🪼☆🪽

When you started at Stanford University, you weren’t expecting anything special. 

Sure, you were excited. Ecstatic, actually. Hell, you worked your ass off for four years, and maintained a weighted 4.0 GPA, just for this. So when you received your acceptance, you were over the moon.

But you’re smart. You kept your expectations low. Spent the first few weeks entirely focused on learning the campus. Made sure you knew all the best study spots. Memorized what to and what not to eat in the meal hall.

By week two, you could navigate to your classes so well, you could do it blindfolded. 

So, needless to say, when you’re so zeroed in on being the perfect student, making friends doesn’t come easy. Or, it didn’t, at first. 

But then he came along. 

The first time you ran into him, you were rushing out of your dorm, because you were ten minutes behind schedule. Well. Your own, personal, made up schedule… so technically, you were late for absolutely nothing. But that’s not how it felt. 

You’d been running to the elevator, since you lived on the ninth floor, absolutely determined to get to the library to study by six o’clock sharp (which, unfortunately for you, was in three minutes). 

That’s when you heard a yell. A deep, masculine voice, calling out for you to stop the doors before they could close. You didn’t.

Which, hey, maybe that’s rude. But you weren’t exactly in the mood to be holding doors for people (you could’ve), not when you were late (you weren’t).

It takes all of four seconds for you to realize your mistake, though, because he makes it into the elevator anyway. Oops.

When he slips inside the small space, the first thing you think is holy shit he’s tall. Like, at least six-foot-two, well over. No wonder he made it, with those legs. 

You make a point of not looking him in the eye, after you’ve just very rudely blatantly ignored him. But he doesn’t kick up a fuss. He doesn’t say anything, actually, which is almost worse than being pissed. Just breathes quickly from his little sprint, and nods at you when he leaves. Huh.

You thought that would be the end of it. Stanford is a big school, after all. But, because you have the worst (best?) luck in all of history, it wasn’t. 

You start to run into him. A lot. He’s kind of hard to miss, being massive and all (and gorgeous), so you notice. You meet him a couple times in that same elevator. A handful of times in your meal hall. Once or twice in the library. After a week, you’re almost sure that you’re being stalked—until you realize he just lives in the same dorm building as you. 

One day, a day that you were not late, and you were standing in the elevator, you saw him. He was walking towards you, or, more likely, the elevator. He didn’t call out, or run. But this time, you held the door. He smiled. 

And fucking Christ, he had a beautiful smile.

It’s that day that you learn that his name is Sam. He’s from Kansas, but his family moved around. A lot. He’s in his first year, just like you, but he’s studying pre-law. He likes to read. Doesn’t really party, but he’s not opposed to a fun night every once in a while. He hates Halloween (damn psychopath). Oh, and he’s six-foot-four. You were close. 

Somehow, despite your absolutely terrible first impression (which you have apologized about. A lot), you and Sam become friends. And then best friends. Until by the beginning of your third year, the two of you are practically attached at the hip. 

He knows everything about you, and you know everything about him. You study together. You grab breakfast, lunch, and, occasionally, dinner together. He knows your coffee order. He knows what shampoo you use. He knows that you crack your knuckles when you’re nervous, and grind your teeth when you’re focused. Hell, he knows everything down to your favourite pair of socks: the fuzzy ones with dogs on them, that you wear every time the two of you curl up in his dorm to watch a movie. 

Which, actually, is your plan for the night. 

You show up at Sam’s dorm at exactly ten o’clock, decked out in fluffy candy cane patterned pajama pants, because c’mon, it’s finally December, along with a black tank top. (Oh, and your socks. Always your socks.)

The halls are quiet. The only sound is the radiator buzzing at the end of the hall, the shuffling of your slippers on the carpet floor, and the crinkle of your chip bag as you manoeuvre the handful of items you’re carrying to knock on his door. 

He’s swinging the door open before you get the chance, though. Smiling down at you with those sweet puppy-dog-eyes, messy bangs falling over his forehead. He’s just as ready as you are, plaid pajama pants low on his hips, and some loose t-shirt. Well. It would be loose, if it wasn’t for Sam being fucking ripped.

Not that you’re paying attention to that, or anything. 

“Hey,” you greet, pushing past him before he can even invite you in, like you own the damn place. Because at this point? It’s yours as much as it is his. 

“Hope you’ve picked a movie already, because I really don’t want to watch you scroll through the menu for thirty minutes.”

Sam steps aside, watching you with an amused smirk on his face, an unlit joint slotted between his fingers. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he teases, nudging the door closed with his sock-covered foot. “Didn’t realize we were on a strict movie-watching schedule tonight.”

You make your way to his bed, dumping your collection of snacks onto his bedside table, Snickers, Jolly Ranchers, and M&M’s, before settling onto the pillows. You pry open the bag of chips you snagged without a word, but you roll your eyes at his teasing. 

Sam watches you with a look on his face that’s a little hard to decipher. Mock annoyance, yes. But there’s more. Something almost fond, that makes your heart skip a beat.

He follows after you a moment later, though, flopping down on the bed next to you, long limbs stretched along the length of the mattress. “But for your information,” he adds, pointing at you with that joint like it’s his finger, “I have picked one. A classic. The Thing.”

Oh, of course. Of course he chooses that one, again, like the two of you haven’t seen it more times than you can count.

Deep down, you know why. He does exactly this, every time it’s his turn to pick a movie. Picks something you’ve both already seen. So that way, when you inevitably start rambling about something stupid, he doesn’t have to pause or rewind. He can just listen. Because he’s sweet like that.

You don’t comment on it, though. You just hum at his words, and pop a chip into your mouth. 

There’s a fleeting moment where he just studies you. The way you made yourself at home. The way you look so at ease, relaxed. He even glances down at your socks for a moment, and you swear his expression changes again. Full of affection. Affection that only comes from seeing something that’s so you. 

But then his eyes flicker back to your face, and he laughs, watching you stuffing a handful of chips into your mouth without any shame. 

“…Sun Chips? Really? After last time? You said those were the reason that rat found my dorm—”

You cut him off by smushing your hand against his mouth, and his brows pinch together, nose scrunching up in such an adorable way that your face warms up just a little. Somehow, though, you manage to keep a straight face.

“Don’t talk about that rat, Winchester, or I’ll kick your ass.”

An empty threat? Probably. But you still grimace at the memory. Stanford may be a nice school, but the dorms are old. And apparently, not rat proof. 

He peels your hand off his face, acting like it takes a lot more effort than it really does (because, c’mon. You’ve seen those biceps), before he’s speaking again.

“Fine, no rat talk,” he agrees, showing you his palms in mock surrender. But because he thinks he’s hilarious, and because he’s an ass, he continues. “Though, for the record, you screamed. I calmly assessed the sit—”

You cut him off by jamming your elbow into his ribs, which makes him yelp, before breaking out in a laughing fit that is way too boyish for a massive twenty year old man. And way too cute.

He does it on purpose, really. Riling you up so you shove him, pinch him, flick his forehead, before giggling like a schoolgirl. It’s masochism, seriously.

Even through your attack, a smile creeps its way onto your lips. Hard not to, when he’s laughing like that, with the worlds prettiest smile on his face, dimples and all. 

Sam mutters to himself, something about not knowing why he puts up with you, as he leans for the remote. Said remote is on his bedside table, or, literally right next to you, so why he doesn’t just ask for it, you’re unsure. But this means that he quite literally stretches on top of you, all massive, two-hundred-something pounds of Winchester, and you can tell he’s doing it on purpose.

“Sam!” you protest, but you can’t hide the laugh that comes along with it, as you shove him playfully. He doesn’t stop, though, you see that dimple popping, grabbing the remote with mock innocence. 

The closeness means that all of his Sam-warmth is pressed against you. ‘I run hot’, he always says, which is the understatement of the century, based on how he feels like a human furnace over you. And God, you can smell him, all masculine and woodsy and so him…

Jesus Christ, what are you doing?

By the time he leans back to his side of the bed, your face has gone a little red. If he notices, he doesn’t bring it up. Just leans back against his pillows with an exaggerated sigh, clicking play, then tossing the remote somewhere on his blankets. That’s something for the two of you to worry about later, when you’re tearing his dorm apart to find it. 

The opening notes of ‘The Thing’s eerie track creep in as he scoots just a little closer, just enough so your shoulders touch, and he fidgets with the joint in his fingers like he’s spinning a pen. 

“Comfy?” he asks, quietly, and his voice isn’t full of playful teasing or mock-annoyance anymore. No, it’s fallen right back into sweet, soft Sam, that makes you feel like your insides have been set aflame. Your heart does a stupid little somersault. 

“Mhm,” you hum, and you have to forcefully ignore the sparks that are currently exploding under your skin where your shoulders touch. Get it together.

To distract yourself, and maybe as an excuse to get a little closer, you lean forward, grabbing hold of his blanket, and you tuck it over the two of you. You let yourself fall into a more reclined position, melting into his sheets. 

You make it all of five minutes into the movie, watching the helicopter chase the ‘dog’ with a grimace on your face, like you haven’t seen it a hundred times over already, before you’re breaking the silence.

“So… do you know what you’re doing for Christmas break this year? It’s in, like, two weeks, which is insane,” you start, crunching a chip between your teeth. “I’m still deciding if I want to book a plane ticket home…”

Sam smiles like he anticipated this (he did), and makes no move to pause the movie. He just stares at the screen, but tilts his head towards you slightly as he speaks.

“Two weeks? Jesus. Don’t remind me. I still have to study for finals…” 

He runs his hand over his face, before letting his head fall back against his headboard with a thud. 

“Honestly? I’m staying here. Again.”

It was an answer you expected, but you hum all the same. Sam was never the type to go home during holidays, or, well, ever. He barely spoke about them beyond the odd comment about his brother, Dean.

He finally turns to you, just slightly, elbow propped up on the mattress. “I mean, we’ve got heat now that they ‘fixed’ the boiler, so no more sleeping in ten layers like last year. And campus is practically empty, anyway. Can study wherever.”

You let out a little laugh at that, memories of receiving Sam’s whiny phone calls ringing through your head, when you’d slipped away after dinner on Christmas Eve just to call him. ‘It’s freezing,’ he’d complained, ‘I can’t even feel my ass!’

“Oh, yeah? So no more waking up not being able to feel your fingers?” you tease, turning to look at him, movie forgotten.

He hums in response, nodding exaggeratedly like this is the most important conversation in the world, before continuing. “Uh-huh. I mean, why fly across the country for a week for a family who doesn’t even do Christmas, when you can stay where it’s warm, and eat half-cooked turkey in meal hall?”

“Wow. Great upselling, Sam,” you tease, but you can’t keep the smile out of your voice. 

“Just saying. It’s kind of nice. Lonely, maybe, but I can always… y’know…” he makes a rolling motion with his fingers, before bringing that damn joint to his lips, still unlit— and you get the idea right away. 

“Get really high?” You prompt, raising a brow at him, and judging by a look he gives you with a shrug, you’re right on the money. 

“Right,” you laugh, looking up at him, and that’s when you see it. Really see it. The glimmer of something in his eyes, something like pleading. Like those puppy eyes are asking you to stay without him saying it himself. “Well, since you make it sound so great… maybe I’ll stay back this year.”

His expressions changes immediately. Disbelief, at first, then softening into something so quietly excited, that your heart rate picks up a little. He smiles again, the kind of smile that brightens his whole face, and you can’t help but return it.

“Really?” he asks, like you’ve just told him he won the damn lottery.

“Why not? I mean. I flew home the last two years, it wasn’t all that great, and then I was all jet-lagged when classes started back up,” you explain, but Sam really didn’t need an explanation. No, he was excited as soon as the word ‘maybe’ left your lips.

He doesn’t respond to you right away. A little lost in his own thoughts, by the looks of it, and you don’t comment on it. His eyes flicker over you, that dopey smile on his face, before he briefly looks at the bedside table, then back at you. 

“Well… since you’ve decided…” he starts, stretching his long arm over you, towards the nightstand (so he can reach without leaning over you. Huh). “We can count today as the first day of holiday break. Let loose.”

He snags the lighter off the tabletop, bringing it back to his lap, but not without making sure he elbows you in the head first. Asshole. 

But even with the lighter in his palm, the joint between his two fingers, he makes no move to light it. Simply fidgets with it like it’s personally offended him. You raise a brow. 

“You gonna smoke that, or just stare at it?” you ask, teasing, and he shoots you a look. 

“Maybe I was trying to be polite,” he smirks, tilting his head at you, those cute little bangs falling over his eyes. “I’d like to not give you a contact high every time I breathe, thanks.”

He says it like he’s joking. Keeps that little grin on his face, all light and sweet, but you know there’s something genuine underneath it. He’s gotten high around you before, God, more times than you can count—but he’s always so cautious first. Like he’s worried he’s doing something wrong. Making you uncomfortable. 

If there’s one thing Sam Winchester will never do? It’s make you actually uncomfortable on purpose. 

The first time he got high around you, at the beginnings of your friendship, he’d been careful. Asked if you were sure it was okay, probably, like, over a thousand times before he even rolled it up. Then a few more times for good measure once it was, before finally taking the first hit, and offering it to you. And oh, when he found out that you don’t smoke, at all? He felt like a prick.

But that was two damn years ago, and even after your constant reassurance… he still tiptoes around the subject, like the little people-pleaser he is. 

“Sam,” you start, voice dropping low, almost like you’re a mother scolding her child. “It’s weed. I’m not going to be poisoned from second hand smoke.” 

He rolls his eyes again, a little dramatically. “Whatever,” he grumbles, like he’s annoyed with you, but you don’t believe it for a second. 

There’s another pause as the joint dangles between his fingers, before he exhales the world’s heaviest sigh. “Since you insist…” he teases, before flicking the lighter. The flame catches, shadows dancing across his face as he takes a slow pull, and leans back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed. 

