sageྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

Insomnia’s a bitch.

Or so you’ve heard.

When you’re a hunter, you spend a lot of time awake. Whether you’re researching a new case, driving across the country, or ganking monsters most people only see in their worst nightmares—you’re always busy. So when you’re finally in a motel room, encased in darkness, underneath the warmth of a blanket, and get the chance to sleep? You take it. 

But for Sam? Sleep never comes easy. Never has.

So even now, after hours spent in the library until the two of you could barely keep your eyes open, Sam’s wide awake. You’re tangled up in each other, your cheek resting on his chest, his warm arm wrapped protectively around you. And while you’re dead to the world, he’s staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling.

He shifts restlessly beneath you, his mind refusing to fall silent. The steady rhythm of your slow and peaceful breathing a soothing comfort, one he longed to succumb to himself. But Sam Winchester has never been a lucky man.

His gaze drops to your face, taking in the tranquility etched into your features. You look so at peace, it almost makes him envious; but he doesn’t show it. His fingers trace soothing circles on the bare skin of your waist beneath your shirt, like he’s trying to lull himself to sleep right along with you. 

His hand wanders, tracing the contour of your shoulder, then drifts down your arm. The touch is barely even there, like he’s afraid of disturbing your sleep, but he can’t help but touch. His body aches to do something. To move. But with you, all peaceful, nestled on top of him like this, he can’t. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try.

Slowly, he attempts to pry himself carefully from your sleeping form, trying not to wake you. He knows better than anyone how important sleep is to a hunter. But wherever he was trying to go, he doesn’t get far. Not with the whine that slips from your lips, the way your body relaxes into him like you crave nothing but closeness.

He feels a pang of guilt at the sound, and he immediately knows he’s anchored in place. No way he can move without waking you, and he’d never risk it. He tries not to let him bother him too much. He really does. But his mind is racing a mile a minute, and he can’t seem to quiet the storm. So he keeps up his sweet touch, like he’s grounding you. Or himself. Maybe both.

But his touch isn’t born out of just affection. There’s something else that runs deeper, an aching desire. Something more that only you can sate. 

He needs you.

There’s one thing that he knows for sure can help, one thing alone. One that he would never, ever take from you. Not like this. Not when you’ve had a long day. Not when you fell asleep the moment you were tucked into the sheets. No matter how badly he craves it, and how you’d be more than happy to provide.

His hand drops to your waist again, flexing against your flesh like he’s physically forcing himself to stay contained, but your body responds all the same. It’s like you’re dialled in to all things Sam, the way you’re so responsive to him— and it drives him absolutely insane. So the moment your body shifts, preening into him, with a content hum that vibrates against his chest?

He’s fucked.

His breath hitches, just slightly, at the sound, low and sweet. It goes straight through him, warm and honeyed, tugging at something deep in his chest he’s been trying so hard to push away.

His hand tightens on your form, but not to pull away this time. He’s pulling you in. Anchoring you closer against him. Letting himself feel all of you, you and the heat of your skin.

He shouldn’t. He knows he really shouldn’t let himself get distracted right now, he’s supposed to be quieting his mind, not stroking the fire. But God… you’re so soft. So warm. And you melt into him like you’re made to fit there. 

His thumb moves, just a whisper of a motion, stroking your hip beneath your sleep shorts. He doesn’t go further. Just draws innocent patterns on your skin despite how much he aches to take more. 

He closes his eyes, jaw clenching as he fights the urge to roll on top of you and chase that peace. The kind only sweat-slick skin and desperate friction can bring. 

But you’re sleeping. You’re exhausted. And Sam? He may be restless, but he’s never been selfish. 

So instead, even when his every nerve is on edge and aching for release, he just holds you tighter, a stuttering sigh ripped from his throat. 

But your body knows him.

Yeah, maybe you’re exhausted. Maybe you fell asleep the second your body hit the bed, and his arms were wrapped around you. 

But that doesn’t stop you from knowing. Your brain, even unconscious, registers the little things. Like the way his heart is racing beneath your cheek. The way his muscles are too tense to be sleeping. The way that sigh was pulled from deep in his gut, and sounded almost pained. 

So even though you were dead to the world just a second ago, you hear it. Sure, you can fall asleep easily— but you’re still a hunter. And hunters never do stay sleeping for long.

“…Y’okay?” you mumble against his chest, tucking yourself impossibly closer, clinging to his heated skin.

He almost startles when you speak, your voice sleep-thick and warm against his chest. He swallows, hard, guilt immediately gnawing at his gut. Mentally chastising himself for waking you, and cursing how well you know him. How easily you can read him, even in sleep.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, fingers still tracing absent circles on your hip. “Just restless. Go back to sleep, baby.”

He tries to keep his breathing steady, but even he knows he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding the rising agitation. But it’s not your problem. Not when you need as much sleep as you can get. 

It takes you a second to process his words, still very much half asleep. But when you do, you can tell he’s lying. Because c’mon now, you’re not an idiot. You can tell he’s speaking through clenched teeth. His jaws probably working so hard, the muscles are sore. 

“Liar.”

You don’t open your eyes. Not yet. Not when you’re still so damn tired. But one thing’s for certain: you’re awake now. You’re with him. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a curse. “Can’t fool you, huh?” He mutters, voice rough. 

His fingers still against your hip, finally giving into that pull. The honesty. He never quite could lie to you, not for long. Because yeah, you know him. Almost too well. 

“I can’t shut my brain off,” he admits, jaw tight. “Thoughts just… keep coming. Like a goddamn loop.”

