content warnings: established relationship, sam x reader, sex in the impala, mutual masturbation, pinv sex
wc: 2.7k
a/n: taking requests
_
“Still- he’ll know.”
Ignoring Sam’s objection, you maneuver yourself onto his lap. He’s positioned as comfortably as someone of his size can be, cramped in the backseat of the Impala. The massive expanse of his back rests against the rear passenger door, his thick thighs consuming the entire breadth of leather seating.
“He’s gonna know and give me shit for it.” Sam repeats. “Asshole’s got a sixth sense or something.”
Your fingers, which had been pulling at the buttons of his flannel, pause. In your quest to bare his torso, you’d only conquered four buttons, more than enough to revel in the exposure of the valley between his pectorals, a smattering of dark hair, and the ends of the inky tendrils of his anti-possession tattoo.
Who cares if Dean realizes you fucked his brother in the car? Wouldn’t be the first time.
Luckily, you’ve never been caught. But even Dean is smart enough to piece together what it means when Sam’s coming across as extra guilty, paired with you suddenly walking around with a limp. And as there aren’t a ton of options of private places for you to get your rocks off, Dean can occasionally assume where the more elicit activities have taken place. You know Sam is always mortified when Dean bitches at him for it, he’s such a sensitive guy, but you always manage to talk him into it again eventually.
Like now.
Like every other time, you find Sam’s protests half-hearted at best, considering you can feel substantial evidence of his excitement pressed snugly against the apex of your parted thighs.
“Fine.” You concede, dropping your hands from his solid chest. “We can stop.”
You almost giggle at his flat expression, as if what you’d suggested was impossibly ridiculous. “Think it's a little late for that, isn’t it, honey?” One of his bulky hands claps your waist, holding you in place as he drives his hips upwards, so you can feel the distinct shape of him through his jeans. He’s fully hard. You chew your bottom lip at the momentary friction, delighting in the way he can overpower you and stop you from rolling your own hips with just one hand.
“You sure?” You wrap your arms around the expanse of his shoulders, drawing closer to the heat radiating from his body. “Wouldn’t want Dean to know what we get up to in his back seat, right?” He shivers into your touch, as you bring your lips to his ear, lightly scratching the back of his neck with your nails. The way he reacts to you is such a turn on for you, the way he pretends to be all domineering, as if you couldn’t have him eating out of your palm with a single word.
But he has the same effect on you. All it takes is for him to stretch in the morning, his shirt riding up on his toned stomach just a bit, biceps swelling as he flexes before extending his arms behind his head, to get you practically foaming at the mouth. Everything about him makes you want to jump his bones.
“Bet he’d be real jealous.” You continue in that special, breathy voice you saved just for Sam. “If he knew all the filthy things i’ve let you do to me back here-”
It’s true and that’s part of why it’s so hot. You and Sam steal away to go at each other in the back of the Impala like teenagers. When it's time to hit the road again, you make eyes at Sam when he catches your gaze in the rearview mirror, the playfulness in your expression alluding to all the depraved things you’d done the last time. It doesn’t take more than a coy smile and minimal batting of your eyelashes, for Sam to redden and clear his throat and look out the window before subtly adjusting the crotch of his pants.
“Baby,” He groans. “He’ll kill me if he catches us.”
“Well, then I better make it worth it.” You grab his hands and place them on your breasts over your shirt, before guiding them underneath your skirt to cup your ass.
Almost as if it's involuntary, his hips buck into you, squeezing your ass, and his resonant moan vibrates throughout the car. “Alright, alright. I’m convinced. Now can we please be done talking about my brother.”
You giggle and play with the ends of his shaggy hair. “You’re the one so worried about him.”
“Only thing I’m worried about right now is if you’re ready for me or not.” The hazel of his eyes is darkened in the shadows, but you can make out the intensity with which he’s staring at you, like you’re something otherworldly, something precious.
You resort to chewing on your bottom lip, shifty under the heat of his gaze. He lowers his forehead to yours, lips just a fraction from your own as you feel goosebumps burst across your skin at his palm resting on your bare thigh.
“Always ready for you, Sammy,” You whisper.
“I know, baby,” He doesn’t break eye contact as his hand slides up under your skirt. Your thighs automatically spread for him, and his jaw clenches in response. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
You cry out softly, jolting a little, at the first brush of his fingers against your core. He deftly slips his fingers under the gusset of your panties to assess how wet you are. The second he touches the molten heat between your legs, he groans, and it's a full bodied sound. Your gut swoops in response, like you just reached the top of a swing.
“S’all for me, baby?” His lips brush yours, watching the contortion of your features as you react to his soft touch, the gentle, infuriating brush of his thumb over your clit. “Gotta be careful, just know you’re gonna make a fucking mess.”
“Then stop teasing me.” You whine, gripping the roots of his hair with an exasperated fist. “S’not nice.” Now you’re panting. Every time you try to push your hips down into his hand, desperate for a firmer touch, your inner thighs trembling with the effort, he draws away just enough to keep you frustrated.
“No kidding,” He murmurs. “Now you know how I feel. All the damn time, little fucking minx.” His hand snaps out in a flash to grab your jaw. The move startles you and your pussy flutters at the display of power and speed, even though he’s holding you gently and cracking a soft smile after.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” You deny, nuzzling into his hand.
As you resume your work on the buttons of his flannel, he starts manhandling you, grinding you against the crotch of his jeans crudely. It's pathetic, how wet you are, as he handles you like you weigh nothing. The stimulation has your eyes fluttering, as it further stokes the building ache in your lower belly. Frantically yanking the flannel down the tree trunks of Sam’s arms, you nearly drool over the sight of all his tanned skin, the thick, lean muscles of his shoulders, his biceps. You don’t know where to put your hands first.
“Right.” Sam rasps in your ear. “When you wear these little skirts,” He fists the fabric of your skirt, until the cords and tendons stand out in his forearm. “And give me those looks and I can practically hear every dirty thought I know you’re thinking…” Now his hands are sliding up the smooth slope of your back, spanning across your ribs before his thumbs are prodding your stiff nipples, encouraging you to arch further into him. “I imagine it all, s’that what you’re saying?”
“So? Y-You like it.”
He yanks your top over your head, then latches on to your chest. He’s rough with you, letting his teeth scrape against your sensitive nipples, and you have to stifle a squeal.
“No. I fucking love it.”
Sam kisses you, his mouth burning and wet, as if he’d been salivating from having your breast in his mouth. His tongue slides against yours, erasing all thoughts from your mind. You feel so small in his embrace, like he could easily break you, though you know he could never.
“Sammy, please,” You whisper, putting your hand on his upper thigh to show him what you want.
Sam leans back, letting his head rest against the foggy window. Slowly, his massive hand rubs over the bulge at his crotch. “Wanna beg me for it?”
“Play nice,” You pretend to scold him, swatting his hand away from his lap and going straight for the button of his jeans. “Or you’ll play by yourself,”
“Sounds like an empty threat,” He says with an indolent smirk.
You reach into his boxers and grip his cock, just pulling him before sliding backwards across the seats until you back meets the opposite car door. “Fine, play by yourself, then. And I will, too.”
Tilting your hips, you bring your knees to your chest before parting your legs, putting the glistening, swollen mess of your pussy fully on display for him. You immediately have to start touching yourself at the way his jaw goes slack, his head tilting more as he shamelessly absorbs the sight of you rubbing yourself, moaning audibly.
“You must want me dead, honey. Fucking killing me here.”
Your eyes are still fixated on his face, the absolute awe you see there, when he bites his bottom lip, and you realize he has his hand wrapped around himself.
The sight of his hand slowly twisting around his significant length, the swollen tip poking out of his curled fist, is all you focus on. His eyes are glued to your pussy in the same fashion. The pressure in your gut has built to something white hot and all-consuming, until you’re dangerously close to cumming.
“Y-You did this to yourself, big boy.” You force yourself to speak in a strangled voice, not quite matching the bravado of your words.
“Get your ass over here.” He grits out, chest completely flushed.
You lick your lips, moaning sweetly to add salt to the wound. You throw your head back, hitting it a bit harder on the glass behind you than intended.
“Wanna beg me for it?” You tease.
Sam rolls his eyes but grins. “Why would I beg when I know how bad you want it?” He mocks, gesturing to his dick.
“S’okay.” You moan, thighs shaking harder now. “Looking at it is fun, too. I’m already gonna cum-”
You yelp as he lunges out toward you, hoisting you back onto his lap as if you’re weightless.
“Now who’s being mean. Tryin’ to cum without me?” He leans down to kiss your shoulder sweetly, at the same time as he’s rubbing the fat head of his dick through your sopping cunt. You giggle and grasp his wrist, briefly astounded by how small your hand looks on his arm.
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d just do it for me!” You pout, watching his ministrations between your legs.
“Alright, baby, I hear you. You’re right. Enough is enough.”
Sam surges forward, slotting his panting, open mouth over yours. He winces, and even though he’d drenched his cock in your generous slickness, the second the head pushes inside of you, you cry out against the burn and stretch. But you love the pain. Love that each time you take him, it gets the slightest bit easier. Sure, it’ll probably leave you unable to walk comfortably for the rest of the night, but no one has ever made you feel this good in your life.
