Hello friends, you may call me Hel (Helen/Helena), I am Genderfluid and mostly go by they/them pronouns, she/her when I'm really feminine. I'm hoping I can get into writing again, as I used to have a fanfic account on here a few years back.
About Blog
Welcome to my main blog, where I post essentially everything (Mostly smut (â ;â Ĺâ ďšâ Ĺâ ) Proceed with caution. Further details in rules.)
The tags below will show you different posts of mine: "hel_yaps" is for my rambling and comments, "hel_writes" is for my works, and "hel_writes?" will be for posts of mine that is a weird combo of both yapping and writing, like headcanon discussions.
@tombstonekush is my second blog where I will only post my fics/ideas.
Rules (zero tolerance)
đ¤ No bigotry whatsoever. No racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia, nor fatphobia.
đ¤ Please don't attempt to DM me. I have severe anxiety interacting with people through messages due to past incidents.
đ¤ I do not believe in censorship if it isn't necessary. I believe in self moderation. Please block a corresponding tag, or block me if you find my posts unsavory. My blog will contain posts involving cannabis, proshipping, horror, ageplay, smut and on occasion, agere when I'm regressed.
đ¤ Sfw only agere users dni: My blog is not safe for you! While I do age regress and make some agere centered posts, I still have my bad habits.
đ¤ Generative AI is not my friend and it isn't yours either. It's stealing much needed water from people's homes, polluting said water, stealing from artists of all medias to train them, as well as spreading misinformation. If I accidentally reblog something that is AI generated, please lemme know via ask so I can delete it and block that user.
Little getting fussy when going on too long without weed.
Always having choccy milk after smoking to soothe the sting in Little's throat. (I do this :D)
Cg who, if Little has one, will hold their bong for them and light the bowl as Little takes their toke.
Cg using weed as a reward for difficult tasks.
Punishments for smoking/partaking without Cg's permission and/or supervision (ex: "You smoked without (Cg's) around to watch you, so no more sweets for today.")
Little who never greens out after the first time because now Cg can safely manage their intake.
Idk, I've been curious how a weed could be integrated into agere, as I don't stop smoking when I'm age regressed myself.
STEVE ROGERS never gets your references and takes you out for coffee dates too much, but what he can do is lay down some killer pipe. you werenât sure about him at first, he seemed like the type to say he prefers friendship or heâs staying single to better himself - or whatever. you thought that he was too good to be true because of how reserved he was, but after you coaxed him out of his shellâand got him up to your roomâyou were pleasantly surprised. all that weight on you, every poised muscle dedicated to using those seven inches to their fullest, grunting out of his slack lips as he hovers his chest over yours n curls his hips in a way that rolls your eyes into the back of your head. heâs a little more quiet that you wouldâve hoped, but you can learn to appreciate it, all your focus is on the way your core feels getting filled up. his brows furrow, a chuff escaping his nose as he raises himself up. big hands clamp onto your hips to bring you with him, sitting on his haunches while he lifts your tailbone, realigning, and returning to the pace he set. his biceps swell as he moves you, reminiscent of some toy, his abdomen n chest flex n the dull light catches on their curves. thereâs sweat in his hair, hanging down into his eyes as theyâre downcast - youâre not exactly sure what theyâre looking at. you canât even form a sentence, you just enjoy the ride.
what PETER PARKER sends back when you send him a risquĂŠ photo and a flirty text that tests his patience. . . you know heâs busy right now, he just told you what heâs working on, how heâs got a deadline, and he just canât come over. you decide to be generous, take a pic of your cleavage in a really cute set with a, âaw really ??:( đ but i miss u sooo badâ
it takes him less than a second to respond with this picture. you can see it in the flex of his forearm, the hair standing on end - no doubt tossed carelessly n pulled on, that expression on his face. itâd be indescribable to anyone but you, you can read him like a book. heâs not just interested, heâs frustrated. no one else knows how badly peter hates having temptation dangle over his head, n youâre bobbing it like a carrot on a stick. he doesnât say anything for a bit, but then you hear your phone ding.
âa quick one okay? will you promise to be goodâ
you canât type your consent fast enough, and you hear the familiar thwip outside your window, followed closely by the clambering of his crawl inside, and the hasty unbuckling of his belt. looks like he rushed over in civvies. he flashes a grins at you, âremember we gotta be fast.â he flicks his shirt up n over his head, the web shooter on his wrist aims at your hip, âcâmere,â her jerks you over by the leash of his web and right into him.
