𝒢𐔌ㅤㅤ𓈒 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT having sam winchester as your coworker isn't for the weak. especially when he demands much than you except it, so much. semi public sex, fingering, oral sex, exhibisionism.
CO-WORKER!SAM who was the first to introduce at the company's welcome lunch. it was your fifth change of work relocation since last december and you were exhausted to say the least. so the fact that him among all the people came to you with that characteristic smile of his, made your world a little more simple than before.
you both talked for hours and so, finding out you shared a lot of things in common: comics, books about history, being the youngest sibling, etc. the night ended with sam taking your phone just to register his number on it saying— "promise that you'll call me whenever you need it. we're coworkers now, you can't escape from me."
CO-WORKER!SAM who in between of your work schedule, always has time to send you a message thread with jokes. like, he's the absolute king of "did you see this?" links just to see your reactions across the room. and if you look up— gosh he's already looking towards you with a full on smile while chuckling and busting a laugh.
sometimes, your other coworkers just stare at you both. trying to understand why you always find a chance to give him some type of signal from the other side of the office. even when you slightly lift your middle finger at him just for making you laugh. but they really don't get it.
CO-WORKER!SAM who in the past weeks you've been working on a huge project, everytime knocks on your door just to have a excuse to see you and slide a cup of fresh and warm coffee on the desk without saying a word. he knows exactly how you like it and that amazes you.
"sam, it's not necessary," you say. " i can do it myself."
but he doesn't buy it. "i was getting you one anyways."
but he only ever brings one back for you.
CO-WORKER!SAM who tries to be professional and formal with you but fails like a champ on it. and you couldn't blame him.
when you're around your boss and he passes by, he gets weirdly formal using your full goverment name and an act so called managerial, voice dropping an octave and adjusting his tie while doing it. he thinks he's being as subtle as a window and you—on the other hand, are trying not to melt at the sudden change.
seeing him being quite dominant while giving the other orders, how his vocabulary changes to one more intelligent as he explains an assignment. fuck! yeah that was something new.
if another co-worker is being annoying or messing a lot with you, sam suddenly is right behind you. and he's recognizable. 6'4 frame and big broad shoulders shadowing his way onto you.
"what was that about? he was just being friendly."
but it was the way the air in the room seemed to vanish when he walked in, how he lowered his stance just to look you directly—eyes dropping on your lips, puffed in a pout while arguing. he isn't aggressive, he just took space advantage on your cubicle before leaving with a smirk on his face.
and he notices. he notices everything. god forbid a man trying to have the prettiest girl in the office to himself.
CO-WORKER!SAM who since that encounter find a strategy to catch your gaze. he'll lean back on his chair, fingers interlaced btween his hair and just stare. a slow and heavy brownish colored gaze that tracks from your eyes down to your lips and back up again.
CO-WORKER!SAM who corners you on a crowded elevator after every single schedule. it's five o'clock and he's already inside of it, waiting patiently. or so he thought.
he steps into your personal space like the biggest golden retriever he is, using his 6'4 frame again to effectively box you in the corner. he doesn't touch you. not at all. instead he just get closer and closer to you body so you can hear his breath busting through your ears.
"long day, huh? 'bet you're tired."
CO-WORKER!SAM who iniciates slight touches when you're handling him a folder, a contract or even a cup of coffee with oat milk. he doesn't pull away, like ever.
sam's thumb tracing a slow and deliberate invisible circle over your knuckles while he asks mundane and simple question about another report, wanting to see if you break that facade you had.
CO-WORKER!SAM who stays late at night when he hears that you will take a midnight shift to work on that said report.
you're struggling a lot with the new software the company had installed, the system is brand new and some of the options are too difficult to understand even for you, and that's when he appared through the door. sam reaches around you, his chest flush against your back—his large hands covering your as he guides the mouse, his breath slowly becaming a mumble as he explains everything but your mind is already outer-space.
"eyes on the screen, pretty thing."
"sorry," you added. "i didn't—"
"don't be distracted, i've been standing here for a certain amount and you haven't watch the screen even once."
"why are you still here, sam? i know you're just tryna' help me.. but believe me. i'm surely able to do something here."
"i was just doin' some research on an assigmnent." he lied, of course. "and thought you might need some help."
"very chivalrous of you, winchester."
yet he stood there all night waiting for you to finish like a loyal guard dog.
CO-WORKER!SAM who insisted on leading you into the elevator because, according to him, he didn't know if anyone from outside could enter the building. a silly thing to say, yes, but—he didn't let you refuse the offer and quickly dragged you to the nearest elevator.
CO-WORKER!SAM who didn't just step towards you when you were already inside the elevator but instead erased the distance between you both, looming over you, hand on the wall.
"you're doing it again," sam said, voice lower than usual. "what's up with you and those looks you gave to me?."
"you officially lost all your braincells, winchester."
but you couldn't even come up with another response because sam's hands tangled between your hair and pulled you by the head towards his lips, selling all that build up tension with a heated kiss. it was frustated, starved and sloppy.
the taste of coffee grew on you by the time his tongue was narrowing its way onto the kiss, groaning low as he pressed his weight on you— pinning your body against the mirroed wall. his right hand tightened on your neck just enough to make you let out a whimper.
CO-WORKER!SAM who screw everything when he starts eating your pussy, mouth full of your cunt and juices. kissing you wasn't enough for him, he needed to eat you like a five course meal.
his lips encircling your clit with wet and slippery kisses, going up and down between your folds, staining his chin and the corners of his mouth while devouring your cunt.
"look at her, she takes my tongue s'well," sam moaned against your core, sending shivers among your spinal. "and taste even better, c'mon princess— open your legs a bit more, 'wanna finger this pretty pussy until you squirt on my fucking mouth like the good girl you are."
his middle and index fingers were brushing your g-spot, thrusting them while his tongue were running laps across your puffy clit, groaning and moaning against it. begging, pleading you to mess them up by cumming.
and being railed by your CO-WORKER!SAM against the mirroed wall wasn't on your plans either, seeing you taking his fat cock in just one thrust made your mind go empty-handed and just started to moan his name all over again without even thinking the amount of chances this might get you both expelled out.
"that's it, baby. i've got you," he replied with a half-smile on his face, smudging the rest of your lipstick with a messy kiss as he went full on beast mode, grasping your waist until his fingerprints were all over your skin.
"sammy, please— i need. i, i want to."
and he understood perfectly. of course he did.
soon enough you both were panting against the wall, fogging it as a sharp moan stained the mirror, seeing him cumming first— his load pumping inside your gummy walls, straining them and his cock with it.
when the elevator landed on the last floor, nobody else but you and sam was inside the building. it was safe to say that this changed everything. and it was also safe to say that you might start repeating this type of encounter more than you can even though.
✶ notary nsfw content. hello world.... i am back with a small drabble that i wrote in 10 minutes before i upload my long ahh fic
sam winchester is the most respectful, polite and soft spoken man you've ever met. the one you would be proud to introduce to your parents. but behind closed doors? he can be a fucking menace.
your high-pitched whimpers are filling the impala. hands clawing at his arms, his hair, abs, almost everywhere, as sam's on top of you pounding himself into you so deep, you can feel him in your stomach.
your parents think you're on a movie date. i mean, he showed up on your doorstep with flowers and puppy eyes, who would not believe him? who would think that he would have you begging for mercy for an hour straight?
the windows are getting fogged up, your body is probably on it's 10th orgasm, but sam is nowhere close to stopping.
"sam-" you choke on a moan, because sam is choking you himself. his hand is tight around your throat, just enough for your world and senses to narrow to only him and nothing else. and it's working. your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, you're seeing white, you almost can't breathe but it all just feels so good.
he leans down to capture your lips into another messy kiss, filled with tongue, spit and desire. you struggle to kiss him back, because you just can't seem to stop moaning.
"look at me" he says between his own groans and whimpers.
you try. you really try to. but it's all just too much. too much pleasure. your body's almost gone numb.
"fuckin' look at me or i'll stop" he urges now, just with a hint of desperation.
that's when you got desperate. "no- please" you whimpered, fluttering your eyes open.
and god, he has never looked better. sweaty, rosy cheeks, eyes filled with lust and desire. but then a small smirk appeared on his face and before you could register anything, his second hand wraps around your throat too and he starts rocking his hips impossibly fast inside you.
OLDER!SAM WINCHESTER is too big. but you can surely handle all the way in. agegap undertones, older!hunter sam winchester, dirty talk, female squirting, size kink.
SAM WINCHESTER never realizes how strong he became years prior the first time you two meet. he was bulkier day by day, broad shoulders and the biggest hands a man could have and they had you drooling on its sight.
it wasn't a secret that you had a little itsy bitsy crush on him, fuck even dean knew it! and sometimes he joked around you both on "when will you stop the bickering and actually get together?" but you never did. you were too shy around him like it was so much, his presence was exhaustingly attractive— his words, how he can get you even in the slightest unfunny situation ever, how his personality softens every time you were alone. he just, get you better than anyone.
and that's why you hated the fact that you had feelings for him, but hell it wasn't truly all your fault. he was born handsome as fuck, and the age surely peeled that faithful beauty on him. at his thirties he looked better than even your dad's work buddies. and you absolutely despised that with a burning passion.
dean actually laughs at your attempts to seem casual around his younger brother, bickering with you on how awful you are trying to not and jump on his arms everytime you greet eachother after a hunt.
but what you didn’t know, that dean did, is the fact that sam winchester was more down bad than you on a bigger and enormous level. and it was eating him alive— you were too young for him, for fuck sake! what is he doing thinking about you like that? you were just a fellow girl turning into an adult, ten years younger than him.
one night when you three stayed on bobby's, he came to your room without any warning, knocking two times before going inside. "mind if i stay here?," sam spoke, a smile appearing on his lips.
as he sinks in you bed, slowly and steady, you welcome him in your arms like you always did. it was your dirty little secret with him. your legs were hugging his waist, both of your arms swinging on his neck and hands guiding their way into his fluffy and soft hair.
his beard was picking your jaw a bit, causing you to laugh softly. "you didn't shave again, winchester," you whispered. he poke it again.
"you like it. don't lie to me, sweetheart."
it was an habit of you both staying like this when bobby and dean fell asleep, bodies intertwined on a singular bed. his large hands were going up and down on your figure. his breath suddenly became calmer and smooth.
"you think this thing is normal?," he asked. his voice sounded worried.
"what thing? that you aren't able to shave properly? yeah."
"yeah, keep that attitude for other man," he laughed, hugging you closely. "us, this thing. me between your sheets."
you nodded, caressing his hair while glueing your eyes in his. but it wasn't normal. not a bit. not at all. no girl would have a big man on their bed, no girl would let that man bath her with compliments, no girl would let that certain man have his way on her.
no girl, but you were that girl.
"it's normal if you want to believe it, winchester," you finally added.
now his fingers were on your spine, drawing invisible figures on your skin. his lips were so close to your neck, his itching breath was killing you slowly.
his lips curled, cupping sides of your neck with little pecks that send a shiver down your spine. "you're gonna make me crazier than i am right now, you don't have a fucking clue," he whines near your ear, biting it softly.
your body is now reacting to his touches, hands under your black nightgown, pressing his thumbs against your skin. you moved between his arms, cupping his face with your hands— and you almost died at the sight he left you.
eyes glowing in the dark, a slight smirk on his face, eyebrows wrinkled.
this man was heaven-sent.
sam didn't ask for permission. his lips just went into yours like he was claiming them, a slothful pace guiding him. his tongue making its way between the kiss just to stole some high pitch whine from you, getting closer and closer to him.
"sam.." you moaned.
"shh, i'm here—there's no one else, just me and you sweetheart," he responded. "i need you, so bad. you don't have an idea."
"b—but.." you said mid sentence being interrupted by his lips again, kissing you hungrily, growling into your mouth because of your own taste. so sweet, tender and delicate. "what if they wake up?."
"then, we've to make sure that we finish before they even knew."
and that leds you two on where you were now.
having you pinned against the pillow, face burried in the material and his hands gropping your waist as his big, fat cock was pounding your guts like a champ.
your gummy and slippery walls were taking him all the way in, his tip brushing your sweet spot many times, more than you can count.
"that's it, taking my cock like the good ol' girl you are," he spits, pounding and thrusting like a beast. "fuck, you're soaking wet for me, baby."
"s—sam, oh my god!"
"yeah, i know sweetheart. your pussy feels so goddamn good, she loves me doesn't she? look how much she grips herself on my cock, she needs it as much as me."
his hands were roaming up and down your waist, gripping it and pulling you closer to get deeper inside you. slowly, he lowered his weight until his chest lightly brushed against your back and shoulders, guiding his right arm to your neck, gently choking you—causing you to let out a sharp moan and your walls to tighten around his lenght even more.
"you like this, don't you?," sam asked, thrusting hard and deep into you. "having your older man choking your guts with his cock and make you see stars? what a filthy and needy thing you are, dean was right. you are absolutely dumbfounded by me, it's so cute."
you nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. "s—sam, please.."
"you wanna cum? go ahead baby, milk my cock. it's yours," he growled.
and thank to the pillow which helped to cover up how noisy your orgasm ended up being, streams of slick covered the bed's sheets and sam's lower abdomen. it was messy, breathless, noisy and wetter than you ever imagine it. his cock was still inside you—pumping thrusts that made your vision go all white, moans muffled on the silk pillow.