Sam paws at your face, smoothing your hair back. Shushing you with his lips at your cheek as he eases your hips down his length slowly.
“Holy fuck Sam-” You scream through gritted teeth as he juts his hips upward, fully seating his cock inside of you.
“There you go,” He encourages, squeezing your hip with one hand, the other snaking around to grab at the meat of your ass, gripping it harshly. “Just like that. Not so tough with my cock in you.”
“So big-” You gasp. You have to brace yourself with palms against the bulging muscles of his chest as he starts to lift and drop your hips, forcing your movements with his hands.
“Yeah.” He groans, staring at where his cock is slipping out of you, just the head inside your snug walls. “It’s just for you, beautiful.”
“Yeah,” You agree, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him closer. You nip at this bottom lip. “S’mine.”
Sam nods. “Course it is. Show me how good you can ride it.”
You start to move your hips, but really, he’s still doing the majority of the work, bouncing you on his lap now at a faster speed. By now, the inside of the car is stuffy, and sweat is beading across both of your chests, dampening your hair.
The Impala starts rocking underneath you.
The intensity of the moment disappears for a second, as you both register the noise, not stopping your movements. Just looking at each other before both breaking into smiles. You giggle before kissing him, a kiss that he immediately returns with enthusiasm, and then he’s thrusting himself into you hard enough to knock all the humor out of the situation.
“Shh,” He nudges your nose with his, holding you still while he jackhammers into you from below. “You’re so fucking loud. Asking for me to get my ass kicked.”
He slides you off his lap, his cock still inside you, and lays you down on the back seat. You grab at his shoulders, clinging to him as he hovers above you, looking even larger than usual crammed in the tight space. He uses one hand behind your knee to practically fold your body in half. He starts fucking you hard, until you can start to forget that he’s such an incredibly caring and sensitive person, too.
“Sam,” You moan, gripping him by the roots of his hair to keep his face close to yours. The heavy eye contact is making every sensation in your body feel heightened, so sensual despite how fast and dirty it is, that you fear you might have to tell him you love him after this.
“Need you to come, baby. Wanna come with you.”
Chest heaving, his eyes are soft as they bore into yours. “Yeah? Tell me how much you want it, baby. Being so good and taking my cock so perfectly.”
You actually don’t even need him to touch your clit, you can’t even tell him how badly you want it because you lose control. He’d been pounding into you so hard you couldn’t possibly hold it off a second longer. Your vision goes white, and you clutch him close, spasming around his cock while he keeps drilling into you. Your voice cracks, and he’s dropped so much of his weight onto you that you can barely breathe, but it's perfect because he’s all around you. You’re still cumming when he does, kissing you hard and sloppy while cumming deep inside you.
He gives a few short, slow thrusts that have you giggling from the hypersensitivity. Then he’s kissing your cheek, his hand gripping your bare leg. “Bad girl. Cumming without me.” He says into your ear.
“Close enough, right?” You give him big eyes and a little pout before pulling him in for a kiss, as if you hadn’t just been entirely satisfied.
You nearly jump out of your skin when there’s a loud bang from the trunk of the car.
“Oh, shit-” Sam groans, sliding you off his lap. You immediately start fumbling to put your top back on but you’re laughing.
“I swear to fucking God, Sam,” Dean’s voice barks from way too close for comfort. “I’m going to open this door in 4 seconds, and if your fucking dick is out, I’m going to cut it the fuck off.”
Having heard no threats against your person, you press a quick kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth and take a last chance to run your hand over his chest.
“Good luck with that. If you make it out with your dick, let’s do this again sometime.”
✶ notary nsfw content. hello world.... i am back with a small drabble that i wrote in 10 minutes before i upload my long ahh fic
sam winchester is the most respectful, polite and soft spoken man you've ever met. the one you would be proud to introduce to your parents. but behind closed doors? he can be a fucking menace.
your high-pitched whimpers are filling the impala. hands clawing at his arms, his hair, abs, almost everywhere, as sam's on top of you pounding himself into you so deep, you can feel him in your stomach.
your parents think you're on a movie date. i mean, he showed up on your doorstep with flowers and puppy eyes, who would not believe him? who would think that he would have you begging for mercy for an hour straight?
the windows are getting fogged up, your body is probably on it's 10th orgasm, but sam is nowhere close to stopping.
"sam-" you choke on a moan, because sam is choking you himself. his hand is tight around your throat, just enough for your world and senses to narrow to only him and nothing else. and it's working. your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, you're seeing white, you almost can't breathe but it all just feels so good.
he leans down to capture your lips into another messy kiss, filled with tongue, spit and desire. you struggle to kiss him back, because you just can't seem to stop moaning.
"look at me" he says between his own groans and whimpers.
you try. you really try to. but it's all just too much. too much pleasure. your body's almost gone numb.
"fuckin' look at me or i'll stop" he urges now, just with a hint of desperation.
that's when you got desperate. "no- please" you whimpered, fluttering your eyes open.
and god, he has never looked better. sweaty, rosy cheeks, eyes filled with lust and desire. but then a small smirk appeared on his face and before you could register anything, his second hand wraps around your throat too and he starts rocking his hips impossibly fast inside you.
summary: after two painful attempts at a communication of feelings, you and sam are suffocating from the tension. it's fucking up your hunts and making fools of you two. it has to be settled... after you kill a monster, shower, and have a few beers by the fire.
warnings: typical spn violence, some kinda gory descriptions of blood and violence, stereotypical miscommunication that maybe doesn't even get resolved, makeout, no smut (yet ;P)
words: 3,992
You'd been out since dusk, Dean by your side and Sam behind you two, ready to catch the strange corporeal spirit when it inevitably attacked Dean. The plan was simple: draw her out of the woods with a staged confrontation of cheating (Dean cheating on you of course) and leave him alone for the spirit to take her vengeance. Honestly, you weren't 100% on board with banishing her, when most of her victims were rapists and abusers, generally men who had severely wronged women. She was their protector, but as Sam reminded you, vengeance can turn ugly very quickly. You sighed, though you knew he was right deep down. At least you would be freeing the soul of a woman, your small comfort.
The plan would've worked out fine if she'd been as predictable as she was before, but like Sam said, retribution can get ugly fast. As soon as you turned your back on Dean, stalking off, she took her opportunity and swiped him into the darkening woods. Sam called out and you two chased after the spirit. Shooting would slow her down, but it was too risky with Dean in her arms. The two of you were no match for her speed and within the minute they had disappeared into a conveniently placed fog. The sky was getting darker and the both of you knew what would happen if you didn't find Dean quick.
As the two of you caught your breath, the woods hummed in silence, alive, but not quite. Your chest heaving, you looked at Sam, his eyes darting across the trees, looking for something to tell him where she went.
"Okay," you huff to fill the quiet.
"Shit," is all Sam says in response. You nod, gulping for air as you two try to get a feel for your surroundings. All you had to do was find where she was taking Dean and it would be easy after that. Hopefully.
"Do you still have that hiker's map on you?" Sam asks, head still whipping around at the slightest sound.
You pat your pockets, searching for the said map and finding it in your back pocket. You hand it to him, fingers grazing against his. The warmth radiating off of his callused skin gives you a sliver of comfort, but you can't admit to that in such a dire time as this.
"She must've taken him..." he trails off as he looks at the map, flashlight guiding his finger as he searches for a place.
"That cave?" you point to a cave not too far from the trail you were standing on.
"Where did those campers report hearing the screams? Do you remember?"
"The ones from fifteen years ago? Sam..." you look at him skeptically.
"Dean is out there," Sam doesn't raise his voice, but you can feel the urgency coming off of him in waves.
"Okay, um... here, between these two," you point to the trail markers on the map. You can see your breath mingling with his as you two stare at them, memorizing where Dean might be.
"Let's go," he says, folding the map and handing it back to you before starting to jog in that direction.
You two are running for what feels like an hour, but can only be twenty minutes, before you make it to the spot where fifteen years ago, there was a search party for a woman who was reported missing. She was never found. Fifteen years later, you had to stop her before she flayed Dean alive.
You'd never forgive yourself if this is how that bastard died, fake cheating on you of all people.
Your chest burns and though you can't really feel it, you know the temperatures are dropping. A night spent in the mountains is not something you want to do.
The two of you slow your pace, there's a lingering fog clinging to the greenery. This must be the place. Looking around, you find signs of struggle, broken bushes and dragged tracks in the dirt, but no sign of Dean or the woman's spirit.
Sam backs into you, his shoulder blades tensing when they make contact with the back of your head. The slope of his spine is pressed against yours as he looks around. He nudges you with his elbow, you glance at him, finding him looking up before looking up yourself.
In the trees, you find them, she's tying Dean up, unaware of her spectators below.
