattered, like you weren't just a kid but a person with thoughts and feelings worth considering.
The memory of that day at the flower shop was one of your favorites. Danneel had let you smell every single flower in the cooler, even when the florist looked impatient. You'd made her laugh by wrinkling your nose at the lilies—"They smell like Grandma's bathroom!"—and she'd agreed they did, indeed, smell like old lady perfume. When you'd finally settled on daisies, she'd asked if you wanted to help arrange them, and you'd spent another hour carefully placing each stem while she praised your "artistic eye."
You'd helped pick out her dress too, or at least you'd been there for the appointment. The bridal salon had felt like a palace to your seven-year-old eyes, all white and sparkly with big mirrors everywhere. You'd spun in front of those mirrors, your own little dress twirling out around you, while Danneel tried on gown after gown. The saleslady had brought you a little cushion to sit on and a glass of fancy lemonade with a strawberry on the rim, making you feel very grown-up and important.
Each dress Danneel tried on, she'd come out and do a little spin for you. "What do you think, sweetheart? Is this the one?"
You took your job very seriously, studying each dress with a critical eye. "Pretty," you'd declare, or "Really pretty," or sometimes, "I don't like the sparkles on that one."
When she came out in the dress—the one that would become her wedding dress—your breath had caught. It was simple and elegant, flowing like water, and when she'd knelt down to your level in it, you'd reached out to touch the fabric with reverent fingers.
"It's like a princess dress," you'd whispered, "but a real one. Not a costume one."
Danneel's eyes had gotten shiny with tears. "Do you think your dad will like it?"
"He's gonna cry," you'd said with absolute certainty, because even at seven, you knew your dad cried at commercials sometimes. "Happy crying, though."
And you'd been right. When Danneel walked down the aisle on the wedding day, you'd watched your dad's face carefully. His eyes had gone all red and watery, and he'd had to wipe at them with his thumb, trying to be sneaky about it but failing completely.
On the wedding day, you'd insisted on matching flowers in your hair. Danneel had braided your hair that morning, weaving in tiny daisies that matched your bouquet. You'd looked in the mirror about a hundred times, unable to believe how pretty you looked. You'd worn a yellow dress with a white sash—yellow for the daisies—and new shoes that were a little tight but you didn't care because they had tiny heels that made clicking sounds when you walked.
The ceremony itself was a blur of standing still (which was hard), holding your bouquet carefully (you'd practiced all week), and trying not to bounce on your toes with excitement (nearly impossible). You remembered your dad's voice shaking when he said his vows. You remembered Danneel crying happy tears. You remembered how they'd looked at each other like they were the only two people in the world.
And then the officiant said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife," and you'd squealed with pure joy. The sound had burst out of you before you could stop it, making several people in the audience laugh. Your dad had turned to you, laughing through his tears, and picked you up, lifting you high.
"What do you think, princess? Did we do good?"
"The best!" you'd declared, and then Danneel had wrapped her arms around both of you, and you'd been sandwiched between them, giggling and happy and feeling like the luckiest kid in the entire world.
At the reception, you'd run around with the other kids, your fancy dress getting a grass stain that Danneel said didn't matter one bit. You'd eaten three pieces of cake. You'd danced with your dad, standing on his shoes while he waltzed you around. You'd danced with Danneel too, and she'd spun you so fast your head got dizzy in the best way.
But the best moment—the moment that changed everything—came later in the evening. The party was winding down, and you were tired, your feet hurting from those new shoes. You found Danneel sitting at a table, taking a break from dancing, and you'd climbed up into her lap.
"Did you have fun today?" she'd asked, smoothing your hair back from your face.
"Uh-huh. The best fun." You'd been quiet for a moment, then asked shyly, "Can I call you Mom now?"
You'd been thinking about it all day. Your biological mother was just a concept to you, someone who existed in theory but not in reality. You had no memories of her, no feelings attached to her. But Danneel—Danneel had been there. Danneel had been the one who put bandaids on your scraped knees and made you soup when you were sick and read you bedtime stories and helped you with your homework.
Danneel had frozen for just a second, and you'd felt a flash of worry. Maybe you'd said something wrong. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe—
But then she'd knelt down beside the chair, bringing herself to your eye level, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like her perfume and happiness and something that felt like home. When she pulled back, tears were streaming down her face, but she was smiling the biggest smile you'd ever seen.
"I would be honored," she said, her voice all thick with emotion. "I love you so much, sweetheart. So, so much."
"I love you too, Mom," you'd said, testing out the word. It felt right. It felt perfect.
Your dad had found you both like that, crying and hugging, and when you told him what you'd asked, he'd started crying too. "My girls," he'd said, pulling you both close. "My two girls."
That was ten years ago.
Now, at seventeen, you couldn't imagine life without her. Danneel hadn't just become your stepmom that day—she'd become your mom, full stop. No qualifiers, no explanations needed.
She'd been there for everything. Your first day of middle school, when you'd been so terrified of getting lost in the big building that you'd nearly made yourself sick. She'd walked you to your classroom that morning, not caring that other kids might think it was babyish. She'd waited until you'd found your seat and given you a thumbs up through the door window, and that small gesture had gotten you through the day.
She'd been there teaching you to drive when you turned sixteen. Patient and calm even when you'd mixed up the gas and brake in the driveway and hit the mailbox, sending it toppling over. Your dad had come running out of the house in a panic, but Danneel had just started laughing, and then you'd started laughing, and even the neighbor who owned the mailbox had laughed when he came out to see what the noise was about.
"Everyone hits at least one thing when they're learning," Danneel had said. "Better a mailbox than a person, right?"
She'd been there for late-night talks about crushes and dreams and fears. You'd lost count of how many times you'd knocked on her and Dad's bedroom door at midnight, unable to sleep because of boy drama or friend drama or just general teenage anxiety. She'd never once made you feel like a burden. She'd pat the bed beside her, and you'd climb in, and sometimes you'd talk until two in the morning, just the two of you, while your dad snored softly on the other side of her.
She knew everything about you. She knew you were allergic to shellfish because of that terrifying incident at a restaurant when you were nine. She knew you had nightmares before big tests and needed her to quiz you one more time at breakfast. She knew you liked your coffee with way too much cream and just a little sugar, that you'd rather eat breakfast food for dinner, that you cried at sad movies but pretended you didn't. She knew your favorite color had changed from pink to blue to green and back to whatever it was now over the years. She knew you were scared of spiders but pretended to be brave for your little siblings.
She'd been there when you'd asked about your biological mother once, at thirteen. It was the only time you'd really thought about her, wondered about her. You'd been doing a family tree project for school, and everyone else had these complicated trees with grandparents and great-grandparents and cousins twice removed. Yours felt simpler, and the question had bubbled up after years of not mattering.
You'd approached it carefully, waiting until it was just you and your parents in the living room one evening. Your younger siblings were already in bed. The TV was on low. The moment felt safe, contained.
"Can I ask you something?" you'd started, and something in your voice had made both of them look up immediately, giving you their full attention.
"Of course, honey," Danneel had said. "Anything."
"It's about... about my biological mother." The words felt strange in your mouth. Foreign. "We're doing this family tree thing at school, and I just... I don't know anything about her. About why she left."
Your dad had tensed immediately, his jaw tightening the way it did when he was upset. But Danneel had just reached over and taken your hand, her thumb rubbing gently across your knuckles.
"What do you want to know?" she'd asked, her voice gentle and open.
That was the thing about Danneel—she never made you feel bad for your questions, even the hard ones.
"Why did she leave?" you'd asked, your voice small. "Was it... was it because of me? Because I was a bad baby or something?"
"Oh, sweetheart, no." Danneel had pulled you close immediately. "No, baby, it was never about you. Never."
"Your mother was young," Jensen had said, his voice careful and controlled, like he was choosing each word deliberately. "She was nineteen when you were born. She wasn't ready to be a parent. That was her choice, and it says nothing about you and everything about where she was in her life."
"I don't know exactly why she left," Danneel had continued, still holding you close. "But I do know that it wasn't your fault. Nothing you did or didn't do made her leave. You were a baby—a perfect, beautiful baby. That was her choice, her decision, and honestly, her loss. Because you are the most incredible person I've ever known."
You'd cried then, not really understanding why. Maybe it was relief—relief that it wasn't your fault. Maybe it was grief for something you'd never really had. Maybe it was just the weight of finally asking the question that had been lurking in the back of your mind.
Danneel had held you while you cried, and your dad had moved to your other side, both of them surrounding you with love and safety.
"I'm glad I have you," you'd whispered to Danneel. "I don't need her. I have you."
"You'll always have me," she'd promised. "Always. No matter what."
And you'd believed her. You'd never brought it up again, never asked another question about the woman who'd given birth to you but hadn't been your mother in any way that mattered.
Because Danneel was your mom—in every late-night conversation, every scraped knee kissed better, every school play attended, every moment of your life that counted. She was there for your first heartbreak, for your driving test, for your junior prom. She was there when you got sick with the flu and when you won the school art competition. She was there for the mundane, boring, everyday moments that actually made up a life.
By the time you were seventeen, you rarely thought about your biological mother at all. She was just a fact of your history, not a presence in your life. Like knowing you were born in a certain hospital or that you had your dad's freckles—just information, nothing more.
So when the doorbell rang that Saturday afternoon in October, you had no reason to expect anything unusual. It was a beautiful fall day, leaves crunching underfoot, the air crisp and cool. You'd been doing homework in the living room, your textbooks spread across the coffee table, a playlist humming softly from your phone.
Your dad was in his office on a video call—you could hear his voice, muffled through the closed door. Danneel had taken the younger kids to soccer practice. It was just you at home, enjoying the rare quiet of the house.