He holds it for a moment, letting it fill his lungs, before letting out a deep exhale, tilting his head away from you (ever the gentleman). Smoke billows from his lips in a steady stream.

You try not to get distracted. You really do. But watching the orange flame illuminate his face just right, the way his lips curl around the joint, his eyes closing as he inhales, the sharp curve of his jaw twitching as he exhales… 

Jesus Christ, you’re so fucked.

Something about it is almost domestic. The warm sheets. The movie playing in the background. The smell of weed wafting through the room. Shoulder to shoulder with Sam.

He exhales again, the weed taking effect. Not quite a high, not yet—he’s a seasoned smoker, after all—just enough to take the edge off. He sinks deeper into the mattress, eyes opening back up, and he stares at the TV for a moment like he’s in a daze. 

And oh, he stretches slightly, just getting comfortable, and his bicep flexes as it moves across his chest. 

…Not that you’re looking, or anything.

Before you can be tempted to do something stupid, like, lick Sam’s arm, you speak up.

“Can I try?” you ask, voice coming out so quiet, you’re not sure he heard you. 

He did. 

His eyes widen immediately as he turns to you, brows furrowed. “What?” he questions, and based on the way he sounds, you’d think you’d just told him you were dropping-out and becoming a stripper. 

He looks more than a little shocked, to say the absolute least. He’s watching you like he expects you change your mind, or turn around and say ‘just kidding’, before bursting out into laughter.

But when you don’t, the surprise melts away into confusion. Just a quiet intensity, and a little something that looks like excitement.

“Are you serious?” he asks, sceptical, and you almost laugh at the way he’s staring at you. Like he just can’t believe that you, a college student, may want to hit his joint.

“Yes, I’m serious,” you respond, and this time, you can’t hold back your amused snort. You decide then and there that confusion is a very cute emotion on him, puppy eyes and all. “I mean. I’ve been curious, y’know? And what better person than you to show me the ropes?”

His gaze drops to the joint, looking at it like it’s betrayed him, before flicking back to you, brows pulling together. 

“You’ve been curious?” he laughs once, short, disbelieving. “For two years, you’ve watched me do this, and now tonight? Tonight’s the night?”

You shrug, and despite his words, his fingers are already turning the joint between the two of you, offering it to you with a careful kind of hesitation.

“Alright,” he relents softly. “But slow. One hit. And don’t inhale like I do. It’ll wreck you.”

Those words make you raise a brow, because, one, you don’t understand what the hell that means. And two, there’s that gentle concern behind them. The kind that never fails to make you just a little fidgety. 

After a moment’s pause, you take the joint from him tentatively, like you’re trying to disarm a bomb, not smoke some pot. His hand lingers just slightly, fingers brushing yours in that stupidly electric way they always do. Jesus, what the hell’s going on with you tonight?

When his eyes meet yours again, they’re a little wide. Soft. Nervous. Heart-wrenchingly sweet, to such a degree that you have to advert your gaze before your cheeks flush all over again. 

There’s a few beats where neither of you move. Like the silence between you is heavy, charged. But then you snap out of it, and realize that you really have no idea what you’re doing. Sam seems to have the same realization a moment later, because he mumbles something about ‘corrupting the innocent’, before shifting again.

He sits up, scooting closer to you so his side is practically pressed against yours.

“Okay, hold on. Wait,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to the joint between your fingers. “C’mere for a minute.”

He motions for you to lean forward with a crook of his finger and a little head nod, and you roll your eyes at his sudden serious tone before complying. 

“Hold it between your fingers. Bring it to your mouth. Then, when you take a hit, pull in air without actually breathing in, like you’re sucking on a straw,” he instructs, voice low. “And don’t fully inhale it into your lungs. It’ll burn less. Shallow.”

You blink at him. Once, twice, then a third time for good measure. Right. Okay, then.

What?

You take in what he’s saying, you really do. The problem? None of it makes any goddamn sense.

And c’mon, you’re not the kind of person to lie to him. This is Sam, after all. So, you look him dead in the eyes, faces only inches apart from where he’d made you lean forward. And in the most deadpan tone you can muster, you respond simply:

“What the fuck does any of that mean?” you ask, and the question hangs in the air for a moment, before you laugh. “That sounded more complicated than those case studies you do in Criminal Justice. What do they teach you law-boys, how to make everything sound impossible?”

“Pre-law,” he corrects, not at all phased by your little dig, before leaning back, and turning his body just enough to look at you properly. 

His eyes are still so warm. Crinkled at the corners in that way they get when he’s trying really hard to not full-on cackle at you.

“Okay,” he drawls, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause. “Forget the lecture. Just… here.”

Before you can protest, or really fully process his words, he takes the joint gently from your fingers again. “You trust me?” he questions, and all he earns from you is a look. A ‘what kind of question is that?’ look, which apparently is enough for him.

Because slowly, deliberately, he brings the joint to his lips, taking a small hit. Holds it in his mouth for a beat.

Then he leans in just slightly, closing that lick of space between the two of you. And before your brain can catch up, or think holy shit, is he about to kiss you? His lips brush yours. Soft. Warm. Over too fast, barely even touched, but long enough for heat to flood your system, and lets the smoke slide between your parted lips before pulling back.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, voice low and rougher than before, eyes searching yours with a mixture of nerves and something dangerously close to hope. “Learned?”

You can’t answer. Not right away. 

Because holy shit, Sam Winchester just half-kissed you.

What the fuck?

There’s a beat where you don’t move. Completely stunned, even just for a moment. But then you process that he’s exhaled smoke into your mouth, and you breathe in. Not at all like a straw, and not at all shallow like he’s told you.

It burns, and it takes less than a second for you to break out into a coughing fit. 

At the sound of your coughing, and the sight of your eyes watering, Sam’s concern comes rushing back like a tidal wave. He’s already moving, one palm finding your shoulder, the other smoothing over your back.

“Woah, woah, slow down. Breathe,” he urges, running his hand gently up and down your back. “Told you not to inhale like me,” he teases, before his voice drops low again. “You okay?”

There’s real worry in his voice now, and a furrow between his brows. But he can’t help it, he still grins. And you could swear his cheeks look a little pink. 

“Yeah, I’m fi—” you’re halfway through a choked cough when it hits. It’s like your senses all relax at once, giving way to something lighter. Deeper. Like your heads filled with air. It’s not intense, but it’s certainly new. “—Woah,” you mumble, lifting your gaze, the burning subsiding.

And when your eyes find Sam’s, puppy eyes so full of worry, his brows pinched together so adorably? You’re not sure if you’re closer to laughing or whining at the sight.

“Slow,” he repeats again with a soft, huffing chuckle, watching your eyes go glassy while the coughing fit finally subsides. 

“You sure you’re good?” He asks quietly, eyes still narrowed with concern. His hand is still on your shoulder, and he’s leaned into your space like he’s afraid you might suddenly pass out. 

That little bit of carefree, heat-of-the-moment confidence seems to have died out, and he looks almost shy. Maybe a little guilty, like he’s done something wrong. “Listen, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Sam.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. Maybe it makes you weird, but seeing him all sweet and concerned, leaning into you, holding you like he’s worried you might fall? Yeah. It’s sort of doing it for you, in some fucked-up way. Not to mention the fact that your lips are still tingling. 

“I’m okay. It just feels… new?” you start, you melt into his touch just a fraction further. You don’t mention the half-kiss. Not right away. Instead, you continue, voice slightly dazed, and you can’t contain the little laugh that slips out. “Good new.”

He looks hesitant for a moment, like he’s not sure if he believes you. But whether it’s the look on your face, or your words, he relaxes. And when he laughs with you, warm and soft and God, you could get lost in it; his shoulders fall loose, letting go of some tension.

He studies your face again like he’s searching for any signs of nausea, or, God forbid, discomfort. But all he finds are flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.

“Yeah?” he prompts, and that boyish smile makes you feel all tingly. Butterflies rising in ways they shouldn’t, in places they shouldn’t. You’ve felt it before, of course you have. Deep down you know you’ve been falling for him for years.

But, apparently, getting a little high makes it a whole lot harder to ignore.  

“Uh-huh,” you nod, inhaling a breath that comes out more shaky than it should. “Really good new. As in, wanting more…”

He swallows hard. 

He almost looks conflicted for a second before he speaks, but there’s no doubting the way his gaze flicks to your lips for a fraction of a second, before he’s clearing his throat. 

“More?” He echos, eyes finding the joint still held between his fingers. “More as in… another hit? ‘Cause I swear, if you end up flat on your back because you take another one right now…”

Yeah. That image is doing absolutely nothing to help your racing thoughts. Flat on your back, in his bed, under him… you certainly have no objections.

And you catch it. The implication behind those words. Because taking another hit doesn’t just mean taking in more smoke: it means his lips brushing against yours again. Teetering into uncharted territory all over again. 

“Just… more,” you whisper, eyes trailing over his face, and the way your gaze lingers on his lips mirrors his own actions just moments ago.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, you swear he sees right through you. But then that soft smirk comes back, the one that makes your stomach flip, and he lifts the joint slowly. He gets it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “One more hit.”

He takes it himself first, not deep, just enough to warm the tip, and holds it in his mouth just like the first hit. Then he leans in again. Closer than before. 

And when his lips meet yours this time, still soft, but less hesitant, it’s not just smoke that passes between the two of you. It’s everything. 

He doesn’t pull away once all the smoke has been passed to you. You could blame it on the fact that it means you have to hold the smoke in your mouth for a moment longer before inhaling it. But the way he lingers?

Yeah. It’s not because of the smoke.

When you break away to inhale, neither of you pull back. Not really. The moment just holds. Smoke exhales from your lips, creating a haze between you, your breaths mixing in the few inches of space between your mouths. 

His free hand is at your cheek, thumb skimming over the edge of your jaw almost reverently, and when he finally does pull back, it looks like it takes physical effort.

He keeps those pretty eyes on yours the whole time, watching those blown-out pupils grow wider, a hint of a smile on his lips. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so low, it’s barely even audible.

“…How do you feel?”

How do you feel?

That’s a loaded question. Your head is all light and airy. The touch of his hand on your cheek feels dialled up to a hundred. It makes you feel warm, intensely so. Flushed. Needy. And those butterflies? Yeah, they’re fluttering pretty low tonight.

But you don’t say that.

“Feeling… a lot,” you murmur after a moment, and you really can’t stop your gaze from dropping to his lips just once. And oh, he definitely caught it.

His breathing changes, just slightly. Deeper. Slower, like he’s trying really hard to steady himself (and failing). His thumb brushes your jaw again, the movement absentminded, and this time, it lingers.

“Me too,” he admits, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the hum of the movie that’s been long forgotten. His eyes drop to your lips just as yours did.

And when he leans in this time? There’s no smoke between you. Just him. Warmth radiating off of him like a furnace. He doesn’t bring the joint back to his lips, doesn’t take another long drag. No, this time, he gets so close, that your noses brush together. 

And when your lips meet, this time it’s real.

He inhales into the kiss, soft and warm, like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, gentle but sure, holding you just close enough that you can feel his heartbeat through the small space between your chests.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate.

It’s Sam. Careful, present, full of something quiet and deep. The kind of kiss that’s been building up for years, hiding behind stolen glances, shared blankets, and late-night talks.

When your lips part, only because neither of you can breathe, it’s only an inch. Your foreheads rest together like neither of you want to risk being apart. 

“…Okay?” he asks, voice low, and a little unsteady. Like he’s half-way to falling apart from a single kiss. Careful and sweet, in that overly worried Sam Winchester way that makes your heart just ache. 

You don’t miss a beat before responding.

“So much better than okay,” you whisper, and then your lips are chasing his all over again. Like you got one taste, and you’re already addicted. 

His lips are just so soft. And he’s so gentle, so reverent, holding onto you with those strong arms like you’re something precious. Like you’re made of porcelain.

The second your mouth is on his again, his eyes flutter right back closed. He reaches past you just far enough to chuck the joint into his ash tray haphazardly (because oh yeah— maybe making out with a burning joint in your hand isn’t the best idea), before his hands are settling on your waist.

The only thing buzzing between the two of you now is pure heat and need that’s been building for years. His fingers trace across the sliver of exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your pants, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, tingling up your spine in a way that makes you shift. One of your hands is trapped between you, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you steady, the other sliding into his hair at his nape.

His fingers flex against your skin like he’s fighting the urge to grip your waist, to really feel. Dig his fingers into your flesh, leave pretty marks that he can look back at and know this is real.

He resists, just for a moment, before the intensity wins, and he’s hauling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. And when your legs settle around his hips, the sound that escapes his chest is almost desperate.

You let out a high pitched mewl of your own, one that is swallowed by him immediately, drinking up every little sound like a man dying of thirst. His breathing is laboured, coming out in little puffs from his nose that warm your cheek. 

He breaks just far enough to look you in the eyes. Breathless, flustered, and disheveled: hair messy from your fingers, lips pink and slightly swollen, and that look on his face that tells you he’s barely holding back from ravaging you.

But still, even with that spark in his eyes, the flame in his chest, he presses his forehead against yours again. Slow and honey-sweet. Like he needs a moment to catch up with his thoughts. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and his voice is rough around the edges. His words tumble out like he didn’t have time to catch them, and the warmth that blooms in your chest feels like fire.

The look on his face is… intense. More intense than a random kiss between best friends. More intense than some high mistake that’ll be long forgotten by the time the sun rises. Intense like something you’ve been aching for for years, but have never allowed yourself to admit. If you thought your brain was going wild before, then it’s going bat-shit crazy now. 

After a moment of silence, nothing but the sound of your pants blending together, you speak. 

“Tell me… tell me this is real,” your voice is barely audible, but he hears. He always hears you. “Tell me this means something to you. Because if… if it doesn’t, I don’t know if I can—”

He doesn’t let you finish. 