I'm most likely not the first and definitely won't be the last to realize this parallel involving the colours red and green, and Sam's relationship to Dean and Lucifer.
Lucifer's eyes are Red.
Dean's eyes are fanfiction/candy-apple Green.
Green is a colour corrector for Red. Dean (and his green eyes) does everything he can to protect Sam against Lucifer. Green shielding against red.
And here's where I wiggle in a little headcanon of mine: Sam's favorite colour is green. the colour green just feels so safe to him and he never seems to realize how much it's because of his big brother's eyes. And counterpart to that, I also headcanon that after his time in hell (and his soul is back), the colour red makes him feel uneasy. He genuinely has to swallow down the twisting fear in his gut the second he sees red lighting/glowing of any kind in particular because the hell he survived has red eyes that glow blindingly bright.
ŕšŕŁâatlas : there's only one man special enough for you to let down your guard; sam winchester. it's his favourite part about you and he's always thinking about it, even when he's asleep
ŕšŕŁâbinary stars : sam x reader (gn)
ŕšŕŁâclassification : fluff and mostly smut
ŕšŕŁâstellar density : 3.9k
ŕšŕŁâomens : golden retriever boyfriend!sam and black cat partner!reader :] big sweetness with sammy, smut (sam has a sexy dream; sweet smut, clothed grinding/dry humping, sam kinda has a praise kink ???, reader calls sam 'angel', sam comes in his boxers), bobby's house has seen too much
ŕšŕŁâmessage in a bottle : requested !! genuinely had no idea what to do with this butttttt faith helped me yayayay @bejewledinterludes :]
ŕšŕŁâtaglist ŕźĺ˝Ą masterlist
Bobbyâs house has seen a lot, and if walls could talk, these ones would never shut up. Theyâve had decades of stories to tell from the people who lived here before you could ever think to call it a home all the way to the present day, where thereâs more memories being lodged in the walls than the wood has space for. It kicks out old ones every so often to make room for the new ones. A stain on the wallpaper that was never there before appears so that the sound of Samâs laughter can take its place. A loose floorboard kicks up dust so that dirt from a far-flung place can fall from Deanâs boots and land there instead. The lamp in the kitchen rattles on its chain, shaking cobwebs free so that the merry sound of your and Samâs conversations about strange hypotheticals can replace it.
The newest layer of memories descends upon the house bright and early when the first sign of wakefulness seeps into the walls and lines the floorboards with the sounds of breathing patterns changing. A stretch and groan from Dean as he drags himself to the kitchen to start coffee, the sheets on Bobbyâs bed being meticulously folded in the only manner of control he extends beyond hunting. A content sigh from you when you wake up to Samâs snuffled breaths shifting into the full ones of a man fully conscious, his arm draped loose and heavy over your waist. Your sleepy voice whispering a soft good morning to Sam, and his rough one murmuring it back with a kiss to your hairline that you return, gentle on the dimple of his cheek.
SweetâŚA strange word to apply to you if youâre anyone but Sam Winchester. Dean would call you snarky or painfully sarcastic, always ready with a jab that stings when it lands and smooths over the moment your attention drifts somewhere else. Bobby would say youâre defensive with your guard always up, because he knows itâs the only way you can keep yourself safe from a world thatâs done nothing but harm to your soul. The Impala and Bobbyâs house would conspire to call you temperamental at worst, and tender at best, because even you spare a moment of grace for the places that you learn to call home.
Sam calls you darling and love and sweetheart, because to him, you are all of those things and more. With Sam, all those walls youâve learned to build up over the years are slowly picked apart one brick at a time, because he brings a light that you canât bear to block out. Where people have failed you before and forced you to change the way you talk to them to keep yourself from getting hurt, Sam has a way with words that forces you to be kind to him, if only because he loves you too much to let you be mean. He listens when your words are sharp and he softens them with logic and a kiss. He doesnât run when you snap because he wants to hold you in his arms until youâve calmed back down again. He knows thereâs something softer under the rough, and heâll polish it over and over again until you can learn to keep it from being covered in dust.