With bated breath, you raise your gun, aiming and shooting her in her shoulder. She falls to the ground and you rush over, fumbling for the mixture of herbs from your jacket pocket. Tossing them on her, you pull your gun again, shooting her in her chest to keep her down as she struggles to get her footing. You reach again for the lighter fluid in your other pocket, hands full and slow from the cold. Sam comes up on your other side, lighting a match and dropping it on the woman.
You groan, agitated, "You couldn't wait?" you shout, finally grabbing the bottle and twisting the top off with your teeth. She's crawling towards you in jerking motions, effectively freaking you out. Your heart stutters.
Sam grunts, his lack of response is proof enough he's flustered too.
You douse her in the fluid as you stumble backwards and Sam shoots her again, making her fall to her stomach, before tossing the final match. You cross your fingers the spells you found in one of Bobby's journals works. The three of you weren't exactly sure how to kill her, but figured some combination of the various methods might work.
Despite the burning, she manages to get up (shocker! Your Frankenstein-spell didn't work), the fire doesn't seem to phase her as it licks the backside of her shoulders and torso. She lunges for you, nails scraping your arm as you attempt to dodge her attack. You shoot again and two more shots bury themselves in her chest. The piercing scream she lets out weakens your knees. Sam breathes heavy next to you, unsheathing the Bowie knife from his ankle.
"Keep her busy," he half-whispers before rounding the tree.
Her eyes are on you, advancing on you with a speed you could never match. Tackling you to the ground, she wails, still on fire and raising her hand. She jerks her flaming claw to slash your throat with her jagged nails; all you have time to do is brace yourself, tucking your chin to your chest and shutting your eyes tight.
Her nails catch your skin, but before her fingers can dig further into your cheek, her hand falls limp against your face, cradling it. You feel the heat radiating off of the flame that's barely sustaining itself, opening your eyes to see that her head has been lobbed off. Her torso falls onto your chest, knocking the wind out of you. Her blood is cold and thick as it begins to pool onto your throat and hair from the severed neck that sits inches from your face. Quietly, you process what has just happened before moaning in dissatisfaction.
"Fuck, are you serious?" you shout, shoving the, still flaming, body off of you and stumbling to your feet. Sam reaches out, hands grasping at your elbows and steadying you. You feel his thumbs gently stroking your skin, grounding you as you gulp for air.
"Sorry," Sam says, eyeing your state of mess and assessing the damage. You stare for a minute, his hair is in his face, half covering his eyes and tickling his nose, you're sure. The faint glow of the burning body frames his face so well, you're getting deja vu from the last time he looked at you like this. You look down to survey the damage done, and to dampen your thoughts, before sighing.
"It's fine, not like I liked this shirt anyways," you give him a half smile as you look up again and his eyes glitter in amusement, his dimples peeking out as the corner of his lips quirk at your comment.
You hear a grunt from above and see that not only is Dean tied up, he's gagged. You have to laugh.
After half an hour of climbing the tree and untying Dean, and another half-hour of fully burning the body, the three of you are back on your way up to the cabin. The blood has dried and is starting to itch as it flakes off your skin. Dean's at the front, a few strides ahead of you and bitching about being taken and tied up. You snort every time he mentions the tied up part, convinced this has taught him something about himself he hadn't yet discovered.
You and Sam walk side-by-side behind him, the back of your hand grazes against his every so often and you shiver. You aren't sure if it's the cold or the zap of life you feel when you can sense him physically near you.
He doesn't say anything on the whole trek back, quiet and observing, much like he's been for the past few weeks. In fact, it's been exactly like this, lingering looks and grazes of fingertips, but nothing said about the situation. Two weeks of tension, pulsing and building and so thick you can feel it in the back of your throat every time you look at him. It has you buzzing with desire; you find yourself reaching for him, to fix his shirt, to get the piece of lint out of his hair. Dean's sick of it, he's told you as much.
Now in the silence, your numbing stiff fingers still itch to reach out and touch Sam. You sneak a glance at his face that stares straight ahead. You think maybe he could reciprocate. You're not stupid, he has to feel some way about you, you're just not sure if you're willing to risk it.
As soon as you two get to the cabin, Dean crashes. Sam starts the fire in the small living room and you watch as he tends to the beginnings of the flames nestled in the logs. You're leaned up against the door frame and he catches a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, turning his head to you in acknowledgement.
"Uh... I'm gonna shower..." you wish you could hit yourself, you sound so stupid.
"Kay," he smiles and returns to the fire. You hear him chuckle as you leave the room and you feel fuzzy.
In the mirror, you assess the damage. Your shirt has a large blood stain around the collar and is singed in several places, though magically your jacket scraped by with only a few spatters of blood by the collar. Your hair is matted with blood, and also probably singed, though you can't really see it in the dim flickering light. Your cheek is sporting four shallow scratches, nothing that won't heal on its own. All in all, you'd done a pretty bang up job not getting entirely wounded. After all, 90% of the blood isn't even your own, if that isn't a win, you don't know what is.
The warm shower settles the after hunt jitters, your muscles relax and your heart slows to its regular rhythm.
When you pad out of the bathroom, hair soaking and towel wrapped around you, you're met with Sam sitting on the couch and nursing a beer. Another unopened bottle sits on the table in front of him as he watches the flames across the room. He doesn't notice you, or at least, doesn't make any movements to acknowledge your presence.
For a moment, you watch, keen eyes trailing his fingers as they grip the neck of the glass, tendons flexing
as the tip of his pointer traces the lip. The sweat from the perspiring bottle rolls off his knuckles and drips onto his jeans below. You don’t realize you’re staring until your eyes trail back up and find him watching you, a small teasing smile on his face. Your eyes widen, struck dumb and feeling stupid, you can’t manage to say anything but, “sorry.”
He’s quiet, doesn’t reply, but keeps the soft smile on his face for you before looking down at his bottle.
“I got a beer for you, if you want it,” he mumbles, “figured you might need it after…that.”
You snort and step forward, he reaches for the bottle on the table now, opening it with his teeth.
“Who taught you how to do that?” you ask, quirking a brow, “Your brother or a frat boy at school?” He chuckles at that and shrugs, sheepish. He holds the bottle out to you now, long arm reaching across the table to you, you take it, fingers wrapping around his own. Slowly, he lets go, eyes steady on yours, breathing shallow.
You bring it to your lips, let the taste of barley swish in your mouth before swallowing. You tip the bottle back again, taking bigger gulps to finish the bottle.
“Is there more?” you ask when you put the bottle down, heading towards the beat up fridge in the corner of the room before he can reply. Inside you find a few more bottles with peeling labels.
“Jesus,” he says under his breath so that you barely hear his surprise.
“How old are these?” you ignore the comment, taking another and bringing it back to Sam to open.
“Uh, I dunno,” he raises his eyebrows, watching your outstretched hand. You stand expectantly, your hair is dripping onto your bare feet and only now are you aware that you’re still in just a towel. You see his adam’s apple bob and your stomach flutters, heat crawling up your spine.
The stillness of the moment lingers, what’s been left unsaid for the past few weeks weighs on your chest and heats up the tips of your ears. It threatens to spill, clawing its way up your throat.
His fingers begin picking at the label of his own bottle, hesitant to grab yours that’s still dangling in front of him, waiting.
Slowly, he shifts forward to meet your hand, allowing the silence to stretch between you. Again, he brings the bottle to his mouth, breaking the seal with his teeth and handing it back to you. When his fingers brush against yours, your breathing stops. He settles back into the couch, spitting the bottle cap out into his hand and tossing it to the rotting wood table in between the two of you.
“I’m afraid of what might happen,” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure he could hear it over your own heartbeat. The fire crackles behind you and you see the faint shadow of yourself cast onto his chest, blocking him from the warmth of the light. His eyes are on yours, flickering between the both of them, searching for more, waiting for you to elaborate. His eyebrows are furrowed in that perfect puppy-dog look of his.
You don’t want to cross the line, the table is the barrier between the two of you, preventing you from messing things up. If you stay on this side of the table, nothing changes.
From the safety of the other side, you confess with your eyes, willing him to see everything you feel. Whatever he sees, he understands. He understands the way the boy you grew up with would. He pats the couch cushion next to him.
“Sit?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper and pained. You let out a shaky breath and watch as your feet cross the line, round the corner of the table and slide into the couch next to him. Your legs are shut tight, acutely aware of the towel you still haven’t changed out of. Stiff, you bring the new bottle up to your lips and take a big swig, and then another.
You turn to him, and find his eyes searching your own. His hand is white knuckling his bottle, his lips have been bitten raw in thought.
“I’m sorry,” you try again to compile your thoughts, your emotions for the past weeks.
“For what?” he asks, genuine. His eyes are almost as watery as they were on that drunken night.
“Oh, god,” you mumble more to yourself than anything, “For not telling you earlier. For not saying anything that night, for not doing anything about it after,” you ramble afraid to look up and your heart hammering, you take another drink if only to avoid what he has to say in response.
The beer swirls in your empty stomach, warmth fizzing up your fingers and you’re partly thankful you hadn’t had anything to eat so that one and a half beers could make you tipsy enough to confess.
When you look up, his watery eyes have softened and the dimple in the side of his cheek has begun to pop out, your breath wavers.