His expression shifts instantly, eyes locking on yours with a fierceness that steals your breath.

“No,” he says, voice low and steady, like steel wrapped in velvet. “Don’t.”

At first, those words scare you. The doubts flow in like a wave. You fucked up. You’ve ruined this. The best thing you’ve ever had, and you ruined it—

But his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw like you’re something sacred. 

“This is real,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a whisper from yours. “This has been real for longer than I’ve let myself admit.”

He swallows hard. The hand on your cheek shakes in a way that you only ever see from him before a difficult final.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, voice cracking slightly, and he grimaces at the sound. “Not because I’m high or lonely or drunk on whatever movie-night thing we have going on…”

A beat, and his eyes stay locked on yours. Like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.

“You. It’s always been you.”

For a moment, it feels like time has slowed. Like the world has stopped spinning on its axis, and the only thing left is this. Like the only thing left is him.

“…Yeah?” you whisper, half disbelief, half unbridled need.

Your expression must be blank, or maybe he can see that you’re barely even a breath away from breaking down under his palm, because he looks almost panicked. His eyes are wide, almost pleading. His jaw is so tight that you worry he might break a tooth. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

“Fuck, Sam… you have no idea. No idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” you say, shaking your head like you can’t believe this is real. Your hand that’s slipped free from his hair has found your forearm, pinching hard enough to bruise.

“It’s always been you. I just… I didn’t know how to say it without ruining this. Without losing you. I can’t… I can’t lose you, Sam. I can’t.”

The truth rushes out before you can stop it. All that fear. Fear of losing the one person who knows you, really knows you.

He starts shaking his head before your words even fully leave your mouth, and his free hand brushes your fingers off your forearm. Because he noticed. Of course he noticed.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he leans in, pressing a soft, almost desperate kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, before whispering against your skin.

“I’ve been terrified, too, you know. Of saying the wrong thing. Of pushing too hard. Of ruining us,” his breath hitches like he’s choking on his words. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”

Another kiss. This one’s slow, deep, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into it. You swear his tongue darts out to brush against your bottom lip like he’s dying for a taste. 

He moves to pull away again. Probably to search your face for doubt. For any implication that he’s fucked all this up, despite everything you’ve said. Because Sam Winchester is nothing if not thorough.

You don’t let him. 

No, not a second passes before your lips find his almost desperately. Deep, and full of need, every ounce of longing poured into the action. 

His big hand splays along your back, and he’s pulling you closer, bodies flush together like he’s trying to erase every bit of space that’s left between you.

His fingers find the edge of your shirt, slipping just under the hem, like he can’t stand not touching you. The long digits slide under fabric in patterns that are almost rhythmic.

Your head feels like it’s spinning. Waves of pure need pulse through your veins with each gentle circle of his thumb. Your brain is still caught up in everything: that this is real. That this is happening. Because holy shit, you’re making out with your best friend.

You’re making out with Sam.

And you really, really never want to stop. You swipe your tongue along the seam of his lips, pressing into him with just a little more force, your hand finding his hair again. A silent question.

Can I?

And oh, the answer is abso-fucking-lutely, because Sam doesn’t miss a damn beat before his lips part.

It feels like an electrical current runs through your spine when his tongue meets yours, hot, feverish, and holy Jesus.

And when he groans, deep and ragged, it goes straight to your core.

He cups the back of your head with those massive hands, tilting you just slightly, so his tongue can slide against yours. Teasing, tasting, like he wants to memorize the moment. 

He doesn’t even pull back to start trailing his lips across your jaw. He mouths at your skin, slipping down to your neck, tongue darting out to lick your pulse point just to see you squirm. And oh, the second a moan slips past your lips?

Sam is done. 

He shudders like you’ve just ripped through every defence he’s built up over the years of pretending this wasn’t what he wanted to do. His thumb brushes along the strap of your tank top, sliding it down just slightly, his teeth grazing softly over your collarbone. He mouths at your skin with fever, sucking softly before releasing with a pop, and smoothing over with his tongue. Yeah. That’ll be a mark tomorrow.

Between peppered kisses against your neck, he murmurs, voice rough, almost pained. “You gonna drive me crazy, or let me taste you properly?”

He doesn’t let you answer the question, or even think about the implication (holy shit, he doesn’t mean—?) before he’s nipping your pulse point just hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound just about drives him wild. 

He’s barely holding back now. Like he’s lost in the feeling of you, and you have absolutely no complaints in the matter. Your fingers fist his hair like it’s the only lifeline you have left. His hands slide under your shirt completely, palms hot against the small of your back, pressing you close where you’re perched in his lap.

And when you whimper? That’s it.

He flips you gently onto the bed beneath him in one smooth motion, hovering over you with dark eyes and kiss swollen lips. But despite the way his pupils are black with desire, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t press his weight against you.

“You… you’ve gotta talk to me. Tell me if we’re going too fast,” he breathes. “Need to know if I can keep going. Please.”

Your heart aches at his words. They’re just so… him. Sam, the man who’d die before he did anything you didn’t want. Before he took anything that wasn’t his to take. 

“I want this. I want you, Sam,” you say, and your voice sounds way more wrecked than you’d intended. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

His eyes scan your face, taking in your words, your flushed cheeks, the way you look sprawled beneath him.

His hands slide up your sides, your collarbone, down your arms, thumbs tracing a circle at your wrists. Not even sexual, just feeling you like he can’t help it. He watches the way you shiver, and swallows. Hard. 

Then his brows furrow, like he’s thinking, or lost in a thought, and for a moment, he looks almost conflicted.

“…How… how high are you?” he asks after a beat, and his voice is so low, that you barely hear it.

You blink at him for a moment. Because you’ve wanted this for so goddamn long, that you know it’s not the weed. Not just being lost in the heat of the moment. Fuck, you’d barely even taken a full hit. But this is Sam, after all. Terrified of misstepping. 

You almost shake him. Grab his shoulders and knock some sense into that thick Winchester skull, but you don’t. 

“I’m not,” you tell him, voice earnest. “Two, barely there hits. Nothing.”

He starts again, more insistent this time. “But it was your first time, you don’t know your—”

“Sam.”

Your voice cuts him off on the spot before he can spiral. Before his brain can twist things, or panic his way into thinking he’s doing something wrong (he hasn’t). Taking advantage (he’d never). Because you know him.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Sammy,” the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and you don’t take it back. But instead of chastising you like he usually does, he just… softens. “All of you. Not just this. Everything.”

He hesitates for just a beat longer. His eyes rove over your face again, taking in every little nuance. Your blown pupils. Your swollen lips. The way your cheeks and collarbones are tinged pink. Your hair fanned over the pillows, his pillows, like a halo. His hand moves, smoothing over your fluffy pajama pants like he’s trying to soothe you, or himself.

“You’re sure?” he asks, just one more time. Because he has to know. (No matter how crazy it drives you.)

You nod, before realizing that that might not be enough for him, and you run your hand along his forearm. Soft. Soothing. “More sure than anything,” you say, and you’re not sure your voice as ever sounded so honest. “Are you?”

His hand stills on your thigh, but it doesn’t move. Stays warm on your pants, a comforting weight. 

“God, yes,” he whispers, voice low and raw. He leans down again until his forehead touches yours. “I want it all with you. Not just sex. The movies in pajamas, the stupid socks, the morning coffee runs… just us.”

Warmth pools heavy in your chest, and a wave of emotion crashes over you. Emotions you haven’t let yourself feel out of fear of overstepping, of ruining what you have.

You let out a shaky breath before you’re nodding again, “Yeah. I want it all. With you.”

He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t have to.

He settles over you again, his lips finding your throat. He kisses down your neck like he’s tracing a map he’s memorized in his dreams, slow, reverent, but with an edge of pure hunger that makes your pulse jump. 

Each touch of his lips sends heat spiraling low in your stomach. And when he nips at that spot just below your ear, you gasp, and he groans, deep in his chest like you’re undoing him. 

His hands slide under your shirt again, this time peeling it up slowly, giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. Fuck, you never would, you arch into his touch instead.

When the fabric clears your head and falls away, he stares down at you like you’re something holy. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts just enough for your breath to hitch. But he doesn’t rush. He won’t—not with you.

Instead, he kisses lower. Slow, open mouthed, each one a promise. A vow written in heat and need. 

When his lips finally reach the waistband of those stupid Christmas pants, the little fuzzy candy canes soft under his fingers, he pauses. Looks up at you from under his lashes. Still asking without words: Is this okay?

Uh, hell yes.

You’re half lost in the feeling of his lips leaving wet marks along your bare skin, and half in the way he looks over you. Lips swollen, eyes dark with desire, hair messy from your fingers tugging at the chocolate locks. 

You’re nodding before your brain even fully catches up with the movement. Because somehow, his gaze is a thousand times more intoxicating than the weed. “…Please, Sam.”

That’s all he needs.

Slow and deliberately, he hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of your hip. His lips follow. A hot, open- mouthed kiss pressed just above your pelvic bone that makes you jolt beneath him. Another follows, then another, each lower than the last as he peels the fabric away.

“God,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

His hands are warm on your thighs, squeezing your soft flesh with a groan that he can’t quite keep contained. And for a moment, he just… looks.

Pupils blown wide. Barely even breathing.

Your face flushed. How could it not? The way he’s looking down at you like you’re some kind of angel, even in your mismatched, plain cotton bra and panties, silly little dog socks reaching mid-calf. Yet he’s staring like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world. 

His thumb brushes over your inner thigh. So close, but not where you need it, and you have to resist the urge to just pull him where you want him.

“You’re everything,” he says, pressing a trembling kiss just above your knee. “I’ve thought about this… about you, just like this… for so long.”

Another kiss, higher now. Slower.

His breath fans across sensitive skin as his hands gently part your thighs wider, giving him better access. And when you whimper again, because holy shit, this is really happening— his eyes flutter shut.

Then he looks at you one more time, eyes wide and full:

“Can I taste you?”

Your brain short circuits. Because, um, what?

He says it like it’s not just for you, but also something he wants. Something he needs. And that just about takes you apart right then and there. But you’re still… nervous. So while your core aches for it, your voice comes out low.

“You, um. You don’t have to do that…” you whisper, but even then, you don’t pull away. Don’t close your thighs.

“I want to,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there’s nothing he’d rather do. 

Oh.

Still—you crack your knuckles where your hand is resting against the sheets, and he notices. He always notices. His gaze drops to the nervous fidgeting, the way your hand clenches and unclenches, and his gaze softens. He catches one of them, bringing it to his lips, a gentle, soothing kiss.

“Hey… we don’t have to,” he promises, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Not if you don’t want to. There’s no rush.”

It’s so tender. So fucking sweet that your heart feels like it might explode in your chest. So despite the nerves… he breaks you down, just a little. So finally, the need wins.

“…Fuck, okay. Yeah, please,” you plea, and his response is immediate. Lips trailing down your inner thigh with wet kisses that have you aching. 

Your fingers fist his shirt subconsciously, tugging the fabric at his shoulders, and he doesn’t hesitate. With one hand still cradling your thigh, the other reaches up to tug his shirt over his head, the movement stretching at his muscle, skin glowing faintly in the golden light.

And holy fuck is he ever beautiful. But you barely have any time to ogle (or do something stupid, like drool), before he lowers himself again. His mouth finally meets your centre, soft at first, just a kiss through soaked cotton, and he groans like he’s the one being worshipped. 

You’re halfway through a whine when he hooks a finger into your panties, pulling them aside.

“Christ,” he breathes, sending a jolt of need through your core. “You’re fucking drenched…”

One slow lick, from bottom to top, and you arch off the bed with a cry. “Holy shit, Sammy—”

He wastes no time practically tearing your panties off, and before you can even whine or complain, he’s hooking your thighs over his broad shoulders, fluffy-sock covered feet meeting his muscled back, and his mouth is back on you. 

His hands lock around your hips, holding you down as his tongue moves with slow, torturous precision. He’s studying you, how you twitch when his tongue flicks just above your clit, how you whimper when he dips his tongue just a little lower.

He loves learning, always has. That was one of the very first things you realized about him, when you first became friends. And now? he’s learning you.

He flattens his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your cunt, thumbs sliding through your lips to spread you open for him. Each pass is slower than the last, deeper somehow, not just physical. Like he’s not just tasting you, but claiming you. Drinking up your juices like a starving man.

One of his fingers slowly circles your entrance, just teasing, and you sob out his name like a prayer. He lifts his head, lips glistening, and smirks. A real one. Dangerous, and yet so tender.

“What do you need?” he asks, voice rough as gravel mixed together. But it’s laced with teasing, like he wants nothing more than to make you squirm. “Use your words, and I’ll give it to you. Promise.”

Your hips try to roll, just once, like if you move just enough, that finger might slide inside. Because that tone is just not fair. But you can’t. Not with his strong arm pinning you to the bed. 

“I—fuck, I want… want your fingers, please,” you all but beg, and your cheeks burn immediately. You almost want to tug on his hair to chastise him for turning you into a mess, but you’re too worried he’ll stop.

He hums, low and approving, like your pleads are the best sound he’s ever heard. And those vibrations? Yeah, they shoot through you like an electrical current. 

One thick finger slides in slowly, just to the first knuckle, testing, watching your face like a man studying salvation. 

“So tight,” he groans, pressing a kiss just below your navel as he sinks deeper. “You take me so well.”

Apparently, Sam Winchester has a filthy mouth. Which is not only insanely hot—but should be illegal.

Then a second finger joins, the stretch making you cry out, and Sam? He thrusts slow, curling them just right. Rubbing circles over that sweet spot inside of you like he knows your body better than his own. 