"give it to me, doll."
so he lose it all, all and everything on you. sam comes inside without any warning whatsoever, spilling his seed on your womb, grunting near the sides of your face.
he looked drenched and gasping for air, yet he still inside you. he made you cockwarm him until the next morning in which he went to his own room just to not raise suspicion between bobby and dean.
but that didn't stop the future provocations that would end up in your bed, witnessing how much you desired each other.
again, sam winchester had no idea on how strong he was. or well, he did but he also loves manhandling you and have his way every night.
summary: tonight, you're taking a big step with sam; for the first time since the possession, you want sam to show you how gentle he is when it's really him that touches you, not meg
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: smut (mdni), h/c | word count: 10.0k (holy shit)
warnings: implied past non-con, sam's afraid but tries his best, sam's guilt is the size of antarctica, so many big feelings and crying, smut (protected sex, just plain n simple, no reader anatomy described)
notes: i'm back on my sam and his perceived impurity bullshit !! this time, featuring soft gentle smut with way too many feelings for a man that tall. here's your reminder once again that consent is A MUST HAVE. please be gentle with each other :]
taglist | k's AMA - Feb 21st to 28th | part one
There’s three words Sam thinks he’ll never hear from you ever again.
It’s not ‘I love you’; Sam hears that one nearly every single day. It’s not ‘I miss you’, although he’s very quickly discovering how easy it is to miss someone, even when they’re right there. It’s not ‘I’m so sorry’ or ‘I was wrong’, because you have nothing to apologise for. If anything, he should be the one apologising for what happened to you. It may not have been him in control, but it was still his hands that shoved your thighs apart, still his lips that left bruises on your neck and jaw, still him that slid into you and violated the most intimate parts of you. Possession doesn’t change that fact; his body’s tainted now, dirtied by something impossible to clean.
You’ve lost pieces of yourself. Sam can see it when he looks at you; the way you hesitate just a second longer when he’s near you, the way your breath hitches just lightly when he touches you, the way you have to whisper to yourself that you’re safe when he’s alone with you. It breaks his heart to know that somewhere, deep inside your brain, you’re scared of him. That you’re afraid he’ll become a monster again, become something he can’t control.
Where there used to be a thin film over your soul like the curves of a bubble, there’s now pockets of vacuum space, void of light. Before, Sam could see light in you. There were shades of orange and yellow when you were happy, a strange culmination of deep blues and greys when you were scared, and one that mimicked the colour of his eyes when you felt loved. That one hurts the most to see it dimmed. Not gone, never gone, because Sam can’t not love you and you can’t not feel loved by him. But it doesn’t shine as bright as before, covered in a layer of sulphur and demon smoke that chokes out the light.
The spaces between are the worst to see. They’re chipped, cracked, shattered edges left behind after a hand dove through and ripped them from you. Sam’s hand, commandeered by a greater power, is to blame. Those hands that used to hold you tenderly stole the light from your eyes and the smile from your lips and left a fear in your heart that Sam thinks even time can’t heal. In those voids, Sam sees himself reflected back, in all the broken pieces that twist the light and make his eyes look black and soulless.
Sam’s thankful these patches in your soul are few and far between, but they’re in your most important parts. There’s one eating away at the muscle and bone on your shooting arm, knocking all your shots off-centre and sending them flying past their targets. There’s two side by side in your brain, a cruel Castor and Pollux that take over your fear and make it lash out even when you know you’re safe. A few others are scattered over your skin, webbed lines like broken glass held together by duct tape, shaped like bruises that would kill you to prod them. But the deepest of all, the one that throws Sam’s tainted reflection back at him in crisp detail, is the one eating up your heart.
You always used to tell Sam there was a room in your heart specifically for him. It was wide, open, filled with all his favourite things, with a mug of his favourite tea kept warm for him. Sam’s always thought he might like to live in that room if he could, to crawl into your chest and live in the spaces between your ribs, to protect you from within and make sure nothing can hurt you where he can’t see it. Sam sees now what you meant by that room; there, in the center of your heart, is an opening to what should be a place of light and love and Sam. Instead, it’s dark, empty, no light or sound, just Sam’s twisted demonic reflection gazing back at him with the quiet confidence of a man who knows he’s broken what can’t be repaired.
He’s determined to help you patch these injuries, even though he knows they’ll leave nasty scars for the rest of your life. He wants to be able to look at you again and see you smile, see how free and full of happiness you look when you’re not being consumed by pain. He misses the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the way you fall into him when you laugh, the airiness of your voice when you repeat back a joke. Sam knows he can’t fix everything, knows that this is a problem only you can really solve, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.
You stumble across the first missing piece by accident while on a walk, which Sam had suggested after being cooped up inside all day in the rain. The downpour’s over now, leaving behind the kind of sunlight that seeps through his bones and feels like a hug from the inside out. He can only hope it makes you feel better too, because it would be unfair of him to take what you can never have. As soon as his feet lead you along the familiar worn path, he feels your hand slide cautiously into his. He doesn’t squeeze it like he normally would, just holds it, cradling it, rubbing a soft thumb back and forth over your knuckles.
Your steps are in tandem, Sam’s boots kicking up small rocks, the laces on one of your shoes dragging on the ground, pure white becoming tainted with mud and dust. The path is puddled, small pools of rainwater left to a fate halfway between heaven and hell halfway between salvation and damnation. You stop at the edge of one of them, tugging Sam by the hand to come closer and look at the way it ripples out when your fingers brush the surface. Nature's fractals, Sam briefly muses. Mathematical patterns in the ripples, predictable and infinite. If only the state of your healing was as predictable to him; Sam lives in facts and numbers and the cold, hard proof of reality.
“Look” you muse, dropping a stone into the puddle. “What do you see?”
Sam pauses, hovering behind your crouched form. He blinks once, squinting lightly against the sunrays reflecting from the water, focusing on what you can see that he can’t. He sees you, sitting on your heels, knees up to your chest, drowning in a sweater that’s too big and a sorrow that’s the wrong size. He sees your hair looking wild but catching the sunlight and bending it into shape, taking what’s pretty and making it beautiful.
“I see you,” he says, simply.
Your lips twitch into a faint smile. “I know you do. You know what I see?”
Sam shakes his head, lips pursed. “What do you see?”
“I see someone who’s lost, Sam. I see somebody who’s been violated and hurt and twisted in ways they wouldn’t wish upon anyone else. I see somebody who doesn’t know if they’re even alive anymore, because what they used to live for isn’t the same.”
Sam swallows. “You’re not-.”
“I wasn’t talking about me, Sammy,” you hush. “I was talking about you.”
He blinks, mouth opening and closing a few times as he searches for the words buried in his teeth. “Me? But-.”
“But what?”
“But I did all those things to you. You’re the violated one, the hurt one. I’m not- I can’t-.”
Sam’s gently pulled downward by your hand on his arm until he’s crouching beside you, fingers brushing against the edge of the cool water, pads of them dipping in and out again like he’s afraid to touch and contaminate.
“Sammy, you are. You’ve been hurt just as much as I have. What she did to you, possessing you like that? Don’t pretend that it’s not real pain you’re feeling.”
“I never said it wasn’t real.”
“Then why do you hide from me? Why do you keep yourself away like you’re afraid to make me worse? Why do you keep pretending you’re not what I need to feel better?”
Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. The words make sense, what you’re saying. He has been hiding, because he doesn’t want the smoke that lived in his heart to still be there in trace amounts and cross over into yours. He’s worried that if he touches you too much you’ll shatter right there in his arms, and he can’t live on if you do.
“Sam?” you say, quiet voice bringing him back.
“Yeah?” he whispers, cracked and raw.
“Just promise me you’ll heal too. With me.”
He nods, trying to keep back the tears that prick at his eyes with how easily you can read him. “Okay. Okay. I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
You stick out a hand toward him, pinky finger extended and hooked. Sam stops for a moment, mentally calculating how easily you might crack if he lets you do this. When he sees the way you’ve steeled yourself, expression set like you’ve made the choice to touch him no matter how it hurts, he extends his own hand, pinky looping with yours. You push up to touch your thumb to his, muscles tensed to keep yourself from flinching, but you do it. Sam watches you exhale a heavy sigh when your thumbs meet, sees the way some kind of light flows back into your skin.
“We good now?” you ask, already getting to your feet and tugging him after you.
“Y- Yeah. I think so.”
“Good.”
You stretch to press a light kiss to his cheek, and Sam’s frozen to the spot after your lips meet his cheekbone. There it is again, the way you can touch him without hurting. You’re not dissolving or fading away or being torn to shreds just from the burn of his skin. You’re not falling victim to the hands of darkness that claw up from the ground. You’re standing, smiling, hand still holding his, the sunlight catching your flyaway hairs and forming a halo around you. You look real, alive. Not whole, not yet, but solid nonetheless.
You walk on, Sam letting you lead him down the path to where he’s certain salvation lies. You look unburdened beside him, like for the first time in a long time you’re made of light and wind, not stones and shadow. He watches you all the way to where you’re taking him, only snapping back to reality when you stop suddenly and he slams into your back. His arms go around you instinctively and Sam freezes, because what if he’s hurt you? What if he’s crossed a line he didn’t know he could cross? It’s only after you melt against him that he dares lock his arms tighter around your shoulders, pressing your back to his chest and feeling the sunlit warmth of your body on him.
Looking around, Sam finally realizes where you are. The river, the one from a million summers ago, the one where he swears he fell in love with you all over again. Sam watches you lower yourself to the edge of the bank, spreading your jacket on the ground under you so as not to get dirt and mud on your pants. He sits after you pat the ground beside you, crossing his legs and letting his knee rest lightly against yours. The touch burns in the way all touches do when they’ve gone too long without any, but neither of you pulls away. Your fingers drum a rhythm against his jean-covered thigh, and he lets himself get lost in the touch. At some point, he takes your shoe in his lap, retying the laces that are caked in mud, brushing the dirt from them as best he can until all that’s left is a faint stain that’ll fade with time. Maybe he can clean your soul too, if you'd let him. He certainly wants to.
There’s no conversation, and none needs to be had. All that happens is a polite watching of the sunset, like exhaling a breath that’s been held in for too long. When the sun’s slipping below the horizon, your head falls to Sam’s shoulder. A simple touch, one that’s been shared a hundred times before, but the weight of it is heavier than anything else, because it means you’re finally learning to trust him again.
The sun disappears below the horizon for good, and the last vestiges of light dance across the sky as Sam looks at you. Really looks at you this time, taking in all your edges and curves, the rough spots and the chipped spots and the spots he’d love to kiss better. Whatever golden light had been lighting up the sky moments earlier is gone from the heavens, but Sam can still see it. He sucks in a quiet breath when he realizes why; you’re healing.
On your shooting arm, he used to be able to see an ugly black patch of rotten, demon-tainted void that Sam’s hand caused when his body pinned you to the motel bed months ago. It crept across your skin in a steady hum, something evil under the surface itching to break free. Only now, when his eyes skim over the exposed skin from under the sleeve of your t-shirt, there’s nothing. An echo remains, left behind in the way all harmful things are, but the darkness itself has disappeared, replaced instead by the sunlight that illuminates the corners of your soul.
“Sam?” you ask, nudging him gently. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” he says, only to feel a tear slip down his cheek.
Your expression crumples. “You’re crying. That’s not nothing.”
Sam brushes it away fiercely, his knuckle biting into his skin in a way that almost hurts. He wants it to, deserves it to, and when it doesn't, rage flashes low in his stomach. Another one falls in its place, and Sam figures he’s losing the battle one way or another. He doesn’t really understand why he’s the one crying. You have a right to more than he ever will, with what happened and all. He doesn’t deserve the catharsis of tears, doesn’t deserve the freedom of it all. He’s weak, weaker than you, weaker than Dean. Fragile, broken, tainted. A poor excuse for the man he’s supposed to be, the man his mother wanted him to be. If she could see him now, she’d be ashamed of him, for letting himself be weak, for letting tears fall when they’re undeserved.
“Look at me,” you whisper.
Sam tries to look away, wiping furiously at his eyes, but it doesn’t work. He can’t stop crying and he doesn’t even really know why. He shouldn’t be crying. His job is to help you through whatever you’re feeling, not the other way around. In some backwards way, he’s diminishing your pain, making himself the center of attention, turning the limelight that should be on you onto him. He feels guilty, unclean, unworthy of your care, because what kind of awful person watches you suffer and then makes it about themself?
“Oh, Sammy. Come here.”
You cup his face, leading it toward your shoulder, scooting closer on the bank until you can reach around him entirely. Sam wants to fight, tries to fight, but he can’t. It’s too much, the kindness you’re showing him, and he collapses heavy into your arms as tears roll down his cheeks.
“You’re okay. I’m okay. You’re allowed to cry, Sammy,” you soothe.
“But-.” He’s cut off by a hiccupping inhale. “It’s stupid, I’m sorry.”
“You’re hurting. You’re hurting and I’m sitting here useless. That’s not okay, and you know it.”
You don’t say anything. You just hold him closer, and Sam can’t fight you off, even though he wants to. He lets himself go weak in your grip, lets himself hold you just as tightly as you’re holding him, because there’s something in the way you’re letting yourself touch him that gives him hope. It’s like you said before; as long as you initiate it, it’s okay. As long as you’re not forced under him on some motel bed, it’s okay.
You’re okay. He’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
More pieces of yourself start coming back over the next couple of months. It starts small, with tiny shards that fly back in to place when Sam’s hand grazes over your lower back in the kitchen, when he hands you your jacket and your fingers brush, when he sits beside you in the back seat of the Impala because he likes the smell of your soap. It’s like putting a ceramic dish back together. The small particles, the ones ordinarily forgotten by brooms and anyone attempting repair, are the ones that fall into place first. They’re unsteady without the larger pieces to hold them there, but they stay, because Sam’s hands are keeping them in place.
Slowly, bigger and bigger pieces start to slot back in. When you rest your head on Sam’s shoulder while he reads lore to you, when you hug him or peck his cheek before separating on a hunt, when he can stitch you up without his hands shaking and without your breath quickening because you’re vulnerable and alone with him. Sam can see the patterns of you come back into place; the mountainous ridges in your irises, the constellations of marks and bumps and spots on your skin, the valleys of your curves and creases. Sam can finally read the mosaic of you.
