sageྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

he didn't think it would bother you this much but he should've known better, truly. you loved a good bath—a hot relaxing one with candlelight and soft music playing. so soothing on your hunter ridden body, it was your favorite personal 'reward'.

your relationship with sam was still new, so it took a minute (a few weeks) for you to figure it out, but you did once you finally reached the 'showering together' phase.

the night it happened you were exhausted, a long stakeout in a crammed rental followed by an even longer hunt for a rogue werewolf. you were a little battered, a little bruised, and a bath sounded absolutely heavenly. even better, a bath with sam. but after a hot relaxing shower first, he had to break the news to you.

he doesn't fit in most bathtubs. after a certain height he just hasn't...found a tub that'll fit his long stature.

it devastates you.

if anyone deserved to have a decompressing, tranquil, peaceful bath, it's your lovely hardworking 6'4 sweetheart of a boyfriend. you couldn't sit still with this. so you put your hunting skills to work—for a bathtub he would fit in.

it took a frustrating (for you, he was unaware) amount of time to locate the perfect motel—clean and safe and near the highway for a quick exit. The guys had dropped you off to check in while they took a quick look at something, and after taking a peek into the bathroom you grinned, going back to order a second room for dean.

because tonight after you wrap this ghost hunt up you'd be enjoying a serene bath with gentle soaps, lit candles around the room, a soft melody playing from your phone.

in a bathtub he finally fit in. it was much nicer than he thought. you told him to admit your reaction was completely justified.

he just kisses you with a cheeky smile. (and that lets you know you're right)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

sam masterlist ⋆˚࿔ main masterlist

angst no comfort x

The boundaries between you and Sam had been blurred for months, a messy slate of unsaid feelings and late-night conversations in the quiet of the kitchen. Everyone else could see it. The way his eyes constantly tracked you when you walked into a room, the way his voice dropped an octave whenever he spoke directly to you, and the sheer tenderness in how he looked after you after a rough case. He was entirely, completely yours for the taking. All you had to do was reach out and claim him.

But instead, you panicked. Every single time things got too close to becoming real, you pulled back.

One night, you would be curled up next to him on the couch, your head resting against his broad shoulder, letting him wrap his large hand around yours under the guise of staying warm. You would look up at him with an intensity that made his breath catch, letting your fingers linger on his jawline, giving him every possible green light.

You made him feel like he was the only person in your world, letting him believe that the next step was finally within reach.

But by the next morning, the walls would slam right back up. You would pull your hand away if his fingers brushed yours over coffee. You would treat him with a cold, professional distance that left him completely reeling, cutting off his attempts at conversation with short, clipped answers.

You told yourself you were just protecting yourself, that the hunting life was too chaotic for a real relationship. But in reality, you were just keeping him on a leash giving him just enough hope to stay hooked, only to yank it away the moment he tried to step closer.

Sam wasn't stupid. He felt every single shift in your temperature. At first, his green eyes would just fill with a quiet, confused hurt, his shoulders dropping slightly as he accepted the sudden distance. He would try harder, thinking he had done something wrong, only for you to lean back into him a few days later when you felt lonely. It was a exhausting cycle of hot and cold, a constant emotional whiplash that began to slowly wear him down to the bone.

The breaking point arrived without a loud argument. It happened quietly, on a standard spirit case in Ohio. A local hunter named Elena had joined the fray to help track down the lore. She was sharp, grounded, and entirely uncomplicated. And unlike you, she didn't play games.

At first, you didn't think anything of it. You were in one of your "cold" phases, actively ignoring Sam at the diner table, keeping your eyes glued to your phone while he tried to share a lead with you. When you dismissively shrugged him off, Elena simply slid into the empty seat next to him, picking up the conversation exactly where you had dropped it. She listened to him. She actually looked at him when he spoke, validating his theories without making him guess where he stood.

Over the next two weeks, the dynamic shifted entirely.

