hihi i was wondering if u could write a sam x reader fic where the reader is an angel like cas but is more like joyful and excitable and basically when cas doesn't answer sam's prayers he prays for reader and they like immediately show up?
idk what else to add or explain sorry!!
also luv ur writing xx
⋆｡ ˚ first prayer answered
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ when cas doesn’t answer, sam tries praying to you instead—and you come so quickly it leaves him wondering how long you’ve been waiting to be asked.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x angel!reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 790 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ hurt/comfort
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ injured sam, soft romantic tension, mild blood mention
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
sam doesn’t pray to you.
you try not to take it personally. which isn’t easy, considering you’re sitting on the roof of a closed laundromat three blocks away, swinging your feet over the edge and pretending not to listen while his voice pulls thin and strained through the dark. the prayer has texture when it reaches you. castiel’s name comes wrapped in worry, exhaustion, and pain held between sam’s teeth because he’s too stubborn to let it spill properly.
“cas,” he says again, somewhere below, in the ruined back room of an abandoned house where the wallpaper peels in damp curls. “come on. i need help.”
nothing answers him. not cas. not dean, who’s two towns over chasing the other half of the case. not the ugly thing that slammed sam into a bookcase and vanished through the floorboards before he could salt the room properly. just sam, breathing hard, one hand pressed against the cut high on his ribs. you hear him shift. hear the little sound he tries to bury when pain catches up.
your hands curl against the brick ledge. you could go. you know you could. angels aren’t supposed to need invitations for every act of mercy, and you’ve never been especially good at following the colder rules anyway. heaven has called you undisciplined, impulsive, and sentimental in a tone that made it sound flawed. castiel once said you were joyful as if he didn’t know whether that was a miracle or a curse.
but sam hasn’t called you. not yet.
there’s another long silence, and then his prayer changes. “okay,” he whispers, rough and reluctant. “if you’re listening… i could use you.”
you’re there before the last word finishes leaving him.
the room flares with soft white light, quick as a match strike, and sam jerks back so hard his shoulder hits the wall.
“sorry!” you say immediately. “sorry. too fast?”
he stares at you, hand still pressed to his side, eyes wide and bright with pain. “you came.”
“you asked.”
“i barely asked.”
“i have excellent hearing.”
that earns you the smallest breath of a laugh, which you treasure shamelessly. then his face tightens, and the laughter disappears beneath a wince.
you step closer, all the brightness in you folding into focus. “sam—”
“i’m fine.”
“you are bleeding through your fingers.”
“yeah, well…” his mouth twitches weakly. “not my best argument.”
you kneel in front of him, careful with the broken glass scattered across the floor. he watches you in a way that shows he isn’t sure he deserve tenderness. it makes something in you ache. angels aren’t supposed to ache this much.
“may i?” you ask, reaching toward his hand.
sam hesitates, then lets you move it.
the wound is ugly but not fatal, though pain doesn’t need to be fatal to be real. you press your palm lightly against his side, grace warming beneath your skin, and he inhales sharply as the cut closes under your touch.
his hand catches your wrist before you pull away. “i didn’t know if you’d answer.”
your eyes lift to his. “i always answer you.”
“i usually call cas.”
“i know.” the words come out too honest. a little awkward, sitting between you with the dust and blood and moonlight.
sam’s thumb shifts once against your wrist. “you heard that?”
“i hear more than i should.” you soften your voice, because teasing him right now would be easy, and kindness matters more. “i don’t mind being second, sam. not if you still call.”
his expression changes in a way you can’t read at first. guilt, maybe. surprise. something warmer hiding under both.
“you’re not second,” he says quietly.
your chest goes strangely still. for once, you have no bright little remark to toss into the room so neither of you has to stand too close to what he just gave you.
sam looks down at your hand still near his ribs, then back at your face. “i just didn’t want to bother you.”
you laugh then, soft and helpless. “you are very bad at understanding angels.”
“probably.”
“sam, i was on a roof waiting.”
his brows draw together. “waiting?”
“in case you needed me.”
the confession lands gentler than fear made it seem. sam’s face softens until he looks younger, tired all the way through and somehow still beautiful with it.
“that’s a little ridiculous,” he murmurs.
“yes,” you say. “i’m told that often.”
he keeps holding your wrist while the night stays dangerous. the thing that hurt him is still out there, the case still unfinished, the world still full of prayers that go unanswered. but for this one breath, in this broken room, sam’s alive beneath your hands. and you’re the one he called.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
summary ↬ sam gets back from a rough hunt and is hungry for his energy back
notice ↬ smut !!, oral (f!recieving), sam is an absolute needy munch, mentions of injury, maybe a little angsty ? descriptions of blood, nothing is hotter than a bleeding man (who said that ? i did . ) no use of y/n, lowercase intended !
wordcount ↬ 1.2k
it’s two in the morning when the door opens. a chilly gust of air shelters inside for the brief moment your small motel room is exposed to the november bite, goosebumps popping onto your skin, but it’s nothing amongst the shiver in your bones due to worry. sam was meant to be back hours ago, trudging in with fast food—well, fast food for you—and in one piece. not even a scratch to his softness, a rip in his clothes, or stains on his jeans.
but when the lamp flickers on, and the room is bathed in yellow light, you see just how far off your expectation is.
sam’s barely standing upright, knuckles torn and bruised, cheek smeared in blood with a nasty scrape underneath, clothes matted in dirt and eyes, tired and heavy, unable to pry themselves away from your figure on the bed.
you sit upright against the headboard instantly, “sam—”
“i’m fine,” he interrupts, heaving uneven, dense breaths like he’s just run a marathon, “there were more vamps than we expected.”
your eyebrows furrow in concern, giving him multiple once-overs as he groans while shrugging off his carhartt. “you aren’t fine.”
“i am,” he pushes, giving you a hard look that softens as the sheets start to pool in your lap and drop from your chest when you sit up straighter. “you’re wearing my shirt.”
you look down at the dark green tee, smelling strongly of smoke, grass, and some generic, woodsy motel soap, and nod, “i missed you.” but then you frown as he slowly begins to move closer and his injuries burn in your view, “then you come back in a million pieces.”
“this is not what i look like when i’m in a million pieces,” he attempts to tease, and there’s a sultryness to his voice that perplexes you. his eyes hold a different weight now as they run down your body, exposed legs criss-crossed on the mattress, arms folded like a mother scolding her child, brows tense and heart loose in your ribcage. “i thought of you. that’s what got me out.”
the unexpected burn of tears stings your eyes and nose, clogging your throat with sudden emotion. “don’t say things like that, sam.”
he shakes his head as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed, reaching to grab your hand and hold it firmly in his, calloused and bloodstained, “you, waiting in this bed for me to come home to you—” he brings your knuckles to his lips, placing a chaste kiss there, “i couldn’t let you down.”
you sniffle, loud and wet, biting your lip to keep it from trembling. a fire ignites in your chest at his soft words, so different in comparison to his roughened, scraped face that not mere hours ago was the last thing vamps saw before he’d brutally end them. a force you’d never know from him.
well, at least not in that way.
“you must be exhausted,” you change the subject before you’re swept away, and it doesn’t help that he’s now kissing up your arm.
he nods, but his eyes are distracted, lustful, “so exhausted.”
when he reaches your collarbone, the hem of his t-shirt pulling slightly so he can get to the bone, you giggle, but, when he travels further to the softness of your neck, you moan.
he’s ungentle. leaves purple marks on your jugular like the bruises on his knuckles. kisses messily like the deep red smears on his skin. he’s on fire like the lingering, tense air surrounding him.
and it makes you weak, falling into sam’s strong grip that holds guns, knives, and always, you.
you don’t register him pushing your back against the mattress, or him tugging the panties down your legs, too wrapped up in the sensation of his lips all over you, worhsipping, desperate, needy, and it isn’t until you can feel his breath fan against your core that you’re brought back.
“mmm, fuck, sam,” you whimper, bucking your hips to meet his mouth, only for him to pull away, watching you squirm.
he breathes a laugh, fingertips pressing imprints into your thighs as he tries to hold them steady, “you’re so wet already,” he reaches a finger to swipe some of it from your slit, watching in awe as it glistens on his skin, “jesus christ.”
“you’re hurt,” you whisper, trying to reason why this isn’t the best idea. sam hasn’t even cleaned himself up yet, but somehow, that just makes everything hotter. the blood from his cheek has already smudged the inside of your thigh as he lingers between them.
sam nudges your clit with his nose like he’s waiting to ravish you, “this’ll make me feel better.”
and he dives in, licking a thick stripe that arches your back and ties a knot in your belly. he’s slow at first, letting the taste of you flood his palette and make him hungry for more. his hands flex as they grip you, head bobbing as he laps leisurely, then quickly, then slow again. the veins in his biceps pop as he props himself upright, and it takes everything in you not to cum just watching his sore muscles hang on for a little longer so he can devour you.
“god, you’re so good, sammy.” the nickname slips like the hold you have on every nerve, fingers tangling themselves in his stringy locks.
he smirks against your pussy, feeling your clit pulse on his tongue as he sucks it into his mouth, reveling in the way you shake from what he does to you.
sam can fight any monster, come back trudging through the door with his life barely intact, and nothing—nothing, is more rewarding to him than seeing you fall apart at his doing. it’s more control than he’ll ever feel wrestling those that go bump in the night.
“i love you,” he murmurs into your skin—words holding more weight, especially after tonight—kissing, licking, sucking, until you become as weak as he is, “i love you so much.”
you cry out, eyes squeezed shut as you try desperately to grab onto whatever is left of your mind, “fuck! i love—” you moan as he tongues your slit, rolling your hips against his split, bloody lip that’s certainly left marks on your folds, “sam, i love—”
it’s white hot pleasure, knuckles pale as you clench the sheets beneath you, pussy squeezing nothing as he laps at every drop leaking from his merciless attack on you. the hard grasp he has on your thighs starts to ache, and the struggled breaths you try to inhale are practically suffocating.
he’s made you a disaster, just like he is.
sam wipes his mouth with the back of his velvet hand, peering up at you from between your legs, “how could i let some vamp keep me away from that?”
you laugh breathlessly, running the back of your hand against his drying, stained cheek. but, the hiss he lets out when you hesitate over his deep scrape sobers you up, forces you to realize what could’ve been if he hadn’t walked through that door, “you scared me tonight.”
he drags his body up until his maroon lips are barely grazing your own, eyes sparkling in the yellow light as they stare into yours. his head leans affectionately, voice barely audible against the cars outside, “i’ll always come back to you alive—” he breaks his words to kiss you, finally gentle, safe, “—always.”
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tags (tagging my mooties & blogs on my taglist for this post, but lmk if you wanna be added to my future posts! :)) ↬ @rafeskitty , @sacr1ficialang3l @s4wdvator @vmiina @ohangeleyes @wvyik @sploosh805 @bourbonbiscuit @sequoia-roots @hopperbopper
Not the distant, fleeting warmth of a sunbeam through a window, but something all-encompassing. A solid, radiating heat that seeps into your very bones. It's the kind of warmth that makes you want to burrow deeper, to press yourself closer to its source and never move again.
The second thing you become aware of is that you can't move.
Not in a panicked, trapped sort of way, no, this is something else entirely. Your limbs feel like they've been filled with lead, heavy and unresponsive, and there's a fog in your brain that makes the simple act of thinking feel like wading through honey. Your eyelids are impossibly heavy, and the world beyond them is dark and soft and quiet.
But you're warm. And you're safe.
Because you're in someone's arms.
You can feel them around you. Strong, solid arms wrapped around your body, holding you close with a gentleness that borders on reverence. There's a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, a rhythmic heartbeat that you can feel through the fabric of someone's shirt. Your head is tucked into the curve of someone's neck, your body cradled against someone's chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.
And you are so, so comfortable.
Some distant part of your brain tries to piece together how you ended up here. The last thing you remember is… nothing. There's a void where your memories should be, a black hole that swallows up any attempt to reach back and grasp at what came before this moment. It should probably scare you, the emptiness, the not-knowing.. but it doesn't. Not when you're this warm. Not when you're this safe.