The largest pieces are few, but it’s monumental when they return themselves to your body. One comes back the first time you share a shower with Sam since the incident, finding its home on your back when Sam runs his large hands over the skin, massaging in the soap. He watches another one come back that very same night when you fall asleep on his chest on the couch, letting his fingers tangle lightly in your hair without worrying about it pulling. Another one returns when you and Sam are alone in a motel room, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, he makes out with you, without you shying away and panicking. He doesn’t cross the line into sex; not yet and maybe not ever, but the simple return of his lips on yours, your jawline, your neck, trailing your collarbones is enough to sate him for a lifetime.
Friday night comes slow, trailing after the sunset, a child unsure if it can walk without help. It crawls into Bobby’s house, wrapping around the wood like a blanket, covering the rooms in that sticky sort of tiredness that makes your eyes heavy even if you’re full of energy. The heat isn’t helping either, clinging to Sam’s skin like tape, making his fingers stick to the cover of the book he’s reading, and his jean-covered legs to the chair. Sam can see you almost falling asleep across the room from him, tucked up into an old armchair, heavy tome on your lap, head slumping lightly against the chair backing.
He wishes he could fall asleep right now; it’s certainly better than his current situation. Sam’s biggest flaw is wanting what he can never have. Wanting a life outside of hunting, wanting to be happy in a world that only knows sorrow, wanting you. He needs you now like he needs the air to breathe. He’s been needing you for a while if he’s being honest, but he’s been holding himself back because he’s not sure if having you that way will make or break you. There’s still one last piece of your soul left to find, the gaping hole in your heart that makes Sam want to crawl in and patch it up from the inside, and he’s not going to take what you can’t give until that piece is back.
He thinks it’s wildly unfair how good you look when you’re comfortable, when you feel like yourself. Striding confidently through Bobby’s hallways, standing in rooms like you’ve finally relearned how to take up space without stretching yourself thin. Sam’s been restraining himself for most of the day, keeping his eyes averted because he knows if he watches you, he’ll be wanting more than he could ever dare take. Sam figured he was in trouble from the moment you woke up in his arms that morning, sleep shirt falling off one shoulder and arms wrapped tight around him. He’s been catching little glimpses of you throughout the day; your shirt riding up when you reach for a book exposing the soft skin of your waist, the way your jeans fit snug on your hips, the absolutely sinful way your hands ghost over him in passing touches. Sam may be good at keeping himself in check, stopping himself from coming on too strongly so as not to scare you, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about how badly he wants to feel you.
Bobby and Dean are out on a trip, picking up a car for the salvage yard from a few states away. They’re not due back until tomorrow night, maybe even the day after; two vagabonds coming home with the rising sun. Sam and you have the place to yourselves, something both brothers had initially worried over until Bobby had dragged Dean out and you’d reassured them countless times you’d be okay. Sam’s proven time and time again over these months that he won’t hurt you, that his hands were built for tender care and soft touches. He doesn’t want you to ever know how badly he needs you right now, because he doesn’t trust himself, not anymore. He doesn't think he as Sam will hurt you, but he worries that there's still some residue of a monster in him, something that's not quite him still hiding beneath the surface.
Sam used to be confident. He used to know exactly what spots made you see stars, which places to kiss and suck at and tease to get you ready. He used to know your body inside and out like it was a second home, and he used to be able to touch you without worrying about pain. He still knows these spots, yes, but he's nervous to use them on you lest the force of your pleasure drown you in pain. Now, he’s afraid trailing hands up your thighs might pull at your skin, or that hot kisses to your chest might bruise you permanently. Hands surrendered to a demon, he doesn’t know that he can relearn to be gentle. Maybe when Meg left his body, she took the gentleness with him; that’s certainly fitting for the monster of a man he swears he’s become.
A thud makes him jump, and he’s halfway to his feet before he realizes where it’s come from. You’re in the armchair still, head tipped back and mouth slightly parted, one hand dangling toward the floor. The book you’ve been reading is in a heap on the ground, pages splayed open and letters melding to the floorboards. Sam can faintly hear your soft breathing getting heavier, and something in his chest cracks at how peaceful you look. He stands, taking your book from the floor and setting it on the table, a newspaper scrap marking your page. He shakes your shoulder gently, slowly waking you up so as not to spook you.
“Bedtime?” he asks when you blink your eyes open.
“Guess so,” you reply around a yawn.
“You want a shower first?”
You nod, head tipped back to look at him with an expression that melts his heart. Sam already knows what you’re about to ask before you can ask it, and something deep in his stomach twinges with the shame of how he’d been thinking about you moments ago.
“Carry me?” you ask, at the same time Sam says, “C’mere.”
Sam gathers you in his arms, holding you close to his chest without crowding. He’s slow going up the stairs, because the last thing he wants is to hit your legs on something and bruise you unnecessarily, or have your sleeves catch on a handle and tear. He deposits you in the bathroom on the closed toilet lid, leaving you to change while he searches for a towel and spare clothes for you.
“Stay?” you ask when he comes back.
“You sure?”
You nod, slow. “Yeah, I think I do. I just- tonight’s kind of rough, I guess. Can’t stop thinking. Maybe if you’re here, I’ll…”
“Think less?” he finishes for you.
“Something like that.”
He nods slow, settling down with his back against the wall and his knees tucked up to his chest. Dual purpose, he supposes; it makes him comfortable and hides the semi hard-on he’s been sporting since dinner. The coldness of the tiled wall on his back in a blessing, shocking him and keeping the heat in his heart to a minimum. Sam averts his eyes while you change and step into the shower, only opening them again when your voice muffled by the running water starts talking to him and he's sure that an accidental glimpse of your bare body won't start the heat in his stomach again.
“You feeling alright today?” your voice asks around the waterdrops.
“Yeah. Why?”
You pause, and Sam can hear you rubbing soap into your hair. “I just-. I dunno, you seemed off today. Are you sick?”
He shakes his head, then remembers you can’t see him. “Nah. I’m alright.”
There’s another silence before he can hear you washing the soap out of your hair. Something in the way your voice gets a little airier, a little breathier with the exertion makes his heart speed up. Sam can’t help but imagine you, arms up as you rinse the soap out, stretching your body on full display. Your voice comes through again, snapping Sam out of his head.
“Is there something you wanna tell me?”
The water stops, and you peek your head around the curtain, water dripping from your hair and down your chest. Sam’s eyes flicker across your bare skin then back to your face, and he hopes he was quick enough you didn’t notice.
He clears his throat harshly, stuttering out a “No, no, it’s all fine.”
You raise a brow but don’t say anything, disappearing back around the curtain again, much to Sam’s disappointment. He wants you here, needs you right now so much it hurts his heart, the heat low in his stomach doing nothing to quench his thirst. He wants nothing more than to take you in his lap right now and feel the way your thighs tense around him, but he won’t. He can’t, not when he doesn’t know what’ll hurt you or heal you. He won’t take what’s not been offered, especially not after Meg.
The shower stops, and your hand darts out to take the towel he’s offering. You squeeze the water from your hair, running the towel back and forth over the strands for a while before wrapping it around your body, pulling back the curtain and stepping out. Sam sees the goosebumps forming on your legs before he tears his eyes away, standing and following you back to the bedroom where your sleep clothes are laid out on the bed.
Sam stops behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder while you sort out your clothing situation. He doesn’t realize how close he is to you until you freeze up, hands stopping their movements and head turning slightly to look at him. Sam freezes then too, because he realizes how close his hips are to your waist, the simple fact that you can definitely feel his arousal through his jeans makes his face burn with shame.
“Sam?” you say softly.
He turns his face away, backing up a step. If he could see himself in a mirror, he has no doubt he’s blushing furiously red, red like the flowers on your bedside table from last weekend. His fingers drift to the hem of his shirt, because anything is better to think about than what you know. Now, you know his deepest secret, the thing he’s purposely kept hidden from you for months out of fear you’ll be destroyed by the simple fact of want.
“Sam it’s okay-.”
“It’s not,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “It’s-. I-. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll leave, give you space. You want water?”
“Sam, I-.”
“I’ll be back, just get changed.”
He’s halfway out the door when he feels your arm on sleeve, tugging him backward violently. He almost stumbles over his own shoes, hand shooting out to grab at air before he can right himself, turning to face you. He knows there’s shame written all over his features, knows he’s probably less than human now that his animalistic desires have been made clear. You probably think he’s a monster now, no better than the thing that possessed him.
“Sam. Look at me,” you murmur, brushing his bangs back from his eyes.
He does, slowly, shyly, afraid to look you dead on in case your expression looks like rejection. Looking up, he finds nothing but love in your eyes, and it throws him off. Why are you looking at him like he’s human, like he’s something to be loved? Why are you looking at him like you want him too? You shouldn’t, not after what happened. You shouldn’t force yourself to do this with him just because he can’t keep it down.
“I want you, Sam,” you say, treading your fingers in his hair.
He throws a look over his shoulder, finding the door to the bedroom closed again. It must have been kicked shut with his heel as you tugged him back in. His eyes dart back to you, the faint dampness to your skin from the shower, the delicate way you touch his face like you’re worried he’s the one that might break.
“I-. You shouldn’t.”
You tip your head. “Why not?”
“Because of what happened. Because I let you get hurt.”
You sigh softly. “Sam, it wasn’t your fault.”
“If it wasn’t my fault, it wouldn’t have happened. Meg wouldn’t have possessed me. I should have been stronger, you know. I should’ve found a way to stop her, to keep her out of my head, away from you. That’s my job. I failed it. Don’t do this ‘cause you feel pity for me.”
“This isn’t pity, Sam. You want me, I want you, what’s so wrong about that? It’s not like we’ve never done this before.”
Sam swallows, suddenly feeling silly for his earlier concerns. You want him. You want him just like he wants you. Somehow, that both excites and terrifies him. You have faith that he’s not going to destroy you, that he won’t contaminate you with sulphur and demon smoke, the kind that even Latin can’t put out.
“Are you sure?”
Sam’s almost ashamed of how timid his voice sounds when he asks. He catches the way you swallow around your fear, the way you school your body to relax and breathe in, breathing in the space he’s made sure is safe for you.
“We don’t-. If it’s too much-,” he stutters.
“If it’s too much, we stop. I think- I think I want this, Sammy. I think I want you. And I think I need you to remind me what it’s like to be touched without being hurt.”
Sam needs a minute to recover from that one. Your words hit him square in the chest, your confidence shooting straight to his core. He’s undeniably hard now, and he knows you can feel the way it’s pressing against your thigh with how close you’re holding him. Your fingers drift up his neck to cup the back of his head, and he’s gone the moment your lips press to his.
As soon as your lips meet, nothing else matters. The world narrows down to the warmth of your mouth on his, the faint taste of your soap on your skin, the cautious heat of your tongue swiping at the seam of his lips. He lets you in immediately, savouring the way you taste. His arms come up, locking around your shoulders and tugging you closer to his chest. Your hips buck lightly against his in the process, and he groans softly into your mouth, the feeling of your bare legs on his jeans like a drug to his brain. If he tries hard enough, he can commit it to memory, keeping it tucked away in his brain for rainy days when you’re apart, when he can’t wrap his arms around you and hold you close.
He walks you slowly backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sink down, sitting on the grey sheets. Sam watches how they pool under your knees, like ripples in a pond. If they were, you’d likely be throwing a stone into it right now, mesmerized by the patterns they make. Fractals, he vaguely recalls. Why he knows that he’s not too sure. He can’t think straight when his mouth is on yours and you’re sighing into his, and his hands are itching to move.
“Hands on me, Sam, please,” you whisper breathlessly.
He doesn’t need to be told twice, especially not when you speak to him like that. There’s a reverence to your voice that he’s sorely missed, like you’re murmuring prayers to him through your ecstasy. Sam runs his hands up your arms, cupping your chin and head as he pulls you ever deeper, stealing the air straight from your lungs with his kisses.
“You sure? I don’t wanna crowd you,” he says, low and ragged.
“You won’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sam, you’re going to be fine. You’re…you’re you. I don’t think you know how to hurt me if you even wanted to.”
He barely has time to recover from that before your hands are on his chest, pawing at the buttons on his shirt, fingers fumbling to undo them. Sam helps, large hands taking over where you’re struggling, lips still kissing across your jawline, starting to trace a faint trail down your neck. Your breath hitches once, and Sam slows his descent until your breathing is back under control.
Finally, his shirt comes off, and your eager hands slide it down his shoulders and off his arms. He pulls it over his watch, settling on taking that off too and setting it on the bedside table near your flowers that have started to lose their petals. Perhaps if he rewound the time on the watch, the flowers might grow back again pretty as they were. The ticking is lost to the sounds of the room, your breathing mixing with his in a symphony almost more intimate than the act of sex itself; the air you breathe, he breathes too. Sharing a space without crowding, without hurting, without ruining.
He’s vaguely aware of your fingers drifting back up his neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The room’s air is still a little hot and sticky on his bare skin, but he barely notices. Sam’s not concerned about the room, because your fingers have just tangled in his hair at the back of his head, pulling his head toward you as you tip back, starting to lay yourself out. He feels a tug at the top of his head that goes straight to the pit of his stomach and trickling lower as you do it again. If he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now.
You do it a third time, and Sam groans low and heavy in his throat, fingers dipping under the hem of your towel and slowly peeling it off your body. He works carefully, only progressing when your breathing is as even as it can be for all the kissing you’re doing, making sure nothing gets revealed that you don’t want him to see. When the towel’s finally off and dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed, Sam maneuvers you until you’re lying flat, head on the pillow, his thighs bracketing yours.