He sounds almost bitter. Not at you, but at his own brain. His body. He tilts his head down slightly, lips brushing against the top of your head, almost like a kiss, but it’s more out of habit than anything else.

“It’s nothing. I just need to move. Go for a run. Or—” He cuts himself off. 

Cuts himself off before he can say ‘you’. Before he says ‘I need to fuck you until I can’t think’. Because no way is he dragging you into that when you’re barely even conscious.

But the need is there anyway. Thick in his veins, pulsing through him like fire and gasoline. 

After a moment of silence, the tension of his unspoken words heavy in the air, you respond simply. 

“I know.”

You know how he gets. You know how he lays awake at night, thinking about anything and everything. His past. His future. The what-ifs, the maybes. 

Finally, you let your eyes flutter open. You look up at him with tired eyes, gaze finding that puppy-dog expression looking down at you, all sweet, guilty, and filled with quiet desire. Your heart damn near shatters.

It clicks. Really clicks, what he needs. What he’s aching for. The real reason he’s looking down at you like a dog who got caught stealing scraps off the counter.

He needs you. 

“…Just relax. I can help you, Sammy,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

He swallows hard, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he tries to force the images your words conjure away before they settle deep, and he can no longer push them down. He screws his eyes shut like he’s in pain, before opening them again, and his pupils are more dilated than before.

“You’re dead on your feet,” he protests, voice coming out raw. “You need sleep.”

It’s true. He knows it’s true. But you’re awake now, and looking at him, those sleepy half-lidded eyes pinning him in place. And God, he’s so damn weak for you.

You don’t miss a beat before responding.

“So do you.”

Slowly, you bring one hand up from beneath the warm blankets, brushing away the hair that fell over his forehead. He closes his eyes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat momentarily. His muscles that were so taut before loosen just a fraction. 

He hates this. Hates how much he needs you. How dependent he’s become on your touch, your presence, your everything. It’s dangerous. He shouldn’t make you his crutch. 

But you don’t think like that. Fuck, you never could—not with how sweet he is. How gentle. How he’d drop everything in the damn world to be there for you. You hate the guilt you see when you look into his eyes. Why’s it so bad that he needs you for this? 

And yet, he still sounds pained when he speaks. 

“You’re exhausted,” he argues, but he doesn’t even sound convinced himself. It comes out rough with need, with barely contained desperation. “Just rest, honey. Please.”

You have to fight the urge to pull him into a bone crushing hug at the way his voice breaks on that please. Instead, you sigh. Lean forward. Press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, and you take note of the way he melts into it.

“Sam. I want to,” You say, voice gentle. You can tell just how guilty he’s feeling. How selfish he thinks he is, even when none of it is his fault. Even when you need this sometimes, too, just for different reasons.

You shift, hand trailing along his bare chest, lingering on the small white scars that shine on his smooth skin. You can see how much he’s aching for your touch, and yet…

He inhales sharply, a low groan trapped in his throat. 

“Christ,” he mutters, voice breaking, his hips twitching instinctively despite himself. Barely noticeable, but you see it. You always do.

His hands clench at the sheets, white-knuckled, like he’s trying to hold onto the last thread of his control. But you’re killing him. You can see it on his face. 

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes dark and glassy with want, and misplaced guilt. “I don’t want you to—”

He chokes on the lie.

“—I don’t want you hurtin’ yourself for me.”

You could cry from those words alone. Him lying here, literally twitching with need, talking about possibly hurting you like he’s not the most gentle man you know. Like he wouldn’t chop his own hands off before leaving so much as a bruise on your skin. 

But when your hand slides just a little lower, just a whisper over the waistband of his boxers, his resolve shatters. A broken sound tears from his chest, as he finally looks at you.

Really looks at you, and all that’s left is raw need, vulnerability written in every line on his face. 

“…Fuck. Please.”

The plea is all it takes for you to move. You know he needs to be taken care of. 

You sit up in the bed, even when your body screams at you to lay back down, crawl under the warm covers. You’re nothing if not determined, especially when it comes to Sam. You slide off the shirt you were wearing, his shirt, some old graphic tee you’ve claimed, leaving your chest bare. 

He doesn’t even pretend not to stare as you strip. You rid yourself of your sleep shorts, not wasting any time, before moving to straddle his hips with lazy movements that definitely show you were asleep not five minutes ago. All uncoordinated and messy, but Sam responds all the same. 

His breath stutters as you move over him, his big hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. Warm, calloused, trembling slightly with that restraint he tries so hard to hold onto. 

He’s hard as damn steel beneath you, body taut with need, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. He just lets you take control, even when every muscle in his body is screaming at him to roll you over and lose himself in the heat of your skin.

His fingers run circles over your hips, possessive and reverent all at once. And God, he wants to touch. Wants to taste. Wants to bury his face between your thighs and worship you until you’re shaking—but he holds back. Lets you take the lead.

But when you shift on top of him, just slightly, a low groan rips from his chest as heat meets heat through thin fabric. His head falls against the pillow with a silent curse, and you have to fight the urge to lick a stripe up his neck. God damn is he ever beautiful.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes out, raggedly, eyes dark with want but still so damn present, watching every expression on your face. “Tell me how to love you right.”

Even like this, tired, aching for release, he’s thinking about you. About how he wants you to feel good. How he can please you.

You lean down, dropping your lips to his jaw, trailing sweet kisses along his skin, until you reach just below his ear. 

“Don’t worry about me. I want you to relax. Let me love you,” you drawl, getting right back to work peppering your lips along his throat, just to feel him twitch, before pulling away to look at him. “…Just say the word, and I’ll take care of you.”