A voice rumbles through the chest beneath your cheek, low and rough and achingly familiar.
"…and when you wake up, I'm gonna take you to that diner you like. The one with the pie that's almost as good as mine." A pause, and you feel the arms around you tighten just slightly, as if the speaker is trying to pull you impossibly closer. "Almost. Not quite. But close. And I'm gonna let you order whatever you want. Whatever you want, sweetheart. Even if it's the whole damn menu."
The voice is Dean's. You'd recognize it anywhere that gravelly rasp, that particular cadence that's become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. But there's something different about it now. Something softer. Quieter. Like he's trying not to wake you, even as he speaks to you.
"Maybe we could even get Sam to come," Dean continues, and you can feel the vibration of his words in his chest, can feel the way his throat moves against your hair. "He'd bitch about the calories, but we could make him. It's good for him to get out. We could make it a thing. A whole thing. You, me, and Sammy. Like old times, except… except we've got you now, don't we?"
You feel a hand in your hair, stroking, petting, gentle fingers carding through the tangles with infinite patience.
"And when you wake up, I'm gonna teach you how to change the oil in the Impala. You've been asking me for months, and I keep putting it off. I know I do. That's on me. That's my bad. But I promise, sweetheart, soon as you open those eyes, we'll get you out there. Get your hands dirty. You'll love it. It's good, honest work. And it's a skill you should have."
A pause. The hand in your hair stills for a moment before resuming its gentle motion.
"Or maybe we'll do something else. Something you want. You tell me what you want, and we'll do it. We'll do anything. Anything you want, sweet girl. Just… just wake up. Please. Please, just…"
His voice breaks on the last word, and you feel a shudder run through his body, a tremor that he tries to hide by pulling you even closer.
"I'm sorry." he whispers, and his voice is so raw, so broken, that something in your chest aches. "I'm so sorry I never said it. I was gonna say it. I was gonna tell you how much you mean to me, how much you matter, how you're-" He chokes on the words, swallows hard. "How you're the best thing that's happened to us in a long damn time. But I kept putting it off. I kept thinking we had time. I kept thinking tomorrow, next week, next month. I was gonna tell you, I swear I was gonna tell you."
His hand moves from your hair to your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
"And when you wake up, I'm gonna tell you. Every single day. I'm gonna tell you until you're sick of hearing it, until you're rolling your eyes at me and telling me to shut up already. I don't care. I don't care if you think it's stupid or embarrassing or whatever. I'm gonna say it. I'm gonna say it because you need to know. You need to know that you're- that you're ours. That you're family. That you're mine."
Another pause. His breathing is uneven, shaky.
"And when you wake up, I'm gonna—" He stops, and you feel him press his lips to the top of your head, a kiss so tender it makes your heart flutter. "I'm gonna hold you just like this. For as long as you'll let me. And I'm not gonna let go. I'm never gonna let go again."
You've been trying to process his words through the fog in your brain, but they're not making sense. Nothing is making sense. Why is Dean crying? Why does he sound so broken? Why is he talking about you waking up like it's not an inevitability, like it's something he's desperately hoping for?
But the warmth is so nice, and his voice is so soothing, and you're so comfortable.
So you snuggle closer to him.
It's an involuntary movement, one you don't even think about. Just the natural response of your body seeking more comfort, more warmth, more of this incredible feeling of being held and safe and loved. You burrow your face deeper into his neck, your nose pressing against his skin, and you let out a tiny sigh of contentment.
The arms around you freeze.
For a moment, nothing happens. Dean's body goes completely still, his breath catching in his throat. The hand on your back stops moving. The heart beneath your cheek stutters, skips a beat.
Then his grip tightens—so suddenly, so fiercely, that it almost hurts. His arms crush you against his chest, and you feel his whole body start to tremble.
"Sweetheart?" His voice cracks on the word, so high and desperate that you barely recognize it. "Sweetheart, are you- can you hear me? Are you—"
His arms relax a fraction, and he pulls back slightly, just enough to look down at you, you suppose. You can feel his gaze on your face, can sense the intensity of it even through your closed eyes.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is shaking. "Hey, sweet girl. Are you awake? Can you hear me? Give me something, baby. Please. Please give me something."
You want to answer him. You want to open your eyes, to tell him that you're here, that you're okay, that everything is fine. But your eyelids are so heavy, and your body is so heavy, and you can't seem to find the words. Your throat feels like sandpaper, your tongue like a dead weight in your mouth.
But you can do this much: you can hum.
It's barely a sound, a tiny vibration in your throat that you're not even sure he can hear. But you try, and you try, and eventually, a tiny "mm" escapes your lips.
Dean makes a sound like he's been gutted.
"Sam.." His voice is ragged, desperate. "Sam! SAM! SAMMY!"
There's a crash somewhere in the distance, the sound of something falling, and then the pounding of footsteps. They're rushing, frantic, and they're getting closer.
"DEAN?!" Sam's voice is panicked, breathless. "Dean, what's wrong?! Is she-"
"She's awake!" Dean's shouting now, his voice cracking on every other word. "She's conscious! SAMMY, SHE'S AWAKE! SHE HUMMED! I HEARD HER!"
New hands touch you. Larger hands, gentler hands. They brush your hair back from your forehead, and you feel a palm cup your cheek, tilting your face up slightly.
"Hey," Sam says, and his voice is so soft, so careful. "Hey, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me? Can you try?"
His thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you lean into the touch without thinking. It's instinctive: the way you tilt your head, the way you press your cheek more firmly into his palm, the way you let out another tiny hum of contentment.
Dean makes a sound that's almost a sob.
"You saw that. You saw that, right?" He's babbling now, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She leaned into your hand—Sam. SAM. Did you see that?!"
"Dean." Sam's voice is strained, trying to be calm even as his hand trembles against your cheek. "Dean, I need you to breathe. You're gonna scare her."
"I'm not- I'm not trying to-" Dean's voice falters. "I just—she's awake. She's actually awake. After three days. After.."
Three days? The words echoes in your foggy brain, but you can't make sense of it. Three days of what? Why have you been asleep for three days?
But it's hard to focus on that, because Dean is moving again. He's pulling you back against his chest, and then there are hands in your hair and lips pressed to your forehead and a voice whispering, "She's awake. She's awake. Oh god, she's awake."
And then there are kisses. So many kisses. Pressed to your forehead, your temples, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. Dean's lips are warm and soft and trembling, and he's making sounds that are almost coos, almost baby talk, his voice dropping into that low, purring rumble that he only ever uses when you're sick or upset or having a nightmare.
"Open your eyes," he murmurs against your skin. "Come on, sweet girl. Open those pretty eyes for me. Let me see them. Let me see those beautiful eyes."
His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing. "You can do it, baby. I know you can. Just a little bit. Just open them for me. Show me those eyes. Let me see you. Come on, sweetheart. Come on."
You want to. You want to so badly. Because Dean's voice is like honey, dripping into your brain and melting through the fog, and you can feel how much he needs this, how badly he needs you to respond.
So you try.
It takes everything you have. Your eyelids feel like they're weighted down with lead, like someone has glued them shut. Every muscle in your face protests the effort. But you push through it, ignoring the resistance, forcing your eyes open.
The world swims into focus in pieces. First, blurred shapes and indistinct colors. Then, gradually, sharpening into something recognizable.
Dean's face is the first thing you see.
He's beautiful like this—even with his eyes red and swollen, even with tears streaming down his cheeks, even with his nose running and his lips swollen from crying. He's beautiful because he's looking at you like you're a miracle, like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen, like you've just saved his life by opening your eyes.
"There you are," he breathes, and his voice cracks on the words. "There you are, sweet girl. There you are."
His grip on you tightens to the point of almost-pain, and you feel him start to shake.
"Sam-" His voice is strangled, broken. "Sammy—Sammy she's opening her eyes. Sam, look- oh my god, look at her- Sam."
"Dean." Sam's voice is a warning, a plea. "Dean, you're going to scare her. Take a breath."
"I don't care!" Dean's voice rises, cracking and breaking. "I don't care! She's awake! She's actually awake! She came back to me!"
And then he's crying.
Not just tearing up, not just a few tears slipping down his cheeks. No. Dean is crying. Ugly, messy, wrenching sobs that shake his entire body. His face crumples, his breath hitching and stuttering, and he buries his teary and snotty face in your hair and holds you so tightly that you can barely breathe.
But you don't want to breathe. You want to stay right here, in his arms, with his tears soaking into your hair and his heart pounding against your cheek and his voice whispering broken, desperate things.
"I thought you were gone-" he chokes out. "I thought you were never gonna wake up. I thought—I thought I'd never get to see you again. I thought-"
"Dean-" Sam's voice is thick, and when you turn your head slightly, you can see that he's crying too, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, his jaw tight with the effort of holding himself together. "Dean, c'mon, you're gonnaa suffocate her."
"don't care." Dean sputters weakly, but he loosens his grip just a fraction, enough for you to take a deep breath. "don't care. m'never letting her go again. Never. She's not going anywhere."
You're so confused. You don't understand why they're crying. You don't understand why Dean is holding you like you're going to disappear. You don't understand what happened, what could have happened to make them so upset.
But you understand this: they're upset, and you want to make it better.
So you smile.
It's a tiny smile, barely there, just a slight upturn of your lips. But it's enough. It's enough to make Dean freeze, to make him pull back and look at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Did you just-" He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Did you just smile at me?"
You try to speak, but your throat is too dry, and all that comes out is another tiny hum. But you keep smiling. You keep looking up at him with all the love you can muster, with all the adoration and affection and gratitude you feel for this broken, beautiful man who took you in and made you family.
And Dean breaks all over again.
"Oh, baby." he whimpers, and it's the most broken sound you've ever heard. "Baby, I love you so much. I love you so fucking much."
The words hit you like a physical blow, taking your breath away. Dean has never said that to you before. He's never said those words to anyone, as far as you know. He's been so careful to keep his heart guarded, to keep his feelings locked away where no one can hurt them.
But he's saying them now. He's saying them to you.
"I should have told you," he continues, the words spilling out like a dam has broken. "I should have told you every single day. But I was scared. I was so scared. I thought if I said it, if I made it real, I'd jinx it. I'd lose you. And I couldn't—I can't lose you. You're everything. You're everything to me, sweetheart."
Your eyes are getting heavy again, the weight of consciousness pressing down on you. But you fight it, forcing them to stay open, because every time you blink, Dean's face crumples a little more, and you can't bear to see him cry again.
Sam must sense your struggle, because he moves closer, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. "It's okay, honey." he says softly, tearyly. "You can rest. We're here. We're not going anywhere."
"No." Dean says quickly, his voice sharp with panic. "No, nono, she can't—she just woke up. She can't go back to sleep. She can't-"
"Dean..." Sam's voice is firm but gentle. "She's exhausted. She needs to rest. Her body needs to heal."
"But what if she doesn't wake up again?" Dean's voice breaks on the question, and you feel his grip on you tighten. "What if she-"
"She will." Sam's hand moves from your hair to Dean's shoulder, squeezing. "She's strong. She's a fighter. And she knows we're here waiting for her. So she'll come back."
Dean shakes his head, burying his face in your hair again. "I can't lose her, Sam. I can't. She's all- she's everything. She's the only good thing I've ever- the only good thing that's come outta me is her-"
"Don't," Sam cuts him off, his voice sharp. "Don't do that. Don't talk about yourself like that. You know she doesn't want you to."
Dean doesn't respond, just holds you tighter and cries into your hair.
The fog is getting thicker, pulling you down into its depths. You want to stay awake, want to be here with them, but your body is so heavy and your eyes are so tired and the warmth is so encompassing.
But before you let yourself drift off, you manage one more thing. One more tiny gesture.
You lift your hand, it takes so much effort, so much concentration, and you reach up. Your fingers find Dean's cheek, trembling and clumsy, and you pat him softly.
It's the best you can do. A tiny pat, a gesture of comfort, as if to say I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay.