His mouth never leaves you. Tongue circling your swollen clit as his fingers work in and out, building rhythm, heat, pressure, until you’re trembling beneath him. The room fills with sweet, sopping wet sounds with each glide of his fingers, only drowned out by your blissed out moans and whines. 

He finds the perfect rhythm. One that has you teetering right there, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers fisting his hair like you never want him to go. Pleasure sizzles in your core like a firework about to explode.

“Oh my God, Sam, Sammy, fuck—”

The sounds that slip from your lips are too incoherent to be words, and far too loud for a dorm room with such thin walls. But you’re way too far gone to notice, eyes rolling as your back bows beneath him. 

And holy shit, they only ebb Sam on. He speeds up those perfect, thick digits, curling and rubbing against that spongy part inside of you with fever, his lips sealing over your clit as he sucks. Hard. Cheeks hollowing as he gives you everything.

The wave of pleasure that crashes over you just then is intense.

Your back arches off the bed, thighs squeezing his head, your head thrown back with a cry that’s muffled by his palm because God, those thin dorm walls are a death sentence.

But you still make noise. Sam’s hand somewhat saved your dignity, but you let out high-pitched desperate whimpers into his hand, your cunt clenching around his fingers like you’re trying to keep him inside forever.

He doesn’t pull those fingers out. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps thrusting slow and deep, riding out every euphoric spasm with soft kisses to your inner thighs, and quiet murmurs of: “That’s it… let go, baby…”

When the last of the tremors finally start to fade, he eases those thick digits free with one last teasing stroke. He eases your legs off his shoulders with so much gentle care, and crawls up your body like a man claiming what’s always been his.

Lips swollen. Chin slick with you. Eyes wild and proud and so in awe that it takes your breath away. And when he kisses you this time, you taste yourself on his tongue. And damn if it doesn’t make your pulse jump all over again.

It’s dizzying. You can’t help the way you moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole like he’s craving it. Your body is still shaking with aftershocks, tingling and sensitive, but you can’t help but crave more. Like he’s turned you into nothing but a greedy mess. 

He only breaks the kiss to let you breathe, before his lips are brushing every inch of your face in reverent little kisses as he presses you further into the pillows, settling between your trembling thighs like he belongs there.

He takes a moment to look at you, like you’re a masterpiece, and something about it just makes your heart just flutter. His lips quirk up in a smirk that he just barely is able to stifle, like he does when you know he’s about to tease you, but the look in his eyes is dark. Hungry.

“You’re a bit loud,” he says, that familiar playful look on his face. “I don’t even think you were that loud when you saw that ra—”

Immediately, you clamp your shaking hand over his mouth again (and holy shit his lips are still all wet from you), and you can feel him smiling against your palm.

“S-shut up, Sam!” you laugh, head falling back against the pillows, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lingering arousal.

But if there were any remaining nerves— they’re long gone. Because only one person can make you feel like this. Only one person who can make you feel so fucking good, then turn around and make you laugh.

“You’re insufferable. And way too fucking good at that,” you breathe, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

You’re still panting, still shaking from the intensity of your orgasm when he peels your hand off his face. His expression shifts into something softer. Something sweet.

He presses a kiss to your palm before letting go, then drags his lips to your wrist, your forearm, the soft inside of your elbow, each one slower than the last.

“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs against your skin. “Making me wait three goddamn years to do that.”

His hands slide up your sides again, fingertips dancing just under the edge of your bra. Then he stops. Looks at you, eyes tender, filled with silent question. You don’t waste any time nodding, arching just enough for those nimble fingers to unclip your bra with ease, sliding it off. 

He stares shamelessly like you’re the most gorgeous sight in the world, before his head is dipping back down. Pressing his mouth back to your throat, trailing along your collarbone, while his warm hands cup the underside of your breasts, thumbs swiping over your pointed nipples softly.

It’s sweet. It feels fucking good. And he’s still not pushing, even when you can feel how hard he is through the thin fabric of his pants pressed against your thigh.

“…Sam?” you whisper, and he answers with just a hum, sucking a mark into the soft flesh on your breast that will definitely be purple tomorrow. “I need to feel you. Please.”

He groans, low and rough against your skin, and you can feel his body tense above you. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips leaving a soft, wet trail of heat across your chest, tongue peaking out every so often to get a taste. His hands find your hips again, fingers curling against the sensitive skin beneath your ribs.

“Anything, honey. Anything you want.”

You can’t help but let out a strangled whine at the feeling of his lips, the deep tremble of his voice. The skin-on-skin of his bare chest pressed against yours electrifying. 

But then he pulls away.

Rude.

Peels those plaid pajama pants off, along with his boxers, in one clean movement, before crawling back over you.

And holy fuck, your eyes widen, mouth going a little dry at the sight. You knew Sam was a big guy. You have eyes. But apparently, he’s very well proportioned. As in—fucking huge.

“Jesus Christ, Sam…” you murmur, unable to peel your gaze away from the long, thick, hard, and aching sight of the gorgeous man in front of you. You weren’t aware cocks could be so… pretty. Your eyes are filled with desire. Need. Longing. And, yeah, maybe some nerves. Because holy shit, is that supposed to fit?

He notices the way your hips twitch, and his thumb comes to stroke your hip in a way that says you’re alright. You’re safe with me.

“Relax,” he coos. “I’ll go slow. Anything you need, honey, I’ll give it to you. Anything at all.”

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle and sweet, so your eyes meet his again. “But I need you to talk to me. Can you do that, baby?”

You nod, melting into his palm like you were just made to be held by him. You can physically feel your body relaxing, easing into that familiar trust just from looking at those sweet puppy eyes of his. Fuck.

“…Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Your hands wander as you speak like they have a mind of their own, trailing over his toned chest, down his abdomen. “You’re just… fuck, Sam. You’re perfect.”

A beat. And because you can’t help it:

“And massive.”

That earns a laugh out of him, low and teasing, his cheeks flushing pink in that sweet boyish way. But when your hand dips lower, fingers wrapping around him almost reverently, thumb sliding over the head, pre-come pearling from his tip, he freezes.

A gasp tears from his throat, low, ragged, like you’ve just lit a fuse. 

“Fuck,” he grits out through a clenched jaw, hips jerking into your hand once before he stills himself. “You gotta tell me to stop if it’s too much. I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

His voice is strained, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. But then you stroke him again, slow, curious, and he shudders. His forehead dropping to your shoulder with a groan that vibrates through both of you.

His hand finds yours, not to guide it, but just to press it tighter for one sinful second, before sliding it off of himself with a shaky breath.

“Please, I need you,” he groans. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel.”

You want to keep touching him. Want to stroke his pretty cock until he feels just as good as he made you feel. Until his come paints your chest, and he’s twitching under your touch.

But more than that? You want him inside of you. Need it.

“Fuck, yes,” you all but beg, and he sneaks another soft kiss before he’s moving.

You watch as he leans over you, every hard muscle in his abdomen rippling, bicep flexing where one hand rests by your head, and you have to resist the primal urge to just lick his skin. Like your brain has gone full cave-woman.

You hear a drawer open, the rustling of foil, and then he’s settling back between your legs, little square packet in hand. A condom. Without any prompting, or you having to ask, because that’s just the kind of man he is. And it only makes you want him more.

There’s a beat where you just watch him, until you freeze. Your hand reaches out to catch his wrist. 

“Wait, Sam,” you start, and just as the words come out, his expression shifts. Pure concern, already pulling away, so you speak fast. “I, um. I’m allergic to latex.”

He blinks at you for a moment, but then the panic in his eyes vanishes as quickly as it came. Instead, they soften into something so warm that you have to resist the urge to squirm or hide.

“I know,” he soothes, dropping his free hand to your thigh to run his fingers over your heated skin. “The, uh. The gloves, remember?”

…Oh.

Right. Nearly three years ago now, just a few months into your first semester. You’d been in a biology lab, doing some dissection—and whether you were just too excited, or too nervous to ask the professor for nitrile gloves, you’d ended up with a reaction.

And who fussed over you, practically sprinting to the pharmacy to buy you some antihistamines, not leaving your side for hours following? Sam.

But that was years ago. And it hadn’t come up sense. 

So for a few beats, you don’t respond. Staring at him with what had to be a pretty blank expression, because he immediately starts talking again.

“They’re latex free. Polyiso, uh… something,” he rambles, cheeks turning a cute shade of pink. “I can show you the box, if you want. Or—we don’t have to do this. We can stop. No hard feelings, I promise, baby—”

“No.”

You cut off his rambling immediately. Because fuck, stopping? That’s the last thing you want. 

But you’re just caught up in the implication. Because why would he, a broke college student, just… have latex-free condoms, knowing they’re more expensive? Unless…?

Unless he bought them for you?

The thought makes your heart rate pick up just a fraction. Makes you burn just a little hotter for him. Because holy fuck, he really has wanted you just as much as you’ve been wanting him. 

“I trust you. More than anyone,” you assure, locking eyes with him again. And when you find them—they’re so warm. “I need you.”

His eyes never leave yours.

For a second, you see it. The nervous hitch in his throat, the way his usually-steady hands tremble just slightly. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s you. And for Sam? That changes everything.

He rips the wrapper open, rolling the condom on slow, before he’s settling back over you, bracing himself above you with his elbow bent next to your head. The other reaches out just to brush your hair back from your face. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, just one last time, needing that confirmation. And when you nod, he presses a kiss to your cheek.

Then, one hand guiding himself, he pushes forward. Just the thick tip at first. A slow stretch that makes you gasp and your back bow beneath him.

He freezes almost instantly, concern flashing across his features. “Okay?”  

You nod again, can’t even speak, brain already going a little stupid, but the way you reach up to grab his shoulders tells him everything.

So he moves. Starts to slide deeper. So damn slowly, like he’s trying to savour every sweet inch. And fuck, is it ever a stretch. But he makes it better. 

He touches you like he can’t survive without feeling your skin under his fingertips. Hand traveling along your face, down your side, squeezing your hips. His body trembles like he’s about to snap, pressing messy kisses to your chest, your collarbone, whatever he can reach. 

His thrusts are so gentle. One small push, then he pulls back so just the tip remains inside, then sinks back just a little deeper. Every thrust allowing you to feel just a little more of him, thick and pulsing inside your dripping heat.

Before long, his hips settle against yours. He’s buried so deep that you think you can taste him. You can feel him everywhere. In your lungs, your bones, your soul. It’s so much, and yet—you need more.

Your core pulses to accommodate him, and it feels like you’re near stuffed to the damn brim. Like his tip is resting at your cervix, and you have to take a shaky breath to just relax. “…Oh, God, You’re so… fuck…”

“I know. I know, honey,” he coos, so soft and sweet that it makes you shiver. “You’re doing so good. Taking me like you were made for me, huh? So perfect…”

You moan right then and there, because who the fuck let him sound so hot, all blissed out and pussy drunk?

His damp skin glistens like honey in the low light, and you can hear how he’s holding himself back with each hitch of his breath. Can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the sweat beading at his temples, the taut lines of his muscles flexing with restraint. He’s trying to be so careful. 

He doesn’t move for a beat. Just stays, hips flush to yours, fingertips smoothing over your waist like he’s trying to soothe you. Give you time to adjust, even when he’s practically trembling. 

But despite how gentle he is with you, how much he cares, and as much as you adore how sweet he is, you’re not made of glass. 

“Sam?” you murmur, hands that were gripping his shoulders loosening to lace around his neck, and he hums against your throat. “You can move, baby. I’m not going to break.”

He stiffens. Just for a moment.

“…You sure you’re alright?” he asks, and his voice is ragged. Strained like every second of stillness is agony. But he waits. Because that’s Sam. Always putting you first.

When you nod, rolling your hips, just once to take him impossibly deeper, he shudders, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

Then he pulls back, just an inch, before sinking in again. And holy shit, it feels heavenly. 

Slow at first. Deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that make your breath hitch with every thrust. Each movement sends sparks spiraling through your core, stretching pleasure from every nerve like they were just made for him.

“God, you feel…” he breaks off in a low groan against your neck, your soaked core pulsing around him when he grazes deep, and he presses fevered kisses along your jaw. “So tight. So damn perfect.”

He starts to pick up the pace, still careful, but no longer holding back that hunger that’s begging to be sated. And when his hand slips between the two of you again? Find’s your clit with slow, maddening circles?

That’s it.

Pleasure explodes in your core like firecrackers, pure heat spreading from your lower belly though your limbs, your tight heat spasming around his cock uncontrollably.

“Oh my God, you—s’fucking good—” you cry, neck craning back against the pillows, and he nips at your heated skin like he wants to ruin you. The sounds should be embarrassing, they really should. But with how you’re feeling? You really don’t care. 

He growls, low, possessive, almost proud, and then he’s shifting.

One hand slides under your ass, lifting you just slightly, hiking one thigh over his hip, and suddenly, he’s hitting you deeper. The new angle makes your vision whiten at the edges. You can’t even speak, just a sobbing gasp as he thrusts again and again. Harder this time. Not rough, but relentless, slamming into you with a new kind of fever that moves your entire body with the mattress. 

The sweet combination of him petting your clit while he drives into you at a dizzying pace has you seeing stars, and suddenly, you can’t contain the sounds anymore. 

Moans. Mewls. Whimpers, whines, cries—everything, far too loud for a goddamn dorm room.

And when the heavy tip of his cock glides along that spot deep inside of you, white hot pleasure igniting in your core, you learn that, apparently, you’re some-what of a screamer. 

His hand covers your mouth so fast, almost instantly, the movement so instinctive that it would almost be scary if it wasn’t so fucking hot. It’s not cruel, he’d never hurt you, but in a way that makes your stomach twist with need. 

But he still doesn’t stop. Just slows his pace a little, still hitting right there, and his fingers ease up on your clit. 