“You made me look like such an idiot,” he whispers in tease.
“I didn’t mean to,” you reply even softer. The flames are flickering against his face again, always the warmth of the fire finding him and basking him in its glow. You don’t think he’s ever looked this good, shoulder leaning against the back of the couch and turned to you with rapt attention. The moles on his face are begging to be kissed, begging for you to just reach a hand across the way and break the final barrier. His bangs have begun to fall into his face and are casting shadows across his eyes, hiding them from the golden light, hiding them from your observation.
Again, somehow you’ve leaned much closer to him then you thought, gravitating towards him in the silence. You can feel his hand inches away from you on the cushion below, the pressure of his fingers caught in the fabric just next to your bare knee is enough to leave your head spinning.
“It would fuck everything up,” you try again, whispering to his watery eyes and his warm cheeks that are getting closer by the minute. You hang your head and close your eyes and grip the sweating bottle tighter in hopes that he can feel your struggle. When you look up you find him right there, eyes shifting across your face, studying the way your lips twitch and your eyelashes bat at him, startled.
“I know,” he says, eyebrows still furrowed as he sets the bottle down, cold beer glass hand coming up to cup your face. It’s damp but his touch is soft and you settle into it, heart stuttering in your chest as his nose comes close enough to bump against yours. You can smell the beer on his breath mingling with your own, you can feel the calluses on his palm rub against the bone of your cheek.
You two stare at each other, time slowing to the tune of your breathing, waiting. And then it happens, your fingers let the bottle slip out of your hand and to the ground, Sam closes the gap and suddenly his lips are on yours and the weeks of longing have come to fruition.
They’re soft and inviting, hesitant at first. He kisses you slow and gentle, plump lips slotting between yours in fluid movements that have you pulling him closer. His second hand comes up to cradle your other cheek, the scratched one from earlier that you vaguely remember in the haze of Sam.
His musky smell of sweat and pine deodorant fills your lungs, his bangs tickle just above your eyebrow. Your faces bump against each other as you kiss him more intensely. The slide of his tongue against your bottom lip makes your legs clench together and your brows furrow. Slowly, your mouth opens for him and he takes advantage of it, pulling your face closer and kissing you slow and sloppy. You can taste him, something you’d been dreaming about since forever. His breathing picks up and the sound of shifting fabric echoes in your ears as he inches closer. Your leg comes up, lifting to straddle him, and his hand meets your thigh, pulling it around his waist and resting against your bare skin where the towel has ridden up.
Your fingers have made their way to his hair, carding through the dirty strands and tugging. Your bodies are flush against one another now, one hand finding its way to his shoulder and gripping, feeling the size of it in your palm and flattening to smooth down his arm, gripping his bicep through his waffle knit henley. His body heat radiates through the fabric into your skin, his tongue slides against yours and you can feel the traces of a whimper hiding in the back of your throat. You can’t help yourself, your mouth wanders to his jaw, kissing against the faint stubble growing there. He breathes into your ear, hot puffs of strangled breaths as you continue your path down his throat, slow and gentle. The smack of your lips against his skin rings through the space between you, against the backdrop of the crackling, dying fire. Your tongue darts out, swirling against his skin before suckling at the junction of his collarbone.
“Please,” he whispers into the dark, fingers tangled in your wet hair, still dripping into the cotton of his shirt.
You come back up for air, partly to breathe, partly to get a chance of seeing him disheveled. His lips are swollen and his chest heaving. His hair is still in his eyes and your hand comes up from his arm to brush it out of his face so that you can see him better. His eyes are warm and observant, watching you but not the same as before. Now he watches you slowly with hooded eyes, drinking you in, in the quiet bubble of contentment the two of you have created. His fingers dance on the skin of your leg and his lips are quirked up in an amused smile, dimples peeking out at you, your favorite look cast upon his face. You feel lighter, like you might float away, so you grip onto his hair at the nape of his neck, tethering yourself to him.
“How…” you trail off, unsure of how to formulate the question that’s been nagging you since this whole ordeal started in that alcohol-reeking motel room.
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispers, “just wanna be with you.” Your heart melts and you settle onto his chest, his arms wrapping around you and sinking into the couch. He kisses the top of your head and you let out a huff of contentment.
“Gonna fall asleep like this,” you mumble into his chest.
“Mhm,” he hums.
It’s dark in the room when you fall asleep, the fire dead and your chest warm, lulling to the sound of Sam’s heartbeat.
eek! this has been sitting in my drafts for months with like three sentences and i just finished it in two days (not edited rlly, sorry i don't do that). thank you @aseafullofstars (!!!! <33) for commenting fr that was my saving grace and the entire reason this got finished. hopefully this was a satisfying ending. (secret part four with smut next? and a full conversation about feelings? can you tell i suck at communication irl?)
more sam to come, i have some dean in the drafts too. putting my creative writing degree to good use here.
tags: hurt/comfort, pining, dean is annoying, hunt gone wrong, fluff (?)
notes: this was just to start writing for fem!sam.. i may write another part..
wc: 582
the metallic taste in your mouth tasted so familiar that it almost tasted like home. your head spun with a tornado-like force, leaving you dazed as you tried to regain your bearings.
“hey—“ a familiar, soft voice cut through the tv static of your head. “take it slow. i’ve got you,”
two warm, steady hands held onto your shoulders, keeping you upright. you pried your eyes open to get a glimpse of the hands’ owner. a set of concerned, hazel eyes stared back at you, strands of shaggy brown hair falling in front of them. she smiled at you in an attempt at comfort, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes.
”sam?” you managed to groan, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the glaring overhead light. “…what are you doing here?”
samantha wiped at your blood-spewing nose with the back of her hand with the gentleness and warmth of a late july breeze. you fought back a wince at the stinging and throbbing sensation radiating through your face.
”don’t worry about that right now,” she commanded, starting to try and get you to your feet. “we’ve gotta get you outta here first, okay?”
you didn’t reply. her hands moved to your waist, helping you stay standing before slinging one of your arms across her shoulders. instinctually, you leaned your weight into her frame as she practically dragged you outside. your memory of what happened before you went down started to flood its way back into your consciousness as samantha half-carried you out to the impala.
you had been on a hunt with the winchesters investigating an old house in nebraska. you had known that you would be dealing with an angry ghost when you stepped through the busted-up screen door, but you hadn’t accounted that there would actually be two angry ghosts to take care of. while sam and dean were dealing with the first ghost, the second one ambushed you as you searched the house for items that the spirit may be attached to. before you could process what was happening, a sturdy dining chair made contact with your face and knocked you straight onto your ass.
sam propped you against the sleek black metal of the family chevrolet and began to inspect your injuries further, a worried look painted across her features. her fingers gently roamed your face, acting as post-hunt cleanup crew. your blood stained the calloused pads of her fingertips pink as she wiped the blood from your lips. you looked up at her, dazed and wishing that she would replace her fingers with her own lips. her movements slowed as she noticed your not-so-discreet staring and made eye contact with you. you could practically see her mind shift gears as her furrowed brow went from worried to confused. samantha swallowed, moving her hands from your injuries to cradle the side of your face and you swore that you saw her lean in the slightest bit.
“eugh—“ dean interrupted with his impeccable timing. “looks like a chick-flick went to a feminist convention and puked everywhere,”
sam glanced away, her expression unreadable aside from the annoyed eye roll at her brother. you frowned, serving dean a heated glare which he, of course, ignored. he always knew the perfect time to show up, ruining whatever moment you got with his sister.
”get your ass off the hood and into the backseat, or else i’m leaving you here,” he barked, voice gruff and irritated. “we’ve got places to be,”
Summary: After the unfortunate incident at the motel you make Sam's life worse by wearing shorts for the first time in front of him.
Content/Warnings: NSFW, actual smut, MoL kitchen, non-penetrative sex, switchy/sub Sam, teasing him until he breaks, reader weaponizes incompetence, THIGH APPRECIATION <3, kind of angry 7.9k words
A/N: I really struggled to describe/categorize the dynamic of this fic. I do think it's pretty goddamn hot tho so maybe give it a shot
It’s not nearly warm enough to warrant wearing shorts. Yet here Sam is having to sit in an enclosed space with you where every time you adjust position there’s this tacky sucking sound from your skin pulling off the leather of the back seat. “I missed laundry day” you explained sheepishly to Dean this morning. You were within Sam’s earshot where he was in the front seat as you packed the trunk with his brother.
When the meat of your thigh skids against the leather of the backseat for a second because you’re clearly a little sweaty under there, Sam has to grind his teeth together. And then he has to re-start the page of the tome he’s been trying to read for a third time. He reminds himself that he’s also sharing the enclosed space with his brother and a fallen angel of the lord. Sam needs to be sure he’s subtle right now— a lot of eyes could be on him. Cas never does anything in the car, he just watches the scenery and listens to whatever Dean’s playing on the radio.