And God, that just about kills him. He’s wired to worry about you, constantly, endlessly. But you see right through it. And right now, you’re not letting him hide. When you look at him, all sweet, tired, and knowing, he can’t look away.

His breath comes slower now, shallow, not from calm, but from anticipation being coiled so tight it hurts. 

“Please,” he repeats, and fuck, he really can’t tear his eyes away from you, sat like an angel in his lap.

With that single word, you’re moving again. Scooting back just enough so you can hook your fingers around the waistband of his boxers, slowly stripping away that last barrier between you.

A low groan tears from his throat at the simple action alone. His head drops against the pillow with a quiet curse, hips twitching instinctively toward the heat of your body.

He’s fully exposed now—hard and aching, pulse throbbing at the base of his cock, and he’s still trembling with restraint. You let your eyes trail over him, all of him, and a familiar hunger pools low in your core despite the lingering exhaustion. Because seeing him below you, big, beautiful, and dripping with need, your mouth damn near waters.

“You’re so gorgeous, Sammy. Always so fucking perfect…”

One of his hands grips the sheet below him, the other clawing slightly at your thigh as if he’s reminding himself: don’t take over. Let her lead.

But when you settle over him again, skin to skin, he lets out a broken whisper, “…Christ, I love you.”

The words slip out like he just can’t help it. Soft and sweet, making your chest feel warm, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting the slick pre-come that’s dripping from the swollen head, spreading it slowly over the length of him as you speak. 

“I love you.”

You take the opportunity to just get him ready (and allow your body to wake up), stripping yourself of your panties, before finally leaning forward to kiss him. 

The second your lips meet his, Sam just about unravels.

A deep sound rumbles from his chest as he kisses you back, slow at first, like he’s savouring it, or like he’s afraid that this is a dream, and too much pressure will make it vanish. But then your thumb circles the head of his cock again, slick and teasing, and that thread of restraint snaps.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you close as the kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet need that borders on reverence.

Every shift of your body gets a response out of him: the press of your breasts against his chest, the heat between your thighs brushing dangerously close to where he needs you, your sweet lips, your tongue battling his own.

God, he wants to slip inside of you. Wants to feel your walls fluttering around him as he fills you like you’re made for him. But still… he waits. Because this isn’t just about release.

It’s about you touching him like he matters. Like he’s worth loving despite the thoughts that haunt him late at night, despite everything he’s done.

“Baby… baby please—”

Maybe you’re still waking up. Maybe your body is still getting worked up. But fuck, that please? The way he’s borderline pleading for you?

You pull back from the kiss just long enough to reposition yourself over him. You let your slick slide over his aching cock, right where he needs you most, and yeah. You’re already soaked for him.

Maybe not as much as usual, but you’ve also just regained consciousness. Usually, the two of you spend time, really stretching you out, getting you ready for him. Sam practically lives and breathes for it. But right now? Sam needs. And, well… you can’t really find it in you to care about slow.

So you lift your hips. Nimble fingers sliding along the base of him to line yourself up. Then you’re sinking down onto him the way he needs.

Despite the intense, full feeling, you don’t move with agonizing slowness. There’s an odd, pleasure-pain feeling about it, just from being stretched to the max, and you close your eyes, inhaling a sharp breath. It doesn’t hurt. Not really. It’s just so much.

A raw, broken sound tears from his throat, half groan, half gasp, as you sink down all the way, impossibly wet, tight, and hot, clenching around him like a vise. 

You don’t reopen your eyes until you’re fully seated, pelvis to pelvis, and when you do, you’re met with him looking right back at you. Studying you.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. Even though you can tell every fibre of his being is screaming at him to just fuck up into you, to chase that sweet relief that’s been building after hours of torment, he forces himself still.

Because he heard that sharp inhale. Felt how your cunt spasmed around him as you took him all at once. His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips, soothing even as his own breath comes ragged and uneven.

“Baby… tell me— you’re alright?” He grits out, voice rough as gravel, holding himself back with every ounce of his restraint. “I’m not—I’m not hurting you, am I?”

The way he’s looking up at you, pupils blown, expression dazed and pleasure filled, but still heavy with love and concern, you can feel your body relaxing from that alone.

You take another breath, rolling your hips just once, barely even there, and you still when the stretch is still present. Almost.

“…‘M okay. Just… give me a minute…” you trail off, letting yourself relax. Letting yourself feel. Because beyond the stretch, there’s that familiar heat. The kind of pleasure that explodes under your skin like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Sam is still beneath you, every muscle in his body locked so tight, you’re almost worried his bones might crack. His thumbs still draw those patterns into your skin, trying to be gentle, trying to give you time, but his breathing comes in short bursts.

“Take all the time you need. Don’t rush, honey, okay? Don’t… don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, voice thick with an odd mix of desire and worry. His jaw clenches at the sensations, the heat of you wrapped around him, so damn tight, and the way your body pulses with each breath.

He tilts his head back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just… fuck, look at me, okay? So I know…”

His voice breaks when you shift again, even that tiny roll sending sparks up his spine. “Christ. You feel too good…”

His words are so sincere that they make your heart just ache. The image of him beneath you, a sheen of sweat on his skin, the beautiful blissed out expression on his face, has you opening up for him just a little more. And coupled with his words? Yeah. You’re fucking soaked.

When the ache subsides, after a few moments of just breathing, you move. A steady roll of your hips, and you gasp at just how snug he feels inside of you. Then another. And another. Until you’re rocking over him so slow, that you almost feel bad. Like you’re teasing him—without even meaning to.