Bobbyâs house sees all the small things. It sees the little touches that human eyes miss, and it hears the whispered words too quiet for otherâs ears, and it feels the warmth between you and Sam when the air is too cold for anything happy. Your hand hovering over Samâs on the arm of the couch, desperately wanting to intertwine your fingers with his but not wanting Dean to see that softness come through. Stirring cream into Samâs morning coffee while he floats near your shoulder, grin spreading wide over your face as he peppers your cheek in kisses. The worried bundle of nerves you become when Sam comes back to you cut and bruised, the fear you try not to let anyone but him see; the same fear that comes off as dismissive anger when someone thatâs not Sam speaks to you. Itâs not that you try to hurt the people around you, and theyâve gotten used to that aspect of you. Itâs just that Sam knows the way to your heart well enough to walk it with his eyes closed, and you know he wonât damage anything on his way through.
Sam would be lying if he said his favourite part about you was anything but the way you turn all sweet with him. Sure, he loves everything else about you; that spark in your eye when youâre about to do something stupid, the quiet waver in your voice when you check up on him, the weight of your soul next to his when you occupy a space together. But more than your presence he loves that you make him feel special, loved, something more than a boy condemned to the slaughter by a power higher than his own. You make him feel like he exists to write the story rather than star in it, a character who demands more than he gets in return and expects none of it, because he has what he needs in the shape of you. Thereâs a certain type of fierce attraction he gets from watching you mouth off to strangers in strange towns and saunter back to him in the motel room, curling up on his chest with his hoodie over your frame, voice quiet as you ramble about innocent things. He gets a funny sort of joy from seeing the way you playfully chirp his brother and call Sam the sweetest man in the very next breath while Dean stands there pretending to be shocked. Youâve told him before that Sam is not just any man; heâs your man, and heâs an angel.
Tonight, Bobbyâs house is relatively quiet, as if the world is giving you a breath inside those walls. The pipes hum in the walls with the sounds of old foundations settling into comfortable ground, and somewhere downstairs thereâs a perpetual drip of water falling into a metal bucket. The window in your bedroom is partly cracked open, enough to let in a gust of cool air and the singing of crickets that Sam claims helps him sleep deeper. Clearly, itâs working, because heâs out completely cold beside you, chin over your head and arm curled across your body, soft breaths hitting the material of your pillowcase. Youâre still awake; not because youâre not tired, but because itâs impossible to sleep when your sweetheart of a boyfriend is lazily grinding his clothed crotch against your thigh, his snores devolving into breathy moans the longer his dream persists. Youâd give a lot to know whatâs going on inside his head right now.
Inside Samâs head is a dream so vivid heâs not entirely certain heâs still asleep. The room looks the exact same in his dream as it does awake, the shadows on the walls playing out the same way from the whispering curtains over the window. The lines between the floorboards stretch out like dark spindles across the room, reaching the opposite wall and blending into the darkness like they were always meant to be there. The moonlight filters through a tiny slit between the curtains, the strip of pearly blue-white light landing on the soft skin of your face. Sam can see it reflecting in your eyes, making the colour thatâs already there richer, like it holds the answers to questions he didnât even know he had.
Heâs laying on his back on the bed, long legs crooked up at the knees so that he fits on the tiny bed Bobby keeps in the spare room. The sheets are bunched under his body, crumpled up where his feet have slid them down, light and shadow playing tag across the rough grey cotton. His heel gets caught in a hole on the top corner, the sound of stitching tearing uncomfortably loud in the small space, bouncing off the walls until it reaches his ears again. Heâs shirtless already, bare back pressed against the mattress and the cool breeze from the window trickles over his chest, sparking goosebumps on his pale skin. Itâs starting to frustrate him that his jeans are still on, belt still holding them to his hips; partly because he can see your figure undressing at the end of the bed, and partly because heâs hard enough now that the denim is restricting.
His breath catches in his throat when you turn back to him, clad only in your underwear. Theyâre just some random pair you dug out of the bottom of your duffle bag because it was the only ones you still had that were clean, but Samâs still convinced this is the prettiest version of you. Thereâs no filter between you and the world when you look like this, when youâre soft and comfortable in your own space, not trying to put on a show for him or anyone else. Sam must be staring rather intently, because a smile slowly spreads across your face, scrunching up your eyes and making your cheeks glow something gentle in the night.
âHi, Sammy,â you whisper, stepping closer to the bed.
