Summary: After a successful hunt and one too many rounds at the bar, you and Sam are feeling the full effects of that intoxicating post-hunt buzz. Which means loose lips, far too many giggles, and a very, very handsy Sam.
CW: Giggly drunk sex (consensual, of course), established relationship, handsy Sammy, barely any plot (oops), Sam can’t shut up, attempted oral (that’ll make sense later…), unprotected PIV
WC: 6.0K
Based on this request!
“Hey. Twenty bucks says he takes home the blonde.”
Your glass clinks against Sam’s as you tilt it forward, the amber whiskey nearly splashing over the rim. You tear your gaze away from Dean, who’s helplessly flirting with two women at once, still high on that post-hunt confidence, meeting Sam’s. You bask in the sight of those pretty eyes of his twinkling under the bar light, with cheeks tinged a warm shade of pink.
He’s already smiling at you. Of course he is. Those dimples have been a permanent staple on his face since your third round—right along with that sickeningly-sweet laugh of his that slips out every time either of you speak. His long fingers tap a rhythmic tune on his glass, matching the heavy drums of some old AC/DC track blasting through the jukebox, his other hand running absent circles over your thigh beneath the table.
“I’ll take that,” he grins, only flicking his stare away from you for half a moment to snort at his brother’s poor attempt at flirting, which absolutely includes flashing his fake FBI badge, before shaking his head and taking a heavy swig of whiskey. It’s a pretty sight, really. The way his bangs fall messy over his forehead, those sweet little curls below his ears bouncing in a way that almost reminds you of a lamb. “He’s such an idiot.”
He tears his gaze away when you snort a laugh, trying like hell to fight the heat that’s flooding to his face. He’s unsuccessful, you realize, that red tint beneath tanned skin making his face practically glow in the dull light. His expression shines with his cheeks, almost immediately reverting right back to that stare that looks just like a lovesick puppy: tilting his head towards you gently, pupils so damn dilated you can hardly see any hazel, skin so flushed it looks like he’s running a fever. His eyes run over you without hesitation, without discretion; all hints of being subtle forgotten two rounds ago.
Not that you mind.
You tap your glasses together again, lowballs clinking, a wordless you’re on, before tilting them back. The warmth of whiskey trickles down your throat, leaving an inviting burn as it pools in your stomach. It’s your fifth, no, sixth drink of the night, your tongue loose, your giggles looser, the edges of your mind already going fuzzy in the best way. Your thoughts swirl as aimlessly pleasant as the ice in your drink.
Sam leans forward, dropping his elbows onto the table with an audible thud, bourbon splashing against hardwood. “I’m bettin’ thirty on the redhead, though. He’s got a thing for ‘em.”
“Of course he does. It’s ‘cause he’s got a death wish, too.”
You roll your eyes playfully, contrasted by the way the corner of your lips twitch into a lazy smirk. The blonde laughs from the bar top, too loud, a touch too fake, the redhead placing a delicate hand on his arm, and it only makes you shake your head. Though, neither woman has landed a slap across the older Winchester’s all too-confident face; so he must be doing something right. “…Maybe they’re open minded?” you suggest, and Sam looks confused for a moment, before his nose scrunches up in a truly adorable grimace, breathing a barely audible ‘gross.’
He drags a hand through his already disheveled hair, pushing it back just enough to make it arguably worse. Despite his distaste, a lazy grin tugs at his lips, one that he can’t seem to shake: a rare, soft expression that only shows when he’s a little too tipsy.
“Don’t say that. I really don’t want to imagine my brother in a threeway.”
You shrug your sorry, but there’s really no apology in the way your chest bubbles up a girlish giggle.
And God, the sight of you, looking all confident and smug across from him sends heat straight down to Sam’s stomach, pooling like liquid fire in his core as he struggles to tear his gaze away. It’s like a battle between desire and the need to remain cool, collected, but he’s never quite been able to reel himself in with you. Not completely.
Your own eyes rake over his face, unguarded, lingering on those sharp canine teeth, the top left slightly crooked from being punched in one too many times. The way blush dances across the bridge of his stupidly-perfect nose. The sweet bow of his lips. That mole on his cheek that you like to trace, or the one on his chin that you love to kiss.
And by the time you find your way back up, you’re met with warm puppy eyes peering right back at you.
You flush, caught, but he’s just as guilty as you are, and you know it. He tilts his head forward a fraction, closing just a touch more of that space, bracing his forearms on the table as he stares you down with a smirk of his own.
“What?” you hem, almost bashful, and Sam’s smile only grows.
“Watchin’ me watch you, sweetheart?”
The way the words roll off his tongue hit you straight in the gut, making your chest twist and your face burn. It comes out in a drawl, tipsy, flirty, low in that way it always dips when he’s teasing you. Playful, affectionate, almost downright sultry.
It takes you a second to answer, too busy giggling at the slightly redundant words, even when he hasn’t said anything particularly funny.
“…‘S not my fault,” you purr, tilting your cup towards him like a pointer. “You’re staring at me.”
He can’t keep the grin off his face, cheeks twitching when he tries, even as he rolls his eyes all sassy, feigning indignation.
“Me? Staring?” he protests, placing one big hand over his chest like some Disney princess, all innocence and mock-surprise. He leans in just a little closer—too close to look casual—dropping his tone to a low rumble.
“I’m just… admiring the view.”
You scoff, the words so cliche, but that doesn’t mean anything to your heart, which does a stupid little flip in your chest. He’s still staring, yes, still as shameless as ever, that adorable smile plastered on his face, dimples n’ all. His eyes glitter with each tilt of his head, every twitch of his lips.
You pull your drink towards your chest, not sipping, but tapping your nails on the glass. Studying him. Trying your absolute best not to one, smile like an idiot, or two, burst out laughing over God-knows-what. The Dean bet? Forgotten (for now). All that’s left is that damn way he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.
“Admiring? Very sappy, Sammy,” you tease, fond, before leaning forward right along with him.
He smirks, licking those pretty lips. “Yeah. Admiring.”
His gaze is almost… heavy. Like he could just look forever, and lose himself in the details.
It’s the kind of look that makes you shift in your seat, your thighs press together, and your brows pinch in silent question. He gets quiet, too quiet for just how tipsy you both are. His fingers stop tapping. His breathing seems to slow.
He reaches out after a moment, running a warm finger over your hand.
“…You’re just so damn beautiful, baby.”
Oh.
If you weren’t flushed before, that sure as hell does it.
He’s definitely drunk. Not enough to be sloppy, but enough to feel that pleasant looseness in his muscles, that fuzzy warmth in his stomach, his thoughts floating just a little more carefree. And yet… he still has his eyes on you. Like it’s just all the more reason for him to be more brazenly affectionate than usual.
“…You’re drunk,” you laugh after a moment, a quiet sound, almost lost beneath rock blaring through ancient speakers, and you damn near swoon at the dimpled smile you receive in response. Sam squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing little circles on the inside of your wrist as he grins a little wider.
“Maybe,” he admits, “keeps me honest.”
He brings your hand up to his mouth, brushing a gentle kiss over your knuckles.
“Keeps you sweet, y’mean.” It feels a little like fire sparking to life in your veins, that kiss. Just a quick brush of his lips, soft, adoring, leaving an invisible mark that tingles like a brand.
“Sweet, honest…” He shrugs, neither confirming nor denying, “doesn’t make it less true,” he murmurs, low and warm, holding your gaze like a promise.
His thumb still strokes your wrist, slow, sending little sparks up your arm. His gaze, though, drops to your lips, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it flicker, but you don’t. You see the way his pupils dilate. The way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
He drums his fingers on the table once, twice, before tilting his head, hair flopping over his eyes.
“Motel’s not far,” he says, quietly, like it’s a secret just for you to hear. Like he’s been thinking about it since you walked into the bar with that sway in your hips, and the post-successful-hunt fire in your eyes.
A crooked smile tugs at his lips, and you swear you feel it in your core.
“We did earn a little… celebration.”
Ah.
You snort, a truly unattractive sound, but it doesn’t seem to deter him any. If anything, he only seems to stare a little harder. “S’that your way of asking to get out of here?” you ask, giggling, and he shrugs, but the look on his face tells you everything. It’s almost as subtle as his blatant eye-fucking.
“Smooth, Winchester. Very subtle.”
He can’t hold back his smirk as he watches you, stalking for any reaction: and the moment you push back in your chair, he’s moving. He’s already impatient, that much is clear, itching to get you alone. It’s cute. Really cute.
“I try.”
He slides out of his seat after you, one big hand finding its usual place on the small of your back. Warm. Natural. Heat radiates off his body, buzzing with that giddy energy.
Those butterflies that started pooling in your stomach the moment you took your first sip?
They’re fluttering pretty damn low.
The deadbolt doesn’t even get to click before he’s on you.
One hand slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him; the other cupping your jaw, thumb swiping over your bottom lip as he stares down at you. Drunk on bourbon and you, dizzy with want.
“Finally,” he breathes, smiling, pretty teeth flashing. You can’t help but agree.
Then his mouth crashes onto yours, hot, hungry, but still somehow tender. The force of it makes your head spin in the best goddamn way, heat sizzling from your lips through your entire system like wildfire. He kisses like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you all over again: slow, deep sweeps of his tongue, soft nips to your lip when you gasp just right.
His hands roam, tracing the curve of your spine beneath the fabric of your shirt, the other sliding up to tangle in your hair, cushioning the blow when he crowds you against the door with a thud. You hum, he growls, uncoordinated licks and bites working both of you open with so much fever that your knees feel weak—like if there was any space left between you, you might just topple over.
Every inch of you feels lit up: the brush of his tongue against yours, the way his fingers curl in your hair, his hand hot on your back as he grinds against you, hips pressing forward with quiet desperation. Soft sounds slip into his mouth like you just can’t help it, and he drinks up each one like a dram of whiskey.
He breaks the kiss just enough to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your jaw to your neck. Your fingers lace in his hair, tugging him impossibly closer, your body buzzing like there’s a string tied from his mouth to your core, tugging with each brush of his lips. Pulling at arousal, sending shocks of pleasure to places he hasn’t even touched yet. He sucks a mark into your pulse point like he’s trying to label you his, and he just needs everyone to know.
“Need you,” he mutters between breaths, suction breaking with a pop, his voice thick with want. “So fucking bad.”
His fingers fumble at the hem of your shirt, impatient now, tugging it upward with grabby hands because Christ he just can’t wait another second to feel more of your skin beneath his palms.
“Mmm,” you hum, nodding, arms already lifting to assist as your shirt clears your head. Fabric flies somewhere across the room, but you can’t find it in you to care where it lands. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Feeling you. His hands find your side immediately, fingers leaving dimples in your soft flesh, a low groan breaching his lips at the feeling. “Need you too.”
His own shirt follows, your hands clawing at the fabric like it’s offended you, then you’re fisting his hair again, tugging him right back where you want him.
Where you need him.
He overcompensates for the height difference, lips smudging a sloppy kiss to your chin, before overcorrecting and catching your nose—but you’re both far too busy giggling about it like schoolgirls to really be annoyed.
You manage a kiss after all, a real one, his tongue pushing right back between the seam of your lips with a moan that solidifies the fact that your panties are far beyond ruined. The kiss is structured to destroy you, you realize, wet laps that open you wider, sucking on your tongue like he can’t get enough. He tastes like cheap whiskey and Sam, and it’s almost as intoxicating as the drinks.
“God, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your lips, muffled ‘cause he really can’t bring himself to part completely, hands sliding up your bare sides, calloused and warm. He finds your breasts, thumbs brushing over pebbled peaks over cotton that makes you break the kiss in a gasp.
He lifts you effortlessly with all that hunter-strength, a squeak escaping from your lips, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Your arms cling to those gorgeously broad shoulders like he’s keeping you from drowning, the only thing keeping your head above water.
He stumbles forward just enough to press you harder against the door, hinges creaking, just as he grinds against the cradle of your hips with a rough sort of need. He’s hard already, denim catching on denim from the ridge of him straining against his zipper, and God it only makes you moan. Every movement is sloppy and heated and so damn perfect, because neither of you are thinking straight—you’re just feeling.
“Just… wanna take you right here,” he pants into your neck between kisses, sneaking a lick to your throat that makes you gasp and choke a laugh. “That okay?”
“Why, s’you can drop me?” you slur, giggling, and the sound of protest he hums against your skin vibrates through you like a shock.
“Shut up,” he growls a little, a playful thing, before biting your jaw gently, nipping and sucking until he leaves a little mark. “I’d never.”
His hands, always so steady when handling a gun or knife, are shaking now. He struggles with the button of your jeans when his hand snakes between you, fingers clumsy with need. It certainly doesn’t help that he can’t seem to pry his lips off your skin, biting, sucking, licking at every piece of exposed flesh he can find until he leaves dark splotches that’ll be a pain in the ass to cover in the morning.
Finally, he manages to pop that pesky button open, long fingers not wasting a second before sliding beneath denim to cup your heat through soaked cotton, both of you letting out a sound when his fingertips brush where you’ve been aching all damn night. His fingers splay like he’s mesmerized by the softness of your mound, forehead dropping against your shoulder.
“So wet, baby,” he mutters, barely even to you, rolling one perfect circle of his knuckles just to hear you gasp, before he’s withdrawing his hand. You let out a sound, because that’s just unfair, but he just chuckles against your throat. “Shhh. Just want my mouth on you first, honey.”
All you can do is moan in response. What else is there to do? Because fuck that sounds amazing. He lowers you just enough for one leg to hit the floor, catching you when you sway, practically vibrating with need. But the moment he goes to slide down to his knees, so goddamn desperate for a taste, trying to hook your free leg over his shoulder, open you up—he wobbles just slightly, hand shooting out to brace against the doorframe.
He freezes.
You feel him stiffen beneath you.
Then, slowly, those sweet hazel eyes lift up to meet yours, with all the drunken seriousness of a man who’s just realized that he is not sober enough for such acrobatics.
You stare at each other for a moment, blinking, processing, then another giggle bursts from you; and apparently, it’s contagious. Sam lets out a low chuckle against your thigh, which is way too hot for your panties, before dropping his forehead there with a groan that’s half frustration, half amusement.
“Okay… maybe… not here,” he concedes grudgingly.
In one mostly smooth move, because even drunk off his ass, muscle memory is muscle memory (though, he certainly stumbles more than usual), he scoops you up and staggers toward the bed in a few determined strides, and collapses onto it with you in a messy tangle of limbs and laughter. He rolls onto his side beside you, propping himself up onto one elbow as that lazy dimpled grin spreads across his face again.
“S’better?”
You hum a quick ‘mhm’, untangling yourself from him just enough to shove your jeans down the rest of the way, pushing up onto all fours, and rolling him over with a single nudge. You swing one leg over his hips, straddling him, your hands finding his shoulders immediately.
“Better, softer…” You lean down, smudging a wet kiss to his neck, already getting squirmy again when he instinctively cradles your hips.
Sam lets out a groan, low and pussy-wettening, tilting his head to give you more access.