“Shh… you’ve gotta be quiet, yeah? Can you do that for me, baby?” he murmurs, hips still driving into you. His palm is warm, fingers splayed wide as another choked cry spills into them. “We have plenty of time for that during the break. When it’s just us. Then I’ll find out just how loud you can get for me, okay, honey?”

You’re not sure you’ve ever been more excited for Christmas in your goddamn life. 

The words seem to hit you just as much as a physical blow, and all the combined pleasure has you shaking beneath him. And despite his words, he snakes his hand back to your slit, pinching your clit just once, so you let out another cry muffled by his palm. And when you do? That dimpled smirk on his face only grows. 

Bastard.

“You gonna be good for me, huh? Gonna quiet down?” he teases, and you nod almost frantically before he even finishes his sentence. He grins again. Cocky, heated. He knows it’s a lie. “…You’re not fooling anyone, baby. Not with how you’re clenching around me… fuck.”

Even then, he pulls his hand back just enough to let a whimper slip free as his cock drags along your sweet spot with perfect precision, then he teases your clit again.

Harder this time. 

You arch off the bed with a strangled moan, and he captures it, mouth crashing down over yours like he’s starving for every sound, every twitch of your body beneath him. And holy shit, he’s relentless. 

You can tell he’s on the edge of losing it himself. His brows are pinched, his breaths are coming out ragged, and he can barely contain the moans of his own that slip right into your mouth.

If it wasn’t for his mouth covering yours, you’re almost sure you’d be reported to the RA. He feels fucking perfect, hot and thick and deep, stars shattering behind your eyelids with each perfectly timed thrust. 

You know you’re getting close. Practically dripping around his cock, sucking him in like a vice, your legs shaking around his hips, pleasure drawn tight enough to snap.

He groans, watching your face like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “You’re so close, aren’t you? Look at you, shaking f’me already…”

His thrusts turn sharper, each one hitting your g-spot like a goddamn homing missile. His thumb finds your clit again, not just pinching this time, but drawing tight, slick circles over the swollen bud.

“Come on. Let go for me. I’ve got you,” he all but growls into your ear.

He kisses the side of your neck, one soft, sweet press that contrasts his hard movements, then bites down just as his fingers move just a little faster.

It’s too much.

You shatter. Back arching off the bed, nails raking down his back as pleasure detonates through every nerve ending. A full-body wave of pure white heat that steals your breath and leaves you gasping his name into the air. Cries of ‘Sammy’ and ‘holy shit don’t stop’ muffled only by his lips. 

Sam doesn’t stop. He rides out every spasm with slower thrusts, still hitting so goddamn deep, as if he’s savouring every pulse around his aching cock. 

“Sam, oh my—fuck, s’much—” you break off in another cry, incapable of holding back the pleads as pleasure explodes through you.

He can tell you’re already oversensitive when he slows a little, always so damn considerate, even when his eyes are darkened nearly black. He presses a kiss to your cheek, your forehead, your hair. “Just breathe for me, baby. That’s it…”

And the way he says it? Like he’s aching, voice rough, ragged, and desperate. Like it’s killing him to ease you down instead of chasing his own high.

He presses his forehead against yours, each puff of his breath fanning over your lips. “Can you keep going f’me, honey? Can you take it?”

And oh, fuck, can you ever.

“Mhm, please, fuck…” you barely manage the sound through your shaky breaths. But even through the overstimulation, the intense sensitivity shocking your nerves with each movement, it still feels so fucking good. 

And you really, really want to see him fall apart. 

His hips stutter forward at your words, a choked groan leaving his throat, hard and desperate. The angle shifts just right, so he’s hitting that spot again, and you can feel him pulsing inside of you. It’s so much. Almost too much.

“You take me so fucking well, I can’t—” he chokes on his own moan as his body jerks, just once, twice, hips slamming into you with uncontrolled need as he spills into the condom with a sound that goes straight to your core.

You’re not sure you’ve seen anything so beautiful. His face screwing up in pleasure, abdomen clenching tight, biceps flexing where they’re caging you in.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Doesn’t move.

Just collapses gently onto his forearms bracketed around your head so he doesn’t crush you, face buried into your neck, as if trying to hide just how wrecked he feels. But still, soft lips press a kiss behind your ear. Tender. Quiet.

You don’t let him hide, though. Your hands slide from around his neck to his jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. Deep, passionate, and so full of emotion. He holds onto you like you’re something fragile.

His mouth moves gently against yours, each kiss soft and slow, like he doesn’t ever want to stop. But he does pull back just barely to rest his forehead against yours, and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he’s staring straight into your soul.

One hand slides through your hair, smoothing the sweat-slicked strands from your forehead. “You okay?” he whispers, voice thick, and sweeter than honey.

Are you ever.

Your thumb traces circles over his jaw, his cheek, like a moment spent not touching him is a moment wasted, and it takes a second for you to catch your breath enough to speak. 

“Uh-huh. Fuck. So good.”

Your response, so filled with exhaustion and lingering pleasure, has him huffing out a little laugh. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lips curving up against your skin. “Still think I’m insufferable?” he teases, because of course he does, and you roll your eyes. 

“Yeah. And annoying,” you shoot-back, but there’s nothing but fondness in your voice, still trembling with aftershocks.

He can tell you’re overstimulated, your walls fluttering around him like your body is trying to milk him dry. 

“…Sensitive, huh?” He murmurs, not a real question. Just knowing. He slowly eases off of you, leaving you to whine at the loss of his weight. “Sorry, sorry…”

Your eyes flutter closed, but you can hear rustling as he strips off the condom and tosses it. The sound of his footsteps on the creaky dorm room floor. The light over his tiny sink flicking on, then water running.

You reopen your eyes just to watch, and suddenly, you’re right back there. In that sweet, domestic bubble the two of you have been mingling in for years between not-date-dinners and movie nights you have to pretend are platonic. 

When he returns he’s got a warm wash cloth in one hand, but he stops at the edge of the bed, just looking at you like you’re something sacred. Then, that soft, dimpled smile. The one only you ever get.

“Hey,” he says quietly, like the moment is too delicate for anything louder. 

He sits beside you and gently drags the cloth over your skin, slow, careful strokes across your thighs and most intimate parts, just enough to clean without being too much on sensitive nerves. His touch is so tender that it makes your heart ache.

When he’s done, he tosses it aside and climbs back against the pillows, tucking the blanket over the two of you, pulling you close against his chest with a deep sigh. Your legs tangle together beneath warm sheets, your fuzzy socks smoothing against his calf. 

Your head finds its favourite spot, the dip between his shoulder and collarbone, and when his arm wraps around you, he places a kiss to your temple.

Neither of you speak. He just takes the remote in his hand (after finding it buried under his pillow, of course), rewinding the movie since the credits were rolling. Picks up a bag of M&M’s off his bedside table, ripping them open, and hands them to you. Like taking care of you is just second nature for him.

And maybe it is.

And lying there, in his arms, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is exactly where you want to be. So different than before, and yet? Exactly the same. 

AN: Another one from my AO3! If you couldn’t tell… I wrote this at the start of the month, lol, but at the time, I didn’t quite understand tumblr (and I still don’t quite have it 🤣). But anyway, I’m a sucker for Stanford!Sam, and am a firm believer in stoner!Sam. Sue me.

As always… if you have any (Sam) recs, ideas, questions, God, anything, please don’t hesitate to leave an ask!

they’ve been drastically different situations, and yet, not very different in terms of the ‘pile’ itself: you sandwiched between both sam and dean, their heads resting on you, their arms slung over some part of you. they’re both breathing deep, both relaxed as much as they could be. they’re still wound so tight somewhere you can’t reach, somewhere no one can seem to penetrate—but yet, they let their guard down around you. and you hold that fact close in your heart.

⁰¹ AFTER A NIGHTMARE.

the first time, it’s from a place of sheer desperate need. dean comes into your room first, his chest heaving from another nightmare of the pit. he’s shaking when he approaches your bedside, like a leaf in the wind. you look up at him not with pity, but with every intention to just help him. to hold him. and that’s what makes him cave like a house of cards.

you don’t ask questions. you just hold him under your blankets, like you want to shield him from everything in the world. he’s grateful you don’t say anything. you’ve always been able to figure out exactly what dean needs, without him telling you a thing. it’s made him seek you out—because half the time, he doesn’t know what he needs.

dean ends up buried in your chest, holding onto you for dear life as he fights to keep from drowning. his breathing is just starting to even out against you when you hear a creak of the floorboard and see sam standing in your door. he, like dean, is also shaking. or a brief second, you wonder if they had the same nightmare. is that even a thing? but you sit up a little more, dean still in your arms. he’s tensed up completely again—and after seeing who’s there, every cell in his body is telling him to run. sam can’t see him like this: his big brother, curled up into you like a scared little kid. but he is.

sam ends up on the other side of you, not saying anything, either. it’s quiet, the only sounds the fan and dean and sam’s uneven breathing. dean’s arm is wrapped high on your torso, close to your diaphragm, his head on your shoulder. sam’s arm is wrapped more by your hips, his head resting on the side of your chest. your own arms are wrapped each of the brothers’ shoulders.

technically, sam and dean are facing each other as they lay on either side of you, but they’re not looking at each other—probably as to not psych themselves out. they’re aware of the other’s presence, but don’t necessarily acknowledge it. after all, they’re both seeking comfort from you, not each other. you can’t see much of them through their tufts of hair, but you don’t need to. you can feel them both relaxing into your body, their once unbelievably tense shoulders now just a tad tense. you’re sure something inside both of them will never let them fully relax, but you take this moment. you take this win.

⁰² AFTER A DAY OF SWIMMING.

it’s a sunny day at bobby’s—and for once, you and the boys have a day to yourselves. no case, no leads to chase down, no research to do. sam suggests going to the lake nearby bobby’s house, and you all agree. soon enough, you’re on the road in baby, cooler sitting next to you in the backseat.

dean, of course, cannonballs into the lake. you and sam are walking side by side on the dock, chairs that bobby digged out for you in hand—and a whoosh of air flows past you both as dean jumps in, the splash starting a ripple spreading through the entire lake. his head pops up after a few beats, grinning wide. you shake your head as dean goads you to come join him, but you hold off for now.

sam’s next to go in the water—well, dean may have triple dog dared him to—and you pretend to be annoyed that he splashed you upon jumping in. you think at this moment, they kind of remind you of dogs. their hair’s wet, and you can almost imagine a pair of floppy ears on sam.

you find the frisbee one of you packed, wiggle it at the boys wading in the water. you promise whoever gets the frisbee the most times gets first pick on the lunch you all brought. it’s not much of a prize at all—but sam and dean take it seriously. you’re not sure who wins, anyway. sam and dean push at each other every time you threw it, splashing at the other to deter them. they’re laughing—and you haven’t heard that sound in a while. a long while.

after the lunch is eaten and the sun is dipping into the horizon, you decide to head back. droplets make their way down, soaking into the soft fabric of your shirt as you sit in the backseat once more, looking at the sunburned necks of the winchester brothers. it’s silent, but not uncomfortable. it’s probably the most comfortable you’ve been in a while, you think.

after you showered, you realize your day the sun has taken most of your energy away. you lay down on the bed bobby brought into the living room for you, sighing once your head hits the pillow.

sam’s not sure why he lays down next to you after his own shower. his entire face hurts from the sunburn, and his back isn’t doing so hot, either. it’s cold in the room, but he doesn’t reach for the bigger blanket, just the sheet that’s covering you. he doesn’t reach for you or anything—he doesn’t know if he’s allowed—but you seem to find him in your sleep, regardless.

dean, still wincing from the shower’s stream hitting his own sunburned skin, also finds himself laying on the opposite side of you, the cold pillow a contrast to the red on his face, giving his freckles a chance in the spotlight again. you and sam are both asleep already—and dean falls under quickly too, his head resting close to the crook of your shoulder. sam’s slumped on your other side haphazardly—but still touching you. you’re all dead to the world as you lay there.

it’s strange, how these boys are just that: boys. even though they are well above 6 feet and could hunt and kill anyone and anything, they’re still boys. they’re still full of energy, like when they were young—although, it may be a little depleted now. but they had a good day today.

a good day in the sun.

📨 many a time have i discussed this concept with @aseafullofstars… now it has come to life. also still wishing we got a beach episode. guys let them play frisbee.

It takes all of Dean’s strength not to smile bright at your text and reply to it with something sappy and sweet. He knows he could, knows you’d love it, knows he probably should; but the idea of letting himself show it scares him half to death. When you grow up being told the hand that feeds is feeding you poison, you learn not to trust the hand when it feeds you love. All he can do is hope you’ll wait the years it will take him to unlearn everything bad he’s been taught about love. Instead, he turns his phone back over and sets it back on the table. He’ll tell you he loves you when you come back to the room; because he’ll know it’s you, but also because saying it in person is more meaningful than saying it over text.

Dean must fall back asleep, because when he next opens his eyes, his arm is numb from hanging off the bed, and you’re seated beside him, legs crossed, nibbling on a muffin.

“Hi,” you chirp happily, brushing crumbs from your lip. “I was gonna wake you up soon, so your coffee didn’t get cold.”

He hums a low sound back, fumbling to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. You laugh as he chapped lips tickle your skin.

“Did you see my message?” you ask.

Dean blinks, nodding. “Yeah.”

“What’d you think?”

“’S cute, sweetheart.”

He can see your expression dip and immediately regrets it. Just as quickly as your grin crumbles, it replaces itself when you smile again and point in the general direction of his muffin.

“Eat it so it’s not lonely.”

Dean smiles softly at you; of course you’d worry about the muffins getting lonely.

“Alright,” he mumbles around a yawn, taking a bite.

“Is it good?”

Dean nods, swallowing. “Mhm.”

“Is it really, or are you just saying that?”

Dean grumbles an indignant complaint, pressing a messy kiss to your forehead that you try to duck away from to avoid getting muffin crumbs in your hair.