âHi, love,â Sam whispers back.
You slide onto the bed, sitting back on your heels by Samâs bent knees, fingers on one hand playing with the skin of his forearm.
âSammy?â you whisper.
âYeah?â
âCan I keep this on?â
The question is hesitant, as if youâre afraid thereâs anything he could say but yes. Sam doesnât miss the worry in your eyes, and a tiny part of him cracks and shatters at the thought that youâre worried about this. Instead, he gives you that honey sweet grin that sticks to his skin and makes his dimples pop.
ââCourse you can,â he says.
You hesitate for just a moment, unsure if to ask this is to go too far. âCan youâŚcan you keep yours on too?â
âJeans too?â
âNo, you can take them off.â
Sam makes grabby hands toward you, and you crawl across the bed in response.
âCome over here and help me then,â he says with a pout.
You huff a quiet laugh, stretching yourself over him to straddle his lap. Sam keeps the sound he makes when you sit down to himself, humming low in his chest instead, but thereâs no denying the twitch of the muscles in his thighs and stomach. When youâre settled, you press a soft kiss to his still pouted lips, savouring the soft way sleep tastes on his mouth. Sam exhales into the kiss, tongue grazing your lower lip and pleading for access that you grant immediately. You taste minty from your toothpaste, sharp and clean, and soft with the taste of something like safety. You hum against his lips, pulling back for air so you can drop your gaze to his belt and work away at the clasp. Youâre careful with the metal tongue of it, sliding it quiet out of the hole and letting it land gentle against the worn, cracked leather it belongs to. To Samâs amusement, you adopt a serious look as you roll up the belt and lean down to set it on the floor, giving it a pat much like you would the head of a dog when it hits the ground and doesnât move.
When your fingers return to his hips and undo the button on his jeans, Sam lets out an audible sigh of relief when the press of denim leaves him. The pressure in his back changes from something restrained by a cage he never wanted to be in to something that radiates into his core and sparks a deep fire in the pits of his stomach. He helps you kick the jeans the rest of the way down his legs, letting them fall to the floor somewhere outside his field of vision; somehow, when youâre back to laying over him and resting your chin on his stomach, he canât find it in him to care where his jeans are. Heâll find them tomorrow morning when you wake him up for coffee and the never-ending search for information. Right now, heâs focused on the soft press of your lips to the skin over his stomach and chest, trailing a path from his adamâs apple down to the waistband of his boxers.
Something deep inside him wants nothing more than for you to reach into his boxers and take him in your hand, but he knows you wonât. He suppresses that urge, because even his unconscious mind canât bear to make you uncomfortable. Samâs hips buck up into you when your fingers graze the hard ridge of him through his boxers, and he murmurs apologies that you take graciously with a kiss to his cheek. When you settle into place again, he can feel you through the two layers of fabric, warm and inviting and so achingly familiar.
As you settle, Samâs hands come to rest instinctively on your waist, keeping you balanced on his lap. Your knees fall to either side of him, bracketing his hips like the loving addition to the end of a sentence you both belong to. He canât move side to side, but he can still move his hips up off the mattress, a fact he discovers when the first slow roll of your core has him jerking up into you like magnets clicking into place. Thereâs a low sound that leaves his throat and mixes with the white noise of the room, and he finds himself reflexively hoping that Dean and Bobby canât hear him. Heâs not keeping quiet for his sake, but rather for your dignity; he knows that for all your bite, you donât want people knowing what you and Sam get up to at night.
After only a few moments, you stop, settling yourself on his crotch and gazing with painful fondness into his pretty eyes.
âYou okay?â Sam asks, unable to keep the worry from flooding his voice.
âYeah,â you reply. âJusâ looking.â
Samâs head tips, confusion blossoming soft on his features.
âAt what?â
A soft kiss to his lips precedes your voice.
âYou.â
He freezes, mouth opening and closing as he absorbs your tone. Heâs less shocked by your words than by the way you say them. Youâve said them so casually, like itâs second nature, with the kind of sincerity that belongs to a devotee on the steps of an altar. Youâve just admitted to looking at him with the same reverence people pray with.
âYouâreâŚyouâre watching me?â he asks, nervous.
âMhm.â
Sam frowns, features pinching in that adorable way that sets a furrow deep in his brow and pulls down the corner of his lips.
