✮ I’m a Dean girlie but this fic idea has been in the back of my mind for weeks ✮
✎ SUMMARY: A certain know-it-all decides to show you just how right he can be.
PAIRINGS: Sam Winchester x Reader
CONTENT/WARNINGS: m4f | choking | fingering | piv | no use of y/n | unprotected | size!kink | fem!reader | dom!sam
The day you stop arguing with Sam Winchester would be the day the world stops spinning. His big ol’ doe eyes and innocent smile could only carry him so far. He was stubborn as all get out. When he thought he was right—rather, when he knew he was right—he wouldn’t budge on it. It was more of a massive pain than endearing at this point. Or so you said.
This particular afternoon Sam is looking at you with a shit-eating grin after once again, being right. “Ouch. Must’ve hurt, yeah? Being wrong…” His tongue glides over his teeth, “Again.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you have half a mind to hurl his laptop at him.
“Shut up.” You say, more petulantly than you intended, and snap his laptop shut. “No one likes know-it-alls.” You glare at him with disdain. “You love ‘em.” He counters, you fail to deny it, you can hear that grating voice of his in the back of your head saying ‘right again!’
You set the laptop aside on the motel bed, grumbling about this and that. Saying he rigged his laptop to say he was right, that he planned this. “Don’t be mad at me, be mad at Google.” You glower at him, but a quirk of your lips is a telltale sign you aren’t truly mad at him. “I’m mad at both of you.” He chuckles in a very condescending manner and leans back in the chair beside the bed, legs sprawled out like the lanky SOB he is. “You being mad won’t change the fact that…I’m right.” He whispers that last little gloating line in your ear.
“Asshole.” You kick at him in a half-assed manner prompting him to grasp your ankle and yank you to the edge of the bed. You hate that his little move prompted a squeak from your lips. “Sore loser.” He chides and clings to your ankle despite your wriggles in an attempt to escape. “Where do you think you’re going?” He bites back yet another grin and brings you closer, your knees knocking with his. “What do you think you’re doing?” You challenge and continue your ‘attempts’ at escaping, but really you’re only encouraging this behavior.
The chair scrapes the laminate flooring as he scoots closer, hand skirting up along your calf and resting on your thigh. “I think I’m pulling you closer.” He patronizes, “Whaddya know? Right again boy-genius.” The taunting glint in your eyes fades when he rises from his seat, hovering over you and guiding your legs around his waist, pleased to find a startling lack of restraint.
“I usually am.” He whispers, his spikes of brown hair brush your forehead, “You wish.” You refuse to let him have this, you’d keel over and die before admitting his tendency to always have the answer. “Mhm. Denial suits you.” His hands trail higher, his touch skimming under the edge of your shorts, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs. You hate to admit it but this compromising position, back and forth banter, and his stupid deer in headlights eyes are really turning you on.
Before you can acknowledge the compromising position, or ask whether the ‘boy-genius’ will man up and just fucking kiss you already, he speaks. “How ‘bout we play a game?” Oh no. “I’ll show you, just how many times I can be right.” He slides your hips to meet his, his lanky body practically a blanket of heat over you. He sees the questions in your gaze and elaborates, “I do something…that I think you’ll like. You tell me, right or wrong.” This could go a lot of ways, all of which have your cunt aching in anticipation.
“Bet.” You whisper, trying to sound as sure of yourself as you could in this situation. His lips brush the shell of your ear. “Bet.” His breath fans your cheek and with his gargantuan hands engulfing your hips, he guides you to grind over the evident line of his dick. His lips press to the junction of your jaw, “Right, or wrong?”
Right. Right. The most fucking right he’s ever been. It pisses you off beyond belief that he’s conned you into playing this game with him, where you feed his ego, but right now you need his fingers in your pussy like you need air in your lungs—so you don’t resist much. “Right.” You breathe and let him move your hips, slotting your entrance right over the bulge of his jeans. The friction of the denim has your body arching into him, sparks of tension are flying in the air between you two.
One of his hands slides to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your head spinning and your pussy throbbing in excitement. A soft grunt escapes him and cracks the facade of ‘composure’ he has going right now. He loved watching the way your eyes go hazy when he does this, your cheeks flushed with want. He traces your chin with his thumb then prods at your lips, invading your mouth and pressing to your tongue, prompting you to suck. His hips jerk forward and he pulls his thumb back to ask, “Right, or wrong?” He certainly hasn’t forgotten his little game yet.