When the doorbell rang, you assumed it was a delivery. You'd been expecting a package—some art supplies you'd ordered online. Without thinking much of it, you set down your highlighter and went to answer the door.
The moment you opened it, something felt wrong.
The woman on your doorstep was maybe in her late thirties, thin to the point of being gaunt. She had hair a shade darker than yours, stringy and not particularly well cared for. But it was her eyes that stopped you cold—those eyes were your eyes. The same unusual gray-green that you saw in the mirror every day, the same exact shade that people always commented on because it was so distinctive.
It was like looking into a funhouse mirror, seeing a distorted version of yourself staring back.
The woman was smiling, but there was something brittle about it. Something that didn't reach her eyes. She was dressed nicely enough—jeans and a sweater—but there was something off about the whole picture. Maybe it was the way she was standing, too rigid. Maybe it was the intensity of her stare. Maybe it was just instinct.
"Hello, sweetheart," the woman said, and her voice sent chills cascading down your spine for reasons you couldn't immediately identify. "I'm your mother."
The words didn't compute at first. Your brain couldn't process them, couldn't make sense of what you were hearing.
Your mother was at soccer practice with your siblings.
This woman wasn't your mother.
But those eyes... those were your eyes.
And suddenly, with a sickening lurch in your stomach, you understood. Your biological mother. The woman who'd given birth to you and then disappeared. The woman you never thought about, the one who was just a fact on paper.
She was standing on your doorstep.
Your hand tightened on the doorknob, knuckles going white. Your heart started hammering in your chest, fight-or-flight response kicking in even though you didn't fully understand why yet.
"I have a mom," you said, your voice coming out firmer than you felt. It was important to say it, to establish it. You had a mom. This woman wasn't her.
You started to close the door, slowly but deliberately. You didn't owe this woman anything. You didn't want to talk to her. Every instinct was screaming at you to get away, to put a barrier between you and her.
But then a man's hand shot out and caught the door, stopping it from closing.
You jumped back, your heart leaping into your throat. You hadn't even noticed him standing there. He'd been slightly behind the woman, to the side, and you'd been so focused on her and those disturbing familiar eyes that you'd missed him entirely.
He was tall, maybe in his forties, with cold eyes and a harder smile than the woman's brittle one. There was something threatening in the way he held the door, in the set of his shoulders.
"Don't be rude to your mother," he said, his voice like ice sliding down your back.
That's when real fear kicked in. This wasn't right. None of this was right. They were being too pushy, too aggressive. The man's presence felt threatening. The way the woman was looking at you—not like a mother who'd found a long-lost daughter, but like someone who'd found something they owned.
"Dad!" you called out, backing away from the door, your voice cracking with fear. "Dad!"
You'd never been so grateful that your father was home. Never been so relieved to know he was just down the hall.
Jensen appeared within seconds. You'd heard his office door bang open, heard his quick footsteps, and then he was there, his protective instincts clearly triggered by the tone of your voice. He took one look at your face—pale and frightened—and the strangers in the doorway, and immediately placed himself between you and them. One hand reached back to make sure you were behind him, to keep you protected.
"What's going on here?" His voice was deadly calm—that particular tone he used when he was truly angry. Not the explosive kind of anger, but the cold, controlled, dangerous kind. You'd heard it maybe twice in your life, and it had never been directed at you.
"It's been awhile Jensen. Sarah, remember?" The woman said, and there was something almost prideful in how she said it. Like the name should mean something, should carry weight. Like you should recognize it, be excited by it. "I'm here for my daughter."
The way she said "my daughter" made your skin crawl. There was possession in it, ownership, like you were an object she'd left behind and now wanted to reclaim.
"Your daughter?" Jensen's voice could have cut through steel. Each word was precisely enunciated, sharp as a blade. "You lost that right sixteen years ago when you walked away from a six-month-old baby without looking back."
You'd never heard your dad talk about your biological mother before. Never heard this story. You knew the basic facts—that she'd left when you were a baby, that she'd signed away her parental rights—but you'd never heard the emotion behind it, the anger and protectiveness.
Sarah's smile faltered but didn't completely disappear. "I've changed. I'm in a better place now. I want to be part of her life. I want to make things right."
"That's not your decision to make," Jensen said, his voice still that dangerous calm. "You signed away your parental rights. Legally, you have no claim to her whatsoever."
"I'm still her mother," Sarah insisted, and now you could hear desperation creeping into her voice. She tried to look around Jensen at you, craning her neck to see past his shoulder. "Sweetheart, I know this is sudden. I know this must be a shock. But I've thought about you every day. Every single day for seventeen years. I want to make things right between us."
You pressed closer to your dad's back, not wanting to be seen by her, not wanting those eyes—your eyes—looking at you. Your hands were shaking.
"By showing up unannounced on our doorstep?"
Danneel's voice came from behind you, and you nearly sagged with relief. You hadn't even heard her come in, hadn't heard the car pull up. She must have cut soccer practice short, or maybe it had ended early. Whatever the reason, you were so grateful she was there.
You turned to see her coming through from the garage, JJ and the twins trailing behind her. She took one look at the scene—you huddled behind Jensen, strangers at the door, the tension thick enough to choke on—and her face transformed. You'd seen Danneel angry before, but this was different. This was protective fury, fierce and uncompromising.
She quickly ushered the kids upstairs with a quiet "Go to your rooms for a minute, babies," before coming to stand beside Jensen, completing the wall between you and the strangers at the door.
"That's not how this works," Danneel continued, her voice hard. "You don't get to just show up after seventeen years and expect... what? A happy reunion? A relationship?"
"And you are?" Sarah's voice turned sharp, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Danneel. There was jealousy there, you realized. And resentment. This woman was jealous of Danneel.
"I'm her mother," Danneel said firmly, no hesitation, no doubt in her voice. "The one who's been here for seventeen years. The one she calls when she's scared or happy or needs advice. The one who knows she's allergic to shellfish because I was there when we discovered it. The one who knows she has nightmares before big tests and needs to be quizzed one more time at breakfast. The one who knows she likes her coffee with way too much cream and just a little sugar, that she hates the texture of mushrooms but loves the taste, that she cries during sad movies but pretends she doesn't."
Each detail felt like armor, protecting you. These were the small, everyday things that made up a relationship, a life together. Things this stranger could never know.
You felt tears prick your eyes at Danneel's words, at the absolute certainty in her voice. This was what made someone a mother—not biology, not blood, but showing up every single day, knowing the small things, being there.
Sarah's face twisted into something ugly, her mask slipping. "You're not her real mother. You're just some woman playing house with someone else's child."
The words were meant to hurt, you could tell. Meant to undermine, to establish some kind of biological superiority. But they just sounded pathetic.
"Get off my property," Jensen said, his voice dropping to a growl. You could feel the rage radiating off him now, barely contained. "Now. And don't come back."
"This isn't over," the man beside Sarah said, speaking for what you realized was only the second time. His voice was flat, emotionless, somehow more threatening for its lack of feeling. "She has a right to know her real mother."
"She knows her real mother," Jensen said, his hand moving back again to touch your arm, to reassure himself you were still there. "And if you come back here, if you come near my daughter again, I'm calling the police. Stay away from my family. I'm not going to tell you again."
For a long moment, nobody moved. Sarah and the man stood on the doorstep, Sarah's face twisted with anger and something that might have been desperation. Jensen and Danneel stood firm, an immovable barrier between you and them.
Finally, Sarah took a step back. "You can't keep her from me forever," she said, her voice low and intense. "She's mine. She'll always be mine."
The possessive way she said it made your blood run cold.
Jensen slammed the door shut and immediately locked it, flipping the deadbolt with more force than necessary. Then he turned to you, his face softening instantly from anger to concern.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said softly, pulling you into his arms. "She's gone. You're safe."
But you were shaking, you realized. Trembling like a leaf in a storm. Danneel wrapped her arms around both of you, and you stood there in the entryway, cocooned between your real parents—the ones who'd earned the title through love and time and showing up every single day.
"What just happened?" you whispered against your dad's chest.
"I don't know, baby girl," Jensen said quietly leaving a soft kiss on top of your head. "But we're going to figure it out."
Even in their arms, surrounded by love and safety, you couldn't shake the image of Sarah's eyes—your eyes—staring at you with an intensity that looked less like love and more like possession. Couldn't shake the way she'd said "mine" like you were an object to be owned rather than a person with your own thoughts and feelings and choices.
For the first time in your life, your biological mother was more than just a fact on paper, an abstract concept. She was real. She was here. And she wanted something from you.
The thought terrified you in a way you didn't fully understand yet.
"Can we call the police?" Danneel asked quietly, still holding both of you.
"I don't know if they'll do anything," Jensen said. "She didn't technically threaten anyone. Didn't trespass—she stayed on the porch. But I'll call our lawyer first thing tomorrow. Get their advice on what we can do to protect her."
"Who was that man with her?" you asked, your voice muffled against your dad's shirt.
"I don't know," Jensen admitted. "Boyfriend, maybe? Husband?"
"He scared me," you said quietly.
"He scared me too," Danneel said, and somehow that made you feel better. That you weren't being irrational or oversensitive. That your fear was valid.
You pulled back from your parents, wiping at your eyes. "I should check on the kids. They looked scared."
"I'll go with you," Danneel said immediately.
Together, you went upstairs, where you found all three kids huddled in JJ's room. JJ was looking worried, and the twins were slightly crying.
"Is everything okay?" JJ asked. "Who were those people?"
You looked at Danneel, unsure how to answer. How much should they know?
"Just some people who were confused about something," Danneel said gently. "But Daddy made them leave, and everything's fine now."