You noticed it first in the way Sam stopped looking to you for approval. When you entered the room, his eyes stayed fixed on his book or on Elena, who was usually sitting nearby sharing a thermos of coffee with him. The heavy, lingering stares he used to give you were gone, replaced by a polite, distant nod. He stopped text-checking to see if you were okay after hunts. He stopped saving the seat next to him.

One evening, you walked into the local library to find them tucked away in a back corner. Elena was laughing softly at something he said, her hand resting casually on his forearm. Sam didn't pull away. He didn't tense up the way he used to when you touched him in public. Instead, he offered her a genuine, relaxed smile the kind of smile that used to be reserved entirely for you.

A cold spike of dread struck right through your chest. For months, you had taken his devotion for granted, entirely secure in the belief that he would always be waiting in the wings whenever you finally decided you were ready. You had assumed his patience was infinite. Watching him lean in closer to listen to Elena speak, you realized with terrifying clarity that you had pushed him right into someone else's arms.

The ride back to your temporary lodgings was completely agonizing. You sat in the backseat, watching the back of Sam's head through the rearview mirror. For the past year, he would have been constantly glancing back at you, checking in through the mirror, silently communicating with just a look.

Tonight, he was completely checked out, turning his torso toward the passenger seat to talk quietly with Elena about the next day's travel plans.

The realization hit you like a physical blow: you had lost him. You had run your fingers through his hair, whispered promises of what could be, and then discarded him over and over again until he finally believed you didn't want him.

The weight of your own actions began to suffocate you. The mixed signals hadn't protected you they had just ruined the best thing that had ever happened to you.

You spent the entire night staring at the ceiling of your motel room, listening to the muffled sound of Sam's low laugh coming from the adjacent room where he and Elena were finishing up the paperwork. Every chuckle felt like a twist of a knife in your heart. You couldn't let it end like this. You had to fix it.

The next afternoon, Elena left early to scout out a nearby courthouse, leaving Sam alone in the main room of the motel to pack up his duffel bag. This was your chance. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as you stepped out of your room, your hands trembling as you closed the distance between you and the tall hunter.

"Sam?" your voice was uncharacteristically small, breaking slightly in the quiet room.

Sam paused, his large hands resting on the edge of his duffel bag. He didn't turn around immediately. When he finally did, his expression was completely unreadable devoid of the warmth, the longing, and the desperation that used to define every interaction he had with you.

"Yeah? Something wrong with the truck?" he asked, his tone entirely polite, like he was speaking to a passing acquaintance not someone he once loved.

"No, the truck is fine," you said, taking a step closer, your chest heaving as the words you had bottled up for days began to spill out. "It's about us, Sam. I... I've been seeing you with Elena. And it made me realize how horribly I’ve been treating you. I know I’ve been pushing you away, and I know I’ve been giving you mixed signals, but I was just scared. I really want this, Sam. I want us. Please."

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you tried to grasp his hand, desperate for the familiar warmth that had always been your safety net.

But Sam smoothly stepped back, letting your hand fall empty into the cold air between you. Your heart dropped but you weren’t gonna let that stop you.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his bangs. There was no anger in his face just a profound, crushing exhaustion that made you feel completely microscopic.

"I can't do this anymore," Sam whispered, his voice cracking with a dull, heavy ache. "For months, I stayed up late wondering what I did wrong. One day you’re holding my hand, telling me you need me, and the next day you won't even look at me in front of Dean. You kept me on a string, and it completely broke me."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, the tears finally spilling over your cheeks as you tried to close the gap between you again. "I'll change, Sam. I swear. Just give me another chance. Don't look at her the way you used to look at me."

Sam looked down at you, his green eyes swimming with a faint trace of old sorrow, but his stance remained completely rigid. He didn't reach out to wipe your tears. He didn't pull you into his chest like he you used he stared like he looking at someone he once knew.

"Elena doesn't make me guess if she cares about me," Sam said softly, the brutal honesty of his words cutting right through you. "She doesn't treat me like a secret or an inconvenience when things get real. I spent so long wishing you would just choose me. But you didn't. You only want me now because someone else finally does. You don’t get to come back after months treating me like i’m a dog on a leash."