You’re sitting in the back of the Impala reading something. Sam knows because he’s leaning against the door more than he does usually. If it’s just him and Dean both of his knees brush up against the dash. It isn’t really comfortable for long stretches to have his back to the door. He does now, though. The handle has been digging into his shoulder blades. He only sits this way it when you’re in the back and he’s lucky enough that you chose the spot behind Dean. It’s not usually the most sustainable position during long car rides— Sam has several he shuffles through regularly and this one isn’t high on his list of preference.
The sore spot developing between his shoulders barely registers in his mind. With all the sustained physical agony Sam has endured in his lifetime that sore spot becomes reduced down to only evidence of his persistent fight with weakness. That spot on his back is just going to have to deal with it— the only way to toughen up is exposure therapy.
Therapy. Sometimes Sam thinks he needs that. That’s not the point.
The point is that he’s been white-knuckling his way through the discomfort of this position in his seat since the last time Dean stopped to take a leak. That was at least two hours ago at this point.
Sam’s pretending he’s reading. Well, he actually is doing some reading in the front seat but mostly he’s sneaking glances at you. This is the most of your legs he’s ever seen. It’s making him struggle to focus. He’s consumed by the idea that this opportunity is limited. So he forces himself to ignore his own discomfort in exchange for the chance to drink up every bit of you he can while he has the chance— he’s not sure if it’s his last opportunity.
A loud voice in the back of Sam’s mind is just repeating:
This is pathetic. If anyone else knew what you were doing they’d think it’s pathetic too.
Unfortunately for that constituent of his brain, most of him is consumed with the need to devour your image. He’d kind of be stupid not to take this opportunity— you’re sitting in one spot for hours, perfectly within arm’s reach and all of you visible to him. He can’t help it. He takes the opportunity. Again and again, greedy for you.
He’s also motivated by the notion that this might be all he gets. Who knows if you’ll ever wear these shorts again. And what does this lore in his lap matter right now? It’s not like he needs it, he’s just reading to take up time in the car. Observing you makes the car ride go by much faster. He swears he’s losing his sense of time, like the boring hours stuck stiff in the car pass by effortlessly, sore back be damned.
You have his attention. You always have some of his attention but the amount has gone up exponentially over the last few weeks. After the events of the last 48 hours though it’s starting to get crippling. He’s not going to be able to hide this. He begs silently that Dean doesn’t break his promise and bring up Sam’s feelings for you again.
You talked to him this morning. He had to fully wake up, get ready, and drink at least one cup of coffee before he could face you though, so Dean went to wake you up. He doesn’t know what happened last night exactly but he knows enough to go easy on Sam about it. When he came back in he heaved a dramatic sigh, shaking his head woefully about something as he closed the adjoining door. Sam looked up from where he was packing his bag and frowned.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” Dean shrugged as he tucked his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “It just felt pretty clear that she was disappointed in which Winchester woke her up. It’s tough to face rejection this early in the morning.”
Sam flattened his expression into a furious bitch face, not amused. Dean smirked at his own joke, unfazed by Sam’s attitude.
“I’m just sayin’, that’s all.” Dean said as he wandered off to finish getting ready.
Sam ground his teeth and didn’t answer that. His movements were much more angry as he finished packing.
When you finally found him alone, he was sitting on the passenger side of the Impala with the door open, his long legs stretching out while they still could. Trying to get a little more use out of the motel’s free wifi, he squinted at his laptop screen, fully locked in to his task. You stopped in front of him with your bag. He lifted his head instinctively and his eyes stuttered at the sight of your legs— so… so much of your legs.
Fuck my life, she must be trying to kill me.
“Morning.” He said reflexively.
‘Morning’? That’s what you’ve got, Sam? He kicked himself silently.
“Hey.” You looked a little nervous, glancing bashfully down at your shoes with hunched shoulders. “I’m, uh, I’m really sorry about last night.”
Sam’s skin crawled at the mention of the incident. “It’s fine—”
You pushed back on that with way more force than he was expecting.
“—No, c’mon, Sam. I should’ve waited before opening the door, it was a dick move.” You spoke with such genuine passion and then your eyes sprang wide as you registered what you said. “Shit— uh, I didn’t mean— uh, I just meant that—” You closed your eyes because you were getting overwhelmed and needed to focus only on talking.
“—It’s really fine—” He tried to interject but you kept going, eyes still closed so you got the words exactly right.
“—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear.” You swallowed and cautiously opened your eyes.
Sam had not been expecting such genuine care on behalf of him in this situation. He was sure his inability to control himself was what led to the events of last night but you clearly came to a very different conclusion. It was kind of stunning— he couldn’t really figure out how you were the one saying sorry.
“Well, uh, thanks, but…” He narrowed his eyes a little, “…shouldn’t I be apologizing to you?”
You frowned at him, like that idea was absolutely preposterous. “I’m the one who barged in on you.”
“Yeah, no, I know, it’s just that, uh,” He scratched the back of his neck, his other hand slowly closing his laptop. “I dunno I kind of feel like I exposed myself to you. Like, without your consent.”
Your expression flattened. “Sam, you know you don’t have to moralize every situation to make yourself out as the bad guy, right?”
He huffed out a laugh.
You smirked, “Besides, I didn’t see anything but those thunder thighs. And I’ve seen those before.”
He snorted then, hoping he did well to hide the stupid fluttery feeling that kicked up in his chest.
You smiled kindly at him then, “For real though, I’m sorry about invading your privacy. I promise I will wait for an answer when I knock in the future. Are we good?”
He felt the stupid, shy grin on his face as he nodded and told you he accepted your apology. You beamed at him and then kind of did the thing where you popped up on your toes. It was just a little— he would’ve never noticed you doing it if he didn’t already pay such close attention to you.
She’s so cute. She has to know it, right?
You can’t be so fierce and sweet by accident. You must be using it on purpose to manipulate him. That was one thought he had. Another one was:
How unfair is it that she knows my thighs well enough to be unbothered by the sight of them, meanwhile I’ve never gotten to see hers? Circumstances really can be so cruel.
Dean came out from a final check of the motel room and moved to unlock the trunk. You smiled brightly at Sam one more time, stooping a bit to smack one of his knees as you walked off to stow your duffle. He felt the residual smile on his face before he noticed he was staring at your ass. He shouldn’t be looking at you that way— he’s no better than any of the sleaze-bags he catches leering at you in public. Sam’s supposed to be better than that. He wants to be. He pretends to be. He has to be. Otherwise what right does he have to be mad about others not doing the same. Swallowing thickly he looked back to his computer.
The Impala lurches over a sizable crack in the road. Sam’s right leg muscles engage to plant his foot more firmly to the floor, bracing to hold his body in position. The bouncing caused by these shoddy backroads make your thighs jiggle so decadently. He’s gotta stay exactly where he is to see the most of that he can. Whatever evolutionary step led to cellulite on thighs has Sam’s eternal gratitude.
“Alright, that’s it! What shithole state are we in, huh?! They can’t pave roads here or what?!” Dean grouses behind the wheel.
“We crossed the border into Kansas an hour ago.” Cas says without looking away from the window.
Dean rolls his eyes, “Alright, then what shithole county are we in where they can’t pave the roads?”
“Dean, I’m not a GPS.” Cas replies flatly.
You snort in amusement beside him. Sam glances up as you shoot an adoring smirk at the angel. Cas is oblivious but your appreciation for him is so sweet it’s giving Sam a toothache. He smiles a little despite himself. Then his heart skips a beat in his chest when your eyes unexpectedly flicker over to meet his. The smile you give him is different than the one you wore for Cas. Your eyes aren’t so joyful. They’re staring into him with an alluring glint he doesn’t understand. Your smile is still genuine and fond but it’s deeper somehow. The corner of his mouth ticks up at your attention on him.
Something in his face makes you smother a big smile by folding your lips inward and looking down again. He’s watching still, wishing he was allowed to touch your cheeks to feel the heat of them when you blush. He wouldn’t do it right now of course, that would be a moment for just you and him. Sam doesn’t want to share what you two have with anyone else; only he and you have the right to experience it.
What is he, some kind of animal? He doesn’t know when he got so possessive. Maybe he’s just pent up about something else. Maybe he just needs to go get laid. But maybe not. Maybe it’s just because he’s starving for you and still has to spend almost every waking moment with you just out of reach. He’s going around in circles, wondering who in their right mind has such consuming thoughts about other people at all, let alone one of their best friends.
It occurs to him that he might not have a “right mind”, after all. As in: perhaps his mind is one of the ones that’s always broken and wrong, no matter how much it tries to grow. If Sam’s learned anything about people it’s that they’re often limited. Choices they make keep them limited. Fear of the unknown keeps them cowering away from the truth, leaving them trapped. More than anything Sam doesn’t want to be like that.
The car goes over another series of potholes and Dean curses with even more vehemence. Sam grimaces in sympathy to try and hide his amusement. Meanwhile in the back, you and Cas share a look at Dean’s expense. His brows are slightly raised as if to say: “here we go again” in regards to Dean. You snicker at his expression as Cas shakes his head softly and turns away, trying not to smile too much.
Everybody is exhausted when you get home to the Bunker. The decision to all go right to bed is unanimous. You and Sam’s rooms are in the same block of corridor so you walk together the longest. It’s the first time you two have been alone together since this morning. Your shoulders are slumped and you give him a pat as you bid him goodnight. You don’t stop shuffling on towards your room, just trudge over there like you’re already half asleep.