"Why was sister upset?" Zeppelin asked, and you realized he meant you. You were "sister" to them, the same way they were your siblings. Being half related didn't matter in this family.
"I'm okay," you assured them, sitting down on JJ's bed and pulling Arrow close. "Just a little surprised, that's all. But Mom and Dad took care of it."
Arrow snuggled into you, her tears slowing. "I don't like when you're upset," she whispered.
"I know, baby," you said, kissing the top of her head. "But I'm okay now. I promise."
You stayed with them for a while, helping Danneel get them settled for their afternoon quiet time. By the time you came back downstairs, your dad was on the phone with someone, probably the lawyer, his voice low and serious.
You curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over yourself even though you weren't really cold. You just felt... unsettled. Like the foundation of your life had shifted slightly, and you weren't quite steady on your feet anymore.
Danneel sat down next to you, pulling you against her side. "You okay, sweetheart?"
"I don't know," you admitted. "That was really weird."
"It was," she agreed. "And it's okay to be freaked out by it. That was a freaky situation."
"Why now?" you asked. "Why, after seventeen years, does she suddenly care?"
"I don't know," Danneel said honestly. "And I don't know that she does care, not really. The way she was acting... that didn't feel like someone who wants a relationship. That felt like someone who wants something else."
"She called me 'mine,'" you said quietly. "Like I was a possession."
"I noticed that too," Danneel said, her arm tightening around you. "And that's not okay. You're not anyone's possession. You're your own person."
Jensen came back into the room, rubbing his face tiredly. "The lawyer says we should document everything. Take notes on exactly what was said, what happened. If she approaches you again, we call the police immediately. He's going to look into getting a restraining order, but he says it might be difficult since she didn't actually threaten anyone."
"What if she comes back?" you asked, voice small.
"Then we deal with it," Jensen said firmly. "But you're not alone in this, okay? We're right here with you. All of us."
That night, you couldn't sleep. You kept seeing those eyes, kept hearing that voice calling you "sweetheart" in a tone that made your skin crawl. You kept thinking about the man's hand on your door, the way he'd stopped you from closing it. The implied threat in his presence.
Around midnight, you gave up on sleep and went downstairs. You found your dad in the kitchen, making tea.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" he asked, gesturing for you to sit at the counter.
"My brain won't shut off," you admitted.
He slid a mug of chamomile tea across to you. "Mine either."
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, sipping your tea. Finally, you asked the question that had been bothering you most.
"Dad? Why did she leave? Really?"
Jensen sighed, setting down his mug. "Honestly, baby girl, I don't know the full story. I met your mom—" he caught himself, "your biological mother, briefly. Very briefly. It wasn't a relationship, it was... it was a mistake, one night. When she told me she was pregnant, I said I'd support whatever decision she made. I said I'd be there, I'd help raise you, whatever she needed."
He paused, staring into his tea. "She seemed okay with that at first. But after you were born... I don't know what changed. She was young, maybe she got scared. Maybe she realized she wasn't ready. About six months in, she said she couldn't do it anymore. She signed over her parental rights and left. I haven't heard from her since. Until today."
"Do you think she wants money?" you asked.
"Maybe," Jensen admitted. "Or maybe she does genuinely regret leaving. I don't know. But whatever she wants, it doesn't change anything. You have a mom. You have a family. You have people who love you. That's what matters."
"I love you, Dad," you said quietly.
"I love you too, honey. So much." He reached across the counter to take your hand. "We're going to get through this, okay? Whatever happens, we'll handle it together."
You wanted to believe him. You tried to believe him.
But something in your gut told you this wasn't over.
heyyyyy :))) could you write something about sibling reader with the older winchester brothers? i just read something where dean was acting like john and i PHYSICALLY felt achey in my stomach. maybe reader doesn’t want to continue the hunting life because jesus christ i don’t think i could handle dean trying to expect perfection out of me 💀💀
ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `to not be like him, dean winchester ༘♡
summary: you're done with the hunting life. it's served its purpose of death and destruction—but how will dean take it?
word count: 722
pairing: younger sibling!reader x older brother!dean winchester
i can make this into a part 2 if you'd like 🤭
⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧
You’re almost out the motel door when it happens.
The note is still on the kitchenette table, folded crooked because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You tried to write something gentle, something clear, something that wouldn’t feel like a knife. But leaving the hunting life? There’s no version of that letter that doesn’t cut.
You’re reaching for the handle when Dean’s voice slices through the hall.
“Don’t move.”
It’s not a request.
You turn slowly. Dean stands there with the note crushed in his fist. Sam’s behind him, stiff with concern, but Dean… Dean looks like he’s seconds from exploding.
“What,” he says, stepping forward, “the hell is this?”
You swallow. “Dean—”
“No.” He shakes the paper at you. “You think you can just walk away?! Just pack your bag and bail like you’re quitting a job at some crappy dead-end store?”
Sam tries to step in. “Dean, ease up—”
“Stay out of it, Sam.”
The way he says it: the tone, the authority, that sharp bark. It hits you with a flash of memory: John in the doorway, anger like a loaded weapon pointed at all of you.
Your stomach twists.
“I’m leaving because I can’t do this anymore,” you say quietly. “The hunts. The fear. Waking up every day wondering if we’ll all make it back. I need a life that’s mine.”
Dean laughs once. Cold. “Yeah? And where exactly are you gonna get that? You think civilians get happy endings? You think you can just pretend the monsters don’t exist?”
“I’m not pretending,” you say, voice shaking. “I just don’t want to die before I even get to live.”
“Oh, please.” Dean steps even closer, crowding the space, trying to physically keep you here. “You don’t get to run off because things are hard. That’s not how this family works.”
Your breath catches.
That tone.
That phrase.
You’ve heard it before.
And Dean sees it. The recognition… the hurt. And instead of backing down, he doubles down.
“You wanna leave?” he spits. “You’ll break Dad. You’ll break Sam, too. Hell, maybe that’s what you want. Maybe you’re just like him.”
You blink. “Like who?”
“Sam,” Dean growls. “Running away when things get tough. Abandoning your family.”
Sam recoils like he’s been slapped. “Dean, that’s not fair—”
“What, I’m wrong?” Dean snaps without looking at him. “First Dad loses one kid, now another? That’s what we do? We just walk out on each other?”
“Don’t twist this,” you whisper. “I’m not leaving to hurt anyone.”
Dean scoffs hard. “Intent doesn’t matter. Impact does.”
And that? God, that’s John talking.
You feel it like ice water down your back.
“I can’t stay here and pretend this is normal,” you say. “I can’t keep killing myself for a life I didn’t choose.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. “Well, guess what? None of us chose it.”
“And yet you act like it’s the only thing any of us are allowed to want.”
Dean steps forward so fast Sam catches your arm to steady you.
“You walk out that door,” Dean says, voice low, trembling with fury he refuses to name, “and don’t expect to come back.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “Dean, what the hell? You don’t mean that.”
Dean doesn’t break eye contact with you. “I do.”
You feel something inside you crack. Not cleanly, but like glass under pressure.
“So that’s it,” you whisper. “I leave, and I’m not family anymore.”
Dean’s silence is worse than the yelling.
It’s confirmation.
Sam’s voice is tight with panic. “Dean, stop. Please. You’re acting like—”
“Like what?” Dean snaps, pivoting on him. “Like Dad? Good. Someone has to keep this family together since he sure as hell can’t.”
The room goes dead quiet.
Sam looks gutted.
You realize there’s nothing left to save here. Not this moment, not this fight, not whatever version of Dean you hoped would show up.
You pick up your bag.
“You know,” you say softly, “I always thought you were different from him.”
Dean’s face flickers—guilt, fear, something breaking—but it’s gone fast, buried under stubborn anger.
“Yeah?” he asks. “Guess you thought wrong.”
You nod. Once. Final.
Then you open the door.
Sam says your name like he’s trying to hold the world together with one word.
tysm for the request honey <3 this is a pretty heavy one i’ve been dealing with a lot of grief recently so it’s a lot of projecting lol please please read the tws and if you can relate to this in any way i hope you’re okay <3 | juno verse, 1.6k words, single dad!sam x fem!reader, strong grief, implied depression, kidfic, hurt/comfort, one use of y/n, unedited, requests open for the juno verse
“Have you got your shoes on, honey?”
“Yep!”
Sam turned from where he was pulling his coat off of the coatrack to see Juno stood behind him, both shoes on the wrong feet, and clenched his jaw tightly, forced himself to take a deep breath.
It isn’t her fault, he had to remind himself. They’d only been learning about lefts and rights for a little while now, and while most of the time she was pretty good she was bound to slip up.
All morning he’d been doing his best to keep calm and not snap at her just because there was a dark dark cloud hung over his head. It wasn’t her fault that she’d spilled her cereal at the table, or had to change her jumper because it was too itchy, or that they were still inside when he’d wanted to leave fifteen minutes ago. His patience was thin but he knew snapping at her would make him feel infinitely worse.
“Juno,” he sighed once he’d taken his breath and stepped over to her. “Your shoes are on the wrong feet.”
Before she could respond there was a knock at the door, and his chest clenched, frustration winding tighter. If Dean had shown up after he had explicitly told his older brother that he had this he’d explode.
But when he opened the door Dean wasn’t the one stood there, it was his girlfriend’s smile waiting for him. “Hi.”
“Oh.” Was all he said.
Her expression dropped slightly. “Is now a bad time?”
Oh? How stupid was that? Pull it together, Sam. “Uh- sorry, we were just on our way out, I wasn’t expecting you,” he sighed, guilt worsening in his chest. “I’m sorry, that was rude, hi baby.” Her expression at least lightened as he stepped forwards to kiss her cheek and give her a squeeze.