He zipped up his duffel bag with a sharp, definitive click and swung the strap over his broad shoulder. He looked at you one last time, his expression completely guarded, leaving absolutely no room for the comfort you were begging for.

"I need space," he muttered quietly, turning his back on you as he walked toward the door. "We're partners on the job. That's it."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you entirely alone in the sudden, suffocating silence of the room, completely crushed under the weight of the mess you had made.

“ no i don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t”

a/n: first angst open to feedback but this is a reference from my past relationship and ariana grande song “don’t wanna break up again” give it a listen while reading, this is gonna be a small mini series also💗!

like mainly i wrote whenever i had an idea, purely self indulgent to see my ideas come to life and also enjoy any comments or reblogs along the way but now it's like i said, i can just make the idea come alive in my head where i know it'll be safe from perception.

but to counter my own thoughts, this is still a safe space for my ideas, where many have supported me and encouraged me through the time of making this account, i think i just have to find that passion that'd help me push through that same habit of avoidance, isolating and silencing myself?

The room is bathed in the dim, golden glow of the salt lamp Dean insists on keeping in every motel room “for vibes, Sammy”, but right now, the only vibe is the slow, heavy drag of Sam’s cock inside you, his body a warm, solid weight pressed against your back. He’s half-asleep, his movements sluggish, like he’s fucking you in a dream. One he never wants to wake up from.

A pillow’s wedged under your hips, tilting you just enough that every time he sinks in, he stays there, buried to the hilt, his pubic bone grinding against your ass with a lazy, circular roll. You can feel everything—the stretch, the heat, the way his cock twitches inside you when you clench around him, like he’s surprised by how good it feels, even now.

His arm is a band around your waist, his fingers splayed over your stomach, pulling you back onto him with every slow, deep thrust. His other hand is clamped over your mouth, but there’s no real force behind it. Just the quiet understanding that Dean’s in the next room, and if he hears anything—even the wet, obscene sounds of Sam fucking you—he’ll never let either of you live it down.

“Mmm, fuck,” Sam mumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice thick with sleep, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re so tight like this.” His hips rock forward, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, and you whimper against his palm, the sound muffled but desperate. He smiles, you can feel it against your shoulder—because he knows what he’s doing to you.

His hand on your stomach slides further down beneath you, his fingers finding your clit with the kind of lazy precision that comes from knowing your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His thumb circles you in slow, maddening little swirls, his touch feather-light at first, then firmer when you buck back against him, begging without words.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy purr. “Take me. All of me.” And you do. You do, because how could you not? When he’s like this—warm, heavy, his cock throbbing inside you with every shallow breath—there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you, the slick slide of skin, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.

His thrusts are lazy, almost drowsy, but no less deep. Every time he bottoms out, he stays there, his hips pressed flush against your ass, his cock pulsing like he’s savoring the way you clench around him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice breaking just a little, and the sound of it has you squeezing around him harder, earning a broken groan from his chest.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and your body shudders, your orgasm building slow and deep, like a tide pulling you under. You can feel him everywhere—his chest against your back, his cock buried inside you, his fingers working you over, his breath hot against your neck. “Sam—” His name is a plea, a whine, and he swallows it, his hand pressing harder over your mouth as his own rhythm stutters, his hips losing their careful pace.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t last,” he admits, and the admission is raw, so Sam it hurts. His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into your hip, his cock twitching inside you as he chases his own release.

And then his thumb presses down, hard, and the world tilts. Your orgasm rips through you, slow and deep, your body clamping down around him so tightly he groans, his own release following with a shuddering, broken cry against your shoulder. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing, his whole body trembling.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the thud of his heartbeat against your back, the way his grip on you loosens just enough to let you drag in a lungful of air. His hand slides from your mouth, his fingers lingering against your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them.

Then, because he’s Sam, because he can’t not say it—“You okay?” His voice is rough, worried, even now. Even after.