âWhy?â
Now itâs your turn to frown, the moonlight accentuating your cupidâs bow until Samâs certain thereâs no shape more perfect than that one.
âWhy not?â
And just like that, you knock the air from his lungs again, drinking up his stunned exhale in a perfectly sweet kiss. Sam, responsive as ever, arches into you, slipping his tongue past your lips and humming when you let him in easily. Your palms come down to his shoulders, looping around so your fingers lay on his back, nails digging in to keep yourself steady. Sam lets you set the pace, trying his best to keep his hips still in case you want complete control over the rhythm. He gives up on that plan the moment his dick rubs against your sensitive skin through your underwear, and your muffled moan is clearly enough confirmation that he doesnât need to hold back.
Sam is forever thankful for the open window; half because it keeps the room cool and stops the sweat from sticking to his chest, but also because the sounds of wind blowing and crickets singing dampen the breathy sounds youâre both making. Thereâs no way the others will hear, and he lets himself get marginally louder. The bed springs creak slightly each time Samâs weight shifts with your motions, forming the kind of symphony that only exists between sex and silence. The world narrows down to your body moving against his, the slide of fabric on fabric, his hardness catching on your body.
If it were anyone else but you, Sam would be embarrassed by the damp patch slowly darkening the front of his boxers. Each pass of your core over the swollen, clothed tip of his dick makes the fabric wetter, and your sinfully beautiful sounds muffled by his chest certainly help. His fingertips are firm on your hips, no doubt leaving soft marks that may or may not see the morning light. Your nails leave crescent moons on Samâs back that he knows will show an angry red tomorrow, frustrated to be covered by his shirt when he gets up.
And there, in the moonlit darkness of the room, enveloped by the feeling of you all around him, you murmur a breathless statement that nearly makes Sam come on the spot.
âYouâre an angel, Sammy.â
A choked moan escapes him, clawing up his throat and breaking free from the deepest parts of his chest with the force of a hurricane.
âYeah?â he says, quiet but ragged, puppy eyes staring up at you, shining with pleasure.
âMhm,â you hum. âSuch an angel.â
Samâs eyes screw up as a wave of pleasure hits. He hasnât come yet, but he knows heâs close from how red his cheeks feel, and the pull in the pit of his stomach. You drop down to kiss his cheek, the pressure on his dick and your hand on his stomach a delicious feeling he canât get enough of. You quicken your pace, murmuring soft words under your breath to him; how pretty he is, how safe he feels, how kind and gentle his soul is. Each praise flutters to his core, stomach muscles tensing and pleasure spreading to his spine.
âLove,â Sam warns, breathless.
âWhat?â you whisper, leaning over to kiss his stomach. âYou okay?â
âYeah,â Sam replies, airy and light. âJust- keep that up and Iâll-.â
âYou can let go, baby,â you whisper. ââS okay.â
Sam doubles down, bringing one large hand from your hips to your core, rubbing the heel of his palm across your most sensitive areas. The extra friction is enough to send you over the edge, coming with a soft cry of Samâs name that he drinks up in a kiss that makes you sigh happily.
On a normal night, just the sound of you coming undone would be enough for Sam to eagerly follow you. Tonight, itâs not your sounds, although he loves it nevertheless. Itâs not the way the strong light of the moon glances off the ridge of your nose and the curve of your neck when you throw your head back in ecstasy. Itâs not even how sinfully good you look in plain underwear, moaning his name while you come on his boxers. Itâs what you say after youâve caught your breath that gets him.
âYouâre my angel, Sammy.â
Dream Sam comes with a cry of your name that quickly devolves into a full moan that vibrates through his ribcage on the way out. His head tips back into the pillow as his grip on your hips gets momentarily stronger, pleasure exploding in his spine as his dick twitches through his release. The pillow under his head is soft, dented by the strength with which his head presses into it, grip tightening on the sheets and bunching them between long fingers covered in callouses but no less delicate. His hair is fanned out like a halo on the pillow; your angel.
Real-life Sam, whoâs been lazily grinding his boxer-clad length against your thigh all through the dream, comes so hard he wakes himself up with an accompanying moan that dissipates into the night air like a ghost. His eyes are squeezed shut through his high, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stroke a hand through his hair while you wait for him to come back to his senses, the dampness spreading through his boxers until you can feel it on your thigh.