“It’s good! Promise,” Dean says, gesturing.

“Did you see my other picture?”

Dean frowns, staring at you, the corners of his mouth tipped down in that precious way that would make you cave if you weren’t on a mission to learn something important right now.

“What other picture?”

“The one I sent you last night. From the gift shop.”

His frown deepens as he scrolls through your texts to each other. He goes past the messages from yesterday, then back through every single one, hoping something will jump out at him. He finds the picture right where you said it would be, nestled between a text about dinner and another one about when you were coming back to the motel. There’s a photo of two rocks sat together on the windowsill, lacey white curtains tinted cream with age framing them like curtains of seafoam. The tall black one is heavyset in the top half and thinner in the second half, and the shorter rock matches the colour of your eyes almost too perfectly for Dean to believe it’s true. But the picture is right there in front of him, with an ever-present message accompanying it;

Us !!

Ice-cold guilt floods him when he realizes he saw that message and never said anything about it. Usually, he sends back anything as simple as a thumbs-up, or just a ‘yeah’, or even just mentions it to you in person when you come back from wherever you were. But not this time. This time, he saw the picture and fully intended to mention it, but the moment you were back it slipped his mind. Not because he forgets easily, or because the picture was nothing memorable to him. But because to him, it was so much more than just a picture of two rocks on a windowsill.

To Dean, it was a declaration that even in the smallest, most unsuspecting places, you will find your way back to him. And you will find him in every lifetime, in every variant of your love that exists in the world, and you will show him each time you find it. All those versions of the two of you existing at once, and he gets to love you in each and every one of them; and he loves you strongly enough that you find them in the world and send him those pictures. To Dean, it’s the most important thing in his life, because it means you love him as much as he loves you. To Dean, it’s terrifying to know that he loves you like that, because in his life, love gets rewarded with tragedy.

“Sweetheart, I-.”

Your face crumples, shoulders folding inward like you can put a shield up between them and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Dean, if you want me to stop sending them, just say that.”

“It’s not-.”

“You don’t have to play along with it,” you say, rambling now, your voice breathless and airy with poorly concealed disappointment. “You can just say it’s stupid and I’ll stop. You can just say you don’t want to be with someone who sends childish stuff like that. You can tell me it’s immature, I just need you to say it to my face.”

“I-.”

You take a sharp breath in, letting it out slow and wavy like the tides to the ocean. “Just don’t keep me around because it’s convenient, okay? Don’t…don’t make yourself deal with things you don’t want to deal with.”

Dean’s about to explain himself, but he’s stopped by Sam coming into the motel room, hair drenched by the rain and carrying a stack of books under his jacket. He shakes his head, looking something like an oversized dog when the water falls out of his hair, toeing off his boots and handing you the books with the kind of grim look that says you’re in for a rough one.

“What’s up, Sam?” you say, clearing your throat.

“For once, I have no idea. I got us some stuff that might help but…” He trails off, gesturing uselessly around the room once he’s freed his arms from the jacket. “It could be nothing. Or it could be something we haven’t heard of yet. Whatever it is, we gotta figure it out now.”

That week is the longest week of Dean’s life. Half because the monster you’ve been tailing is scary good at adapting its patterns to conceal its identity. It’s been almost impossible to track it, and the only reason you got to it in the end was because you helped Sam go through traffic camera footage and found a shape in one frame that wasn’t meant to be there. It was caught between two fenceposts with barbed wire strung between them, knotted together in the middle like the posts were holding hands. That right there was the other half of why the week felt so long; normally, you’d see those posts and send Dean a picture with a caption for him. The only picture you sent him this week was a page from a lore book with information you thought he could use working his part of the case.

He doesn’t get a chance to mention it for another week after that, because all that time is spent with Sam uncomfortably close, and a conversation this important doesn’t need prying ears, whether they mean to listen or not. He waits for the perfect time, which happens to be in the Impala while Sam’s back at the motel waiting on you and Dean to bring back dinner, and Dean’s waiting in the car with you for the food to be ready. He’s expecting to start the conversation with something meaningful and important about how he values all the pictures you send to him and how he remembers every single one with shocking clarity.

“I’m scared,” is what he says instead, surprising both you and him.

“You’re- Why?”

Dean’s beet red by now, embarrassed to have the conversation but embarrassed to spill this most precious part of him, the part that he keeps locked tightly away in case anyone dares to question it.

“Dean is this about the pictures?” you press, gentle as ever.

“Yeah.”

You stutter a laugh into the palm of your hand. “What’s so scary about the pictures?”

“It’s not the pictures, sweetheart. The pictures are great, I promise.”

You narrow your eyes, staring at him through your lashes. “Then what is it?”

He takes a deep inhale. “I’m scared that…” A deep exhales, followed by another inhale. “I’m scared of how much I love you.”

He rushes the last part of the sentence so much you barely even catch what he’s trying to say. But you’ve spent years getting close to Dean, you know how to interpret every mumbled word of his uttered into your skin. And this whispered sentence makes your heart drop to your feet and cry tears of something bittersweet.

“Dean, baby…” you murmur, holding one of his hands in yours.

Dean braces himself for rejection, for what inevitably happens when he opens up to anyone that matters to him. It happened to him with his dad, with Sam, with Cassie all those years ago. And now it’s about to happen again.

Except you don’t insult him or throw him out of the car like he’s nothing more than an empty plastic bag. You take his hand in yours and you stretch out his fingers, and you press them to your lips, kissing the callouses that live on their pads.

“Why didn’t you just say that?” you whisper against his skin.

And Dean, darling emotional Dean, feels his cheeks dampen under tears he didn’t know were falling.

“’Cause that made it real. ‘N ‘cause I don’t want ‘em to take you away.”

“From you?” you murmur.

Dean nods, wiping at his cheeks.

“They can’t take me away from you.”

“You don’t know that.”

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Yes, I do. D’you know how?”

Dean shakes his head, sniffling.

Another kiss to his temple, and you continue.

“’Cause I see us together all the time. We’re always gonna be together somehow, even if it’s just in stupid little pictures. They can take my body if they want, but they can’t take away what we have.”

Dean’s head falls to the crook of your neck, and you tuck it there, hand cradling his head, murmuring reassurances into his sandy hair that pokes your cheek. You rock him slowly back and forth, one hand playing with his hair and the other one rubbing circles over the cotton of his dark t-shirt. You sit there until Dean has to go in to get the food, and when you’ve brought it all back to the motel and are settling in for the night, you hold Dean against your chest the exact same way as he sleeps.

When Dean wakes up the next morning with sand in his eyes and a headache from crying, he turns on his phone to ask where you are. And the first thing he sees is a picture of two bunnies sitting side by side near the parking lot, a huge dandelion stem sat between them. And a caption, with your signature

Look, it’s us !

It’s not like him to drink when he’s working, but it’s not really his fault. Not when you’re over on the other side of the bar with a pool cue in your hands, playing it up for a group of greasy looking guys with too much money to spend and overbearing confidence. He can already tell you’re working them for all the money they’ll give you, playing the innocent kid card; with that brightness on your cheeks and the pretty look in your eyes, Sam already knows you’ll fool them quickly. They think you’ve never played before, fairly confident that your first win was beginner’s luck. Sam fell for that one years ago when you hustled him out of fifty bucks and a kiss. He knows how you play. By the time the men over there realize they’re being hustled, it’ll be too late, and you’ll saunter back over to him with a wad of cash in your hands and kiss his cheek so sweetly.

It’s not really your fault either, Sam reasons with himself. It’s the fault of the guys who decided you’d be an easy target, who keep egging you further and further on, who keep eyeing you up and down with their gazes lingering on your ass. You’re not even wearing anything revealing, just one of his flannels over a t-shirt and jeans that fit you well. Not hugging to your shape, because it would be impossible to hunt the way you do with those, but something that hides what you don’t want visible and shows off what you can handle the world seeing. The jeans are nice on you, and if Sam’s being honest, they’re probably his favourite pair of yours. He looks away quick before he distracts himself any further with pictures of you in his mind that have no business looking the way they do.

The sip of whiskey goes down sharp, catching on the sore parts of his throat with teeth that bite into his skin and rub it raw. The second sip is easier, a warm feeling flooding all through his veins and making him shiver slightly as he warms up. Shaking his head back and forth, hair flopping like the ears of a rather large dog, he catches you sending a quick glance in his direction, bright smile shining just for him for all of two seconds before your attention is pulled back to the game by the men who’ve placed their bets in cash on the edge of the table. Someone’s wallet clip is around the bills, folding them into a mass of green that Sam’s eyes blend with the bar lights until they’re some strange lump the same colour as the table. A wave of raucous laughter crawls up his spine from the table, and Sam forces himself to look away lest his heart become overrun with jealousy.

One of the men calls out that they’re playing solids, after what Sam can infer is the thud of a ball into the top right cup. He would guess that it was the purple 4 ball, because that’s what he likes to go for if he can, but he’s also smart enough to know not to bet on which ball gets sunk first. His eyes are back trained on the newspaper again, but his ears are perked and listening for the sounds of you moving and talking; a quick innocent question to one of the men, the sound of your thighs brushing together as you walk to your new spot, the soft tap of your cue against the top of your hand as you line up your shot. You miss the first one intentionally, but the men at the table don’t know that. A chorus of slurred reassurances crop up, and he knows you’re putting on your best disappointed face right now, egging them on and drawing them in so you can spit them out.

The pattern continues for a few minutes, one of the men even offering to team up with you. Your pretty voice carries across the room, politely declining as you murmur something about losing fair and square. What you mean to say, Sam can tell by the tone of your voice, is to stop asking stupid questions because it’s not a good look. At some point when he’d guess about half of the solid balls have been sunken and maybe a few strays of yours, you clear your throat and rub the sandy blue chalk over the end of your cue. Sam allows himself a tiny grin, because he knows the guys standing around the table with hands in their pockets and smug grins on their faces have no idea what’s coming for them. Your quiet voice nudges one of the men over, and as he politely sidesteps, you line up your shot and sink two stripes in the same hit.

Sam whistles low under his breath, because he’s never even seen you pull that before in a game. He’s maybe seen it once or twice by accident when you grab a cue and mess around at the tables with Dean for an hour or so to destress from a hunt, but he’s never seen you do it in a real game with real cash on the line. You squeal something fake and joyful, the man to your left looking thoroughly impressed at your ‘beginners’ luck’. A second shot follows with another ball sunk, and you purposely miss the third so as not to draw suspicion. Sam knows how you play from here on out, and every move he plays for you in his head, you enact on the table before his very eyes, which have now spent so little time staring at the newspaper he might as well just fold it up and forget about it. He tucks it into his messenger bag, the pen going in with it, fingers fidgeting on the edge of his glass as he watches you play.

“Pretty good,” the man with the eyebrow piercing says, coming over to Sam once more.

Sam nods in agreement, waving him off when he offers to refill Sam’s glass.

“You know ‘em?” the man asks.

Sam shrugs, smiling. “Yeah, sort of.”

“The guys, or-.”

“Not the guys.”

The man looks between you and Sam, back and forth until he nods, clearly satisfied.

“Hope those guys get their asses kicked. They’ve been buggin’ me all damn night for crap I can’t give ‘em.”

Sam takes another sip of whiskey, making a sympathetic hum. “Oh, the guys’ll lose. Don’t worry.”

The man walks back to the bar, retying the strings on his apron as he goes. Sam’s eyes return to you, fixating on your figure as you walk along the edge of the table, already mentally calculating your next moves. You let the game wind down to one solid left besides the eight-ball, and Sam can see the moment you go on the offence when you exhale a sharp breath and lean down to line up a shot. Over and over, you sink striped balls, and with each one, Sam’s heart kicks up a notch when he sees the pride on your face beside the crestfallen looks on the men’s. When you sink the eight-ball, you earn yourself a quiet handover of the cash and grumbled congratulations while you put your cue away and fish out the balls from the top corners.

Sam drains the rest of his drink, rolling up the sleeves on his shirt until they uncover half his forearms. There’s a thin scar roping across one of them, dipping toward his wrist and curling up toward his shoulder on the other side, like a ribbon from an unwrapped present on his skin. He traces it absentmindedly, standing from his seat and slinging his bag over his shoulder, tightening the strap until he knows it won’t go anywhere. Your jacket winds up draped over the bag itself, trapped between the material and his hip, and thoroughly secured. He’s glad the bar is loud enough to hide the soft whine he makes when he reaches his arms up and stretches out his back, and he can feel your eyes staring him down when his shirt rides up over the hem of his jeans.

He’s quite content to sit back at the table and wait patiently for you to join him and head back. Dean’s out god knows where, in a sketchy dive across the town because he’d insisted it had better chicks. Not that Sam cares, because there’s nobody else he’s looking at besides you, especially when he knows he can have you whenever he wants. He’s almost back in his chair when he hears one of the men, in a voice much too loud, make an off-handed comment about your ass in those jeans. It’s an innocent sounding comment, something about how the jeans make you look good, but something vile and twisted fills Sam’s core, spreading outward in ugly tendrils that burn harsher than the whiskey did. You’re not for them to look at, not for them to make comments on, much less about your ass in his favourite jeans. He’s about to let it go because he knows you have it handled when one of the men reaches out a hand and cups your ass with it.

Sam’s on his feet before your hand can smack backward and take the offending touch away. He watches warily for a moment as the man makes another attempt, this one a little less subtle; sliding over toward you and reaching for your back pocket like it’s his right to place his hand there. That pocket is for nobody but Sam. His hand is the only one that belongs there, because nobody touches you like that except for him. You spit out a curse that gets laughter in reply and a stinging comment about how you’ve got some sass to you. And even though Sam knows you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself with creepy men in bars, he’s still compelled to take long strides across the floor, boots thudding on the wood and kicking up dust in their wake.

