AvalovesEmmathepug3 જ⁀➴

୨ৎ the relationship starts accidentally. Coffee becomes "I'll grab yours too, " which turns into waiting for each other after shifts, which somehow become sleeping over on nights before early rotations.

୨ৎ your coworkers notice that you're always somehow assigned to help each other without realizing you've subtly coordinated it.

୨ৎ cassie has a habit of checking that you've eaten. She'll casually slide a protein bar across the nurses' station while talking about patient charts like it's completely unrelated.

"You skipped lunch again."

"I had half a granola bar."

"That's not lunch."

୨ৎ you become experts at communicating with eye contact alone.

୨ৎ physical affection at work is almost nonexistent.

the closest anyone ever sees is:

➜﹒your shoulders brushing in a hallway

➜﹒ her handing you gloves,

➜﹒fixing your backwards ID badge without thinking.

୨ৎ she absolutely steals your pens.

every shift.

then somehow claims they're hers.

୨ৎ during especially rough cases, she'll quietly bump your elbow as she walks past.

no one notices.

you always do.

୨ৎ if one of you gets yelled at by an attending or an angry family member, the other somehow appears five minutes later with a lollipop from peds and absolutely no explanation.

୨ৎ your break room conversations look painfully professional.

Everyone else hears:

"patient in room twelve needs labs."

under the table your knees are touching.

Everyone Slowly Figures It Out

୨ৎ dana notices first. (obviously)

she doesn't say anything.

she just watches cassie unconsciously smile every time you walk into the department.

୨ৎ one day she asks Cassie:

"How long?"

cassie freezes.

dana sighs.

"Honey... I've known for months."

୨ৎ langdon only figures it out because you automatically hand Cassie her coffee exactly how she likes it without asking.

୨ৎ mel catches you fixing Cassie's ponytail after a twelve-hour shift.

she quietly walks backwards out of the hallway.

After hard shifts

୨ৎ this is where the relationship actually shows.

୨ৎ cassie always waits for you before leaving.

୨ৎ you sit in the parking garage for twenty minutes decompressing before either of you drives home.

୨ৎ some nights nobody talks.

୨ৎ she'll reach across the center console and lace her fingers through yours.

that's enough.

୨ৎ if either of you loses a patient, neither tries to force the other to talk.

just sitting together becomes part of the routine.

Tiny relationship things

୨ৎ she knows your coffee order by heart.

୨ৎ you know exactly how she likes her hair tied during busy shifts.

୨ৎ you steal her jacket because the hospital is freezing.

୨ৎ you automatically save her favorite snacks from the vending machine.

୨ৎ your phones are filled with blurry selfies taken at 3 a.m. after surviving impossible shifts.

୨ৎ she smiles differently around you.

softer.

less guarded.

୨ৎ and the only people who notice are the ones who've known Cassie long enough to realize just how rare that smile is.

When someone finally asks

୨ৎ someone eventually jokes (santos shh),

"So... are you two dating or something?"

you nearly choke on your coffee.

cassie doesn't even blink.

she simply looks at you, then back at them.

"...Why?"

santos starts listing evidence.

by the fifth point, both of you realize you've actually been terrible at hiding it.

everyone else in the break room just exchanges amused looks.

haiii I finally wrote again who is proud 😊😊😊😊 not proof read... 😥😥😥 ALSO REQUESTS ARE OPEN !!!! ^^

Dean paces near the door—three steps, turn, three steps back—like a caged animal who suddenly realized the bars are gone and he’s not sure he wants to leave. His usual swagger is nowhere. No smirk. No cocky one-liner. Just flushed cheeks, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps, green eyes flicking between you and Sam like he’s waiting for the punchline.

Sam sits on the other bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes your stomach flip. He’s calm on the surface. Eager underneath. You can see it in the way his fingers flex against his thighs, the slight part of his lips.

The conversation started innocently enough. Dinner. Beers. Dean making a half-joking comment about how you “play favorites” depending on the day. You laughed too hard. Sam’s gaze lingered too long. Then someone—maybe you—said the quiet part out loud.

What if we didn’t have to choose?

Silence. Then Dean’s rough “Jesus.” Then Sam’s soft “If she wants…”

And now here you are.

You take a breath. “I want both of you. Tonight. Together.”

Dean freezes mid-step. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

Sam exhales through his nose, already half-hard in his jeans—you can see the outline. “We’ve never…”

“I know.” You look between them. “But I want it. And I think you do too.”

Dean drags a hand over his face. “This is fucked up.”

His eyes snap to his brother, then back to you. Something raw flickers there—want, fear, jealousy so sharp it almost cuts.

“You really want us fighting over who gets to touch you first?”

“No fighting,” you say. “Just… both.”

Dean laughs once—short, disbelieving. But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t tell you no.

You stand. Slow. Walk to him first because he looks like he might bolt otherwise. You cup his face; he lets you. His stubble rasps against your palms.

“Dean,” you whisper. “Please.”

He closes his eyes. Groans low when you kiss him—soft at first, then deeper when he finally opens for you. His hands find your waist, gripping hard like he’s anchoring himself.

Behind you, the bedsprings creak. Sam moving closer.

Dean breaks the kiss, breathing ragged. “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

You turn, reach for Sam. He’s already there—big hands sliding around your hips, pulling you back against his chest. He kisses the side of your neck while Dean watches, pupils blown.

“Bed,” Sam murmurs against your skin. “Now.”

They move you like they’ve rehearsed it—Dean tugging your shirt over your head, Sam unhooking your bra with careful fingers. Clothes hit the floor in a careless pile. You’re bare between them before you can overthink it.

Dean’s eyes rake down your body—hungry, reverent. “Goddamn, sweetheart.”

Sam’s hands cup your breasts from behind, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten. “So pretty,” he breathes. “Always so pretty for us.”

You whimper—soft, needy. They both groan at the sound.

Dean drops to his knees first. No preamble. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opens you up. His mouth is on you in the next heartbeat—hot, wet, relentless. Tongue flat against your clit, then flicking, circling. You grab his hair; he moans into you like he’s the one getting off.

Sam turns your head, kisses you deep—tongue stroking yours in time with Dean’s rhythm below. His hands roam: one on your breast, pinching lightly, the other sliding down your stomach to spread you wider for his brother.

“Fuck, look at her,” Sam says, voice wrecked. “So wet already. You love this, don’t you? Both of us touching you.”

“Yes—” The word fractures into a moan when Dean sucks hard on your clit.

Dean pulls back just enough to speak—lips shiny, voice gravel. “Taste so fucking good. Been thinking about this pussy all week.”

Sam’s fingers replace Dean’s tongue—two sliding inside you, curling. You buck; he holds you steady with an arm around your waist.

“Easy, baby,” Sam soothes. “We’ve got you.”

Dean stands, strips fast—jeans shoved down, cock springing free, thick and leaking. He strokes himself once, eyes locked on where Sam’s fingers disappear inside you.

“Fuck her mouth,” Sam says suddenly. Low. Commanding.

Dean hesitates—jealousy flashing again—then steps closer. You open for him eagerly. He slides in slow, groaning when your lips close around him.

“Jesus—fuck—your mouth—” His hips rock shallowly. “So warm. So good.”

Sam keeps fingering you—slow, deep pumps—while you suck Dean sloppy and eager. Spit drips down your chin. Dean’s hand cradles the back of your head; Sam’s free hand strokes your hair.

“Look at her take you,” Sam murmurs to Dean. “Look how much she wants it.”

Dean’s head tips back. “Fuck—gonna come if you keep talking like that.”

“Not yet,” you pull off long enough to gasp. “Want you inside me.”

They switch without a word.

Sam lies back on the bed, pulls you over him. You straddle his hips; he guides himself to your entrance—long, thick, stretching you slow as you sink down. You both moan—long, broken sounds.

“So tight,” Sam hisses. “Fuck—ride me, baby. Show Dean how good you feel.”

You start moving—slow rolls at first, then harder. Sam’s hands grip your hips, helping you bounce. His head tips back; throat working on whimpers.

Dean watches—cock in hand, stroking slow. “Goddamn. Look at you taking him. So fucking hot.”

Jealousy still there—sharp in his eyes—but drowned in lust.

You lean forward, kiss Sam deep. He moans into your mouth, hips snapping up.

Dean moves behind you—kneels on the mattress. His hands slide over your ass, spreading you slightly. Not entering—just watching, touching. “Fuck, I can see him stretching you. So pretty and full.”

You whimper—overwhelmed. Sam’s cock hits deep; Dean’s fingers brush where you’re joined, collecting slick, circling your clit.

“Come for us,” Dean growls. “Come on Sammy’s cock. Let me see it.”

The command tips you. Orgasm hits hard—shuddering, clenching tight around Sam. You cry out; Sam swears, hips stuttering.

“Fuck—gonna—” Sam’s voice cracks. “Where—”

“Anywhere,” you gasp.

He buries deep, comes with a long groan—hot pulses filling you. His hands bruise your hips; you feel every twitch.

Dean’s breathing is ragged. “My turn.”

Sam pulls out slow—careful. You feel the warm slide of his come leaking out. Dean flips you onto your back—gentler than you expect. He hooks your legs over his arms, spreads you wide.

“Look at that mess,” he mutters, almost reverent. “Sammy’s come dripping out of you. Fuck.”

He slides in one smooth thrust—groaning at the wet heat, the way you’re still fluttering from your orgasm.

“Still so tight,” he rasps. “Even after him.”

He fucks you harder than Sam—snapping hips, deep strokes that make the headboard thud. You claw at his shoulders; he leans down, kisses you filthy—teeth and tongue.

“Love this cunt,” he growls against your mouth. “Love how you take us both. Greedy little thing.”

Sam moves beside you—kisses your neck, your jaw. His hand finds your clit again—rubbing tight circles.

“Come again,” Sam whispers. “One more. For us.”

You’re close—too close. Dean’s thrusts turn erratic; he’s panting curses.

“Gonna fill you up,” Dean grits out. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You shatter—screaming this time, walls pulsing hard. Dean follows with a guttural moan—hips slamming once, twice, spilling hot inside you.

He collapses half on top of you—careful not to crush. Sam strokes your hair, your arm.

Quiet settles. Heavy breathing. Sweat-slick skin.

Dean presses his forehead to yours. “You okay?”

You nod—too blissed-out for words.

Sam kisses your temple. “We’re not done being selfish.”

Dean huffs a laugh—soft, wrecked.

You smile into the dark.

No one moves to separate.

Not yet.

Because sharing with Sam is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that could happen to you. Best because you have had an incapacitating crush on him for a good long while now; worst because of exactly the same reason.

Sam grins sheepishly at you when you both stand at the foot of the narrow bed, while Dean is in the next one rubbing himself against his pillow like a cat. You grin back, raise your shoulders. You don’t think you’ll be getting a lot of sleep tonight.

All three of you get ready for bed, and while you’re brushing your teeth, standing in the doorway between bathroom and bedroom, you can’t help but look at Sam. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, a V-neck that looks downright sinful on him, showing off his thick neck, the muscles in his arms, the dip between his collarbones that you want to press your tongue into, but then you haven’t seen Sam in any clothes that don’t make you swoon.

He’s fluffing up the pillows, that intense concentrated look on his face that he gets doing almost anything, and your heart hurts a little from beating so fast. Eventually you turn around, spit into the sink, wipe your hand over your mouth.

You know you’ll be lying awake for hours, if not the whole night, too terrified you’ll snore or mumble in your sleep, but more than that, you don’t want to sleep, since it would mean missing out on being so gloriously close to glorious Sam. You’ll sleep in the Impala tomorrow. It’ll hurt your neck but you’ve had it worse.

Then it’s time to get into bed. Sam lays on his back, hands crossed over his stomach as he clears his throat. He’s so damn broad-shouldered that he’s already taking up most of the bed, so you carefully lie next to him, one shoulder hanging off the side. It would be fine, but Sam notices immediately.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he suggests, not for the first time tonight. “It’s really no problem.” You shake your head, turn it towards him and he is so close, your upper arms brushing against each other.

“It’s fine, Sam, really,” you reply, but you see the worry in his face. Luckily Dean is there to distract both of you.

“Will you two just go to damn sleep?” he groans from the next bed over and you and Sam both press your lips together, hide your grins at his grumpiness.

Then suddenly Sam moves, rolls on his side. It gives you more room, but he also opted to roll towards you rather than turn his back to you, and when you look at him again, his head on the pillow, his eyes studying you carefully, all of him so there, it makes a whole host of crazed butterflies do the Macarena in your stomach. It makes heat shoot to your core where it sits, almost uncomfortably.

You sigh, and the sigh makes you realize that your breathing is all wonky, out of sync, and when you purposefully try to calm it, it makes it much worse.

“You okay?” Sam asks, frowning. You nod quickly and manage to get yourself under control. Don’t hyperventilate, you tell yourself, hyperventilating is not sexy.

You realize you’re fidgeting a little and then suddenly Sam’s arm is over you, just below your breasts. You swallow and your eyes shoot up to him.

“Are you cold?” he asks, voice low. No, you’re absolutely not. Still, Sam’s arm is already draped over you, it would be downright rude now to say you weren’t. You smile a little, nod.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Sam smiles as well. And then, because what the hell, you scoot a little closer to him. You catch him take a sharp breath, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, after a second, his arm wraps tighter around you, holding you there. You’re not sure what to do with your own arm so it’s sort of squished between you two, pressed against Sam’s stupidly shapely pecs.

So that’s how you lie there, suddenly looking deeply into Sam’s eyes. There’s a bright splash of hazel in them that you’ve never noticed before. You should probably say something, acknowledge how close you are to each other, make light of the situation but neither of you seems willing to break the moment.

It’s a few minutes until you feel your eyes falling shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking you. You think about fighting it for a moment, think about trying to stay awake but the warmth and closeness and exhaustion are all too strong, and before you know it, you’re out like a light.

You wake up hours later. It’s not full wakefulness, but it’s enough that you notice you’ve moved in the night. Your back is to Sam, but his arm is still hanging over you. You feel so cozy and warm that you snuggle backwards a little, press yourself against him.

You feel the hardness but can’t place it for a second, and then you do, and your eyes fly open and your lips part.

Sam’s hard. Sam’s hard and he’s pressing against the small of your back. Your breathing comes fast and shallow at the thought of it. Without really meaning to you press your ass back a little. You just want to feel, you tell yourself. Feel what Sam feels like. And yes, it’s unmistakable and the arousal blooming in you is so immediate that it makes you dizzy. You press back again, gently, and suddenly Sam’s arm around you tightens.

Oh shit, you think.

That was some pretty creepy stuff you were doing just now, and you can’t even pretend you did it in your sleep because your eyes are wide open, and even in the dark of the room, Sam must be able to see that. But then you hear his deep voice, so close to your ear that it makes you shudder.

“Don’t stop,” he says quietly and you nearly lose your mind. You swallow, and then you do it again. Sam’s arm tenses again and his breathing stutters for a second. This can’t be happening. Could you be so lucky?

You press back again, roll your hips a little, and Sam’s hand shoots to your waist. He grips you hard and then he’s pushing back, and a small gasp leaves you when you feel his outline. Of course Sam Winchester has a perfect, big dick. Because all the other stuff about him isn’t already good enough.

Sam starts slowly rutting against you and your eyelids flutter, because low little grunts leave him, sounds that you’re pretty sure should be illegal. He keeps grinding against you, and then suddenly his lips are touching the shell of your ear.

“Let me touch you,” he whispers. Your eyes shoot over to where Dean is lying, but he seems to be out for the count. You nod, and then in a rush of confidence, turn your head. You can’t quite see Sam, but he presses his face to the side of yours, his lips run over your cheekbone.

“Touch me, Sam,” you whisper, and his hand wanders from your waist over your stomach to between your legs. His hand is big and perfect and he starts drawing little circles on you. The thin barrier of your pajama is a godsend, because you don’t know if you could take Sam touching you directly right there without combusting or screaming.

His middle and index finger find the spot that makes you flinch and he focuses on that part. Your eyes fall shut and a tiny whimper leaves you. As if encouraged, Sam uses the position of his arm to pull you back against him again while continuing to rub you. Your arm lands on top of his, because you need something to hold on to or you’ll float away.

He keeps going, and he’s so damn good at it that it makes your head spin. Your eyebrows draw together and you feel your body starting to tense.

“Sam—I’m gonna—” you half moan, half whisper and his mouth is near your ear again.

“Think you can be quiet?” he asks, the edge of a grin in his voice and you press your lips together, nod.

You’re coming a second later, pressing your thighs together, nails digging into Sam’s skin, because the tension needs to go somewhere. Your legs pull up and for a few moments, you are so swept up in pleasure that you think you’re losing your mind.

As your body relaxes, your brain and muscles feel calm and relaxed, a goofy smile spreading on your lips. Sam must see it, because he presses his lips and nose against your cheek.

“I want to scream,” you whisper, eyes still closed, and Sam gives a low chuckle.

“Better don’t,” he says and in response, you grind back against him. Sam doesn’t need more encouragement than that. He leans back a little, so that he can look down at where your bodies are meeting, so that he can watch while you rub your ass against him.