âHi, angel,â you murmur when Sam finally cracks his eyes open.
 He replies with a sound thatâs half a groan and half a moan, lips pressed to your skin.
âYou awake?â you venture.
âMhm,â comes the reply, his ragged and wrecked voice reaching your ears.
You laugh quietly, wrapping your arms further around him as he snuggles into you, basking in the afterglow.
âYou gotta clean up,â you say, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
âIn a minute,â he answers, soft.
You cradle him for a few minutes longer before he finally starts grumbling about the come drying in his boxers and sticking to his skin. You wait for him in bed while he showers, the sound of the water no doubt alerting Dean to something he can tease you both for in the morning. Youâre not particularly concerned, because you know Dean knows your limits, and you know that Sam will stand up for you with his brother even though you could very well do it yourself.
The full embarrassment hits while Sam stands under the water, ragged cloth scrubbing the come off his body, dirty boxers lumped on the floor for him to deal with tomorrow. He had a sex dream. About you. While you were in bed beside him. And if he has to guess, he came grinding into your thigh. The water shuts off with the kind of finality of a man whoâs subjected himself to reality. He wraps a towel around himself, infinitely glad that the dream sorted him out well enough to keep his dick soft. The last thing he needs is to walk back in there and have you see him still hard.
Youâre still awake when he gets back, curled up in the sheets with your arms open and waiting for him. Thereâs a pair of clean black boxers sitting at the foot of the bed, and he tugs them on and folds the towel while you politely look away. When heâs dressed and dry, he climbs into bed beside you, settling back into the crumpled sheets and pulling the top one up to his waist.
âIâm so sorry for that,â Sam mumbles, voice tired but serious. âI didnât mean to do that to you.â
You hum, understanding. ââS okay, Sam.â
âYou sure? It didnât make you uncomfortable?â
You shake your head, kissing the top of his.
âYou never make me uncomfy.â
âBut I dreamed-.â
âWeâve had sex before, Sam. Itâs okay, I promise. Youâre all good, angel.â
âIâm still sorry.â
You kiss his lips, soft and sweet.
âI love you.â
Sam whispers it back like a prayer. You tuck him into you, his head on your chest and one leg sprawled over yours, arm heavy at your other side.
âSweet dreams, angel,â you murmur softly as he drops into sleep.
All his dreams are sweet when he dreams about you. And Bobbyâs house watches you sleep. And in the morning when Dean asks why Sam was taking a shower at three in the morning, you give Sam a sweet kiss to the kiss and tell Dean to go piss off. The world carries on as normal.
For your three hundred thing! Perv!Sam Winchester with the one bed trope!! (Of course you don't have to if you don't wanna!)
An Entire Plan Just To Have You
Pairing: Pervert!Sam Winchester x Female Reader
Summary: When Sam has feelings for you but lacks the courage to tell you, there is only one thing he can do: come up with a plan to get you two togetherâand it starts tonight.
Word Count: 1,124
Tags/Warnings: mentioning of panties kink, Sam being his usual methodical self, kinda Dark!Sam
The only reason Dean had stayed behind at a different motel was because Sam had suggested it, claiming heâd already checked and found there werenât two rooms availableâspecifically, none with two twin beds in oneâso heâd have to find another place, leaving the two remaining rooms for you and him. Dean didnât ask questions, though he did eye Sam suspiciously. He simply dropped the two of you off at the motel before driving on to the next nearest hotel.
The truth was, Sam hadnât checked anything. Heâd been hatching a plan in his head ever since he learned youâd be joining the hunt. Heâd harbored feelings for you for a long time but never had the chanceâor the courageâto express them. Instead, heâd settled for watching you from afar, sniffing your underwear (stealing just enough so you wouldnât suspect a thing), and faking injuries just to make you worry and drop whatever you were doing to tend to him. Yes, Sam knew it was wrong; he knew that if you ever found out about thatâor about the times heâd masturbated while fantasizing about taking you passionately and roughlyâyou wouldnât even look at him again. So, he quickly devised a plan.
When you arrived at the motel, he asked you to grab his bag as well and wait outside while he went to book the rooms. It wasnât exactly gentlemanly behavior, but it ensured you wouldnât overhear the conversation he was about to have with the clerk.