His head dips to capture your lips in a kiss that tastes like forgiveness, tender and sweet. It makes his lips tingle, and when he pulls back to study your face, there’s a light in your eyes he only ever sees in the intimate moments between; the one that’s bright like the sun and full of so much love he’s not sure how it all fits in one person. He watches the light, follows it with his eyes as it consumes your body, trailing down through your veins and culminating on your chest, right over where that void remains in your heart. Where he used to only see sharp edges and cracked memories, he sees repair, promise, new pieces growing out of the old. Different, yes, but steady.
Your fingers drift to the waistband of his jeans, running your thumbs along the denim hem, pads of them tracing over the stitching. Sam’s still kissing you, trailing slow, open-mouthed presses down your neck, finding that spot that makes you moan softly, sucking lightly once, then soothing it with his tongue when he pulls away. Down your neck, into the curve of your shoulder, across your collarbones and into the dip between. He doesn’t leave marks, because this isn’t about possessiveness and belonging; it’s about trust and care and faith in each other.
Sam hisses through his teeth when your hand palms him through his jeans, the sound turning into a moan when you tease along his bulge. Nipping lightly at your neck, his mouth curves into a faint smile when you start to work the buckle of his belt. The sound of leather sliding through denim is familiar, the weight of it dropping to the floor feels like punctuation to something bigger than himself. He pops the button on his jeans, letting your hands drag them down over his hips, exposing his stomach.
Sam’s breath catches on the inhale when your fingers drop to the happy trail across his lower stomach, a cracked moan slipping free as you trace the trail down to the waistband of his boxers. He kicks off his jeans, your thumbs hooking into his boxers in the process. He gasps when you stick one hand in, taking him in your fist and giving him one slow stroke, as if checking he’s ready for you. Shedding his boxers too leaves him just as bare before you as you are under him, and he dips his head to kiss a trail down your chest, following your sternum, hands spread over your ribs like he’s holding you together in his arms.
He slips a leg between yours, gently nudging them apart. You freeze, scrambling back with a startled gasp. Sam lifts his hands off you immediately, sitting back on his legs and watching you, palms facing toward you, showing you the emptiness of them.
“What happened?” Sam asks.
“Just-.” You swallow. “When y- when she did…that. In the motel. Just don’t-. Don’t do that. Please.”
“Okay. Okay. Hands are off, alright?”
He sees you nod, but you don’t look convinced. Something cracks in his chest, and he cautiously leans toward you.
“Can I come closer?” You’re watching him warily. “Can I hold you? Or do you want hands off?”
You nod. “You can touch.”
Sam scoots up the bed, and when he gets close enough, he can hear your panicked heartbeat racing in your chest. One hand lays flat over your heart, pressing softly against your chest like he can control your breathing with just a touch; maybe he can, because he notes it’s working. Your chest rises and falls slower, the thudding of your heart dulls down to a regular pace, and some of the panic in your expression starts to fade. Sam’s mentally cursing himself for moving too fast, already thinking about next moves and how he’ll earn your forgiveness.
“You’re okay,” Sam murmurs. “You’re okay.”
“I know,” you mumble weakly against his chest.
“Do you really?”
You pick your head up and Sam’s eyes meet yours. He can see something hiding deep in there, buried under layers of pain and trauma and fear; hope. There’s hope living in your expression, begging to break free from its cage. All Sam wants to do is dive in and peel the bars back, let it fly free and remind you how safe you really are, but he can’t. He’ll have to show you come other way, because he’s nothing if not determined to make sure you can feel like you’re safe with him again.
“You wanna switch?” Sam asks.
You take a shaky inhale. “I-. Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Maybe if I have…control, I’ll feel better.”
You wince at the word choice, but Sam understands. He knows how badly you need this, how desperate you are to feel like you have some sort of autonomy over yourself. Sam wants it too, wants badly to prove he can be above you without ruining it all, but there’s plenty of time for that later.
Taking you by the hips, he shifts you, so that he takes your place lying flat on the bed, back against the sheets. They’re warm from your body heat, a few of your stray hairs on the pillow that tickle his cheeks, but it’s comfortable and it feels like you, and that’s all he cares about. Sam’s hands guide you as you crawl back over him, this time bracketing his thighs with yours, and suddenly Sam’s back on the bathroom floor thinking about this very moment all over again.
Your hand wanders down, wrapping around his length as you begin to move, slowly working him back up. With your lips trailing lazy kisses down his chest and your hand on him, he’s hard again in no time, flushed under your touch. When your hand parts from him, he gives a pathetic sounding whine high in his throat that you drink up with a kiss. Your hand splays over his side as you continue your trail of kisses down his stomach, open-mouthed ones that spark heat in his core as your lips tease over his happy trail, fingers dancing over the ridges of his muscles that tense harder the longer you tease him.
He knows you’re not doing it purposely, especially not now. It’s the stability, the knowing that you can control the situation, that he’ll respond to you however you decide you want him. Sam’s not picky, not aching for anything other than to feel you and heal you and to make you remember how gentle his hands are when they lay on your body and trace your curves.
Sam’s hand wanders for the drawer in the bedside table, eyes parting from your face for just long enough to fish out a condom from its depths. The electric touch from your fingers brushing his sends a jolt through him, watching you with mild surprise as you take the condom from his hands, unwrapping the foil with tender precision. His eyes squeeze shut and his head throws back in a muffled moan as you slide the condom over his length, the material a cold shock to his nervous system.
“Doing alright?” he asks when he can speak again, thumb caressing your face.
“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes light up, looking like someone’s dipped them in watercolour and let the colours mix into something uniquely yours. Sam’s never seen anything like it, and he doesn’t think he ever will again, not as long as he lives. This is who you are at the very essence of your being, something so unique and precious to him that even if he dedicates the rest of his life to the search, he’ll only find it in you.
Cautiously, you take Sam in your hand again, running your fingers once more over him before shifting yourself forward, lining him up with your entrance. His lips are on yours as you slide down onto him, your moan mixing with his lower one as he feels every inch of himelf move through your core. He’s missed this, he realizes. Missed the heat of your body, missed the familiar way your hands roam over him, eyes fluttering closed as you get comfortable, the thud of your heart he can feel throughout you. Sam’s missed the intimacy of knowing you inside and out, and now after all the ways you’ve changed, he can rediscover you like it’s the first time all over again.
When you’re fully seated in his lap, hips flush against his, you let out a heavy sigh. Sam swears he can see the weight lift from your shoulders just from the simple fact of knowing you’re still intact, that the world hasn’t come crashing down around you for a second time. He’s here, he’s real, you’re okay. He repeats it to himself, but his thoughts get stolen by an overwhelming surge of anxiety when you start to rock your hips against him. Sam’s hands fly up to your waist to stop you, and your eyes blink wide at him in concern.
“Are-. Is everything okay?” you ask. “Too fast?”
“No, no. Just-. How are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
Sam blinks. “I just-. How do you know I won’t hurt you? How can you be so sure that I’m not gonna, you know, turn into something again?”
Your expression softens. “Sam, you’re not, I promise.”
“How can you be so sure? What if-.” Something sharp catches in his throat, like a thorn from the roses at the bedside. “What if I hurt you?”
You reach a hand up to caress his cheek, tracing your thumb from the mole near his eye, down across his cheekbone, sweeping along his lightly stubbled jaw before cradling his head in your palm.
“Sam, love, don’t worry.”
“But-.”
“I trust you.”
There it is. Those three words Sam didn’t think he’d ever hear again.
I. Trust. You.
It’s simple, really. A trivial statement that seems foolish now that the words are out into the air. But there’s a weight to them that settles deep in Sam’s chest and pricks hot tears in his eyes, like you’ve aired your biggest secret to a dusty room that has no right hearing something so personal. He blinks in surprise when he realizes he can’t make out your face through the haze of tears in his eyes, sniffling lightly when one slips free and trails sideways into his hairline.
“I trust you, Sammy. I trust you so, so much.”
You say it like a mantra, so real and heavy and true that Sam can’t help but believe it. Something about the gravity in your voice when you say those three words makes Sam feel foolish for ever having thought otherwise. Of course you trust him, because why wouldn’t you? Another tear trickles into his hairline, then a second, and a third, and for a brief moment, Sam’s not sure if he can ever stop crying.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice shaky and raw with something fragile.
Your lips graze his cheeks, kissing away the tear stains, rocking yourself forward in the process. Sam’s tip catches on a spot deep inside you that makes you moan and him inhale sharply. It doesn’t chase the tears from his eyes, but it stops them from falling, gives him the chance to blink them away before you move again. When do you, Sam can’t help the way his hips jerk up into you, meeting you halfway with a thrust that doesn’t push.
His movements seem to spur you on, your pace quickening just a touch. Each roll of your hips against his drags him partway out of you and back in again, and each buck of his hips up against you gives much-needed friction. Each time Sam hits that spot inside you, your eyes press shut and you grind down hard against him, a soft, breathy moan slipping free that Sam drinks up with a kiss. His own layer of groans rumble deep in his chest where your hands rest against him, fingers pressing against the moles on his skin like you can ground yourself in them.
He can tell you’re close by the way your thighs tighten on his, toes curling where they rest against his calves. Your hand squeezes once on the plush of his side like you’re settling yourself, learning to ride the waves as they come. Sam can feel how you’ve stopped fighting your initial discomfort, how you’ve started embracing it instead of being constantly wary. You’ve slowly melted further into Sam’s warmth, let the heat of him slowly bleed into you like he can make you clean instead of dirty. For the first time in his life, Sam thinks he might be able to help rather than hurt, to clean rather than taint.
One final roll of your hips and one strong buck of Sam’s sends you over the edge, falling straight into Sam’s arms with a heady moan of his name that softens at the edges and cracks in the middle and almost makes him lightheaded. He pumps his hips once, twice more, stomach muscles contracting tight before spilling into the condom. He groans deep and heavy in his chest as he comes, the sound echoing out into the world like it needs the birds and trees and far-away mountains to hear the news that Sam Winchester has healed a soul.
And healed you are. The gaping pit in your heart is gone, sealed over with something that looks and feels an awful lot like Sam’s love for you, fitting perfectly into the shape rotted out by the demonic touch of Meg. You’re whole again, in Sam’s eyes. Different, yes, changed, for sure, but whole, despite it all. You’ve come out the other side with all your pieces intact, albeit carrying the distinct touch of Sam.
His head drops to your shoulder as his arms wrap tight around your back, intent on holding every inch of you as close to his chest as he can. Slowly, his breathing calms with yours, chests rising and falling in tandem, heartbeats dancing a waltz to music only you can hear. Sam’s fingers trace patterns on your back as he lies there, boneless, letting the afterglow wash over him like the first sunrise after days of cloud. He loses track of time, watching you, feeling you, reveling in your warmth and love and trust.
Eventually, when you’ve regained some strength, you lift your hips up off him, both you and Sam wincing slightly at the sensitivity of it. He can tell you’re a little tender in your hips with the way your legs close slow when you lay down beside him. He’s a little sore himself, more from the emotional taxation of it all, but there’s a spot in his lower back that’s gone sensitive from the way he was arched moments ago.
“D’you want another shower?” Sam asks after a pause, voice low and warm.
“Tired,” is your only reply, which makes him huff a laugh.
“Bath?”
You squint your eyes, picking up your head to look at him. “Do I have to?”
“No. You don’t gotta do anything if you don’t want to.”
His fingers brush hair back from your face, grazing light over your skin as he purses his lips, stretching to give you a deep kiss that makes him see stars.
“Just wanna lay here,” you whisper.
“We can do that,” Sam whispers back. “Gonna clean you up, m’kay?”
You nod, sighing gently as Sam rolls himself off the bed, the shock from his bare feet on the cold floor a welcome wake-up call as he stands. Clean boxers get retrieved from the dresser and slid on his hips, and a worn t-shirt that feels like home gets tossed in your direction in case you want to cover up. Sam knows you likely won’t, because nobody else is home; something he’s thankful for as he pads toward the bathroom.
Sam closes the door behind himself when he steps in, taking a moment just to soak in the aftermath of it all. Something’s changed in him too, he thinks. He knows you’re different, that’s not surprising. What is, however, is the man he sees looking back at him in the mirror when he raises his head. This man is still Sam, the same brown hair, the same wide eyes, the same fading cut on his forehead from a week ago that stubbornly refuses to heal. But this man looks stronger, like he’s learned something about himself since the last time he checked.
You must not have been the only one with missing pieces then. Maybe what you saw in that puddle was true, maybe Sam was just as broken as you were. Something in Sam tells him he’ll never have sex more meaningful than that, because it healed you and it healed him, and it fixed something broken deep inside both your souls that he was convinced could never be healed. He’s done something good for once, he realizes with a foreign pride. He’s let himself love someone and they haven’t been stolen from him. They haven’t been tormented or destroyed or turned into something unrecognizable.
Sam winces as he slides the condom off, tying it up and tossing in in the trash, wrapped in tissue in a fruitless attempt to conceal it. He’s not ashamed, but something in him says this is a moment to be kept between you and him, never to be heard of by anyone else. Tomorrow he’ll have to take out that trash bin just to rid the evidence. He settles for wiping himself down with tissue and tucking himself away again in his boxers. Retrieving a cloth, he runs it under water, letting it warm on his hand first and testing the temperature inside his wrist to make sure it’s not too hot or cold for you.
Wringing out the excess water, he brings the cloth back to the bedroom, tapping you softly on the shoulder when he notices you’ve started to drift off. You prop your legs open for him, letting him wipe you down in soft strokes. Sam handles you with reverence, like you’re a museum piece he’s been tasked to care for. Any time you flinch from tenderness, he pulls back, lets you adjust, resumes his work. When he’s done, there’s no trace that anything ever happened, besides a tension in his muscles and a heavy film of exhaustion that’s worming into his brain.