Your orgasm, this entire situation, has made you bold, and you sling your arm behind you. Your hand lands on Sam’s hip, and you move it down, run it over the fabric of his sweats. Your fingers trace the outline of Sam’s cock and you hear a heavy breath leave him.

“Fuck, you’re gonna drive me crazy,” Sam whispers, his voice slightly cracking. You squeeze him once before you start running your hand up and down his length, again and again. Sam’s hand is still on your hip and balls into a fist with how hard he’s trying not to make any noise. Feeling encouraged by his reaction, you move your hand up and slip it into his sweats, wrap your hand around his cock. Oh, he’s perfect. Of course he is. Sam actually trembles a little when you touch him.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he mumbles, voice low and raw and he presses his hand over yours where you’re holding him, squeezing through the fabric.

You keep rubbing him, stroking him, until his deep breaths come quicker. You can feel his cock twitch in your hand, and Sam’s groan is low and barely controlled and it makes you feel like you could come all over again just from hearing it. You rub him through his release, feel the wet patch from his come where he releases himself into his sweatpants. Slowly, you pull your hand back.

In the next second, Sam slings his arm around you again and pulls you close. His hand goes over your chest like a seatbelt and he cups your face, presses his nose behind your ear so you can hear his heavy breathing.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, and you grin. After a second of recovering his breathing, Sam’s head moves, and he catches the corner of your mouth with his lips. It’s delicious, but not enough.

You struggle to move in his tight grip, but when he understands what you’re doing he lets you turn around, only to wrap you up just as tightly right after. Your faces are so close, just across from each other on the pillows and you just look into each other’s eyes for a moment.

Then you grab Sam’s big, beautiful face and kiss him. He pulls you impossibly closer and returns the kiss.

You both flinch when the loudest, most nasal snore comes from Dean’s bed. You need to press your faces against each other to stop yourselves from bursting into laughter. Sam’s hand lands on the back of your head and he pulls you against his chest, and you grin into it like a damn idiot.

When you finally come up for air, he’s smiling at you, brilliant and open in the low light of the room. His face turns serious after a second, but you shake your head.

“I know you want to analyze the shit out of what just happened,” you whisper, and Sam can’t help but smirk at how well you know him. “But let’s save it for tomorrow, okay?” He nods, stares at your face, and it makes you want to kiss him again, so you do. He cups your face, runs his fingers into your hair, then a small groan leaves him when you push your tongue against his lips.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me hard again,” he mumbles and you nip at his lip.

“Oh no,” you whisper, voice heavy with pretend regret. Sam grins, wraps you up and you snuggle against him, your head under his chin, face against his neck where you can smell him, touch your nose against him.

“Good night, Sam,” you mutter, because within seconds you’re halfway to falling asleep again.

sam likes seeing you in a tizzy.

especially now that he knows it's his doing. it's him that brings out your shining, slighty-crooked grin that he loves so much, the sparkle of your eyes that seems to shine brighter when he looks at you, the way you giggle incessantly when he tells a joke, no matter how bad.

your repertoire consists of mainly silence; shy. but sam coaxes out this relaxed, giddy personality that brings him great joy. it's why there's a dull ache curling beneath his cheeks now, and a dryness to his mouth. he doesn't know how long he's been smiling for, but he thinks he'd like to forever.

happiness comes easy when you're around.

and he doesn't want to overwhelm you, because he thinks that if he were to tell you that he feels exactly the same, that his heart loops strangely when you're near and that he wants to keep you close until the end of time, you may pass out. or combust. or maybe even implode.

he can't have that. not at all.

and so he's being very patient. it's a test, and he's surprising both himself and dean, but he'd heard somewhere that patience is a virtue. moreover, virtuous is what sam is going to be until you confess.

but he can attempt ─ tamely and gently ─ to speed up the process.

his hand takes yours tentatively, under the guise of pulling you closer as a car drives past and through the piling december snow. he doesn't care when it flicks up and sticks to his worn jeans, too busy watching for your soft smile.

his heart blooms something golden once he sees it.

"oh," you breathe, and sam gives your hand a squeeze. "thank you, sam."

white teeth dig into the plush of his bottom lip, and he lets out an amused huff. "s'no problem, honey."

he winces, internally. honey may be a bit too much. but he's quite sure that it suits you, and it was rather easy to say. you're sweet and golden all over, and he'd like to call you it again.

he wants you to be his honey. he doesn't know when he got so cheesy.

your hand loses his in favor of looping through the crook of his elbow, and you let him guide you through the slushy sidewalk and to the turn of tonight's motel. simple and homey and a room with two beds, that sam wishes had only been one.

"d'you wanna get hot chocolates with me?" you ask, tilting your chin up to watch him. "from the lobby. they've got marshmallows, too."

"marshmallows?"

"mhm. for the hot chocolate, sammy."

"oh," his tongue clicks on the roof of his mouth. so sweet and sugary, honey. "i'll get some with you, of course. anytime you want."

the corners of your eyes crinkle at his words, he sees. but he has to tear his gaze away from the absolute vessel of beauty that is you, to open the motel's door. the bells jingle from above and he thinks they should chime whenever you so much as breathe.

it's a whirl, as your fingers tangle into the sleeve of his jacket and he's whisked to a small table adjacent to the desk of a very bored receptionist. there sits an array of ─ most definitely ─ stale marshmallows, a dish of candy canes and cups stacked by a thermos.

"here." you stand beside him and reach for one. chocolatey brown is poured inside amidst a swirl of steam. but it catches on the edge of the cup and dribbles onto your finger.

sam only sees the slight scrunch of your face, and doesn't think much at all as he takes your hand and brings your wounded (not burnt in any capacity) finger to his mouth. he blows out cool air, just once.

you're staring up at him, eyes a little too wide for his liking. not in a happy or excited way, but unreadable. his throat bobs as he gives another blow, keeping his gaze firmly focused on your hand.

something akin to embarrassment burns through his chest.

"it's- sorry," he's quick to apologize, and to give your hand back. you withdraw it slowly back to your cup. "i, um. looked like it hurt. and my mom used to always do that when i got hurt. she- mary, she said it helped and i always kinda felt like it did-"

"it helped," you cut in. your wide eyes have spread to sam. "feels better. i... thank you, sam."

sam supposes he's the flustered one now. his chest rises and falls more evidently with his breathing now, before you smile at him and he calms. "you want some, too. yeah?"

he nods. "yes, please."

he's really no better than you, not at all. because he feels like a spool of burning wax and very well may melt into the floor and become one with the old, green carpeting, as he watches you fix his cocoa. you've told him before that green suits him. maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"thank you," he remembers himself, as you dump a heap of marshmallows into his cup. he doesn't have half of a heart to tell you that he really doesn't like them all that much. "are you, uh... sure your hand is okay?"

you hum your yes. he nods, swallows thickly, and graciously accepts the cup as you hand it out to him. he hopes you find his awkwardness endearing, as he does yours.

the sight of your shining smile as you take his arm once again and lead him out into the bitter cold and towards your room, makes him think that you just might.

amidst the white sky and sleeping trees outside, sam thinks his heart may give out. you're glowing amongst the death that winter has brought, and pressed against him, and there's something pulsing and budding between his ribs now that he isn't too sure how to get rid of.

his words spill before he can stop them. "you're so pretty."

your boots scuff through the snow as you halt. he does the same and nearly topples you over. only, his free arm reaches to slip around your waist and keeps you upright, nose brushing yours as you straighten yourself. he follows suit.

he didn't know it was possible to feel your own heartbeat so intensely. it's a thump, thump, thump, that swallows him whole.

"you- what?"

"think you're pretty. really pretty, but, um. i didn't really mean to say it."

your pretty eyes flit from his and down to your feet, and all he catches is a dejected 'oh' from your lips.

"no! not- i meant it. i mean it, i do."

"...really?"

"yes! god, i... i think you're beautiful."

relief fills him in pools and swarms and rivers when you look back up at him and smile all shy and bashful and unsure. he needs to make you sure.

he can't be patient any longer.

"i mean, you're you. everything about you s'perfect."

he's a little closer now, leaning down to make sure you can really hear him. he can see the dip of your under eyes, the freckle below your mouth, the blemish near your brow that he'd like to kiss ten times over.

you're quiet for almost a moment too long, squeezing your cup between your palms with so much pressure that sam is worried it may burst and ruin the moment.

"i think you're perfect, too."

scratch that. nothing could ruin this. "yeah?"

"yeah, sammy."

his long, warm fingers move slowly to sweep along the curve of your jaw, and a chorus of butterflies sing bright and happy inside of him when you lean into his touch. a snowflake lands on the tip of your nose and he's tempted to melt it away with his lips.

"can i kiss you, angel? i... please? if you want."

his stammer earns him a soft burst of laughter. he wants to bottle the sound up and keep it safe forever. "i want. very much so."

you're promptly kissed by sam's tender, warm lips. a lingering press, before it breaks. but he gives you another that lasts longer, and a third chaste one that leaves you feeling much too dizzy to want anything other than more.

sam feels silly, now, having been so patient for so long. there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to wait for or yearn over. he's got you, already and always and perfect.

all he had to do was say something.

“Don’t play dirty,” you respond, looking back at the board.

He chuckles a little. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

That’s when you see it.

You raise your hands, link your fingers in front of your mouth so Sam doesn’t see the grin you’re suppressing.

Dean always tells you you have a horrible poker face and unfortunately he’s not wrong. It’s a bad combination with how competitive you get.

You’ve only been playing chess for a few weeks, always thinking before that it would bore you. But then Sam found this beautiful chess board in the bunker, his eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. You knew Dean wasn’t going to play with him so you saw it as your girlfriend-ly duty to step in.

You started playing, him explaining the rules to you, and before you knew it, you were enjoying it. So now you and Sam spend many of the long afternoons in the bunker hunched over the board, in deep concentration.

So much for the good news.

The bad news is that Sam has been winning. Every. Single. Game. Of course he’s good at it, he’s the smartest guy you know. And he doesn’t brag about it or rub it in your face. When he wins, he just kind of sits back, nods. Sometimes you think he actually feels bad.

Once you think you caught him trying to purposefully loose, and you nearly wreaked havoc on his ass. You’re competitive, not fragile. He didn’t try losing again after that.

And now here you are, and after weeks of practice, you think you just might have him.  

You breath out slowly, trying to hide your excitement. Then you take one hand away from your face, make your move. You immediately bring it back where it was because Sam doesn't seem to notice, is thinking about his own move. 

Now that it's his turn you use the chance to ogle him a little. You enjoy chess, but this part ain't so bad either.

He sits there, leaned forward over the table, arms crossed in front of him. His lips are pinched together in concentration, his brow a little furrowed. It's a damn good picture.

He must notice your gaze one him, because he looks up at you.

"Nothing," you say, before he can ask what's going on. "Just checking you out."

He grins a little, looks back at the board.

"Like what you see?" he asks, casually.

"Not too shabby," you reply. "Could be a little faster at chess, though." 

He looks back up at you. "I thought no playing dirty?"

"Yeah, that goes for you," you say, like it's obvious. "I need every advantage I can get."

Sam smiles, clicks his tongue, looks back down. Then he raises his hand, makes his move. 

This time you can't hide your grin. He walked right into your trap. You move your knight.

"Checkmate," you say.

Sam looks stunned. He stares at the board, his eyes going back and forth. 

You throw your hands in the air and make a whooping sound, because being a gracious winner is for tall guys with beautiful hair, not for you.

Sam leans back and grins. He looks proud and impressed. It makes your heart melt a little, and you almost don't want to make the fact that you beat him your entire personality. Almost.

You put your fist in front of your face, holding an imaginary microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends at home, we are here covering what might be the coolest, most savage chess win of all times." 

Your sound more like a sports announcer than a news caster, but that's a detail you don't worry about.

"We are here today," you continue, "with Samuel Winchester, who will answer the question: what is it like to have a girlfriend who is not just beautiful, not just intelligent, but also a menace at chess? Samuel, what can you tell us about this experience?"

You scoot up, leaning over the table to hold the fake mic into Sam's face.

He sits up, leaning closer. "It's actually Sam," he says into your fist.

You make a buzzer noise, even though that makes the whole thing more of a talkshow host impression. Whatever. You beat Sam at chess. Accuracy is for losers.

"That is actually incorrect! The correct answer is that it's the best thing in the world, and that she will be getting foot rubs from you for eternity." 

You hold the mic back to him, giving him a chance to defend himself, but instead he smiles.

"I was going to do that anyway," he says, and than he wraps his hand around your wrist and quickly bites your finger.

He lets go and you put on a stunned tone when you talk back into the mic again.

"Gentle viewers, it seems that he just bit the reporter."

Sam makes a face. "I bit the microphone. Wait, you're supposed to be a reporter? I thought you were a game show host."

You roll your eyes. "Details, Samuel, details." You swish your hand around in front of his face. "Don't have time for details when I'm winning."

He grabs your hand from where it's waving around and holds it up to his face. Just when you think - hope - he'll bite you again, he kisses the back of it.

"I don't need to win. I already got the main prize," he says.

So cheesy, you think. You grin at him and he smiles back and you won at chess and all is well.

His tongue flattened against her, licking a stripe up between her folds until he pressed against her clit and she shuddered, a horribly whiny sound pushed from her lungs when he closed his lips around the bead and sucked, like he was trying to pull the life out of her. Her hips jolted, unable to go anywhere as he had her pinned down, and she was practically seeing stars as Sam worked down there. She wondered if he was even breathing.

“Sam- oh my god—” She whimpered, hissed in a breath when he licked back down to her entrance and his nose nudged against her clit, stomach clenching as she reached her hands down to grasp onto his hair, fingers curled into the soft strands.

And then he pulled away.

His hands left her thighs as his mouth left her, but she didn’t have time to whine her complaints at the loss of sensation as his long fingers curled around her wrists, yanked her hands out of his hair. “What did I say, huh?” The tone of voice made her pussy clench around nothing. “Hands to yourself. You’re pretty bad at listening, baby.”

Sam shifted over her, his face over hers as he pushed her wrists down onto the pillows above her head, and she almost squirmed when she saw the look in his eyes, the way his lips were wet with her.

“Are you listening?” He squeezed her wrists as a reminder, and her eyes quickly flickered back up to his eyes. “Do I need to tie you up, or will you keep these here for me?” She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Sam could be such a soft lover — he’d kiss every inch of her skin, whisper praises and compliments, tell her he loved her a thousand times as he made love to her. But he could also be like this, mean and demanding as he fucked her silly over and over. She wasn’t sure which she liked more.

“I’ll keep them there.” She breathed out, her voice still a little too whiny. He’d gotten her so close to cumming again, the lack of stimulation was driving her crazy, her cunt throbbed as she stared up at him.

“Oh yeah?” Sam narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe her, and let go of one of her wrists to take both into one of his large hands. Her eyes left his face to follow his second as it dipped down between them, fingering at the waistband of his boxers, until she heard a sharp, “eyes on me.”

Her gaze quickly flickered back up to his face. “See? You can be good sometimes, can’t you?” Sam cooed, boardering on condescending, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mouth, allowing her to taste herself. “You just need some reminding, don’t you, sweetheart? Get so lost in that pretty little head of yours when I’m making you feel so good.”

She’d been so distracted by watching his face, head spinning with his words, that she didn’t realise that he’d freed himself from his boxers until she felt the head of his cock nudging between her folds, gliding easily against her with the slick and spit collected there, and she mewled at the feeling, eyes squeezed shut as he nudged at her clit.

“Eyes open,” his hands left her wrists — which she knew now to keep still — and his fingers splayed across her jaw, squeezing unkindly until she looked up again. “Don’t make me tell you again. You wanna be good for me, don’t you?”

She nodded dumbly, sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth as he rubbed her clit with his cock. Teasing her. “Mhm, I will.”

“You will?” Sam gave her jaw one more squeeze, just for good measure, before he wrapped his fingers around the bare skin of her throat. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t put any pressure, just held her, but the threat was there. The head of his cock rested up against her slickened entrance as his head dipped down, lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “what’s your colour?”

They had a pretty rigid safe word system set out — it was something he went over with her every time they had sex, especially like this, when he was mean and grabby and knew that she wouldn’t like it every time. If she so much whispered the word red he’d be up and off of her before she could blink.

But all that left her words was a whiny, “Green, please Sammy.”

She felt his lips curve up against her ear as he smirked. “Good girl.”

Without warning he pushed into her and she sucked in a sharp breath, her own fingers grabbed at each other in an attempt to keep her hands still, and she shoved a breath out of her throat. He’d worked her open with his fingers when he’d been settled down between her legs, but she still felt the stretch, the burn as he settled his cock deep inside of her, and for a moment she had to remember to breathe back in.

“Fuck honey,” he grunted in her ear, fingers gripped her throat just slightly tighter, still only enough for her to feel pressure. “So tight for me, baby. Can barely take it, huh?”

He pulled back before he rutted back inside and she whimpered, squeezing her own fingers together so tightly so she didn’t break his rule. Needing to hold onto him somehow, though, her thighs clamped harshly around his hips, already trembly from the first orgasm he’d pulled from her.