And you laugh, breathless, because of course he’d ask that. Of course he’d still be checking on you when he’s the one who just got fucked senseless.

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a slow, sleepy kiss, tasting the salt on his skin, the faint hint of coffee from the diner down the road. “I will be,” you murmur against his lips, “when you do that again.”

His chuckle is quiet, low, and full of promises. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again.”

⊱ ۫ ׅ ♱ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 . . . ⁀➴ ꒰ sam winchester x afab!reader ꒱ . . . soft smut, sexual explicit content, established relationship, a bit of sub!sam, mutual masturbation, mentions of nicknames such as baby, sweetheart, good boy. 1.7k words.

you didn´t mean to get so drunk, head pounding loud with the regret of following dean´s encouragements at the bar earlier, your body finding pleasure in every drink you chased without thinking. sam had stayed behind this time, the toll of earlier’s hunt finally settling heavy on his body. he’d only agreed to let you go after hours of convincing him that you’d be fine, that he could head back without a worry. of course you had lied.

now you were back at the bunker, moving slowly through the quiet halls with your heels dangling from one hand, doing your best not to trip over your own tired steps. the floor was cool beneath your feet and the halls were dim, lit only by the small lamp sam always left on so you could find your way back to him, back home.

sam doesn´t wake when you slip into the room—careful, silent, trying not to wake him with each step you take. your weight dips at the edge of the bed as you grow closer to him, and you can´t help but admire his sleeping figure.

he looked so peaceful like this—that usual furrow of his brow was gone, replaced by something soft, a warm comfort that was only reserved for late nights. your hand unconsciously brushes through his hair, tucking a small strand behind his ear. sam stirs in his sleep, eyelids fluttering at the simple action, though he never fully wakes.

so you start placing small kisses on the side of his face: feather-like, drowned in warmth and love only you could give him. you start with his temple, drifting along his cheekbone before landing on his nose, giggling when it slowly crinkled under your touch. there´s no rush in the way you do this, lips tracing his soft features like gentle touch traces skin.

he eventually wakes up, slow eyes blinking up at you. he doesn´t startle—instead, he melts, the tension in his shoulders smoothly vanishing without much thought. he smiles, a lopsided, sleepy grin as he leans in, placing a small kiss to your cheek, “hi sweetheart, when did you get back?”

oh god. that silent look of his, that shy smile—it gave you enough reason to crawl onto his lap, legs caging his thighs as you straddled him. “not too long ago.” you hummed, smile so innocent it made you look like a saint, though your actions manifested otherwise.

his eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t complain. his hands move to your hips, circling your sides with a low hum. you both don’t speak for a while, and you don’t feel the need to—your unspoken words were enough for him to pick up easily. nevertheless, he´d already caught on to your intentions, which made him shake his head with a small chuckle “you´re drunk baby.”

you frown, not very happy with his response. when your hips roll over his crotch slightly, he´s quick to catch you, hands grounding you in place. “sweetheart—” his tone is gentle as he continues, however he stops the moment he sees you pout. his mouth parts like he´s about to say something, yet no words come—just a quiet smile as he lifts a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip as if he could smooth your pout away.

“—i just—don´t want to make it seem like i´m taking advantage of you. y´know, specially when you´re like this.” your frown deepens while you shake your head, “m´not that drunk.”

he sighs, finding it so hard to say no to you, especially when alcohol blurred the line between want and need. the sleepy haze in his eyes soften with something deeper at the sight of your drunk state—affection, restraint, heavy with a quiet struggle of wanting you equally the same but refusing to cross the line, cause he´s a gentleman like that.

you, on the other hand, have no intention of backing down, hips lifting up once more in a second attempt before pressing down on his thigh, drawing slow, deliberate circles. his breath hitches as his hands move to try to stop you, though he can´t seem to bring himself when his boxers grow tighter underneath you.

your name falls from his lips on a shaky breath, shaped more like a plea than a warning. then, without giving you much time to react, sam rolls you over in one smooth motion, trapping you beneath him.