“Right.” You whisper from spit-slicked lips. “I’m two for two now, huh?” He smirks and gives a little experimental squeeze of your throat. “Look at you go.” You tease with a sound of breathless bliss as he undoes your shorts with hardly disguised desperation. You lift your hips so he can get the obstacle off, your shorts and soaked panties are discarded to the motel floor with little significance.
He practices the virtue of patience, straightening himself up and ever so lightly grazing the pad of his finger over your slick folds providing a feather light spark of electricity that had your walls clenching around where you wished his cock was. Then he withdrew his touch, leaving you wanting. Your squirming of impatience had him reeling.. “Mmf…wrong.” You whine out with the intention of scolding when really—you’re just begging. “Guess I should fix that.” He whispers and plunges his middle digit into you with ease, your cunt welcomes him with a lewd squelch. The length of his fingers has him hitting your sweet spot with such precision—it’s as if it was designed for exactly this. He curls his finger prompting a very pleased ‘ahhh’ from you.
“Words.” He commands, enjoying this all too much, keeping his finger torturously still now. “Right!” You hiss and press his palm closer, his finger guided deeper and his palm brushing your sensitive clit. “Fuck.” He curses in a wanton sigh and curls his finger over and over hitting that spot of molten bliss. You melt in his arms. His slender finger slides in and out of you, the game is now long forgotten, another digit enters beside it. You feel so full, but not full enough.
Your mewls and pants in his ear have his dick twitching in his jeans and he pulls back to unfasten the belt and get his fly down. Flopping back onto the mattress and tugging him by the shirt, he clambers over you, lips finally crashing into yours. His hand comes up and cradles the back of your head, lacing into your locks of hair.
You gasp and groan into the kiss as he hitches your thighs over his waist and he lines up. Sam is a large man, in every sense of the word, so he knows to go slow. Gently he enters you, his tip alone spreading your cunt. He takes a heaving breath of restraint to not just ram into you and have you feeling it for the next week. Nails making crescent patterns in his back, you brace for him to keep going, at this point you just wanted him to fill you, to get past that sting of pain and feel that fit that felt like heaven.
“Sam…” You whine and he knows, he knows you want him. He closes that distance, his pelvis flush against yours and you gasp, his tip kissing your cervix in a dichotomy of delicious pain and delirious pleasure, it had your toes curling. “Sh-Shit…” He stutters out with a choppy exhale that blows his bangs from his eyes. His pants are haphazardly pushed down to his knees and he jostles them off the rest of the way. His hands roam up your shirt taking your tits into grasp, he gropes and grips at every part of you he can reach. You do the same. Hands clinging to the rippling muscles of his back that flexed with his every movement, fingers dragging through his tufts of brown hair.
With caution, he starts to make minute movements of his hips, the soft circular movements over your sweet spot had your eyes rolling back. The ecstasy was unrelenting. He pushes your shirt up and over your head. “So beautiful.” He says below a whisper and slowly pulls back, almost completely pulling out of you, when his cock thrusts forward again, and again and again and again. The pain of the stretch is long gone now and all you can feel is the sensation of pleasure crawling into your gut. Each thrust punches a whiny ‘uh uh uh’ from you, “I know, I know…” He whispers in response, knowing he is the one pulling those sounds from you has his dick twitching within you.
One hand grips your waist the other encircling your throat again. The pulse of your heartbeat in your ears pounds in tandem with the pulse of your walls around him. The resonant ache of building euphoria is enhanced by the pressure on your neck. He loves that you look an absolute mess, hair clinging to your sweat-slicked face, pouty lips hung agape from the instinctive ‘ah ah ah’s coming from you, eyes glistening to match the glossy slick of your pussy.
The bed creaks beneath his weight, rocking with the movements of him fucking you into oblivion. You feel the heat of your orgasm building at the highest sensitivity, almost like pins and needles from how overwhelming it all is. You cum so hard you see white, a silent scream coming from you. His hips stutter as you convulse around him, a deep groan coming from him as he paints your insides. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple.
He pulls back a moment, to admire your expression. You look like you’re on cloud nine, as does he. He cards his fingers through your hair brushing them away from your glistening face. The moment halts when he finds the absolute nerve within himself to smirk.
Suddenly he remembers his ‘game’.
“That was right.” He whispers, and with that final grotesquely snarky comment, he allows himself to relax. He slumps over you like a weighted blanket, nose brushing over the column of your neck. “We’re right.” He mumbles, and any sort of remnant of annoyance with him fizzled into nothingness.