“Fuck… fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on your hips, knuckles almost white as he fights the urge to take over.

He lets you set a pace. Take what you need. But with every roll of those sweet hips? You can see his restraint wearing thinner.

He’s fucking huge, and while you knew that already—it just feels so intense. Like he’s splitting you open, thick cock brushing against every little sensitive spot inside you in a way that has your mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Pulsing against your walls, making shockwaves of pleasure shoot through your core.

Sam’s hands wander, one coming down to squeeze at your thigh, the other trailing up to slide his fingers across your waist, grip tightening around whatever he can get a good hold on. Digits digging into your flesh hard enough to make pretty little indents that will be a faint purple later, marks that he’ll kiss as a silent apology. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he rasps through gritted teeth. “So perfect, riding me like this. Like you’re made for me…”

All the little praises, the words of encouragement, the compliments that slip from his lips whether he means to or not, go straight to your core. Make you clench around him involuntarily.

“Fuck… s’big, Sammy. Feel so fucking good…” you whine, hips grinding down against his, the rhythmic movement causing a steady pressure to pool low in your core, sparks sizzling beneath your skin.

Your hips are barely moving, and you can tell he’s just aching for you to speed up. And yet… he’s being so sweet. So gentle that your heart aches.

Every little sound that slips from his lips is like music to your ears. Egging you on, making you want to speed up. To give him more. Give him everything, even when your body doesn’t quite want to cooperate.

You switch things up, lifting your hips just enough so you can sink back down on him with the roll of your hips, and he all but whimpers beneath you.

“Baby… please,” he pleads, and your brain all but short circuits. 

You let out a moan, a real one, one that makes his fingers tighten on your hips. And you know what he needs, from just those two words alone.

So even though your hips are starting to tremble, you nod. Really lifting now, until he’s only halfway nestled inside of you, thick cock dragging along every sensitive inch of your walls, before sliding back down with a hard grind of your hips, your clit bumping against his pelvis in a way that makes you tighten around him involuntarily.

And oh, his face screws up in pleasure, a fucking beautiful sight. Every lift of your hips has him stifling a groan, heat coiled low in his stomach like a bowstring about to snap.

“Can you—faster, please? I need—fuck, honey…” he gasps out, voice hoarse and raw.

You feel a pang of something in your chest, pleasure from the sound of the pleads, guilt from the desperation in his voice. The combination is dizzying. “I know… ‘m sorry…” you coo between pants, picking up the pace, even as your hips tremble.

Sam’s eyes snap to yours at the sound of your voice. Groggy, breathless, trying for him—and something in his chest cracks open.

“Hey—no,” he rasps, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads rest together. “Don’t you dare apologize. You’re perfect. This is perfect.”

His hips twitch upwards, just once, a small, involuntary thrust that makes both of you gasp, body betraying him from just how far gone he really is. Sweat beads at his temples, his biceps flexing under your palms, and you have to fight the urge to lick his slick skin.

“Don’t gotta push yourself,” he breathes against your lips, but his voice is shaking. “Fuck, baby. Yeah… just like that…”

The praise, his sweet words, the way he’s so patient, even now, absolutely kills every shred of restraint you may have been holding onto. Despite the shake in your thighs, the tension in your hips, you keep up your new pace.

Just a little faster. A little more force on the grind down, making sure he hits deep in a way that makes him moan, and you see stars as his tip kisses your cervix just right. And fuck, before long? You can’t keep the whimpers and whines contained.

His fingers trace your body as much as he can reach, reverent and greedy at the same time. Over your thighs, across your belly, up your spine so he can thread his fingers into your hair.

He pulls you down so his lips can find your neck. He mouths your skin, teeth grazing your throat, making every one of your muscles coil tight with need.

“Feels s’good, Sam, I—” you break off in a broken moan, his tongue trailing along your pulse point, cock dragging deep inside, stretching you out so perfectly. You’re pretty sure you see heaven at some point: one precise thrust forcing your vision to go white. 

He wants you all around him. Wants to fill you up until you’re his, and his alone, until you can’t think straight, until you can’t even breathe. He speaks against your throat, the deep rumble vibrating against you. “You sound so pretty.”

Your hips are getting sore. You can’t stop shaking. But Sam’s got that edge to his voice. That hint of possession that he rarely lets himself show. So you don’t stop. If anything, you speed up, the slap of your ass hitting his thighs with each deep thrust filling the motel room. 

And when his cock head drags right there, stroking your g-spot in such a way that you see stars, and you let out a trembling cry, he smirks against your neck.

“Yeah?” he taunts, voice low and dark with need. “Feel how deep I am inside you? How you’re clenching around me like you can’t take it?”

You can almost pinpoint the exact second the possessive fire inside of him wins, like a switch has been flicked, and he’s feral. His free hand slides down your hip again, guiding the pace now.

“You wanna come?” he murmurs, licking your throat and all but moaning at the taste. “Huh? Wanna come on my cock?”

He’s talking in that syrupy tone, thick with need and almost teasing, making you moan at the sound alone. Your cheeks and chest flush a deep pink, and it only makes him want you more.

“Yes, God, yes, please,” you beg, mouth falling open in a silent plea. “Can you… fuck, I can’t…”

One more roll. Another gasp, your hips trembling from the strain. It feels so fucking good that your legs are tingling, eyes rolling back with each movement, but it’s just too much.

Sam needs no further invitation.

He takes control, hard and sure. His grip turns bruising, as he lifts you up just to slam you back down with a force that makes the bed creak and your cry ring out like music. 