He thrust in again, and again, and again, and soon she saw stars, gasping and whimpering with every drag of his cock against her gummy walls, pleasure rippling through her in waves that made her stomach clench, her cunt clamped down so tightly around him it was a wonder he could move at all.

“So noisy baby,” he crooned on a particular harsh thrust that made her whine, fingers a little tighter around her throat. “Can’t help yourself, can you?” He huffed with another thrust. “Need me to do all the work, hm? Greedy—” he grunted, “greedy girl.”

It took an embarrassingly short time for her to get close again. Sam was fucking her with determination, grunted every time he pushed himself back in, the head of his cock nudged the soft spongey spot inside of her that made her shudder again and again and again until she was a mess beneath him, lewd wet sounds accompanying her whimpers with each shift of his hips, her pussy fluttering around the stretch of his girth.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t ease up, didn’t give her a breather. She was close to tears by the time she was almost there, already sensitive from her first orgasm.

She clenched around him and his fingers, in turn, tightened on the sides of her throat. She trusted him, she knew he wouldn’t push it too far. Just enough for her to feel a little dizzy, for the bliss to wash over her like a high.

“Sam- mm- Sammy—” She was practically blabbering as her eyes filled with tears, gasping with each thrust, each smack of his hips against hers.

“Oh honey,” he cooed, condescending, mean. “Too much, hm? Need something?”

His hand loosened on her throat and she inhaled a little shakily.

“Please—” she whined, blinking through tears up at him. She didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes as the tears dribbled down her cheeks, but she knew that he knew she’d tell him if it was too much. It had happened before, neither of them messed around when it came to their safe words.

“Please what, huh?” He thrust in harshly and she groaned, cunt fluttering, so close— “Ah-ah, not yet. Don’t you need to ask me something, dolly?” He squeezed her throat once. “You remember what happens if you cum without asking, don’t you?”

Of course she did. The week prior she’d cum too soon, and he spent the next what felt like hours edging her, too skilled with his fingers, words too filthy that they made her head spin. He’d made such a mess of her that she hadn’t been able to even get up off of the bed for a little while after he finally let her cum.

“Mhm, mm, yeah—” she inhaled shakily, whining, thighs clamped tighter around his hips. “Please- please can I- please let me—” she groaned.

“Let you what?” He was dragging it out, the fucker, grunting into her ear as he leaned down over her, pushed his cock so deep her vision almost whitened out. “Tell me, honey. Use those words for me, c’mon.”

The tears were bubbling over faster, rolling down her flushed cheeks. “Let me cum, baby, please.”

“Asking so nicely,” he grunted, pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear. “How can I say no to something so pretty, hm? ‘Course you can, baby, go ahead.”

It wasn’t his words that did it for her, but the hand that snuck between them and pressed down on her stomach, the press of his cock suddenly so much more delicious that she almost fucking fainted.

She came with a breathless whine, hips jerked as she finally gasped a breath and whined again, her cunt throbbed around his cock as he kept pumping, rode her through it entirely. Her head tipped back, his mouth on her neck as her eyes squeezed shut, colours danced on the inside of her eyelids, her own little fireworks display.

Sam came shortly after, groaned into her ear in a way that almost made her cum again, and he rutted into her a few more times before he stopped, warmth spreading through her as he panted against her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he huffed, his own chest heaved, brushing against her bare skin. “Oh sweetheart.” The shift in his demeanour was palpable, soft kisses immediately littered across her shoulder and collarbone, palms flattened to smooth over her sweat-dampened skin. He could be so mean in the moment, so dominating and controlling that he left her a fucking mess underneath him, but afterwards? He’d probably feed her grapes and fan her if she asked him to.

She was still gasping for breath, head spinning, and when she knew she wouldn’t be told off for it her hands lifted, immediately clung to his warm shoulders. She loved the way his shoulders felt underneath her touch, muscles rippling with every movement.

Sam kissed up her throat and jaw before he landed on her mouth, and he kissed her slowly, huffed breaths into each other's mouths as he licked between her lips, sweeped behind her top teeth, their lips both wet with spit.

By the time he had pulled away, he’d so thoroughly kissed her that she almost had her breath back.

“You okay?” His voice was so soft it was like there was an entirely different person on top of her compared to five minutes prior. His hand left her throat, smoothed upwards and cupped her jaw. She felt him thumb away tears that had fallen, some clung to her eyelashes, somewhat cool against her hot and flushed skin.

She nodded as she stroked her fingertips along his shoulders with her fingertips, like she’d committed him to memory. She had.

“Hey,” he lightly tapped her cheekbone with his thumb. “Need words, honey.”

She couldn’t help her smile. He was so caring she sometimes wanted to cry. “M’okay,” she whispered, voice soft like she’d shared a secret. “Really good. You’re so good, Sammy.” She praised, tilted her head to kiss his wrist, and he smiled and blushed like he hadn’t just been the one to fuck the life out of her.

“Says you,” Sam leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You’re perfect. Love you,” another kiss. “Love you so much.”

She smiled so much her cheeks hurt. “Love you too.”

Sam smiled too, that soft smile that made his dimples peek out, eyes crinkled at the corners, and he stroked her cheekbone again. “M’gonna pull out, okay?”

Only when she nodded did he shift, slowly pulled his hips back until she was empty, until all she could feel was the wetness coated between her thighs.

“Christ, made a mess of you,” he murmured, not in the condescending tone from before, instead something closer to admiration. “You’re so pretty when you cum, y’know that?”

She blushed, hard, and shrugged as her cheek dipped to meet her shoulder.

Sam laughed, rolled his eyes as he leaned in and kissed her again. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

She was still blushing when he helped her sit up, fingers delicately curled around her elbows to pull her upright, her back also damp with sweat. They’d need to change the sheets.

“Two options,” Sam murmured as he gently stroked hair away that was stuck to her forehead, baby hairs that clung to her temples. “We take a shower and let me wash your hair and then go get food, or you let me run you a bath and you wait there looking all pretty for me while I get you something we can eat in there so I can dote on you.”

“You just wanna wash my hair huh?”

Sam smiled. “Guilty.”

Her fingers found his, intertwined with a squeeze. “Bath sounds nice,” she eventually settled on. “As long as you don’t take too long in the kitchen. I’ll miss you.”

He was laughing when he pressed another kiss to her mouth. “Of course. Promise to not take too long, okay?”

But when you guys started hunting together, that stereotype was beaten. Fine, Dean can be a bit of an asshole when he wants. And even if he treats women like he can handle every single one of them, he isn't the best example of responsibility in the world. But Sam? Oh, with Sam, things are pretty different. He is responsible, careful, respectful, everything a woman could wish for... And you were starting to take a look at that. How he always held the door open for you to pass, how he held your hand for support when you guys had to climb over anything taller than 5 feet, how he would carry you if you got hurt on a hunt... And so much more. Since the beginning, Sam caught your attention with his contagious smile and his way of wording everything just right. Plus his actions? That made you a little confused about your own feelings towards the man. When you noticed those small details more often, you knew it was too late. You were so into him. Of course you could mask it well in the beginning, since you were not the kind of person to make your taste for people obvious. If someone asked, you'd admit he was pretty much your type, but never to him. No, that would ruin everything you guys had built together. The trust between you two would be over if he knew a percentage of how much you noticed. Especially when Dean kept repeating that speech of "hunters don't date". He reminded you enough to make the mere thought of attraction to his younger brother impossible to act on. Recently, you caught yourself checking him out, and you were pretty sure it was so obvious. The idea of him catching you staring at his delicate touch on the books, his muscles that appeared clearly against the thin fabric of his shirt, the way his hands slid down slowly against your arms when he was worried... It was unbearable to not look. You just wanted to take him and– Your thoughts were cut. The sound of the clock hand ticking right upon you made your head shake slightly, blinking your eyes a couple times to put yourself back into reality. A soft rain fell outside the cozy room the three of you were staying in. Scanning the room with your eyes, you get a reminder of the current situation. You were nervous because Dean left to drink, and since you and Sam weren't feeling like it, the only option was staying alone with him in the room. You were sitting on the soft mattress, legs stretched over the bed, back against the wooden headboard, book in your hands that was abandoned for a good time since you zoned out in your thoughts. It was boring there except for the fact that you physically couldn't talk normally when you were close to him now. So, optioning for a break of your feelings, you stood up, calm steps over the room in your way to the door. Midway, Sam stopped you, calling out and looking at your direction. "Where are you going?" He asked calmly, waiting for your answer as he stared. You spun, looking at him with parted lips, raising your hand slightly to point your thumb at the door behind you. Your voice finally came out.

"Oh, I was just going on my way to get something to eat. Y'know." You say in a low tone, eyes slowly driving down to avoid his direct gaze. He notices, and there you think "yeah, it's over for me. He found out." But then, he replies with a laugh. A warm, unexpected laugh that makes your shoulders stiffen for a second, wondering if you sounded so pathetic that he was making fun of it. Your confused face makes him look up at you, shaking his head and not answering, making you ask.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's that you can't even look at me properly without staring." He says, and you wonder if this is just a really bad nightmare. Your eyes widen slightly for a second, brows furrowing in confusion as you look at him like he just said that Santa was real.

"...What are you talking about?"

"About your stares, obviously." He answers so casually that makes you wonder about how long he had been noticing.

"Stares...?" You act dumb, hoping he bites the bait. He doesn't. Instead, a small smirk grows on the corners of his lips, showing his dimples. You keep silent, not able to answer for a good five seconds of parted lips and overthinking.

"Yeah. You really thought I wouldn't notice." He stands up, making the situation even more intimidating for you. Your eyes quickly go up to his, trying to look for an excuse.

"Sam, it- it wasn't like that."

"Yeah? So, how was it?"

"I didn't meant to- to stare so... So–"

"So?" He cuts you off, smirk still on his face like you're entertaining him. It's certainly not funny to you.

"I-Im sorry. You can–" You cut yourself with a small gasp. "You can punish me for that..." You speak a little more fast, spitting words that just randomly come up to your mind. Sam seems to enjoy that.

"I can?" He doubts your affirmation. You nod, seeing him step closer to you, eyes wandering yours in a way that you couldn't quite describe.

"Yeah, we would have a great time togeth–" Sam cuts you off with a gentle press of his lips on yours, making you instantly melt against him. His hands take the lead, going on your waist and lower back, pulling you closer. Yours stand in the air until you feel his touch against you first, placing them on his neck and hair after.

His lips are soft and velvety, his movements are gentle, his tongue involves yours softly like you always dreamt of. This doesn't feel real, but it feels just like how you always imagined. Sam touches you gently, fingers pressing against your skin as you kiss him back almost desperately for good seconds. You two slowly split up, panting against each others mouths.

When Sam looks at you, he smiles. And then you notice, you finally notice. He's been mocking you, making you desperate over nothing. With that realization, you protest, flushed, but still (not) upset.

"You– You were teasing me this whole time!" The words come out of your mouth, making him instantly chuckle in response, seeing how long it took you to see it. Your silence makes him tilt his head slightly, fingers gently touching your cheek, sliding down your jaw as he answers.

"Okay, I teased you... But, you could've just told me, you know. Instead of... Staring at me everywhere." You feel your face heat, rolling your eyes at his jokingly tone. A soft sigh drops from your lips, the comfortable silence between you two making the atmosphere warmer. Lastly, Sam speaks in a low tone, smiling at you softly.

"Next time, just tell me what you need."

it’s nothing five star, certainly no cleaner than what you’ve seen in the past, but after the grueling hunt—a couple of stubborn poltergeists and a bunch of flying knives—you’re in need of something to soothe your muscles. and a gross body of water certainly feels like the right thing to dip your aching feet into.

“i’m grabbing three towels from the lobby,” dean says, a childlike grin on his face. 

sam stops him, looking up from his computer, “just get two, i’m stayin’ in.” 

“what?” you and dean both say simultaneously. 

sam looks between the two of you with furrowed eyebrows, “is this a surprise to either of you?” 

you roll your eyes, “come onnnn, sam. we just got done with a case and you’re already looking for the next one.”

“that’s because i don’t wanna catch some disease just because i’m bored,” he bears that know-it-all grin that erupts butterflies in your stomach and twinges an incessant need to slap it off him at the same time. 

“just come outside and enjoy some—” dean glances at the window, “—moon—whatever—just don’t be a grouch and get out there!” he reaches for the doorknob, “i’ll meet you there. you, too, sammy!” 

when the door shuts you turn back around to sam and cross your arms over your chest, tapping your foot, “so, what’s it gonna be? coop up in here or hit a midnight swim?” 

 sam sighs, defeated, “fine, i’ll go out, but i’m not getting in.”

the moon glows full in the pitch black sky, blending with the gross neon motel sign, its flickering M and T painting the pool a vibrant blue. there are some questionable stains on the pavement, and one visible from the bottom of the deep end, but it looks swimmable enough. 

soft rock music plays from a speaker somewhere, wrapping you in an embrace of nostalgia and something so winchester. 

sam’s leaning back in one of the flimsy plastic pool chairs, kicking his feet up and placing his hands behind his head, “maybe you’re right, it is kinda nice out here.” 

“it’ll be even nicer if you get in,” you tease, fumbling with the button on your shorts. 

you swear sam’s eyes find their way to your figure, growing wider as you slide the denim down your legs, revealing the black panties you wear underneath. 

your cheeks tint crimson as you feel his warm gaze on you, and pretending not to notice, you pull your shirt over your head, now exposed from head to toe, your bra—which doesn’t match at all—suddenly feels too scandalous for a pool. and now your heart starts to beat quicker, and—

“got the towels!” dean calls from behind you, startling both you and sam. you turn around as sam clears his throat, shaking himself out of a trance, “swimming in jeans, sammy?” 

“very funny,” he responds, narrowing his eyes. 

when dean lays the towels down, he quickly strips into his boxers, not wasting a second before cannonballing into the still water. you follow shortly behind, your underwear clinging uncomfortably to your now wet skin. the pool's temperature is a relief from the muggy summer night air, goosebumps crawling up the parts of you not submerged. 

you can already feel your tight muscles loosening—and dean’s rough swimming pelting water at your back—so much so, you throw your head back in pure bliss. 

“feels nice, huh, sweetheart?” dean says, brushing up against your forearm.

you nod, shutting your eyes, “hmm… just what i needed.” 

suddenly, your head breaks the water’s surface, and you’re pushed under. your eyes snap open in shock, but all you can see is the blurry underwater. you can hear muffled shouting before your shoulders are free and you spring back up. you gasp, whipping your now drenched hair as you spin around to dean, laughing so hard his face is pink. 

“what the hell!” you yell, rubbing your burning eyes. 

he struggles through his laughter to get words out, “you were flailing around like a fish down there!” 

your mouth parts in annoyance, you want to be mad but can’t bring yourself to be. the sound of such rare happiness warms your insides, and you huff a laugh, “sam, tell your brother that he almost drowned me!” 

“i tried,” sam says, and that’s when you notice he’s now standing by the edge of the pool, a crease of concern lingering in his forehead, but the ghost of a smile on his lips. your stomach flips. “dean, you almost drowned her.”

 “maybe if you were in the pool, you could’ve saved her,” dean baits, and sam’s face flushes. 

he chokes on his words, “you’re ridiculous.”

“not as ridiculous as you’re about to look,” dean says, and before sam has time to question it, he’s being snatched into the water by the bottom hem of his ragged jeans. 

a wave of water crashes against your face, but you unshield yourself quickly to catch sam’s surprised expression as he’s drenched in wetness. his button down has turned a dark, damp blue, clinging to the outline of his pecks, and his perfect wisps of hair stick to his neck and cheeks. 

you can’t lie to yourself and say he doesn’t look so good dripping wet like that. 

“i swear to god, dean,” sam threatens, “i will drown you!” 

“try it, sammy!” dean swims to the other end of the pool to escape his brother’s wrath. you watch from the edge, leaning against the pool wall as sam attempts to speed up. his clothes are obviously weighing him down, so an idea sparks to you. 

you move through the thick water to sam, stopping him by reaching for the buttons on his shirt. as he opens his mouth to question you, you shush him, “you’ll be faster without these,” and try to put on a brave face as sam’s eyes bore into you so intensely you’re drawn to meet them. and when you do, it’s catatonic. breathless as your fingers idly pop each button loose, a shimmering glint of confusion glowing in his eyes.

he’s still panting aggressively from the shock of the water, his soft lips tinted blue. you try to avert your eyes to anything other than his, but staring at his mouth isn’t a good idea, either.

he keeps you looking at him, his brows ever so slightly furrowed in bewilderment at your sudden boldness, but once the last button threads through, you’re hastily shrugging his shirt off his shoulders. you want to get his jeans, but you can already hear dean treading closer. plus, you don’t know if you’re brave enough for all that.

