The Wrecking Ball Formally Known As Sam Winchester
Sam has The Look.
You've seen variations a few times now, whenever you suffer a bump or hit on a heckle-raising hunt with the intrepid Winchester boys.
At first, The Look is Fear, that maybe your pain is caused by a yet undiscovered serious trauma. Assessing the damage, Sam trains multicoloured eyes over every last inch of your skin he can see.
Fear then morphs into less frantic Concern, as a Confidence sets like concrete in his chest on discovering that this time around, there's no real danger. So, his brow knots together with familiar frown lines, jaw clenching tightly. He's now satisfied and decides: Uh-huh, yes. You're Okay.
Relief settles in by the fire in his eyes, before he's stoking at rising Guilt as he remembers, your pain is still there, still hurting - still real - however minor the harm.
The Look is then loud, shouting out Sam's inner yearnings to Make It All Stop-- no more danger!
Until Recognition lands, solid and heavy at the reluctant yet resolute knowledge: he can't simply wish want into being.
Yeah, The Look.
All those emotions in a singular moment, spreading over his features like wildfire for all and sundry to see. Because he couldn't possibly hide it-- he wouldn't know how. This isn't Poker, it's Protection; Sam Winchester's inherent core instinct.
But The Look? Today it's somehow divergent. It's laced with something . . .
More.
There's now something quietly Fierce behind those unique sunflower eyes. Something's been waiting, holding back. Something . . .
Raw.
And you see it-- so right here, right now. And not just in his golden-blue-browns but somehow flashing in bright coloured neon all over his goliath-like body.
That Look has been torched and the now white-hot flames are licking and growing with . . .
Hunger.
You almost hadn't noticed his sizable hands holding each side of your face.
There's no room for shyness with physical contact when hunting - there's always someone's skilled fingers scanning for bone-breaks, running over marked skin, searching out cuts - but there's something in the way Sam's laying hands on you now. It's distinctive, different. It's . . .
New.
Just like That Look, his usual protective touch is now modified, changed. Carrying something even more Tender yet Strong; something Commanding yet Gentle; and - in some inexplicable way - something even more Caring and . . .
Urgent.
Sam's clutching your face now, gently tilting your head towards his. He's breathing in deep, his broad chest expanding, the New Look intense, fixed solely on you . . .
And Holy fucking shit! It's paralyzing.
The foreign New Look is now burrowing under your skin. Ice-tendrils splintering, climbing your spine yet pulsing heat burning through to your centre. Your stomach's flip-flopping, you're blinking too much and . . .
He's so very close now, you're struggling to focus, seeing nothing and no one but . . .
Sam.
Then you're breathing deep too and the crisp scents that fill you, leave your senses drunk-ass and longing:
There's spearmint; fresh laundry; there's sharp lemon, soft suede and there's . . .
Sam.
Looking up through fanned lashes, confused eyes meet his gaze. Your face now lives here, in this monumental New Look: a terrifying yet breathtaking Scrutiny. And your instincts track a thread, honest and truthful, loaded-thick with a sort of Desire? But it's something else too, something frantic and Desperate.
Yeah, there's a wish-- no, a pure Need for something . . .
And when you're each breathing the other's hot breath; you hear Sam's heart thrum a new quick-time, syncing and matching your own; there's only an inch between your dropped-open mouth and his wetted, parted pink lips; your eyes are blown wide, round as Dean's Baby's wheels; your whole body squirming, silently screaming under the steady tirade of this unforgiving and crucifying New Look . . .
Then finally - FINALLY - it hits you. Like a godamn Wrecking Ball.
Sam. Wants. You.
End
This was for a Sammy-loving friend, not on Tumblr. But maybe there's Sam fans here who'll likey. . .
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