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

Each snap of his hips is deeper than the last, drawing little gasps and pleas from your lips. Your soaked pussy swallows him whole, slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping onto his, each wet sound making him groan. 

That sweet spot inside of you is bumped with each movement, Sam watching your face like a man possessed, eyes dark with fire as you writhe on top of him.

“You wanted help?” another hard thrust, and he grins when you gasp. “This what you needed, honey? Me taking over so all you gotta’ do is go stupid and feel?”

You nod, dumbly, unable to respond with words. Only incoherent whimpers and mewls sliding past your swollen lips, cunt squeezing his thick cock like you’re trying to milk him dry.

It’s so much, his pace bruising, filling you up with everything he has. Desperate. Needy. Every one of your nerves feel like they’re on fire, sending shockwaves of pleasure that roll deep in your lower belly with each brutal thrust.

It’s almost embarrassing, the sounds he pulls out of you, even half asleep on trembling thighs. And when you feel your eyes getting glassy, mind going all hazy and fogged over, you know you’re really far gone.

Sam watches you unravel, every sound you make like a brand on his soul. He loves how responsive you are. How open. How completely his you are when he pushes you to the brink.

“C’mon… look at me. Eyes on me,” he commands, voice rough like fire, but soft like velvet. “You’re gonna come first… But that’s okay, baby. Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna let me feel all of you, huh?”

His big hands guide your hips in sharp, deep drops, each one hitting that sweet-spot dead on, his thumb sliding between your thighs to circle your clit with firm pressure. And holy fuck, you’re so damn close, that you’re teetering on the edge almost painfully. 

Your back bows. You fall forward, arms wrapped around his neck, holding him so damn close, that you can feel every puff of his panting breaths against your breasts. He doesn’t waste a second. Immediately licking a lazy circle over your nipple in a way that makes you twitch.

“F-fuck, Sam, ‘m gonna—”

You can’t even finish getting the words out before the first wave hits. Hot, intense, mind-numbing pleasure that makes your lips part in a sob.

Your pussy spasms around him uncontrollably, black pinching at the corners of your vision as you fight to keep your eyes open. Your limbs go loose over him, shaking and pliant, but he doesn’t still.

No, he relishes in it. Growling your name like a prayer, low, broken, and desperate, feeling you clamp down around his cock in pulsing waves.

“Yeah, that’s it…” he chokes out, hips snapping up hard to milk every sweet second of your climax. His thighs are covered in your slick now, wet and dripping, and fuck, he doesn’t last.

With a final thrust and a guttural groan muffled against your breasts, he spills deep inside of you. Heat flooding through the two of you as his whole body tenses beneath yours. For a few long seconds there’s only the sound of broken gasps and heartbeats, the quiet sound of skin-on-skin as he slowly stills.

Then gentle hands pull you closer, kissing the curve of your neck like a man trying to memorize your pulse.

“So damn perfect,” he whispers hoarsely. “I love you so fucking much.”

You close your eyes at his words, still hazy, probably two thrusts away from passing out on his cock, and you have to take a breath before you respond. “…Love you. S’much.”

There’s a moment where neither of you move. Completely still. Pelvis to pelvis, skin to skin, slick to slick. 

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, then another to your shoulder, gentle now after the storm. Slowly, he rolls both of you over, still connected, tucking you against his chest. The movement is lazy, loose limbs tangled together, and you know that it’s worked.

That his brain has finally quieted long enough for him to just feel. To relax. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

He pulls out, so slowly as to soothe your over sensitive nerves, and both of you hiss at the loss. The sudden emptiness has you whining against his chest, and he coos little praises, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

It’s only then that he pulls away, easing his hands over your thighs, like he’s trying to calm the tremble with touch alone. His pupils are still blown with desire, but it’s not heated anymore. Just full of love. 

“C’mere,” you whisper before he can get too far, trying to coax him back down onto the sheets. “This was about you relaxing…”

He shakes his head before you can say more. “Shh…” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and lingering emotion. “Let me do this for you.”

He kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose, soft, tender, before slipping off the bed with careful movements. 

“You took care of me. Let me take care of you.”

And even though his legs are heavy and his eyes burn with exhaustion… he’d walk through hell barefoot if it meant seeing you warm, safe, and cared for. That’s just the kind of man he is. 

You don’t protest when he pads his way to the bathroom. Don’t say a word when he lingers in the bathroom, letting the water run, picking the softest cloth he can find. 

And when he comes back, hair messy over his forehead, skin shining with sweat, a satisfied grin on his face, love in his eyes, and a cloth in hand? Your chest feels heavier than before.

He kneels between your thighs, cloth warm in his hand (because of course he waited for the water to heat up. Always does), and brushes the inside of your trembling thigh with the back of his fingers like you’re made of porcelain. 

“Little sore?” he murmurs, already knowing the answer.

He doesn’t wait for words. Just works with that quiet tenderness that never fails to undo you. Slow, careful strokes, cleaning you with a reverence that makes your throat tight, whispered apologies when you twitch at the sensitivity.

And when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back next to you without a word. Pulls you against his chest, fitting the two of you together like you’re made to intertwine, and he tucks your head below his chin.

And for the first time in days, or maybe longer, you can feel it. Peace. Because Sam is finally relaxed.

You wait until his breathing has evened out beneath you before you drift off again, a dreamless sleep overcoming him in a way it hasn’t in too long. 

For the night: insomnia doesn’t win. 

AN: Hello again 🖤 just wanted to thank everyone for the love on my first post, it means so much! I still have two more posts from AO3 that I’ll import onto here within the next few days, then hopefully new ones once I finish them, lol.