Dean's breath hitches. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your palm more firmly against his cheek.
"Oh, sweetheart.." he whispers, and his voice is so full of love that it makes your heart ache. "Oh, my sweet, sweet girl..."
And then the world goes dark.
You wake up again sometime later.
You don't know how long it's been. The fog is still there, but it's thinner now, less suffocating. Your eyelids are still heavy, but they're not as impossible to open as they were before.
And you're still in Dean's arms.
He's lying down now, you realize. Stretched out on what feels like a bed, with you cradled against his chest. His arms are wrapped around you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other resting on your back. And he's asleep, his breathing deep and even, his heart a steady rhythm beneath your ear.
You can see Sam, too, if you turn your head slightly. He's sitting in a chair next to the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed. But he's not asleep. You can tell by the way his fingers are twitching, the way his brow is furrowed.
He must sense you watching, because his eyes snap open, and when they meet yours, his face breaks into a smile so bright it nearly rivals the sun.
"Hey, sweetheart." he says softly, and his voice is warm and gentle and full of love. "Welcome back."
You try to smile at him, but you're so tired, and it comes out as more of a grimace. But Sam seems to understand, because he reaches out and brushes your hair back from your forehead.
"Take it slow," he murmurs. "There's no rush. Just rest. Dean's got you, and I'm right here. We're not going anywhere."
You want to ask what happened. You want to know why you're here, why Dean and Sam are so upset, why everything feels so strange and off.
But you're so tired. And you're so warm. And Dean's arms are so secure around you.
So you let your eyes drift closed, let yourself sink back into the fog. And you feel Sam's hand on your cheek, and Dean's heart beneath your ear, and you know, you know, that everything is going to be okay.
Because you're home.
You don't remember the hunt. You don't remember the monster that attacked you, or the wounds that nearly killed you, or the two hours that Dean and Sam spent fighting to keep you alive until the doctor could arrive.
You don't remember the three days you spent unconscious, your body fighting to heal itself while Dean refused to leave your side.
You don't remember the doctor's grim prognosis, the words "there's really no way to know if she'll wake up" echoing through the bunker like a death sentence.
You don't remember the way Dean held you for the first two days, his fingers constantly checking your pulse, his ear pressed to your chest to make sure you were still breathing.
You don't remember the way he broke down on the third day, crying into your hair and begging you to come back to him.
But you remember this.
You remember the warmth of his arms around you. You remember the sound of his voice, low and soft and so full of love. You remember the feel of his lips on your forehead, the gentle touch of his hand in your hair.
And you remember the words he said.
"I love you so much. I love you so fucking much."
You're not sure when Dean Winchester became your family. You're not sure when this gruff, broken hunter softened around you, when his harsh words grew gentler and his volume dropped to a purry rumble. You're not sure when you became the sugar in his bitter coffee, the light in his dark world.
But you're grateful for it. You're grateful for every moment of it.
And as you drift in and out of consciousness, wrapped in Dean's arms with Sam close by, you realize something.
This is what family feels like. This is what it means to be loved.
And you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
The next time you fully wake up, Dean is already awake.
He's looking down at you with red-rimmed eyes, his face haggard and drawn, but there's a smile on his lips. A real smile, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners.
"Hey, sweet girl.." he says softly. "There you are."
You try to speak, and this time, your throat isn't quite as dry. "Dean-" you croak. "Whu… what happened?"
His face flickers, something dark and painful passing through his eyes before he masks it. "You don't remember?"
You shake your head weakly.
He exhales slowly, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. "That's okay. You don't need to remember. All that matters is that you're okay. You're here. You're alive."
"I'm- I'm sorry.." you whisper, because you can see how much this has affected him, can see the shadows under his eyes and the tremor in his hands. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Hey." His voice is firm, but not harsh. "Don't you dare apologize. Don't you ever apologize for this. You didn't do anything wrong. You got hurt, and we couldn't get you to a hospital, and we had to fight like hell to keep you alive. That's not your fault. None of this is your fault."
"But you were crying.." you say, and your voice cracks on the words. "You were crying because of me."
Dean's face softens. "Yeah, sweetheart. I was crying. Because I thought I was gonna lose you. And that's… that's terrifying. You're so important to me. To us. You have no idea."
"I love you too." you say, because you need him to know. Because he said it first, and you need to say it back. "I love you. Both of you. You're my family."
Dean makes a sound like he's been punched. His face crumples, and he pulls you close, burying his face in your hair.
"I love you too, sweetheart," he chokes out. "I love you too. So much. Don't ever forget that. Don't ever forget how much you mean to me."
You feel Sam's hand on your shoulder, warm and solid. When you look up, he's crying again, silent tears tracking down his cheeks.
"We love you." he says softly. "You're our family. And we're never going to let anything happen to you again."
You reach up and take Sam's hand, squeezing weakly. You reach up with your other hand and touch Dean's cheek, patting him softly.
And you smile.
"I'm okay," you say. "I'm okay. You don't have to worry anymore."
Dean laughs—a broken, wet laugh that's half-sob. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm always gonna worry. That's what family does."
He presses a kiss to your forehead, and Sam squeezes your hand, and you realize that this is it. This is what it feels like to be loved.
Summary: Based on this post by @jamesdeanbby. When Dean and Cass call an angel to help detox Sam. She gives him her blood and might have caused him another addiction....
Relationship: Sam Winchester x f!reader. No use of y/n
Warnings/tags: Suggestive, supernatural stuff, blood, drinking blood, addiction, mention of kinda abusive childhood, religious themes, a bit of size kink because self-indulging, might be more but i'm horrible at tagging
Wc: 2,2k
Author's note: Thank you for letting me inspire this fic on your idea @jamesdeanbby, I tried to respect it as much as I could but I also wanted it to have my personal touch. Might make it a series and give it a part that adds more depht to the characters and maybe resolves the tension.... If you like it be sure to comment. If you have any idea for a fic, feel free to request. English isn't my first language sp if I make any mistakes please correct me. x
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You used to think humans were strange creatures. Back when your father assigned your garrison as a protector of humanity you were proud of yourself. After all, humans were very valuable creations to Him, leaving you in charge of them was a great honor.
So, you devoted your existence to the wellbeing of the species. At first, because of father’s orders, but you quickly realized that spending time with humans could really change one’s perception. As time went by you witnessed the worst and best of humanity. From Adam and Eve to the Tower of Babel, Moses, David, the Roman Empire, Jesus and so on until the XXth century with its World Wars and Vietnam; you had seen humanity be born and you had seen it try to destroy itself. Curious creatures, humans, they were passionate and full of love, yet those precious attributes often led them to perdition. That you found fascinating. Love, curiosity, creativity, empathy and the need to belong; father hadn’t given you nor your brothers those attributes but as time went by, as you started living among them, you started to feel.
You obviously kept it a secret. Curiosity, in most angel’s eyes, was close to doubt and they were right. As time went by, you started doubting, you started becoming more and more human.
There were few angels that would understand, one of them was your dearest brother: Castiel. He didn’t doubt yet, he still feared, but you saw in his eyes a spark of curiosity from the moment he first saved that Winchester boy, and that made him your favorite. So today, as his call came, you answered.
You appeared in some sort of basement in the middle of South Dakota. In front of you were two men and one angel.
“Hello sister.”
“Good morning, Cass. Do you need something?” He looked at the men beside him.
“Dean, Bobby, this is my sister” he said your name.
“Dean Winchester and Robert Singer, it is a pleasure to meet you.” You extended your hand and shook theirs with polite confidence.
“So, you do know social cues.” Dean said.
You laughed. “Yes, well, I have been in Earth a bit longer than my dear brother. I descended from heaven in 1968.”
“Rough time.” Bobby muttered.
“Indeed. That is exactly why I came. I am a protector of mankind and it hurt to watch everything from heaven without at least trying to help a bit.” You paused after the sincere moment. “So, gentleman, what do you need from me?”
Dean breathed deep. You could smell the nerves coming out of his body. “You see, my brother Sam…he has a problem.”
“Yes, I have heard.”
“So, you know about the demon blood.”
“I am aware your brother has been taking demon blood to enhance the psychic powers the demon Azazel gave him, am I wrong?
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, well, news travel fast and I tend to keep an eye on Castiel and, therefore, you troublemakers.”
“Cass said you might know how to help. That true?” His voice broke a bit. “It’s just…please, please the withdrawal is making him sick and I can’t help him, it’s-it’s killing me not being able to cure him. Please, please help him.” You placed a hand on his arm to ground him.
“It’s okay, calm down. There is a solution. It would make him stop craving demon blood forever, but it would require a lifelong treatment.”
Hope filled his eyes. “Well, what is it?”
“You see, where demon blood is like venom, angel blood is more like… medicine, it is one of the purest things in the universe and it can cure one’s body. It won’t make him powerful like a demons’, but it would protect him from ever wanting to consume it. That’s what I clearly know, but I don’t know about any other effects it could have. This, however, is not a detox, it could still cause an addiction. Addictions are behavioral, they are one’s choice. I can’t change that.”
“So, you want to, what? Change his drug basically?”
“It wouldn’t be the same. This “drug” he’s taking is destroying him. Look, I will give him mine personally, think of it like taking medication for a chronic disease. You must take it every day, but it cures you.” Despite the justification, both Dean and Bobby still seemed skeptical. “Look, Dean, I know it’s scary, and I know it hurts to see your brother be like this, Father knows if I had to watch Cassie in this situation it would pain me greatly. However, this is the best solution I am aware of. It’s all I can give.” They seemed to relax with that. “Look, I love humans. You are my father’s creation, hurting you would be blasphemy. I just want to help. But I respect your wishes and Sam’s and I won’t do anything you don’t want.” Your voice was kind and soft, Dean couldn’t help but melt. He was stressed and angry with his brother and himself for not protecting him, hearing that comforting tone made him trust her. He had hope.
“Okay.” He finally said. “I am going to ask Sam.”
He opened a door in the back of the wall. You could see a tall figure inside a hidden room, you assumed it was Sam. You turned to Cass.
“I missed you, Cassie.” You hugged him. That always seemed to surprise him. As you had mentioned, he had lived among humans for much less time and wasn’t as used to these displays of affection.
“I missed you too, dear sister.”
“I see taking care of the Winchesters Is proving to be difficult.” You looked at both Cass and Bobby. The last one chuckled.
“Tell me about it. Those idjits have been trouble since they were born.” The fatherly tone those words carried made you smile. You wished you could hear Father speak in that tone. A hidden part of yourself wished he spoke about you. Wished he spoke to you. How could He let humans suffer like you had seen Dean suffer for his brother? How could He leave his children alone? You decided not to think about it, those thoughts only made you sad and confused. Your attention rapidly changed when the door to the little room opened.
“You can come in.” Dean offered.
As you entered you discovered a circular chamber filled with protective sigils. There were books in the walls, a little table, and a bed where the tall man was seated.
“Sam?” You presented yourself with your name. “I have come here to help you. I understand Dean told you how.”
“He did.” He looked pale, tired and had a look in his eyes you couldn’t quite describe as something else than light madness. It saddened you to see him like this. Humans were beautiful creatures, full of life and joy. Human smiles were fascinating. You wondered how such a simple movement could change so many things. It could make one laugh, cry or fall in love. Sam looked anything but happy and you, as a protector of humanity (and therefore of their happiness) took it as your mission to cure him so you could see him smile. “Thank you.”
“What for? It is my duty to help you.” His eyes somehow lost a bit of that sadness as he gained a similar reaction to Dean’s. It seemed these boys hadn’t had a lot of gentleness in their lives, but you had plenty to spare. “Dean,” you turned and looked at him “could you leave us alone for a moment?”
“Sure. Thank you” he said your name and left closing the door.
“Well, I have obviously never done this before, so I don’t really know how it’s going to feel. So, I want you to be as comfortable as possible in case it kind of feels bad or something- “you saw fear in his eyes “which I sincerely doubt it will.”
“Okay.” His voice was soft, but unlike yours, it was born of exhaustion and pain. He sat further on the bed and looked at his side as if he was inviting you to take the place. You did.