âHi,â He greeted, glancing back over his shoulder at you as Dean drove off and you adjusted the bags onto your shoulders. He turned back to the clerk. âI need a room with a double bed.â
He felt no remorse, smiling with satisfaction as he took the room key, though he quickly wiped the smile away and feigned an awkward expression as he walked back to your side.
âWhat happened?â You asked when you noticed the look on his face.
âThere was only one room.â
âWell, I donât mind sharing a room.â You shrugged.
âNo, I mean⌠There was only one room with a bed for two.â
âOhâŚâ
He watched your reaction closely. This was a pivotal moment; you might decide to call Dean and go to another motel, shattering his planâbut instead, he just saw you shake your head.
âItâs fine, it doesnât matter.â
âAre you sure?â He asked, just to keep you from getting suspicious.
âYes, itâs already paid for and Dean has already left. Letâs just get this over with.â
You headed toward the rooms, and Sam followed with a smile, catching up to walk beside you. You entered the room and dropped your bags on the floor before looking at the bed and placing your hands on your hips. But for Sam, there was still one more step in his planâone that could cost him everything, yet one he had to take to ensure you didnât suspect a thing.
âYou know⌠I can use the couch.â You looked at him with a sigh, as if his idea were silly, but he pressed on to ensure you wouldnât suspect a thing. âReally. It looks comfortable.â He gave a small laugh, acting as though the idea might be uncomfortable for him, but implying heâd do it just to put you at ease.
You clicked your tongue and took off your jacket.
âNonsense. Weâre both adults.â
With that, you headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. Sam smiled again as he took off his own jacket. He could already imagine the feel of your soft skin brushing against his under the sheetsâperhaps just because he shifted position and you happened to be close by.
By the time you came out, Sam was already in his sleepwear.
âIâll go to the bathroom, and you can get changed in the meantime.â
You nodded; before he went in, he glanced at you as you bent down to open your bag and pull out your pajamas. He shook his head with amusement and stepped into the bathroom.
When he emerged, you were already in bed, under the covers, with your back turned to him. He approached like a predator stalking its prey, climbing onto the bedâmaking it creakâand shifting the sheets to slide underneath. He gazed at your shoulder and the strap of the thin shirt you were wearing. He grew bolder, moving his nose closer to deeply inhale the scent of your hairânot so strongly that youâd notice, but enough to let your fragrance fill his senses. He was tempted to let out a groan but held it back. He didnât think you were asleep yet; your breathing didnât match that of someone who had already drifted off.
He lay on his side, watching you intently. Even in the darkness, he could make out your silhouette and the way it shifted and moved with your breathing. He made sure you were asleep before proceeding with his plan and moving closer to you, slowly draping an arm over your stomach and subtly pulling you toward him. He slid his other arm beneath your head and buried his face in your hair, finally breathing in your scent just as he had wanted.
You slowly opened your eyes upon waking. Sunlight was already streaming in through the blinds and curtains. You blinked and stretched, feeling well-rested, but you couldnât move far because something strong was holding you back. Frowning slightly, you took a better look at your surroundings. Your head was resting on Samâs chest; your arms were wrapped around him, and his were around you. You looked on in confusion. You didnât know at what point in the night you had ended up like this, but it felt surprisingly right, so you decided not to moveânot even when Sam woke up, rubbed his eye, and looked down at you curiously before smiling.
âGood morning.â
âGood morning.â
âI see we moved around during the night.â He joked. You laughed softly, still half-asleep.
âIt seems so. Though I swear I didnât expect it.â
âAnd do you feel okay like this?â
You smiled and nodded.
âIâd be lying if I said no.â You admitted shyly.
He stroked your hair, and you rested your head back against his chest. In truth, none of this had been accidental. His plan from the start was for you to wake up in his armsâas if you felt so comfortable with him that you subconsciously sought out his touch and protection. He had stayed awake for most of the night, shifting you at key moments until you were in your current position. His plan had worked, and you remained completely unaware of it all.
the thing that must be understood about sam is that he is a little bit of a pervert but he is so, so, so deeply ashamed of it. banging his head on a wall for hours because he gets hard hearing your voice over the phone so now he really thinks he's the devil incarnate. smells you on his clothes and he's trying not to punch a hole through the wall because he wants to get off so bad but not without you!! it's just not fair!!! he wants you so bad and he always thinks about it at the worst of times!!