“Mmm… soft. Jus’ like you,” he comments, a laugh vibrating through his chest at his own words, one big hand squeezing your thigh when you sway again, bracing yourself with a palm to his chest. “…Cute wobble, by the way.”
“Shush, Sammy.”
His hips buck up reflexively, the hard line of his cock pressing against you through layers of fabric. You already feel like you’re close to the edge. Like one little touch might just have you gasping his name and your thighs spasming. So fucking wet you’re soaking through your panties, drunk on desire and cheap whiskey. Every little shift of his body has you gritting your teeth, a high mewl escaping against his neck.
One big hand drags up your spine, leaving tingles in its wake, cupping the back of your head, and pulling you in for a deep kiss: sloppy, feverish, and all fucking tongue.
He tugs at your hips, strong arms trying to pull you up his chest—and you can’t contain your squeal at the blatant manhandling. Apparently, subtle is long forgotten tonight, because when you don’t move fast enough: he swats your ass with his fingertips, just to hear you gasp. He breaks the kiss, pulling your lip between his teeth on the pullback like it just hurts to let go.
“Let me taste you,” he pleads, low, raw, puppy eyes sparkling in the dim motel light. Jesus. “Please.”
You blink at him, because God that’s fucking hot, but as much as the idea has your heart racing… your cunt’s been clenching around nothing for far too long for your taste.
“Hmm… later,” you decide, rolling your hips against him, and his whine only solidifies how stupid-horny you are for him.
“Later?” he grumbles, but there’s no real annoyance there. He’s not quite capable of it. Just pure, unbridled desperation.
“Why later?”
He nips your throat, pressing up against you like he’s trying to prove just how badly he needs it, how hard and ready he is. Which, unfortunately for him, only makes you more eager to get your fill of what you really want. Which is his cock. Inside you, preferably, filling you in that perfect way you know only he can. Though, an aching hunger floods his eyes, familiar, darkening his gaze like a warning.
“‘Cause I want you t’fuck me,” you say, simply, and as whiny as he may act—there’s no denying the way his cock twitches in his jeans.
“…You’re cruel,” he breathes. “Y’know that?”
You laugh at that, tilting your head to provide him more access as he licks and sucks at your pulse like a man starved.
“I’m cruel ‘cause I won’t sit on your face?” you tease, raising a brow. Sam lets out a low laugh, hot and a touch breathless, before humming like it’s obvious.
“Uh-huh. Wan’ it real bad, baby. I’ll make you feel so fuckin’ good. You know I can.”
You shift backwards, ignoring his pleading, and he lets out a sound that he’ll surely deny being capable of making later. “Quit your complaining,” you scold, working open his jeans, fumbling with the button with a curse.
“…‘M not complaining,” he huffs, voice thick with desire and mock offense. “I’m negotiating. There’s a difference.”
“Then quit negotiatin’.”
He laughs again, hips lifting off the bed as you work his jeans down, boxers following in quick succession as he kicks them off with one foot.
You admire for half a second, him bare and beautiful under the warm light: all long limbs and hard muscle, and those ridiculously broad shoulders that make you just about fucking drool. He reaches for you like not even gravity can keep you apart, hands sliding up your thighs, warm and possessive. Your own run lazily over his chest, tracing every scar, every freckle, appreciating every inch of the gorgeous man in front of you. “You’re s’pretty, Sammy.”
He flushes, a truly beautiful sight, and you use his moment of bashfulness to peel off your panties, stripping away that last layer keeping heat from heat.
You don’t waste any more time. You can’t. Your fingers wrap around his thick length, pumping him once, twice, spreading the pre-come that’s pearled from that swollen tip, and you swear you almost come untouched when he shudders. You lift your hips, lining yourself up, before finally sinking down on his fat cock with the world’s most blissed-out gasp. It’s snug. Real fucking snug. It takes you a moment to take all of him, dropping lower and lower and God he just keeps going. Your slick sucks him in, coating his dick, and he babbles through it. Choked gasps of ‘oh my God’ and ‘mmm, you’re so perfect’ that near drive you insane.
Sam’s breath hitches, sharp and euphoric, as your gummy walls squeeze him tight; every inch of him swallowed by that wet heat he’s been so goddamn desperate for.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, head falling back against the pillow with a thud. A tendon in his throat jumps, adams apple bobbing, the urge to lick the sweat off his skin becoming increasingly harder to ignore. His hands fly back to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks he’ll probably apologize for later, his whole body tensing beneath you.
It’s always a stretch. It’s no secret that he’s big—and that means big all over. Your cunt pulses around him as you bottom out, flush pelvis to pelvis, his eyes squeezing shut for a second like he’s trying so hard not to come fucking immediately.
He pries them back open just to stare at you like you hung the damn stars. So sweet. So warm. “Y’okay?” he asks, and when you nod with a laugh, a slow smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, that dimple flashing.
It’s intoxicating.
Apparently, not moving is just too much, because he lifts his hips beneath you with just enough force to make you gasp. Pleasure ignites immediately, flashing through your core and sizzling in your lower belly, hot, perfect, your eyes rolling right back into your head.
And just like that? You’ve had enough of slow.
You use his shoulders as leverage, thumbs digging into strong muscle. Your hips lift, his cock throbbing so damn hard you can feel every vein, lifting until just the puffy head remains inside, before dropping right back home with a whine. Then you do it again. And again. It’s uncontrolled, a little too fast, and a lot fucking good.
Sam mumbles something, but you can’t make out what, not when it’s so broken, already losing the battle with coherence. Your rhythm doesn’t falter, slippery ripples of pure ecstasy sparking within you, Sam’s own back arching off the bed like he’s falling apart at the seams.Every downward slide is fire. Every grind of your hips is torture. His hands squeeze you tight, fingertips leaving pretty indents as he tries to meet you thrust for thrust, but drunk muscles aren’t exactly cooperative. So instead, he abandons control completely, letting out a guttural groan as he gives in.
You ride him like it’s a punishment. Like you’re trying to erase all his thoughts. Reduce everything down to just this.
And Christ, it’s fucking working.
“Fuck… baby…” he gasps between hitches of breath. “So good—you’re s’damn good…”
His mouth finds your shoulder, lips parting to bite at sweat-slick skin as his hips sputter upwards, hitting that spongy spot inside of you with just enough force to rip a high-pitched moan straight from your chest.
You don’t care that it’s messy. Don’t care that your clothes are scattered all around the room, that your mind is all fuzzy, or that people can surely hear you from three rooms down. You just want more. More sounds from him, more of his thick cock spearing you open, more of Sam.
“Y’feel… p-perfect. Fuck, I love you,” you pant between bounces, drowned out only by his deep groans and the soft slap of skin on skin.
The bed creaks like it’s about to collapse, headboard tap-tap-tapping against the wall. If your moans haven’t woken up the neighbours, the bed threatening to put a hole in the wall’ll certainly do it. You lean forward, aiming for his lips—but the curve of his cock brushes your g-spot so fucking perfectly that you miss, smudging his chin instead. He laughs, which makes you laugh, and holy fuck, you can feel it.
“Oh—ah, sorry, mm—” you gasp, but Christ, once the giggles start? They don’t stop. Not when you’re so lost in pleasure you could just about drown in it, or when your pussy is practically gushing around his cock like you’re made for him.
And oh, Sam’s lost. So utterly gone.
He wraps one arm around your back, tight, anchoring you to him as he rolls you both in one clumsy move until he’s on top, pressing you into the mattress with a growl. His hips snap forward, deeper now, so deep you can feel it in your fucking lungs, uneven and desperate. He’s still chuckling against your throat, matching your giggles, even as pleasure claws up his spine because God, only you can make him feel like this: wrecked, laughing, damn-near crying from sensation alone.
“Keep… keep doin’ that. Laughin’,” he breathes between thrusts, voice broken and tender all at once. “Makes it feel… ten times better… fuckk…”
You let out a quick ‘mmm’, his forehead dropping against yours, noses brushing, breath mingling. It tickles, a laugh bubbling from your chest, and his eyes roll back like it’s destroying him. They’re half-lidded, but blazing with love and lust tangled together beyond untangling.
“…‘N I love you too, baby. S’much.”
The world seems to tilt on its axis in the best way, the whiskey still making the edges of your mind all blurred and floaty. But it’s good. Really good.
Because all that explosive pleasure only seems to dial up to a-fucking-thousand. It climbs up your spine, bursts like fireworks in your core, locks up your muscles, fills your mouth with saliva that damn near drips down your chin. He hits your sweet spot like he was crafted just for you, each thrust audible, obscene, wet squelches that make your cheeks burn.
His fingertips trail up your side, an accident, maybe, dancing across skin like a feather stroke. It’s clingy, affectionate, paired with the brush of his lips on your neck, the sensation pulling ‘oh!’s and ‘ah!’s from your lips.
You squeeze him tight, so fucking tight, and his rhythm stutters. Breath hitches. His muscles lock up when he feels you clench around him unpredictably from another giggle, sending white-hot sparks shooting straight to his core.
“Ah, fuck, baby,” he gasps, almost a plea, his lips curling in what looks like a pained snarl. “That feels—if y’keep laughing, ‘m gonna come right fuckin’ now.”
“That’s… that’s s’okay. I want you to, oh, shit—” you break off in a moan, sopping cunt milking him with every slick slide, your hands clawing at his shoulders like you need an anchor. “Mm, don’t stop, please, Sammy—”
He fucks you like he can’t get enough, like close isn’t nearly enough, groaning and babbling every time you spasm around him just right. Every drag feels like heaven, hot, so fucking thick, he could just split you in half.
He buries his face into the crook of your neck, your hand tangling in his hair, his lips brushing sensitive skin as he chuckles darkly. His thrusts don’t stop. If anything, they pick up, hips slamming forward with fever. “Yeah? Want me t’make you laugh an’ come at the same time?” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “I can do that, honey. Gonna ruin you.”
His hands skate down your sides again, light and teasing, just enough pressure to tickle, while his hips roll forward with quick precision. He’s found that spot deep inside you, his fat cock-head dragging against it like a homing missile. Every pound pulls another broken gasp from your lungs, stars exploding behind your eyelids.
He slips one hand beneath you, gripping your ass as he lifts one thigh high on his hip, changing the angle just slightly. And oh, now he can just go deeper.
It feels like he never ends. So long, so thick, stretching you so fucking perfectly that your brain seems to melt in your damn skull. You’re so soaked that you can feel your pussy dripping onto the sheets below, slick coating your inner thighs. It’s a mess but you don’t care, not one bit, not when he feels so damn good.
Another sharp thrust comes. You whimper. Another flicker of his fingers along your ribs.
It makes you squeal, a unique combination of laughter and pure ecstasy bubbling up through the haze of pleasure.
And oh, does Sam ever love that reaction. He does it on purpose, dipping two fingers into that ticklish spot just below your ribs while slamming into you with bruising force, his tip kissing your cervix, wrecking every chance of composure between giggles and shuddering moans.
You’re drooling. You have to be. Entirely cock-drunk, and so fucked dumb that you can’t even think.
“Oh fuck, Sam, you feel—ah!” your moan cuts into a laugh, that’s drawn right into a whimper, far too loud for a damn motel, your brain too scrambled to focus on just one sensation at once.
“So good, so perfect, ‘m so—Sammy, ‘m gonna—”
He watches you, really watches, the way your eyes squeeze shut, the way your lips part in that perfect ‘O’. You’re unravelling beneath him, laughing through a building climax, and it all seems to hit him right in the chest.
“God, look at you,” he growls, voice thick with emotion and lust intertwined into one. His hips stutter forward, pelvis meeting your thighs with a slap, one hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. It’s a sweet gesture, so fucking tender, and your heart swells so damn much, you almost forget how to breathe.
“You’re s’pretty, baby. S’perfect. Ah. My girl, fuck,” he rambles against your lips, before kissing down your neck in a hot, open-mouthed trail. He finds that spot below your ear, soft teeth, warm tongue, making you shiver and laugh all over again just as another thrust sends sparks shooting through your veins.
It’s so much. So much.
It feels like he’s everywhere. Body crushing yours, mouth hot on your throat, cock stuffing you so fucking full, you can hardly tell where he ends and you begin.
He can’t hold back much longer, and you can tell—not with how tight you are, how wet, how every twitch and squeeze of your velvety walls around his length draws another choked groan from deep in his throat. He throbs inside of you hard, fingers digging into your flesh, breath hot on your skin.
“Come on,” he pleads, roughly, voice cracking like he’s seconds away from losing it. “Let go. Just f’me.”
It doesn’t take much more than that.
The pleasure peaks, hot and certain, before rolling in waves on waves that are so blinding that you’re almost sure you see the pearly gates for a split second. Sam fucks you through it, of course he does; endless praise slipping from those sex-swollen lips. You can’t think. Can barely speak. You rattle out his name on repeat, coupled with broken ‘I love you’s, drowned out by your heartbeat raging in your ears, the thick swell of him stuffing you to the goddamn brim.
You clench around him, hard, like your sopping cunt’s trying to suck his soul straight out of his cock, inner walls fluttering, thighs spasming where they’re wrapped around his hips.
Sam chokes on a breath, trying like hell to keep up his rhythm, but it falters: hips jerking forward one final time as he buries himself deep, so deep, his own orgasm hitting like a freightrain.
“F-fuck!”
His voice breaks. His body locks. Every muscle goes taut as pleasure rips through him, white-hot, deafening, leaving no room for sound or thought or anything but you. His come paints your walls, hot, pumping you so full you can most taste it in the back of your throat. He collapses onto you with a groan, not so considerate about his weight when he’s fucked out and a little past tipsy, heavy and warm and utterly spent.
You’re both breathless. Shaking. Satisfied.
After a moment, his heart still hammering in rhythm with your own, he lifts his head just enough to look at you. You can’t quite focus, your vision a little blurred, but you make out the important things. Like the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. The love bites blooming on his skin. His beautifully swollen lips. Those eyes that are shining so bright, you could just get lost in them. He leans in, pressing messy kisses everywhere he can reach: to your cheek, your temples, your jaw, your nose, your goddamn eyelids.
“I love you too,” he murmurs hoarsely against your cheek. “S’fucking much.”
It’s only then that he rolls over, taking you with him, still connected, until he’s on his back—you tucked protectively against his chest.
Your skin is sticky. Your core is so sensitive, that even the pulse of his softening cock is a touch too much. Your brain is so fuzzy, that you wonder if he’s fucked you completely stupid.
The silence is only broken when Sam murmurs softly from beneath you, barely audible, voice rough in a way that almost has you ready to go again.
“…Baby?”
“Mmm?” you hum, exhausted, and that strong arm that encircles you strokes a soft line down your back.
“Is it, uh… is it later yet?”
AN: Wow! Finally posting something! Only took… (checks notes)… almost a month!
Guys, I am so, so sorry. I got so sick, like, deathly ill, and then just couldn’t focus long enough to write (and, well, had to pick up a thousand shifts to make up for lost time…)
But anyways, here’s some fluffy stuff for you, because I’m a sucker who can’t bring herself to be mean to Sam. Yet.