Sam opens his door but doesn’t go in yet. He’s got a soft adoring smile for you as you go. He knows he’s got limited time to get away with this before you’d turn and notice so he can’t hesitate long. Despite that, he’s drinking up the last dregs of you in those shorts that he can. He gets away with it, ducking inside his room with you none the wiser.
He manages not to jerk off to the thought of you tonight. It’s kind of dumb but he’s proud of himself for that. After spending the whole day giving in and indulging his perverse little mind he’s emboldened by his restraint the first time he’s left alone.
The next morning he wakes up early as per usual. He sees a note from Cas on the counter that says he and Dean went fishing. How that angel managed to wake up Dean Winchester that early and still lives to tell the tale let alone go fishing, Sam will never know. He smirks at the thought of that, thinking about how that will get you to laugh. He’s going to save that one. It takes all of that before his mind puts two-and-two together: Cas and Dean are gone which means Sam’s here alone with you.
Fuck. Me. He heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and tilting his face towards the sky.
The sinking feeling in his chest surprises him a little. He opens his eyes, now frowning. It wasn’t the typical sinking feeling of despair— at least not despair as he usually knows it. Somewhere, he just hears a voice in his head is saying: oh here we go again with this guy. Like it thinks he’s guaranteed to give in to his wants. Like it’s pulling up a chair and some popcorn while it taunts him, looking forward to being proven right.
This state of existence Sam’s currently in is simply unsustainable. He knows this. He goes for an extra long run today, doing his usual loop through the woods and down part of the main road twice instead of once. He needs the time alone to think and get rid of some of this energy.
He doesn’t listen to music when he runs. Partially because when as many people want to kill you on a daily basis as Sam Winchester, it’s just not smart to smother any of your senses in public. However he finds the noises soothing. In fact, a lot of his preferred route is dictated by the areas around his home with nice sounds. His typical route passes by the nearest bodies of water and along trails he’s flattened by himself in the woods over the years, where he never encounters anyone else. Some of the run is along a quiet stretch of road by necessity but it’s where he’s sees the most animals so that makes up for the occasional car. His theory is that since his shoes are much quieter against asphalt the animals might not hear him until he’s close. In the woods the animals would hear him cracking sticks and crunching leaves and run off long before he could know they were there. He doesn’t see any this morning.
By the end of his second run he’s feeling very calm. He’s ready to face you while home alone, now. It’s a gray, foggy day out, where the air is humid but there’s a chill to the breeze. He gulps in his last few breaths of outside air before he ducks inside the Bunker’s front hatch.
He hears you in the kitchen as soon as he reaches the top of the staircase. You’re moving dishes around but he doesn’t know whether you’re cooking or cleaning up after. His urge is to go right to the bathroom but he knows that would be suspicious to you— before last night he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking the opportunity to speak and look at you alone. Now he’s caught between his heart desiring you closer and his skin cringing away from you in shame. He can’t help it, he feels so embarrassed that you witnessed him in such a depraved state. Of course, you have no idea exactly how deep the depravity goes, which is a blessing (since no one will find out) and a curse (because he’s now got another stick to beat himself with).
Sam’s life is some never-ending joke in a cosmic prank show. It must be. That has to be why when he rounds the corner to find you with your back to him you’re wearing even smaller shorts. They’re black and there are lacy edges where spots of your skin peek through. He immediately ducks back into the hall and presses his spine to the tile with a stricken look on his face. This is preposterous. Those can’t be regular shorts, can they? Were you just wearing lingerie around the Bunker casually now? That has to be in violation of some part of the unspoken roommate contract, right? You walking around in sexy clothes casually is not something Sam could handle.
Hey, cut it out, alright? Get it together. You’ve been tortured by the Devil himself. This is nothing!
Some stupid, annoying, mutinous part of him reminds the rest that everything is relative. He’s in a different situation now, and suffering has a new day-to-day meaning. Once it was defined by endless pain, over and over, never ceasing. Now suffering is having to watch you act comfortable in your home while knowing you’re not sharing the domestic space with him in all the ways he desires. He still thinks he’s pathetic for feeling so undone and overwhelmed over this. This is mundane, sitcom shit, right?
He interrupts himself then, taking a deep breath. He has a statement he says to himself that feels logical enough to provide some comfort. He repeats it in moments like these.
Belittling the pain of my present will not undo the pain of my past.
It doesn’t honor what he went through in Hell, it just keeps the pain present. He’s grown and changed since then. He’s not going to stay limited. What he has become since the Pit has been informed by everything before it, yes, but not defined by it. Sam and Dean don’t believe in destiny. Needing to prove the odds of fate wrong is a familiar feeling for him.
Sam takes another long deep breath and then nods once to himself and attempts his entrance again.
You hear the shuffle of his shoes and glance over your shoulder. Your eyes are still a little bleary with sleep but you’re washing dishes so you must’ve been up for a little while.
“Hey.”
“Good morning.” He smiles, coming to the kitchen island. Trying to look casual he stays on the opposite side of it from you. “How’d you sleep?”
You shrug, “Fine. You?”
He smirks fondly, “Same. You, uh, saw their note?”
You nod, “Fishing, huh?”
Sam smiles softly, “I don’t know how Cas managed to survive waking Dean up that early.”
He was right earlier, it does make you laugh. You shoot a grin over your shoulder at him and put the last utensils you just washed into the drying rack and then turn off the faucet.
“You got plans today?” You ask, wiping your hands off on a towel.
“Nope. Not really. You?”
You shake your head before bending down to look under the sink for some reason. Circumstance and chance are currently dragging him around by his dick— what do you need to look under there for? He can’t tell because you don’t mention it or take anything out from under there but he does see that the shorts are cotton, not satin or— guh —all lace. He can’t help it, something stop him—
“Still haven’t done laundry, huh?” He finds himself speaking.
…goddamn it.
You let out an amused sigh, “No. No, I am instead reduced to wasting my dress shorts on a day in the underground bunker where me and my friends live.”
He chuckles lightly, “Dress shorts?”
“Yeah, you know. Dress pants, dress shoes,” You point to the shorts, “dress shorts.”
“You think those shorts are black-tie formal appropriate?”
You giggle at that, “What’re you the fashion police?”
“Psh! Definitely not.” He grins at you, “I’m just their eyes and ears on the street.”
You fake a big gasp, “You’re a snitch!”
He rolls his eyes a little, still grinning, “You are dodging the question, miss.”
“Hm?” You raise your brows like you need him to repeat himself when you both know you heard him the first time.
His tongue runs over his bottom teeth and he tries poorly to subdue a smile. “You think you could wear those shorts to a wedding and they’d let you in?”
You shrug animatedly, “Well I’m surely at the wedding of someone I know so yeah, none of those are gonna be formal evening-wear events.”
“Alright fine, you have to go to an opera or something.” Sam points to the shorts, “You think they’re letting you walk in there with those on?”
“Sam, I never claimed that these shorts were black tie formal, I just said they’re dressy!”
“Meaning what? Because I do not think any shorts are ‘fancy’ shorts.” He grins, eyes narrowed like a fox.
“They’re cute and I don’t get to wear them a lot because I actually care if they get dirty or damaged!” You narrow your eyes at him, “You have clothes like that, right? Ones for nicer occasions than hunting disgusting monsters?”
Sam opens his mouth, brows furrowed. He’s sure he’s got an answer to that somewhere, but then finds nothing.
You slip around the island and plant yourself right in front of him. “Sam. Do you own a single thing that’s just nice? Something that’s not just practical, but…” You shrug, glancing away as you think of how to word your question.
He swallows thickly. You’re not wearing a bra. He’s too aware of that, especially now that you’re so close. You tilt your head at him and study his features.
“…something you just have because it makes you feel good?”
Sam’s stunned by your question. Reflexively, he gets defensive.
A short huff deflates him a little. “Maybe practical things make me feel good. I like when things are useful…”
He drifts off when you take a single very slow, very purposeful step towards him. You’re staring into his face so intently, like you’re trying to parse something there. He doesn’t know what you see that needs parsing but he’s desperately hoping you can’t detangle it. You step even closer. He doesn’t stop you but his whole body goes tense as you reach up and pick a piece of forest debris out of his hair.
You hold it up to show him. He thinks you might be about to say something when you catch sight of his face. His eyes are fixed on you so close. His jaw is tense and his features are at first blush impassive but beneath that he’s wound up like a coil aching for permission to spring. You get lost in his eyes, forgetting about the twig or whatever and dropping it on the floor.
He should move. He should move away from you now. His body isn’t listening to his consciousness. You’re hovering in front of him. Your eyes can’t help flickering down briefly to his lips. An unsteady breath gets forced out of his nose. The edges of that puff of air tickle the top of your lips.
“Why don’t you think you deserve things that make you feel good?” You ask and your voice is very soft.
He swallows thickly and wants to pull away. Instead he shakes his head a little, looking at his shoes. “You know why. I’ve done things. Hurt people. In the past I’ve… I’ve been bad.”