There was an excited squeak of her name behind him and then Juno had wedged her way past his legs to throw herself forwards.
“Hi princess!” Sam would always treasure how sweet she was with Juno, the way her smile widened and filled her entire face as she crouched down to hug her properly. “That is a very pretty dress you have on.”
“It’s pink!” Juno bounced excitedly in front of her.
“Junie, c’mon baby let her in,” he gently took her shoulder to encourage his daughter back. “I’ve still gotta sort out your shoes.”
Once he’d gotten Juno out of the way and everyone was inside he crouched in front of her to swap her shoes over. “Look,” he gestured downwards as he smoothed the Velcro strap down. “The little flower,” he gestured to the pink sparkly lily sewn to the end of the strap. “That goes on this side of your foot, okay?” He tapped the outside of her foot before looking back up at her face.
“Okay daddy,” She beamed before jumping back up again. “Flowers?”
“I’ll grab them in a second, sweetpea.”
When he stood back up his girlfriend was still smiling at him. It made the guilt worsen for no apparent reason… well, he knew the reason. Very well.
“What have you guys got going on today?” She tipped her head in curiosity.
Before Sam could respond Juno tugged at her hand. “Mommy’s birthday!”
His chest clenched painfully as he watched the realisation dawn on her face, the way her eyes dipped downwards, just now noticing the amount of black he was wearing.
He’d told her about Jess, of course he had. Only once had he let himself go through the full story of the fire, which Juno didn’t even know about yet. The conversation had been so painful he didn’t want to ever have to repeat it, he hadn’t been planning on even telling her that it was Jess’ birthday.
“We uh,” he was scratching at the back of her neck, desperately trying to breathe through the pressure in his chest. “We take her flowers every year, don’t we honey?”
Juno nodded excitedly. “I picked flowers.”
In the kitchen sat in a glass of water was a bouquet of white lilies he had bought at the store the day before, and flowers that Juno had picked on the walk home from pre-school. Most of them were weeds, but that didn’t matter at all. He’d barely slept the night before, and anytime he’d gotten up to get a drink or just pace the flowers had been glaring at him the entire time, a deep hurtful reminder of what they were going to be doing.
It was the first year since she’d died that Dean wasn’t with him for her birthday. The first year, Sam had barely left his bed. Dean had come over to take care of Juno and him, and once he’d crawled himself out of his pit he’d felt so bad about it that he’d almost thrown up. After that it got a little easier, but Dean still insisted on being there to help. This year, though, Sam had wanted to manage on his own. Dean had agreed to leave them be under strict orders to call him if Sam even thinks he’s getting slightly bad again.
He’d planned on it just being him and Juno. He hadn’t expected her to show up.
“Oh,” for a moment she didn’t know what to say, reaching forwards to instead stroke Juno’s hair back. “That’s so nice of you to do that, pretty girl.”
“We’re gonna go and give the flowers to her stone.”
Sam’s throat closed up slightly. “Headstone, Junie.”
She nodded. “Headstone.”
“Why don’t you go get the picture you drew for mommy, baby?” Sam asked quietly.
Once Juno had excitedly ran out of the room his partner stepped closer to him, hand gentle on his arm. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was today.”
He shook his head. “You had no way of knowing, it’s okay.”
She looked pained. “Can I give you a hug?”
He nodded, and when her arms wrapped around him his eyes burned as he pressed his face into her hair, holding onto her much tighter than he’d usually allow himself too.
Jess had felt different when she hugged him, her shampoo smelled different, her arms had wrapped around him in a different way—
He hated himself for making the comparison as soon as it popped into his head, a tear tickling his cheek as he clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe hard through the pain beneath his ribs.
Her hand was rubbing his back gently. “That’s a really nice thing you’re doing.”
“Yeah, uh,” he cleared his throat as he finally pulled away, quickly wiping at his eyes. “Fuck I’m sorry.”
“No, hey,” she frowned deeply and shook her head. “Please don’t. It’s okay. I can go if you want?”
Sam hesitated as he looked back up at her through blurry eyes. “If you don’t, uh, have anything to do, you could come? If you want. Sorry if that’s weird.”
She stepped forwards and cupped his cheek, wiping a tear with her thumb. “I’ll come. Of course I will.”
Juno bounded back into the room with a smile so much like Jess’ Sam couldn’t help the tears then, jaw squeezed tight in poor efforts of holding himself together.
Juno’s little eyes went wide as she stared up at him. “Daddy?”
“It’s okay, I’m okay, honey,” he crouched down again wiping at his eyes. “Come here?” She stepped into his arms upon request, if a little warily, and hugged his neck as he selfishly squeezed her against his chest. “Remember we talked about how I might feel a little sad this week?”
She leaned back to look at him. “‘Cause you miss mommy?”
He nodded. “Yeah, baby, that’s all. I’m okay.”
“Okay,” she frowned. “Don’t be sad, daddy. Do you want a flower? Mommy doesn’t have’t have them all.”
Sam’s chin wobbled. His sweet girl. “Thank you, baby,” he kissed her forehead then. “I’d love one. I’ll grab them and then we can go, okay? Will you ask Y/N nicely if she’ll help you get your coat on?”
He glanced back up at his girlfriend who instantly smiled and nodded her head, taking Juno’s hand as she was led to the coat rack that was only two paces away.
Sam wiped his face again as he headed into the kitchen, though paused next to the fridge. A little Stanford magnet had a picture of him and Jess stuck to the top of the door where Juno couldn’t reach. It was at one of the many house parties they’d been to. Jess was a little drunk, mascara smudged under her eyes, though she was smiling as she kissed his cheek. She looked beautiful.
His head turned to watch Juno giggling away as her coat was zipped up, and there she was, smiling back at his daughter like she thought the world of her.
Sam took the picture off of the fridge and lifted it up to kiss the front of it. “I’m taking care of her, I promise. I love you.”
He had to wipe his eyes again as he stuck the picture back against the fridge and moved to grab the flowers out of the glass.
At the cemetery, all three of them laid flowers down.
let me know if you’d like to be added to the juno verse tag list <3
a/n - aaah hi !! it’s been so long since i’ve written a full fic im sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth. life has sucked but i’m back!! it’s been far too long since i’ve posted a sam smut so hehe i hope you guys like this. took me way too long to write a sex curse fic lmao. but i hope you enjoy !! leaving feedback on fics is the world to fic writers :)
cws - fem!reader, 8k words, friends to lovers, smut, sex curse, witchcraft, wet dream, brief jacking off, p in v, riding, missionary, size kink ish, a lot of cum, needy and kinda whiny sam, flirty rowena, big brother dean, feverish sam, brief cage/lucifer mentions
other fics can be found on my masterlist
“Shit- ah fuck,” Sam grunted with the next roll of his hips, the warmth around his cock so euphoric it was a wonder he didn’t cum right then. There was a haziness in the room, a strange atmosphere that in the moment he hadn’t thought to question. A bed he didn’t recognise, sheets too plain and walls even plainer, but his focus was solely on her beneath him.
Which led to the other strange thing he hadn’t thought to question — they hadn’t done this before. But his best friend was underneath him and the tight warmth of her cunt sucking him back in with every thrust just felt so right.
“So good, that’s so good, honey.”
Her fingers were in his hair and she just kept whimpering his name in a tone that made his cock throb harder, arousal curling deeper. His hands were tight around her hips as his own rolled again and again, pressing harder inside of her in a way that made both of their breaths shudder.
“Sam- m’so close,” she whined, her breath hot against his cheek, her grip tighter in his hair. The smell of her skin was addictive, his head tipped forwards to nose his way up her throat, her pulse throbbing in the side of her neck. “Gonna cum- Sam-”
A low groan left his throat as his hips rolled forwards into the lumpy mattress beneath him, spilling into his boxers.
It took him a moment to grow coherent enough to realise exactly what predicament he was in. Breathing heavily into the pillow Sam blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the sight of his motel room, the empty bed he was in. There was a burning tingling shame that spread right down to his stomach when he realised he’d had a wet dream about his best friend.
“What the fuck?” He breathed out hard as he sat up, and was relieved as he glanced across the room to see that Dean’s bed was empty and that he hadn’t been caught doing… whatever that was.
Sam wasn’t stupid, he was painfully aware of the feelings he had for her, the feelings that had been simmering for years. But what was he supposed to do? Even in the extremely unlikely case that she did feel the same, it wasn’t like acting on those feelings was a good idea. Nothing ever went well for him, it’d just be another thing he ended up losing one way or another. So he’d tried to shove it as far down as he could.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to deal with it before. There had been a few times that he’d had his fist around his cock after a long day of trying to ignore how close they’d been throughout the day when he’d thought of her, jacked off and thought of what she’d feel like or sound like beneath him, but each time he’d grown so shameful of what he’d been doing that he’d turned himself off completely and went to bed hard and uncomfortable.
But this? This was so much worse than that.
Sam grimaced as he pushed the covers off and felt the now cooling cum in his boxers, the fabric sticking to his skin, and so fucking embarrassed he quickly got up and went into the bathroom, once again glad that his brother wasn’t in the room.
He pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his boxers, a mental note to go to the laundromat later that day appearing in his head as he caught sight of the mess in his pants, then started the shower and stepped in beneath the spray of water.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Sure, he was a guy, he’d had wet dreams before, but not since he was a teenager and certainly never about her.
It had seemed so real. Her panted breaths against his neck with each thrust of his hips, the way her pussy had clenched so deliciously tight around his cock anytime his tip kissed her cervix, the way she’d moaned his name.
Sam huffed out a sharp breath through his nose when he realised he was already hard again.
“What the fuck?” He hissed, voice hidden beneath the sound of water hitting the tile. “Jesus Christ. Cut it out.”