“alright, go!” you shout, queuing dean to start swimming faster. 

it takes sam a minute to break out of whatever trance he was in—hell, you both were in—but eventually, he starts towards dean, grabbing him playfully by the shoulders and pinning him underneath, just like you were. 

lighthearted giggles escape you and sam as dean tries to lift his head up, “oh, what was that, dean? i can’t hear you under all that water.” he laughs.

sam catches your face from across the pool, matching your smile. something twinkles in his eye. you catch it before it fades when dean grabs sam from behind the neck, flipping him under, too. 

you swim closer, attempting to hold dean’s large frame while sam grapples under the weight of his brother’s strong hand. “let him go, you monster!” you yell playfully, jumping onto dean’s back to take him down. 

sam manages to pop up, gasping for breath but grabbing your slick arm to pull you off dean and into him. your cheek is squished against his broad chest, water clinging to your lashes. your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, the leather belt still worn rough on your legs, while your arms circle his dripping neck. you can feel sam’s adam's apple bob at the movement.

dean tries to get ahold of you, but sam keeps you tight, and to keep yourself from crumbling under the weight of your crush, you try to focus on dean’s feeble attempts at shoving you under again. 

“i call a truce!” you call out, twisting in sam’s grip, “my savior has come!” 

“oh, yeah, just climb him like a tree, why don’t you?” he pants, shaking his hair like a wet dog. 

“whatever works,” you giggle, and when you turn into sam’s face, he’s already looking at you, eyes hooded with something indescribable, scanning every inch of your face as rivulets of pool water run down your smooth skin. “right, sammy?” you try and say, but it comes out breathless. 

"yeah," he nods, and suddenly the feeling of his warm body on yours in the ever chilling water is too much to ignore, now that the playing’s died down, “whatever works.” 

after the three of you get out, you all shiver underneath the poor quality pool towels as you make your way back to the room. sam is dying to get his damp jeans off his legs, and you’re dying for one more second against him, to feel his heartbeat against yours. 

sam, insisting to shower first—”it wasn’t my choice to get wet,”—”whatever you say, sammy,”—leaves you and dean sitting your damp bodies on the floor against the far right bed. 

“i’m happy we got him out,” dean says after a moment of silence, save for the low hum of the AC and the shower running in the bathroom. 

“yeah,” you agree, leaning back tiredly against the mattress, “me, too.” 

“y’know,” he starts, sitting up further, “it’s been a long time since i’ve heard him laugh that much.” 

your eyes open to look at him, prompting him to continue. 

“he laughs that much when he’s with you,” he says, sending you a rare, genuine smile, “i see it.” 

your heart blooms in your chest, pulse loud in your ears, “dean—” 

the shower stops and the bathroom door swings open, startling the words right off your tongue, “what are you two talking about?” sam asks nonchalantly, rubbing a towel against his noodly hair, damp on his forehead. 

you open your mouth to answer, to say anything other than, ‘we were talking about you loving me, or, something’ but dean speaks before you can. 

“i was telling her not to forget getting your jeans off next time,” he says teasingly, and sam stops in his trek to grab pajamas. 

“fuck off, dean,” he mumbles, embarrassed, but you swear you see the corners of his lips turn upward, just slightly. 

dean winks at you, and before he gets up to steal the shower, whispers in your ear, “he’s so in love, it’s gross.” 

you believe him when you catch sam’s eye twinkling at you again as the bathroom door shuts.

The first time you stopped by his office just to see him, he thought it would be quick.

A hello, maybe a kiss; a few stolen minutes before one of you had to leave again.

But then you sat cross-legged in the chair across from his desk while telling him about a girl in your literature class who cried because she spilled coffee on her laptop, and Sam found himself listening so carefully that he completely forgot he was supposed to be answering emails. After that, it became routine. Yours.

Now you show up between classes with sleepy smiles and stories about your day, and Sam—despite being a respected history professor with a terrifying amount of grading to do—starts unconsciously waiting for it.

“You’re late,” he says one afternoon, though his voice carries none of the sharpness the words should have. You pause in the doorway dramatically, one hand clutching your chest. “I was gone for six minutes longer than usual.”

Sam leans back slightly in his chair, trying and failing to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth. “Exactly. I was beginning to think you found another history professor.” You gasp softly, scandalized in the prettiest way possible. “Never. You’re my favorite one.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the open office door at that, instinctively cautious, before settling back on you again. “Careful,” he murmurs, lowering his voice slightly. “You keep saying things like that out loud, people are gonna start getting suspicious.”

You soften immediately at his tone, stepping fully inside before gently nudging the office door mostly shut behind you; not closed enough to look strange, but enough to give you a little privacy. “Sorry,” you murmur automatically, moving closer to his desk. “I forgot.” Sam’s expression changes instantly at the apology, warmth replacing the teasing almost immediately. “Hey.” His voice drops softer. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That.” He sets his pen down fully now, attention completely shifting to you. “Apologizing every time you say something sweet.”

Your cheeks warm up faintly at that, and God, he loves when you do that. Loves how easy it is to make you fuzzy, how your softness never feels performative or calculated. You’re just… genuinely sweet. Warm in a way that catches him off guard even now.

“I can’t help it,” you admit quietly, coming around the side of his desk until you’re standing close enough for his knee to brush your thigh. “You make me nervous sometimes.” Sam lets out a quiet breath through his nose, amused and fond all at once. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, tilting his head up to look at you properly, “you’ve been dating me for six months.”

“I know.” Your voice turns smaller somehow, shy despite yourself. “You still make me nervous.”

That does something unfair to him.

Sam reaches for you instinctively then, one hand settling gently around your wrist before sliding down until his fingers lace loosely through yours. “C’mere,” he says softly.

You go immediately, stepping between his knees without hesitation, your skirt brushing lightly against his legs. Sam’s hands settle carefully at your waist, familiar and warm, and the second he pulls you just slightly closer, your whole body relaxes. He notices that every single time; that unconscious softening whenever he touches you, like your body trusts him before your mind can even think about it.

“You have class in ten minutes,” he murmurs, though he makes absolutely no move to let you go. “Mhm.” You nod at his words.

“And you walked all the way over here just to see me.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches. “You’re clingy.” You blink down at him innocently, a ghost of a smile on your face. “You like it.” Sam actually laughs quietly at that, low and warm enough to make your chest tighten pleasantly. “Yeah,” he admits, fingers pressing slightly against your waist. “Yeah, I do.”

The relationship is ridiculous, honestly. Not the feelings: ever the feelings but just… the logistics of it.

The sneaking around, the stolen moments, the way Sam has to carefully school his expression during lectures whenever you walk in wearing soft pink sweaters and glossy lips and looking entirely too pretty for his own sanity or the way you have to pretend you aren’t completely in love with the man discussing nineteenth-century warfare while students around you struggle to stay awake.

And God, the office visits; those are the worst or the best part.

Sam still hasn’t decided.

Because every time you wander into his office between classes, carrying iced coffee or pastries or some tiny story you absolutely need to tell him, he forgets how to act normal for a few minutes. He stops being Professor Winchester and just becomes Sam again—your Sam, the one who kisses your forehead while reading essays, who keeps strawberry candies in his desk drawer because you like them, who listens with complete seriousness when you ramble about café playlists or pretty bookstores you found downtown.

Today, you’re talking animatedly about a tiny bakery near campus while perched on the edge of his desk, your legs swinging lightly as Sam pretends to organize papers beside you. “And they put little heart shapes in the whipped cream,” you’re saying earnestly. “Like actual little hearts. It was so cute.”

Sam hums like this is the most important information he’s heard all day. “Sounds life-changing.”

“It kind of was.”

“There she is,” he murmurs dryly. “The dramatic side finally comes out.” You nudge his shoulder lightly with your knee. “You’re mean.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You kissed me goodbye this morning and said my sweater made me look ‘dangerously adorable.’” Sam freezes for half a second, then slowly looks up at you. “You remember everything I say, huh?”

“Yes.” Your answer comes instantly, soft and honest. “Especially the sweet things.” Something in his chest pulls tight. You do that to him constantly without even realizing.

Sam steps closer before he can think too hard about it, one hand settling automatically against your thigh where it rests near the edge of the desk. There’s nothing sexual about it, no; it’s warm and lovely and sweet. His thumb strokes once through the soft fabric there, absentminded and affectionate, and your voice falters immediately.

His eyes flick up to yours, catching the way your lashes lower slightly, the way your fingers tighten faintly around the edge of the desk.

“You okay there, baby?” he asks quietly. You nod too quickly. “Mhm.” Sam smiles a little because you always do that when he affects you more than you expect. “You sure?” Your cheeks warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” You trail off helplessly, your expression growing more flustered under his attention. “Like you know things.”

“Oh, lovely.” His voice lowers, gentler now. “I do know things.” You duck your head slightly at that, and Sam feels unbearably fond all at once. He steps between your knees carefully, his hand sliding from your thigh to your waist instead. “You’re cute when you get shy,” he murmurs.

“You make me shy.”

“Good.” Your eyes widen slightly. “Sam!”

“What?” he asks innocently, though his hands are pulling you closer now, guiding you carefully toward the edge of the desk. “I like knowing I can still do that to you.” You let out the softest little laugh then, warm and breathy and embarrassed all at once, and Sam swears he could live inside that sound. “You’re impossible,” you whisper.

“And you still came all the way over here just to kiss me and tell me about your day.”

“…Maybe.”

“Maybe?” His eyebrows lift. You try to hold onto your dignity for approximately three seconds before failing completely. “Okay, yes,” you admit softly. “I missed you.”

God. Sam’s entire expression softens instantly. There’s something almost unfair about how openly you love him sometimes. How easily you say things like that. No games, no hesitation, just warmth offered so freely it leaves him a little stunned every time.

“C’mere,” he murmurs again, quieter this time. His hand slides gently up your side before settling against your jaw, thumb brushing softly along your cheek, and then he kisses you. It’s slowly and carefully like he’s savoring it.

You melt immediately, your hands finding his shoulders without thinking, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Sam kisses like he does most things—with intention. Just steady warmth and quiet affection that builds slowly until your heart feels too full to hold it all. You sigh softly against his mouth, and Sam feels it everywhere.

“Missed you too,” he murmurs when he finally pulls back slightly, his forehead resting briefly against yours. Your eyes stay half-lidded for a second longer before you smile, small and dreamy. “You’re supposed to be grading papers.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“You let me.”

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, brushing another kiss against the corner of your mouth, “I practically encourage it.”

You laugh quietly then, your hands smoothing absentmindedly over his shoulders while he keeps you tucked close between his arms. Outside the office, students continue moving through the hallways, voices drifting faintly past the door, the normal rhythm of campus life carrying on around your secret little world.

But in here, tucked into the warm quiet of Sam’s office with his hands steady on your waist and his mouth still lingering close enough to kiss again, everything feels softer somehow.

Safer.

Like love folded carefully into stolen afternoons between classes.

Mornings like this are rare. 

Hunting is all about movement. Whether that’s riding state-to-state in a car that’s seen far too many miles, sprinting through sketchy alleyways and rundown junkyards, or flipping through some old journal at three in the morning; it never stops. Not really. 

Usually, you’re awake by the time the first robin chirps out its morning song. The sun barely shining through moth-bitten curtains of whatever motel you’ve made your temporary palace of the week, crawling out of bed on sore legs and with dark circles that could rival a raccoons. Already digging through your duffle to reload your gun, sharpen your blades, or read through the newspaper clippings you snatched from the library.

That’s just how it is, when you dedicate your life to slaying monsters most people only see in their nightmares. 

But this morning? This morning, things are different.

You’re not shaken awake to pack your things and jump in the impala. Your eyes don’t shoot open the moment the sun breaches the horizon. 

Because the motel you’re staying in is warm. The covers are plush, and the blankets don’t itch, or smell like an old basement. You’re clean. Because the place actually had decent enough water pressure to shower not just yourself, but both Sam and Dean as well, without feeling like you’re being pissed on by a lukewarm stream. And, for once in your goddamn life, you have nothing to worry about. Not today. 

The hunts over. Some amateur vampire nest that was easy to track, and even easier to take down, leading to the three of you having downtime. Something unheard of in your line of work. And the best part? You’ve got nothing but a few sore muscles to keep you from really enjoying it.

So when you finally do stir, it’s not because of a worrying loud crash, or because your heart’s beating out of your chest. It’s Sam’s strong arm tightening around your waist, pulling your back closer against his chest. His big, warm hand had slipped under your loose t-shirt to splay his fingers wide along the bare skin of your stomach, tracing featherlight patterns on old scars and soft flesh. 

Sunlight beams through the curtains, casting a golden glow over your bodies, the subtle warmth heating your cheek where the light hits just right. You blink your eyes open just to spare a glance at the clock: 8:09. Huh. You slept in. Dean’s already gone.

And yet… you can’t bring yourself to move. Not when all you feel is Sam’s touch, so absentmindedly affectionate, sweet and as gentle as a feather stroke. He lets out a soft, content hum against your neck as he presses you impossibly closer, burying his face into your hair. His hold is tight, but not uncomfortable. Far from it. It’s steady, like an anchor, holding you in that pillowy state between sleep and consciousness.

You can tell that he’s not asleep. You’re tuned into everything Sam, all the time: you know that difference in his breath. The way it’s less shallow, deeper, and you feel that sweet way he nuzzles into the nape of your neck like he’s inhaling your scent that he finds so comforting. 

Neither of you speak. Instead, you pull one hand from where it was resting under your cheek, the other stationed beneath your pillow, fingertips brushing his arm wrapped so protectively around you. Running a soothing line along his heated skin, like you’re telling him you’re awake without words.

And that simple feeling of your touch, like a gentle caress, honey-sweet and laced with quiet affection? Oh, it has Sam smiling sleepily into the back of your neck, and you can feel the twitch at the corner of his lips. He presses his nose against the curve of your jaw like he’s tracing a map of you.

There’s an unspoken understanding between you both: Neither of you are ready to break the moment. Not yet. 

Not when times like this are so rare. Just the two of you, wrapped up in each other. It’s like balm to a wound you didn’t know was bleeding. So comforting and sure, wrapped in a domestic bubble neither of you want to pop.

Sam lets his lips brush over your neck, leaving feather-light kisses along your sensitive skin. He trails them from just below your nape, along your shoulder, up behind your ear, until he’s pressing reverent kisses to your jaw.

His hand slips from your waist, so damn slow, until he’s massaging tender circles into your sore hips. And holy Christ, you feel like you’re melting—and you’re too damn tired to repress the blissed-out sigh that escapes your throat.

You feel Sam’s lips curl into a small, satisfied smile at that breathy sound, like you’ve just exhaled the weight of the world that’s been pressing on your shoulders. He loves it. Love’s this. Not just because that noise means he’s doing something right, but because for once, there’s no blood on his hands, no clock ticking down to some disaster or apocalypse.

Just warmth. Just you. The woman he loves, wrapped tightly in his arms, alive and breathing.

His fingers keep working their slow magic over your hip. He knows just how hard hunting is on the body, after all. And when his lips find your pulse point, he lingers there for a second longer. Savouring the feeling of your heart beating beneath his lips. The soft press has goosebumps rising on your skin, that familiar, comfortable feeling simmering through you like an electrical current. 

 “…Morning,” he breathes, low voice still rough with sleep, and full of something quiet. Tender. 

“Mornin’,” you murmur, voice barely audible, your eyes fluttering back closed. It melts into another sigh when his fingers press into your flesh with just enough pressure, slow rolls of his thumb. Just enough to work those sore muscles, but never enough to hurt. 

He works over the aches with practiced care. He loves it: taking care of those pains, the injuries, the bruises, the scars no one else sees. Just taking care of you whenever you’ll let him.

He doesn’t stop those kisses, peppering them wherever he can reach. His tongue darts out, just once, tasting your skin just below the curve of your jaw. And God, the way your pulse jumps sends a sweet jolt through your nervous system.

“…Sammy?” you question, voice hushed, like speaking too loud might shatter the field of warmth the two of you have gotten lost in. “What’re you doin’…?”

He smirks all over again, and you can just imagine that sweet dimple on his cheek. Adorable and perfect. He chuckles softly, fond, like he’s savouring the way your body arches just slightly into him, every little sleepy reaction he can pull out of you.

“Touchin’ you. Makin’ you feel good…” he mumbles between gentle presses of his lips. “…Want me to stop?”

Stop?

You’re not sure you’ve hated an idea more than you despise that one. The feeling of his gentle lips on your neck, his big, skilled hands working against your tender muscles? Perfect. 

Your response is immediate.

“No,” you mutter, and as though to punctuate your answer: you tilt your head slightly, giving him more access.

His breath hitches, just slightly, at that silent offer. That small, wordless yes that unravels something quiet and fierce in him.

His lips follow the line of your jaw in slow, deliberate kisses, each one a little deeper than the last. When he reaches that spot just below your ear, the one he knows makes you shiver, he pauses… then nips lightly with his teeth before soothing it over with his tongue.

You can’t help the sound that slides out at that sharp sting before it melts right back into something so sickeningly sweet. And Sam loves that sound. So much so that he does it again, just once, before squeezing your hip with those nimble fingers just once, just to hear your pleased gasp. That hand slides slowly along your side, brushing the curve of your waist below your shirt, before trailing his fingers across your stomach. He flattens his palm there, feeling, and you hear the way his next breath almost shudders. His hand is like a brand, warm and possessive in its steady press, fingers tracing invisible lines.