Whatever sparked inside him was nasty and vile in its origin, a green, ugly mess that Sam labels immediately as jealousy. He knows it well, because he sported its colour for months before he finally made his move on you. He’s become more of a stranger to the feeling now that you’re together, but on nights like tonight when he’s had just enough to drink to loosen up and you’re looking this beautiful, he’s no stranger to letting the feeling welcome him back with open arms when you’re flirted with by creeps. Each step closer to you quells the jealousy bit by bit as he draws himself to his full height, but ignites something hotter, deeper, something more consuming and possessive that lights up his nerve endings and makes him hyper aware of every part of him. Like, for example, the way he’s glad the bar lights are low that nobody but you will notice the way his jeans have tightened on his hips.

“Ready to go?” he murmurs low when he reaches you.

“Mhm,” you reply, lazy.

Sam’s hand flutters possessively to the small of your back, the other man’s hand having left as soon as Sam took two steps in your direction. The group backs slow, making a horrible mess of being casual about being caught chasing after someone who’s taken. You lean into him, easing yourself across the broad expanses of his chest as his hand dips into the pocket of your jeans, squeezing you in the way that the other man never should’ve.

“You okay?” he whispers into the skin of your neck, leaving a hot kiss in his wake.

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

You sling your arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, tasting the whiskey on his tongue as he slips it past your lips.

“Promise.”

You take your jacket from his bag, and he helps you slide the material over your arms, ensuring it doesn’t get caught on the sleeves of the flannel. Green, like the edges of Sam’s eyes, a flannel you’d stolen from his closet a few weeks back and never worn until right now. It still smells like him, but your soap is starting to infiltrate the threads, and the thought of that alone forces Sam to restrain the low growl that’s brewing in his throat.

He turns, leading you to the door. He lets you get a few paces ahead, turning back to the crowd of men still standing awkwardly around the table.

“Don’t touch.”

His voice is flat, eyes sharp with the jealousy in his bones and simmering with something protective that threatens to boil over. The short man who’s hand had been in your pocket flushes deep red all the way to the tips of his ears, stumbling over himself as he backs away nodding, stammering an apology Sam doesn’t bother sticking around to hear. He just follows you out the door into the cool night air, keeping a hand on your back somewhere, needing the warmth to prove to himself that you didn’t ditch him for a random man in a bar in the middle of nowhere.

“That was hot,” you state when you stop at the Impala.

“That- what?”

You shrug, gesturing at Sam, then back at the bar.

“That whole thing.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Don’t.”

You giggle, kissing his stubbled cheek. “Oh, I already will. You were jealous.”

He sighs, running his free hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah. I was. So what?”

“Ooh, defensive. I like it.”

Sam gently smacks your shoulder when you laugh something clear and real.

“We’re going to the motel, and we’re going to bed, okay? For sleep. Nothing else.”

You grin devilishly, opening the door and sliding yourself in. Sam waits for you to get situated before moving to close it. Your hand stops him, and he crouches down to see you properly inside the car.

“We’ll see about that,” you remark, gesturing in the general direction of Sam’s hips.

“Oh, will we now?”

"C'mon Sammy, I know you," you say with a lighthearted sigh. “You’re going to make sure of it.”

Sam closes your door harsher than usual, taking a minute at the back of the car to settle himself down. If he wasn’t hard before, he sure is now. And he hates it. God damn you and your stupid jeans and the stupid men at the stupid bar. What kind of man is he, getting turned on like this over jealousy, of all things? It frustrates him to no end that he’s in this current predicament, because really, he should have more control over himself. He’s an adult, not some horny teenager with attachment issues and a carnal need to prove himself as desirable.

He’s in for a late night. And he’s never been more ready for it.

Now, life looks like a house above ground with real windows and sunlight and a deck with a swinging chair on it that sings as it creaks in the breeze. It looks like evenings with real food and soft blankets curled together on the couch while you read and Dean watches TV, the low hum of the shows surrounding you in softness and comfort. It looks less like running to Sam for help on a hunt and more like driving to his place to babysit little Dean for a while so that Sam can go out with Eileen and have a night to themselves. Dean jokes they’ll name the second after you. Sam always turns a deep red, stammering something about how that’s not what they do when they go out; the light marks on his collarbones suggest otherwise, but you never comment on them. Eileen signs her agreement with Dean rather enthusiastically, and Sam has no choice but to look at her so fondly it makes your heart ache with joy for what you all have.

Today looks like Dean surfacing so slowly from sleep that he’s not entire sure if he ever truly woke up or not. His body is tucked under a thin sheet that’s wrapped around his hips, a white comforter lopsided across the bed with a sigil sewn into the bottom corner. It’s courtesy of you, of course, with the sole purpose of making sure Dean doesn’t overheat in the summer. You’ve discovered over the years he radiates insane amounts of body heat, and it’s easier for you to cuddle up to him when you’re cold instead of making him suffer by being too hot. The room is still in blissful darkness despite Dean tipping his head toward the clock and discovering the time is ten in the morning. He can do this now, he realizes; sleep in, because nothing wakes him up in the middle of the night anymore. Because you keep the bad dreams and ghosts away with nothing more than the sheer force of your love, no magic attached.

He’s not sure if it takes an hour or just five minutes, but he finally manages to get his eyes open. There’s a gentle weight on his chest that he comes to realize is you. Your head rests on his pillow, breath tickling his neck, your arm and half your body laying on top of him. Your legs are tangled beneath the bedsheets so closely that he can barely tell who’s legs are his anymore. He knows you’re awake by the rhythmic twitching of your fingers against his bare chest. Nothing is sweeter than the smile you give him when he kisses your forehead, hair mussed and falling in his eyes, soft beginnings of a beard threaded with grey scraping your cheek. Except, he discovers, maybe the sweet laugh you breathe back at him, your own lips soft on his cheek in return.

“Hi sweetheart,” you murmur, soft and sounding like your body woke up before your voice did.

Dean blushes, cheeks tinting a soft shade of pink, petaling out over his cheekbones. Your fingers dance along his freckles, each one you touch shining for a brief moment like a star in the sky, magic simmering warm under his skin.

“Hey,” he finally replies, clearing his throat. “Sleep okay?”

“Mhm.” You yawn lightly, burying your face into the crook of his neck and making him laugh. “’M hungry.”

Dean chuckles, chest rising and falling underneath your arm.

“’Course y’are. You start, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“No.” you whine, drawing it out. “Come with me.”

Dean stares, smile ghosting his lips.

“Why? ‘M comfortable. I’ll come after.”

You tilt your head up, eyes wide and soft with the kind of gentle pleading of someone who always gets what they want from Dean.

“Please?” you murmur, pouting.

You can see him cave in real time.

“Fine.”

“Yay.” You kiss him slow, pouring all the sugar you can muster into it. “Wanna see the sun now?”

Dean shrugs in that way you’ve learned is a non-verbal ‘yes’. You drag yourself form the sheets, mourning the softness as you pad across the room and over to the window. The sun’s rays make your skin radiant as you pull back the curtains with a soft hush, the thick material having done its job well. You ignore Dean’s groans of discomfort as the brightness hits his eyes, snuffling further into his pillow until his eyes are ready to see the day in full brightness.

You’re waiting in the kitchen with coffee for him by the time he gets downstairs. He’s glad you weren’t there when he got out of bed; his hip cracks dramatically every time he does. He doesn’t need you to worry about it more often than you already do, although he wouldn’t have been opposed to the familiar way your eyes trace down his figure when he dresses. He takes the coffee gratefully, humming something rough while he waits for it to warm up his vocal cords, nose picking up the traces of breakfast being prepared. There’s quiet conversation to his mornings now, chatting softly about whatever is on your mind. Sometimes it’s about ingredients for bags and spells, the closest to hunting talk you ever really get. Usually, it’s about a book you’re reading for fun, recommended by Eileen or Sam. Sometimes it’s hypotheticals. Always, it’s lovely and sweet.

There’s something beautiful to how far you’ve come. You and Dean both vividly remember hating each other; him because you’re a witch, you because he hated your guts. On nights when he takes a quick hunt for something to do, you entertain yourself with memories of your past. Often, you pick some soft ones from driving down deserted roads in the Impala with the radio up way too loud. Sometimes, you pick something braver, like the times you best him in a hunt and he hates it. Occasionally, you’ll pick that one fateful motel room meet-up years ago. An unconventional start, maybe, but all things begin somewhere. You don’t hesitate to hide your magic on warm nights between the sheets now, not when you know Dean loves it just as much as you.

The second realization you love is that he doesn’t stop you from using spells anymore; Rowena set him straight quick. He lets you use sigils and bags and charms on hunts, both to keep each other safe but also for a fighting chance. He expects it now, and he’s told you that hunting totally alone without an ounce of your help puts him off his game. For a while, he thought he’d gotten soft. You think it makes him human, and even more in love with you. The fact he lets your skills have a place in a space he calls home means enough to you to melt your heart whenever he mentions it. The sigils on the sheets to keep them the right temperature, on the water heater and the air conditioning to make sure that your water stays hot and the house stays cool in the summer, on the one doorhandle that keeps squeaking no matter how many times you and Dean replace it or oil it.

There’s only one place on the property that doesn’t get your magic touch; the garage. You can have your spells on herb pots to make them grow quicker and inside the fridge to keep your food from spoiling, and Dean can have his own magic in the garage. You’ve mutually agreed that it’s his space, and at his requests, your sigils don’t cross the threshold. Everything that happens in there is 100% real human work, something for Dean to take pride in and call his own. All he needs is his cars and the afternoon to exist in his own space with a drink and old cassette tapes, and you’re more than happy to give him that.

He rarely even drinks anymore, something you’ve been pushing for since you first met him. Something about surviving the end of the world encouraged him to get help and quit relying on fermented grain to keep himself afloat. It wasn’t easy, because nothing that’s worth it is easy. For a while, he went to meetings at your insistence. He hates them, but he went for you, so you could have him in your life for the rest of it instead of a shell of himself wearing Dean’s face. Now, he only pulls out a beer or something stronger when he’s with Sam, if only to remind themselves that they can exist without hunting. What used to be a pile of cans and glass bottles on a table somewhere has turned into the odd water glass or can of coke left behind, abandoned empty by a brain that cant sit still long enough to remember to pick it up and throw it out.

Dean’s sweeter when he’s not running on alcohol and something sour in his blood. He’s got a kinder side to him you never knew existed in bursts longer than an hour. Strange how he used to be the sweetest at his drunkest, before the alcohol left his system. Now, when he’s sober all day and never getting more than the rare buzz when he trusts you and Sam to stop him, he’s impossibly sweet. Sweet on you, because he loves you too much to let you stray from him for longer than you do when you’re at home. He’s learning to be kinder to Sam, to love him like a brother instead of a child he needs to protect. It’s strange to see Dean to openly affectionate, but he’s happier, and that’s all you can ask for.

It’s not just always you and Dean in the house, which you’ve forever been thankful for. Sam and Eileen come over often, now bringing their little Dean toddling along with them, arm stretched to hold Sam’s hand or tiny body balanced on his hip. The brothers will grab a beer, and Sam will hoist himself up onto your porch railing to sit and talk Dean’s ear off while he grills something for dinner. Sam will follow Dean to the garage, either to keep him company for a while or to head out on a hunt to keep Dean alive and, preferably, unharmed. Little Dean stays with Eileen in the house, while you and her do whatever you decide; watching trash television, gossiping about her students in her ASL classes, debating new hunts for you or the brothers to take. Eileen hunts with you sometimes, choosing your protection over her husband’s occasionally worried love. The days when Sam and Dean watch the kid are always entertaining, with plenty of stories told upon your return.

They don’t come over today, for reasons you didn’t quite catch but seem to have something to do with Eileen teaching a course and Sam staying home on child duty. For him, you’ve learned, it seems to involve enough reading to put him and little Dean to sleep for a few hours, the kid sleeping soft on his chest. There’s a folder on your phone dedicated to all the times Eileen has sent you a picture of them stretched out together on the couch when she comes home from wherever she’s been.

Dean reappears at about three, grease on his hands and laced through his hair like a dark thread. He gives you a soft smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle delightfully when you kiss him, his hands wanting to touch you but not wanting to cover you in motor oil. He lets you untangle his hair with soft fingers, combing through the strands while he rests his head on your shoulder and closes his eyes, swaying you both in place to music you can’t hear.

By dinner, he’s tired in that adorably soft sun-drunk way that says you’ve got about four hours before he’s out cold. He’s starting to tan, freckles darkening around his cheeks and chest, hands sand-coloured and worn by years of working with them. Instead of holding guns and knives, his hands hold car parts and most importantly, they cradle you so tenderly it makes you feel like melting into the floorboards and never quite reforming. You eat beside him, his hand alternating between his knife and your thigh. You’ve trained him well because he even puts his empty plate into the dishwasher without your reminder. He helps you wash the leftover dishes, dunking them in soapy water and scrubbing them off while he hums something shaped like Metallica under his breath. You towel the plates as he hands them to you, setting them in careful stacks in the cupboards that you cover the corners of with your hand to keep Dean from hitting his head on them as he passes by.

There’s a blissful hour or so where Dean cleans up the garage, putting away all the stray parts he wasn’t able to put away before dinner. You organize the spice rack, then reorganize it when you realize it’s better to have them sorted by how often you use them as opposed to the colour of the lid. The throw pillows on the couch get repositioned by your tender hands, the fluffy blanket rescued from its position on the back of the couch, no longer halfway sliding off the back of it. Dean’s boots get put back in their spot, the laces tucked inside them to keep them from getting destroyed. These are all things you could easily do with your magic, but you’ve discovered there’s something soft in the humanity of doing it yourself. You do, however, give yourself the grace of using some softly uttered spell work to fluff up the pillows on the bed and heat the sheets enough to make them feel like they’ve just come out of the dryer.