His hand found his cock anyways, so hard he was fucking aching, and he took a few minutes to jack himself off to the memory — the not even real memory — of her beneath him until he was groaning deep in his throat and cumming onto the shower floor.
His hand reached up to turn the temperature dial all the way around to cold and he finished up in there as quick as he could, heart still thumping.
Pull it together.
It didn’t take long to pack up his stuff after his shower, but by the time Dean returned with coffee for the three of them Sam was hot. Not hot like he’d worked up his temperature by moving around the room, but like the warmth was sitting beneath his skin like a fever. The back of his neck was sweaty and his hair was sticking to his forehead, and as he took one of the to-go cups from his brother Dean frowned at him.
“You okay, Sammy?” He asked. “Looking a little pale.”
“Fine,” Sam waved him off as he grabbed his bags and moved towards the door. He was hard again, which was all he could focus on, frustration simmering with the heat. “Just wanna get on the road—”
He pulled the door open and stood face to face with her, and his jaw clenched as his cock throbbed.
“Hey,” she smiled sweetly, dodging past him to take one of the cups from Dean too. “My stuff’s in the car. Are we going?”
Sam hadn’t moved, shoulders stiff and throat dry as he stared at her. She looked like she usually did, if not a little worn down from yesterday's hunt, and maybe that was the worst part — nothing was different so what the hell was wrong with him? He’d become an expert at shoving away his feelings. There had been multiple occasions where she literally had her shirt off in front of him so he could patch up an injury and his eyes had never wandered further than necessary, respectful in the way he touched her and looked at her and thought of her. So now? He felt like a fucking pervert. She was his best friend.
“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Dean waved a hand so close to his face that he flinched and glared at his brother. “You get out the wrong side of the bed or something?”
At the mention of the bed and the thought of what he’d done that morning Sam glared harder, her eyes on him like a red hot laser and he didn’t dare look at her then. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he felt so uncomfortable and so fucking hard that he just wanted the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.
“I’m fine,” he grit out. “Can we just go?”
Being in the car made everything so much worse.
The only saving grace was that he didn’t have to look at her, but her voice floating up from the backseat and the smell of her perfume was enough. Each bump in the road made him shift in his seat, achingly hard and pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He’d had to discreetly palm himself through the denim just to try and get some sort of relief a few times when Dean wasn’t looking.
When the heat didn’t die down he’d come to the conclusion that he must’ve been harbouring a fever. Since getting in the car he’d shed his flannel to just be left in his t-shirt and rolled the window all the way down, and though the wind blowing his hair back was nice he was still fucking hot.
“Dude,” Dean knocked his knee against his and he flinched, glancing up at his face. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look…”
“Like shit?” Sam scoffed when his brother nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His eyes flickered up to the mirror and his jaw clenched at the sight of her in the back.
“Are you sure? You don’t look fine,” his brother pushed. “I told you we should’ve double checked what that witch did yesterday.”
For the past few days they’d been tracking a coven of witches across three separate towns. Ten different murders, all husbands, all mysteriously died in front of their partners. It hadn’t taken all that long to figure out that it was witchcraft when they’d found hexbags in most of the houses. Bitter with the loss of their own lovers they’d gone on a killing spree and caught too much attention.
The last of the witches they’d put down in the basement of the house they’d been camped out in had at one point shoved Sam up against the wall, gripped his throat so tightly he couldn’t breathe, and had murmured an incantation he hadn’t been able to make out through the ringing in his ears. There had been a hot pressure in his chest that started spreading outwards, but a moment later Dean had shot her in the back and she’d died right in front of him. The magic couldn’t have lingered if she was dead, could it?
“She died, Dean, you killed her,” Sam murmured, clenched his teeth tight when Baby hit a pothole and his cock was momentarily pressed harder against his zipper as he was jerked slightly in his seat. “Just feel a little hot. I’m fine.”
His head tipped to the side to watch out of the window as he did his best to ignore it, ignore how it felt — the simmering beneath his skin was a heat he’d only felt once, and he wasn’t eager to think about his time in the cage.
The heat only continued to get worse somehow. The only rational explanation he could think of was that he’d run himself down after back-to-back cases and was a little under the weather. He did not, however, have an explanation for the way the heat seemed to simmer worse whenever he looked at her, heart thumping and arousal curling deeper into his gut whenever she spoke.
They got to their next motel just before sunset, with the intent of getting a good night’s sleep before either finding another case in the morning or just heading back to the bunker. If he was being honest Sam just wanted his bed at home, but he didn’t really have the energy to argue with his brother, not when every single thought in his head was swirling over how he felt, over her.
The other two were talking as Sam forced himself to get out of the car, too focused on the drumming pulse in his ears to listen to what they were saying, so when he rounded the car towards the trunk and a hand landed on his arm he jumped at the burn. White hot like electricity. He flinched and his eyes shot up to meet her eyes, which were quickly growing concerned.
“Sam?” She frowned, and his eyes locked onto the plush of her lips. He knew they’d feel good against his, soft and warm, the little ‘o’ shape they’d make as she moaned underneath him— “Sam? Are you okay?”
Guilt flooded him immediately and he forced his gaze away. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t just think about her like that, it was disgusting.
He didn’t even utter an excuse, just quickly rushed into the room before he could make things worse.
“Sam?” Dean had followed him in and Sam grit his teeth. He’d been planning on sorting himself out in the shower again, at this point it was legitimately a necessity. “What the hell is up with you? You ignored her the whole drive-“ he cut himself off when Sam turned to face him. “What’s wrong?”
There wasn’t even any point in insisting he was fine anymore. The heat just kept getting hotter, he felt sweaty and weird and still thinking about that dream. “I just… have a fever.”
Dean scowled as he stepped forwards and reached up to touch Sam’s forehead, even as he tried to bat his hand away. “Why didn’t you say anything in the car? You’re burning up, man,” there was a pause before he sighed. “Call Rowena.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because what happened yesterday isn’t sitting right with me and if anyone can make sure that witch didn’t do something to you it’s her.”
Even through the simmering beneath his skin Sam’s lips twitched. “You’re willingly asking me to call Rowena?”
“She’s still a bitch but she can be useful sometimes,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just call her.”
Much to Sam’s dismay and an I told you so from Dean, Rowena also suspected that something was wrong after Sam called and explained his symptoms — well, not all of them, he didn’t dare mention the dream or his problem — and cut the call off with a chirpy confirmation that she’d get to him as quickly as she could.
It was dark out by the time Rowena got there. All of the windows in the room had been opened as wide as they could in hopes that the cold night air would do something to help the fire in his veins, but nothing was helping. His chest had tightened with the rising heat, there was absolutely no doubt that something was wrong.
“Well aren’t you a… sight.” Rowena hummed as soon as she stepped through the door, taking her time like she was just there for tea. The silk of her dress caught in the draft from the open door, blowing forwards with a harshness that should have been brought with cold. Sam didn’t feel it, the wind that hit his skin did nothing to soothe the burn. If not for the fact that she was visiting he would’ve stripped down to his boxers already.
He stood from where he’d been perched on the edge of his bed, fists clenched tight. “Rowena-”
“Calm down,” she raised a hand as she closed the door behind her. “I’m here to help, aren’t I?” Another gust of wind blew through the open windows and she pulled a face. “My it’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sam grit out, chest heaving with heavy breaths as he watched her step forwards. It had become harder to ignore the worse it got, the memory of the cage, what Lucifer had done to him. Burned his skin until it was all gone and then healed him to start all over again. The smell of his own flesh was something he was never going to forget, part of him kept expecting to look down and see his arms on fire. But they weren’t, like some cruel trick on his mind. If not for Dean noticing that something was wrong he would’ve been convinced that he was going crazy again. “It’s hot, I’m hot, I can’t fucking cool down it feels like I’m on fire.”
Rowena’s tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth as she came to a stop directly in front of him. “Hm. Take your shirt off.”
“Huh?”
Her eyes rolled. “I need to see if you have any magic attached to you, and it’s easier without your clothes in the way,” perfectly manicured nails dragged against the fabric of his t-shirt before she smirked. “Trust me, I don’t mind.”
Maybe he wouldn’t have been so quick to agree on a regular day, especially with her looking at him like that, but he was both desperate for this to be over and also used to Rowena being Rowena, so there wasn’t much hesitation as he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head, dropping it down onto the floor.
Rowena made a show of looking him over, lips curled upwards at the corners.
“Rowena-”
“Alright, Samuel,” she sighed. “Forgive me for finding some enjoyment in the situation. Sit.” Her hand pressed to his chest and he flinched, expecting to feel the same burn that he’d felt from her earlier that day when she’d touched his arm, but Rowena’s palm felt cool against his flushed skin. It was actually nice, and he breathed out shakily as he allowed himself to be pushed backwards until he was seated on the edge of the mattress.
Rowena stepped forwards until she was stood between his legs, and then her hand was on his chest again. A pressure pushed through his ribs and he stiffened in the effort to keep still and let her search for any lingering magic attached to him. His eyes lifted to her face and he watched as her expression went from focused, to shocked, to… amused?
“Your symptoms,” she met his eyes as she pulled her hand back. “Tell me.”
“I’ve already told you-”
“Tell me again.”
Sam huffed out a frustrated breath and pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m hot, it feels like I’m burning from the inside out.”
She just continued to watch him.
“What?” He didn’t mean to snap but he was seriously losing his patience.
“Your other symptoms?” He opened his mouth to protest but she held up a hand. “Just be honest, Samuel. I think I know what the curse is.”
His jaw clenched. He’d never actually vocalised his crush to anybody before. Sure, maybe Dean wasn’t completely oblivious to have not noticed, but he’d never outright admitted it.