The only time I feel I might get better is when we are together (oh, together)
this is chapter 5 of we’re collateral here man, we got hit.
summary: Lots of kisses and some resolved tension. A dream and death. Back to the ring. Author's note at the end of the chapter!! Please read it, it's important <3
previous || next
Dear Diary,
I thought killing Lilith would be the end of our problems. It seems not.
It seems we're all doomed. Like... Apocalypsis doomed.
I'm not a very religious person, Dad wasn't. Neither was Mom. When they both died, I thought it was impossible for a God to be okay with that death.
Then Sam appeared, and then Dean. And the world is so full of these things that I don't know what to think anymore.
Of course God exists. He has to exist because Castiel is an angel of the Lord, and Castiel exists.
Do you think they'll lock me up if someone ever reads this?
Most likely, if that happens, I'll be far away from here. Maybe Bobby can show me somewhere to hide.
Or maybe there's nowhere left on Earth to hide.
We've discovered many things since Sam killed Lilith. First, that Lucifer (who also exists) is free. Then, I've discovered death, yes. Death. It has plans for me. I remember writing that I wanted to negotiate with him; I've realized that maybe I won't have that many opportunities to negotiate. And finally, Sam and Dean's bodies. They're vessels. Whatever that means.
The motel room lights flicker several times before coming on.
Adrenaline is still coursing through your veins after Dean left you there to get dinner.
You've killed a demon. It's your first time, Sam's knife in hand, the creature pressed against you. You saw sparks fly from the younger brother's eyes.
Sam closes the door behind you. He follows you to the bathroom, where you've put your hands in the water to wash off the dried blood. It's black and viscous, and some of the guilt of having ended a person's life dissolves with it.
Sam's hands are next to yours in seconds. Much larger, his fingers make yours look like toys. He interlaces them himself, gently rubbing the places where the scab hasn't yet come off.
Your eyes find him in the mirror. Sam isn't looking at you; he's focused on your hands. Since you let him out of the panic room, he's touched you more often. He knows it's because you manage to stabilize him, because the weight of your body against his hands brings him back down to earth. It reminds him why he still endures, day after day, the nascent hunger deep in his chest. He feeds that longing with another, replacing it with his desire to keep his hands on you. All the time.
And Sam knows you want that too, that the contact has given you back a concrete hope. That it makes you feel there's a reason to keep playing the game.
"So she's dead." You murmur, leaning back until your body is pressed against his chest.
That's when his eyes find you. Gaze worried, his jaw clenched.
"Yes." With one hand, without looking, he grabs the old bath towel and turns you around, so you're pressed together, very close, face to face. "That was terrifying, you know?"
You nod off, looking directly into his eyes. But Sam has stopped looking at you; his eyes are fixed on your dripping hands, which he dries alongside his own.
"But you did so well..." he continues, applying just the right amount of pressure to your palms. When he finishes, he moves the towel away but doesn't let go of your fingers. That's when he looks at you again. "It scares me how good you are at this."
And he truly means it. Sam has been terrified since the first day he told you about this world. Every part of him is scared of your ability to face the darkness, again and again. The way you throw yourself into it without even thinking. Because that increases the chances of your death, and that's something his brain can't even register.
You can't die.
"Well... you know, someone has to." You try to joke, but he pushes you forward, making you bump against his chest. A hug, his hands in your hair. "I did it for you."
"I know. And it's true." His voice is deep against your forehead, his lips brushing your hairline. "But— I don't know, I've just always imagined something else for you."
You push him away slightly, and a faint smile escapes your lips.
"Yeah, the husband and kids." You roll your eyes at your own words. “You said that once.”
You're met with an incredulous smile from him, and he reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from your face.
"Oh, God, I really would have hated that."
You're moving, with Sam pulling you along as he leaves the bathroom and heads toward the twin bedroom. You offered to sleep on the tiny sofa in the corner, but both brothers flatly refused. Sam reminded you that you used to sleep together all the time in college.
But now it's different, isn't it? Everything has changed. You see it in Sam's eyes as he sits on the edge of the bed, still holding your wrist to pull you closer.
You end up between his knees, looking down slightly where his face is. The height difference means he barely lowers himself in this position.
"You only say that because you'd hate to be away from Maroon." One of the things that has helped Sam the most since you came back into his life is being around your dog.
"Yeah, well, joint custody." He sees the way your eyes light up, the way you smile at him from your seat, and his palms start to itch. "You know I've hated all your boyfriends."
Your hands end up on his shoulders, and you look at him innocently.
"You liked Marcus."
"Marcus was a dickhead."
A genuine laugh escapes you at the sharpness of his tone. He sounds almost angry. Sam frowns at your reaction, and his hands end up beside your waist, lower, near the back of your legs.
"He really was." That's your answer. Your fingers travel up his shoulders, to the nape of his neck. You stroke his hair there. "I can't believe I dated that guy."
Sam's eyes have narrowed at the sensation of your hands in his hair, gently pulling it back. Impatience gets the better of him, and he pulls you forward. Onto his lap.
"A fucking idiot."
You try to follow the conversation, but it's too hard to focus your mind on one thing. All you can do is think about Sam's body, pressed against yours. When did this become so natural, when did you start to feel like this is normal? You try to remember, but the truth is, it's always felt this right. Him, you, intertwined.
"You know I'm right, love."
Sam's large palm ends up on your back, his fingers tangling there in your hair.
Uh, is all you can manage. But Sam isn't satisfied, and he pulls you closer. You see it in his eyes, that he needs an answer, confirmation to continue. And you want to shout: Yes, Sam. Come on.
"I guess he wasn't the one."
Something sparkles in his eyes when he hears you say that. Because Sam wants that job, he wants it for himself, more than anything in the world. The hand that isn't on your back ends up on your cheek.
"Want to make it worth it." His lips brush the corner of yours, and your heart races. "I can't screw this up."
You close your eyes; it's almost unbearable. The air catches in your throat. And you know Sam is waiting, that you have to be the one to jump off that cliff first, because he's already waiting at the bottom.
"You won't."
That's when your lips fall on his. Softly, slowly, the complete opposite of the first time you kissed. This is different. This feels right.
The kiss has its own heartbeat, a slow rhythm in keeping with the slowing of both your pulses. Sam, smiling against your mouth, moves slowly. He wants to savor this. He's almost compelled to open his eyes, to etch what's happening onto his cornea.
Your hands have slid from the nape of his neck to the collar of his shirt, and you pull there, drawing him even closer. The rhythm quickens, your breathing too. You feel Sam's pressure against your lips, his tongue slipping between them. But he's meticulous, like someone conducting a study.
His gentleness doesn't stop your breath from becoming ragged. You also hear the depth of his inhalations. In a second, his lips are on your chin, his tongue trailing across it. He gently bites the end.
A whine escapes you, and automatically Sam's hands tighten on your back. They slide down to the curve of your buttocks, pushing forward from there. He has to hear you make that sound again.
Your eyes flutter open as you feel his lips descend further, toward the hollow of your neck. This time, when he bites you, a moan escapes you. Of course.
Sam's train of thought goes blank for a second. Oh god, you like being bitten. That thought makes the blood in his veins boil. So determined, so resolute... of course you like being bitten.
He pulls back for a second to look at you, and you see him with darkened eyes, ragged breathing. His lips swollen.
“Is this okay?”
You almost lose your mind there.
Your eyes lock.
You want to say something. Say yes. Maybe make Sam laugh, maybe make him pull you even closer. You feel your hip shift forward, feel him there.
Your eyebrows rise in surprise. Oh.
Oh.
Sam opens his mouth, you see the red reach his neck, but nothing comes from his lips. Nothing in time. You've leaned in and you're kissing him again. This time harder, with more passion, the heat erupting through your body like a raging fire.
You don't hear the knock on the door.
Neither of you hear it. Despite the tiny size of the motel room. Sam can only make out his own pulse in the ring of his ear, and the skin beneath your shirt, in the gap between your top and pants.
"Hey, douchebags! Open up already."
This time, Dean pounds on the door. And that's when you both pull apart.
"Oh, sorry."
You jump up so fast Sam barely has time to compose himself. His hands are outstretched toward you.
"No, babygir— What? wait." You've gone straight to the bathroom; you see your own reflection in the mirror, flushed, your chest rising and falling. The hollow of your neck has a throbbing mark. You need to splash cold water on your face to come back to reality.
Oh.
Dean is banging on the door again. “Come on guys!! GOT THE PIE.”
"Sam!" Your voice comes out deep, choking in your own throat. But with a playful tone.
Like you're two teenagers who've just been caught doing something naughty.
"Oh my god, I swear I'm going to kill him."
It's suddenly very cold; that's the first thing you notice. Before you glimpse the empty street, the lifeless buildings... Before anything else, the skin on your arms prickles. Something icy pierces you. You have to hug yourself, rubbing from your elbows to your shoulders. Nothing makes the sensation go away.
When you finally become aware of where you are, you're surprised.
Chicago.
You recognize the street because you've walked it several times, years ago when you still worked examining corpses. That thought makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up differently than the hair on your arms. And before a force beyond your comprehension pushes you to the right, walking, you already know what this is all about.
You're going to see him. You're not aware of how he's managed it, but you're certain you're moving in his direction.
The pizzeria door opens with the push of your hand.
And there he is.
The man, if he is indeed a man, in his black suit.
Death. "Oh, my dear girl." He's eating, interrupting himself to wipe his mouth with a napkin. "How thoughtful, how quickly you came."
He's never spoken to you like this, so directly. You're aware that you're not alone in this place, even though you can't see the other figures surrounding you.
Your voice comes out more trembling than you expected.
"Am I dead? I don't remember how--"
Death raises his hand and your mouth closes without your permission.
"Not at all."
He puts another slice of pizza in his mouth and begins to chew. You think that none of it makes sense, who on earth eats pizza with a fork...?
Then he uses his hand to point to the chair in front of him. And your body moves. You haven't decided to take any steps, but your feet move on their own toward the chair. Sitting across from Death.
It's strange, because he doesn't seem frightening. Him, dressed so immaculately, with such exquisite manners. He doesn't terrify you. Even though you know he's holding the keys on the other side, even though you know his hand is a bridge to the unknown.
The cold is gone. You're calm.
Is this what dying means?
"Stop thinking you're dying." His voice is calm, he looks at you mockingly. "I'm not going to kill you, child. You're dreaming."
You frown at his words.
"What?" You seem to have regained some sense. "Why?"
Death makes a gesture with his shoulder, as if he wants to sigh but is too controlled to do so.
"Because you're special." The look he gives you makes your pulse quicken. "And you know it."
You almost want to get angry.
Lilith is dead, you were fine. You and Sam, at Bobby's house, for a week. Everything was fine. You know something was starting to happen, they haven't wanted to tell you much either, but they monitor the news every day. Now you know that nothing is over.
"Tell the Winchesters that having an angel's help isn't going to do them much good."
Castiel, sure. But you play your cards right. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Don't be a fool. You can't trick me." With a flick of his wrists, your cards are slammed to the table. "Do you know why I can do this? Because you owe me."
The shock of his words hits you like a ton of bricks. Although you've always suspected you had some connection to Death, given that she seemed to follow you everywhere.
The man continues speaking.
"You helped your father cross over when his time came. I granted you that. Perhaps your mind doesn't remember, but I don't forget any of my reapers..."
Reaper.
Your eyes widen in disbelief. No, it can't be. You're alive, you can't belong to that side of the veil if you're still breathing, right?
"...always so close to those who cross over, right? Almost a medic yourself, imagine. Don't overthink it, you even know those who have returned."
Oh.
Oh.
Sam. You clench your fists at the sides of the table.
"So what do you want?" Your jaw is tense too, and you notice your vocal cords tighten as you speak.
It's a power game. And he's winning.
"I want you to tell the Winchesters to come to Chicago. Tell them Lucifer has bound one of their riders." That's when you see it, the invisible chains along his wrists. "Tell them I have something they need."
All that information hits you like a ton of bricks.
You hate your voice's inability to contain all the anger inside you. Unlike what you feel, your emotions aren't reflected in your tone of voice.
"And what if they don't?"
You want to sound defiant, but you realize you sound like a child.
"Don't be rude to me." With that, he takes the last bite of his plate. "Three million people are going to die."
That freezes your blood. You want to open your mouth, but you're unable to say anything. You notice your surroundings begin to sway; outside your peripheral vision, the ground vanishes. No, no, no.
Death speaks again.
"Be a good girl, and do as I say."
The little strength you have left insists instead. "Why would I do that?"
"Because I'm going to help Sam when you ask me to, and believe me, you will ask me to."
The bed is soaked with sweat when you open your eyes.
You're trembling uncontrollably. Your teeth are chattering.
You have to find him, even though you can't move. A few seconds pass before you manage to regain your composure, when your hands finally stop trembling. That's when you slip out of bed, your gait clumsy as you leave the room Bobby assigned you in his house. Luckily, Sam and Dean are just two doors down.
You don't even reach the door before it opens.
Sam's worried eyes find you halfway there.
You hear Dean's snores behind him, through your own sobs.
Sam comes out of his room still in his pajamas, calves bare and wearing an old, disheveled t-shirt.
"Heard you," he murmurs, slowly approaching you. As if you were a little animal. His expression becomes even more worried when he sees tears streaming down your cheeks. "Hey, what happened?"
You hug him the moment his body reaches you, and then you can't stop crying.
Sam is okay, he's here with you. For a second you thought he wouldn't be, but he is, his body pressed firmly against yours, his hands in your hair, gently stroking you.
"Baby." His lips end up at your ear, as he rocks you closer and your sobs soften. "What's wrong."
You start to shake your head. You don't want to talk about it, you're too upset to repeat it, how are you going to explain it to him...?
The word "reaper" echoes in your mind, and you let out a sob.
"Tel—, tell me what to do, love." Sam's hands end up on your cheeks, cupping your face. It's always you who comes to his aid, always you who ends up comforting him.
This is new for him, seeing you so distraught. It breaks his heart into a million pieces.
Your eyes find him in the darkness, his nose red.
"Wanna go to your room? Want me to get some water?"
The idea of Sam leaving you, even for a second, terrifies you. You cling to his arms, digging your nails into his biceps.
"To your room then."
Sam moves you in the embrace. Until you reach your room. The boy hopes he hasn't woken Bobby, because he knows the old man will kick his ass if he finds you there together. His house, his rules. And you've become like a daughter to him, Sam knows that.
He gently lays you down on the bed, burying himself there with you. His arm ends up under your body, while he leans sideways to look into your eyes. It takes you a moment to lift your head from his chest.
"Better?"
"Yes." It's the first time you've spoken, and your voice comes out small and high.
Sam says nothing, he simply stares at you, there against the pillow, your hair spread out and your cheeks wet. It's almost unfair. It's almost unfair that it took him so long to realize how beautiful you are. It almost bothers him. He's always known you were beautiful, from the first day he saw you. And then from the first time he saw you just after waking up. But this, what he feels now, as if that beauty could pass through your own skin and cling to him. It's unfair that you're beautiful even when you're crying. It absolutely ruins all the others for him.