“I think it would be best if you laid down.” He did. You approached his frame and sat beside his hips. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.” You took off your coat and your angel blade. You placed the garment at the foot of the bed and the knife on your thighs. Sam was enchanted by your movements, they seemed slow and careful. You handled everything with a sweetness and attention that, in his state, made him almost jealous of the blade.
You took the sleave of your shirt and folded it. Then you placed the knife against your wrist. Finally, you made an incision and watched as bright red blood started to make its way out. With the same meticulous care with which you handled everything you put your wrist against his lips. He looked at you, his eyes filled with shyness at the strangely intimate atmosphere as if asking for permission. You nodded. He dove right in.
At first the taste surprised him. It was very different from a demon’s blood’s. Where it had been more flavored, almost salty, this one was like sweet water. It tasted pure and clean; it filled his mouth so gently like those candies that melted in your tongue. It made tingles travel from his nose to his neck and down his spine leaving a trace of goosebumps. It was a hundred times better than demon’s blood. It was a million times better than anything he had ever tasted. His heart started beating faster, his senses regained their precision. He now could smell her: vanilla, clean; he could hear her breathing: low and deep; and he could feel her smooth skin under the tips of the fingers that had engulfed her little -by comparison- forearm so naturally. He opened his eyes, and he was met with an extraordinary view.
You stood with your eyes closed and brows furrowed, your chest raised slowly, and he could see the outlines of your breasts trembling as it did. You seemed as lost in the feeling as he was. Finally, he felt satisfied and let go of your wrist.
You gradually opened your eyelids as he stood and returned to the seated position. His face was now so close to yours you could smell your blood in his mouth. He now could almost taste that vanilla his nose had noticed. He then started to focus on the features he hadn’t cared to note in his previous state. He observed your eyelashes and their gentle curve, your neat eyebrows, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks and their gentle blush, your chin and its perfect curvature and finally, your lips. They looked so singular to him, he thought he had never seen lips with such a soft texture and beautiful color. They looked as if you had bitten them. He didn’t know why, maybe it was because of the intimate act you just had shared, maybe it was because of those attributes he had just noticed, but he felt something push him to place his lips against hers and their perfect shape.
While he was busy looking at you, you were frozen on the spot. Your wrist had already healed, and you were a bit lightheaded. You looked at his face and saw a mole on the side of his nose. You don’t know why but it was the first thing that caught your attention. You loved that about humans: moles. They were so unique, it reminded you of how diverse and special each person could be. Unlike angels, humans were more peculiar. They had desires and feelings, different thoughts, distinctive features. You don’t know why, but you suddenly had the urge to kiss it. And you did.
You closed the space between you two and kissed his mole. Sam closed his eyes, he felt you everywhere. In his hand that now rested in your shoulder gently as if he was touching something precious, in his mind that now held all the data his senses were receiving, inside his veins pumping and fighting the pain and suffering. You were everywhere like a bubble of intimacy and sweet care.
You finally parted and looked at him with a shy smile. God, he was fucked. “You should go upstairs and get some rest.” You tried to avoid acknowledging the sudden act of boldness. He nodded; he didn’t think he could speak right now.
The next day you returned to Bobby’s house and repeated the action and, after a week, it became a routine. You also started to get to know the boys. The need to be close to Sam grew uncontrollably. Day after day, you spent your time trying to fight the urge to bury your lips in his skin, to feel its warmth, to sense its smell.
Sam, however, was fighting even more. Not only the force that wanted to make you his, but also the urge for your blood. For the feeling it gave him; it felt like home, it felt so comfortable like a precious dream he didn’t want to wake up from. Day after day, his need for you, for your blood, grew. He wanted to possess you, to make you his forever. He was addicted again, but this time his hunger not only grew, it owned him.
summary: youd had a crush on sam ever since you two were teenagers and both your dad's would leave you at Bobby's for weeks at a time. growing up wasnt kind to you though, you grew in places that made you hate the look of yourself in the mirror. sam grew into what could be compared to an Adonis statue. he could never like you back. right? requested by anon
warnings/tags: childhood friends to lovers, insecurity, youre kind of a badass tho, smoking, fluff, smut (oral f receiving, unprotected sex, body worship)
masterlist // join the taglist
The late afternoon sun hung low over the scrapyard, turning the piles of rusted metal into something almost glittery if you squinted hard enough. You wiped grease off your hands with a rag that had given up being clean years ago and leaned against the hood of the old Chevy you’d been nursing back to life for Bobby.
You’d been back in South Dakota for three weeks this stretch. A salt-and-burn outside Vermillion had gone sideways, and Bobby had needed an extra pair of hands cataloguing the new books he’d “acquired.” Truth was, you liked the quiet here. Liked knowing the layout of the house. Liked that Bobby still grunted your name like it was a mild inconvenience instead of a greeting.
Your phone stayed silent most days. Dean checked in when he felt like it—usually with a photo of some diner pie or an update about a hunt that had nearly killed him. Sam… Sam had gone quiet the day he left for Stanford. You still had the last email he’d sent, short and careful, thanking you for the protection charm you’d slipped into his duffel without telling him. You never answered it.
You’d always known better.
The memory still sat under your ribs like a bruise that never quite faded. Fifteen years old, standing in a drafty farmhouse outside Aberdeen while a poltergeist tried to drag a lanky, terrified thirteen-year-old Sam Winchester through the ceiling. Dean had been outside arguing with Bobby about whether they were even allowed to be on a hunt. You’d been the one who tackled Sam out of the way, the one who took the hit of flying glass across your shoulder, the one who later sat with him on the porch steps while he shook and pretended he wasn’t crying. He’d looked at you that night like you hung the moon. You’d looked back and felt something stupid and hopeful bloom in your chest.
Then you grew. Soft in the places other girls stayed sharp. Wide hips, heavy breasts, a stomach that never flattened no matter how many miles you ran or how many nights you spent crawling through crawlspaces after things with teeth. Sam grew into those long legs and that sharp jaw and became someone that people noticed. You watched it happen from the edges—holidays at Bobby’s, the rare times John dropped the boys off for a week. You learned to laugh at Dean’s jokes and keep your eyes off Sam’s mouth.
He never looked at you the way you looked at him. Why would he?
The familiar rumble of the Impala cut through the yard before you saw her. Black paint catching the last of the light, chrome gleaming like it always did under Dean’s obsessive care. You straightened, rag still in your hand, already bracing for the usual routine—Dean hobbling up with a six-pack and a story about something that almost killed him, Bobby yelling from the porch about the mess he was tracking into the house.
The passenger door opened.
Sam Winchester unfolded himself from the car like he still wasn’t used to how tall he’d gotten. Same soft hair, longer now. Same careful way of moving, like he was trying not to take up too much space even though he did. He looked tired. The kind of tired that came from pretending you belonged somewhere you didn’t.
Your stomach dropped so hard you felt it in your knees.
Dean slammed the driver’s side door and stretched, cracking his neck. “Jesus, when the hell is Bobby gonna cut this grass? Seriously. Old man's gonna get taken out by a tick of all fuckin' things.”
Then he spotted you.
A slow, familiar grin spread across his face. “Well, hell. Look what the scrapyard dragged in.”
You managed a smirk that felt brittle. “You’re one to talk. You look like shit Dean. What happened this time? Ghost almost take you down?”
Dean laughed, easy and warm, and crossed the distance in a few long strides. He pulled you into a one-armed hug that smelled like leather and motor oil and the same cologne he’d worn since he was nineteen. “Missed that smart mouth. Been a while.”
“Three months,” you said against his shoulder. “You still owe me for that salt-and-burn in Pierre.”
“Details.” He pulled back, eyes flicking over you the way he always did—checking for new scars, new bruises, the quiet inventory of someone who’d spent too many years counting the people he could still trust. Then his gaze shifted toward the car. “Brought company.”
Sam had stayed by the Impala, one hand resting on the roof like he needed the contact. When he finally walked over, it was slower, more hesitant. He stopped a careful distance away.
“Hey,” he said. Voice deeper than the last time you’d heard it in person. “It’s… been a long time.”
You wiped your hands on the rag again even though they were already clean. “Yeah. Stanford treating you alright?”
A small, tight smile. “It’s fine. Loud. Different.” His eyes flicked down, just for a second, then back up. “You look good.”
The words landed wrong. Too polite. Too careful. You felt every soft inch of yourself under the worn flannel and jeans, the way the fabric pulled across your hips and chest. You forced a laugh that didn’t quite make it.
“You don’t have to say that, Sammy.”
Dean’s eyebrows went up at the old nickname, but he didn’t comment. Instead he clapped Sam on the shoulder hard enough to make him sway. “Kid’s been quiet the whole drive. Figured a little home cooking and some of Bobby’s terrible coffee might shake him loose. You sticking around a few days?”
You glanced past them toward the house. Bobby’s silhouette was already in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the three of you like he was calculating the odds of something breaking before nightfall.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m around.”
Sam’s eyes stayed on you a second longer than they should have. Something complicated moved behind them—gratitude, maybe, or the ghost of that porch from years ago. Then he looked away, toward the scrap piles, and the moment closed.
Dean was already talking again, loud and easy, filling the space the way he always did. “C’mon, both of you. Bobby’s gonna start yelling about the dirt we’re tracking in, and I need a beer before he starts in on the lecture.”
You followed them toward the house. The sun was almost gone. The Impala ticked as it cooled behind you. Sam Winchester was walking the same gravel path you were, close enough that you could have reached out and touched the sleeve of his jacket if you were stupid enough to try.
The kitchen at Bobby’s always smelled like old coffee and grease no matter how many times you scrubbed it. Tonight you layered something better over it—garlic softening in butter, onions going translucent, the low hiss of ground beef browning in the cast-iron skillet that had belonged to Bobby’s mother and somehow survived decades of hunters treating it like a weapon. You moved around the space like you owned it, because in a way you did. Bobby never complained when you took over the stove. He just grunted and stayed out of the way.
You kept your hands in your pockets and didn’t.
From the dining room you could hear Sam’s voice, lower than you remembered, careful the way it got when he was trying not to show how frayed he was.
“—last place we had anything solid was Jericho. Then it just… dried up. Like he wanted us to find the trail and then cut it.”
Bobby’s chair creaked. “John’s always been a stubborn bastard. Disappearing act’s not new. Difference is he usually left a breadcrumb or two for you boys.”
“This doesn’t feel like that.” Sam’s voice dropped further. “Feels like something’s hunting him.”
You plated the food quiet—thick slices of meatloaf, mashed potatoes whipped with enough butter to make Dean’s eyes light up, green beans you’d actually remembered to salt. Three plates for the table, one for yourself. When you carried them in, the conversation stalled the way it always did when food showed up.
Bobby eyed the plate you set in front of him like it might bite. “You didn’t have to go full domestic, kid.”
“Shut up and eat, old man.” You slid Dean’s plate across next, then Sam’s. Your fingers brushed the edge of his when you set it down. You pulled back too fast.
Sam looked up.
It was only a second. Maybe less. But his eyes caught yours and held, dark and tired. You dropped into the empty chair across from him and reached for the salt like it was the most interesting thing in the room.
Dean was already digging in, talking around a mouthful. “Jesus. This is better than anything we’ve had in three states. You been holding out on me?”
“You’ve been busy almost dying all over the country,” you said. “Priorities.”
Bobby snorted. Sam stayed quiet, but every time you glanced up—careful, casual—he was already looking somewhere else. Or pretending to. His knee bounced under the table. When Bobby launched into a story about John’s early days and a particularly nasty wendigo, Sam’s gaze drifted over again and stayed a beat too long on the way your flannel stretched across your chest when you reached for your water. You felt the heat crawl up your neck and focused hard on your plate.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. College boys looked. Didn’t mean they wanted.
Dinner wound down the way it always did at Bobby’s—plates scraped clean, Dean stealing the last of the potatoes, Bobby already half-turned toward the books stacked on the side table. Sam offered to help with the dishes. You waved him off.
“I’ve got it. Go finish catching up.”