It’s slow. Intimate. 

It’s all so soft. So much sweeter than usual, even with him. Slow and careful, like you have all the time in the world. And right now? You do.

He traces the dip of your waist, the crest of your hip, down your bare thighs, featherlight touch where your nerves are sensitive… before sliding back up to rest on your lower belly. That warmth combined with the soothing pleasure lolling you further to a state of bliss, your breath catching every time his fingers press with just a little more pressure.

It’s that. That little hitch in your breath, the way you arch into his touch, that silent, soft, near desperate plea, that’s like a damn spell on him.

Sam adores the way you respond to him. Always has. But there’s just something so addictive about those slow, quiet movements, when there’s nothing else to worry about than the ways he can make you shiver.

His lips linger over your pulse point, and when he speaks, his voice is like dripping honey—sweet and thick with need.

“Baby?”

You hum in response, low and gentle, and Sam almost loses it at the sound alone. It was all he could do to not surge forward, roll you on your back, and make good on his every desire. 

But he doesn’t. Because this morning? Neither of you crave fast, desperate friction. Just… this.

“This okay, honey?” he breathes, fingers sliding across your stomach, just a fraction lower, until they graze the little bow on your panties. “…Can I take care of you?”

And God, you can’t speak when he’s like this: so sweet and reverent and perfect, all his Sam Winchester warmth pressed against your back, touching you like he has to just to make sure you’re real. 

You can’t answer with words. But your hips shift on the plush mattress, your knee propped up just so, giving him access beneath that heavy blanket. And oh, if Sam’s breath doesn’t just deepen with that small, inviting movement.

He doesn’t rush. Can’t. Not when you’re offering him this; soft, trusting, open in the quiet light, just for him. His fingers tease along the edge of fabric, pinching that little bow with a breath that had to be a fond chuckle, cause God he just loves how sweet you are, before slipping beneath cotton and warmth. A single calloused fingertip traces delicate circles over your sensitive mound, featherlight at first… testing.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your neck, voice barely above a whisper. Still needing something. That real confirmation.

But even as he asks, he already knows the answer. 

You let out a shaky breath of your own at that first touch, not even pressing into your wet folds yet, just above—and your response is instinctive. “Yeah,” you sigh, hips pressing back against him. “Please.”

His chest rumbles with a quiet, satisfied hum against your back. That shaky sound, that hitch in your voice? Yeah. It all goes straight through him.  

His touch isn’t hurried. Still slow. Still maddeningly gentle. He drags that fingertip through your core, just once, collecting that slick that’s been collecting since that first sweet kiss, that wetness meant for him, and uses it to circle your swollen clit with delicate precision. Soft pleasure blooms in your core, sizzling beneath heated skin like embers in a wood stove.

Every twitch of your body, every silent arch or caught breath, he feels it all.

“So wet f’me already…” he whispers, lips pressing against your jaw as his thumb joins in, replacing those soft circles over that sensitive bud while that one finger teases lower, swirling around your soaked entrance, pussy fluttering like it’s begging to be stuffed. “You feel so good.”

He adds another finger, his index pressing along with the middle, and they circle once, twice, gathering more of that soaked arousal, and you’re already practically dripping for him. Slick painting your inner thighs and those soft panties, wetness sucking his fingertips in.

It’s like he’s teasing you, dragging those perfect, thick fingers right where you want them, without giving you what you need. But you know he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just so lost in the feeling of you: you wanting him. Needing him. So fucking wet, that his fingers glide through heat without a hitch. “Sam…” you whine, your hand finding his arm wrapped so tightly around you, fingers flexing on his bicep.

“Shhh… I know, baby.” Sam’s lips brush over a sensitive spot at the base of your neck, soothing over goosebumps, his teeth just barely scraping like he’s fighting to control himself.

Cause God, he can hear you. How soaked you are for him already. How your voice has already taken on a pleading edge. How your breath is coming short and sharp, how every muscle is taut with tension.

But he keeps his voice steady, firm, still rough with sleep and need. “Relax…” he murmurs, pants of his own warming the back of your neck. “Gonna take such good care of you…”

And fuck, if those coos don’t just drive you wild. 

They’re dizzying. The way his voice dips low, syrupy enough to give you a goddamn cavity. And those big, perfect hands? They don’t stop.

Your tight heat clenches around just the tip of his fingers like a promise, and the low groan he lets out that’s muffled by your hair tells you just how easily touching you takes him apart. He keeps up the soft, wet circles with his thumb, before dipping those two fingers inside.

He doesn’t push in fully. Not yet. Just curls his fingers slowly, teasingly, deep enough to make you gasp but not enough to give you what you really need. Not until he can draw it out, stretch it into something slow and sweet. Work you towards your peak so gently, until you’re shaking in his hold, and only he can put you back together. 

He keeps a steady rhythm on your puffy clit, the perfect contrast between soft circles and the slick drag of knuckles against your tight inner walls. Your body is still sensitive from lingering sleep, cunt fluttering around those fingers as each pump has stars glittering behind your eyelids. 

“Mmph—shit, that’s… don’t stop, Sam, fuck…” you puff out between gasps, pussy squeezing those thick fingers like you never want to let them go. 

He groans at that, rough and deep. Every shaky breath, every soft moan, every whiny plea makes him harder, but he holds back. Because this? Making you feel good? That’s more than enough for him. 

You’re like putty in his hands, panting with every sleek glide of his fingers, choking on barely-audible moans that have him pressing just a little harder. You can’t help it—your hips start to move, rocking gently against his hand. Not fast, not greedy, just enough to satisfy that intense craving for more. Fucking yourself on his fingers until the heel of his palm gets soaked right along with those digits.

Sam’s chest tightens at the sound of your mewls, raw and unfiltered, and when you start to roll your hips, slow and sweet on his hand, he lets out a shuddering moan into the nape of your neck.

“That’s it…” he whispers, encouraging, praising. “Take what you need. Fucking beautiful.”

He adds just a bit more pressure with his thumb as his fingers curl deeper, deliberate now, finding that spongy spot inside of you like muscle memory. Barely coherent ‘so pretty, baby,’ and ‘so fucking good,’ slipping from his lips absentmindedly, like he can’t help but praise. He rubs it with the softest push, again and again, each one drawing another shaky breath or half-formed whimper. The sounds between your thighs are slick and sopping-wet, his fingers absolutely coated in your arousal. It’s heavenly, heat pooling in your lower belly with each perfect crook.

Your body is running on pleasure-fueled autopilot, hips rolling against his hand so those thick fingers push deeper, and he finds a rhythm to match. Barely even pumping himself, just rubbing tight circles deep inside your pussy that have you gasping, your thighs trembling softly around his hand. 

It’s slow and sweet, but intense. Mind-numbing ecstasy until your body is threatening to burst. 

“I—mmph, fuck, ‘m close, Sammy…” you manage, tilting your head so your cries are muffled against your pillow, but oh, Sam doesn’t let you hide. 

He curves his body around you so he has better access to your jaw, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses everywhere he can reach until his peppering them to your cheek, your temple; that arm of his that was trapped beneath you snaking under your shirt to rest over your breast, squeezing soft flesh, rolling your peaked nipple between two fingers.

“I know,” he breathes, voice a sweet purr, low and steady like he’s holding you together with his voice alone.

His fingers don’t speed up. Wouldn’t. Not yet. He curls them deep, pressing just right against that spot inside of you that makes the soaked walls of your pussy tighten and your back bow against his chest. 

“Let go f’me…” he murmurs, nuzzling against your cheek, lips just barely grazing your skin. His thumb circles just a little harder, firmer now, building that heat and stroking it like a flame.

He’s all around you. His warmth, the solid strength of his body pressed against your back, one hand steady at your heart, the other working you into a blissful high, his pants warming your temple. It’s intoxicating in the best goddamn way, and the domestic-gentleness of it all has that all consuming pleasure peaking until you’re tipping right over the edge. 

It’s not shocking. Not overwhelming. It doesn’t make you scream or writhe or beg. But it’s blinding. Hot waves of bliss exploding in your core like firecrackers that sizzle through every limb, overcoming each sense in a way that has you feeling weightless as the waves continue to crest. 

“G-God, yes, fuck, Sammy—” you choked sobs come between pants, muffled only by the soft squelch of your wetness as your cunt pulses around his thick fingers, soaking the digits until they’re slick and glistening between your thighs. He whispers sweet praises into your ear as he works you through it, not stopping for a second.

He holds you through every wave, tightening his arm around your waist, pressing sweet, wet kisses to your shoulder, your hair, everywhere he can reach. He can feel every tremor, every sensitive flutter as you come apart so fucking beautifully in his hands. Not frantic or desperate, but deep, a release that comes straight from the soul.

“That’s my girl… s’fucking perfect, y’know that? God, I love you…” he rambles, voice thick with pride and something quieter. Something tender that almost sounds like awe through broken lust-clouded praise. 

His perfect hand stays steady: long fingers still curling gently through the slick heat of your fluttering pussy, prolonging the aftershocks with slow circles with his thumb and soft presses until every last shiver has run its course. 

“L-love you s’much, fuck, Sam…” you’re cut off by an almost pathetic sob as your cunt pulses around his fingers, just teetering on too much.

It’s then, and only then, that his fingers slip free with a filthy pop, your thighs squeezing his hand, trapping the slippery digits between soft flesh. He rubs gentle circles there, thumb teasing your inner thigh, before sliding his hand from your trembling hold, pressing his palm against your lower belly again. And God those fingers are still so soaked, it’s almost erotic.

Warmth blooms from deep in your core through every nerve, reducing you to a panting puddle in his arms, and fuck, you’re so pleasure-drunk that you can’t move. Not when his sweet fingers go right back to rubbing soothing patterns along your stomach like he’s just trying to coax you into some soaking mess. 

He’s all around you, and Christ, there’s no denying just how much you’ve affected him. He doesn’t hide it, can’t, not when your body is still humming from his touch, and he’s holding you so close that he can feel every heartbeat. His heavy cock is pressed so goddamn tight against you that you can feel your still-sensitive cunt clenching greedily around nothing. 

His hips shift, just slightly, a quiet breath escaping his lips as his undoubtedly hard length brushes against your lower back, just above the soft curve of your ass. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind. just presses, like any bit of contact can sate that ache for a moment longer.

He mouths at your exposed throat still, sweet and hot, like his thick cock isn’t pulsing against you through thin fabric. So fucking patient, even now. But Sam’s always been far more patient than you. 

So you can’t help it, not really, when you press back against him so softly, just to feel his breath stutter against your neck. Not when you’re pretty sure you’ll just die if he doesn’t bury that perfect, fat cock in your aching pussy as soon as goddamn possible. And when he pauses mid-kiss, a soft moan spilling into your ear? Yeah. That’s it. You grind your ass against him all over again, more deliberately this time, a rough groan ripped from his chest when your soaked-through panties stick to his boxers for a fleeting moment. 

“Fuck…” he breathes, cock twitching against your heat, lips parting as his fingers flex on your stomach.

But he doesn’t stop you. Can’t bring himself to. Not when he’s just as quietly needy as you are. 

Instead, his forehead drops to your shoulder, eyes squeezing shut when you roll back again, slow, maddening, rubbing that heat right where he aches the most. His cock throbs against your ass with every roll of your hips, and fuck, each of his pants come more ragged than the last.

“Can—can you turn ‘round, baby?” he whispers after a moment, the deep rumble vibrating against your skin. “Needa’ see your pretty face.”

Christ.

The words are so sweet, so natural coming from his tired lips, and yet, they make your chest feel tight in the best goddamn way. And fuck, if it doesn’t just make your pussy impossibly wetter.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, he already knows. He uses one big hand to roll you onto your other side, thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. 

Your eyes finally meet his, those hazel depths swirling with sickeningly-sweet love, and the smile that finds your lips is entirely involuntary—one that he returns with soft eyes and those pretty dimples.

Your mouth finds his without another thought. Sam melts right into the kiss, soft, deep, and so needy, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious.

His thumb brushes your cheekbone as your hips press together, his cock thick and hot against your belly, your soaked cunt squeezing around nothing. You rock forward again, just slightly, a low groan rumbling from his chest. Because Jesus, the friction is almost maddening.

His hand slides down again, gripping your thigh with steady fingers, gentle but sure, as he hitches it over his hip so your bodies fit even tighter together. He kisses you, slow, deep, and hungry, tongue slotting itself between your parted lips, you let out a low moan into his mouth; one he swallows eagerly. And when you grind against his length again, your fingers teasing the waistband of his boxers?

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your lips. “You’re sure?” he asks, voice hoarse. Still so careful, even now.

“Yes. Always. Please, Sam,” you murmur, and just like that: you can see him give in.

He lets out a shaky breath as he pushes those boxers down, freeing himself, his throbbing cock slapping against his taut abs with an intoxicating slap. His hand wraps around himself, stroking once, twice, slicking the length of his dick with the pre-come already beading at the tip. Your mouth fucking waters at the sight, and God, you want nothing more than to drag your tongue along that perfect pink head, trailing along that one strong vein that goes all the way down…

“Christ,” he groans low, hips twitching forward in his own grip. “You’re gonna give me an ego, baby. Lookin’ at me like that…”

“Can’t help it. You’re fuckin’ perfect, Sam,” you say softly, saliva pooling behind your teeth, because God he’s just a sight. 

But still, even through the teasing, he takes his time.

Guided by primal instinct and pure need, he shifts just enough to line himself up, pulling your ruined panties aside, the plump head of his cock spreading your sensitive folds, as he starts to push inside your dripping cunt.

Slow, deep, and perfect.

“F-fuck…”  he drops his forehead to yours, eyes squeezing shut as your pussy sucks him in, one thick inch at a time. “Takin’ me like you’re made for me, huh?”

That familiar stretch consumes your senses, because holy hell, no matter how many times you take him—he’ll always be fucking massive. So full that you feel like his fat cock head is teasing your lungs by the time he’s barely fully seated. But God, you’re so damn soaked for him, that your cunt just sucks up every inch. 

He lets you adjust for a beat, even when the way you’re pulsing around him is all telling, and he kisses you then. Open mouthed, all lazy teeth and tongue, too tired and too pussy drunk to quite keep up. But when he pulls back, he rolls his hips once, and holy fuck your eyes just about roll back.

it’s small and sweet, a gentle drag, pulling back until just the tip is covered by your slick lips, before pushing back in until your pelvis meets his in one smooth glide. “God, jus’ like that, fuck, Sam…”

Your breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, each one brushing his sex-swollen lips as he moves, slow and deep and perfect.

He drags his cock through that slick heat until his hips meet yours with a soft, wet sound, your combined arousal now coating his thighs, too. He keeps it oh so gentle, a steady rhythm of deep, aching thrusts that have you arching in his hold, pleasure exploding in your core, sizzling down to your damn toes. And the way you clench around him each time he bottoms out? Sam almost loses it. 

“You like that?” he gasps, his cock practically splitting you open with each purposeful thrust, his big hand pawing at your lower belly like he’s trying to feel the swell of him beneath your skin. And fuck, he’s so thick, that you can practically see it when he hits deep. “Like it when I go slow, baby? Stretch you out? Fuck you so deep that you feel stuffed?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes, Sammy—” 

The sounds that slip from your lips are almost embarrassing, whines and whimpers that you’re too lightheaded to contain. But God, the way he’s moving so slow, moving you on his cock like you weigh nothing, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in… it’s fucking intoxicating.

The angle lifts that thick blanket just enough so you can tilt your head, looking down, and fucking Christ, you almost come right there. Watching his lengthy cock disappear inside your sopping cunt, so goddamn slow, until you can almost see that bulge beneath your skin as his palm flexes against your belly. “Oh, fuck…” you moan at the sight, your hole squeezing around him as a shot of heat pulses through you.

Sam notices, of course he does, and his entire body damn near shudders at the way your lips part, watching his cock stuff you to the brim. His hips stutter forward, just a little harder this time, as he pulls your trembling leg higher on his hip, opening you even wider. 

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasps, peppering a sweet kiss to your hair, fingers digging into your hips. His thrusts stay slow but they gain weight, each one forcing your body to rock against the mattress. “Shakin’ all for me, aren’t you? My girl?”

And holy shit, you nod so goddamn fast, you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. You can feel it building, the heat climbing up your spine, the pull low in your gut—and biting your lip can only keep so many sounds contained.

That angle change? Exactly what you needed. It has that upward-curve of his perfect cock sliding against your g-spot with every push, every pull, pleasure spreading deep inside of you like liquid fire. His bulbous tip hits—right there—and your vision goes entirely white. “Ah—! Right… right there, Sammy, mm—”

And just like that? He shifts your hips with purpose.

Tilting you back with those big man-paws so every thrust lands so deep that you can taste it. So precise, that thick curve dragging against that electrifying spot exactly. Not fast. Not wild. But relentless.

“Yeah?” he pants, rolling his hips with a little extra drive, the kind that makes your breath catch with an ‘oh!’ and your nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulder. “That good, baby?”