“I had this… dream, uh,” he ran a hand over his face, the heat in his cheeks now from embarrassment. “And it kinda stuck with me.”
Rowena was smirking. “And what was the nature of this wee dream, hm?”
He glowered at her. “I’m sure you know.”
“Oh I do, but it’s way more fun if you tell me,” he just continued glaring and she sighed. “You boys just have to suck the fun out of everything, don’t you?” She moved to sit on the bed beside him, and after adjusting her dress over her legs she turned to face him. “It’s called mali desiderii.”
“What does that mean?”
Her lips twitched again, like she was really trying to be serious. “It’s a curse that attaches itself to your deepest desire and makes you, well, want it.”
Sam swallowed around the dryness in his throat. “How dangerous is it?”
Rowena lifted a hand to gently circle her fingers around his wrist, her cool fingertips pressed against his pulse point felt nice. “You’re already burning up, and it’s only going to get worse. Unless you sate the desire, you’ll completely burn up from the inside out.”
He felt his stomach drop. “It’ll kill me?”
“Mhm, in a day or so, unless you deal with your little… problem,” She gestured to his jeans with a wicked smirk that made him want the ground to open up beneath him, before she sighed, a more genuine expression settling on her features. “Sam… she’s next door.” Her hand laid on his arm though that time he stiffened.
“I can’t just—”
“It doesn’t matter if you can’t. You’re going to have to,” she told him firmly, before her lips curved upwards again. “You never know, it might be something the both of you need. She’s smart, Samuel. If a big strong man came knocking on my door asking me to help him out, I’d… well, like I said, she’s smart.”
He grit his teeth and breathed out sharply. This was so stupid. She was his best friend, he couldn’t just turn up at her door and demand to have sex with her. “Isn’t there a cure or something?”
“This is the only way,” Rowena didn’t give him much time to think on it before her hand was on her knee, squeezing, then she stood up. “You’ll be fine. Trust me, out of all the things you could’ve been cursed with, this is definitely the most… pleasurable.”
At her smirk his stomach twisted uncomfortably, but still he stood up to let her out of the room. He didn’t bother to put his shirt back on, stood in the doorway as he watched Rowena climb into her car — a Porsche that he was certain didn’t belong to her the last time they spoke — the breeze of the night doing absolutely nothing to cool him down. As she pulled out of the parking lot he’d had a mind to go and tell Dean what was wrong, but he paused when his eyes landed on her door next to his.
Sate the desire, Rowena had said. Maybe on a typical day he wouldn’t have wanted to even approach the topic with her, save himself a lifetime of embarrassment when she inevitably turned him down, but this was his only shot. And the thought of finally having her was enough for his body to roll with another wave of aroused heat.
“Fucking crazy,” he breathed, hand lifting to knock on the door once he was stood in front of it. “This is fucking crazy.”
The door opened relatively quick and then there she was. She’d changed into her pyjamas since getting to the motel, a t-shirt and shorts that left him unable to help his gaze dragging up the length of her legs, imagining dipping between them. She really wasn’t making this fucking easy for him, was she?
“Sam?” She blinked, worried eyes widening as her gaze dragged downwards, and embarrassed he remembered he hadn’t put his shirt back on. Christ, this probably looked like the opening to a shitty porno. By the sounds of it, that’s how it was going to end up. Either that or he was going to die.
“Sorry,” he quickly blurted out, chest heaving with heavy breaths as his eyes fell down away from her face, before he caught himself staring at her legs and he had to look back up digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Get a grip. “Sorry, uh… can I talk to you?”
Instantly she stepped aside. “Are you okay? Why was Rowena here?”
His teeth ground together with the realisation that Dean hadn’t told her that anything was wrong, either not to worry her or because he was just leaving it to Sam he wasn’t sure. He stepped into her room and exhaled sharply. The heat was getting bad, hands trembling as he pushed sweaty hair out of his face and turned back to face her.
“Sam you don’t look so good,” her eyebrows were pinched together in such worry. “Can I get you anything? Do you want some water? You look a little sick, you sit down and I’ll just-”
“It’s a curse,” he just got out. “One of the witches yesterday cursed me. That's why Rowena was here.”
She looked… god, the look on her face, she looked so devastated for him. “I- cursed? How bad is it? Are you okay?” She rushed forwards and touched his arm sympathetically, and usually it would’ve been nice — she was sweet, she was always physically affectionate but always more so with him than Dean. There had been many times they’d held hands on a hunt when either one of them was unnerved, or on nights where they could only get a motel with two beds or had to sleep in the car she always chose to sleep with him. Curled up with no choice but to hold each other in a small twin bed or the backseat of the Impala he’d always felt comfortable with her.
But her touch then on his arm, it felt like being singed. He jerked backwards and hated the way she looked at him when he did it. “Sorry,” he breathed her name like a plea, the last thing he wanted was to make her feel bad with what he was about to ask of her. “I’m… hot. The curse is burning me up and if I don’t do something about it then I’ve… got a day.”
“A day?” Her voice broke and it shattered something deep in his soul. “Sam, I… Rowena has a cure right?”
His eyes squeezed shut tightly and he took in a sharp breath. This was it. “It’s a, uh… well, there’s one thing I can do but it’s- I’d be asking a lot of you.”
Her response was immediate. “Anything.”
Steeling himself he finally just pushed out, “it’s a sex curse.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“It’s a- god, this is so stupid. It’s a sex curse. If I don’t have sex in the next day then I’ll die.” Saying it out loud he realised just how ridiculous it was, how this really was just some fucking stupid porno, something he’d catch Dean quickly shutting off in the motel whenever he got back. “It really is stupid huh? Fuck, I don’t even-”
“Okay.”
It was his turn to blink at her. “What?”
“I said okay,” she hesitated before stepping forwards, like she was expecting him to jerk away from her again. “I’m not gonna let you… the curse isn’t gonna take over, okay? Of all the ways we’ve dealt with curses before this is actually a pretty easy fix.”
He was just staring at her. “But I can’t ask you to-”
“You aren’t asking, I’m offering,” the control in her voice made his cock throb in his jeans and he bit back a groan. It’d be nice to finally get some fucking relief. “This is gonna be easier than you going out to a bar and finding someone, Sam, and I trust you,” a pause then, her voice went softer. “And you trust me. Or at least I hope so.”
“‘Course I do,” he breathed. “But-”
“Sam,” she stepped forwards until she was right in front of him then, until he could smell her perfume and feel her breath hit his chest. “Let me. Please.”
Any restraint he’d been clinging onto snapped in that moment.
Giving in to the curse, at first, felt like being possessed, like watching from inside his body as he acted upon it. His hands cupped her jaw as he stepped closer, tipping down until he caught her mouth with his, hard, all desperation and lust as he licked and sucked at her bottom lip only just hesitating enough to not slip his tongue into her mouth immediately. She was making soft breathy sounds through her nose and it was making everything worse, his veins burned hotter and his cock was so achingly hard that he couldn’t help his hands sliding down to her hips and gripping hard as he started walking them back to her bed.
But he was shaking, his breathing all heavy and hot in his throat, the fever was still clinging to his bones and the curse made it hard to think about anything. His hands had just slipped beneath her shirt when she leaned back with a huff of breath, her palm pressed flat against his chest.
“Sam.” She breathed, heavy but concerned, eyes all soft and crinkled at the corners as she looked up at him.
“Yeah?”
Her fingers travelled down to gently start threading the leather of his belt through his buckle. The sight of her hands so close to where he needed them was almost enough to just cum in his boxers thinking about her. Again.
“Let me… let me take care of you, okay?” She breathed, pulling the belt free and then working open his zipper. “You’re shaking, let me do this,” she leaned forwards and kissed his chest and he shuddered. “Let me help you.”
All he could do was nod dumbly, hands squeezing at her hips as she unzipped his jeans and pushed them down his legs until he could step out of them. She hesitated as he fingers touched the waistband of his boxers, but he nodded, and she pulled those down too.
For a moment he was too distracted by the curse to really take much in, just panting softly as he waited for the inevitable relief. But when he did catch sight of her face, the way her eyes drifted down to his cock, hard and leaking like it had been all day, the way she swallowed, fuck.
“Come here.” He breathed, lustful and needy and possessive all in one, and then his mouth was on hers again as he took the final two steps back to her bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Sam moved to pull her in immediately but she paused to quickly slip her shorts and underwear down her legs, and only then did she let him pull her onto his lap, straddling his thighs.
If he was a little more with it, he’d have felt bad. In all the times he’d thought of being able to finally have her, it had gone differently. He’d been sweet and kissed her softly, taken her to dinner or for some drinks, they’d dressed nice and he’d complimented how pretty she was. He’d been gentle with her, taken his time, hadn’t wanted to rush it. She deserved better than the rushed desperation coursing through his veins, but he couldn’t help himself.
Sam was kissing her again once she was close enough. A hand slid up her back, soft skin beneath his palm, before he gripped her shirt and panted out, “can I take this off?”
Only when she nodded did he grip the hem and lift it up and over her head, dropping it on the floor with the rest of their clothes.
He allowed himself one moment to stare and take her in; chest rising and falling heavily, hardened nipples, soft thighs slotted over his like they belonged, her lips kiss-bitten and wet with their spit. Sam wasn’t entirely sure which part was the most devastating.
“God-” he choked, fingers curling around her hipbones again. “Look at you.”
Her chin tucked towards her chest all bashfully, and for a moment the flicker of guilt touched him. She deserved better than this.
But then her fingers wrapped around his cock and through the white-hot pleasure any other thoughts were wiped from his mind.