He hesitated in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “Thanks. For… all of it. The food. Being here.”
You kept your eyes on the sink. “Yeah. Sure.”
You washed up quickly, the air in the house suddenly too thick for your liking.
The screen door creaked open behind you twenty minutes later. You were already outside, perched on the top step of the back porch with a cigarette. The yard was dark except for the single bulb over the door and the distant glow of the moon on the scraps in the yard.
Dean dropped down beside you, stole the cigarette from your fingers, took a long drag, and handed it back. Same routine as always.
“Kid’s wound tighter than a spring,” he said after a minute. “Hasn’t slept proper in days.”
You exhaled smoke toward the dark. “Can’t blame him. John’s been gone how long now?”
“Long enough.” Dean’s voice went flat the way it did when he was trying not to sound scared. He was quiet another few seconds, then, “He asked about you the whole damn drive.”
Your pulse kicked hard enough you felt it in your throat.
Dean kept his eyes on the yard. “Not like, ‘hey, is she still alive’ polite shit. Actual questions. What you’ve been hunting. If you still stayed with Bobby sometimes. If you were seeing anybody.” He glanced sideways, mouth tipping into something almost amused. “I told him you were still the same pain in the ass who used to steal my beer and patch us up after hunts. He went real quiet after that.”
You took another drag so you wouldn’t have to answer right away. The cigarette trembled just enough that you hoped Dean didn’t notice.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” you said finally. “He’s just… catching up. Being polite.”
Dean huffed a laugh through his nose. “Sammy’s a lot of things. Polite ain’t usually one of them when it comes to people he doesn’t give a shit about.” He stood, brushed off the back of his jeans, and looked down at you with that knowing big-brother expression that always made you want to shove him. “Just saying. Maybe don’t write the whole thing off before he even opens his mouth.”
He headed back inside, screen door slapping shut behind him.
You stayed on the steps a long time after, cigarette burning down between your fingers, replaying the way Sam’s eyes had kept finding yours across the table like he couldn’t help it.
Morning at Bobby’s always started the same way, even with two extra Winchesters under the roof.
You woke before the sun finished rising, pulled on comfy jeans and a soft, oversized flannel that hid most of the soft curve of your stomach, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The coffee pot was already half-full—Bobby’s doing—and the local paper sat folded on the table next to a laptop that still ran on spite and duct tape. You poured a mug, opened the browser to the usual round of police blotters and missing-person reports, and settled in.
That was the routine. News first. Then the Chevy. Then Bobby yelling at you to come eat before you passed out under a car.
Today the routine cracked open the second the floorboards creaked behind you.
Sam appeared in the doorway, hair still damp from a quick shower, wearing a dark henley that clung to the long lines of his shoulders. He hesitated like he wasn’t sure he was allowed in the kitchen yet.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Mind if I…?”
You gestured at the empty chair across from you without looking up. “Help yourself. Coffee’s fresh.”
He moved quiet, poured a cup, and sat. Close enough that you caught the clean scent of Bobby’s cheap soap on his skin. The laptop screen reflected in his eyes for a second before he leaned in to read over the articles you’d already flagged.
“Anything local?” he asked.
“Couple of weird cattle mutilations two counties over. Probably just kids, but the pattern’s off. And a missing hiker near the Badlands who left all his gear behind.” You scrolled. “Nothing that screams ‘John Winchester was here,’ if that’s what you’re hunting.”
Sam’s mouth tightened. “Everything’s been like that. He's like a ghost."
You hummed, not trusting your voice with him this near. His knee bumped yours under the table once, accidental, and he didn’t pull away right away. You felt the contact all the way up your spine and forced your eyes to stay on the screen.
Then you heard the unmistakable noise— or squeal— of the Chevy starting up.
Dean’s voice carried across the yard, cheerful and loud. “Rise and shine, grease monkey. That Chevy still looks like it’s about to become one with the rest of the scrap.”
You glanced out the window. He was already at the hood, sleeves rolled up, coffee in one hand like he’d been born with it there.
Sam followed your gaze. Something flickered across his face—quick, almost gone. You told yourself you imagined the way his jaw flexed.
“I should…” You stood, gathering your mug. “Bobby’ll have a fit if I don’t at least pretend to fix the alternator today.”
Sam stayed seated. “I’ll keep looking. I'll grab you if something looks off."
You nodded and escaped into the morning air.
Dean grinned when you reached the Chevy, grease already smeared across one cheekbone. “Took you long enough. Thought maybe Sammy talked you into staying inside where it’s civilized.”
“Civilized is overrated.” You popped the hood the rest of the way and leaned in, the metal cool under your palms. “Hand me the socket wrench.”
He did, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. The easy physicality of it was familiar—years of shared hunts and shared silence had made touching Dean as simple as breathing. He leaned against the fender while you worked, narrating half-remembered stories about the last time this car had stranded Bobby in a ditch, laughing when you threatened to use the wrench on him instead.
You didn’t notice Sam at the kitchen window until the second time you straightened to stretch your back.
He was watching.
Not the casual glance of someone keeping an eye on the yard. Properly watching—eyes narrowed slightly, coffee mug forgotten in his hand. When Dean reached over and tugged a leaf out of your hair with a careless, “You’re a mess,” Sam’s expression shuttered so fast you almost missed it.
Your stomach did a stupid little flip.
Jealousy. It looked like jealousy.
You told yourself that was ridiculous. Sam Winchester did not get jealous over the soft, sad girl who used to patch his scraped knees and who still couldn’t fit into the kinds of clothes the Stanford girls probably wore. He was just tired. Stressed about John. Reading too much into a look was the fastest way to get your heart broken.
Still.
When Dean tossed an oily rag at your chest and laughed at the way you fumbled it, you caught Sam turning away from the window like he’d been caught.
You ducked back under the hood so neither of them would see the small, traitorous hope that refused to die.
The cigarette was already half-gone when the screen door creaked open behind you.
You didn’t turn. You knew Dean’s footsteps by heart—heavy, restless, always announcing themselves. These were quieter. Careful. The kind of steps that belonged to someone who’d spent years trying not to take up space.
Sam settled on the step beside you without asking, long legs folding awkwardly, elbows on his knees. He didn’t reach for the cigarette. Didn’t speak. Just sat there breathing the same cool night air, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours every time either of you shifted.
The silence stretched until it started to feel deliberate.
You exhaled smoke toward the dark yard. “You’re staring a hole through the ground there, Sammy. Something on your mind?”
He let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tight. For a long moment you thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then his voice came low, almost careful.
“You and Dean.”
You glanced sideways. His profile was sharp in the porch light, jaw working once before he forced the rest out.
“Is there… something going on there? Between you two.”
The question landed blunt and a little raw, like he’d been turning it over too long and finally just let it fall. There was something sad underneath it, something that made your chest squeeze even as the absurdity of it hit.
You laughed.
Not the polite kind. A real, startled sound that surprised even you. Smoke curled out with it.
“Me and Dean?” You shook your head, still smiling, and tapped ash off the end of the cigarette. “God, no. He’s like the world’s most annoying older brother. He steals my fries and then laughs at me if I trip. We’ve never—Jesus, Sam. No.”
Sam’s ears went pink so fast you almost felt bad. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed hard on the ground between his boots.
“Right. Yeah. I just… the way you two are with each other. It’s easy I guess. I didn’t want to assume, but—” He cut himself off, grimaced, and tried again. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. Forget I asked. Seriously. I’m running on like three hours of sleep and too much of Bobby’s coffee. My brain’s not… working right.”
You watched him stumble through the recovery, the tips of his ears still burning, and felt that dangerous little spark of hope try to catch again. You crushed it the way you always did—reminding yourself what you looked like in the mirror, how soft you’d gotten, how a guy who looked like Sam Winchester had never once glanced twice at someone built like you.
Still.
He’d asked.
“There’s nothing going on with Dean,” you said quieter. “Never has been. Never will be.”
Sam nodded, still not quite looking at you.
“Okay.”
Sam sighed, long and quiet, like he’d been holding the sound in his chest since he sat down. The porch light caught the edge of his profile, the tired slope of his shoulders.
You bumped your knee lightly against his. “You know, Dean already sold you out.”
His head snapped toward you so fast you almost laughed again.
“What?”
“On the drive over.” You took the last drag of the cigarette and crushed it out on the step. “Said you asked about me the whole way. What I’d been hunting. Whether I was still crashing here sometimes. If I was seeing anybody.” You tipped your head, letting a small, teasing smile pull at your mouth. “Didn’t know I was such a hot topic, Winchester.”
The color drained out of Sam’s face so completely you could watch it happen. His ears went from pink to pure white, and he made a sound that was half groan, half strangled laugh.
“I’m going to kill him,” he muttered, burying his face in both hands for a second. “I am actually going to murder my brother and leave his body in one of these junk cars.”
“You’d never find it again. Bobby’s inventory system is a nightmare.”
That pulled a real laugh out of him—short, surprised, the same soft huff he used to make when you teased him as teens. He dropped his hands and looked at you, still embarrassed but something warmer underneath it now.
“I forgot how much of a pain in the ass you are,” he said, and it came out almost fond.
“You used to say that every time I stole the last of Bobby’s cookies and blamed it on Dean.”
“Because you did steal them. And then you’d sit there looking all innocent while Dean got the lecture.”
“Worked every time.”
Sam shook his head, smiling at the memory, and for a second the years between then and now folded in on themselves. The same easy back-and-forth you’d had on Bobby’s porch after hunts that went sideways, after John left them for weeks at a time. You’d forgotten how simple it used to feel.
He sobered gradually, gaze drifting out toward the dark shapes of the cars.
“I’m not going back to Stanford,” he said quietly.
You didn’t pretend to be surprised. “Figured that part out when you showed up in the Impala instead of on a plane.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb along the seam of his jeans. “Whatever’s going on with Dad… I can’t sit in a dorm room pretending everything’s normal while Dean’s out here alone. And I don’t—” He stopped, then tried again. “I don’t want to be that far away anymore. From any of it.”
The last part hung there, heavier than the rest.
After a moment he glanced at you sideways. “Your base is still here? South Dakota?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged one shoulder. “Mostly. I take jobs when they come up, but I always end up back at Bobby’s eventually. Someone’s gotta keep the old man from living entirely on beer and microwaved garbage.”
Sam’s mouth curved. “Some things really don’t change.”
“Guess not.”
The quiet that settled after that wasn’t the strained kind from earlier. It was softer. Familiar. The two of you just sitting side by side on the worn steps while the night settled around you.
Then Sam spoke, voice low enough that it nearly disappeared into the dark.
“I watched you sleep that night.”
You turned your head. He was staring at his hands, fingers laced tight between his knees.
“After the poltergeist,” he went on, still not looking at you. “You took that hit of glass for me and then you just… passed out on the couch at Bobby’s. Dean was still arguing with him about whether we should even tell your Dad. I sat on the floor next to you for hours. Kept checking your breathing like an idiot. And I remember thinking—” He let out a short, almost embarrassed breath. “I remember thinking you were the bravest person I’d ever met. And the prettiest. And I was thirteen and stupid and I didn’t know what to do with any of it.”
Your heart started hammering so hard you felt it in your throat. “Sam—”
“I never stopped,” he said, quieter. “Even when we only saw each other a couple times a year. I’d show up here and you’d be under some car or covered in salt and you’d smile at me like nothing had changed, and I’d have to go sit in the bathroom for five minutes just to get my head on straight. And then I left for Stanford and I told myself it would fade. That it was just some leftover kid thing. But it didn’t. Every time Dean mentioned your name I’d go quiet and he’d give me shit for it and I’d pretend I didn’t care.”
You shook your head, already scrambling for the exit. “You’re exhausted. You’re stressed about your dad. You’re mixing things up—”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” Your voice came out sharper than you meant. “Look at me, Sam. Really look. I’m not… I’m not the kind of girl guys like you end up wanting. I never was. You dated those Stanford girls, the ones who looked like they belonged in magazines. I’m the one who eats too much of Bobby’s excuse for cooking and can’t button the top of my jeans after a long night of ice cream and shitty romance movies. You’re confusing gratitude with—”
“I’ve always liked the way you look.” He finally turned his face toward you. His eyes were dark, steady, a little scared. “The soft parts. I used to catch myself staring at your mouth when you were arguing with Dean and then I’d feel like a complete creep. I liked it. I still do.”