Just like last time, if anyone has any ideas, recs (specifically Sammy, because I’m a sucker for him), or just want to chat, please don’t hesitate to leave an ask!

cas had been speaking of meeting mari soon, i was nervous, i knew dean could tell. i wondered what she knew. did she know i started the apocalypse? that i drank demon blood? would she be disgusted by me?

but when i met her it all faded. the look in her eyes was excited and curious. either hopeful or oblivious, her presence was calming. being with mari created a new environment, one that relieved the tension between me and dean, and her knowledge on hunting was impressive.

every time i saw her, i noticed how my stomach turned. she was beautiful–of course she was. but i found everything about her attractive: the way she spoke, handled herself, the way she walked, i could go on.

i tried to ignore the pit in my stomach every time we worked together. i didn't deserve this, to think of having anything—of deserving anyone. especially her. not after what i did, not when i know what's coming.

she was shy but had a confidence that radiated. she seemed so sure of herself and her plans that it made us all feel better. i assured myself from the beginning that her liking me was not possible. even in the case that she did, as soon as she found out everything she would leave. anyone would.

we were studying alone in the motel, she usually stayed in another room and met up to talk about the case. dean was at the bar–as usual. supposedly interviewing locals on what they knew. it was hard to focus, embarrassingly hard.

the ac hummed loudly, smell of tobacco from previous stays stunk up the room. we sat at the small shabby table by the door. mari was right in front of me, glasses sat on her nose, leaned into the lore book she had. she was completely into it, fingers following words, her head turning along the pages, hair falling in her face.

my hands were mindlessly playing with the book i had, i couldn't take my eyes of her.

her brown eyes, they were big and earnest, filled with an emotion that felt positive despite the reality we were living in.

the moles on her face–four to be exact. one on the side of her nose, right below where her glasses rested. the remaining below her mouth, two directly under each other, the fourth closer to her chin.

i ignored the image of me kissing them, anxiety building in my stomach, along with guilt. i couldn't think of her that way, i shouldn't.

there wasn't hope for me finding happiness, let alone love. i would try to settle for the hope to live, even if a big part of me felt i didn't deserve that either.

i shook my head, forcing my attention back to lore books laid in front of me. i made myself useful, finding information that would help the case and without surprise mari did too.

i wondered what she wasn't good at, what she liked to do, what she was thinking. mari was quiet, in a nice way. but she always immediately headed to her room after the day was done, and never said too much about herself.

around cas though was different, she was brighter if that's possible, engaging more before noticing me and dean's presence and pulling back.

she was comfortable with us, to an extent. she never seemed bothered by us, or reluctant to work with us, she just wasn't used to it, didn't know us well enough.

it was better that way, everyone who knew us well got hurt, and that was the last thing we all wanted. the more distance the better, no matter how much i wanted to get closer.

when dean came back we discussed before she headed to her room. settling into the squeaky uncomfortable motel bed, my eyes stayed open. the burning from exhaustion was ignored as my mind kept me up.

regardless of the countless worrisome thoughts that wanted to race through my head i could only think of one today. mari, i wondered what she was doing, if she was already asleep.

then i thought about today, how she looked, her smile, the interesting point she brought up from the lore she read, her eyes lit up when she explained.

i just wanted to shut my brain off, to have a night of not thinking about anything: about lucifer, about ruby, or lilith, the angels after me, the other hunters questioning me.

and i especially didn't want to imagine myself with her, the thought of kissing her, being close enough that i'd know her...because i know that i'm too broken to be with anybody.

you told me a lot of things that summer, actually. not all at once. not in the easy way people sometimes do when they want to be known fast. you were reserved in the beginning, almost careful with yourself, as if you had a version of mari for strangers and another version tucked away for people who had earned it. the first one was polite, observant, pretty in a way that made me nervous because it didn’t ask for attention and still got it. the second one came out somewhere between the third bad motel and the second time dean chose the music without asking.

you were loud. funny. sarcastic enough to make dean choke on his slushie. too honest in a way that should’ve scared me off and somehow did the opposite.

i think i liked you before you let me see all of that.

i know i loved you after.

that town was the kind of place people forget exists once summer ends. weather-beaten docks, tiny souvenir shops, salt stuck to every window, and roads so narrow dean kept muttering that the impala deserved better. you bought that ridiculous local t-shirt from a shop with a sun-faded plastic lobster in the window, then acted as if it was a perfectly reasonable purchase because “it has character.” dean said it had a criminal record. you wore it over your halter top the next morning anyway, with jean shorts and sandals, hair messy from the heat, sage-green nail polish chipped on one thumb, and sunscreen already in your hand.

“sit,” you told me.

“mari, i’m fine.”