"Staring is rude."
Your voice wants to sound sarcastic, but it comes out a little choked. You notice your breathing has calmed next to him, his warm body pressed against yours.
Sam pinches the bridge of your nose, very gently. "Tell me what happened."
You take a breath and, on second thought, grab the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. Now you're so close.
"Maybe I just wanted you in my bed, Winchester."
It doesn't work, of course.
There's no way Sam is going to forget the sound of your crying. The same hand that pinched your nose slides down your body to your thigh, pressing there, and Sam turns you both over. You're on top of him. The hand on your thigh slaps.
"No kidding." He smiles at you from his position, and it's a kind smile. An understanding one. "Now tell me what happened."
"You're so bossy." But Sam's hand, moving up to your waist to caress you beneath your pajama top, takes your breath away. You don't have the strength to protest. "I had a nightmare... I think."
"You think?" His voice sounds worried.
And you know you have to tell him everything. Or well, almost everything.
"I think you and Dean need to go to Chicago."
ara’s note: Okay!! This is moving forward. The next chapter will be smut, with a farewell before Sam sacrifices himself like Lucifer, blah blah blah. Let me know what you think of the idea (it's an added chapter) because I've never written smut before and I'm afraid it'll be a disaster!!
just had to block a blog full of wincest so another reminder!!! if you ship wincest i do not want you here!! unfollow and block me!! you're disgusting and i don't want anything to do with you!!
this is a reminder that i do not support the use of ai. whether it's chatgpt, using ai to see what your new sofa would like like in your living room, or even to create "silly" cartoon pictures. not only is it slowly killing the planet, it's also killing creativity and imagination.
instead of learning and using their own knowledge, people are using chatgpt to do their homework for them. instead of creating art by hand, people are using ai to create unrealistic pictures and videos.
it's killing careers, it's promoting laziness, and i do not/will never support this. especially not on a site like tumblr where creativity and originality is key!
Why are you not re-blogging? You think the fandom is dead, that no one’s interacting anymore, no one’s doing anything, no one’s writing, no one’s posting. ‘Everyone was so hyperfixed on that character, Where is the writing?’
People are writing. People aren’t reblogging. People aren’t giving some good feedback to motivate the writers that are putting their hard work, time, effort into making this piece that you were reading.
‘oh, it’s just too much work. You don’t wanna click that button and then click a few tags.’ Then you’re gonna have to suffer and not see a lot of writing from a lot of people because the only way this fucking app works is if you reblog.
I see so many pieces of work with 59 likes and 1 blog, I just saw one that had 690 likes and it had 9 reblogs. Even 1,000 likes and only 59 reblogs too. It’s devastating to see for the community of Tumblr. And I’ve been here for like five years, the way this app works is if you re-blog.
There’s so many people that are writing. There’s so many amazing things that I see and I try my best to reblog every single one that I read. That’s what I love doing because sharing someone’s piece of work is just beautiful because it allows me to show it to more people.
I reblog. And the beauty of it is;
I get notifications that this person liked it and this person liked it, and then that post continues to get more views, more likes and reblogs. All just because one person, reblogged it.
so please, if you are a part of Tumblr and you love reading your favorite writers fics, or love reading about your favorite character, please do your job and reblog it.
And if you don’t like re-blogging because you don’t want to do that on your account, then you can make another account and put all of the things that you read on that account. You can do separate things, like fic recs.
You can figure it the fuck out if you want people to actually be writing for a character you love. The writers are writing, you ain’t helping them share their work.
I WISH I'D KNOWN YOU IN YOUR WILDER DAYS
CHAPTER 10: Between retirement and a hard place (redux)
CWs Loss. Hunters are the good guys and monsters are bad, and you better not question that. Grief. Family. Brief sexual content. Happy end.
5.7k words
Fic masterlist | Dean masterlist | Previous chapter
Dean dreams of the woods.
Their lush green. How close the trees stand, closer than he feels is right. No branches this low, and it feels like he should be able to see, see all the way through to the other side, but he can’t.
The ground is soft under him, pine needles creating a thick carpet. The smell of tree sap is heavy in the air.
It feels like it should be scary. Terrifying even. It’s not. It feels peaceful.
He wakes to a phone ringing.
That slow waking again, and it’s disorienting. He inhales through his nose, notices he’s not on his back, but on his side, and when he blinks himself awake, he realizes his nose is pressed into the hair behind your ear.
He rolls back, arm still around you. Considers just letting the phone ring, but he really, really shouldn't. He looks down at you again, now considers giving you a small kiss, then worries he might have morning breath. He throws the covers off himself and gets out of bed.
Too much considering for how early it is. It’s not his style.
The phone stops ringing and then starts ringing again as he makes his way down the stairs. He clears his throat, then grabs it. It’s not one where he needs to pretend to be someone else, so he doesn’t mind sounding groggy when he answers.
“Hey Dean, it’s Rhonda.”
“Hey, Rhon,” he says, looking around the kitchen. Coffee. He should make coffee. Bring some to you in bed, sneak into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Then come back and kiss you, all slow and easy. “What’s up?”
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” she asks, sounding amused. “Don’t think I’ve ever woken you.”
“Yeah, uh,” Dean replies, “I’m trying out some of those small pleasures of retirement. Like sleeping in.”
Rhonda chuckles. Dean could kiss his way down your body, maybe. Or just drag you close. Maybe he’ll do the coffee later, just hug you again for now and get a couple more hours in. Yeah, maybe that’s better.
Fuck, he’s getting soft.
“Sounds good,” Rhonda replies, voice light. “Hey listen, I got some good news for you, and then I got some really good news for you. Which one you want first?”
“Uuh,” Dean says, and then he turns his head when he hears the creak of the stairs. He sees your socks first. “How about the good news?”
“Well,” Rhonda says, sounding fucking chipper, and something about that makes Dean’s stomach twist. You come into view, one hand on the wall to guide your way. Eyes small, looking scruffy and disoriented too. You raise your chin when you see he’s on the phone. “We found your freak.”
Dean needs to blink, remember what Rhonda is talking about, tears his eyes off you and looks at the map.
“You found him?” he asks, his own voice sounding strange to him. “And what’s, uh, what’s the really good news?”
You move, just a little, stepping from one foot to the other. Dean looks at you again, and it’s like you’ve been slapped. You’re staring at his face, like you’re trying to read him. What? your lips form. Dean’s head jerks, meant to be a shake, and then he just stares at you, stares at you as you watch him and he listens to Rhonda give him really good news.
You’re quiet on the drive, and Dean doesn’t put on any music. You stare straight ahead, eyes wide, hands clenched in your lap. Dean keeps looking over at you. He’s not sure what he’s looking out for, but he feels the need to make sure you’re still there.
“It might not be him,” he says, and you don’t react. “It might be… I don’t know, something else.” He grimaces. Someone, but really, it’s not accurate, and it’s not how he talks about these things, anyway. And it’s not like he really believes it, what he’s saying. He looks your way.
“Maybe,” he starts, then stops. Looks out the front. Maybe there’s nothing he can say.
It must have rained in the morning. The ground is wet and soft when Dean climbs out of the Impala. There’s Ronny’s car again. He looks your way, wondering if he should walk around and open your door, but you’re quicker. You still haven’t said a thing.
It’s a fifteen minute hike through the woods to where the two hunters told him to meet them. There’s a clearing, and he raises his hand when he comes closer, you somewhere behind him.
“Hey, kid,” Rhonda calls, Ronny waving. She turns, walks towards Dean.
“Hey,” he says, stopping just before her. “So what happened?” Rhonda shakes her head.
“Mostly dumb luck,” she says. She points her thumb over her shoulder at her husband. “Ronny caught on to it actually. Got a call from Chris, you know Chris?” Dean nods, the movement feeling rough. He turns, looks at where you are. You’re keeping your distance, but you’re close enough to hear her words.
“Yeah, he and Ronny are buddies, and Chris said he’s been noticing some weird stuff around his trailer that evening.”
“Good guy, that Chris,” Ronny cuts in. Dean looks at him. He has a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. A bowie knife hanging from his belt.
“So we drove over there,” Rhonda continues. “Looked like maybe we scared it off, but it left some tracks. Musta been hurt, so that made it easier.” Dean swallows, remembers the impact of his own bullet, the scream.
“Anyway,” Rhonda continues, “we managed to corner it. Didn’t take much, it’s smaller than I expected it to be. Your friend was right.”
“Cut it up and burned it,” Ronny says, nodding into the distance. “Somewhere over there if you wanna take a peek, but not much left.”
Dean closes his eyes. Takes a slow breath, then opens them again.
He turns to look at you, finally, can’t put it off any longer, when he hears your footsteps. Soft, slow, and when he looks your back is already turned to him, and you’re walking in the direction Ronny indicated.
“She okay?” Rhonda asks. Dean turns back, lost for actions to help you and now lost for words too.
“Can you two, uh, can you maybe wait at the cars? Give us a minute?” he asks. His voice is thick, and he can’t look either of the hunters in the face. They’re quiet for a moment. He just needs them gone.
“Sure,” Rhonda replies, voice clipped, maybe pissed or just uncertain about his reaction. Dean nods at the ground, and then the two of them are moving, walking past him, talking in low voices. He raises his head, looks to where you are. Only a stone’s throw but it feels like you’ve crossed an ocean.
He sniffs, then starts walking after you. When you come to a stop ahead of him, he’s not sure why at first. When he reaches you and looks past you, he understands.
Matthew’s silhouette is burned into the forest floor. The rain has made the earth around it dark, but Dean can still see him. Bigger than a child, but not quite an adult man. There’s something that might be bone, or maybe it’s just ash peaking through.
With a small noise, you kneel. Your hand goes out, over the silhouette, like you’re trying to reach for your brother, and then the first sob comes, loud and uncontrolled, shoulders shaking and then all of you shaking.
“No,” you press out and that’s all, all that you’re able to say.
Dean drops down too, next to you. He wraps his arms around you, pulls you in, and your hands shoot to his jacket, fingers digging into it, dragging at him.
“No,” you say again, and you’re shaking so hard Dean’s not sure he’s able to hold on to you, so he pulls you in harder, closer, presses his face against the side of yours, just keeping you contained as best he can.
“No, no, no,” you whine and then you scream and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, his own tears dislodging. “No, please, please, no, no!”
You scream again, and again, and Dean holds you.
He tells Rhonda and Ronny some half-assed excuse about needing to leave, that he’ll check in with them later, but the truth is, he couldn’t give less of a rat’s ass about them right then.
He gets you to the car, opens the passenger door for you and helps you climb inside, not sparing the other hunters another look even though he’s pretty sure Ronny calls something out to him. He gets into the driver’s seat, the outside blissfully shut out. He starts the car, and then his hand goes over to grab yours.
You look so tired. Eyes glassy, staring ahead. Every few miles a new whimper breaks out of your throat, and you cry more quiet tears. Dean just squeezes your hand.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, knowing it’s a lie. “It’s gonna be okay.”
He pulls up in front of the cabin, rushes to your side. He holds your arm as the two of you walk. He knows he can’t really do anything. But he’s not gonna let you walk alone.
He gets you to bed. Takes off your clothes and puts others on you again, raises the covers for you. He lays down next to you and takes you into his arms. You’re pliable and soft, and when you start crying again, Dean brushes his hand over your hair.
You sleep eventually, but he doesn’t. Just closes his eyes, alerted at every little sound you make. He opens them again to a grey sky, looks down at you. Watches your deep breaths. This time he does kiss you before getting up. The softest brush against your forehead. You don’t wake, but mutter something.
He goes downstairs, looks through the cupboards in the kitchen. Starts cooking, and then he can’t stop.
You find him downstairs again, arms wrapped around yourself. Dean looks up, then walks over to you and takes your hand.
“Eat something,” he says, running one hand over your cheek. You do. Just crumbs. Your body too full of grief to fit in anything else, and Dean knows exactly what that feels like.
More sleep, no funeral to plan, no grieving family to visit, the way it should be. This time Dean wakes up without you there.
He feels frantic immediately. He always knew something bad was going to happen if he just let his guard down. Something bad has happened already, but it didn’t feel so bad with you still around, but here he is, in an empty house, you gone and him all alone again.
He finds you on the porch. There’s a shitty old wooden bench he’s been meaning to replace, and you’re wearing your large jacket, legs in jeans that you managed to put on without him waking, and it’s freezing, Dean only in a henley and the sweat pants you gave him. He sits down next to you, though. You’re staring off into the distance, something more awake, more stoic in your gaze.
“Who’s buried down there?” you ask him after a while. Dean follows your gaze to the wooden cross at the end of his property. He sighs.
“My dog,” he says. “Miracle.”
“How did he die?” you ask, still looking straight ahead. Dean moves his jaw, the memory of the scruffy little idiot immediately making his chest feel too tight.
“Just got old,” he replies. “Man, that was a good dog.” He looks your way again. His hand is resting on his thigh and you look down, reach yours out, wrap your fingers around his ring finger, stroke your thumb across his knuckles.
“Do you think we could,” you say, then suck in your cheeks, as if to stop yourself from crying. “Do you think we could bury Matthew there? Like, not him, obviously, but just…”
Dean raises his hand, yours with it, and brings it to his lips. Kisses the side of it.
“Of course,” he says. You nod, then look ahead again. But you don’t let go of Dean’s hand.
The next day, when he wakes and you’re not there, he finds you under the shower. You tell him to get in. When he does, you lean against his chest and he wraps his arms around you, strokes your back.
“Hey,” he says. “You wanna go for a ride today? There’s something I want to do.” You raise your head, give him a confused look. But then you nod.
The drive still feels familiar. The countryside, and then the small town, a different one than the one near Dean, bigger, big enough to have something like suburbs. The house is light blue from the outside, so it’s easy to spot. White trimming. A fence. Swingset in the garden out back, Dean knows.
He’s been thinking about coming here since you asked him to bury Matthew on his lot. No, that's not true. He’s been thinking about it for years. Has imagined the drive, pulling into this street again. He always imagines it up to the point where he rings the door bell. Can’t imagine the rest because, the truth is, he doesn’t know how. There's too many ways it could go. So many of them are too painful to imagine.
He gets out, watches you do the same, look around, confused. The morning has been cloudy but now the sun is starting to come out. You look so beautiful where it hits you.
Dean walks up the steps to the front door while you remain close to the Impala, like you're his getaway driver. He likes that thought. The two of you, part of the same plot.
He rings the door bell. His heart is beating hard in his chest, so he looks over his shoulder at you. You tilt your head at him and he grins at you. It makes him feel a little lighter, so when he hears the door open, he can turn around with some assuredness in his heart. Look the man greeting him in the face.
“Hey, Sammy,” he says, and it feels as familiar on his tongue as it has his entire life.