his breathing is still shaky as he swallows, “you´re making this harder than it has to be, y´know that right?”

sam hovered over you now, one arm braced beside your head while the other one pressed gently against your hip like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. the weight of him on top of you wasn’t crushing—just there, warm and solid like an anchor.

his hips dip slightly into yours without meaning to—a reflexive grind—and both of you moan at the contact. a strangled noise escapes him, and for a second, he panics: his body goes still, jaw tightening as if punishing himself for losing control, even it were for a moment. in his mind this was wrong, so undoubtedly wrong, and retreating seemed like a better option than pushing this further.

but you were having none of it; you reach out for him before he had a chance of pulling away, guiding his face towards yours and capturing his lips in a kiss. it´s sweet, gentle, a quiet way to remind him that it was okay, to reassure him that he was safe with you and that you trust him completely.

he melts into your touch like putty in your hands, body finally giving in without any kind of restraint. from this point forward, things start getting heated—the kiss becomes more passionate, tongue inviting itself in his mouth, searching for control. your hand slowly slips down to his boxers, palming his erection through the soft fabric as you make sure to swallow every little sound he makes.

a strand of your dress falls from your shoulder, and sam’s quick to pull it off you—gently of course, steady hands removing it from you as your breast slips out. he doesn’t hesitate in handling you carefully, hand on your lower back as he repositions your body to be closer to his while taking your sensitive bud in his mouth—landing soft, achingly slow swirls of his tongue around it, sucking softly when you whine out his name.

your movements grow sloppier, finally pulling down his boxers swiftly—he´s undeniably thick, flushed at the tip while precum drips down his shaft. you start at the head, dragging his slick all the way down to the base as lube, giving him slow, wet massages that make him moan against your breast, every sound reverberating against your body.

you don´t stop there, you continue stroking him, and when you needed more lube to work with? you´d just bring your hand up to his mouth, and sam wouldn´t even think twice before spitting onto it. you’d smile, call him a “good boy” and seal his lips into another messy kiss before he could even manage to whimper, licking off the excess saliva that coated his bottom lip in the process.

“feels good baby?” he´d nod feverishly, his brain too fogged up to care. you bite down on his lip softly, eliciting a moan from him, “use your big boy words sammy”

“fuck—a-ah, so good baby, k-keep going—” he groans, though it comes out as a muffled sound, “don´t stop—please”

that was enough for you to stroke him faster, his small moans and whimpers acting as encouragement. meanwhile, your thighs cage his left leg, hips gliding up and down in desperate drags, searching for some kind of release. sam takes notice of this, and in what feels like less than a second, his hand disappears down your dress.

he curses under his breath when his fingers meet your exposed pussy instead of your usual panties, and he chuckles against your mouth, though it eventually turns into a moan, “planned this all along, huh? you´re slick a-ah, i´ll give you that.”

before you could even reply with some smartass comment, your words die on your tongue as soon as he slides a finger in between your folds, your clit sucking him up easily. you bite down a moan, and sam presses his forehead against yours to prevent you from throwing your head back, “gotta take care of my drunk girl too.”

his finger curls upwards inside you when your eyes shut down, pressing a kiss to the side of your lips. “don´t act shy now baby.” he hisses at how your walls clench around his finger, and he knows that´s just a sign for him to add another one, “i want you to watch.”

your mind goes blank for a second before your eyes open. a moan bubbles from your throat at the sight—sam´s half-lidded eyes are fixed on you, hair sticking to his forehead while his gaze flickers between your pussy and the way your hands made haste on his dick, the mix of his precum and saliva dripping from your fingers down to your knuckles. he thrusts his fingers in and out of you with practiced ease, and you swear you see stars when he hits that spongy spot inside you.

in between messy strokes of your hands on his cock, and deep thrusts of his fingers against your cunt, you both reach your orgasm, washing over you like a tidal wave. sam´s breath steadies as his mouth still remains on your jaw, landing small, subtle pecks on your side.