“you are six feet of pale academic tragedy. sit.”

so i sat.

your hands were gentle. that’s what got me. you had this nurse’s focus, this steady way of noticing small things before they became problems. a cut on dean’s knuckle. the headache i pretended i didn’t have. the fact that i’d been rereading the same paragraph for ten minutes because i was too busy watching you pretend not to watch me back.

you noticed everything.

which was inconvenient, because i was trying very hard not to be noticed.

the case was supposed to be simple. haunted inn, old drowning, local stories. we were going to be in and out in two days. instead, the car broke down outside a bait shop with one working vending machine and a bathroom key attached to a wooden fish. dean was under the hood swearing. i was pretending i knew enough about the problem to help. and you were sitting cross-legged on the curb, googling solutions with your glasses slipping down your nose, reading instructions aloud in the most serious voice i had ever heard.

then you muttered something in spanish.

i didn’t catch all of it.

but that was the moment, i think. sunset turning the road gold, your gas-station slushie melting beside your knee, you squinting at your phone and refusing to panic because someone had to be useful. you were so pretty it was honestly rude. moles on your skin. tired eyes. that little frown you got when you were concentrating. the softness you tried to cover with sarcasm. the honesty you used when you were scared someone might miss the point.

i didn’t miss it.

i just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you didn’t make it easy, by the way. when you liked me, you acted as if being in the same room was suddenly a complication. you’d plan the route, hand me the map, remind me about the next turn, then refuse to look at me when my fingers brushed yours. you judged every song dean played but claimed you were “very relaxed about music, actually,” which was the least convincing lie i’ve ever heard. you saved me the blue raspberry slushie even though you said it stained my tongue. you bought me a paperback from a used bookstore near the pier because you said the main character was “tall, quiet, and emotionally constipated, so obviously.”

i still have it.

there’s sand between the pages.

our first date wasn’t called a date. you were very firm about that. it was “a walk.” then it was “getting food.” then it was “checking out the beach because we’re already here, sam, don’t make it weird.” i tried not to make it weird. i failed. you wore flared jeans even though the air was warm, and a babydoll top that kept catching the sunset. i remember you holding your sandals in one hand, walking barefoot near the water, telling me about the difference between the person people first met and the person your close friends got to keep.

i wanted to be close enough to keep you.

that thought hit me so hard i almost stopped walking.

later, we went swimming after dark. also not a date, according to you. definitely not the first date, which mattered because you had rules about kissing on first dates and you informed me of them with the kind of dramatic offense that made me grin for ten minutes afterward.

“excuse you,” you said, pointing at me as we stood ankle-deep in the water. “i do not kiss on first dates.”

“i didn’t ask.”

“well, saved you the question, no?”

it was like you read my mind. i was thinking about kissing you. i was thinking about how careful you were with your own heart and how badly i wanted to be trusted with it. i was thinking about the moon on your wet shoulders, your laugh carrying over the water, the way you looked at me when you thought darkness gave you permission. i was thinking that if i stepped closer, you might step back. and if you stepped back, i would deserve it for wanting too much too soon.

so i didn’t kiss you. not that night. i just walked beside you until we were both cold, and when you shivered, i gave you my jacket without making a joke about it. you looked at me for a long second, softer than you probably meant to.

“you’re sweet,” you said, quiet enough that i would’ve pretended not to hear.

the kiss came later, because mutual pining can only survive so many sunsets before it starts getting ridiculous. we were outside the motel, sitting on the hood of the impala while dean was inside pretending not to spy through the blinds. you had that stupid t-shirt on again, your knees tucked up, your shoulder pressed against mine. i told you i liked the mole near your mouth. you went still in this tiny, startled way, as if being noticed that specifically meant more than some big confession.

then you said, “you’re not very subtle, winchester.”

i said, “neither are you, mari.”

and you kissed me first. barely. just enough to ruin me.

then you pulled back and said, “that doesn’t count as a first date kiss.”

i said, “no?”

“no. this is different.”

you were right. it was.

the summer didn’t end with a goodbye, which still feels impossible. our lives are usually built out of leaving. motel keys on counters, tire marks in gravel, people we care about becoming rearview mirror ghosts because staying gets complicated and dangerous and selfish.

i expected that. maybe you did too. maybe that’s why you kept pretending you were casual about it, folding your clothes too neatly, making little jokes, reminding everyone about the route back as if planning the road could protect you from the end of it.

but then you looked at me across the parking lot, wearing sage green and trying not to cry, and i knew i couldn’t turn you into another thing i missed. so i asked you to come with us for a while.

not forever. not in a way that trapped you. just a while. just the next town. the next case. the next sunset. the next gas-station slushie where you judged dean’s music and stole my fries and reminded me to put sunscreen on even when there wasn’t a beach for miles.

you said yes.

then you called me an idiot for looking so surprised.

i’m writing this from the passenger seat while dean drives and complains about your playlist, which means he secretly likes it. you’re asleep in the backseat, curled around my jacket, one hand tucked under your cheek. the weird t-shirt is in your bag somewhere. your glasses are in the cupholder because you forgot them there. there’s a slushie receipt stuck in my book, and your handwriting on the map, and for once, summer doesn’t feel like something we lost. it feels like something we carry with us.

so, marianna, what happened that summer can stay there if you want. but i’m really glad you didn’t.

Your heart broke each time, and every time it became harder and harder to bite your tongue because of how protective Dean was, and how willing to let go and accept it, Sam was.

But you weren't. You didn't like Mary. You didn't like the way she was raised from the dead and shoved into the boy's life like she still belonged. Like she'd been there the whole time.

You especially didn't like the way she disregarded her youngest son, your husband, just because she knew Dean longer.

She wouldn't even try.

At first, you thought maybe it was because she felt guilty or weird, but the way she clicked with Dean made it obvious she wasn't having any trouble being a mother.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the morning Sam had invited you and Mary to watch a movie together. Something fun- a movie he had picked and loved for years. You, of course, obliged because it was Sam and you could never resist his pretty puppy eyes.

You made yourself comfortable at Sam's side, and he wrapped you in his arms. Sam's eyes lit up when his mom walked into the room, taking a seat closer to the end of the couch than him. Just that small action made him deflate a little, and you again bit your tongue. Instead, you pressed a subtle kiss to his forearm and intertwined your fingers with his.