You opened your mouth to argue again, to list every reason this couldn’t be real, but Sam was already shifting closer on the step. One of his hands came up, hesitant, and settled against the side of your neck. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw.
“I’m not lying,” he said, almost a whisper. “I’ve been half in love with you since I was thirteen years old and you shoved me out of the way of a stupid poltergeist. And I’ve spent every year since then trying to talk myself out of it because I didn’t think you’d ever look at me the same way.”
You managed a broken little sound that wasn’t quite a word.
Sam leaned in and kissed you.
It started soft—careful, almost questioning—like he was still giving you the chance to pull away. His mouth was warm, a little chapped from the road, and he tasted faintly of coffee. When you didn’t move, when your hands stayed frozen at your sides, he made a quiet, rough noise in the back of his throat and kissed you deeper. One of his hands slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist like he’d been thinking about putting it there for years.
You felt the last of your arguments dissolve under the heat of it. Your fingers finally curled into the front of his henley, hanging on, and Sam tilted his head and kissed you like he’d been starving for it—slow and thorough and so full of everything he’d just said that it left you dizzy.
When he finally pulled back it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven.
“Still think I’m lying?” he asked, voice wrecked and soft.
You couldn’t find a single word that would come out right. All you could do was shake your head once, small and stunned, while his thumb kept stroking absently along your jaw like he couldn’t quite make himself stop touching you.
“Can we… talk somewhere else? Somewhere Dean won’t come looking the second he finishes whatever beer he’s working on.”
Sam’s eyes searched your face. Whatever he saw there made his shoulders loosen.
“Yeah,” he said. “Anywhere you have in mind?”
You stood first and held out your hand. He stared at it for half a second like he couldn’t quite believe it was being offered, then laced his fingers through yours. His palm was warm and the simple contact sent a fresh wave of heat straight up your arm.
You led him off the porch and around the side of the house, past the last of the scrap piles and into the taller grass that Bobby never bothered to cut. The path was more memory than trail—something you’d worn in over years of restless nights when the walls of the house felt too close. Sam followed without asking where you were going, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles every few steps.
The barn sat half-hidden behind a stand of overgrown bushes at the far edge of the property. The roof sagged in places. Vines had claimed most of the south wall. You pushed the heavy door open with your free shoulder; it groaned but gave way. Inside smelled like old wood and dust and the faint sweetness of whatever wildflowers had taken root near the foundation.
You’d claimed this place a long time ago. A thick rug was still spread across the loft floor. A couple of heavy blankets were folded in a milk crate. An old kerosene lantern sat on a beam where you’d left it. The hole in the roof above the loft was exactly the same—jagged, wide enough to let the sky pour in.
Sam looked around slowly, still holding your hand.
“You’ve been coming here by yourself,” he said. Not a question.
“On the bad nights.” You let go only long enough to climb the ladder first, then reached back for him. “Stars are clearer out here. No porch light.”
He followed you up. The loft boards creaked under his weight. You lit the lantern; warm gold light pushed the shadows back just far enough. The last of the daylight was bleeding out of the sky above you.
You settled on the rug with your back against a support beam. Sam sat close enough that his knee pressed against yours.
Sam’s voice came quiet when he finally used it.
“I meant everything I said out there.”
You looked at him in the low light. The same soft mouth that had just kissed you senseless. The same eyes that had watched you across Bobby’s kitchen table like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
“I know,” you said.
Sam shifted closer on the rug until his knee pressed fully against your thigh. The lantern light caught the dark flush high on his cheekbones.
“Can I show you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “How much I mean it. All of it.”
Your pulse stuttered. You looked at the soft line of his mouth, at the careful way he was holding himself back, and the old fear rose sharp and familiar.
“Sam… no one’s ever touched me and still wanted to be around the next day.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. “Not like this. Not when they actually saw—”
He didn’t let you finish.
Sam kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair while the other settled at your waist. He kissed the rest of the sentence out of your mouth, slow and thorough, until your back met the rug and his weight settled carefully over you. The old wood of the loft creaked once beneath you both. Cool night air drifted through the hole in the roof, but all you could feel was the heat of him—long body bracketing yours, the solid press of his chest against the weight of your breasts.
His hands started roaming while he kissed you. Broad palms sliding down your sides, mapping the curve of your waist, the fuller swell of your hips. When he reached the lower curve of your stomach he didn’t flinch or skim past it. He spread his fingers wide and pressed, feeling the way you yielded under his touch, and made a low, hungry sound against your mouth.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured when he finally broke the kiss just enough to speak. His lips brushed yours with every word. “I’ve wanted my hands on you for so long. You’re so soft here—” his thumb stroked the underside of one breast through your flannel, “—and here.” His palm dragged lower again, over the plush give of your belly, and he exhaled like it wrecked him. “Christ. You feel even better than I imagined.”
You turned your face away, heat flooding your cheeks, but Sam followed, nuzzling under your jaw.
“Don’t hide from me.” His voice had gone deeper, almost pleading. “I’ve thought about this exact thing more times than I should admit. You under me. Letting me touch you. Letting me see you.”
His fingers found the top button of your flannel. He paused, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.
“Can I take this off? Please. I want to look at you properly. Want to put my mouth on every inch of you."
You nodded once, small and shaky.
Sam’s hands were careful but not hesitant. He worked each button open, pushing the flannel apart, then helped you sit up just enough to slide it off your shoulders. The cool air kissed your bare skin. Your bra was plain, functional, the kind you wore for hunts, and for a second the old urge to cross your arms rose hard.
Sam didn’t give it room to grow.
He stared down at you like he’d been gut-punched. One hand came up and cupped the heavy curve of your breast over the fabric, thumb brushing the peak of your nipple until it tightened.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re beautiful. Look at these—so full and perfect in my hand.” He squeezed gently, watching the way your flesh overflowed his fingers, and his hips shifted against your thigh like he couldn’t help it. “I’ve jerked off thinking about exactly this. The way you’d feel under me. How your body would give when I pressed into it. You’re so fucking pretty like this, all spread out for me on this rug. I like every single part of you. Don’t you dare think I want you any other way.”
He leaned down and kissed the upper swell of your breast, open-mouthed and warm, then higher, along your collarbone, then back to your mouth. Between every kiss the praise kept coming—low, filthy, reverent—while his hands kept mapping you like he was afraid you might disappear if he stopped touching.
“So beautiful,” he whispered against your lips. “My girl. Exactly like this.”
The words hit you square in the chest.
My girl.
Something raw and overwhelming surged up behind your ribs—too big, too sharp, too close to everything you’d never let yourself want. Your eyes burned. You kissed him harder before he could see it, pouring every messy feeling into the press of your mouth so he wouldn’t notice the way your breath had gone uneven. Your hands fisted in the front of his henley and yanked.
Sam broke the kiss only long enough to drag the shirt up and over his head. It landed somewhere in the dark beyond the lantern light.
Holy shit.
You’d seen him without a shirt years ago—skinny teenager, all sharp elbows and too-long limbs. This was different. Broad shoulders, lean muscle packed along his arms and chest from years of hunting, a soft trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. The lantern gold slid over the planes of him and you felt the old urge to cover yourself rise hot and fast. He was all long lines and quiet strength and you were still you underneath him.
Sam never let you give the thought room to breathe.
He kissed you once more, deep and claiming, then started working his way down. Mouth open against the hinge of your jaw, the side of your throat, the upper curve of one breast. When he reached your stomach he didn’t skip past it or treat it like something to tolerate. He pressed his face there, breathed in, and kissed the plush skin like he’d been starving for it.
“Fuck,” he muttered against you, voice wrecked. “Softest thing I’ve ever put my mouth on. Look at the way you take my hands—” his palms slid up your sides, thumbs stroking the warm undersides of your breasts, “—and just mold to me. I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you for years. Wanted to feel you under me while I fucked you stupid.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair, half trying to pull him back up, half holding him there. Sam only groaned and kept going, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower until his nose brushed the waistband of your jeans. His fingers found the button. He popped it open, then looked up the length of your body, eyes dark and hungry and impossibly soft at the same time.
“Can I?” He tugged gently at the zipper. “Want these off. Want to see the rest of you. Want to find out if you taste as good as you feel.”
His free hand stroked up over the curve of your stomach again, possessive and reverent, while he waited—lips already brushing the newly exposed skin just above your underwear, breath hot, voice dropping into something filthy and earnest.
“Let me, baby. Let me show you exactly how much I want every single part of my girl.”
You nodded, breath already shaky.
Sam didn’t rush. He worked your jeans down your hips and thighs, then your underwear with them, careful over the softest parts of you. When you were bare against the old rug he sat back on his heels for a second just looking—lantern light painting gold across the full curves of your stomach, the heavy weight of your breasts still in the bra, the dark thatch between your legs. His hands settled on your thighs and spread them wider.
“Christ, look at you,” he said, voice gone rough. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. All soaked and open for me. My girl.”
Then he folded down and put his mouth on you like a man who’d been starving for years.
There was nothing hesitant about it. Sam licked a broad, filthy stripe up the center of you, groaned like the taste hit him hard, and then settled in to eat. His tongue worked over your clit in firm, wet strokes while one hand pinned your hip down so you couldn’t squirm away. The other slid under you, gripping the plush curve of your ass and hauling you tighter against his face. He made wet, hungry sounds against you—open-mouthed kisses, the flat of his tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth that made your thighs jump.
“Fuck, you taste so good,” he muttered between licks, the words vibrating against your soaked cunt. “I’ve thought about getting my mouth on this pussy since I was fifteen. Dreamed about the way you’d drip down my chin.” He sucked your clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue until your back arched. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Want to feel you come on my tongue before I even get inside you.”
You were close—too close. The coil in your belly wound tight and sharp, every wet stroke of his mouth pushing you higher. Your fingers tangled in his hair and pulled.
“Sam—wait—I want—” Your voice broke. “Want to come with you. Please. Need you with me.”
He groaned like the words physically hurt him, but he listened. One last long, filthy lick from entrance to clit and then he was crawling back up your body, mouth shiny, eyes almost black in the low light. You reached for his belt with clumsy hands. He helped, shoving his jeans and boxers down just far enough.
His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the head already slick. You stared. He was huge—long and flushed dark, the kind of size that made your stomach flip with equal parts want and nerves.
Sam caught the look on your face. He wrapped one big hand around himself and stroked once, slow, watching you.
“Hey. Eyes on me.” His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “I’ll go slow. I’ll talk you through every second. You’re going to take me so well, baby. I know you will.”
He settled between your thighs, the blunt head of him dragging through your soaked folds until he notched against your entrance. The stretch when he started to push in made your breath catch hard. Sam’s forehead dropped to yours, voice low and wrecked and steady all at once.
“That’s it—breathe for me. Feel how wet you are, how easy you’re letting me in even though I’m big. Fuck, you’re tight. Squeezing me already.” He pushed another inch, then another, hips rolling in small, controlled movements. “Look at the way your pretty cunt is stretching around me. Taking every thick inch like you were made for it. That’s my girl. So perfect and mine.”
He kept talking while he worked himself deeper—praise and filth and soft check-ins mixed together—until he was finally seated all the way inside you, hips flush to yours, both of you shaking with it.
Sam stayed buried to the hilt for a long moment, just breathing against your mouth, letting you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. Then he started to move.
It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate—long, deep strokes that dragged almost all the way out before sliding back in until his hips pressed flush against the soft give of your ass. Every thrust was measured, controlled, like he was trying to carve the shape of himself into you. His hands never stopped moving. One stayed braced by your head so he could watch your face; the other roamed—cupping the heavy weight of your breast, squeezing the plush curve of your waist, sliding under to grip the full meat of your ass and haul you up into the next thrust.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked and reverent at the same time. “Taking me so deep. Your pretty cunt is stretched so wide around my cock and you still keep pulling me back in. Softest, wettest, most perfect thing I’ve ever fucked.” He rolled his hips on the next stroke, grinding against your clit, and groaned when you clenched around him. “Feel that? That’s you milking me. That’s my girl getting greedy for it.”