Sam blinks, surprise on his face. He stares at Dean for a second, and then he steps forward, and his little brother wraps his long arms around him, and Dean does the same.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice close to his ear, and Dean wouldn’t tell anyone, but he closes his eyes at the goddamn familiarity of it. “Is– are you okay? Is everything alright?” Dean huffs, then pulls back, Sam’s hands still on his shoulders, a concerned look on his brother’s face. His brother. His little brother, who’s alive and well and not a burned out silhouette on the forest floor.
“I’m alright, Sam,” Dean replies, his voice a little cracked. He clears his throat, sees the shock slowly disappearing off Sam’s face. His eyes roam over Dean once.
“You look good,” Sam says, sounding a little too surprised, and Dean feels a giddiness in his chest that he hasn’t felt in longer than he can remember. It mixes with the pain so beautifully.
“You look old,” he replies, and that’s what finally breaks Sam’s worry, makes him scoff, then laugh.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, before looking over Dean’s shoulder. He blinks again, probably seeing you. Dean turns. You’re leaned against the Impala, hands pushed into the pockets of your jacket. You drag one out, raise it, awkwardly, in greeting. Sam does the same, and Dean feels like he could float from love for the two of you.
“Sorry to just, you know,” he says, and Sam tears his eyes off you. “Barge in on you like that. I just, uh, we just wanted to check in.” And Sam looks at him again in that wise way he has, where Dean knows he’s collecting all the puzzle pieces in his head. Then he slowly nods.
“Sure,” he says, “why don’t you come inside?”
They redid the little hallway, Dean notices, the walls now a soft mint where they were beige before. He steps half inside, then turns back to you. You’re still standing there, watching intently. He extends his hand. Hopes he didn’t completely fuck this up and that you are weirded out by what he’s doing. But then you push yourself off the car and walk towards him, arms crossed in front of your body. Dean lets you step past him, hand on your lower back, then closes the door.
“Hi,” Sam says, briefly running his palms down his sides like he’s worried they’re damp before extending one hand towards you. “I’m Sam.” You uncross your arms, extend your hand too. Dean watches, studying both of you, nerves and excitement so loud in him he feels like his ears are about to pop.
You say your name, the two of you shaking hands like the most normal people in the world. Dean can’t help but to keep looking at your face. His hand is still on your lower back when he tears his gaze away.
“We, uh, we were in the neighborhood,” he says, almost forgetting it’s a lie. But he’s not quite ready to tell Sam everything, to tell him that he had the overwhelming need to come down his mountain to see his little brother’s face. He also likes the idea of it - we. Like the two of you are just traveling the world.
You don’t blow his cover. Give him a sideways glance but nothing more.
There’s a brief moment of awkward silence, and then just as Sam opens his mouth, there’s footsteps coming closer.
“Sam?” Dean hears Eileen’s voice. “Who is it?”
Eileen rounds the corner into the hallway, then stops, eyes wide, before a smile breaks out on her face and she approaches Dean, arms outstretched.
“Dean!” she says, hugs him tight and Dean hugs her back, maybe harder than absolutely necessary. She leans back, looks at him, makes a sign with her right hand. “You look great!”
Dean huffs, takes a step back. Throws you a quick look. You raise your eyebrows.
“Everyone seems really surprised by that,” he points out with a small shrug. You nod.
“Seems that way,” you add. Eileen looks at you, then at Dean, something mischievous gleaming in her eyes, just as Sam claps his hands together.
“We were just gonna sit down for lunch,” he says. “You two wanna join us?”
Dean looks at you again. If you want to leave, are weirded out by the fact that he brought you here to his family, it’s not showing in your face. You give him a look that says, why not? Dean turns to his brother, smiling.
“We’d love to,” he says.
It’s a few hours later - everyone fed, the dishes put away, the kids reintroduced to Dean, and newly introduced to you, one of the twins asking if you’re their aunt, and all adults stuttering at that - that there’s a dip in conversation. Sam is straightening something out in the kitchen, while Eileen, after asking Dean extensively about the cabin, was called away by the kids. When Dean looks around, you’re not in the living room anymore. Slowly, he walks into the hallway.
You’re looking at the pictures on the wall. Birthdays Dean has missed, Halloweens, barbeques. His brother’s kids might not have seen him in years, but he is in some of the pictures on the wall. Quite a few actually. There’s a picture of his mother and father, of Bobby.
“Your brother’s nice,” you say, not taking your eyes off a picture of Sam and Eileen’s wedding. Dean nods, standing close to you.
“Yeah,” is all he says. Eileen in the hospital with two little bundles, looking exhausted but beautiful. Sam with Jody, and Dean can’t remember if he was there the day the photo was taken or if he wasn’t. “They like you.”
“Well, duh,” you say, leaning forward. Dean looks too. It’s a picture of him and Sam when they were young, must be nearly twenty-five years ago now. He’s pretty sure it was taken the year he and Sam went back on the road together. It feels like a different life now.
“Look, maybe I should have told you I was taking you here,” Dean starts. “I just, I don’t know. I needed to see him. I thought it would do you good.” You nod, still leaned forward.
“‘S okay,” you reply, continuing to study the washed out picture. “Hey, you didn’t tell me you were handsome when you were younger.”
Dean chuckles as you straighten, and then he can’t help himself, drags his hand out of his pocket and lays his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in, and you let him, until your head is resting against his shoulder, your face pressed against his neck, and you let out a deep sigh.
“You have no idea,” he mutters. “No chance you coulda resisted me.” You rub your nose against the skin of his neck.
“Can’t resist you now,” you mumble, and Dean sure hopes you don’t feel the way he needs to swallow at your words.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks, running his cheek along your forehead. You wrap your arm around him.
“Maybe soon,” you say. “But we can stay a little longer.”
There’s ice cream for dessert, topped with chocolate sprinkles and strawberry sauce. One of the twins looks at your portion with wide eyes.
“That’s so much sauce!” she says. You turn to Dean, clasping your bowl.
“Is this kid sauce shaming me?” you mumble, and Dean feels such intense love for you in that moment that it nearly topples him.
The sun sets early. When Sam leads Dean and you to the front door, you and Sam hug. It’s a quick, slightly awkward one, more formality than anything. But maybe one day, it’ll be a real one, Dean catches himself thinking. One day.
Dean feels his brother’s hand on his arm just as he’s about to step out of the house. He looks at you, reaches into his pocket to drag out his keys.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, handing them to you. You take them, nod at Sam, tell him thanks again for dinner. Then you walk into the darkness outside.
Dean turns and looks at Sam. He’s looking after you, then turns to look at Dean. Expression serious.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Dean feels it, the immediate affirmation bubbling up in him, the easy line, the saying something while really saying nothing. He swallows them down. Looks for the truth instead.
“She lost her brother recently,” he says, electing not to mention that it’s been only a couple of days, because then Sam might point out how crazy it was for him to drag you here. “Just made me…”
And he can’t say it, even after all those years. He can say he’ll protect Sam from the forces of evil, from the devil himself, but the other thing feels like barbs in his throat.
“Thought some normalcy would do her good,” he picks instead. “Get to meet my pain in the ass little brother.” Sam huffs, half-hearted.
“Dean,” he says, sighs. Maybe he’s gonna tell Dean to stay away, that he and his family don’t need the inconsistency he brings into their life, don’t need him dragging his young girlfriend over here, and Dean’s not sure at what point he started thinking about you like that, but he’s pretty sure it was when you reached for his hand under the dinner table.
“Sorry for not calling ahead,” he quickly says. But Sam shakes his head.
“It’s fine,” he replies. “Just don’t… don’t only come here when you think about me dying, okay?”
Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Feels himself frown.
“You can just,” Sam says, raises one hand and scratches at his neck. “Just come over, okay? Hang with the kids, or, I don’t know, just. It doesn’t need to be a big deal. It doesn’t need to be life and death all the time.”
Dean’s still lost for what to say. He looks at Sam, decides to just nod.
“Alright,” he says, swears it to himself. Sam nods too, crosses his arms.
“She’s nice,” he says, and Dean looks towards the Impala.
“She is,” he says, then huffs. “Sometimes.”
He slaps Sam’s arm, then walks down the front steps. Gets into the car. One the drive back, you lean your head against his shoulder. Neither of you speak. There’s nothing that needs to be said.
You bury Matthew the next day. Well, you bury a picture of him. Both of you are so young in it. Your youngest brother is missing both front teeth. Your smile at the camera is defiant, like you don’t trust it, or like you’re just a teen that doesn’t like their photo taken.
Dean offers to dig the hole, but you do it. Not much, just a shallow one you can place the photograph in. The ground is hard and he sees sweat build on your forehead. But still you don’t want help.
You kneel in front of the grave for a long time, Dean standing a few steps behind you, in case you need him. But he also knows that sometimes, in these moments, you need to be on your own. When you straighten and turn to him, eyes rimmed red from tears, he extends his hand, and you take it. The two of you walk back inside.
A few days later, Dean wakes up without you again.
He feels less panicked this time. Makes coffee, sits outside in a thick jacket. You left him a note downstairs. Went for a run. He scoffed at that, shook his head.
He sees you jogging up the driveway, bundled up, breath white clouds. He raises his chin when you get closer.
“Something better be chasing you,” he says. You stop in front of him, hands pushed into the dips of your waist.
“Maybe,” you say between heavy breaths. Dean chuckles, then stands.
When you come back from the shower, pour yourself some coffee, he hugs you from behind. Drags you in, face pressed into your neck. You laugh, and Dean wants to hear that sound for as long as he lives. He presses himself closer, begins kissing your skin. Your hand goes up and behind his head. Making sure he doesn’t move away.
Twenty minutes later, he’s got you on the bed, ass stretched towards him, vibrator pressed between your legs and Dean kissing his way up and down your back. He stops at a beauty mark, feels it under his fingers, his lips. You wiggle under him.
“Tickles,” you say, voice soft, pressing yourself back against him. Dean straightens, runs his hands up your back, tips of his fingers pressed into your muscles, making you groan. He can’t get enough of you. It shocks him. He waits for the moment when it ends, but it doesn’t come.
He lines himself up before he pushes into you, fucks you, slow and deep, and you roll yourself back against him, like you’re the ocean and he’s the shore, or maybe it’s the other way around. Dean is staring at the back of your head, your shoulders. All of you.
He leans forward again, kisses your shoulder, runs his hand over your front, all over, the rise of your breasts, the softness of your stomach, then down between your legs. His hand over where you’re pressing the toy against yourself, and you press your head back against his. He runs his nose up the side of your face as he wraps his hand over yours, moves the toy in a circular motion. You moan, shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your skin. Dean kisses them too.
After you come, he pushes you down on the bed under him. Takes it slow, nuzzles your cheek. He runs his hand over the back of yours where it’s on the mattress, pushes his fingers into the space between yours. Nearly tells you he loves you in that moment, but instead presses his forehead against your shoulder blade and goes harder.
He doesn't tell you, not for a long time.
It’s a rainy day. One of the phones rings, and Dean blindly reaches for it, not even really looking which one it is, then holds it out to you. When you don’t take it immediately, he looks up.
You have your legs up on the chair next to you, are frowning at him. He moves the phone back and forth, trying to make it seem casual when really his entire body is a tense wire.
“Come on,” he says. “Gonna have to start earning your keep at some point.” You narrow your eyes at him, then take the phone.
Stay, he thinks as he watches you. Stay, when you hang up the phone with an awkward chuckle. He opens his mouth to ask you. To stay. He doesn’t. Pulls you into his lap instead, tells you what a good job you did. You swat your hand at him and roll your eyes, but he sees the proud smile on your lips.
Sometimes, you have nightmares. Some days, you are so wrapped in pain and grief that it feels like the cabin is drowned in it. And Dean knows he can’t do anything about it. He holds you, lets you cry in his arms. Listens to you talk about Matthew, or your other brother, or your parents. Your childhood home.
It makes him feel powerless. Like a caged animal, his brain draws circles thinking of what to do, if only he could do something. But beyond taking you out for a drive to a particularly beautiful spot or wiping your tears away or mumbling in your ear that you’re gonna be okay, there’s nothing.
You go to visit Sam and Eileen again. One of the kids gets up while the four of you are having beers and wine after dinner, tiny hands rubbing eyes and Sam walks over, gets the child back to bed. Dean shoots a look over at you. He’s not sure why. You return the look and hold his gaze. He doesn’t know what it means.
On the drive back, you keep kissing him. His face in your hands, one of his on the steering wheel, but his eyes sure aren’t on the road. Your tongue is in his mouth and the inside of the car is filled with loud breathing and wet sounds. Dean can’t help himself but wonder what’s causing it, despite the fact that you’re the initiator as often as he is. Wonders if it’s where you just came from, some inherent animalistic need to procreate, or if maybe you just really like him. He finally needs to pull over to the side of the road.
You’re so close in the darkness, moving on top of him. Once, a car passes, the beams briefly illuminating you and him, but you don’t stop moving, not scared of getting caught and Dean’s head drops back at that. He’s wearing a condom he dragged from his glove compartment, and you didn’t tell him not to.
He finally asks when the two of you are back at the cabin, up in bed. He’s lying behind you, you turned away from him and nearly asleep, so it’s easier.
“Do you,” he says, then clears his throat. “Do you want something like that?”
No response for a moment.
“Hmm?” Your voice sleepy and cracked. Dean strokes his thumb along your hip.
“The kids,” he says, grimaces. He’s doing this all wrong. “The, you know, the whole thing.”
No response again, and then he feels your hand on his and you wrap his arm tighter around you.
“I like it up here,” you mumble, and Dean’s not sure if you really heard him, understood what he’s saying. Your breathing slows, and he’s pretty sure you fall asleep.
The truth is, he likes it up here too. He likes the idea of the house and the kids and all that, but he’s not sure if he really wants it. He always thought he did. He wonders if he’s asking you because he thinks he should. There’s a different part of his brain that chides him at even thinking about this at his age, and with you so young. It would be criminal to tie you down like this, and then he closes his eyes and grins at the idea of tying you down.
He pushes his nose into your hair. Inhales. Tries to tell himself that it’s not something he needs to figure out tonight.
The truth is, he thinks he could be happy with you up here. Going for drives and answering calls and researching late into the night and you dragging him in and the smell of the forest and the quiet. Maybe you can get another dog.
He squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head at himself.
He doesn’t even know if you’re gonna stay around. He shouldn’t be making plans.
By the time it starts snowing, you’re better at his job than he is. He makes a joke about actually retiring, and you take his hand, squeeze it. He runs his thumb over your knuckles.
“Stay, okay?” he asks, out of his mouth before he can think about it any more, unable to look at your face. It takes a few seconds until he finds the strength to look up. You’re studying him.
“Do you want me to stay?” you ask. “Or are you just asking to be polite?” Dean scoffs, shakes his head. Intends to drop his hand, but you don’t let go.
“I mean it, Dean,” you say. He clenches his jaw.
“I, uh, I want you to,” he answers, now not looking at your face. “But I’m, well. I guess I’m scared you’ll say no.”