A little way through the movie, you had excused yourself to the bathroom, and when you got back, the movie was paused, and neither Sam nor Mary was anywhere to be seen.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you walked around the bunker, checking in all of the usual places Sam liked to hide out in. All spots came up empty.

The last stop you made was to your shared bedroom, where Sam was sitting on the corner of the bed with his hands in his hair and tears falling down his face.

"Baby?" You gently called as you approached. Sam didn't hide from you, he looked up at you, sad and teary-eyed. The sight made your chest constrict. "Oh, Sam," you whispered, stopping in front of him.

You put your hand on his face, wiping away the tears that kept falling. "Talk to me, honey. What happened?" You question gently.

Sam wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer as he buries his head in your chest. You resisted the urge to let tears fall yourself. You brushed your hands through his beautiful brown locks, scratching gently, and the base of his skull in the way he always found comfort in.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong," you urged him. You knew already, you knew Mary had yet again crushed his heart and hopes that one day he could really have his mama back.

"I-" Sam began, but his voice broke. You shushed him, "Take your time, honey… I'm not going anywhere," you continued, running your hands through his hair.

"I just… want her to see me." His voice strained. Your heart shatters. "The way she does Dean. I don't have any bond with her and she won't- she won't even try"

You bit your lips, trying to contain the heat boiling in your chest. "I know." You hated that it was the only thing that you could say.

Right now, as Sam clutched you closer, your mind had set. Mary would hear a price of your mind. You'd argue with Sam, you'd argue with Dean, if Mary can sit and choose favorites, you won't let her hear the end of it.

You sat with Sam for about an hour until he fell asleep. You pressed a kiss onto his forehead, giving him one last glance to make sure he was really asleep before slipping out of his arms.

You tiptoed out of the room and down the hallway.

You found Mary in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She froze momentarily when she saw you.

You took a seat at the table. "We need to talk," you said, interlocking your hands. Mary finished chopping the tomatoes and set them aside. "What about?" She glanced at you.

You huff a laugh, "Sam." Your tone is harsh but still respectful. She looked off, as if she already knew it was coming, "What about him?" She sighed.

You rolled your eyes. "Look, I'm not gonna sugarcoat anything, you're an adult. You can take it." Your gaze on her hardens. "You have to stop treating him like some guy you met on the street."

"I don't"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, sighing in an attempt not to lose your cool. "You do. You're his mother, and you act as if you hate him."

She avoided your eyes, and you saw right through her. "You think he doesn't see the way you avoid him? That he doesn't see your favoritism for Dean? Sam's not an idiot, and he knows how to read a room."

"I don't try-" "No, you're right, you don't. I don't care what your problem is, but I advise you to fix it. He's been to hell and back, he lived with the guilt of your death and every one he's ever lost his whole life." You cut her off.

Your mind wandered back to an hour ago, when he was crying because the woman who gave birth to him would barely sit in the same room as him.

She folded her arms over her chest, looking as if she was trying to shrink into herself.

"And you know the worst part?" She looks at you questioningly, "The worst part is he's so much like you. he never wanted this life. None of it. He wanted to find love, build a home, and have a normal family. Ring any bells?"

Mary shook her head, sucking in a harsh breath. "I'm sorry- but I. I can't. I don't even know where to start with him."

You scoff, "How about an apology. Tell him you love him, get to know him. Him, not stories, not rumors. Him."

Mary leans against the counter, facing away from you. You could see the contemplation on her face, which irritated you further. How did anything requiring her son have to be contemplated?

You scoffed, standing up from your seat, "You know what- forget it. You obviously don't want anything to do with him. Just know this, he would've done anything to spend just a few hours with you when you were dead." You walked to the door, pausing. "Imagine how he feels watching you walk around his home and still making no effort."

You walk back to you and Sam's bedroom. He was no longer asleep; instead, he was standing in the middle of the room, looking like he was thinking too hard.

"Hey," you say, eyeing him. He turned towards you, a small smile lit his face, and his eyes were no longer red. Instead, they sparkled in their usual hazel color.

He walked towards you, wrapping his arms around you tight and secure, "Oh- what's this for?" You let out a surprised laugh, hugging him back.

Sam kissed your forehead, "for loving me. And taking care of me, even behind my back"

Oh.

You look up at him, "You know, it's rude to eavesdrop," you joked, trying to gauge his feelings. He shrugged, "You left me."

"Clingy"

"Only for you"

This makes you laugh, relieved he wasn't upset about you confronting his mom. You sighed, "If I crossed a line, I'm sorry. I can't stand to watch you wait for her to see you. It's not fair."

Sam frowns to himself, "It's okay, honey-"

"Except it's not. You and Dean have been without a parent for so long. Now she's here, and I can't even begin to imagine how it feels."

Sam's jaw clenched. He shook his head before picking you up bridal style. "I got you, though. And dean. That's all I really need. I mean, yeah- it sucks, but what's new."

You felt a pang in your chest, you opened your mouth to say something, but Sam cut you off with a kiss.

You melted into him without a fight. He laid you on the bed, then lay down himself. "Don't wanna talk about it anymore. Just wanna sit n lay with you." He muttered.

You smiled, "I think I can make some arrangements"

He gives you an 'oh really?' look. "Oh, can you? Wouldn't wanna ruin your busy schedule"

You snort, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Never too busy for you," you promise.

Sam smiled into the kiss, pulling you closer.

The anger directed towards his mother didn't leave. It wouldn't, not until she fixes her act, if she ever does. But Sam had a way of melting away your anger like no other, and right now, all you wanted was to focus on him. Because that's what he deserves.