Cloth rinsed out and hung up to dry, the t-shirt returned unused to the dresser drawer it came from, Sam finally pulls the blankets up, sliding into bed at your side and pulling you close until your head lands on his pillow. One hand of yours drifts to his chest, resting palm-down over his heart, fingers tapping in time with the beat. When you speak, your voice is barely over a whisper, like the moment might shatter if you speak too loudly.
“Sammy?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you.”
Sam blinks, taken aback. “For what?”
“For this. Tonight. For reminding me what it feels like to be loved.”
Emotion pricks at his throat, and he clears it, shuffling you closer so your head rests on his bare chest now, tugging the blankets up higher over both your bodies.
“I didn’t do anything,” he says.
“Sam, you did everything.”
“I-.”
“You cared. You loved. You made sure I was okay, and you stopped when I got scared. You showed me what it really looks like to be loved by Sam. You just-. I don’t know if you’ll ever really know how much this means to me, but it means a lot.”
Sam presses a kiss to your temple, lips brushing a faded scar from years past. “You helped me too, you know.”
You grin against his chest, lips curving. “I know.”
It’s Sam’s turn to smile. “I guess that’s what we do, huh? Help each other?”
You nod, hair tickling his chin where it gets caught in his stubble.
“We heal each other, Sammy. That’s what we do.”
He nods, pensive. Already, his mind is racing, cataloguing every touch between the motel and now, marvelling at how far you’ve come. The months between felt like an agonizing eternity where Sam wasn’t sure if he could ever be loved by you again, but now that it’s over, it feels like the blink of an eye.
“You know, I was thinking about something earlier,” Sam starts.
“Uh oh,” you say, chuckling against his chest, the vibrations going through him.
“Hush,” he says around a laugh. “I was thinking about what you said at that puddle a while ago.”
Your brows pinch together, and Sam can tell you have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Where you told me what you saw when you looked at us, and you told me I looked broken.”
“Oh. That.”
Sam’s hand rubs your shoulder now, palm curving over it protectively, tugging you tighter against his bare chest.
“You were right, you know. About me being hurt and violated. I was hurting so bad I didn’t even feel it anymore. All I could think about was how much I hurt and how much more you must have been hurting.”
You make a soft sound in sympathy.
“I think-. I think I’m gonna be alright now,” Sam finishes, the words carrying a finality to them that makes him convinced they’re true. “I really think we’re gonna be okay.”
You snuggle closer, fitting into the curve of his arm. “Yeah. Yeah, we will. We’re gonna be just fine, Sammy, love.”
Sam presses one more kiss to your lips, resting his chin on your head as he lets his eyes flutter shut, the weight of exhaustion pulling him down immediately. He’s always been this way, after sex, for reasons still unknown to him. Usually, he tries to fight it, tries to stay awake as long as he can because he needs to make sure you won’t take off on him in the middle of the night, needs to be certain nothing’s going to come after you while you sleep in his arms. It’s a battle he usually loses, often succumbing to your sleepy warmth way sooner than he’d like. Tonight, though, he doesn’t bother putting up a fight, just lets himself curl tighter around you like a cat protecting their kittens.
"I love you," he whispers into your hairline, repeating it over and over again like a prayer.
"Love you too," you mumble in reply, kissing the hinge of his jaw.
You drop into sleep before him, body relaxing against him with a pleasant sigh. Your hip twitches once, reminding Sam you’re still a little stiff. Slowly so as not to wake you, he starts working at your muscles, long fingers kneading at the skin with just enough pressure to keep you asleep yet still soothe your aches. You melt even further into his side, pressing your body as close as you can possibly manage, throwing one leg over his as you sleepily readjust. A muscle gives in your lower back, and he feels the breath of relief you exhale against his skin, smiling softly to himself at a mission accomplished.
Sam turns in your hold, hiking your leg back up over his and throwing an arm over you, resting on your shoulder blades. He tucks your head into the crook between his neck and shoulder, resting his chin on the top of your head, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair before smoothing it back again. He doesn’t ever want to let you go now that he has you this close, now that he knows he can cross the line into sex with you again. He doesn’t ever want to leave this bed, not even when the sun comes up tomorrow morning bright and insistent the way it always does when it matters. He’ll settle for taking tonight, basking in the gravity well of the mattress shaped by your bodies tangled together, resting in the space the air left for you to exist while it works to keep the outside world away for a night.
His arm holds you close, fingers brushing the dimples in your back just above your hips, thumb rubbing circles on your hipbone until he falls asleep completely. His other hand drifts to your hair, tangling in the strands at the back of your head, cupping your head and bringing it as close as he can. Sam’s long body curls around you, and you curl into him, tucking together, two souls bound from the very beginning, always fated to end up intertwined. Sam falls asleep not knowing where he ends and you begin. All he’s certain of is that you’re both going to be alright, and that you trust him.
Those fated three words. Not ‘I love you’. Not ‘I was wrong’. I. Trust. You. Heavy, absolute, weighted with the kind of dedication that comes from honesty. The knowledge that you trust him is enough to make his heart burst in his chest, filling him with a devastatingly sweet realization that you’re it for him, and he’s it for you, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than in your arms at the end of the toughest days of his life.
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: soft smut (mdni) | word count: 4.6k
warnings: a little bit of plot, a lot of soft smut (cuddling, sexy dreams (sam), oral r!receiving, protected sex, no reader anatomy described, reader and sam are not virgins)
dean's version | taglist
Sam Winchester is the most oblivious man on the planet.
For a man who almost graduated Stanford, who’s entire reputation in the hunting circle is based in tales of his intelligence, he’s really stupid sometimes. He can tell you everything there is to know about whatever monster you’re hunting, and if he doesn’t know it, he’ll find it. He’s got place names and area codes memorized, a million lies on the tip of tongue for whomever needs to hear them first. Fake names, ages, backstories, he’s got it all. He knows the ins and outs of all his weapons; the fastest way to load and unload his shotgun, the quickest way to sharpen the silver blades, even the right material to make your knife grip out of so that your weapon is balanced in your hand. Sam can read people like a book; he’d know their whole life story with just a glance, how anxious they feel, and he knows exactly what to say to calm them down.
When he’s alone with you in the bunker, he’s even smarter. Sam knows all the little things there are to know about the world. He knows the movement of constellations based on the seasons, the opening lines to his favourite Shakespeare plays, the dialogue between Victor and his creation from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. He could tell you exactly how your overly caffeinated drink works, or what’s happening chemically when you wake up reeling after a nightmare, or even comment on the origins of all the herbs and flowers sitting around the bunker’s storage rooms.
He knows you well too, so damn well it makes your heart hurt to think he couldn’t. Sam’s memorized exactly how you take your tea, how long he needs to wait for you to fall asleep after a long hunt, what order you tie your shoes in. If he were blindfolded and partly deaf on the world’s largest game show stage, he could answer every question about you correctly just on intuition. He’s learned you in the way nobody ever bothered to learn him, and to you, he’s set on making sure you never forget what it means to be loved by Sam Winchester.
But for all of that knowledge, for all of that intuition and meticulous learning of your body and your mind, he still doesn’t know what you want from him. He knows you want him to love you and love you he does; forehead kisses in the bunker’s kitchen, falling asleep on his chest at night, holding hands on the walk from motel to library. You’ve shown him time and time again how you want to be loved, and Sam’s stepped up over and over. He knows how to hold you without breaking you, how to kiss you without tasting your darkest secrets. There’s nothing about you he doesn’t know, except for one thing; how badly you crave more. If he knew that, it would make you vulnerable, make him a target, and you can’t have that.
You are the most oblivious partner on the planet.
Whatever Sam doesn’t lore wise, you do. You’re the better shot, always knowing exactly how much the wind will change your trajectory, what calibre you need to do the least additional damage, what percentage of the bullets have to be silver to conserve resources yet still be effective. You can read a room with a precision that scares Sam on occasion. You can sniff out who your monster of the week is cosplaying as just by looking into their eyes and seeing that shift into evil. You’re the only person who can get Dean to apologize for his stupid pranks or get Castiel to tell you the truth without covering up parts of it in a blanket of lies. You get people to say what you want them to say. You help victims sort out their memories and point you in the right direction.
When it comes to Sam, your intuition is even sharper than with strangers, even sharper than with his brother. You know the moment something’s off about him, the exact point when his mood shifts into something sadder, more scared. You can tell just by his restless motions at night what kind of dream he’s having, already plotting out what you’ll need to do for him when he wakes up shouting. You can trace the outline of his love with a gentle finger and never stray off course, because the path is so familiar it resides in your chest and never thinks about leaving. You’ve studied him and learned him because nobody else did, and every day you spend watching him understand you really do care about him fills you with butterflies and a warm feeling deep in your chest.
You know everything there is to know about Sam. The meticulous way he packs and unpacks his duffle, the fact he always hangs his coat on the third hook from the right, that he has one pair of ragged jeans he’ll wear around the bunker, but only if it’s a weekend off. You could recite his favourite snacks in your sleep, count the number of breaths it takes for him to drop off watching a movie. You’ve memorized the way he tastes when you kiss him and the way he sounds when he laughs, and you’ve tucked them away in your brain for long drives spent apart. If someone tells you to think of your happy place, it’s in Sam’s arms, his chin resting on your head and arms wrapped around you, low voice telling you whatever comes to mind.
And despite it all, there’s something about him that Sam says you’re missing. You know Sam wants to hold you close when he needs support, because you quiet the voice in his head that says he’s a monster. You know he wants to wake up next to you every morning and kiss you while he tells you he loves you. You know he wants to hunt with you and live with you and spend your afternoons walking together because you can. But he’s never told you deep his desire for the next step goes, how carnally he needs you; because if he does, he’s afraid you’ll leave.
It’s a slow evening in the bunker, the lights dimmed low enough to make you think it’s later than it really is. Dean’s checking out a lead a few states over, something he’d tried to convince you and Sam to come along on before you’d shut him down. Some weekends were just made for staying in. Dean could go rogue if he wanted, but you’re quite content to sit here with your boyfriend and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist. It’s as close to normal as you can get, where your only real problems are the squeaky doors that announce your entry and the clanky pipes that sing songs nobody knows the words to anymore.
You and Sam are on the couch in the Dean Cave; Dean can’t get mad at you for taking his space when he’s not here. Sam’s stretched out across the cushions, flat on his back and taking up the space you always invite him to. You’re lying on top of him, legs tangling together, his heartbeat loud in your ear. Sam’s half-asleep, not really watching whatever show he’s put on, torn between listening to your quiet conversation and fully drifting off. Your voice is sweet, picking him up in honeyed arms and rocking him gently until all he can feel is your words.
His fingers tap a rhythm only he can hear on your shoulder, callouses catching on the material of your shirt every so often. His low replies to your comments come fewer and far between, eyes drifting shut and breath slowing. It’s comfortable, covered in your warm weight, grounded and reminded he belongs here, with you, not somewhere six feet underground where the only hugs come from the dirt. Anything he’s been worrying about is gone now, lost somewhere in his brain and turned to wisps of memory he’ll collect later. Now is for you.
Prying his eyes open yet again, he blinks at you, desperately trying to get you back into focus. You pause your story, smiling softly at him, tracing your fingers across his cheekbone, down his jaw, pointer finger trailing over his lips. You replace your finger with a kiss that makes Sam sigh contentedly against you, arms tightening over you and pulling you close. You shift, up toward his head, and Sam’s hands fly to your hips, steadying you.
“Sorry, sorry. You alright?” you ask when you’re settled again.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” Sam says, voice a little rough around the edges.
“You sure?”
He nods. “Just-. I was almost asleep, you startled me. ‘S all.”
You smile again, kissing the tip of his nose and trailing your hand along his hairline. “Promise I’ll be still this time.”
Sam exhales softly, a gentle sound that carries promises of good dreams with it. He wiggles around until he’s comfortable, stretching his legs out to pop his back before going still under you. You can hear the moment his breathing slips into the cadence of sleep, a tune you’re grateful for every time it happens; the deep inhales and exhales promise no nightmares.
You manage to get through another couple episodes of whatever show Sam left on. You feel the change in the atmosphere before you realize what’s happening, heart jumping when you hear a soft whimper from Sam. It’s not unlike the sounds he makes when shadows torment his mind, sounds that break your heart in two every time you hear them. It’s the one that makes him sound like he’s on the verge of crying, the one that makes his throat tight, and his heart rate quicken.
“Sam?” you murmur, shaking his shoulder gently. “Sam, are you okay?”
He doesn’t respond, only giving another huff of breath, mouth parting slightly. You can feel his pulse banging away in his veins, heart thudding in his chest where your head rests. Sitting up slightly makes the noise quieter, his arms opting to tighten around you instead and lock you in place for fear of your disappearance while he’s asleep. His brows pinch together, the little canyon between them deepening in concern, but he doesn’t wake.
“Sam, love, you gotta wake up,” you say, louder this time.
Shoving his shoulder doesn’t work. Whatever’s trapped Sam in a dream seems to have its claws in deep, thorns in his brain that hold it captive away from the weight of the waking. You sigh softly, finally deciding on fully sitting up so you can better reach him. You start to push up, rocking a little in the process over the uneven ground of Sam’s body beneath you, taking it slow so you don’t startle him. Fully upright, you shift your weight to the side and down, your hips near his so you can roll off him easier. Halfway through the movement, Sam’s eyes fly open and he wakes with a half-whine half-shout.
“Sam?” you say, freezing in place at the suddenness. “You good?”
He’s breathing heavy, hands tightening on your waist where they’d flown in their haste to ground him. Eyes wild, pupils blown, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes dart around the room as if addressing the reality of his whereabouts.