Horrible seconds pass. Then you lean in. Kiss him, gently. And just as Dean’s brain can start to wonder if that’s a no, you pull back. Look into his eyes.
“Okay,” you reply. Dean takes a sharp breath through his nose.
Okay.
And that’s that.
Thank you for reading! ♡
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summary: dean's your first relationship since your last one went sideways. you've been wary of intimacy ever since, but dean's here to show you what it's like to be loved properly
pairing: dean x reader (gn) | genre: healing smut (mdni) | word count: 2.9k
warnings: referenced past relationship issues (nothing described, but implied toxic/controlling behaviours and loss of reader's autonomy, implied SA/lack of consent), patient and caring dean, tender smut (protected sex, lots of consent and reassurances, just plain n simple penetration)
notes: requested !! mandatory reminder that sex is not expected of you in a relationship !! consent matters, and if your partner cannot respect that, i urge you to do your best to look into resources and ways to get out, because that is never okay. be safe, y'all <3
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There’s something different about Dean Winchester.
You’ve had a boyfriend before, yes, but he was not like Dean. He loved you, and he made it known that he loved you, but he never made you feel special. He was loud and he loved loud, he took up space by forcing the air to fit his shape, making the lights turn on him and illuminate him. For all that brightness, you somehow missed the deep shadows that marred his face, like claw marks of a beast from Hell, warning you of a danger you’d somehow managed to miss. It wasn’t until you started pulling him out of the spotlight that you noticed how forced his love was, how he put on a show to appease you, how he viewed you as a chore with one purpose; sex, when he wanted it, how he wanted it. He gave it to you good, taking those moments to make you feel like the most special person alive, but it never lasted, a costume tossed away at the end of an act as you waited in the wings for your scene.
Dean doesn’t do those things. Space moulds around Dean, like there’s a shape already ready for him, waiting for his appearance and conforming to him wherever he goes. There’s a spot beside him too, for his arm to loop around your shoulders, or his hand to rest on the small of your back, like the world already knew you fit perfectly beside him. His touch is always warm, always just heavy enough to keep you from fading into the background but never pushing you into the light. It’s intuitive the way he knows all your tells, and it makes something grow in your heart every time he remembers your coffee order or which of the pillows you like best in a motel.
You’ve never gone that extra step with Dean, never escalated it any further than a bit of frisky making out in stolen moments alone. You’re sure Dean would be just as kind to you in bed as he is everywhere else, but there’s still something stopping you, a lingering fear that kickstarts in your brain every time his hips unconsciously jerk against yours. Thousands of questions start their deadly spiral in your brain, a million ways you could let him down, a million ways he could scare you or hurt you or remind you how expendable you are. You have no doubt he could make you feel special, but you’re so damn scared that once he gets you spread out under him, he’ll turn into the man you’d dated in the past, only focused on your worth to get him off.
Dean loves you loud too, but Dean loves you loud in the way that says he’s proud to be your boyfriend. He doesn’t view you as a partner along for the ride, or just a social pleasantry that he has to fulfill, like some unspoken quota. He brings you up every chance he gets in bars, your own name passing from his lips to other hunters before he even introduces himself. It’s always you and him, not the other way around. You’re first, the most important thing in his life, the person he’d protect even if it kills him. He’d been worried originally, that he’d get too soft and careless, always worried about you instead of himself. If anything, loving you has made him more dangerous, more lethal and ruthless, yet infinitely more precise and cunning.
Dean’s reputation changed, since knowing you. Gone is the son of John Winchester, who followed his dad into all the hunting circles and made his pay by not being afraid to get his hands dirty. Gone is the man who grew up on the road, chasing demons before he graduated school. In his place is the rugged shape of a Dean that’s been loved by you, that thinks of you like the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s learned to be better, to hunt better and cleaner, to take a page out of the books of the cautious and careful. Once he’d learned you could hold your own without his help, it became less of a need to protect you, and more of a need to come home to you alive. He picks and chooses his hunts when he can, never venturing farther from you than he has to, always making sure he checks in, keeps his weapons maintained, keeps his mind sharp, because he needs to make it home to your kisses and hugs and the comforting way you love him.
It’s obvious how he loves you when you step back and look at him from afar, but it’s even clearer the closer you get. Laying beside him, limbs tangled in sheets and sleepy kisses pressed to foreheads, you can see the way he cares in the lines on his face. Walking with your hand in his, you can hear the affection in his gravelly voice and the vibrations of it are in the shape of your love. Checking him over after a rough hunt, it’s written into every detail of his eyes, every freckle on his skin, soothing over every cut and scar that litters his body. Dean was built to love you. It was written into his very existence.
Right now, you can feel it in the form of Dean’s body heat as you sit together on the motel bed. Sam’s in the next room, having grabbed a second one upon discovering his cold was getting significantly worse, probably already asleep after taking his pills. The world’s narrowed down to your head on Dean’s shoulder and his heartbeat in your ear, breathing deep and comfortable at your side. He’s got a hand resting lightly on the plush of your thigh, thumb rubbing circles to the rhythm of whatever sitcom intro is playing on the TV. Half the sound comes through staticky, and the show keeps cutting to snowy fuzz every so often, but neither of you are really watching it enough to care. You’re whispering low between yourself, half-formed stories and drifting thoughts, untangling worries and fears with reassuring words. His low voice carries through the room, burrowing into your chest and setting up residence in your heart like it was always meant to be there.
At some point, the energy drifts like it always does, falling into something deeper, charged. Dean’s lips slot against yours like he’s coming home, sighing softly as he falls deeper into your touch, nose brushing your cheek. He tastes warm, like soft blankets and hot tea, bringing your bones alive with buzzing anticipation you’ve quelled for months out of fear. Part of you wants to pull back, to slink away until you’re nothing but a faint memory, but Dean’s too intoxicating for that. He’ll always drag you back no matter how far you hide, because you can’t stay away from him, and he can’t keep himself away from you.
He shifts, hands to your waist, tugging you closer. Your arms sling around his neck, fingers curling at the base of his neck, nails working through the strands and making him grin against your mouth. The amulet around his neck pressed against your collarbone, the cool metal shocking even through your shirt, like a brand. The kisses get impossibly deeper until all the separates you is your clothes, barely even enough space to breathe; only enough for the scent of Dean to overwhelm you, and for his touch to remind you where you really are.
It’s only when he rolls over you, legs on either side of your thighs, that you shut down in a panic, palms pressing hard against his chest. He’s off you in a second, sitting back on his heels, one hand still lightly extended in an offering, unsure what to do.
“Too fast?” he asks, watching you carefully.
You shake your head, swallowing hard. “Not fast, just-. Unexpected.”
Dean nods, eyes darting away and back to your worried face again. “C’mon, talk to me. What’s happenin’ in that pretty head of yours?”
“It’s…it’s kind of silly, I guess. I know you wouldn’t do it but I just-. I can’t help but think you might, even though you won’t, and it’s-.”
“Slow down,” Dean says, calm. “Take a breath, alright? You’re ramblin’, sweetheart.”
You follow him, inhaling shaky and exhaling even shakier. There’s tremor in your hands and a slight ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before. Everything feels close, too close, like it could wrap around you and suffocate you in the air you breathe. How ironic an end that would be, to die by the means of what keeps you alive.
“This about somethin’ I did?” Dean asks.
“Not you. Never you.”
He frowns. “This about that ex-boyfriend you pretend doesn’t exist?”
You nod, shameful. Dean’s jaw ticks.
“He do somethin’ to you? He touch you when he wasn’t supposed to?”
Dean takes your silence for the answer that it is, and something dangerous flashes across his expression. He must notice the way you shrink back at it, because immediately it’s gone, replaced by that trademark devout love that makes him look alive.
“It was a while ago, Dean, it doesn’t really matter,” you say quietly.
He huffs an exasperated laugh. “’Course it matters. That kinda stuff doesn’t just go away.”
You reach your arms out for him, and he brings you to his chest, big hands rubbing steady circles on your back, fingers tapping rhythms to songs only he can hear. He murmurs in your ear, rocking you gently back and forth. You don’t cry, not now, but there’s no mistaking the lump of emotion in your throat.
“You wanna stop?” Dean whispers against your ear. “We don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want. Not now, not ever. Okay?”
You nod, whispering something into his neck he can’t quite make out. He taps you once on the shoulder, a silent ask for you to repeat yourself. Dean kisses the top of your head as you sit upright, rubbing a thumb over the redness of your cheeks.
“I think I want to. I trust you, I just-.”
You clear your throat, and Dean looks at you patiently, like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world.
“I just need you to go slow. I need you to talk to me, I need you to listen. That’s all.”
“Promise,” Dean says, leaning in. “We’ll go as slow as you want, okay?”
His hands come up to cup your face again. “You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He tips closer, lips ghosting across yours. “Can I kiss you?”
You smile softly, already pressing your lips on his. “Yeah.”
He takes it, hand on the back of your head and tangled in your hair, bringing you as close as he can, because he thinks if he doesn’t let his soul irreversibly merge with yours, he’ll never be the same again. It’s important to him that you know how much you mean, and it’s important to you that he knows you feel the same. You kiss him back the same way he kisses you; deep, impossible to tell where you end and he begins, hopelessly intwined in each other.
“Gonna lay you back now,” he murmurs, lips kissing down your face, to your pulse point, down your neck.
You let him maneuver you into the mattress, head resting on the pillows, blankets forming ripples like a pond under your weight. His fingers tease at the hem of your shirt, and you help pull it over your head, tossing it lightly to rest at the bedside for tomorrow morning’s wear. His shirt follows, your fingers trailing along the anti-possession symbol on his chest, tangling in the cord of the amulet, thumb resting over the charm like you can memorize its shape by touch alone. Dean keeps kissing you, never letting his lips stray far from your skin, always having some part of him touching some part of you because if he doesn’t, you might disappear.
“Off?” Dean asks, nudging at the waistband of your jeans.
You hesitate for a moment, and when Dean’s pretty eyes blink softly at you from above, you lift your hips so he can slide your jeans off, taking your underwear in the process. For a flash of a second you try to cover up, until Dean’s pants and boxers join yours on the floor and his big hands catch your wrists.
“Why’re you hidin’, sweetheart?” he murmurs.
“’M not hiding,” you reply quietly.
Dean smiles. “Good. Wanna see you, wanna see how pretty you are.”
His gaze rakes over you, flitting from your face to your chest, to the curve of your hips and down your thighs. Every mark, every scar, every stretch line and mole, all of it is worshipped by him. Dean makes the parts you don’t like feel beautiful, because for the first time ever, someone isn’t looking at your flaws like a burden; he’s looking at them like they’re the best part of you, like they too are deserving of kindness and love.
You can’t help but have your eyes drift over him in return, taking him in. He’s pretty, you think, pretty in way you’ve never really noticed before. Face dusted pink, lips a little swollen from kissing you, freckles smattered across his shoulders and down his chest. You can make out the outline of his muscles, proof that he really is that big bad hunter everyone says he is, but it’s never the focus. He never draws attention to that part of him, not anymore, not when he can talk about you instead. His hands leave their tracing of your body to fumble for something in a drawer, and you watch as he carefully unwraps a condom and slides it over himself.
“Okay?” he asks when he’s situated. “We still doin’ good?”
You nod, lashes fluttering. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
“Good,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at the hinge of your jaw. “Ready for me, or d’you want a bit yet?”
You consider your options. On one hand, you’re nervous, anxiety humming under the surface like dozens of bees, their stingers prickling your skin from the inside out. On the other hand, Dean’s so patient, loving in a way no one’s ever been with you before, like he’s set on erasing every bad thing that’s ever happened to you and replacing it with memories of him.
“I-. ‘M ready, Dean. Just-.”
“Go slow,” he answers for you. “I will, promise.”
He lines himself up with you, taking your hand in his and stretching it up to rest near your head, squeezing gently and thumb brushing over your knuckles. He tips his head in that endearing way that makes butterflies pool in your stomach, dipping down to capture your lips in a searing kiss as he slowly pushes himself inside you. True to his word, he takes his time, letting you adjust around him, only moving further when you kiss his cheek and tell him he can.
When he’s fully seated in you, he watches your eyes for discomfort, tracking the way your lashes flutter with each heartbeat. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, bringing him down for another kiss and telling him he can move again. Dean’s careful, soft, making sure not to accidentally break you or let you fade into something he can never get back. Each thrust of his hips into yours comes with another rub of his thumb on your knuckles and a gentle kiss to your lips, comforting you and grounding you in the intimacy rather than the action itself.
You come first, gentle and slow, low wave of heat rolling in your core and washing over you comfortably. It’s not loud or dramatic, and Dean doesn’t make a show of it; just smiles, kissing lightly against your temple and helping you through it. He follows seconds later, spilling into the condom with a soft huff of a sigh against the skin of your neck, hand resting tangled in yours and the other lying over your heart, feeling the beating. Your fingers drift to his hair as he carefully pulls out, the sensation as grounding to you as it is to him. He peels off the condom, stepping into the bathroom to throw it out and returning with a cloth to clean you off.
“Doin’ alright?” he murmurs, thumb resting on your jaw when you’re clean and dry.
“Yeah,” you reply. “You?”
“I’m golden.”
You laugh softly, the sound echoing in the space in a way that doesn’t crowd, but feels loved, lived in, required. Surprising both yourself and Dean, a stray tear slips into your hairline.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Dean says, kissing away the tracks.
“Nothing, I just-. No one’s ever done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Made me feel like that.”
Dean grins. “’S cause nobody’s ever loved you properly, sweetheart.”
You reach for him again and he goes willingly into your arms.
summary: A hot day of rest, no hunting. Stealing the Impala is almost a necessity. Especially when Sam is in love.
warning/tags: no one!! it's fluff. friends to lovers!! well deserved normality for our guy samuel. also words related to the show: mentions of violence, demons etc. but they are so normal and cute and funny. They are a TEASE. No use of y\n.
ara note: omg this is my personal mission of giving sam winchester a partner and a lover who doesn’t end in flames lmao. i love him very much. also this fic is inspired by the river by bruce springsteen, and the book mentioned is real, published in 1967. happy reading xox
Dean Winchester is going to kill his little brother.
Sam knows it. But right now, with the Impala's windows down and you, tanned legs folded over the seat, leaning out, half your head sticking out of the car, he doesn't care.
It was a hot day, so hot that Dean had locked himself in the room Bobby had assigned him, windows open, and gone to just lay. That's why he hadn't seen her, the way Sam had seen her, down in the kitchen in her shorts and old Stanford t-shirt as a top while he read from his computer. A potential case, whatever.
Dean hadn't seen her lean towards him, tucking her hair behind her neck with a tired smile.
"I have to get out of here, Sammy."
"Too hot?" Sam's blood had boiled at that moment, so nothing else mattered.
"Damn right."
And so they left.
Your laughter sounds like silk against the air of the road. And Sam thinks he could do this for the rest of his life. Yes, exactly this. You, by his side, close, with a lightness that purifies all things.
An oasis, that possibility. A hazy vision on the horizon, receding with every step he takes toward it.