You nod solemnly. There’s a long moment of silence. He staring at a new smudge of dirt on his shoe that he’s just noticed and really wants to wipe off. He senses you leaning closer but doesn’t look up. You’re too close— he doesn’t know if this is just intimate or if it’s romantic.
“What if that doesn’t matter to me?”
This makes him look up with a frown. Holy fuck, you’re right there, a few measly inches from his face. His breath catches and he resists the urge to back away.
“Wha-what’re you…?” His voice drifts off, eyes flickering to your lips. He clears his throat and tries again. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t think those things matter to whether or not you deserve to feel good as you are now— as you have been since your mistakes.”
He shakes his head slightly, “You didn’t know me back then, you didn’t see—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Your voice is velvety-soft but it shuts him up instantly like you shouted over him.
You’re staring at him and it feels like a dare. A dare to do what, he doesn’t know.
He swallows. “What are you doing.”
It’s not really said like a question and barely louder than a mumble.
“Seeing how much you can take before you finally break.”
His stomach drops and then anger swells up inside of him. His fists clench at his sides. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
His nostrils flare. “What the hell d’you think—?”
“—I think the man in front of me is suffering from his own self-imposed starvation of pleasure.”
“Oh, really?” His eyes narrow.
“Yeah.” You’re speeding up as you speak, “The whole time I’ve known you getting you to let yourself feel good is like trying to force-feed a baby that’s not having it!”
He scoffs incredulously but you don’t let him get a word in.
“So if you’re gonna insist that you’re stronger than wanting something that makes you feel good, then I’m going to have to prove you wrong.”
He’s stunned in disbelief for a long couple moments, his mouth open. You cross your arms and furrow your brow as if to show him you’re stubbornness incarnate.
“What do you mean, prove me wrong.” He asks slowly, voice level like his heart isn’t racing in his chest.
You stare right into his eyes and then take a step back. You hold his gaze and move a few more steps back to the island. Not breaking eye-contact until the last possible moment, you turn your back to him. You left your phone across the counter. Now Sam has to watch you bend and reach over the stainless steel for it. Your shorts tug up higher, revealing even more of your legs. On top of that your muscles are moving and stretching so enticingly.
The phone’s just out of your reach. You’re not moving to get closer, just stretching further. A little noise of effort escapes you and you raise up onto your tiptoes. His cock twitches in his track pants. He needs to stop this. Now.
“Go around.” He growls.
“I’ve almost got it,” You say with the strain of stretching in your voice. All your efforts only seem to amount to your ass wiggling in front of him which he’s sure isn’t coincidental.
There wasn’t anything under the sink earlier, he realizes.
He swallows thickly and clenches his jaw. He has to talk through gritted teeth. “You can’t reach it from there. You have to go around.”
“I can get it.”
You’re putting less than half of your abilities towards succeeding at this task, as shown by the useless little hop you do to try and get more on the counter. It does nothing to help your cause, just makes all your body bounce enticingly and raises the shorts even higher.
He rolls his eyes outwardly but that does nothing to stop his imagination. He’s bigger than you of course, and how perfect would you feel bent over under him? How amazing would the view of your hands and his pressing into the stainless steel beside one another be? Would you take his hand in yours? He would hope so— hope that you’d hold him so tenderly while he fucks you good. The expanse of your skin free for him to touch and memorize.
You plant both palms down on the counter and push up so your hips are barely on the surface but your toes are momentarily off the floor. It’s a pathetic less than half-hearted attempt but it does draw his gaze to the places you want it to go. Your perfect thighs jiggle so nicely, like they’re just begging to be grabbed and held. How the shorts were up high enough that he could see where your legs start rounding into your ass. His greedy palms ache to cover that skin. The second time you attempt this stupid maneuver you touch back down onto the floor and feel heat up against your back.
You’re about to turn and face him when he reaches over your shoulder. You’ve never seen him move with such confidence outside of a fight. He’s slow and retrained as he goes for the phone. You bend under him, waiting to see how close he’ll get. He’s managing not to touch you at all but it’s a final flimsy barrier he’s putting up to try and prevent what you both want.
His arm retracts and he straightens a little but not fully. His other hand remains pressed into the edge of the counter at your side. So he’s still somewhat bent over you but it’s a noncommittal angle— plenty of room for either of you to back out of this with dignities still in-tact. Your head is turned to look at where he’s holding the phone out beside you. You’re calculating, he can see the gears turning as you eye his hand.
He should step back. This should be the end of it. He can just set the phone down, he doesn’t have to wait for you to take it. He stays exactly where he is, awaiting your next move.
You turn to face him without warning. He straightens up like your proximity might sting him, still holding out the phone.
“Thanks, Sam.” You smile, using one of your sweet voices unexpectedly as you pluck the phone from his hold. “Ugh. You know, yesterday in the car I think I slept funny.”
He frowns in confusion as you set the phone down and it ceases to exist to either of you.
“I’ve got this kink in my back I just gotta work out.”
“You wha—?”
You line the back of your hips up with the edge of the counter and stretch your arms up before bending as far back as you can. The sight of you makes him forget that he was speaking.
The maneuver does indeed get some pops out of your spine and it feels good, but that’s not the real goal of this demonstration. The strain of this position makes your muscles shudder. Your back is so beautifully arched, breasts poking out through your shirt and trembling with your muscles. He thinks about how he should step back then, too.
You start to lose your footing and slip. His hands fly to your waist to steady you and finds himself between your spread legs. You roll up as close to one vertebra at a time as humanly possible like you’re the embodiment of sensuality. When you get to the top you smile fondly up at him, but there’s a hint of mischief in your gaze.
“I knew you’d catch me.” You murmur.
That’s it. His hands slide around your back to gather you up against him and he kisses you. His lips are hungry, crazed, searching. His hands move in opposite directions, one sliding up under your shirt and the other grabbing a handful of your ass over the shorts.
You roll your body against his, making him growl in his throat. One of his thighs moves to remind you that he’s got you spread open beneath him, vulnerable to stimulation. He presses up and your legs clamp around him like they never want him to leave. And when you start grinding yourself on his thigh, he has to pull back from your mouth to watch your hips move.
A little cut off whine comes out of you. He groans listlessly, pressing his forehead more firmly against yours. His eyes squeeze shut as soft warm pressure from your body keeps brushing against his clothed cock.
“What are you doing to me?” He breathes, “D’you realize what you do to me? Every goddamn day.”
You shake your head, pressing against him and searching out his lips. He keeps them from you but it wasn’t a big priority for you anyhow. Both of his hands have met again at the small of your back. They both smooth up your sides at once almost ceremonially. He ought to pull his face further away from you, not make it so inviting. You brush and rub lazily what parts of it you can with your own features.
“You think this is easy for me? Already I gotta see you all the time. Now you’re just showing off openly?” His voice is at a low, gravelly whisper that he thinks might be too transparent— you can’t know how much this is affecting him. “Why the hell can’t you just make my life easier instead of harder for once?!”
You make a low purring noise. “What if I don’t wanna make it easy for you?”
His nose prods a little at your cheek and you lift your head to try and kiss him. He raises his chin to deny you again. You’re perfectly happy to kiss under his jaw. A soft noise somewhere between wounded and aroused claws up his throat as you put more effort into rubbing up against him.
“Then you’re an overachiever.” He grunts.
A pleased little hum leaves you then and he does let you pull his lips back to yours. Your fingers thread through his hair with such appreciation. He thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to do anything else any more except kiss you. That desire feels threatening. He pulls back from your lips but doesn’t go far— he’s gone too far already to turn back now.
Sam’s not an animal, despite all the signs that might, to him, suggest otherwise. Due to his ability to please being a large fueler of his ego, he can’t just let you come on his leg like this. If he can’t prove that he can withstand you tempting him at all, the least he can do is prove that he’s got the manners to do it well enough that this one time with you will be one you remember. He hoists you up using his arms and his thigh pushing up between your legs to lay you on your back across the island.
“You think it’s right to toy with someone like this?” He asks, one forearm braced on the counter near your head, the fingers of that hand toying with your hair. The other presses into your waist to flatten you where you were still squirming. “Is this some kind of game to you?”
You shrug cutely while biting down on your lower lip, one hand fisting the front of his shirt. He scoffs a little but you can see the appreciation in his gaze and feel the stiffness of it pressed to your pelvis.
“I’m not here for you to yank around.” He growls, his hand inching further towards the apex of your thighs. “What does it matter to you if I feel good, huh? If I have things that make me feel nice? Why d’you care?”
You lift your chin with a smug look. “Be a little indulgent, Mr. self-control. I promise it won’t kill you.”
He cups your pussy over your shorts. You flinch and coo, clearly pleased. It makes a faint snarl curl his upper lip. You’re grinding and writhing so perfectly under him, all of you pressing up on all of him. One of your feet briefly drags up the inside of his calf. It’s unexpected, sending sparks of pleasure up his inner leg to make his cock twitch.