“Nightmare?” you ask, leaning forward. “Sam, you-.”
“Don’t-. Don’t move,” he pants.
You return slow to your original position, and Sam groans low in his chest.
“Sam, what’s going on with you?” you ask, concerned.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m-.” His breath catches when you go to roll off him for a second time. “It’s fine. Just a-. Just a dream.”
Your brows pinch together in confusion as his voice gets thinner, cracking on the words. You pause, and that’s when you feel it. It’s unmistakable, the hard ridge of Sam through the fabric of his sweatpants, pressing against you where you sit. You focus on his face, the red flush that’s creeping over his skin like painted roses, the shyness that’s suddenly gripped his features in a vice and won’t let him go. His eyes are squeezed shut, as if he can’t bear to look at you while he’s like this, with his guard down, vulnerable and afraid.
“Sam, it’s-.”
“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” he laughs, without any humour.
“It is.”
“Not-. Not really.”
You frown. “Why?”
“’Cause we’ve never…we’ve never talked about it. About-. About that step. About going that far. And I don’t-.”
He pauses to clear his throat, and you take one of his hands in yours, holding it between your own and rubbing soft circles over the skin of it.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
At those words, your heart drops through the floor and disappears somewhere in the foundations of the building.
“Sam…”
“It’s okay, really. We can just-. We can just forget this ever happened, yeah?”
“Is that what you want?”
He pauses, studying you. Then, quietly, so shy you almost don’t hear it. “No. God, no.”
“I don’t want that either, Sam. It’s okay.”
“You-. You’d-.”
You laugh lightly, a soft, sweet sound that goes right to Sam’s core.
“Yeah, Sam, I would. I thought I’d made that obvious.”
He laughs, for real this time, the sound echoing joyfully around the room.
“Well, that makes two of us. Thought I was being pretty clear too, but…nothing really happened, so I just- buried it, I guess.”
You blink, stunned. “You mean-.”
“Yeah,” he breathes.
“Oh.”
It hits you both then, how painfully oblivious you’ve been to each other. Suddenly, every stolen glance out the corners of eyes makes sense, every kiss made with bated breath and wandering hands feels like a missed chance. Every look, every conversation, every inch of space that’s ever separated you feels like too much. Every time Sam’s woken up and rolled away from you with a tentative clearing of his throat, every daydream you’ve been caught having, it all makes sense. Words left unsaid to the spaces between thoughts, what-ifs and maybes that could have been more but were left to fizzle out like sparklers in the rain.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re so damn stupid.”
You’re laughing a real laugh that makes your lungs hurt and your sides ache and everything feels golden and warm. Sam’s laughing with you, a low sound that vibrates through his chest into your hands, head fallen back against the armrest. His situation is all but forgotten until, in your joy, you fall forward onto him, and your hips roll against his. The movement draws a sharp breath from him and a choked sound in his throat, making you freeze.
“Sorry-,” you say.
“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbles as the same time.
“D’you-. We can-.” You’re stuttering, unsure what to say.
“Ill-. Turn this off…we can…yeah.”
Sam holds your hips up off him while you get off the couch, ensuring no further movement puts him in an awkward position. The TV gets shut off, falling into fuzzy darkness with the rest of the room, a projection of the late evening outside that’s surely becoming studded with stars. When he’s standing, he opens his arms to you, tugging you into a hug and lifting you up so you wrap your legs and arms around him. His hands cradle under your thighs, holding you secure while his lips travel to yours.
The walk from the Dean Cave to your room is lost to memory and the echoes of the bunker hallways, a secret kept by stone and wood. All you register is the weight of Sam’s hands keeping you up and the heat of his mouth on yours, the taste of him flooding your senses. Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging lightly with each step and making him moan softly when you tug hard enough for him to feel it. He tastes like light and warmth and something new, a promise for comfort and safety that draws you in ever deeper.
Eventually, the bedside lamps get turned on and the bedroom door gets kicked shut, plunging the room into an oasis built for only you and him. Sam lays you down on the bed, hands only moving from your back when he’s sure you’re comfortable, head on a pillow and mattress dipping under your weight. You smile against his lips when he kisses you deep, tongue sweeping at your taste, consuming everything there is about you. Sam’s kisses trail sloppy down your jaw to the pulse point behind your ear, where he nips softly at your skin. Lower he goes, sucking soft marks across your neck and collarbones that he soothes with kisses, making you arch up into him.
His hands drift under your shirt to splay across the sides of your ribs, thumbs rubbing at your skin with each press of his lips to your body, arms tightening when you scrabble at his back or pull on his hair. The light stubble on his jaw scrapes against you in a delightful way that makes you shiver, ghosts crawling up your spine only to be forced away again by the sheer radiance of Sam’s affection.
“Wait, Sam, stop for a second,” you say, hands lightly pushing his shoulders away.
“What’s wrong?” he says, surfacing for air from your collarbones, lips puffy and pupils blown yet still threaded with concern.
“I-. You’re sure about this? You wanna do this?”
He noses lightly at your jaw, faint smile curving on his lips. “Yeah, I really do. Do you?”
You swallow lightly. “Yeah. I do.”
He seals it with a kiss to your lips that takes your breath away entirely, making your head spin. His big hands crawl up your spine, taking your shirt with them, tapping your shoulders once as a signal to raise your hands for him. The shirt slides off, falling in a lump on the floor at the bedside; someone will pick it up tomorrow. Sam nearly groans in delight when your torso is exposed to him, the cold air pebbling at your skin and making you shiver, until his warm hands drop once against to the expanses of your body. His fingers press tight into the ridges and curves of you, tracing you reverently until he’s sure he could draw you from memory.
Sam trails heated kisses down your sternum, tongue pressing flat over every mark he sucks on your skin to soothe the ache it leaves behind. Down your ribs he goes, following the largest ones until they disappear down your sides, covered by the expanses of his hands. After a fair amount of your hushed complaints and your hands pawing at his t-shirt sleeves, he finally concedes to pulling it over his head and throwing it aside with yours.
“Happy?” he teases, fingers dancing up your sides.
“Mhm,” you hum, trailing your fingers across the planes of his chest.
You can feel his heartbeat in your palm when you press it flat over his anti-possession tattoo, fingers laying on the faint moles on his skin. He’s pretty in a way you’ve never noticed before, skin flushed and bare to you in the way it can only be with trust and love. The faint brushings of hair you’ve never seen, the ridges of his muscles that stand out more than you remember; all of it, Sam in a new light. When your eyes trail up again, they meet his, the colour of his love and filled with affection.
“You been looking at me like that for a while?” you murmur.
“You have no idea,” Sam sighs.
He trails his worship lower, sliding your sweatpants and underwear off when you give him the green light, fingers pressing into the muscle at your hips. He trails soft kisses up the insides of your thighs, strikingly tender to the way he was lavishing praise on your upper body.
“You’re pretty,” he says simply.
You feel yourself blushing. “Thanks, Sammy.”
When he finally puts his mouth on your arousal, it sends a jolt of electricity arcing up your spine. You curve your back off the mattress a little, making Sam chuckle.
“Okay?” he says.
“Yeah, yeah, just unexpected. Keep going.”
You tug on his hair, an invitation to do what he wants to you. Sam works at you expertly, alternating between flat strokes that make you head swim and gentle suckles that feel heavenly in your sensitivity. When he can feel your thighs tense as you near your peak, he works at you with his hand, too, the additional sensation sending you flying over the edge with no regards for where you fall. A breathy moan escapes you as Sam laps up your taste, and he hums low against you with the satisfaction of it all. His hips jerk once into the mattress, seeking the friction he’s been wanting since that dream of his woke him up.
“C’mon up here, love,” you say when you get your breath back.
Sam’s mouth has been off you for a few minutes, letting you float back into your body and recover from the thrill. There’s still something residual settling deep in your bones, a craving for him in the most carnal of ways, the ones that make you feel like you’re burst into flames if he strays too far from you. Sam climbs up your body, straddling you, legs on either side of your hips and his hands resting on your waist. You can feel him hard against your abdomen, straining against the fabric of his pants.
“Off,” you say, tugging at the waistband.
Sam lifts his hips for you to shove the fabric down, taking his boxers with them. He kicks them both off, and they hang halfway off the bed in a mimicry of your overlapping shadows, black striking against the cream sheets. You take him in, flushed and resting against his lower stomach, already leaning toward you to lessen the gap. He stops halfway, reaching over you to the bedside table and rummaging through it, making a quiet sound of victory when he pulls out a condom, the silliness of it making you giggle.
“Doing okay still?” he asks when he’s rolled the condom on, returning to his position at your hips.
“Yeah. ‘M great.”
Sam smiles that sweet one that makes his dimples pop and his eyes crinkle, hair falling in his face. You brush it away, cupping his face in your hands.
“Whenever you’re ready,” you whisper against his cheek, pressing a kiss as a signature to the words.
Sam lines himself up carefully, pushing in slowly so as not to hurt you. You don’t think he could if he tried, but he still treats you like the most delicate thing in the room. His thrusts are slow, shallow, each one pushing him in a little more, a press of his lips to yours with each one. Finally, he’s seated in you, hips kissing yours, his stomach muscles tensing in ripples as he basks in your feeling.
He moves slow at first, careful strokes to learn the shape of your body and the way you respond to him, light pressure that burns in the way all good things do; low in your stomach and creeping up into your heart that’s filled with Sam. When you lightly tap his hips, he quickens his pace, one palm pressing flat into the pillow beside your head, the other resting on your waist, keeping him grounded in you and pulling you as close as he dares. Your fingers drift all over his body; the back of his neck, trailing down his shoulder blades, drifting down his happy trail to the curls at his base, pulling him closer by the backs of his thighs. The movements make him whine softly, gentle moans threading through, not unlike the sounds he makes when he dreams sometimes.
You come first, but just barely, much to Sam’s slight dismay. The clench of your muscles around him sends him over the edge, the feeling too good to ignore. Heat rushes your stomach, burning lower, lower, until it’s all you can feel and all Sam knows. Your arousal soaks him as he spills into the condom, your soft sigh of relief mixing with his heady moan in a song only you share.
The room after is quiet, furnace humming softly in the walls and the ticking of shrinking metal from the cool night air the only things you can hear. Sam collapses heavy onto your body, still buried deep in your warmth, arms trembling from holding up his weight. You tuck your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sex and Sam that fills the room. Even the lights seem to look away in this moment, giving you the peace of basking in each other’s warmth and love.
“Sammy?” you murmur against his neck.
Sam hums low in response.
“I love you.”
It’s simple, plain, somehow encompassing all you want to say and leaving everything unsaid. But Sam understands. He always does, when it comes to you.
“I-. I love you too. You know that, right?”
He picks his head up to look at you, to study you while you answer.
“Yeah…yeah, I know.”
Your response makes him grin warmly, hazel eyes filling with that love he can never dim for you, the one that lies buried in the garden of his heart and blooms whenever he looks at you. He kisses you tenderly, hands cupping your head, thumb sweeping over your cheek.
“You wanna get cleaned up?” he says, quiet.
“Yeah. Please.”
“Shower?”
“Cloth? Wanna stay here, ‘m comfy.”
Sam chuckles. “Alright, alright. Cloth it is.”
When the lamps are turned off and the only memory of what happened lives in the shadows in the corners of the room, you let yourself breathe. You’re cleaned off thanks to Sam’s caring hands, and he’s sorted out too, all warm and cuddly beside you. He’s got his arms around you, resting your head on his chest as he traces patterns over your back. He smells faintly like your soap, you realize, a fact that makes your knees weak and your heart full.
No one speaks, and no one needs to. All the words are there to be listened to in the spaces between breaths, the slight rustles of blankets as Sam gets comfortable, the light exhale that passes through his lips when he finds the right spot.
“Hey, Sam?” you say.
“Hm?”
“Next time you want this…just say something.”
He smiles, squeezing you in a hug.
“You mean next time I dream about you?”
You nuzzle against his chest, pressing as much of yourself to him as you can. “Yeah. Yeah, that works.”
He hums. “Not bad for a first time for us, hm?”
You shake your head, hair tickling his skin. “No, not bad at all.”
“Would you do it again?”
You press a light kiss to his tattoo. “As many times as you want me to, love.”
The conversation drifts longer, floating somewhere between heartfelt musings and silly hypotheticals. Your voice fades when you realize Sam’s teetering on the edge of sleep, doing his best to stay awake just to hear your pretty voice. He’s losing the fight, though, his head tipping to the side and righting itself every so often, eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks.
“Get some sleep, Sam. You’re falling asleep on me.”
“You comin’?” he slurs tiredly, rolling onto his side and taking you with him.
“Always.”
The last thing you register is a sleepy kiss pressed to the top of your head, and a soft exhale that ruffles your hair as it brushes past. Sam’s out shortly after, one arm hanging heavy around your waist, the other one pillowing your head on his bicep. You try to move off thinking it’ll make his arm fall asleep if you stay, but when Sam makes a sleep-laced complaint that you feel more than hear, you let yourself drift off after him.
Not bad for the two most oblivious people on the planet.
Summary: In the adjoining motel room to yours, Sam contemplates you, his desires, and blood.
Content/Warnings: NSFW, imagined smut, masturbation, self-worth issues, horny Sam, a bit touch-starved too, switchy/sub Sam fantasizing about you 5.1k words
A/N: hello!! Lmk if the people want me to keep going 👀 enjoy!