The journey to the village isn't long, but the boy savors every second. When he doesn't need to shift gears, his hand ends up at your ankle, his fingers encircling it. There, next to your skin, is where it belongs.
You are his best friend, the smartest girl he knows. The brightest light. With an expression designed to stun all his senses, as if he had imagined you. As if before meeting you he had made an absurd, adolescent wish, materialized before him in a smile capable of blinding. That's why he knew he was safe, that Dean wouldn't care, because all you'd have to do is pout at his brother for him to forget what happened.
Your charm knows no bounds. He is sure of it.
Sam parks inside the town almost against his will, wanting to prolong every second. Watching you get out of the car, sticking your legs out in front of you and moving away from his hands feels like a betrayal. But two seconds later he's by your side.
"Do you want to go to Linda's?"
Your eyes sparkle at the question. Linda is an adorable older woman who still keeps her small bookstore open for the few interested customers who pass by. Most of the time you and Sam go, she doesn't charge you for the books. Sometimes she lets you take one as long as you return it. For you, having something like this has been like breathing fresh air. Something separate from readings stuff linked to lore, folklore, and hunting.
"The day I say no to that—” You automatically cling to his arm. “That day I'm possessed."
It's too hot to be so close, but Sam doesn't seem to mind. In fact, as you walk toward the small shop, he's aware of the smell coming from your hair. The sweat has mixed with your shampoo in an essence that unnerves him. Enough to cloud his judgment for a few seconds.
Until you pull away from him to push open the door, and Linda runs out to hug you.
“Oh, my favorite couple!” The way she swings you in her tiny arms makes you giggle.
Sam, ready to receive his allotted squeeze, smiles too. “Oh, how many times do I have to tell you we’re frie-…”
The lady plants a sticky kiss on his cheek with a dry smack before muttering, “Hold your horses, cowboy.”
That makes Sam blush to the point of embarrassment, but you’re not there to see it , your nose already buried between the bookshelves.
“Gonna help a girl find a book or what?”
You sound amused, standing on tiptoe to reach the titles on the top shelf. Linda keeps the classics there, and she has everything. You like it. You really like to read. You write little stories now and then. But what you like most…
Sam’s hand reaches for the book before you can even try to grab it.
“How did you know I was gonna choose that one?!”
When you turn to face him, Sam is there. Pressed against you. Your backside bumps against the books on the shelf.
The smile he gives you is bright. “You told me.”
You snatch it from his hands, but Sam doesn’t move. There, in front of him, you sharing his smile, makes his heart races. It pounds in his chest. Thump, thump, thump. Your head lifts to look at him, as if you can hear his ribcage rumble.
Sam wonders if you actually can, if behind that satisfied expression lies the certainty that he would do anything for you. Take his brother's car, go to your favorite place, help you choose the next book you want to read, and put an end to anything that might be bothering you.
I would, Sam thinks as he takes a step back. I would do anything she asked me to.
"You two! What are you doing back there?" Linda's voice comes from the shop entrance, more amused than threatening, and you give Sam a squeeze on the bicep and a wink.
Then you've disappeared with the book in your hands.
"Oh, dear. What a good pick!" Linda is snatching the book from your hands. "What a lovely love story..."
"Linda, it's the devil arriving in Moscow."
The old woman shakes her head and hands the book back to you. "Don't get confused, it's Margarita making deals with him to save the Master."
Sam is taking a couple of bills out of his back pocket when Linda raises her hand toward him.
"Don't even think about it, boy."
You open your mouth to protest, but she interrupts you again.
"You'll give it back to me. When you've read it..." Looking at both of you over the tops of her glasses, she snarls. "Let's see if you learn a thing or two."
Sam lets out a little laugh, almost ironic. "To negotiate with the devil?"
You've pressed the book to your chest, and you shrink back when Sam reaches your side and puts an arm around your shoulder. Because of the height difference, being comfortable means that his hand rests at the nape of your neck, gently supporting you from there.
"You'll do anything for love, right?"
That almost makes you choke, because what a world you live in. If that woman only knew that the devil is closer than she thinks, in all those creatures that Dean and Sam chase every day, outside the salt-covered windows that surround your houses... A shiver runs through you, but the way Sam's hand grips your neck from behind, burning there; extinguishes it.
You murmur several thanks before leaving the shop.
Out on the street, Sam allows himself to raise his eyebrows with a sarcastic smile.
"If she only knew, huh..."
You cut him off quickly. Maybe too quick.
"I don't want to talk about it. Don't want to talk about hunt—" You bite your lip, almost embarrassed. You feel selfish. But it's warm, the sun is shining, the breeze is gentle... and you're so young. So young to be able to enjoy all of this for a day without thinking the world will end tomorrow. Even if it's true. "I'm sorry, maybe it's selfish, I don't know, but I'd like to... I'd like to enjoy this afternoon. Without monsters, just... you and me. Even though I know it's all ther—, and we can go home and keep reading if that's what you..."
"Hey." Sam's arm wraps around you. He's wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, which is strange. You're so used to seeing him in flannel or thin shirts. When he wraps his arm around you, his skin rubs against your skin. That makes you snap your mouth shut, the book clutched to your chest.
"We can take the afternoon off, love."
Love, the heat rises up your neck. Sam rarely calls you that. He should do it more often. All the time.
"Yes?"
"Sure"
He pulls you close, a smirk on his face. "How about we stop for supplies and head to the river?"
Oh, yes. You like that. And Sam knows you like it. That makes your heart flutter. One of your arms wraps around his waist too, pulling him toward the car.
"It's a stream, Sam, I wouldn't even call it a river."
"Whatever. We'll grab a bag of chips and you can tell me why on earth you want to read about some woman negotiating with the devil."
Once in the car, you lean against him in the front seat, shoulder to shoulder.
"The Master and Margarita is a Russian classic, Sam. And Russians always have some kind of thing going on with the devil."
Now you're moving, Sam wrinkles his nose in that characteristic way, before leaning towards you.
"I thought those were the British. You know, Shakespeare." You feel him pinch your thigh with a smile, making you let out a stifled groan. "Hell is empty, all the devils are here."
You can allow yourself to turn, one arm dangling back on the seat, your body curled up in a fetal position toward him. With the breeze coming in through the window, the strands of hair on his forehead are subtly tousled.
The smile on Sam's lips, after perfectly quoting a work from the 1600s, makes your stomach leap. You know he's proud of being a brainiac, able to connect every concept and idea and arrive at all sorts of conclusions. His mind amazes you, inspires you to reach his level every day.
"You're a nerd."
Then it's your turn to dig your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, gently tugging it back. Sam lets out a growl, and the sound makes you smile.
"Oh, you love hearing that, don't you? The way you're so smart."
"Shut up."
But he says it is gentle, giving way to your side so you don't stop petting him.
For Sam, having to stop the car in front of the gas station convenience store again is a punishment. He wants to stay like this, with your hand on him, longer. All the time. He doesn't even turn off the car engine before opening the door.
"Stay here, I'll get it."
It turns out Sam also knows you hate having to choose snacks.
He's back with you in minutes, the driver's door slamming shut. Clutching a huge bag of chips—those sour treats you love—two cans of beer, some peanuts... he sets them down beside you, between you on the leather seat.
"Had you started reading yet?" Sam starts the car, nodding at the book in your lap as he maneuvers to back out.
"Oh no, no. Was waiting for you."
That somehow softens his heart a little.
The drive to the stream isn't long, and you reach it in about fifteen minutes, far enough from town to take a dirt road and know you're the only two people there.
Bobby showed you the place the first time the Winchester brothers left you alone in their house, when you thought the roof was going to swallow you whole.
Later, you showed it to Sam, that night when a meteor shower was supposed to be visible, but it never materialized because it was all a side effect of a spell cast by a witch a few states away. Dean and Cas had dealt with her before you both could see anything.
There were no stars, but you showed Sam the stream, and it was the first time you thought it was worth trying to kiss your best friend. You didn't dare, though. As if breaking the spell had affected you too.
Now, Sam parks the car as close to the water as possible. This is two meters from the shore, where the trees have left enough space for the light to pass through.
When you both get out, the earth under Sam's boots feels heavy, like it's being pulled downwards. It always happens to him when you go to that place. As if it were somehow sacred, a place you share intimately.
You follow the usual pattern. He takes an old blanket from the trunk, lays it on the grass so you can sit down. You take care of catching the beers between two stones in the water, to ensure they're cold when you decide to drink them.
"Wanna read me something then?"
Once you're seated, you realize you brought the book Linda lent you with you.
Uh. You lean towards him as he opens the sweets to grab the first one he sees. Sam's hand hangs suspended in the air, looking at you with a smile.
"Only if you’re gonna feed me, pretty boy."
You're turning to grab the book when Sam's hand encircles your waist, from there, he pulls you back. On top of him.
You're propped up on your elbows right next to his side, about to rest your head in his lap.
Looking at him like this is funny, because your faces are practically reversed.
"Pretty, huh?" Sam's hand goes straight to gently pinch the bridge of your nose.
You try to bite his finger.
That's enough. He thinks, I can't take any more.
You end up with your head in his lap because Sam bends over just enough to crash his lips against yours. The impact pushes you back, preventing you from kissing him. Purely for balance.
"Oh, God! I'm sorry—I, uh. I shouldn't..."
Your laughter, clear as the water before you, cuts him off. Now it's your turn to rise, awkwardly grasping his neck with one arm to kiss him. Chastely. A dry kiss that prompts Sam to lift you from between his arms so you don't have to strain.
"I feel like a teenager." Sam's murmur against your lips makes you relax. He's just as nervous as you are.
"It'll be okay." You pull away slowly, after brushing against him one last time.
Somehow, you want to preserve that pure line that you are, that line that binds you like a ribbon and doesn't need to be named.
"Right." Although Sam lets you pull away, and you settle back down with your head in his lap, your hair spread out on the blanket and grass, book in hand; his right arm still holds your waist, encircling you from there. "Now explain to me how the devil gets to Moscow, baby."
The smile you give him from your position makes his heart leap, and for Sam, it shines brighter than the sun still beating down on you from the west.
You start reading, and that's how you spend at least the first hour and a half. While your voice breaks the silence of the place, Sam starts placing sweets on your lips every time your fingers turn a couple of pages. You talk with your mouth full, chewing gum. He doesn't mind.
When the sun begins to set, his hand on your waist has moved to caress the strands of hair that fall beside you. That makes your eyes close, making it harder and harder to read. You stop narrating the moment the Master finishes telling his story with Margarita.
"The guy was down bad."
Sam's voice sounds deep, as if not making a sound since the kiss has taken its toll on his throat.
"U think?" Your question comes out with a specific tone, and you notice your eyelashes flutter when you look at him. Oh, he's talking about...
"Oh, could bet."
That makes you smile, feeling the heat rise from your neck to your face. Oh, he was right, like fucking teenagers.
"Let's get that beer."
It's still warm, even though the sun has gone down, so you go straight into the water to get the bottles.
You both end up on the hood of the car, Sam leaning against it and you sitting with your knees bent. The cold beer moistens your throat.
You don't need to talk much. You end up leaning over his shoulder, and Sam turns his head just enough to kiss your forehead, right at your hairline.
You wish your life could be like this. Maybe that way you'd be braver. Maybe that way you'd kiss more, everything would be more outwardly visible. But without knowing if tomorrow he'll be miles away, drilling a bullet into some creature's skull, it seems that all that whirlwind of emotions building in your chest is enough. That the silence, shared with Sam, is enough.
A few minutes later, the sunset bathes the stream. What was once green has turned into a soft peach color, shimmering against the stones in the water. It's perfect, you think, as Sam moves just enough to slip his arm behind you, pulling you close.
"Oh, look at that." Your hand points directly at a pair of birds perched on a rock, about to dive into the water. “Only if Dean wasn't going to kill us if we got the leather seats wet, I would bathe with them."
Sam looks at you, the way your nose wrinkles in that way he likes so much. You're fucking adorable. Capable of putting up with all his crap, this life, and moved by the simplest things in nature.
"And what about me?" He moves away from the hood, lifting one leg to take off his cowboy boot. “Would you bathe with me?”
You let out a laugh, looking at him incredulously. Dean's going to kill you if you get the car dirty. Although, well, he'll probably kill you just for taking it without asking him.
"Wanna bet?" Your voice comes out funny, as if you still can't quite believe what you're seeing.
Sam raises his eyebrows from his position, reaching for his shirt from behind before pulling it off. The vision of it dries your mouth.
"I'm not the one who's still dressed, pretty girl." It's his challenging tone, somewhere between teasing and affectionate, that makes you jump for joy.
You'll remember the water, the laughter, and Sam's lips hours later;
when Dean is yelling at his brother from the second you park the car in the driveway until the moment you lock yourselves in Bobby's bathroom. Together.
this is chapter 5 of we’re collateral here man, we got hit.
Summary: Dean's deal is over. Reader learns what Sam becomes without his brother. A lie is exposed, and the blood addiction begins.
Warnings: Angst!!! like, A LOT. Ugh!!! not a second of happiness for these people (in the next chapter, I promise). The usual warnings for SPN. Ruby appears. Demonblood!Sam. Very intense.
previous || next
Dear diary, dont know what day is it.
Things are screw.
Dean is gone. He is really gone. I saw his body being dragged away by hellhounds.
Writing that down doesn't even make sense.
I didn't see death, though.
And now there's a name. Just one name.
Lilith.
It's all I have left. That name. I'm writing this on a bus, with all the swaying that entails. I haven't even cried.
I don't even know if I'm capable of talking about him.
I'm out.
He wants me out.
I don't know what to do.
This is a bad.
She's a bad idea. He's known her, he's known her for a while now, and not knowing that is a bad news.
A hole has opened up inside you when you look at her.
"Trust me."
Sam's voice is soft, his eyes reserved only for this moment. To watch the distortion of your face, how every emotion crosses your eyes and your breath changes in an instant. It's risky, he knows it, and he knows you know it. But it's him. And everything he does has to make sense to you, because otherwise it won't make sense to anyone.
Your response is a bitter laugh, dripping with decay, it's her fault. Her presence.
You feel like you're in a minefield, with another soldier far away, so far away you can't tell which side they're on.
"Don't you dare..." The way your voice comes out, like a growl, hits Sam right in the face. “You should have told me all this.”
He's never seen you like this. But he'd never lost his brother before, so each emotion kills the next. He feels numb. And Ruby's presence behind him is like an outstretched hand, pulling him, dispossessing him. He needs it. He needs what she has to offer him.
But he also needs you. Those two things can coexist. The taste of blood in his mouth and the longing to crash his lips against yours again. Both are part of his world. Both throb within him. But Sam still has a shred of sanity left. He can't keep demanding things from you.
"You know you're my best friend?"
That throws your thoughts into disarray. You're so angry, after finding him in that motel with her. So many things are going through your head at that moment. So many horrible things.