A grunt escaped his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, his grip on her hips tightening. “Shit-”
She shifted on top of him, lifting up on her knees to line his cock up with her entrance, and even if the feeling of his tip kissing her folds was enough for his head to spin a little he still stopped her with a squeeze of her hips.
“Are you ready? I mean…” Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew he was big, bigger than most. When he’d been with Jess he’d learned exactly how many fingers he needed to stretch her out before she could comfortably take him. He needed to feel her more than anything but he didn’t want to hurt her.
“It’s okay,” she breathed, and leaned down to kiss him again. “I can take it.”
Her tongue pushed past his lips and he moaned into her mouth as she slowly sank down onto him.
Nothing he had ever felt compared to that moment.
Charged, sparking pleasure exploded in his gut, shooting through his veins making every nerve ending tingle. Fuck. This was the relief he’d been craving, the lust he hadn’t been able to sort out himself with his hand or how much he could imagine in his head.
Her pussy squeezed tightly around him as she sank down slowly and for a moment all he could do was pant into the skin of her neck as he held onto her, grunting into her throat the deeper she took him and the tighter she clenched around him. Once he was sheathed all the way inside of her his breath punched out of him heavily. Somehow he hadn’t blown his load right then.
“You feel-” he whined as she shifted, rubbing against her gummy walks and spending more sparks of pleasure through him, “so fucking good, that’s- yeah, that’s it.”
She shifted again and that time it was her who whined, her palms hot on his shoulders as they grabbed at the muscle there. “Sam,” she breathed his name against his ear. “You’re so deep.”
He had a feeling he’d be getting hard over that sentence for the rest of his life.
“Can I-” her voice was trembling, and when he glanced up at her she looked a fucking picture — eyes all blown out, lips parted and panting, expression pinched in pleasure. “Can I keep moving?”
He couldn’t find his voice so he just nodded, and at the first shift of her hips his eyes rolled back and he moaned.
Time seemed to blur. He found himself able to release the death grip on her hips and instead smoothed his palms over her back, as his head tipped forwards to lick and suck at her neck. He’d never felt anything like this, it was like being high. Each squeeze of her cunt around his cock stole the breath from his lungs, made the magic from the curse flare inside of him in a way that had his hairs standing on end and his cock throbbing where it was held deep inside of her.
Noises were pulled from him without any of his say so. Keening whined and gasps of her name whenever she shifted. Her fingers tangled in his hair at one point and pulled and he almost completely lost it then.
She didn’t seem to be in a different state to him, if he knew any better he’d have said she was cursed from the way she was clinging onto him, panting his name and squeezing his cock inside of her.
This completely blew his dream out of the water.
“Hah- I’m-” It took an embarrassingly short time to get there, but given the heat bubbling inside of him he really did need the release sooner rather than later. “Fuck honey m’gonna cum-”
Her breath was hot on his cheek as her temple pressed to his, hips rolling and cunt squeezing along with her whimpered, “please Sammy.”
Sam watched as her hand dipped between them to rub at her clit with each roll of her hips and with the next time his tip brushed against her cervix he was gone.
He was certain that the sound that left him then he had never made before. Almost animalistic, in any other situation he would’ve found himself embarrassed, but the way pleasure shot up his spine, through his veins, made him shudder and gasp into her throat as his orgasm literally whitened his vision, he wasn’t in control of anything he was doing. It literally took his breath away, made his ears ring, one moment he was holding the back of her neck and kissing at her throat and the next he had his forehead pressed to her shoulder as he heaved breaths against her chest.
She must’ve cum too, not that he’d been able to even realise in the moment, but she’d also slumped into him, arms draped over his shoulders as she melted into him.
For one long moment, it was the best he’d ever felt.
“Hey,” she eventually whispered, leaned back to meet his eyes with hers, all soft and caring. “How do you feel? Did it work?”
“I think so.” He murmured, still trying to catch his breath.
His hands were more gentle on her hips as he helped her move off of him, hissing through his teeth as his cock slipped out of her, though he rubbed her back once she was sat on the bed beside him.
There was a flare inside of his chest, and then it hit him. That time it was almost unbearable, left him breathless with the fire that rolled through him. His eyes squeezed shut and his fists curled up as he winced in pain.
It hadn’t worked.
“Sam?” Her hand burned against his back. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He couldn’t help it, tears stung in his eyes then. “It didn’t fucking work.”
His breathing was sharp as he looked back up at her then, and the way her expression dropped made everything else sink in. What the fuck was the point of that? Sure, he’d wanted her for a long time, but not like that. She deserved to be taken care of, treated like an angel and kissed sweetly and loved on. Instead she’d had him like that — sweaty and gross and needy — and she’d had to do all the work. Let alone the fact it was all pointless anyways, he was still going to die.
“I thought you said Rowena said it’d work,” she breathed, voice so soft and scared. “What did she say to you? Maybe we did it wrong or something.”
Sam pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes hard, hands shaking. “She said I need to sate my desire.”
She frowned at him then. “That doesn’t mean sex, Sam.”
“Hm?”
“Your… desire, that doesn’t have to mean sex,” she turned to face him a little more. Their lack of clothes and post-orgasm exhaustion was momentarily ignored as her hand found his and squeezed. The heat made his fingers tingle. “It just means what you want the most. And I mean it obviously wasn’t sex with me,” her fingers squeezed his. “So what is it?”
His breath left him in a rush. “You.”
She blinked at him. “But it didn’t-”
“Not the sex,” his hand squeezed hers tightly. “You. You’re my best friend and I… I’m in love with you. I don’t even know when it happened but you’re all I can think about all the time.”
She was just staring at him with those wide eyes of hers, mouth opening and closing a few times before she could actually form a response. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” She eventually pressed, soft.
A bitter laugh left him then. “What would be the point? I care more about you than what I want. I was happy to just stay friends- I am happy to do that,” he pushed out a sharp breath and dragged his fingers through his hair. “But it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Because it’s not going to happen and I’m going to die.”
“Sam,” her hand gripped his tightly and when he looked up at her face she was scowling. “You’re an idiot.”
Before he could even think of a response she’d leaned in and then her mouth was on his. The kiss was soft, more gentle than their lust fuelled kisses from before, the plus warmth of her lips against his making his gut curl tighter than when she’d been grinding on his cock.
Her forehead pressed to his as she pulled away and her whispered words hit his ears, “I love you too.”
Sam leaned back enough to look at her. “What?” He breathed. “I- don’t just say that because I want to hear it.”
“Sam,” her fingers were gentle as they cupped his face. “I love you.”
The fire disappeared with a tingling hiss like he’d been dunked in ice water. Each heated nerve ending and muscle was instantly soothed with a coolness that made him groan as she kissed him again. Soothing cold ran up the length of his spine, down his arms, into his fingertips as he cupped her face and kissed her, lovingly, his tongue sweeping over her lips and pressing into her mouth saying everything that in that moment he couldn’t.
“God,” he breathed, all shaky, fingers stroking through her hair. “You- how long?”
She giggled as she looked up at him, eyes all crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “A while,” her hand lifted and laid flat on his chest. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” he sighed, fingertips gentle on her skin. “I think it broke it. I think you… you’re incredible.”
Her smile was like the sun. “Ditto.”
Sam laughed, the lightest he’d felt all day, both of them smiling too much when he went to kiss her again and he ended up kissing her teeth. “Ditto? All of that just to get a ditto?”
She was giggling against his mouth as his hands smoothed over soft skin, fingers tracing down her spine as he leaned over her, cupping the backs of her thighs so he could manoeuvre her onto her back. Laid beneath him like that, her pretty eyes and her pretty mouth and all of her that loved him, the feeling pressing against his ribs was no longer a heat, a curse, it was something much more magical.
His head dipped to kiss along her throat as her thighs pressed against his hips, drawing him closer. “I love you,” he whispered into her skin, a promise. “I love you.”
She was still wet from before, her chest brushing against his with each needy pant she made, so it was like second nature for his hand to reach between them until he could press his cock up against her, dragging the tip through her wetness until he caught her entrance and sank in slowly, the grip of her cunt around him making him moan into her throat as his hand found hers, fingers lacing through hers and pressing it down onto the mattress.
“Sam,” she moaned as his hips rolled, his cock nudging that soft spongy spot on the inside of her walls that made her whine when he hit it right. “Oh- fuck that’s-”
His tongue soothed over bruises he was sucking into the skin of her neck as he fucked her into the mattress gently, hands carressing and worshiping her. She deserved better than him, he knew that, deep down he knew she deserved everything he couldn’t give her and more.
But she wanted him. She wanted him. How could he deny her?
He moaned against her ear as he started fucking her a little deeper. His hand slid down her side to cup the back of one of her thighs, bringing it up and over his hip to press further into her slick cunt with each thrust.
There was a haziness in the room, not caused by a veil of a dream or curse, but the kind of desire that made somebody’s head spin with it. The bed beneath them a bare, plain motel standard, wales just as plain, but his focus was solely on her beneath him.
This wasn’t a dream. It was real. He had her.
“Sam I’m-” her voice trembled with each gasp she let out. Her nails dug into his shoulders that sent delicious sparks of pain down his spine where they dug in. Her cunt was clenched tightly around him, he could tell she was close, the way her gummy walls fluttered around his cock each time he sank himself back inside of her. “Please.”
He would do anything for her if she begged him like that.
“You’re okay, honey,” he breathed into her throat with another kiss. The image of their last round briefly flashed in his mind, her fingertips pressed to her clit when she got close, and he removed his hand from her thigh to dip between them. They were both soaked with leftover cum from before and new aroused slick that collected at the base of his cock. His fingers dragged through the wetness briefly before the pads of his fingers pressed against her clit where he started rubbing small circles that made her clench tighter around him, a whine punching up and out of her throat that made his gut clench. Fuck. “That's it, good girl, just feel it.”