He stretches over you, drawing all your focus to his lips as he bows to kiss you. A pathetic little whine out of you gets cut off by his mouth. His hand rushes past the band of your shorts and into the warm darkness of your panties. He pulls away from you with a heady groan when he feels just how wet you are. For him.
As his fingers explore you spread your legs open further. When he finds your clit he knows immediately— you let out the most beautiful, languid whine, like his touch is relieving. That makes him lurch with want. He’s not weak, though, he is still in control. No matter what words you say to him he’s only doing what he allows himself to do. Nothing more. It ought to be less, though.
He straightens momentarily to shove your leg between his before arching back over you. A sob of pleasure makes your body shudder under him as he rubs your clit. You’re exquisite. Here you are, all for him. But only for now. That thought wounds him a bit. He doesn’t want to think about the end of this yet. He can’t consider the aftermath.
His breath fans over your face as he bows down to you again. His hips begin slowly grinding his cock to your lower leg. It’s not the most efficient way to get satisfaction but Sam’s sure at this point that he can keep himself from coming, he just needs a little attention to soothe the ache. You lean up to plant a passionate but messy kiss on his lips. He opens his mouth to let your tongue in. You groan gratefully and deepen the kiss. He changes fingers, pressing his thumb to your clit so the others could seek out your entrance.
“This is where you want me, huh? This is what you wanted to see?” He pants into your open mouth, “Me strung out like some idiot with a dick for a brain just from looking at you?”
You kiss him for a moment before replying with a pleased smile. “I like my current view. You like yours?”
He growls affirmatively, “Too much.”
You pout a little too adorably at him. “You think anything good for you is too much.”
“Oh and is this good for me?” He snarls, “Pleasuring you that’s supposed to make me feel good?”
You’re barely hanging on to this conversation, but you’re managing it somehow. You give the tiniest shrug, wearing an expression like you know what you’re about to say will get you in trouble.
“Being helpful always makes you feel good, doesn’t it, Sammy?”
He scoffs angrily. “Shut up.”
“Too real for you, honey?”
Your grin is too smug for his liking. You’re absolutely right but he’s kind of angry you know that about him. Gritting his teeth, his hips press against your leg with more force— still messy with no strategy —and plunges two fingers into your cunt. Instantly your back arches and you let out a beautiful wail of pleasure.
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’tcha?” He pants, not noticing the speed of his hips thrusting against you increasing as he picks up the pace with his fingers. “You fucking know-it-all, just gotta push my goddamn buttons—”
“I think you like it when I push your buttons.”
He growls and renews his weight and pressure on you. “You’re wrong.”
Your leg presses against his cock. “I don’t think so…”
Shit— you felt him doing that? Now you’re bringing rhythm to the movement of his grinding hips and it’s getting hard to withstand. He curls his fingers more inside you. He’s determined not to come from over-the-pants action in his thirties. You’re going to reach orgasm on his fingers before anything else.
“This is— uh! —this is not what I— fuck! —this is not how I look when I like something.” He glares at you like he isn’t subduing moans caused by you.
“You could’a fooled me—!” You devolve into a heady cry of pleasure.
“No, I think this— uh —this is what you like. Tell me baby— uh —is this what you want?”
You nod vehemently, “Fuck, yes, Sam.”
“Fuck!” He barks, feeling your walls pulsing uncontrollably, “You’re close aren’t you? You’re gonna come on my fingers, sweetheart, I can tell. Is this what you wanted?”
You’re beyond words now. He’s panting like he doesn’t remember how to take a satisfying breath. Your eyes struggle to stay open and he’s not even trying to stop his grunts and groans any more.
“When you picked out these tiny fucking shorts to wear, did you want me to be the one who saw them?”
You nod messily, spiraling up to your peak. “Yes, you. Wanted you. Sam, fuck—”
A wave of bliss ripples through your body, cutting off your words with a beautiful keen. Your walls pulse tighter around his fingers causing a pained whine unbefitting a man his size. You’re trembling like a leaf now, muscles preparing for the oncoming crash. His dick is so sensitive in his pants. He won’t— he’s not going to finish. He can prove you wrong— he can be stronger than uncontrollable desires.
“Again. Say my name again.” He groans as his own body begins trembling helplessly. “N-need it—”
“Sam…!” You draw out the single syllable, then repeat it, “Sam, fuck, feels s’ good, Sam—!”
He groans your name in return, completely losing himself in the moment. There are no more words but everything gets louder. Your hand thunking on the metal counter as you reach up for something to hold onto. Sam’s repeated grunts and groans against your throat which vibrates so beautifully with each noise you cry out. You’re so perfectly noisy. He can hear the muffled sound of his hand in between your legs, all the wet, slick squelching that’s so intense it really feels like a compliment. Your walls keep fluttering uncontrollably around him and he renews the pressure of his thumb on your clit, circling just the right amount to get you there.
“SAM!” You almost shout as you come.
He’s never felt a single rush of lust so powerful as the one that causes. He shudders over you and euphoria fills his body just moments after it starts buzzing through yours. A choked groan comes up out of him and he drops his head to rest on your collarbone as he rolls against you a few more times, riding out his high.
All of his body buzzes with pleasure. He’s suspended somewhere in the atmosphere, panting heavily against your chest and coming down from an orgasm as the cum starts making his boxers sticky and wet. Your hands are gentle on him, petting his hair and exposed skin with such tenderness. In the end, that care and gratitude in you is what makes him pull back.
He moves haltingly, looking down your body to watch his hand slip out of your shorts. Your stomach is rising and falling at an almost worrying speed. Your shirt’s halfway up your chest now. He’s never seen your stomach like this outside of the few times a nearby area has needed medical care. He presses his palm gently against you, observing the glistening of your wetness transferring onto your belly. He swallows thickly at that sight. His fingers are pruny. Imagine how pruny they’d be if he was fingering his cum back into you. Never mind, he shouldn’t imagine that.
He lifts you upright with him. You still haven’t said a word and neither has he. He’s not looking you in the eye. His own ruffled hair and crooked shirt are no concern to him as he takes the time to straighten you out while you’re sitting on the counter. You’re wearing a dopey look of pleasure, watching his face and waiting for him to meet your gaze. He’s following his hands smooth out your clothes. They slide down your ribs over your shirt one last time.
He’s staring between your legs at the shorts. He knows how wet they are inside. Fuck.
He can’t help lightly palming down your thighs again. You sense something in his movements— like he’s saying goodbye to your legs forever. When he finally meets your gaze, your brow is knotted in concern. He swallows and nods once, looking awkward.
“Okay.” He mutters.
You blink in confusion and then he turns and stalks towards the door. Incredulous, you hop off the counter and call out to him.
“Hey, wait— oh shit!” Your legs buckle when you try hopping off the island and you have to lean back to catch yourself. This doesn’t stop you from snapping, “Sam!”
He freezes with his back to you.
“Where. d’you think. you’re going.” You ask, voice measured but only barely.
He swallows. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
You heave an exasperated sigh. “I wanted that. I want m—”
He rounds on you, raising his voice a little. “—Well it isn’t just about what you want, okay?”
He wants to be firm and end this discussion, then swallows a bitter taste on his tongue when he realizes he sounds like John. His way or the highway. Sam’s never wanted to be like that— that’s being a limited person if he’s ever seen it —but it’s safer than whatever unknown territory you both just entered into.
“I can’t do this.” He says, looking at you in the eye to hammer his point home.
That stern stoney look is back on your features. You stare challengingly into his eyes.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Sure.” You take a deep breath and lean back into the island. “We’ll see.”
His nose wrinkles for an instant at your attitude. You don’t falter at all under his glare. With a flush to your face and chest, your panties full of your wetness, you stare at him like it’s a foregone conclusion. You’re a spider and he’s a bug in denial about being trapped in your web.
Please help Nader, do what you can. It's never been more important to offer support. Financial help is the only tangible way we can help the people of Gaza, and Nader needs to support his family.
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I'm writing a paper for my "The Bible as Literature" class and we have to write a term paper comparing it to modern media... I am making the argument that Sam is a messiah-like character. If anyone has any suggestions or comparisons to make please share! (Specifically seasons 1-5 but anything after that is welcome as well). This is what I have so far after five minutes of thinking about it not too hard:
Mother mary
Dean = john the baptist (companion)?
Has a supernatural father figure
Can perform miracles
Put on trial by said supernatural father to prove himself
sam winchester loves doggy style and i stand by that. but it isn't in the overly sexual way.
he just loves the way you melt into the bed, ass in the air, with his big veiny hand on your hips. he guides your ass back against his abdomen, your fat jiggling with each gentle, meaningful thrust from his broad, muscular body. he's so big and doggy style lets him have his way with you, your body arched and gripping the soft blankets as you moan and drool. he thinks you're fucking gorgeous. but doggy lets him be sweet with you too, leaning over your pretty body, all bent and spent for him, as he bottoms out and cums inside of you. he presses soft, hungry kisses to your swollen lips as you moan into his mouth, following with your own orgasm.
it's messy and raw and everything he wants from the love of his life.
sigh... i need doggy with sam asap ;(
your mother loves me @sunnwila - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