The thing is that Sam knows it’s not a good idea. He knows that mixing business with pleasure only ends messy. And you don’t do long-term. He’s seen you encounter potential partners at bars, seen you leave with some of them, but you never see them twice. You don’t give any of them your phone number. Sam’s even seen you toss out some of theirs in front of him, scrawled on cocktail napkins or the backs of receipts. It’s clear that you don’t want to be tied down. Sam’s the opposite, especially when it comes to you, he can’t do anything shorter than forever. It’s kind of non-negotiable for him. So he smothers his desire, subduing it down into the pit of his stomach where he can’t remember it. He can do that. Most of the time.
However, most of the time he hasn’t watched you single-handedly save his life soaked in blood. The witch you all had been hunting for a week had gotten a lock of Sam’s hair, giving her DNA to curse. She’d cornered him in her house before using magic to choke the life out of him. He was reduced to all fours, unable to go see if you were okay where you’d landed crumpled in a pile of debris after the witch tossed you into a wall.
You stumbled up onto your feet, dizzy and missing your gun. The witch didn’t hear you pluck an ancient sword that used to hang on the wall out of the rubble. She turned just in time to meet your blade slicing through most of her neck. The spell broke on Sam. Instantly he fumbled to grab for his gun. He looked up just in time to watch the witch crumple aside, the blade pinched in her neck. He let out a sigh of relief, lowering his weapon.
When the body fell away, you were left standing in triumph, chest heaving. Knelt on the ground at your feet he couldn’t look away. Blood had spewed onto your shirt and chin from your killing blow, which was then beginning to drool lazily down your flesh. He’s still almost angry over how pornographic it felt to look at you right then, and how the image isn’t leaving his mind. Your heavy breathing drew his gaze to your breasts involuntarily. Without his permission his mind pondered the question of whether or not they rise and fall so dramatically after you come. If he could make you feel so good that you’d be short of breath.
Shame like a hot knife sliced through his thoughts and he snapped himself out of his trance. His eyes flickered back up to your face quick enough that he’s hoping you didn’t see him get distracted by your cleavage. A victorious grin was curving your lip, eyes glinting with mischief as you started teasing him for getting himself disarmed by a witch that barely reached his hip. He forced a look of annoyance on his face as you helped him up, hoping his flat expression would distract you from the heat burning his cheeks pink.
So yeah, since that moment about four hours ago, he’s been restless as hell. Dean’s gone to a bar with Cas so Sam’s all alone. No one needs him for the foreseeable future. He oughta relax. Instead, he’s pacing up and down the length of his hotel room in his socks, rubbing his chin and frowning the hardest he’s ever frowned (which is really saying something for this guy). He’s exasperated by the baseness of his carnal desire for you. It’s like such desires ought to be beneath him— like he thinks he’s better than being weak to his wants.
What kind of freak is he, huh? The kind of guy who can’t help himself from turning into a horndog at the drop of a hat around a pretty girl? He’s supposed to be better than that, especially now. He’s been through so much, he shouldn’t still be this weak around you. He doesn’t feel like he’s in control of himself around you sometimes and those “some” times are becoming “most” of the times. Every few minutes he’s reminded of you wiping blood off your lip earlier this evening. He tries scoffing aloud preposterously at himself to shame his mind out of unraveling over the memory of you doing that. It’s not working. It only makes him replay the moment again and again.
He’s been cursing himself for telling you about it ever since the drive back to the motel, when he was left to stew in his own thoughts for the first time tonight. It hasn’t gotten any better in the hours since.
He’s got no clue why he couldn’t resist pointing out remaining spots of blood on your chin. He tried to rationalize it to himself in the moment— you’re the kind of person who wants to be told when there’s something in your teeth, so you’d want him to tell you about the blood, right? —but he knows he’s hiding behind that rationale. Beneath that, he’s a big fat liar who couldn’t help feeding his imagination. He wanted to see how you’d perform that action. His sick little mind wanted to watch you do it, like it might give him an idea of you in far more intimate settings. He literally felt a twinge of weakness in his right knee when your perfect tongue slipped out from between your lips to wet your thumb before wiping it off.
“Did I get it?” You asked.
Goddamn it, he curses himself now.
He cleared his throat a little, shifting awkwardly in place. “Uh, almost, there’s a bit more…”
You did it again— you sweet, trusting woman, only believing in the best of intentions when it comes to Sam —more of your tongue wetting more of the pad of your finger. He almost shuddered with his next exhale, barely keeping it together enough so you wouldn’t notice. You pressed onto the spot more firmly this time and it made your lower lip jut out a bit. To make matters worse you moved slower this time, trying to make sure to get everything. To Sam, that couple of moments stretched out for an eternity and also not long enough.
“How ‘bout now?” You blinked up at him so innocently, completely unaware of his depravity.
He forced himself to nod stiffly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You hadn’t expected that reserved expression, he could tell, because you cocked your head a bit to the side, frowning at him for a second. He knew that look— you saw something in his face and you weren’t going to let it lie. You opened your mouth and he knew you were going to ask a question he wasn’t prepared to answer when luckily, Dean appeared to raucously congratulate you all on a job well done. Upstairs, he and Cas had taken out the last of the coven, making it time for cleanup, your least favorite part of hunting. Sam took that opportunity to get “distracted” from the tension he was inadvertently creating between the two of you. You didn’t mention anything the rest of the night as you all worked together to discard the bodies.
When you all got back to the motel, you immediately excused yourself to your room and your shower. Dean stayed around only long enough to change out of his nasty clothes and “hose off” before he was cajoling Cas into going to the bar on the corner with him. Dean extended the invitation to his brother but he kind of knew something was off with Sam all night. He didn’t seem surprised when Sam turned him down.
It had only been Sam’s intention to just go to sleep. He’s been trying to get the gentle but persistent buzz in his limbs to calm down. He tried showering which helped but didn’t solve the problem. In the middle of it he spotted water dripping down the frosted glass of the shower door and his mind remembered the blood oozing down into the valley of your breasts. Part of him wishes so deeply that he could know your breasts as well as that witch’s blood did.
Fuck, you’re such a freak. He shakes his head and turns away to focus back on the shower.
Now he’s clean and in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, teeth brushed and everything, all ready for bed. But he’s too wound up, too wracked with shame over himself. His desire is so perverse. You have no idea that he was taking pleasure in the sight of you at all, let alone what exactly was feeding his perverse imagination, no idea that he’s sexualizing you at all, even if he doesn’t do it on purpose. Except he had done it on purpose this time, because there was no need to wipe your chin a second time. You got all the blood on the first swipe. He just needed to see you do it again.
You’ve been quiet in your room since the shower turned off, probably cozied up under the blankets with your computer watching some TV. Dean always jokes that you and Sam don’t get laid because you’re both too in love with your laptops. Sam always rolls his eyes and pokes back at his brother in those moments, pretending that he’s annoyed. If it were up to Sam, though, he’d be the only one in competition with your computer for your attention.
It’s not even that late but Sam’s annoyed that he’s still awake— still so restless. If he could get to sleep then he could stop thinking about your mouth and how it might’ve tasted if he used his own lips and tongue to get the spot of blood for you.
Fucking freak, he curses himself silently.
However, it’s not his fault that blood spatter started oozing down sluggishly on your exposed cleavage. He’s only got so much strength, alright? He’s mastered self-control in many aspects of his life but he can’t blame himself for accidental circumstances. Temptation exists everywhere, and he will not be weak to it again. He won’t slip down any slopes, even if they’re the perfect slopes of your body. He won’t. He’s more sure-footed now than when he was younger. You can casually brush against him, touch his hand, tap his shoulder, and he’s proud of his ability to tamp down his desire. He’s still in control of himself, even if he doesn’t have the strength to put more space between the two of you.
Recently though, you’ve started doing something new. It began at a bar a few weeks ago. Someone had been celebrating a bachelorette party in the booth next to you guys. Dean was annoyed by the volume of the party but you’d been endeared. You don’t get annoyed with other people’s happiness most of the time, even if you’re not the happiest. You like seeing people in moments of joy, even just from the sidelines. Sam really admires that about you.
Eventually they set off some little confetti cannons and got kicked out of the bar. Dean had his arm up over the bench across from you and Sam, his neck craned to watch all the drunk bridesmaids stumble out. Sam was smiling at the chaos when something moved in his periphery. He turned quickly to his left as you plucked a piece of circular confetti out of his hair. You held out the little piece of pink tissue paper on your index finger with a syrupy-sweet smile on your face.
“Make a wish?” You joked half-heartedly.
He chuckled nervously, hoping the dim light of the bar was covering the pink in his cheeks. “Doesn’t that only work with eyelashes?”
You gave him a flat look, “Sam, does it even work then?”
A more genuine snort left him. “Fair enough.”
Dean hollered something marginally supportive to the bachelorette party— now that they were the underdogs he’d become supportive —which made them all whoop drunkenly as they departed. You were still holding out the confetti and staring at him. He forced himself to shrug.
“I don’t, uh, I don’t have anything to wish for right now.”
Your face brightens then, as if surprised by that answer. “Is that so? So you’re perfectly content right now, huh? Nothing you’d want to make the night better?”
That’s a dangerous question, he thought.
Outwardly he could only manage a tight shake of his head, “I guess not.”
Your expression warmed at that, like this pleased you very deeply. “I’m glad.”
He hadn’t expected that so he’d reached for humor. “I mean, the company’s a little, er… lacking—”
You shoved him with your forearm, laughing as you told him to shut up. He shut his mouth right away but he couldn’t help the smug smile on his dimpled face at making you laugh. You narrowed your eyes playfully at him.
“Okay, just for that, I’m stealing your wish.”
Without thinking much about it, you blew the confetti off your finger and it went into the collar of his flannel. You giggled in that way you do when you’re just starting to get tipsy and you reached out to flick the little piece of paper off of him. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to tense up his body. For a second your warmth was close enough to feel on the exposed skin at the base of his neck, making him freeze, and then you were gone. Beaming up at him, you apologized for getting in his personal space. He shook his head to tell you it was no problem.
“What did you wish for?” He found himself asking, voice low.
You’d smiled coyly at him, “Wouldn’t you like to know, lawboy?”
Which made him laugh fully, cheeks rosy and his body relaxing again.
You keep cleaning stuff off of him now, like it’s the most normal thing ever. You pluck lint and dust off of his clothes and hair and even his eyebrow once while he talks to you in the Bunker, like you can’t help it. He doesn’t stop you and part of him thinks he ought to. He can’t, though.
He can’t help thinking about your strong hands on him— keeping him safe, keeping him clean, taking care of his body like it matters. You always treat his body like it matters, whether it’s making room for him where they haven’t planned for a Sasquatch to show up or shoving other people away when they get too close for his comfort. So long as you’re there he’s far less worried about other people getting into his space without his consent. You look at him like he’s behind glass in a museum— like you see him as a specimen to be respected. You touch him like he’s deserving of tenderness and he can’t help but wonder if you would feel differently had you known him when he was younger.
Had you watched him be taken down by the demon blood, had you watched him free Lucifer, would you still look at him and touch him now like he is good? If you had known him when he was young, would you still think of him as careful and calculated or would you see right through the facade grown in his thirties to cover his recklessness in his previous disregard for himself and sometimes others? Would you look at him with such kindness and understanding if you had watched him be possessed by Lucifer? Everybody else associates Lucifer’s image with Nick’s face, but Sam can’t help but feel like Lucifer’s true visage is the one that he sees in the mirror every day. If you saw him when he was being piloted around by Lucifer, would you still be able to look at him like he’s done nothing wrong? Like he’s not something to be feared?
Would you still look at him like he’s done nothing wrong if he told you how often he imagines pressing you against the nearest wall? Would you pin him down beneath your beautiful body and force him to indulge even when he’s sure he doesn’t deserve it? Would you let him touch you and worship you like no one else? He wants that. He wants to hold you. At night in bed he’d rather you than a pillow hugged in his arms, your body warm and plush grounding him to the world. Maybe that’s why he can’t lay down to sleep right now because he’s too distracted by imagining what it would be like if he lay down in that bed and saw your lips mere inches from his. If it was normal for them to be so close and for him to be allowed to kiss them.
Thoughts of you in his bed always stir the part of him that gets aroused by domesticity. You bring it out a lot more than he’s used to. He wants to feel you snuggle up against him. He wants to wake up and feel your sleepy-soft breaths against his skin. Fuck, the thought alone makes him shiver.
He paces for a long while, carefully considering his options. He knows one thing in particular that always works to get tension out. He doesn’t deserve it though, he knows that. Not after asking you to repeat an act that felt sensual to him without you knowing what you were doing for him. And the blood element of it only makes Sam trust himself and his desire less. He’s still a blood freak, isn’t he? One misstep away from falling off the wagon all because a pretty girl got splashed in red while saving his life. What kind of sick fuck is he?
None of that mental berating however is working to get his semi-hard cock to soften again. The longer he perseverates on this, the more agitatedly he paces, the more his body winds tighter and the more his cock swells with blood.
You’re so quiet next door. Maybe you’re asleep. It’s past 11pm, so you very well could be. Normal people are asleep around this time, right? Sam hasn’t been normal in a long time and when he has been it’s never lasted long. He wishes you weren’t asleep. Maybe in some insane twist of fate you want him too. Maybe you’re doing the same thing over there, pacing around and wanting him. No, that would be too good to be true.
Fucking stop it, Sam. Stop it. Stop entertaining the thoughts. You’re stronger than this.
He’s telling himself repeatedly to stop following this line of thought but it’s becoming very clear that he’s got no control over this. You make him wild and unpredictable to himself. And it’s not even like you’re doing it on purpose. He’s the one making things weird between you two, he knows it. And still, he can’t stop imagining.
His mind conjures up the image of you above him, taking your pleasure from his body like you own it. His dick throbs angrily in his sweats, making him press a palm to it. He tries to take a deep breath to calm himself. Then he sees you crawling under the library’s table in the Bunker to gently pull his cock into your mouth. In his imagination you’re so enticed by him that you don’t care about someone interrupting, you just want his pleasure. Seeing you want his pleasure makes him feel like it’s okay to have pleasure at all, like your second opinion validates the basic human need for physical kindness and attention.