His hand slides from your hip to cup the back of your thigh just below your ass when you nod again vigorously, unable to speak, only whimper pathetically. He holds on tight while those deep, sweet strokes keep coming, slower than ever, because to him? Nothing feels better than making sure you shatter one more time before he lets himself go. 

With how sensitive you already were, all it takes is a few more of those heavenly thrusts for you to break. 

Toes curling beneath the sheets, your forehead falling against his shoulder, tight cunt pulsing and tensing as each wave of euphoria rolls through your entire body. Your inner thighs shake, you bite your lip hard enough to damn near draw blood, and Jesus, the string of moans that slip out are barely human.

“Yeah… fuck, look at you, s’pretty, baby. Right?” Sam coos, syrupy sweet and honey thick, his puppy eyes dark with intense desire. “All—all f’me, huh? F-fuck, ‘m so…”

He holds you through it, so goddamn gentle, arms locking around you like he’ll never let go as your moans slip into the crook of his shoulder, muffled and sweet and so fucking loud for the near-silent room. Each pulse of your core milks him deeper, dragging broken groans from his chest that he can’t quite stop. “Squeezin’ the hell o-out of me, God, honey…”

When your breathing slows, intense pleasure giving way to that relaxed, floaty state that only comes from blinding euphoria. Sam stays buried deep, one hand finding your cheek, guiding your forehead to rest against his, pressing a sweet kiss to your nose.

You feel like you’re on cloud-fucking-nine, dazed and flushed, still so full of his thick cock, your fluttering walls sucking him in. It takes you a second to come back, because Christ it’s like you’ve just died and went to heaven, but when you do, your breaths come ragged against his lips. 

“Don’t… don’ stop, baby,” you plead, voice undeniably wrecked. “I can take it. Please?”

His hips twitch at your words, and he sneaks another kiss, right next to your mouth this time. Gentle. Sweet. And when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are so fond that you could almost come all over again. “Y’sure?” He asks, voice barely audible over your pants. “Sure you’re not gonna pass out on me?”

The tease comes with a breathy chuckle that holy shit only makes you wetter, but it’s still laced with that quiet concern he always holds for you. “Sam,” you hum, shifting just enough to feel him pulse inside you. “Please. ‘M not made of glass. Promise.”

It doesn’t take any more convincing.

Sam’s hand tightens around you, his lips finding your cheek to press more of those heart-melting kisses, and his hips move again. Not fast. Not hard. But that same slow, deep roll that makes you both gasp, cause Jesus you’re even more sensitive now.

“Can you—God, l-look at me, baby?” he groans through gritted teeth, each thrust making him shudder harder than the last. Sweat beads at his temples, jaw clenched tight as white-hot pleasure claws at his gut. “Wanna see those pretty eyes. Fuck—”

He lifts that shaky hand, guiding your face to look at him, thumb warm on your cheek. And the second he sees you, eyes meeting his? It hits him. A sharp pulse low in his spine, and suddenly, there’s no more words.

Just a broken moan against your cheek as his hips sputter once, burying himself deep in your soaked cunt, his body locking up as hot ripples of pleasure spill from him in pulses. Your nails claw at his shoulders, your lips parted in a silent ‘fuck’, because holy hell. Seeing him like that, face screwed up in ecstasy, filling you up with slick heat that comes in waves… yeah. You’re pretty sure that you do black out for a second. 

Sam practically pets you through his peak. Those big hands scooping handfuls of you—your waist, your ass, your thighs, before his fingers slide into your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you back in for an open-mouthed kiss. Neither of you can keep up… and neither of you care.

He pulls away only to press more gentle kisses to your face, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, your eyes fluttering right back closed. 

He’s still filling you up to the hilt. The mess between your thighs is spilling onto the sheets. Your bodies are sweat-slick and hot. Coffee won’t make itself—and the free breakfast is over at eleven.

But mornings like this are rare. 

So why waste it?

AN: Ah! Finally finished this one… and on to the next!

Little fact about the title—it’s based on a song by Black Sabbath (though, the Pantera cover is my favourite), about two lovers floating through space 🖤 thought it was sweet.

To the people who sent me requests (four of you now, wow!) I see you, and I’ll be working on them! I’m going to make a post about requests soon with guidelines and what-not, but as of now, they’re all amazing.

Anyone in a bar or a hunter's safe house who knows about the Winchester boys tells a similar story; they only get rougher as they get older. Dean's a bit of a local legend, with the way he shows up to hunts in his black Impala and leather jacket, always carrying the faint scent of smoke and beer like it's part of his soul. He's got a purpose to his stride that says he owns any room he walks in to; he has authority, charm, just enough of that intoxicating energy to make him seem a few years younger. He's even starting to go grey at the temples, something most hunters never get to see. That alone is ego-boosting. That, and the fact he still has no problems picking up a night with whomever he pleases, although his advancements have toned down over the years.

Sam's supposed to be like him, at least, according to the hunting circle. He's the master of the lore, knowledgeable in anything older than a couple hundred years. You'd be hard-pressed to find something he doesn't know, even rarer so that he wouldn't be able to find it for you. He's got connections hunters would sell souls to have. With his imposing stature and those broad shoulders that look like they could rival Atlas for the weight of the world, there's no hunter that wouldn't want him on their side. Samuel Winchester, protégé to a witch, the boy who survived demon blood and psychic visions, is a hunter’s secret weapon.

According to the local hunter lore, Sam's only supposed to get tougher as he ages. He's in semi-retirement now, taking the rare hunt to help a new up-and-coming hunter, maybe the occasional trip with Dean for old time's sake, but mostly searching out information for those who ask for it, like some kind of oracle. He practically lives in the bunker library, holed up between the shelves, finding all there is to know about the most obscure monsters; he's got a trivia streak at the local roadhouse that spans the last 5 months, and he's not about to lose it any time soon.

So why is Sam, the man who's saved the world, who's died and come back more times than he can count, standing with his chest pressed to your back and his arms looped around your waist while you make coffee? Because little do they know, Sam's gone soft since it all ended, especially when it comes to you.

Other hunters know plenty about you. You've got a reputation almost more widespread than the brothers themselves. You're the only one who routinely puts Dean in his place; the only one besides Sam and Jody he actually listens to. If Sam's not available, you're the next phone call for a lore check or a steady gunshot or even just a comforting shoulder to cry on. There’s whispers that Sam had finally settled down with someone, but nobody's expecting it to be you, because it seems improbable that two hunters, let alone two who saved the world, get to have a happy ending. Those just don’t come often in this line of work, seemingly more fictitious than the demons they chase.

When it's you and him in the bunker though, his facade drops. Gone is the man of legend who's very name makes bars fall silent as someone starts telling a story. Gone is the man who hustles games of pool or darts for nothing more than bragging rights. According to the regulars, he only takes your money if he doesn’t like you. Stay on his good side, and you'll be great. He’ll sit in his favourite shadowed corner of the roadhouse with you, arm slung around the back of your booth, and he’ll entertain the hunters who seek out his stories, but he mostly keeps to himself.

Where no prying eyes who have knowledge of his name can see what he does, he's hopelessly attached to you. Chest to your back while making coffee, head in your lap while reading lore, arms locked tight around you while you sleep, because you're so warm. Because he's got something good now, and he'll fight tooth and nail to keep the world from taking you away.

This morning, he's soft. Sam doesn’t get nightmares much now that he knows he's safe, but that makes them hit him extra hard when they do happen. Last night, he'd had one that had kept him up almost until the sun rose, hands trembling each time he tried to close his eyes and fall back asleep. Now, he's feeling the effects, and he'll be damned if he lets you out of his sight today.

He looks gentle, rumpled and domestic in a way he never used to be. His hair's a little tangled, falling across his face where it rests on your shoulder. His eyes are half-closed, eyelashes brushing his skin where they flutter on each inhale. The scruff he's been growing tickles your neck, and while it certainly seals the rough n tough reputation, you think it just makes him all the more loveable. Your fingers trace the patch at the hinge of his jaw that's gone silver, and he sighs into your touch like it's the air he breathes.

Sam's in a sleep shirt that's worn thin from years upon years of washing. It's the kind of soft that doesn’t really keep the cold away but feels like safety and a comforting hug in the toughest of times. You can see the faint outline of his muscles through the grey fabric, and the feathery brushings of a happy trail are visible, stretching from his middle down to the waistband of his sweatpants. Soft, gentle, completely at peace for the first time in a long time.

"You look comfortable," you murmur, careful not to speak too loudly and break the moment.

"I am," he replies, low.

"Good. You deserve it."

He smiles against your neck, inhaling the traces of your soap. "So do you, love. We both do."

The coffee seems to take longer to brew than usual, as if the world itself is covering itself in its scent. The steady drip of the machine is in time with Sam's heartbeat, persistent and even, predictable and constant. Your mugs on the counter reflect the overhead lights, casting light shadowed halos onto the surface. Your hand nudges Sam's cup closer to yours until the shadows touch, melding together until you can't tell where he stops and you begin.

When the coffee’s done, Sam takes it upon himself to pour it, making sure not to spill a single drop onto the counter. He’s tender as he puts the sugar in, stirring it to deliberately make sure the spoon doesn’t clink against the ceramic walls of the mugs. Handing it to you sends light tingles through your fingers, and the kiss he presses to your cheek as he does makes you grin. He sits beside you at the table, elbows resting on the wood and head tipped to look at you, studying the way your eyes seem to glow with life under the kitchen lights.

There, under the steady persistence of his gaze, you wonder where the line between private and public started to blur. For the longest time his touches were saved only for motel rooms or bunker hallways, hands kept kindly to himself on hunts with the sort of restraint that drives you insane. Somewhere along the line, he switched to simple touches where eyes could see; a hand on the small of your back leaving crowded bars, lacing his fingers through yours on the trip from motel to library, brushing your hair from your face when the wind blows it around. Sam’s always kept it light, and even now despite most hunters knowing you’re close, he never lays a finger on you in roadhouses, even if it’s just a squeeze of your hand.

At home, in the bunker where he’s safe from the dangers of the outside world, he doesn’t have to hold himself back. Sure, Dean still teases when he catches you wrapped in each other's arms on a couch, but it comes from the kind of appreciation for the small things you can only get from losing everything else. Sam’s touches are unrelenting, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops, and it makes you feel wanted and loved in a way you’ve never been before. It takes everything in him to stop himself from resting a hand on your thigh in bars or kissing your cheek when you win darts. It’s even harder to keep himself from kissing you deep enough to taste your drink on your tongue when you leave to speak to a friend. He wants the world to know, he really does, but somehow his reputation of the jaded one holds him back.

The morning passes slow and calm, the bunker left to only you and Sam. Dean’s in the garage fixing something that probably doesn’t need to be fixed, but he needs to keep his hands busy while he waits for a hunt to make its way to you. After your coffee is gone and Sam’s helped you do the dishes left over from last night, he follows you down the hall, hand in yours and socked feet thudding lightly on the floor as you gather your things for a shower. He joins you, of course, because he can’t not join you. Sam helps wash you, savouring the way the scent of your soap permeates his skin too, like it’s claiming him as yours. It only gets a little frisky, nothing more than lazy, open-mouthed kisses along lips and jaws and soft collarbones.

By mid-afternoon, Dean’s started to go insane from being cooped up inside, forgoing his distractions with the Impala and instead taking her out to scope out a possible hunting ground. You and Sam had shared a glance when he left, one that says finally, because a Dean who’s stuck inside with nothing to occupy himself with is a Dean that gets very annoying, very quickly. Sam and you, on the other hand, are plenty content to sit in the library or your room and laze around, reading books or talking about whatever comes to mind, or simply just existing. It’s a simple miracle now that you have the time to take in the small parts of life; the extra minute to let your tea steep long enough, the longer showers that are for leisure instead of removing monster guts, the simple fact of reading novels over leather-bound tomes. It’s what you deserved to have years ago.

Sure enough, like clockwork, as soon as your back hits the couch and you settle into your seat with a book in hand, Sam migrates toward you with the casual pull of someone who can’t keep himself away. He retrieves a hunting journal left behind for your perusal by someone who’d come through last week, the book seeming small in his large hands. He sits shoulder to shoulder with you on the couch, flipping through the pages much faster than normal, even for him. You catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re reading, eyes darting away when you notice.

“You gonna actually read that?” you tease.

“Hm? I- I am reading.”

You quirk an eyebrow, and Sam flushes light pink.

“Uh huh.”

“Ye- Wh- I am!” he finishes indignantly.

You chuckle, brushing hair from his face. “Come here.”

He grins brightly, eyes widening until he’s sporting that familiar puppy-dog look. The one that’ll make you do just about anything for him, because he looks at you like you’d made the sun and the moon and the entire planet earth just for him and you to live on. It’s the expression that says he’s hopelessly in love with you, and the one that pleads for you to never let him go, and the one that begs for your love and affection in the smallest spaces between breaths.

Sam slides down the couch, angling himself until his legs are propped up on the far armrest and his head is square in your lap, pillowed by your thighs. He hums contentedly as he settles further, letting you untuck the hair from behind his ears and under his head so that it fans over your legs. Picking up the journal again, he motions for you to bend down and gives you one tender kiss to your lips when you do. Burying himself in the words this time with a smile on his face, you pick up your own novel and let yourself get wrapped up in the story.

You feel Sam’s breath hitch momentarily when your hand drifts to his hair, then you feel the way he sighs deep when you keep it there. The soft sunlight flooding into the room is incomparable to your fingers tangling in the strands as you read and his heavy warmth in your lap. At some point your novel is forgotten on the table at your side, and his journal is abandoned on his chest, rising up and down with his steady breathing as his eyes drift shut.

“You still awake down there?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” Sam says before immediately getting cut off by a yawn. “I’m awake.”

You stifle a laugh, grinning as his eyes flutter closed again and he sights softly through his nose. “You’re allowed to nap, you know. You had a rough night last night.”

“’M not tired though.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Sam’s about to complain again when your fingers start combing through his hair, spreading it out over your thighs and letting it fan into something akin to the edge of a feather. Each pass of your hand detangles it some more, and with each movement, Sam slips further into sleep. You pay special attention to the strands that are starting to grey; the way they’re threaded through everything else gives him the impression of being lined with starlight when he’s in the sun or the faint neon of the roadhouse. His expression softens, relaxing completely as he drops off into sleep in your lap, one hand curled lightly against your leg, nightmares far out of reach.

He wakes gently a few hours later, blinking against the lamplight and sitting up with a yawn. He’s still a little drowsy as he stretches his arms over his head, undoing the tension from his neck, but he gets up anyway because he wants to help you make dinner. Even if he’s doing nothing more than chopping vegetables and adding them into the dish, it makes him feel useful, like he’s capable of more than just murder and misery. In your hands, in your world, he can do anything. All the soft touches he’s never felt before comes naturally when it’s you, because you round his sharp edges and make him feel safer, better, more like the Sam he used to know.

You go to the roadhouse with Sam in the late evening, because he tells you he wants to go for a walk and maybe stop in for a drink. You know what he really wants; to check in on another hunter and make sure she’s okay. She’s maybe twenty-five or so, short but strong, built stocky and tough from horrors you can’t even begin to imagine. You’re not really sure what dragged her in to the life, but what you do know is Sam’s taken her under his wing, giving her advice and checking up on her every once in a while.

He’s dressed in his dark flannel, the scruff on his jaw making him look wise and strong like something right out of a legend. His jeans are tattered, but it’s only a hunter’s roadhouse, and nobody else is bothering with nice clothes for what’s mostly just checking nobody’s dead and taking a few shots. You’re dressed in one of his t-shirts tucked into your jeans, and the hands that hold each other are both adorned with the same bracelet; a black beaded one with a silver clasp and protection symbols carved into the beads. An anniversary gift that functioned as a physical memento of your undying love, since you and Sam had mutually agreed that marriage was overrated. They’ve never been worn in public until right this very moment, despite being on your wrists in the bunker for a little over two years.

The little bell over the door rings when Sam pushes it open, holding it for you as he follows you in with a hand on the small of your back. The man behind the bar gives Sam a kind smile and a nod, already pushing a glass of whiskey in his direction. He takes it, raising it in a faint toast before guiding you to his preferred table that no one else takes because they know it’s Sam’s. You slide into the booth first, cracked vinyl sticking to your jeans as you settle in. Sam follows after a healthy conversation with the hunter he'd come to see, setting his whiskey on the table between you and stretching his long legs out under it, hands folded on the tabletop as he surveys the room.

The grey in his hair looks like thin stripes of sunshine under the yellowed roadhouse lights, like some god took the liberty of decorating him with the finest of stars. That same yellow makes his eyes look alive too, the hazel and green mixing together until they make some colour you’re not quite sure of, but one that’s so uniquely Sam you’re certain you’ve been seeing it all your life. He catches you looking at him and a fond smile spreads across his face.

“What?” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

“Nothing. Just you.”

He dips his head, hair falling in a gentle waterfall over his features, the ends tickling the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. “Just me, huh?”

You reach up to part his hair and see his beautiful eyes, and to your mild surprise, he doesn’t shy away from your touch. He leans into it, becoming completely loose and malleable in your palms, letting you move him every which way.

“Yeah. Just you.”