Of course Sam didn't choose you. Of course that kiss you shared months ago was nothing. A mad rush, the product of a high. Of course, Sam prefers the rush that comes with exorcising demons. After all, he's become a real hunter, hasn't he?
And you're just a girl.
"Yeah?" You're sarcastic. You wish you weren't, but friends don't lie to each other. They don't hide things. They don't kiss, for God's sake. You feel the line of your sanity cracking when he gets close to you.
"Yeah."
You roll your eyes reflexively. This is too much. Sam sees you hesitate, but it doesn't matter. He has to go through with it; his decision is made.
"Tell her to leave."
You demand it louder than you should; your voice isn't controlled. You have to grab your wrist, force your hands to stop trembling. The demon, Ruby, smiles at you from the corner of the room. Her attractiveness makes you nauseous.
"Oh, you poor little thing..."
"Ruby." Sam cuts her off abruptly. It's the first time you hear him speak to her, and his voice is sharp. Cutting and dry. "Give us a minute."
The girl, or whatever she is, huffs and leaves the room.
Sam calls your name.
You want to cry, scream at him... hit him. Yes. You do that. Two steps and you're in front of him, slamming your hand against his chest. It's like hitting a concrete wall.
That's how it all feels. Hopeless. A pointless struggle.
His hand reaches for your wrist, stopping you from hitting again. He has a serious expression; and you notice his sunken eyes.
“I need to keep you like this.”
You see his jaw clench, his eyes searching for yours, fixed on his chest. Sam leans in just enough, touching nothing more than the wrist wrapped around his fingers; just enough to make you look up. So that your eyes are level.
You're sold, you know it from that moment.
"And how is that?"
The struggle within you is still there, shrinking inside your chest. Its volume decreases. You feel that any reaction is insufficient, and that leaves you frozen. The bomb isn't going to explode, it will just keep ticking.
“Safe.” A lighthouse to follow when all these darkness are over. “Clean.”
Bu you are not a damn ship.
And for you, loving Sam is the constant worry of having left the stove on. Now you know. Every time you go apart, you aren't sure if you'll ever see him again, safe and sound or reduced to ashes.
“Don’t act like i’m not affected by any of this, i been affected by it for years.”
But for Sam, you're an anchor, a garden where things remain as they should be. You're not his past, not his college friend; you're a pair of eyes he's kept finding, again and again, while everything around him has changed. That's why he can't take any risks. That's why he knows he has to put a restraint on himself.
“I know... I kn— but I have to believe it.”
It's not even about deserving you anymore. Deserving that, love, a partner. Something he obviously doesn't think he does. No, it's not that. It's selfishness. It's a selfishness that comes from the very depths of his being when he sees you. Sam knows it, he can't have you, but he certainly isn't going to let you go.
Because he's yours.
Wherever you go, whatever you stay; part of him will always follow.
“Believe in what?”
“That there is a way.” His voice trembles there. Dean's gone, all that's left is to fight to bring him back, to avenge his name. And you. You. “A way to come back home.”
You are too stunned to even speak, to even have something to shot at that.
Then he continues, more like trying to convince himself than you.
“You were there when dad kicked me out, you were there before Jess. Fuc—, you were there when I started breathing again! Don’t tell me it doesn’t make sense.”
You surrender.
Of course you do, cause in the end you will do anything for him.
“So what do you want me to do?.”
He wish you would remain tender. Remain soft. Like young flesh not hitten by the violence of life. This life. You can see it in his eyes as you drop your question.
But the fact is that you are already doomed, and its his love for you what make it unable for him to see that theres not point in drawing everything back now.
But you cannot deny him anything. Never could and never will.
“Go. Keep yourself alive.”
The sound at the door wakes you instantly.
Your dog's ears to the roof. Maroon sleeps with you ever since you've been alone, as if he knows there's an emptiness inside you that can't be filled. Scared of you fading.
You tense up, and as you get up you grab the revolver you keep on the nightstand. Along with the other indeterminate things: your diary, a Polaroid of Sam at university, a box of condoms you'll never use, but he used to laugh about it. The usual.
You're staying in a single-story house, one of those that looks prefabricated inside and out. Half of it cork.
Your dog starts barking when you step out into the entryway, which is also the living room, which is also the kitchen. It's charming, that's what you thought the first time.
It's the only place I have, is what you think now.
The knocking on the door repeats.
"I'm armed!" you shout as you open it.
If it's a demon, it won't be able to get in. You made sure to fill the porch with containment symbols the first night you slept here. You've had enough of demons, you really have.
The lock clicks as you turn the stop, and the door opens fully.
You were expecting anything. Literally anything but this. The older Winchester, back from the dead.
"Dean."
The smile Dean gives you is awkward, like he doesn't quite know what he's doing there either. His eyes lands on you for a second and then his view search behind your back, like hoping for someone else to be there. You didn't notice. And he doesn't have time for much more before you grab his shoulder and slam him against you.
Dean is alive. Dean is alive. Holy shit, Dean is alive.
He hugs you back, in his particular and strange way. Like vertically. It's weird, but it makes you laugh. You almost feel tears stinging your eyes.
"Well, Sweetheart, that wasn't very smart of you." He gives you one last squeeze before pulling away. "What if I am a demon?"
"Yeah. Well, you're not."
You look at his face. It's exactly the same, except for a dark, somewhat tormented expression. Well, he's been to hell, hasn't he?
"You're alive."
"Damn right."
The silence that then falls also settles in a strange way. For a second, your chest warms. Dean is alive, that means everything can go back to the way it was, right? He can come back to you. He can put that stupid revenge behind him and come back. You can face it all together.
Maybe he's already back. The thought flashes through your mind like lightning, so much so that you push Dean's body aside to peek out the door. Yes, he's going to be there, in the Impala, too ashamed to face the situation. He'll be waiting for you there. Because Sam never handled your arguments well, because in college he always took several attempts before approaching you after a fight.
You don't have time to take another step.
"Bobby told me where you were." Dean's voice makes you turn your head. "I thought... well, that you both would be together. You know, Sammy."
Your breath catches in your throat. Your heart sinks.
Of course, Dean is here for Sam. Dean has come looking for Sam.
You close the front door, and everything goes dark.
"He's not here."
Dean pronounces your name gravely.
"What do you mean he's not here? " His voice is reproachful. Of course it is. It's your fault his little brother isn't safe. You were the one responsible for taking care of him.
"Dean, I..."
"So turns out no one has looked, no one has bothered to see if there was any way to bring me... Son of a bit—, where the hell is him if not with you?"
You turn on the entryway light to shut him up, noticing the anger starting to rise within you as well.
"Well, you can throw whatever you want at me, Winchester." You nod at him, pointing behind his back. "But don't say I didn't try."
When Dean turns around, the sight that greets him embarrasses and shocks at the same time. Your house, walls and all, is filled with papers, instruments, open Bibles, and scrolls.
So you've been searching.
You did try to pull him out.
"So it was thanks to you?" When he looks at you again, Dean's eyes have softened, the anger he'd been building up is gone.
"Well... I don't think so." You walk past him, and to get to your kitchen you have to kick a pile of manuscripts. You've been catching up on reading. "It wasn't me. The clues were leading nowhere..."
You put the water in the coffee maker on to boil.
"And you don't know where Sam is."
Now's your moment to look at him, arms crossed, while your dog sniffs his leg and Dean gives him a strange look.
"No."
You don't want to sound so curt, you really don't. But you'd gotten used to Bobby avoiding the subject. And since Bobby was the only person you talked to regularly... well, hearing his name so many times in a row was starting to reopen the wound.
"Have you not even tried lookin' for him?" Dean's voice sounds skeptical.
"He doesn't want me to." You start moving around your kitchen, just to keep your hands busy while you have this conversation.
Holding a couple of mugs and making sure they don't fall on the floor helps keep you from bursting into tears.
"He's been with someone, these past few months..." You continue explaining, clearing your throat, while filling the mugs with coffee. Black coffee. Yes. Appropriate.
"What the h—My brother did what?" The question comes out of Dean's mouth with exceptional smoothness. “A girl?”
He sounds incredulous, as if what he's asking doesn't even make sense. You nod off as you pass him the coffee, and bring your own mug to your lips. If you drink, you'll burn your tongue. But you don't care. The first sip goes down like fire in your throat.
"I wouldn't be so sure it's a girl, if you know what I mean."
Dean seems to freeze in place.
"A demon?"
The way you nod your head, as if you yourself are ashamed of his involvement, is the only answer Dean needs. He knows her too.
“Son of a bitch!”
Bobby Singer
U better get here Kid. — 6.00. p.m
As fast as u can. — 6.05. p.m
Dean (Sams') — three missed calls.
You arrive at Bobby's place after midnight. You've had enough time to think along the way. For the past two months, for your own peace of mind, you've kept a safe distance from the hunters. You helped Dean find Sam, but you didn't even go with him the day he saw his brother again. Getting caught up in the spiral wasn't an option for you. The thing is, Sam hasn't tried to contact you either, which is enough of a sign that you're getting closer to the exit every day. To stepping outside of here, to turning your back on the only person you've shared everything with.
How does that end?
Getting out of the old Dodge Bobby lent you, you see Dean in the doorway, bent over a gas can while talking to a man in a trench coat. Strange, because it's really hot. Dean's in short sleeves, you're in a tank top. Though maybe it's the stress. You feel like you cannot breathe.
They both look up at you after seeing the car lights go out.
Then, in two steps, the man is gone. Vanished
The angel.
This is the angel Dean's been talking about.
Your throat goes dry.
Your voice comes out raspy as you reach him. "What happened?"
“You were gone. I was here. I had to keep fighting without you."
"I'm not drinking the demon blood for kicks. I'm getting strong enough to kill Lilith!"
The screams weren't audible from outside, but inside the basement they echoed off every wall.
Your heart races.
Instinctively, you move so fast toward the steel door that Bobby, already there, struggles to catch you before you reach the lock.
"What the hell!?" You glance back at Dean, still bent over the stairs.
"It had to be done, kid." Bobby's voice is gentle, and his grip on your arm loosens. Not moving away, though, his hand still near your elbow.
"What the hell happened, Dean?"
The screams continue, Sam's voice reaching you in waves of torture, complete with thumps and grunts. You have to squeeze your eyes shut for a second to try and focus.
No, no, no.
This isn't right.
"Sam's been drinking demon blood."
You look at the older brother silently. You would have loved to avoid it, this topic; but your damn problem with Sam is that you'll always respect his decisions, no matter how questionable they are.
"You knew."
You have to look at Bobby to not think about the way Dean's reproach reaches you. The old man is also watching you with concern. He's the only one who's seen the hell you've been through, and even then you can't find a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes.
"You have to convince him that this is for his own good...” It's not a recommendation from Bobby, it sounds like an order. It sounds inevitable. “...or he is going to hurt himself."
You break free from his grip by taking a step back and look both ways.
They're crazy if they think what you have to say matters. You already tried to make Sam stay with you, you already tried to stop all this from becoming the nightmare it is.
"And what makes you think he's going to listen to me?" A knock on the panic room door makes you jump.
Then Sam shouts again. Your name. He calls you with a desperation that makes your skin crawl.
The look you get from the hunters is obvious. He's been asking for someone.
No, he's been asking for you.
This time, Bobby allows you to reach the door.
You place a hand on it, as if you could weigh, simply by touch, Sam's situation.
"Open the vent, kid."
Bobby's voice reaches you distantly, but it makes you remember that the mechanism exists. That you can look inside the panic room. That you can see him.
Sam screams again, there's a bang. Your whole body urges you to open the door. It takes you a few seconds to react, but finally you raise your hand to open the window to that nightmare.
You see him, mainly because of his size. Sam is on his knees in the center of the room, he's pulled his shirt tight enough; as if hugging himself, which is tattered on one side. He raises his head at the sound of the vent.
And your eyes meet.
For Sam, your gaze from the other side is a delusion. An illusion. He's dreamed about you so many times that this is how he pays for the lack of demon blood. This is withdrawal caused by the drug. You, a few meters away after months of separation; completely out of his reach.
He remembers calling for you, like someone praying towards a light. It's something he's been doing for a while now. Talking to you, even though you're not there. Sam knew he couldn't call you, that he couldn't pick up the phone and tell you about his fighter jets, so he spoke into the void. He spoke into the void, uttering your name. Ruby used to make fun of him for it. Poor desperate bastard.
But now you're here.
Sam lets out a hysterical laugh; his imagination is pushing him to the limit. They have to let him out. He has to drink.
“Sam.”
Your voice, from the other side, is soft. And you see the effect it has on him instantly. Sam's body relaxes. He tries to come to his senses, and it takes him a while. But finally he does, and he moves toward the door. One foot after the other, rising above himself.
Until you're eye to eye.
You see his hand rise, you see his fingers reach for the space between you.
"Easy, Sam." Dean's voice comes from behind you, and it seems to snap Sam out of his reverie. His hand stops. He lets it fall.
And his eyes fill with tears. He says your name, softly, as if you're about to disappear.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorr—." Now you're crying too. Seeing him so broken, like a caged animal. "I should never have pushed you away, I should never have-"
"It's okay." You interrupt him, your hand on the doorknob.
But you see his eyes, red, desperate. Filled with more emotion than simply seeing you. Sam needs help. And he needs to stay there. He needs to stay away from demons.
"No." Sam's hands reach for the window, his fingers entwining with the steel. His eyes locked on yours. "I deserve this. I deserve the punishment..."
The hairs on the back of your neck prickle at the mere sound of his voice. He is the shadow of a man. Reason has deserted him; only instinct and desperation remain.
One of your hands reaches for the bar, your fingers brushing against his. Again, you see Sam's face twitch and relax, as if he's becoming aware that you're there, in front of him. That you're real.
"Sam, you need help." You hear Dean, behind you, nod in agreement. " And I've come to help you."
Something flickers in his eyes.
"Good, then let me out."
"No."
Your answer is instantaneous, though it's tinged with the echo of Dean and Bobby's voices.
Sam looks like a wounded dog in front of you.
"We need to kill Lilith, we need to... it's her fault. Everything. Dean's death, what's happening to me."
"And we will kill the bitch." Dean approaches from behind; you feel his presence over your shoulder. "But not at the cost of losing you, Sam."
You see his brother's words crush him, you see Sam look at you, searching for an answer. You nod. Of course, you're on his team. You always have been.
"I'm not losing you again." Your voice is clear.
And those words mean so much. Sam is your friend, sure, your best friend. But he's something more. You both know it, ever since that day in the parking lot, when Sam fainted in front of you. And how from that moment on, his protectiveness towards you was constant, to the point of pushing you away.
You see Sam's chest swell. He opens his mouth, ready to ask for your forgiveness again. He thinks that maybe he should get down on his knees. He thinks that maybe you should go in, and maybe he should make amends for every wrong he's done to you since the moment you entered his life. But you interrupt him. You cut off that line of thought with a harsh voice that resonates in his ears and makes him feel sober for the first time in days.
"But no lies, you hear me? You have to be ready, Sam." You grab his finger through the window and pull. His eyes on you. "You have to be ready to come home."