When Dean stops back inside, he immediately beelines for the bathroom, desperate for a shower. He’s sticky from working outside all day, grease still lingering in his hair and under his nails, a cut on his thigh that’s now scabbed over needing the faint blood traces washed off with a careful hand. You trail in after him, bringing clean sleep clothes for yourself and fresh boxers for Dean, folding them and setting them on the closed toilet lid for after you’re done in the hot water. It takes Dean two whole minutes to decide he’s done hugging you, nuzzling himself into your neck in the way that tells you he’s getting sleepy; he’s gotten clingier as he’s aged, choosing to attach himself to you for as long as he can, even if you’re standing half undressed in the bathroom waiting to shower.

He climbs in first, adjusting the temperature to somewhere halfway between your favourite and his ideal. Not hot enough that he burns the skin off his back, but not cold enough that either of you start to shiver when you’re not under the stream of water. At your insistence, he washes your body first, rubbing his hands in smooth circles over your back as he lathers the soap into your skin. Today isn’t a hair wash day, and Dean knows it, so he takes extra care to keep your head from getting wet, using one big hand to protect it when he can’t angle his body in the way instead. His fingers are soft on your skin despite their rough appearance, callouses dampened into something humane by the gentleness of your domestic life rather than the harshness of hunting.

You take your time washing him, staring with his hair as he moves himself however you need in order to reach all of his hair. The more you look the more greys you see threading in them, trapped starlight in his hair looking like quartz shining in the sand. Precious in its own special way, because he never expected to make it far enough to find greys when he shaves or your fingers comb through his hair and take out the loose strands. When you move onto his body, you can see how unkind the years have been to him. They’ve given him scars you know he hates, marks across his skin from knives and bullets and claws of creatures who’s names you’d rather forget. Your thumb works into his bad hip and increasingly achy back, pulling a sigh of relief from him as you work out the worst of the knots that form every day, a tiny strain of your magic seeping into his skin with warmth and tenderness and love.

But you can also see, the longer you really study him, how kind semi-retirement has been to him. He’s filled out, no longer built solid and stocky with skin and muscle. There’s fat to him now, residing in his stomach and his thighs and his biceps, beginning to fill out his chest until it’s less of the barrel from unintentional workouts and more the solidness from casually kept muscle and being well-fed. If you look closely, he has dainty stretch marks on his hipbones, silver lines decorating the V of his skin, a sure sign that the weight he’s gained is being put to good use. He looks healthy; not in the way an athlete looks the peak of human performance, but in the way of someone who’s learned to come home and accept that it won’t go anywhere, that the food in it won’t disappear on him, that he can have days where he sleeps on the couch all afternoon and doesn’t leave the house.

In true Dean Winchester fashion, it takes a minute longer than it needs to for him to get his boxers on and brush his teeth. He spends a solid thirty seconds telling you he’s too old to brush his teeth, and another thirty seconds fighting you when you slide the material of his boxers over his waist. He’s grinning wickedly the whole time, the one that says I love you and you know you love me all in one. He’s right, every single time; you do love him, so much so that you’ll put up with him playfighting you every day for the rest of time. He splashes you with water when you’re done your teeth, you tackle him back into the bed, listening to him laugh wholeheartedly the whole way down to the soft sheets. He wiggles up until his head is on the pillow, tugging the sheets around him and waiting impatiently for you to join him in bed.

Dean gives a deep groaning sigh when his head hits the pillow, rolling onto his stomach almost immediately when you join him. He starfishes over you, just enough to give you comfortable weight over you but not enough that you can’t breathe. He’s not exactly light, but he always takes the most care to keep himself from squishing you. Even when he melts completely boneless like he is right now, he never suffocates you, always strategically distributing his weight to make sure you’re comfortable.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you whisper, kissing the side of his head.

He sighs something low and soft into your skin, dissipating over you. “Hey.”

“Tired?”

He nods, hair scraping your skin. “Mhm.”

You rub a hand up and down the bare skin of his back, drawing circles and shapes that you take great care to ensure don’t become a sigil of any sort. Sometimes if you think he’ll have a rough night, you trace a small sigil to ward off nightmares on the skin of his back, right over his left shoulder blade. He needs it less and less, instead finding himself able to sleep heavy and deep right through the night now, one weighty arm across your body and lips parted, snoring soft into his pillow. Turning off the light plunges the room into darkness, and the last thing you feel before succumbing to sleep is Dean shuffling into a more comfortable position, huffing out a contented exhale when he finds it, drifting off shortly after you.

The curtains are strangely thick, really good at blocking out the neon light of the motel sign that glares in your window in bright yellow and green. A quick peek outside shows it standing tall and proud, backlit by the dying sunlight as the sun disappears into the west sky. Pale pink stretches out like a beckoning hand, reminding you that there’s still night and day outside the motel, where the people that aren’t blockading themselves in research will flock to hills and watch it paint the clouds. A truck zooms by on the freeway, blaring its horn as it nears a corner. Somewhere, someone’s boots crunch along the gravel as they walk toward the check-in desk, and you hope distantly that they have a lamp with a lampshade attached to it.

Sam himself looks unfairly comfortable at that tiny table, sitting in the chair with one leg bent up by his chest and the other one tapping on the floor in a rhythm you can’t identify. His hair is rumpled, slightly damp curls sticking up off his forehead from where he dried them after his shower. For the first time in a long time, he’s wearing sweatpants instead of jeans, the fabric low on his hips and exposing the white waistband of his boxers that you can see between the gap of his sweatpants and grey t-shirt. There’s an uncapped water bottle on the table, pen cap in his mouth as he pens in a word on the crossword in front of him. It’s an outdated puzzle, probably about 3 months old. He has no answer key to it either, but that doesn’t seem to bother him much. If he can’t find a word, you’ll hear the quiet clicking of his laptop keys followed by a muffled sound of understanding when he finds what he’s looking for.

“Whatcha doin’?” you say, stepping over to him and leaning your hands on the table.

“Crossword,” he replies, voice low and softened by the evening hour.

“Did you just start this one?”

“Mhm.” He sits back in his chair, pen on the table and a smudge of blue ink on his elbow. “Picked it up yesterday.”

You lean forward. “How’s it going?”

“Slow.” He shrugs. “They always start slow.”

You hum, low in your throat. “Can I help you?”

“If you want to, love.”

You nod. “I want to.”

Sam pushes the chair back, wincing as it scrapes across the carpet. He stretches, long body stretching out like a cat with his arms over his head, yawning softly. When he’s settled again and comfortable, both legs on the floor, he opens his arms to you, inviting you in.

“Sam I can get another chair,” you say.

“That’s okay,” he says. “You’ll fit here just fine.”

“Tell me if I’m too heavy,” you say, half teasing.

“You’re not. Trust me.”

You tip your head, uncertain.

“Love, do you know how many times I’ve had Dean sit himself on my lap with the express purpose of ‘being heavy’?”

“Often?”

“Often,” he confirms. “Promise you it’ll be fine.”

He beckons you with his hands, arms still spread wide with his lap empty in waiting for you. You sling your arms around his neck, using the strength of his shoulders to keep yourself steady as you get settled, his hands hovering around your waist to keep you balanced. It takes a few seconds of wiggling around to make sure no part of him is digging into your skin, but you know when you find the right spot because your entire body melts against him. Your hands drop to his, tracing the moles on his arms. Even with your head against his shoulder, you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, the rhythm steady and calm and real. His left hand, the one he doesn’t write with, tucks itself against your side, thumb stroking soft patterns against your side.

“Comfy?” he murmurs, voice rumbling through you.

“Mhm. Where were you?”

He scans the page, finger tracing the blank spaces and list of clues until he lands on the one he wants to solve.

“Uh…24 across.”

“Read them to me?” you ask, sweet and sugary warm.

He chuckles softly, the sound going straight to your heart. “Of course.”

A light clearing of his throat, a sip of water. Fingers twitching against your covered hip.

“24 across. ‘To believe in something’, fi…yeah, five letters.”

You hum, thinking. “Faith? Like, having faith in something?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

He goes to pen it in, your hand shooting out to stop him. “Wait, wait, do 24 down first. So that we have the first letter.”

“Alright,” he agrees. “Smart.”

Sam kisses your temple absentmindedly as he searches for the right clue.

“Okay, 24 down. ‘Frog’s friend’.”

You scoff. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno. A book, maybe?”

“What about finding the last letter?”

“Of across or down?”

“Uh…” You pause, pondering. “Either one.”

Sam studies the page, gears turning in his head. Your fingers brush along his forearm, and he shivers when your touch draws goosebumps to the surface of his tanned skin. He’s been out in the sun a lot lately; there’s not much you can do when you’re hunting something in North Carolina in the middle of June. You’ll have to remind him to be cautious, though, because it looks like the side of his neck is a tiny bit pinker than usual. Last time he got a sunburn, his skin peeled a little and he complained about the discomfort for a week. You carry a little travel bottle of aloe with you now just in case he burns again. For whatever reason, he’s always burned easier than Dean.

“You still with me?”

Sam’s voice draws you out of your sunburn thoughts and back into the soft gold light of the motel room.

“Wh- yeah? What’s happening?”

Sam laughs, low and sweet. “Thought you fell asleep for a minute there.”

You pout. “I did not.”

“What were you thinkin’ about?”

You poke at his neck, and he winces lightly. “You’re getting pink again, Sammy. You’re gonna burn soon.”

Sam groans, the drama in it almost enough to convince you he could be faking it. “Oh god, not again.”

You kiss the pink spot, lips brushing soft over his skin. He sighs into your touch, resting his head on the top of yours.

“Then start wearing sunscreen.”

“I do!”

“When you go outside?”

“Yes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh huh?”

Sam nods vigorously. “Mhm. So much sunscreen. Actually, I need a new bottle of it.”

Your mouth forms a victorious ‘o’ shape. “So that’s why you burned, hm?”

“What?”

“’Cause you ran out of sunscreen.”

Sam’s cheeks tinge pink, mouth opening and closing. He’s caught in his lie, he knows it. “No comment.”

You laugh full, the sound echoing warmly in the room and reaching Sam’s ears with the kind of joy he hopes he never forgets. “Give me the next clue.”

“Right, yes. Clue. Um…okay here we go. 27 across. ‘A blank is a man’s best friend’.”

“A blank?”

“That’s the word you’re trying to find.”

“But it said blank.”

Sam glances at you, unimpressed. “I know you know what I mean.”

You giggle, hiding your face in his neck. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do.”

You pretend to think. “I’ll tell you the answer for a kiss.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “A kiss? Steep price to pay, m’lady.”

“Do you want the answer or not?”

Sam shrugs, grin already spreading wide across his face and making the dimples on his cheeks pop. Two fingers curl around your chin, tipping your head to meet him halfway, his nose brushing yours as he leans in. His mouth is warm against yours, the light scratch of stubble grazing your cheek as you taste his chapstick on his lips. He parts regretfully from you, pressing a light peck to your lips as if he just can’t help himself.

“Satisfactory?” he asks.

“The answer’s dog.”

Another kiss to the top of your head. “Well done.”

He scribbles in the word, pen scratching on the wood table with the kind of loudness that’s perfectly in place for the silence of the room.

“What’s 24 down again?” you ask.

“Frog’s friend.”

You frown. “Frog’s friend…frog’s friend. Um…frog…frog and his friend. Toad! It’s toad, Sammy. Frog and Toad.”

“Frog and toad?” he says around a laugh.

“They were books I read as a kid. It was this tall frog and this small toad and they did everything together. They’re cute.”

He pens in the word toad in its spot.

“Okay, toad. 24 across is ‘to believe in something’. Starts with ‘t’.”

Your fingers tap on the skin of his arm as you think. “Trust?”

Sam’s eyes light up excitedly. “I think you’re right. Yeah, that fits. Makes sense. Good work, love.”

“I think I’ve earned another kiss,” you tease.

Sam doesn’t even hesitate to kiss you, hand cupping your cheek so tenderly you think the touch alone is enough to make tears spring to your eyes. He’s warm and soft and alive, all the tiny details about him spreading joy through your body like a good bowl of soup and a warm hug from the person you love most. He doesn’t pull away quick either, diving in for a second kiss in which he slips his tongue past your lips to taste the toothpaste on your breath. He sighs into the kiss, your hands drifting to his hair and tangling in the strands, massaging them.

“Wanna keep working?” he murmurs when he surfaces for air.

“Tired,” you reply, faking a yawn.

Sam caps the pen and folds up the paper with careful precision. The chair wobbles as he moves, looping his freed arms under your butt and hoisting you up his body, until you can unhook your legs from where they were sitting and stand on your own two feet. He keeps his arms around your waist the short distance from table to bed, rescuing his poor pillow from the ground and straightening out the blankets for you. He leaves the bottom sheet kicked off on his side, because he knows he’ll get too hot with it on, tucking it up on your side for you to choose if you want it or not.

He settles under the covers first, opening up his arms for you to crawl into again. Your head falls to his chest where you feel it belongs, right over his beating heart. Sticking one hand under his shirt to feel his warm skin, Sam hums soft and content at the contact, squirming until he’s positioned so that more of him can be touched by you, shirt riding up on his stomach, inviting you to sprawl yourself further across him.

“Alright?” he whispers, turning out the lamp.

“Alright.”

Like every night, he kisses you goodnight. Like every night, he lingers on your lips long enough to make you think you never want him to stop touching you. Like every night, he drops a final kiss to your hair and sighs deep when he lets himself sink into the pillow. Like every night, he whispers I love you to your already drifting form, feeling you squeeze his side in response. The crossword lies unfinished on the table, something the both of you will get back to in the morning when Sam has his coffee and looks more awake. For now, he’ll dream about all the possible answers to the hints, and he’ll let himself float away in the liminal quiet of the motel room that rocks him to a deep sleep in its soothing arms.