Something about the way you say it makes him melt entirely. His shoulders slump, eyes softening, the hard line of his brows disappearing the longer he looks at you. He looks softer, younger, like the hardest years of his life never happened. For just a split second you see young Sam with his doe eyes and bangs sitting beside you, all excited energy at the world he has yet to discover. You blink and Sam as he is now has a smile curving on his lips, turning up the corners as his eyes wander over you.

“You look nice,” Sam says, like the fact is as simple as breathing, like it doesn’t make your heart drop to your stomach to live with the butterflies.

“So’re you, you know. Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

Sam blushes so deep you can see it despite the fact your table is mostly shadowed. The mole under his eye stands out against his pink cheeks, and you lean in quick to give it a soft peck. That alone makes Sam smile widely, his dimples peeking out from under the scruff. Such a simple thing, the movement of muscle and skin, and yet it’s the thing you think of the most about him; the way his dimples appear when he’s around you. He takes your hand that has the bracelet in his with the matching one and kisses the back of it, the beads clicking together in the melody of your love in the process.

Sam’s back to nursing his whiskey, the burn a welcoming gentle touch to the evening. For once, he doesn’t think about how he used to use it to clean wounds when there was nothing else. He only thinks about the spice and the smokiness and the way the bartender knows the amount of ice to put in, because Sam takes it the same way every single time. When you stand and slide out of the booth, he grabs your wrist, expression one of slight concern.

“Where’re you going?” he asks.

“Bathroom. I’ll be back, gimme a few minutes.”

He nods, something flickering across his expression before he tugs you back toward him and cups your cheek with his hand. The beads of the bracelet are cool on your skin as he pulls you down, stopping only when his lips meet yours and his tongue sweeps gently at the seam. He tastes like whiskey and the light taste of the roadhouse; dust and alcohol-soaked wood, but also good memories and kind people and the kind of love only you share. He parts when your lips tingle, giving you one final peck before letting you go off to the bathroom. It’s a little out of character, but the fact he’s decided he’s comfortable enough with you to get the world know he’s yours making unbridled joy leap in your stomach.

When you return, you’ve just slid back into your seat when there’s a timid clearing of a throat across from you. Looking up, you see a kid barely old enough to be in a bar standing nervously before you, hands twisting in his jacket hem and eyes cast to the ground.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, quietly so as not to startle him.

His eyes dart up and back down again, a nervous laugh cracking from his throat.

“I- I’m sorry to bother. I’ll just- go…back…” he trails off.

“It’s alright man, you can tell us,” Sam says gently. He has this voice that seems to calm down every poor frayed victim’s nerves, and clearly, it works with shy young hunters too.

“I just-. It’s kind of…strange, I guess. Or creepy but not like, on purpose creepy. Just noticing things creepy and like, watching people, but I promise it’s not-.”

Sam huffs a soft laugh, reaching out a hand and patting the kid’s arm. He’s not really a kid, you suppose, but he looks so young and baby-faced it breaks your heart to see him in a bar full of hunters. What his story could be, you have no idea, and some quiet part of you doesn’t think you want to know.

“Talk to me,” Sam says. “What’s got you so worked up?”

The kid clears his throat again before speaking. “It’s uh…I was over there watching you two and um. I just-.” He pauses, inhaling nervously. “I have um…I have a girlfriend. And I didn’t-. Didn’t really think hunter’s, you know, got that. Didn’t think they got happy endings or whatever.”

Sam’s eyes soften, and he blinks away a few tears that have worked their way into them. He knows it all too well, knows the fear of having the people you love taken from you by hands crueler than yours and completely out of your control. He was this kid once too, young and afraid, nervous to lose you.

“But, you know, I saw you and I just. It just made me think, you know, maybe it’s possible. That you can- get all of that, or whatever.” There’s a silence while his words wash over you, and Sam holds your hand just a little tighter. “I’m- I’m sorry, that was weird.”

You reach out to take the kid’s hands in your own. “Not weird, not weird at all. It’s…it’s actually really sweet.”

Something in the kid’s face loosens, and he allows himself a small smile. “Yeah? It doesn’t…weird you out?”

“Kid, we’ve seen weirder things than someone saying they’re in love,” Sam says with a laugh. “You wanna sit? There’s room.”

“I- You- Uh-,” he stutters.

“It’s alright, he doesn’t bite. Usually,” you tease, and Sam gives you a half-hearted glare.

It makes the kid laugh though, so that’s all that matters. He slides into the bench on the other side of you, wrapping his hands around the root beer he’s drinking, slowly warming up to you and Sam as you talk. You tell him stories about hunts, about you and Sam together, about anything that comes to mind. By the end of the night, the bar’s watching out of the corners of their eyes the way that rugged Sam Winchester has basically adopted this kid, the way Sam is softer and lighter when you’re around. They catch the bracelets, and they nod, satisfied. It all makes sense now.

As you stand to leave, Sam holds your jacket for you while you shrug it on. The kid hovers nervously near you, unsure if it’s his cue to leave or not. Once your jacket is secure and a kiss from Sam has been pressed to your temple, you turn to the young man, wrapping him up in a tight hug and rubbing your hands up and down his back.

“Call us if you need anything, okay? Even if it’s just to talk, or just to have a place to stay for a night that doesn’t smell like motel cleaner and cigarettes,” you say.

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing you once before getting swept up in one of Sam’s all-consuming hugs.

“We’re serious. You’re like a child in here. Sam’s all protective of you now,” you tease, elbowing Sam who doesn’t deny it.

He leads you out of the bar, opening the door for you and closing it behind you as you settle into step beside him on the walk home. Sam gives one more wave to the young man who's stepping into his own beat-up truck, who waves back with a grateful smile. Your hand laces through Sam's again and you walk back to the bunker, steps in sync, lips pressing kisses to temples and cheeks and hands.

Back in the bunker and tucked in bed, Sam holds you close like he needs you to breathe, running his fingers up and down your arm. He needs this peace and quiet just as much as you do; as much as you love the roadhouse, it’s loud and overwhelming, and it always manages to exhaust you completely by the time you’re back in bed. You drift off in Sam’s arms knowing he’s yours, so completely enamoured by you he’s finally gotten over his fear of public affection. Now the whole hunting world knows he’s yours, and you’re his, and that hunters can be happy and in love.

That kid from the bar becomes almost like an adoptive child to you and Sam. Slowly, he shows up at the bunker with meals for you three, and when he finally tells you that he lost his parents to a werewolf a few years back, it almost makes you cry. You take it upon yourselves to be the parents he misses, the steady backbone to a hunter that many so dearly crave. A few years later, he brings his girlfriend to meet you, telling her that you were the ones who helped him realize hunting doesn’t have to make him miserable, who took him in when he felt alone. Sam Winchester, who’s rumoured to be the roughest, toughest hunter besides Dean, cries a little then. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside, the graphite in pencils encased in wood. That’s your Sammy, after all.

Several more moments of standing still amidst cold, blustering air you've got to bear, before a sleek one pulls to a slow stop. It's much cooler than all the others, shiny and black with two very pretty humans inside. The one closest rolls down his window and watches you with furrowed brows and the greenest eyes you've ever seen thus far, though you haven't been here long enough to meet many people.

"You, uh… you alright?" He asks.

You bend over yourself to peer into his machine, fingers pressing to the slit where the window disappeared down. A waft of leather and iron and musk blooms up from them and into your nose, as you observe. There's a much gentler man sitting in the seat beside Green Eyes and he gives you a tiny smile.

"Yes," you answer, trying your best to smile back. It feels weird. You aren't used to having lips and teeth. "I've never done this before!"

The gentle man shifts closer and shakes his head. "Done what?"

"Many of this! Pitchhiked, smiled. I have never done lots of things."

Green Eyes looks very confused. He hesitates, fingers tapping. "Hitchhiked."

Your nod is fast. "Hitchhiked, yes! You're supposed to let me in this thing now."

Both men glance at each other, and seem to exchange a silent conversation. You hope they don't spit out mean words, like crazy or weirdo. You've already been called those today when you first arrived, and they had shaped a wobbling ball in your throat. It was very hard to swallow down, an unpleasant, aching feeling.

You've never felt things so deeply. Emotions are tricky and new, too.

"Where are you from?" The gentle one asks, voice patient which you appreciate.

It's easy to point up towards the gray sky above. "Heaven," you tell. "I fell."

No mean words, but a scoff from Green Eyes makes you feel just a little bad. He switches something with his big hand that makes the machine purr again, and gives you a quick raise of his brows. He's skeptical and distrusting, mouth parting and about to speak. But the other cuts him off.

"Dean," he breathes. Dean. It sounds clunky in your mouth. "We can't leave them like this, man. They're obviously… confused."

Dean thinks it over. He worries that by driving away, he'd be allowing some creep to pick you up instead. You're looking down at him with shining, wide eyes, trembling and obviously unused to this weather. Wearing worn jeans that are a couple sizes too big and without a jacket, only torn, biker gloves to keep your palms warm.

He sighs. Long and heavy, it disheartens you tons.

"You trying to get somewhere specific?"

Oh, and your heart is all right again. It beats fast within your vessel and a surge of something new and good and golden billows through your insides. You believe it's excitement, the butterflies that humans describe. You're glad to have a swarm of them, too. You wonder what they look like.

"Not pacific," you answer. It's hard to say. "Anywhere. Everywhere."

He hums. "We're heading up to Wyoming. That work?"

Wyoming. It rings through your mind, bouncing around in an echo. It sounds like a land of great adventure, you hope it's nothing like Heaven. Not boring nor stale, lonely or dark. You want to see everything bright, learn all that you can.

"It works," you say. "I'd like to go there, please."

Dean tells you to back up and you do, he steps out.

He's very tall and broad, but kind as he opens the back door for you and helps you to slide inside the purring thing. You can see freckles now, a faint spattering over the curve of his nose as he buckles you in, because what is a buckle? You really aren't sure.

"Keeps you safe," he explains as it clicks you secure. "Don't mess with it. Capiche?"

Something you've never heard before. "What is Capiche?"

Gentle Man twists in the passenger seat to face you. "Just… he's asking if you understand."

"Oh. Of course I do!"

The first lie you've told. Rebellious, exciting.

It's not long before Dean sits back up with all of the gears and buttons and the three of you begin to move. Questions spill, and answers are given. Mainly by Sam, you think it's a fitting name for someone so nice. It's simple and easy to say. You're in a car - you learn finally - affectionately named Baby, and you think you'd like a name, too.

Sweetheart is what you're given. Dean calls you by it after your eleventh question.

"Can we just… take a break? Please. Lots of friggin' questions, sweetheart. You should know all this stuff."

Luckily, you know patience. It's a virtue, and you've put lots of hard work into maintaining it throughout your many years of existence in this universe. Questions twelve and thirteen stretch up to fifty, but you can save them all for some other time.

Right now, adventure awaits.

He didn't look up. his fingers flew across the keys, the frantic click-clack sounding like a countdown. "I just found a local archive scan from 1958, the pattern matches the disappearances in Blackwater Ridge. If I can just cross reference the lunar cycle with-"

"Sam." u sat up, the mattress creaking slightly. "You’ve been staring at that screen since we got back from the diner. Your eyes are literally vibrating."

He finally paused, his shoulders dropping an inch. He rubbed his face with both hands, pushing his hair back until it stood up, messy. he looked so young in the blue light, stressed, driven, and carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"Dean’s already out," Sam muttered, nodding toward the other bed where his brother was snoring softly, completely dead to the world. "Someone has to do the work. If we go into those woods tomorrow without knowing what we’re tracking..."

"then we’ll be two minutes slower because you’re hallucinating from sleep deprivation," u countered.

You got out of bed, the cold floor making you wince, and walked over to him. You didn't wait for him to finish his thought. u just reached out and slowly tilted the laptop screen down until it clicked shut.

"hey-"

"No," you said firmly, sliding your hands onto his shoulders. You could feel the knots in his muscles, hard as stones. "You’re exhausted, Sam. You’re trying to save everyone, but you’re running on fumes."

He looked up at you, and for a second, the hunter mask slipped.

Sam just looked like a tired kid who missed a normal life. He leaned his forehead against your stomach, letting out a heavy sigh.

"I just feel like I'm behind," he whispered into your shirt. "Like if I'm not working, I'm losing time."

"You aren't losing anything," you murmured, running your fingers through his hair. "But I'm losing my mind trying to sleep without my giant radiator."

That got him. a tiny, huffed laugh escaped him. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer for a second before finally pushing back from the table.

"Fine," he sighed, standing up and towering over you. He looked down at the closed laptop with a lingering bit of guilt, then back at you. "But I'm setting the alarm for six."

"Fine. but if I hear that laptop click before the sun’s up, I’m throwing it out the window. Move over."

You flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic thud, the springs squeaking in a way that probably should've woken Dean up. You patted the empty space next to you without opening your eyes, your hand hitting the scratchy sheets.

"Seriously, move over," you muttered into the pillow as he finally crawled in. "You’re taking up the whole zip code."

You go to call him over, already thinking about how loud you’ll have to be so as not to disturb the people on either side of you, but still loud enough to rouse Sam from his lore-induced tunnel vision. Your thoughts are cut short by the fact Sam’s already staring at you, eyes fixed on your figure and a faint smile curling on his mouth. There’s something heavy in his gaze that you can’t quite puzzle out yet, and he’s looking at you like if he tears his eyes away, you’ll be gone.

You stare back at him equally weighty, like Sam’s some riddle you can’t figure out the answer to, even though it’s on the tip of your tongue. You know this look, but you can’t quite place it. He’s looked at you like this several times over the years; a few times when you’ve saved his ass on hunts, a couple of times posing as FBI agents, but for some reason, you see it most often when you’re doing something mundane and normal.

Like researching lore for a hunt and getting completely sidetracked. Or sitting beside him on the bed laughing at Dean’s snide commentary on movies. Walking beside him to and from the Impala with your duffle slung over your shoulder, making tea or coffee in the useless motel kettles and coffee pots. There’s a pattern somewhere here, because Sam always has patterns, but you haven’t put it together yet. For someone as predictable as him, this continues to evade you. Maybe there’s a date you’ve forgotten, or a newspaper article you forgot to send to him. Maybe he’s giving you some sort of silent hint to turn up the heat or close the curtain beaming late-evening neon light across the room or recheck the salt lines for the third time. You close the curtains anyway, because the light is bothering you; it’s too artificial, too fake to look pretty. You opt for the bedside lamp instead.

You shake your head affectionately as you sit back down, a smile spreading unchecked on your lips. You laugh softly, turning back to your laptop, fingertip tracing along your lip and mapping the dents and lines in it. It’s hypnotizing, following these grooves of your body with a reverence you’ve only found in Sam. Your mindless hand movements are soothing, keeping your brain on track until you’re certain you’ve memorized exactly where the peeling bits are, and where the tiny cracks in your lips are, and where the healthy parts untouched by the cold live.

Each pass of your finger finds more cracks than it does healthy skin, so you abandon your laptop in favour of digging through your duffle bag for chapstick. Your fingers close around the plastic tube, pulling it out with a muttered sound of triumph and holding it above your head like a medal. You can hear Sam chuckling at your antics, the sound of his laughter as sweet as the honey scent from your now uncapped lip balm.

You’ve barely had time to put it on your lips and put the lid back on before Sam’s practically jumping onto you. He’s standing before you, all looming puppy and bright, sparkly eyes, his bangs falling in his face in that boyish way of his. He grins at you expectantly, and you already know what he’s about to ask before the words even make it to his tongue.

“Can I have some?” you both say at the same time.

Sam laughs wholeheartedly, folding in half a little with the force of it. He stretches his palm out to you when he gets his breathing under control, and you hand him the chapstick, fingers brushing his skin and leaving tingles in their wake. Sam takes it, frowning slightly as he examines it, turning the case over in his long fingers before pouting at you.

“’S not what I meant,” he frowns.

“Well, what did you want?”

“Wanted to taste it.”

Your brows pinch together. “Sam, you can’t eat it. It’s wax or whatever.”

“Not what I meant.”

Before you can ask for clarification, his mouth is on yours, hands cupping your face as he bends down to meet you. Sam’s lips are hot against yours, moving like there’s fire under his skin, burning its way through him to meet you. His tongue swipes along the seam of your lips, but when you open your mouth to him, he doesn’t go any further. Just makes another pass over your bottom lip before parting from you with a small huff and a smile, leaving you sitting on the bed with tingling lips.

“What’s that about, Sammy?” you ask breathlessly.

“Told you. Wanted to taste you.”

“I thought your lips were dry.”

“They were. But they aren’t now.”

He smiles at you with that edge that says sass and serious all in one. He’s teasing, but to him, getting to kiss you that deeply was all his goal ever was. And apparently, as you discover when reaching to reapply your chapstick, he’s about to do it again.

“C’mon Sam, lemme put this stuff on,” you beg.

“You can put it on all right. But it ain’t gonna stay.”

Your mouth drops open in a little ‘o’, because Sam is being brave with his words today. Must be the fact Dean’s conveniently absent from the room, and you start to wonder when that happened. He’d just been in the chair across from Sam not that long ago, and he appears to have just slipped away to leave you and Sam to your own devices. Whether that was at Sam’s request, or whether Dean had just gotten tired of that look in Sam’s eyes, you don’t know.