Her hands gripped tight to his shoulders and she whined right in his ear. He almost came right then. “I’m- Sam-”
She shuddered against him as she came and Christ. The feeling of her pussy pulsing around his cock in waves as her orgasm dragged a breathless moan out of her throat was too much for him to handle. He only managed two more thrusts before he followed her, groaning into her skin as he rutted twice more into her before finally stilling on top of her.
For a moment, time didn’t move.
His fingers stroked feather-light up and across her ribs as he dotted kisses against her neck and jaw, until he finally lifted his head to press a soft kiss to her mouth.
“Hi.” She whispered when he leaned back and he smiled, a sweet loving thing.
“Hi, you,” he murmured, stroking her ribs. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, all flushed as she stole another kiss, her fingers stroking his hair made him relax. A thought nagged at him that he was sweaty and gross and he sighed, expression shifting to something a little more serious.
“I’m sorry.”
She frowned at him. “For what? Sam that was… that was great.”
He shook his head. “You should’ve had something better. I’m… I’m gross and sweaty and it was so rushed and I should’ve taken my time with you and… I’m just sorry.”
Her hand lifted to cup his cheek. “Don’t say that,” she leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and he just about melted. “We broke the curse. I just saved your life, mister, I think that’s pretty great to me.”
He was still frowning. “I know but-”
“Sam,” Her finger pressed to his lips. “It was good. I promise.”
She kissed him again, soft and slow and gentle, and time melted again.
Eventually they pulled away from each other, and since he hadn’t taken care of her in the moment, he made sure to completely care for her in the aftermath. He got a wet cloth from the bathroom and gently wiped her clean before himself, and kissed her forehead before he left again to run the shower for her so that the water would be nice and warm by the time she stepped in. There was a relaxing domesticity to the way they stepped around each other with gentle shared kisses and whispered comforts until she took up the shower first.
Once the room was full of the scent of her shampoo and the gentle pitter of the shower on the other side of the bathroom door he found his phone and thought it was best he told Rowena it had worked.
“Samuel,” she greeted in that delighted tone of hers she had whenever they spoke. “How's the heat?”
“The uh, the curse is broken. I’m fine now.”
He could picture her grin through the phone. “Marvellous. I knew you could do it. It hasn’t been that long since I left, dearie, she must’ve been quite eager to help.”
He ignored the heat that rose to his face. “Yeah, well… thanks for your help, Ro.”
“You’re welcome, pet. I got started on the cure just in case you didn’t have it in you so I’ll send it your way once I’m finished in case you happen to ever need it.”
Sam stilled. “You told me there wasn’t a cure.”
“Aye, I suppose I did. It’s a pretty simple potion, actually. I just thought this way would be a little more… beneficial for you and your love.”
“Rowena-”
“I’ve got to go now, Samuel, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
The line went dead and he lowered his phone, sitting with what she’d just told him for a moment, that there had been a cure, a simple one. But then his eyes trailed up to the closed bathroom door, the soft humming behind it reaching his ears, and he just laughed.
if you’d like to be added to my tag list pls send me an ask letting me know what fics you’d like to be tagged for <3
You requested ideas for drabbles, here I am blondie girl !!
I need more of your juno x dad!sam please😭 can you do one where we wake up in bed next to Sam, and Juno join us, just something comforting/extra sweet 🤭
Hope everything’s alright with you blondie<3
aah tysm for this request lovely i’ve missed the juno verse SO much you have no idea, if anyone else has juno requests pls send them in !! been a while since i’ve written so i might be pretty rusty but i hope you like this lovely <3 | juno verse, 1.1k words, singledad!sam x fem!reader, kid fic, fluff, requests only open for juno verse
Rolling over to see that the clock on his nightstand read 8:42 was a miracle with a toddler under his roof. He’d gotten used to the early wake up calls years ago — Sam had always been a morning person, but admittedly he did miss the quiet mornings without children’s television ringing in his ears as he sipped his first coffee of the day. He was at least glad that, for the most part, Juno was past waking up in the middle of the night. Sometimes it still happened, she had a pink flashlight on her dresser for the purpose of searching for monsters under her bed or in her closet when she had nightmares, but she was a pretty good sleeper most of the time. She just typically liked to rise with the sun.
Though she’d gotten to bed late last night because she’d taken advantage of his girlfriend’s kindness and had gotten three bedtime stories out of her, contrast to his usual one.
Said girlfriend was curled up beside him, covers bunched around her waist, his shirt he’d had on yesterday slipping off of her shoulder as she shifted to get more comfortable.
After Jess he’d sworn it wouldn’t happen again. That part of his life was over, he’d decided, now he had Juno to live for he couldn’t get distracted by something like that happening again. But she’d slipped through the cracks anyways, right down through the slots of his ribs into his heart, and now she was in his bed most nights of the week and he was happy. More importantly Juno was happy too.
“You’re staring,” her voice was a little muffled by the pillow as she cracked an eye open to look up at him and he did his best not to snort in amusement. “Take a picture.”
“Pretty sure I’m allowed to stare,” he reached up to gently brush some of her hair away from her face before he leaned down and kissed her cheek, skin warm from sleep. “You sleep okay honey?”
“Mhm, I’ve told you your beds more comfy than mine.”
His hand moved under the covers to curl around her waist and bring her closer, head dipped down to kiss her forehead. “Next time I’m at yours I’ll flip your mattress if you want,” he spoke softly, fingers slid beneath her shirt to stroke along the dip of her spine. “It’s probably just that.”
She lifted her head to kiss him but, half asleep, she caught the corner of his mouth instead. “It’s so sexy when you talk about stuff like that.”
Her teasing giggles were cut off after he rolled his eyes and pressed an actual kiss to her lips, the heel of his palm rubbing into the dip of her back. His mouth was slow and gentle against hers, and it was those kinds of kisses he liked the most. No rush, just tenderness.
A door opened down the hallway, a floorboard creaked, and he parted the kiss with a sigh as his forehead pressed to hers. “Brace yourself.” He murmured.
His bedroom door — which he always kept at least cracked open, a hoodie hung over the top of the door so it didn’t shut on accident — pushed open and the light from the hallway flooded into the bedroom, darkened by the curtains. He sat up enough to watch as Juno stumbled into the room, princess dress that she’d insisted on wearing to bed the night before (he believed she was just trying to impress their guest) catching under her feet as she moved over to the bed. He tried not to cringe when she almost tripped.
“Hey Junebug,” he slept closest to the door so it was him she reached first, climbing up onto the edge of the mattress and diving for his chest. “Morning baby.”
Her cheek was squished against his shirt as she fidgeted until she got comfortable, the material of her skirt scratchy against his arms as he moved to hold her so she didn’t fall off of the bed with all her wriggling. His baby was more energetic than should be possible during the day but she could be pretty grumpy when she was tired.
“You gonna talk to me this morning?” His hand combed through her mess of hair as he spoke, and when she shook her head he watched as his girlfriend laughed at his side, also sitting up to watch the display his daughter was putting on.
“What about me?” She tried, a hand reaching out to gently rub Juno’s arm with a gentle palm. “You’ve been sleeping for ages, Junie, I missed you.”
Juno tipped her head to look up at her and smiled. “Hi.”
“Traitor.” Sam scoffed, still trying to subtly comb some knots out of her hair with his fingers, though even with her clear favouritism he was smiling. If Juno hadn’t liked her then this wouldn’t even be a thing, his daughter came first always, he couldn’t be with somebody who didn’t also think she was important. But she cared for Juno almost as much as he did; picking her up from preschool when he didn’t have the time, cooking her dinners, reading her extra bedtime stories. Sam felt pretty fucking lucky.
Juno fidgeted again, before sitting up and scowling.
“Hey,” Sam lifted a hand to rub his thumb against the wrinkles that had formed between her eyes. “Keep frowning and your face is gonna get stuck like that.” Dean used to tell him the same when he was a kid.
She was already scrambling off of his lap and off the bed as she complained, “I forgot Bear.”
Her feet padded against the floor as she ran out of the room and Sam cringed when she almost tripped again. “She’s gonna fall sometime wearing that.”
A warm hand was on his arm and lips against his cheek. “I tried telling her that last night, she wasn’t having any of it.” Sam watched with a warm smile as she giggled before turning to watch as Juno ran back in, her pink Bear hugged to her chest.
She had much more enthusiasm as she jumped onto the mattress this time, clambering into his lap with much more urgency. “Daddy.”
“Talking to me now?” His hand lifted to rub her back.
“I’m hungry.”
He did his best not to laugh at her bluntness. “Uh-huh,” he pinched her waist to earn a giggle. “Is there a nicer way you can put that.”
“Breakfast,” she paused and he raised his eyebrows until she thought about it and added, “please.”
The pretty girl beside him had started laughing again and in that moment he couldn’t imagine why he’d ever tried to shut himself away from this again. “Alright, c’mon, don’t want you to get hangry do we?”
Blondie omggg thank you for writing my request, I missed this universe so so so much and this is such a good comeback!! I love your writing style so so much, I can’t wait to read more 💕💕💕
i know i completely disappeared off the face of the earth for months and i’m sorry all i can say is grief sucks. i was so excited to be here and stuff after the con i went to i was gonna come back and talk all about it but idk i just haven’t felt right for months. i think i’m coping a bit better now i still have bad days but i really wanna try being here on this account again. idk when i’ll get to writing again i haven’t written properly in a while but i’d love to just be around in the fandom and talking and stuff again so here i am :)
i missed being here and missed everyone so much i’m sorry for just disappearing lmao but i’m really gonna make an effort to stick around this time even when i feel like i wanna crawl back into my cave lol so i’ll be around <3