He kissed you through the next few thrusts—slow, filthy, open-mouthed—then pulled back just far enough to keep talking, forehead against yours, eyes locked on yours like he needed you to hear every word.
“You’re so fucking beautiful under me. These tits bouncing every time I push in—” his hand squeezed one, thumb dragging over the tight nipple, “—this belly I can’t stop touching, these thick thighs wrapped around me. I’ve never seen anything prettier in my life. Never wanted anyone the way I want you right now.” Another deep stroke, wet and filthy-sounding in the quiet loft. “I could live inside this cunt. Could wake up every morning and bury myself in you just to remember how perfect you feel.”
You were shaking, nails digging into the muscle of his back, the old fear trying to surface and getting drowned under the relentless praise and the thick slide of him. Sam felt the way you tensed and only fucked you slower, deeper, like he had all night to prove the point.
“Don’t you dare go somewhere else in your head,” he murmured against your lips. “Stay right here with me. Feel how hard I am for you. Feel how much I love every perfect part of this body. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever put my hands on, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you believe it.”
His rhythm stayed steady and devastating—making love with the intensity of a man trying to rewrite every doubt you’d ever carried. Every thrust came with more praise, more filthy reverence, more of that low broken voice telling you exactly how gorgeous you were while he buried himself inside you like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.
Sam’s rhythm never turned frantic, but it deepened—every stroke longer, heavier, the wet sound of him moving inside you filling the loft. His voice stayed right against your ear, low and broken and constant.
“Come with me,” he breathed. “Want to feel you. Want you to come on my cock while I’m this deep. You’re so beautiful like this—taking every inch. My girl. Mine.”
The coil snapped.
You came hard, thighs locking around his hips, cunt clenching in tight, rhythmic pulses that dragged a raw sound out of your throat. Sam followed a heartbeat later, burying himself to the root and spilling inside you with a long, shuddering groan, hips stuttering through it while he kept whispering praise against your skin like he couldn’t stop.
When it was over he didn’t pull away. He simply shifted his weight to the side enough that he wasn’t crushing you, then gathered you in close—one arm under your shoulders, the other draped heavy across your waist. His face pressed into the side of your neck. You could feel his heart still slamming against your chest.
For a long time neither of you spoke. The lantern flickered. Cool night air drifted through the hole in the roof.
You traced idle shapes along the sweat-damp line of his spine and finally found your voice.
“I’ve liked you for a long time too,” you said quietly. “Since before I even really knew what it meant. I just… never thought you’d look at me the same way.”
Sam’s arms tightened. He huffed a soft, incredulous little laugh against your throat.
“You should’ve told me before I went to Stanford,” he murmured, the words warm and teasing. “Could’ve saved me a few years of pretending I was fine and jerking off to the memory of you.”
You pinched his side. He only laughed again—quiet, genuine—and pressed a lingering kiss to the hinge of your jaw.
After that the talking came easier. Soft, unhurried things. The way the stars looked through the broken roof. Whether Bobby or Dean would notice you were both gone. How Sam wasn’t going back to California, how you weren’t planning on leaving South Dakota any time soon. Old memories of the poltergeist night, of stolen cookies and porch steps, of all the years you’d both spent looking and never quite saying it out loud.
Sam kept you tucked against him the whole time, one hand stroking absently over every part of you like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. You watched the sky through the hole in the roof together until the lantern burned low and the night settled quiet around the old barn, two people who had finally stopped missing each other.
𝜗𝜚 A/N - this is my first ever time writing about sucking dick, please be nice to me, i'll cry.
𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - you had to dress up as an FBI agent with the winchester brothers. you felt stupid in a costume but luckily for you, sam really liked seeing you in a skirt.
𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!sam, sub!reader, oral(s!rec), no p!v sex, size kink, praise kink, fingering, slight manipulation, reader lowk flexible, cum eating, messy sex, squirting, (1) use of y/n, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷
"come on, y/n, we gotta go!" you heard dean's not so gentle knock against the bathroom door as you slipped on your last mary jane shoe.
you weren't usually chosen for tasks like this.
usually, it was the winchester boys that did all this kind of thing, you know, fraud? you were usually just the researcher, sitting in the motel room as back up, with a laptop perched on your lap or sitting in baby, the key inside and waiting to be their getaway car.
you weren't really hands on when it came to being a hunter.
you never really had to go out into the real world for much. but this particular demon was snatching girls, twenty something year old girls about your age and appearance. the brothers thought it would be best if another girl accompanied them when investigating the missing girls' roomates and not two six-foot men dressed in suits.
dean's head turned as the creaky bathroom door opened. "I feel stupid."
his eyebrows raised to the tips of his forehead, a look of shock passing over him as he cleared his throat with a breathy laugh. "wait 'til sammy sees you." you just gave him a confused look before grabbing the pretty pink purse that sat on the bed. "aah-ah." you look up at dean confused. "kind of ruins the whole FBI vibe, don't you think?"
you eyed the purse in your hands.
it was a little bag, hardly able to hold anything other than your phone and your lipgloss, not that you ever had to worry about holding your wallet when you had the boys around but nonetheless, a card was wedged in there too.
it was pink with darker pink flowers on it and a ribbon attached to the strap. sam had gotten it for you after a case that you worked particularly hard on.
but dean was right, it didn't fit the whole 'FBI vibe' so you sighed and placed it back on the bed, passing the man an unhappy glance.
sam was outside, sitting in the passenger seat of the infamous impala named 'baby' by dean. he'd packed and started the car, waiting for the two of you when you caught his eye.
or should he say, your outfit.
you often wore pretty little sundresses or blouses and skirts paired together with a pretty cardigan drawn over you. but this? This seemed awfully different to your usual attire.
the white blouse was a little too low for comfort and he could tell by the way you were pulling it up over your cleavage that you agreed. your black pencil skirt was high, too high with a pair of long black stockings that stopped just above your knees paired with the infamous mary janes that you wore with almost everything.
sam was staring.
"what are you wearing?" was the first thing he asked when you and dean got into the car. "what is she wearing?" he turned back to dean.
you owned the stockings and the mary janes before hand but the rest of the outfit? it'd been dean's job to pick it out (which was no wonder you looked like... that.) "dude, she has to play the part."
"yeah of an FBI agent not some sexy stripper cop." sam spoke, exasperated.
"thank you!" you beamed from the back seat before your eyes furrowed. perhaps your boyfriend hadn't been complimenting you at all.
sam passed you a glance through the mirror but was more focused on blaming his brother. how could he let you go out looking like that for everyone to see? how could he make sam watch you while his pants tightened and his bulge was on show?
you thought the interviews went smoothly. you sat down with most of the women. the college women who's roomates had gone missing. dean was too busy fraternizing with the college girls to care about the case anymore and sam... well sam had seemed a little distracted from the beginning.
he couldn't rip his eyes away from you. you sat so perfectly, pieces of hair falling into your face as you nodded and sympathised with the women, asking them questions and jotting down notes onto a little notepad you had found in the backseat of baby.
sam was staring at you, at the way he could see the outline of your boobs down your shirt or the way your plush thighs protruded from the fabric of your stockings.
he was in awe.
it was hard to focus on anything other than you, which is why he had to excuse himself to talk to the headmaster instead of being stuck in a room with you, too close.
he was your boyfriend, it wasn't as if you hadn't done things with him before. on the contrary, you did... many things with sam before. but this was borderline unprofessional, the way he let his thoughts run.
he could imagine sliding his hands beneath your skirt or listening to your little gasps when he touched your skin, barely grazing it. you were so easily led like that, so audible and obedient. he could imagine unbuttoning your shirt slowly, with you sat on his lap while whines fell from your lips, whimpers following shortly after.
he needed to stop thinking.
or better yet, he needed to fuck you until the thoughts stopped.
dean decided he was going to check out the last spot that the college girl had been taken, assuring you both that he wouldn't be back before dinner. but the wink he shot his younger brother told him that he was merely giving you both alone time because he was no stranger to the look in sam's eyes.
and this was when sam got selfish.
honestly, the motel wasn't that far from the college so you and sam opted to walk back. the air turned brisk and for a split second, sam was about to offer you his jacket, the way he always would.
he thought it was rather adorable, watching the way you nuzzled into the jacket that was far too big for your frame. he was six foot five after all, you drowned in anything he let you wear.
but he found himself feeling selfish. he selfishly liked the way your perky breasts looked in that pretty blouse and the way your plush thighs could be seen peeking out from between the skirt and the stockings. he couldn't stop looking, couldn't tear his eyes away and stop his imagination from roaming.
so he let you walk back to the hotel, keeping a slight distance behind you so he could watch your body as he pleased, the only sound between you two being the click-clop of your mary jane heels as you walked home.
when you finally got inside, you felt yourself sigh in thought.
sam had been acting awfully quiet since you'd left and you'd begun to worry that you'd done something to upset him.
perhaps the outfit was too revealing, perhaps he wasn't okay with it.
you turned, an apology already on the tip of your lips. "sam―"
before you could utter the words, sam had grabbed you. his lips pushed into your own, a kiss filled with no passion or love, you could taste nothing aside from thick hunger, half a growl from inside his throat.
you whimpered into the kiss, taken by surprise. you felt him grab at you, one hand slid up your back, the other grabbing the back of your head and a fistful of hair along with it. again, a noise escaped you while sam was mindlessly kicking off his shoes, guiding you towards the bed.
to say you were surprised was saying the least, you hadn't expected this.
when he sat you gently against the bed, he finally broke the kiss. you looked up at him with glassy eyes and swollen lips while he tugged his suit jacket off, not bothering to take off his tie completely but only loosen it so it didn't hang so close to his neck. perhaps now he could finally breathe.
your eyes followed him curiously as he bent down, eyes never leaving yours while you stayed sitting on the mattress. you felt his hands pawing at your legs, slipping your mary janes from your feet. his hands gently rubbed at your sock-covered feet, a little reminder of his gentleness, despite the roughness he was suddenly using on you.
his fingers trailed upwards, following the little sewing thread between the fabric of your stockings. when his hands reached the top, he snapped the fabric back, leaving it snap against your thighs. "you're keeping these on." he uttered, he didn't sound like he normally did. he sounded as if he were pent up, desperate for relief. and he was.
you just couldn't seem to understand why.
"sam, why are you―"
you were cut off. "you're jus' so pretty all dressed up, honey." sam was towering over you as he stood, his large hand falling on your face, practically taking up a whole cheek as he cupped it. "'n i was hard all day thinkin' about this. you do wanna make me feel good, don't you, sweetheart?"
he watched as your eyes seemingly got rounder. "i wanna make you feel good, sammy." you caught your bottom lip between your top teeth and he could tell you were being honest, so honest.
willing to do anything to make him feel good, his sweet sweet girl. he would have cooed at you had he not been busy using his thumb to pull your bottom lip from beneath your top teeth. "don't do that, baby." he watched as you nodded silently. "good girl, i'll give you something to wrap those pretty lips around, don't worry."
he could see your face slowly building a flush, that kind of blush that had him reeling. he liked when he got you like this, all flustered and squirming. which you were, squirming in your seat with your thighs pushing together.
sam was well aware that if he were to reach up your skirt now, he would find a little wet circle sitting on your satin panties.
but instead, he used his hands to pull his own trousers from him. they were sitting tightly on his hips and when he finally pulled them down, you could see his bulge sticking out from his black boxers.
you gulped, hands playing together in your lap. you wanted to look back up at sam but you couldn't seem to tear your eyes away from him, too engrossed by his dick to think of anything else.
"'s how i felt all day, sweetheart." his voice was a whisper now. "you were teasin' me 'n i couldn't do anything about it. do you know how mean that is?"
your eyes snapped up to his, filling with this red glassiness. "w-what?" you didn't want to be mean to sam. he was so good to you, always making you feel good, you wanted nothing more than to be good to him. "'m sorry sammy, 'm really sorry."