Finally it’s too much— he’s gotta sit down. He grinds his teeth angrily but his hand is still massaging his cock. He knows where this is going. It’s pathetic— he’s furious with himself over it.
Touching himself to the thought of you only started recently. About two months ago you’d taken care of him while he was sick like a dog with the flu. Dean and Cas went off on a hunt while you kept Sam company. That was the best part, just you being there with him. You weren’t overly doting on him of course, you still poked fun at him, but he realized then that you always did it with the goal of making him smile or laugh. And then you fell asleep in the Cave on the couch next to him. He hadn’t seen you sleep so up close before.
He knows he shouldn’t shit where he eats. Even in that moment he was already telling himself to be thankful for what he already had— for the relationship you and he already formed. He has been failing to listen to that voice of reason continuously ever since because the next night, when he’d gone to sleep alone in his own bed, he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to turn over and find you easily within arm’s reach. What a dream that would be. And then his cock announced its presence when his mind imagined how you might spend your time alone in your room. It’s been downhill from there.
Right now, Sam’s facing the door to the adjoining motel room. It’s like he’s trying to remind himself of your proximity— of why giving in is not a good idea —and it’s not really working to stem his thoughts any more. His furious brow is getting sore from how hard he’s been furrowing it. He can’t stop massaging up and down his shaft with the base of his palm. In the split-second of his next blink the image of you on your knees parting his thighs right now flashed into his mind’s eye. A shuddering breath tumbles out of him and his eyes flutter closed as he begins to cup the outline of his cock more firmly, surrounding as much of the shaft as he can through his sweats. He’s resisting the urge to shove the pants down. It’s getting harder.
Pun intended a voice that sounds suspiciously like yours jokes automatically in his head.
You take up so much space in his thoughts now. He’s kind of frightened by it. His nose wrinkles a bit as he winces from how endeared he’s become to you, body and soul. Sometimes when you’re really excited you pop up onto your tiptoes, your eyes wide as you try to hide how giddy you’re getting. You do it when you learn something interesting or when something you love comes up unexpectedly in conversation and you have to hold yourself back from immediately spewing everything you know about the topic. He loves seeing you like that. It makes him smile every time, usually shyly down at his feet, but only for a second because he doesn’t want to miss any of you.
He’s going to lose what’s left of his mind. He can’t stop himself, he needs this, he needs release. He shoves down his pants and imagines it’s your hands instead— thrilled to be getting him undressed. He’s embarrassed by the slutty amount of saliva in his mouth already when he spits into his hand. It’s just what you do to him.
His hand wraps around the head of his cock and starts slowly moving. He imagines you watching your hand move up and down his length with rapt attention. The thought of you looking at him with such desire makes a shiver run down his spine.
Sam’s kind of amazed he’s gotten away with hiding this crush for this long. He doesn’t like labeling it a “crush” but that’s always what Dean used to call it and Sam’s not sure of another word better suited. He’ll never admit that aloud, but that’s mostly because he doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction. Luckily for him something happened on a hunt a month ago that was so embarrassing and traumatizing for Dean that he requested they never speak of it again to any other living soul. In exchange for this, Sam demanded Dean quit teasing him about having a crush on you. (Sam’s a man of his word so he won’t get into what Dean did, but it wasn’t pretty).
So Sam’s been alone with his feelings now. It’s strange. He thought he’d like it better than feeling on edge about Dean giving something away, but he really just feels kind of isolated now.
His hand begins to twist as it speeds up on his dick. He grunts softly, unable to restrain it. Your lips would look so pretty wrapped around his cock, he just knows it. You’d be so sweet to him sometimes and then you’d make him work for it, just like you always do. He’s getting tired of trying to argue himself out of finding the need to prove himself to you so hot. Mainly because none of his arguments are working.
The thing that makes you a bad idea, the thing that makes you dangerous, is that you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger and as far as he can tell you’ve got no idea. He can’t tell you, he’s afraid to be the one who points it out. It’s legitimately killing him. And if you didn’t want him for more than one night? Sam’s pretty certain he’d rather be struck down by lightning than face that kind of rejection. He’s afraid of how much he wants you. He can’t help thinking that desire this strong and uncontrollable is a long walk off a short pier.
His spit-slick fist makes a soft squelching noise on his next pull upwards. His eyes roll back involuntarily as he imagines the sounds you’d make licking up his shaft. The sloppy noise of you trying to take as much of him as you could. How your eyes would look up at him, wanting to take all the pleasure out of him. He lets out a pathetic little whine when he imagines that— you longing to witness his pleasure the way he longs to witness yours.
He imagines you pulling off of him with a sinful pop and then sliding into his lap. He’d welcome you instantly, no resistance left in him. He would touch you then, trace down your perfect ribs to the soft swell of your belly and then lower. He wonders if sucking his cock would make you wet. He’d go dumb on the spot if you were wet without him even touching you.
Anything you want— he’d give you anything in that moment. He’d be putty in your hands, awaiting your next move. He’d never let you take his cock without warming you up first, though. He wants you to be aching for him inside you but he hates the idea of leaving any of your sexual desires un-sated.
In his imagination you don’t like being far from him. If at all possible you press up against him like you want to meld into one. You hold him close as he explores the warmth between your thighs, working to figure out just what you like so he can make you feel good.
Fuck, he’s pathetic for you. A listless, needy mess jerking himself off while facing you through a wall. He trembles with a wave of intense pleasure as he imagines you getting off on just his fingers in his lap. He imagines you taking his face a bit roughly in your hands as you kiss him “thank you”, like you’re determined to make him yours. As if he isn’t already. He moans lightly when he pictures you trembling in his arms because he made you feel so good.
At first he imagines you slipping onto his cock and riding him slow. Your hips move with purpose over him, your head thrown back as you please both of you. He’d be anchored to the spot by your power over him, and it almost makes him stupid with lust. He imagines you moaning how good he feels— you just can’t help it, he fills you so perfectly, the best you’ve ever had, the only one you ever want again. Of course in his imagination he’s everything you want in a lover/man and more, but he knows he’s got very little to offer practically.
The hand propping him up on the bed falters with the next intense wave of his oncoming orgasm. Before he knows what he’s doing he’s flopping onto his back, eyes fluttering closed. In his mind he imagines you pulling off of his cock without letting him come. He’s whiny from you ruining his orgasm but you make it up to him. You crawl up his body and sit your perfect pussy on his mouth. He wouldn’t even hesitate for a second before filling both hands with your asscheeks and getting to work.
His cock would be aching for attention as you pulled at his hair and let out all the noises of pleasure you have— he wants to know every one intimately. As you build to your orgasm in his mind (and as he builds to his in real life) you bless him by bending back to wrap a fist around his cock. As you come on his face you try to make him feel good too. He’s making you feel too much, though— you’re too weak to focus on that. He likes the idea of that. You’re kind and reciprocal as a person but he often thinks you deserve a break. Let you be a little hedonistic, unable to keep up with him because he’s brought you so high.
He pictures you coming apart above him with such longing that his eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling like he might actually see you there above him. His muscles draw tighter than a bowstring and he has just enough wherewithal to ruck up his t-shirt before perfect, warm pleasure floods through his body.
The first spurt of cum lands on his stomach and then the unthinkable happens: someone knocks on the door and doesn’t wait for an answer to open it. He shoots upright in record time, pulling his shirt over his exposed cock as fast as he can so everything is hidden, all the while knowing it wouldn’t keep the onlooker from knowing how he’s been entertaining himself. His heart sinks into the pit of his stomach when he sees you freezing in the adjoining doorway. And even still with you there in front of him witnessing his depravity, his body finishes the orgasm, making him jerk a few times.
Sam’s never seen you look so shocked and flushed. It’s less than a second of eye-contact but he feels like he could burst into flames on the spot. You quickly slam the door shut, squeaking a shrill apology. He’s lightheaded as he comes down, body still buzzing pleasurably in the aftershocks of his orgasm. With a pained groan Sam hunches forwards to cover his face with his free hand in humiliation and embarrassment.
God fucking damn it, you freak of nature, why didn’t you lock the door?!
prophecy in prose ⭑ sam leaves you a voicemail while jerking off to thoughts of you
vessels ⭑ sam winchester x reader (f)
celestial count ⭑ 690 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni)
what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, dirty talk kink, male solo masturbation, phone sex, emotional vulnerability mixed with filth
you see the missed call at 1:42 a.m. sam’s name lighting up the screen. no text. just one voicemail. 3:17 duration.
your thumb hovers. heart already picking up because sam never leaves messages unless it’s urgent. or unless he’s been drinking. or unless he’s been thinking about you too hard to wait.
you hit play. put it on speaker. lie back on your bed in the dark.
his voice fills the room first—rough exhale, like he’s already touching himself. the faint rustle of sheets. a low groan that vibrates straight down your spine.
“hey… fuck. it’s me.”
a pause. wet sound—his hand moving slow. you can picture it: long fingers wrapped around himself, thumb swiping over the tip, smearing precome.
“i tried calling. you didn’t pick up. probably asleep. or out. or… god, i hope you’re alone right now.”
his breath hitches. the rhythm picks up—just a little. slick. rhythmic.
“i can’t stop thinking about you. been hard for hours. tried to ignore it. jerked off once already in the shower. came thinking about your mouth. still wasn’t enough.”
a soft curse under his breath. the bed creaks—he’s shifting, spreading his legs wider maybe. you swallow hard. thighs pressing together without thinking.
“i keep seeing you on your knees. looking up at me with those eyes. the way your lips stretch around me. fuck—your tongue. the little hum you make when you take me deeper.”
his voice drops lower. gravel. wrecked.
“i’m so fucking hard for you. leaking all over my hand. wish it was your pussy instead. tight. hot. dripping. you always get so wet when i talk like this, don’t you? bet you’re touching yourself right now. listening to me fall apart.”
a sharp inhale. his strokes get louder—faster. wet slaps echoing through the speaker.
“i want to fuck your mouth first. hold your hair. watch you choke on me a little. then flip you over. spread you open. slide in slow. feel every inch disappear inside you. you’d clench so hard around me. whimper my name. beg for it harder.”
he moans—long, broken. the sound punches you right between the legs. your hand slips under your waistband before you can think.
“god, baby. i’m close already. just from thinking of you. from imagining you listening. replaying this. touching that pretty clit while my voice fills your room.”
his breathing turns ragged. desperate. words tumbling faster.
“i need you to come with me. please. fuck—please touch yourself. circle your clit the way i do. two fingers inside. curl them. pretend it’s me stretching you. pretend i’m there. pounding into you. telling you how good you feel. how tight. how fucking perfect.”
a choked sound—like he’s biting his lip. trying to hold back. failing.
“i’m gonna come thinking about filling you up. pumping you full. watching it drip out. then pushing it back in with my fingers. making you taste us. fuck—i want that. want you marked. claimed. mine.”
his rhythm stutters. hips jerking into his fist—you can hear it. the wet frantic slide.
“say my name when you come. please. whisper it. scream it. i don’t care. just—fuck—come for me. now. i’m—shit—”
a long, guttural groan rips out of him. deep from his chest. his breath catches—sharp, punched-out gasps. the slick sounds slow. then stop. just heavy panting. a soft, wrecked laugh.
“jesus. came so hard. thinking about you.”
silence for a second. like he’s catching his breath. coming down.
then quieter. softer. almost shy.
“i miss you. more than i should. call me back when you wake up. just know i’m thinking about you. always.”
the voicemail ends. beep.
the room feels too quiet after. your pulse thundering in your ears. your fingers still between your legs—slick. aching. you didn’t even realize you’d started moving to his voice.
you hit replay.
once.
twice.
each time his groans hit deeper. each time you clench harder around your own fingers. chasing the ghost of him.
by the third listen you’re shaking. coming hard. his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. like a promise.
fluff, comfort ノsam taking care of his sleepy partner ࿐ ࿔
cw use of honey, baby, hon <3
⟢ sam takes any opportunity to dote on you. and so when he spots you slumped over your laptop researching for a case, head nodding every few moments, he's immediately crouching beside your chair with a gentle hand on your thigh. his fingers press.
"honey," he murmurs. "i think you should come lie down now, yeah?"
he promises very soft, very warm, very squeezing cuddles to coax you.
⟢ if you're having trouble falling asleep, despite how tired you are, he'll endure the ache of his heart and happily make you a mug of tea. something relaxing, chamomile with honey, "anything you want," he says. he'll sit up in bed with you, sweeping a big hand down your arm to soothe your body as you drink.
"s'it good? too sweet? i can fix it for you, baby."
you assure him of it's perfection.
⟢ sometimes, you'll push yourself through a hunt, no matter your exhaustion or weariness. but sam always notices, and will pull you gently aside into a quiet corner. away from dean, away from the case. he bends over himself to see your face better, placing his hand on your waist. a steady comfort.
"you're tired," he says, voice so soft and not so secretly concerned. "we're heading back to the motel, hon."
he doesn't accept any protests. his arm loops against your back and tugs you close as he guides you towards your shared room. you'll relax sleepily against him and the feeling makes his heart throb. he gets you fixed in bed, kisses your cheek, and settles in beside you, acting as a tall, heavy weight to keep you still.
⟢ sam loves cuddles with you. cuddles with a sleep-deprived you are grand and golden. he likes the way you pull and tug at his sleeves to get him close, the way your lashes flutter as you blink all slow, the way you murmur his name. he's got to lean in to hear and nudges his nose to your cheek just to see you smile.
he hugs you tight and keeps himself from falling asleep until you do.
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