his fingers ease up inside you, and releases them out slowly, lapping up your juices without ever losing eye contact. he waits for you to catch your breath before scooping you up in his arms, laying you on his chest with a lazy arm draped over your waist.

he wipes his hand on his shirt, gently lifting your body so he could it take off, toned body exposed to the cool night air. you lay beside him, still breathless as you come down from your high. he shifts towards you, and gives you one long, lingering kiss to your temple. he smiles, his hand never leaving your hip, “want me to run you a bath?”

your head twists to get a better look at him, and the glimmer in your expression gives it all: doe-eyed with flushed cheeks, giving him a small nod, “only if you join me.”

sam laughs, genuinely laughs, low and warm, and offers you a soft, tender smile—only reserved for you, “deal.”

cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ aaa here it iss!!! sorry tumblr wasn’t letting me post it yesterday idk why!! i REALLY like this one omg... also title inspired by fiona apple??? wrote this fic with this song ON REPEAT.

warnings ა૮ fluff, swearing, one ass slap.

“baby wait!” sam called out while chasing his girlfriend down the park.

ever since came to stanford, he thought he'd be hanging out in the library, his classes, or his apartment 24/7, but that wasn't his experience. he had a girlfriend that he met at a too loud party he was dragged too.

"we're late sammy! hurry it up!" she yelled back, her arms full with textbooks for doctor andersons class. sam let out a huff as he caught up to her finally, lightly smacking her ass as quick punishment.

she let out a soft squeak of surprise, smacking his arm in retaliation. he let out a quiet chuckle before his hand grabbed hers. "I should punish you for that y'know?" sam mumbled out.

Bonus points for Dean noticing the interaction. Idk I just like his input on things.

𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐞

Pairing: Sam Winchester x GN!Reader

Summary: Sammy has a nightmare, you’re there to take care of him. Dean approves.

An: yet another short one 😅 I love writing fics about taking care of Sammy!! It makes me so emotional that he never really got that 😓😓 UGH SOMEONE SEND HIM HERE SO I CAN CARE FOR HIM!!  WC: 576 - Sam Masterlist

It's early in the morning, almost four a.m. and you're still awake sifting through lore. You had sent Sam to bed hours ago with the promise that you would continue where he left off if he promised to get some sleep.

I had this idea where the reader and Sam are watching tv or a movie or something and she starts touching him and kissing him or whatever and obviously he’s into it and trying to be responsive but she tells him to focus on the tv and not do anything

Idkkkk I thought it might be good!!!!

The movie is good, but not good enough to keep your attention, not when you’re snuggled up with your back against Sam’s chest, your body nestled between his long legs. His chin is on your shoulder, watching the flickering images coming from the television, his arms around your waist comfortably. The movie had been his idea, some film you’d only pretended to be interested in seeing because he’d sounded so excited at the premise of watching together, but you have things other than the plot of the movie on your mind. 

sooo…👀 i’m literally sweating and frothing at my mouth.. i want subby sammy:3 personally, i am a bit subby too! i just want to lay around on his bed, both naked, legs tangled together and just slowly kissing. Of course , a little grinding is inevitable. But then it turns into mutual masturbation and he’d be so cute and giggly! i luv him!

omgggg yes absolutely yes. who doesn’t love subby Samchester, it’s canon in my head he’s a sub. or at least shy and inexperienced. and we know how i adore virgins lolz. i looove this picture.

cw: nightmares, handjob, cvnt fondling, Dean asleep right there, Sam leaning on the subbier side. not really proofread. wc: 2.5k~

ೃ⁀➷

maybe you two haven’t exactly gone all the way yet. even better if Dean’s asleep on the other bed of the motel room.

you’d have to initiate. especially not being alone, Sammy would never.

you wake up to Sam panicking because of a bad dream, never wasting the chance to absolutely baby him. and he’d never decline an opportunity to bury his face in your neck. his little shaky breaths don’t get lost on you. he clutches the back of your shirt, gradually calming down with each circle you rub into his back with your palm.