"awh, i know, baby." his thumb swiped against your cheek, playing around with your face as if you were dough, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "you just wanna be my good girl, yeah?"
you nodded quickly. "mmhm, wanna be your good girl, sammy, 'm sorry. 'm really sorry."
"i don't know, you were very bad today." his constant teasing as only making your panties wetter, that tone he was using on you, the one that he knew got you all flustered. "if i give you a second chance, are you gonna be good?"
"uh-huh, 'be so good, sammy, i promise. please, ill be good." you were begging now, eyes as big as saucers and lips wet.
he didn't bother pretending to think about it, he just leaned down, so far that his face was in line with yours, lips against your ear as he softly whispered the words, "then get onto your knee's 'n show me."
when sam winchester told you to do something, you did it, no questions asked.
you'd touched him like this many times before, you on your hands and knees on the mattress while he stood on the ground. he thought it was the most comfortable spot for the both of you, seeing as he was so big.
you did as you were told, moving so you were on your hands and knees against the mattress. your hands moved up to his waist, eyes snapping to his. he watched you intently as you brought your lips to his clothed cock, pressing a pretty kiss against it before using your fingers to pull down his underwear.
you did it without fail every single time.
every time he had you on your knees with his cock in your mouth, you started off with that pretty kiss to his boxers. there was something sickly sweet about it that had his eyes already rolling backwards. it was almost an innocent and naive act of love towards him, laced with lust.
you were on just your knees now, pushing his boxers down with no help from him. his dick sprung free and you could see an idle line of precum dripping down his shaft. instinctively, your hand moved up, thumb swiping the precum and smoothing it over the head of his dick. the act alone caused a grunt to leave his lips.
as pretty as you looked, all curious and ready to take your time, sam simply wasn't having it tonight.
he was too pent up from your silly outfit and his own mindless thoughts that he couldn't help it.
his hand fell to the side of your head, cupping it as he guided it forward. you knew what he was asking and you wasted no time in sticking out your tongue and licking a kitten lick up his shaft.
"fuck," fell from his lips. "good girl." mumbling as your tongue swirled over his head and your mouth wrapped around his dick. sam was a huge man and his dick was no exception to that. he was huge, too big to fit in your mouth but you pushed him in anyway, only covering a little more than half.
sam knew he was big too, he couldn't help the quirk of his lips as he looked down at you, struggling to fit his size into your mouth. his hand slowly guided your head further onto his cock, letting your lips wrap around him completely, your saliva coating him. it wasn't until you gagged that he knew this was as far as you could go.
so he pushed you a little further, anyway.
you brought your head back out then in again, bobbing it as you tongue swirled against him. you were no stranger to sucking sam off but every time you did it, you found yourself getting nervous. you wanted to be good for him and you were doing your upmost best.
his pretty thing.
"fuck, baby, you're doin' so good f'me." and sam knew exactly what effect his words would have on you. "mmph, look so pretty with your lips around my dick, sweetheart."
you couldn't help but moan on his dick.
and his lips quirked into that sickly sweet smile.
he knew how easily you got wet, how all it took was just a few words and you were a moaning, whining mess. sam thought you deserved a little more for all you were giving him than just a little praise.
and like said before, sam was huge so he reached over, his torso towering a little above your head and his arm reached out, soothing down your lower back.
this wasn't the first time sam had pulled something like this. you knew what to do, stomach sinking onto the bed as you rolled your ass into nothingness, wanting to create some kind of friction while your mouth continued to slowly melt around him, licking and sucking, eyes closed as one hand pumped the part of his dick that your mouth couldn't reach.
you felt his fingers tracing the outline of your satin underwear, pulling up your skirt so he could gain access.
you made a noise of complaint, knowing that if he touched you, you wouldn't be able to focus properly on touching him. sam only used his free hand to push your head onto his dick and make you gag again.
he liked watching you fall apart, especially with his dick stuffed in your mouth.
he loved watching the way your body had to bend for him to be able to stick his fingers into your gaping whole, watching as you desperately rolled your hips, wanting him him him. you wanted to feel him. taste him. smell him. he was all consuming, you wanted him to take over your every sense.
and he always did, without complaint.
you were wet, undeniably so, he could feel it through the satin material that he pulled back, getting access to your aching pussy. "there you go, sweetheart, tha's it." while easing two fingers into your hole.
you felt like a slut.
he had you completely and utterly full.
"'s that nice, baby? y'feel so warm." both with your mouth against his dick and your soaking wet hole. "you're so pretty for me, you know that, angel?"
he knew you couldn't respond, only whining and whimpering against his throbbing cock. "you're my good girl, aren't you?" he felt you whine, vibrations spreading through him and he also felt your pussy squeeze against his fingers. he grinned at that. "you like that, honey? like thinkin' about how you're my good girl, yeah? all mine, baby, you're all mine."
and you really were. before sam, you wouldn't look at a boy sideways let alone be like this.
you groaned into him, ass rolling against his fingers while your own free hand moved down. you continued sucking his dick while using your nimble fingers to play with your clit.
and that was enough for sam to let out a moan. "oh, baby, you look so pretty playing with yourself while―shit―sucking my cock."
your eyes rolled back, feeling of pleasure coating you while your soft lips bobbed up and down, fingers tracing him and yourself.
"'m gonna cum, sweetheart." a warning, though he knew you wouldn't move anyway. "you gonna be a good girl 'n cum on my fingers while you suck my cock, huh, baby?"
he felt you absentmindedly nod, too fucked out to think straight while feeling a familiar knot deep in your stomach.
your whines got louder and he felt himself nearing the edge. the sight of you, blissed out while sucking his cock, his fingers stuffed into your hole making you feel all full... he couldn't help but let go.
at the same time, he felt your gummy walls clenching around his fingers, wet juices sliding down his hand while spurts of squirt left your pussy every time his fingers pumped in and out of you, riding out your high.
"good girl, good girl. that's it, baby. oh fuck. yeah, my good girl. there you go." he was in awe, watching you squirt around his fingers, the wet feeling as it spurted out from your pussy, decorating the bedsheets in your juices while your pretty socks got ruined in the mess.
when he finally finished, he pulled his fingers out of you, letting you lean back as you parted your lips to show him his cum all over your tongue, spread messily in your mouth.
his hand was on your face, eyes strained on your mouth as he watched you close your lips and swallow like the good girl you were, swiping his thumb against your bottom lip.
he pushed his two fingers into your mouth, letting you taste yourself. while your eyes rolled back, all fucked out and dumb.
"think we have some time before dean gets back, yeah?" eyes already scanning your body and letting his imagination get the better of him.
he just watched your blissed out face nod, cheeks flushed. "mmhm hmph."
-a lil summary// dean breaks the bunkers heating system...
Dean x Reader
-word count// 1.2K
-MASTERLIST
(GIF FROM PINTREST)
The bunker was freezing. Usually the heating system was pretty good, you had no complaints. Well... that was until Dean decided to take it upon himself to mess with it, claiming he wanted to 'have the bunker nice and toasty for winter' but of course that wasn't the case... and now you had to suffer for it.
You laid in your room in the bunker, wrapping the thin blanket around your shivering body, cursing the jack ass that was Dean Winchester. You've been thrashing around since midnight, your body covered by your warmest pajamas and fluffy socks- now it's 2:37am and you knew you weren't getting any warmer in here
Deciding to call it quits you shoved the covers off you in a huff, you shuffled your way down to the bunkers cold floors mentally scolding yourself for not putting slippers on over your socks.
You're shocked to already find Dean sat at the table drinking a beer, scrolling on his laptop, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His emerald green eyes catching yours immediately "he-" Dean started "shut up" you cut him off quietly sticking your hand up "you've turned the bunker into freaking winter wonderland. I'm not speaking to you right now" you told him dramatically turning away from him, making your way to the coffee machine
"little late for coffee don't ya think sweetheart?" Dean chuckled at your childish manners "well I wouldn't need to make coffee so late if I was asleep in my usually nice warm bed, but a certain idiot, who shall remain nameless wrecked that" you retaliated making him laugh as he sipped his beer
"Ya know, if you wanna stay warm I hear that body heat is the best way to do that" Dean told you with a sly smirk on his plump lips
You rolled your eyes at his antics "you wish Winchester" you scoffed. Dean shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and stalked his way over to you, a sultry smile on his lips "come on sweetheart, I know you're tired and I know your cold- and I'm sorry, I promise you I'll fix it first thing tomorrow" Dean assured you, whispering in your ear, his chin on your shoulder, his somehow warm hands finding their way around your waist making you lean back into him, the coffee in front of you now long forgotten
"You really promise?" Dean nodded "of course baby, you know I'd do anything for you" he flirted making you giggle, you two weren't officially dating, but there has been a lot of nights you both found comfort in each other in the last 7 months, whether that comes from sex or just holding one and other, it didn't matter, just so long as you were together.
"Your room or mine" you questioned, allowing Dean to lift you into his arms, your legs wrapping tightly around his his hips, already feeling the benefits of body heat "we can go to my room, I got a little something to show you" dean teased making your brows furrow "what'd you do now?" You asked, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he carried you down the long hallway to room 11, "you'll see in a second baby" Dean promised, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
"Alright Winchester, what did you wanna show me?" You questioned as Dean sat you down on his bed, letting you get under the covers "open the cabinet on the nightstand on your left" dean told you with a smile he could barley contain, shaking your head with your own smile. at his eagerness you did as he said and opened the cabinet, furrowing your brows when you found it empty
"it's empty?" You told him watching as his smile only grew bigger "yeah it is... I was thinking maybe you could move your stuff in here. I moved stuff in the drawers around too so the right side is all yours baby" Dean said moving to sit next to you on the bed grabbing your food hand in his "I don't know what to say Dean this is.." you trailed off, you really didn't know what to say, it's not like you were his girlfriend, sure you guys sleep together and one of you usually winds up staying in the others bed... but he's never actually asked you to be his girlfriend, at this point your staring to wonder... what are you guys?
Deans expression turned to that of panic, eyes widen with fear as he starts stuttering over his words "it's too fast isn't, I mean I know we've only been dating for a few months, but I want to fall asleep next to you every night, and wake up still holding you" Dean said squeezing your hands tightly in his but you couldn't help but wonder, were you guys dating this whole fucking time and that idiot didn't say anything to make it clear. Leaning forward to catch his lips in a small kiss before pulling away "I'd love too baby, but I gotta tell you something, you suck at asking girls to be your girlfriend" you finished with another peck to his lips leaving him stunned
"..huh? Did you not know we were dating?" Dean asked through laughs, slapping his shoulder away lightly you giggled "no you idiot, you never said 'oh hey Y/N, wanna be my girlfriend', let alone take me on any dates , or even just out for drinks just us. We were having sex and sleeping together, but I just thought you that's all you wanted. And if that's all I was gonna get with you, well then I was gonna take it" Deans heart was beating against his chest at your confession, pissed at himself for allowing you to think like this,
"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry for not making it clear that I want you, but I'm doing it now so, Y/N Y/L/N will you do the honours of continuing to be my girlfriend, and move into my room with me?" Dean asked taking your hands into his, pulling you down to sit next to him on the bed once again "I'd love that" you smiled leaning forward to catch his lips in a slow kiss before pulling away when you felt a cold hand grab your hip
"sorry sweetheart, I really will fix it first thing, c'mon let's get you into bed and warm you up" Dean said rubbing his hands together to heat them up before touching you again. He lead you up to the left side of the bed, furthest away from the door incase of danger in true Dean Winchester fashion
"Even in the safest place in all of Kansas, you still protect" you told him quietly wrapping your arms around each other, heat already radiating through both of you "I'll always protect you, no matter where we are" he promised, placing a small kiss on the top of your head before tucking you tightly against his chest, your body finally feeling the warmth it needed to drift off to a slumber, all you needed was to be in the arms of your boyfriend to get you there.