Because you’ve finally figured out what the look is. It’s a bit soft, a bit sweet, completely and entirely in love with you and everything about you. It’s the look that knows your favourite gas station snacks and your favourite pillow combination in seedy motels. It’s the look that can see when your shirt is rubbing uncomfortably on the back of your neck and knows when there’s a rock in your shoe. But it’s also the look that rakes over you when you step out of a shower and it’s also the look that eyes you up and down as you change.

It’s the look that says Sam’s hoping to get laid.

Finally knowing why he’s been looking at you for the last couple hours like he’s about to jump your bones does something funny to your stomach. A heat that wasn’t there before starts to bloom in your core, warmth spreading through the rest of your body. When you put the lip balm on for the second time, you’re prepared for Sam’s lips on yours and his body caging you in.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed still, but Sam’s mouth hasn’t parted from yours in what feels like hours. His hand traces up the inside of your thigh, fingers ghosting over your jeans with a touch so light you can somehow feel it in your bones. Sam only parts from you to take the chapstick from your hands and glide it over your lips again, his tongue lapping up the honey taste from your skin like he needs it to live.

“C’mon, let’s take a break, hm?” Sam hums against your lips, hand skating up your ribs.

“Where’s Dean? Won’t be come back-.”

“’S Valentine’s, baby, he’s out trawling for girls. We got time.”

His hands keep moving, his knee comes between yours to keep your legs open for him. Your breath catches in your throat as Sam mouths along your jaw, breath hot on your pulse points and arcing down your spine in honey-scented lightning bolts. By now, his tongue tastes like your chapstick when he kisses you again, his poorly restrained groans at the taste like a drug to your Sam-addled mind.

“Lay back,” he murmurs low in your ear. “Let me see you properly.”

He closes the laptop, setting on the floor with a gentleness that seems strange given the situation. Sam’s hands on you are anything but, and his relentless kisses steal your breath much harsher than the care he gives the computer. He doesn’t hurt you, because he doesn’t know how to hurt you, but that doesn’t stop him from letting you know he’s not playing around.

Sam lays you out, crawling between your legs and hovering over you, hair brushing your forehead as he dips down to capture your lips again. His hips buck slowly into you as he moves, his muscles jumping beneath the denim with restraint. As much as he wants you laid out under him all pretty and naked, you deserve him taking his time and loving you right.

Parting from you to take a shaky breath in, he paws the lip balm from your grip one final time, uncapping the lid with a devilish smile. He sniffs it once, eyes fluttering shut as he inhales, jaw going slack as the honey floods his senses.

“Open for me,” he coos.

You part your lips slowly, carefully, and he puts a thick layer of the chapstick on them. The stickiness starts to dry, and Sam waits until he’s sure it won’t immediately transfer off before he resumes his earlier journey. His mouth back on yours, he taps your hips lightly, signaling you to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt off. The moment the fabric hits the floor, he’s completely gone. The kisses turn hungry, all teeth and tongue, heat passing between your bodies where words fail. Your skin hums with a strange energy; one that’s both laughing at Sam’s desperation and trying to keep itself from unravelling at the sight of him. He’s hot when he’s losing his mind, you think, the voice in your head sending heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Getting shy, baby?” Sam asks between kisses.

“Not shy,” you get out. “Just waiting for you to do something.”

Sam’s eyes darken immediately, filled with a carnal hunger for something he’s been craving all week long.

“Careful,” he warns.

You smirk, watching his expression change. He reaches up, arm snaking out lighting quick and turning out the lamp. It plunges the room into darkness, yet you can still see every inch of Sam’s beautiful features before you.

He needs you just as badly as you want him, you realize, as his fingers drift lower to pop open the button on your jeans. The sweet Sam you’d woken up next to this morning is gone, replaced by a man on a mission. The hard lines of his shoulders beneath his shirt stand out like mountains, the muscles flexing and relaxing as he continues his grinding movements against your core.

The motel room air is cold against your thighs as Sam slides your jeans off, tossing them in a pile somewhere across the room, nowhere near where your shirt had landed. His palms return to your sides, thumbs stroking over your ribs as he trails kisses down your neck; hot, open-mouthed ones that leave honey-tainted marks behind for all to see. He sucks at a spot in the dip of your collarbones, and you arch up into him, something halfway between a whine and a moan escaping you.

“Y’sound pretty like that,” Sam says, doing it again as a hand drifts to your hair.

His fingers tangled in your hair, the overwhelming heat of Sam’s length pressing teasingly against your core, the way his mouth moves over your skin like it was made to be there. It’s all too much, and you’re half-convinced you’re about to come before he even takes his shirt off. There’s no end to the amount of pride Sam would take in that, and you wouldn’t mind giving him the ego stroke.

“Close already?”

He knows. Of course he knows. Sam’s memorized your body so well he knows you better than you know yourself. He can tell the exact ways your stomach muscles tense when you’re about to come, the way your arms twitch against his sides and your ankles squeeze together like you can hold him deeper. Only this time, there’s nothing to hold. It’s only his hips grinding rough circles against you, his mouth making a constellation of marks over your shoulders and neck, and his tongue whispering filthy praise in your ear between kisses.

“’S alright, I don’t mind,” he smirks. “’Cause I know I make you feel good.”

You roll your eyes in exasperation, but they stop their journey halfway and flutter closed as Sam ruts particularly rough against you. A moan gets caught in his throat but comes out of yours, and he grins at the sweet sound. Almost sweeter than the chapstick he’s been missing the taste of. His lips return to yours, tongue swiping over the bottom one and he sucks gently on it, the taste of honey passing between you.

The stimulation is enough to send you flying over the edge, and Sam smiles wickedly as your whole body clenches around nothing. A high-pitched sigh leaves you as Sam keeps touching you, his eyes flicking over you as he catalogues how you look.

“That’s it, give it to me,” he whispers in your ear, making you shiver.

When you finally come down, your hands paw uselessly at the grey t-shirt he’s still wearing. Something in the back of your brain kicks in, and you’re hit with a surge of embarrassment so intense that Sam almost drops his act, concern dancing across his face.

“Y’okay?” he asks.

“’S just- you’re not even- it happened so fast, Sammy,” you whine.

You can see the moment it dawns on him what you mean. Usually, he’s able to hold you off until he’s got his mouth or his hands on you. You think you’ve lost your touch. You watch his eyes glint with that faint pride he gets when he’s won whatever game he was playing.

“’S the point, baby. Didn’t feel like playing mean.”

“You spoil me.”

Sam nods, then strips the shirt off his torso like it burns his skin to be touching it. The strange blueish grey darkness makes him look tanned in shadow, the faint moles on his shoulders standing out against his skin. He looms over you again and you let your hands wander over his body, across the expanse of his back and down the outline of his abs. You trace the happy trail that disappears into his belt, and Sam’s stomach muscles twitch under your fingertips.

“Gonna let me taste you properly now?” he asks, already sliding down your body and hooking his finger over the waistband of your underwear.

“What, you haven’t had enough already?” you tease.

His eyes flash dark. “Course not. Can never get enough, baby.”

Sam’s words jolt heat straight to your core, and your head slams back against the pillows with a sigh built from frustration and restraint. Sam’s played it well, stripping the shirt off when he did. The distraction gave you enough time to reset, so you won’t be too sensitive when his mouth hits your skin.

When his lips do meet your inner thighs, it sends a jolt of electricity up your spine that short circuits somewhere in your brain. He starts slow, trailing sloppy kisses up the inside of your thighs, lavishing praise on the skin only he’s allowed to see. His hands grip the outsides of them, fingertips pressing against your hip bones to keep you in place.

As he comes up to grin at you before diving down again, you can see the way his jeans strain in the front. Sam’s restraint has always been admirable, especially when you know he’s been hard for god knows how long. If you had to guess, it’s probably been since a few hours ago when you first got back to the motel after dinner, and he’d sat heavily at the table, his back to you and book conveniently placed in his lap.

Sam’s tongue licking against you shocks you out of your memories, and your hands curl into the sheets to keep yourself from floating away. If you’re not careful, your soul might disappear up into the heavens, only coming down again when Sam’s made you come twice on his tongue. He’s predictable that way too. Twice, always twice. Then he can think about shedding his jeans and burying himself in your heat.

His tongue works in circles, then stripes, working you to your peak like he understands you more than anyone else. Like his brain was hardwired to know exactly what you need, when you need it. He knows all the spots that make you whine, the spots that make your muscles tighten, and the spots that reward him with a soft huff of breath and a tangling of your fingers in his hair.

And when he hits that last spot and your fingers tug hard on his hair? He’s gone, groaning loud into you, the vibrations sending you spinning over the edge for a second time. Somehow, he’s rough and soft at the same time as he licks you through it, slowing his pursuit of your sweetness just enough to let you get your breathing back in order.

“Sam-,” you choke out.

“I know.”

It’s all he has to say, and the fact he knows you that well sends your mind reeling. Slowly, as if making sure he’s got the green light to continue, his mouth is on your core again, starting up his slow rhythm of circles and kitten-licks. He takes his time with this one, working you slow and steady to your peak, pointing out all the scenery as he goes.

“You’re gorgeous,” he comments, face buried in you and voice even, almost casual.

“Yeah?” you murmur around another sharp inhale when he hits a sweet spot.

“Mhm. Taste like honey.”

A searing wave rises in your stomach, crashing low over you, but not low enough.

“Honey, huh?” you say, breathless.

“Can’t tell if it’s your chapstick or you. Might need a reminder.”

The grin he gives you is downright filthy, his forehead starting to sweat and his chin damp from you. He’s a sight to behold in his kingdom between your legs, and the final press of his tongue against your most sensitive point sends another wave breaking over you. Your hands pull at his hair again, and he moans against you, hands tightening then loosening on your hips as he sinks into you.

You have to tug his head up by yanking on his hair as you settle down again. Sam’s so drunk on you his eyes are slightly glazed, mind reeling as he commits the way you taste with your chapstick on his tongue to memory for safekeeping. The sight of him rising up from between your legs is enough to tide you over if you’re ever apart again, you think.

He crawls back up your body, swiping a hand over his jaw to clean himself off. Kissing you this time tastes less of the honey chapstick and more of you, and it makes your skin crawl in a way that’s beyond pleasant. The sides of your thighs burn from where his light stubble scraped you, and your cheek meets the same fate as he presses a fleetingly gentle kiss to it.

You motion for him to come closer with your hand, and he obeys instantly, hands going to either side of your head, palms down on the pillow and bracing himself over you. He hisses through his teeth when you reach down to palm him through his jeans, his eyes squeezing shut as you tease his sensitive length.

“Careful,” he warns, voice low and wrecked.

“Or what?”

His eyebrow raises. “Wanna find out?”

Your hands undo his belt, metal clinking loudly in the empty room, the thud of it hitting the floor the only sound besides your heavy breathing in tandem. He helps you shuck his jeans and boxers off, leaving him just as bare before you as you are before him. The happy trail you’d been so kindly admiring before is on full display for you now, like an arrow pointing down to where he’s painfully hard against his stomach.

“Need t’feel you so bad,” Sam groans into the side of your neck.

“You have me.”

“I meant-.”

You pause him with a finger on his lips. “I know what you meant. You have me.”

The sound Sam makes in his chest is almost a growl, expression darkening when he realizes you’re being dead serious.

“You’ll regret that,” he mutters.

“Make me.”

His eyebrow quirks up, challenge written across his features. Sam strokes himself once, twice, three times before lining himself up with you and pushing in. He captures your lips in a searing hot kiss as he bottoms out, returning your moan into his mouth when you feel the stretch. Heat rises in your spine, your stomach tightening as you hike your legs up over Sam’s hipbones, pre-emptively giving him the perfect angle to all your soft spots.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says low in your ear.

You lock your ankles around his back, squeezing once as if to say you’re on. He kisses you once more, smirking the whole way, before catching your hands in his large ones and pinning them over your head. The move puts your whole body on display for him, and he shamelessly rakes his eyes over you.

Every curve of your waist, hips, shoulder, is now his favourite part. Every scar and stretch mark he didn’t see before is now high on his list of things to worship. Every ridge and mark and square inch of your skin is his to admire, and he’s taking his time. You squirm a little under the weight of his gaze, fidgeting against where his arms are pinning yours, to no success.

Finally, slowly, Sam starts to move. He starts slow, building you up carefully like he’s afraid you might break. He lets it reach the tipping point where you’re almost tempted to yell at him to move faster, lets you teeter on that agonizing boundary of not enough and just right. As soon as he feels you hit that wall, he’s pounding into you like a man starved. His hips snap and buck against yours, pushing himself ever deeper into your warmth and heat. You swear he’s deep enough you can feel him in your spine, his tip brushing every spot inside you that makes you see stars with effortless precision.

His mouth never leaves you now, tongue swiping around your mouth like he’s searching for every last trace of your honey lip balm, drinking it up like its holy water. His panting gets louder as he drives you nearer to your peak, breath hot and heavy against your skin as he pulls you closer. Up, up, up you go, higher and higher and higher, so impossibly high you’re not sure you could ever come down without shattering into a million pieces on impact.

And then, Sam pushes you over the edge.

You fall. Further, further, further, ground racing up to meet you.

You shatter.

Stars explode behind your eyes, head thrown back against the pillows and giving him full access to leave a litter of kisses on the column on your neck. He doesn’t ever stop moving, prolonging your peak until you’re sure you might black out. Only then does he let himself come, thrusting deep once, twice more before holding himself against you with a deep moan, buried far inside you as the heat from his release fills your insides.

His hand holding yours goes weak, limply letting you go and falling uselessly over the pillow, his fingertips brushing the headboard of the bed. Sam falls into you, chest pressing heavy against yours, legs tangling in the sheets that pool at the end of the bed. You can hear his heartbeat slamming in your ears, slowly easing down to its normal pace as he drifts back to earth.

“Y’feelin’ good?” he slurs, too drunk on you to bother enunciating all the letters.

You can only nod in response, fingers slowly dropping down until they rest heavy on his back, pressing him further into you. Your panting slows, limbs starting to feel wobbly like jello now that you’re back to your senses. A faint bob of your stinging hips makes Sam twitch inside you, but he stays soft. His face buried in your neck, arms hanging loose around you, body unwilling to move from the bed like he’s chained to you by gravity.

Slowly, he stirs, shaking off the haze that’s befallen the room and registering the heavier darkness. The clock on the table shows something in the late hours of the 14th, and he knows if he doesn’t get up and clean you up now, he’ll be too knocked out to do anything. On wobbly arms he hauls himself up, giving you one last sweet kiss to your mouth before cautiously pulling out. The loss of him makes you shudder, and he hisses gently at the sensitivity as he parts from you.

“Shower? Bath?” he asks as he stands.

“Bath if the tub’s not gross,” you reply. “’M sore.”

Sam gives you a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Chuckling, he lands a kiss on your temple. “You’re right, I’m not. Glad to know I make you feel that good.”

You swat uselessly at his back as he walks by, snagging a pair of boxers from his bag to put on after he sorts himself out. You hear the bathroom door open, the lights flickering on, and Sam’s exasperated groan when he sees the state of the tub.

“Sorry love, no bath tonight,” he says, popping his head around the doorframe to apologize. “I’ll bring you a cloth instead.”

You nod, boneless and warm, sinking into the heat that’s been absorbed by the sheets. Your eyes drift closed before you can stop them; not sleeping but resting so still you might as well be. The sink runs, the water cutting off occasionally as Sam sticks his hand under it to adjust the temperature. You hear him take one cloth and hurriedly wipe himself down, then the rustle of fabric as he tugs the clean boxers over himself, the slight snap of the elastic waistband as it settles snug around his hips.

Sam comes back out with a second cloth for you, kissing the tip of your nose to wake you up.

“Ready?” he asks.

He only touches the cloth to your skin when you nod, not wanting to shock you with the warmth of the water where you’re sensitive. He cleans you reverently, afraid to make one wrong move and make your soreness worse. He can see just by running his hand along your muscles that you’re tensed at the waist, and likely in the middle of your back too; he’ll sort those out when he comes back. You let yourself float languidly in the bliss of Sam’s touch, focusing on his careful strokes as he wipes you down.

“Gonna wash this off. Turn over f’me when I’m back, alright?”

“Why?” you ask in a whisper.

“Gotta untense you, s’all. Trust me, you’ll be okay.”

How could you say no to that? The way he asks so patiently, the sleepy edge that’s working its way into his voice and roughening it slightly, the honey-sweet look in his eyes that melts your heart.

“M’kay,” you whisper.

The cloth gets tossed into the sink, and he’ll wash them properly tomorrow morning, you know he will. He always does. When Sam returns, it’s with a t-shirt dug from the bottom of his bag, worn soft from thousands of washes and almost transparent in some places. Holes dot along it, small pinpricks of stories gone by. He helps you tug it over your head, helps guide your arms through the sleeves, helps you lay back on your stomach, turning you slowly so as not to aggravate your hips.

“Jus’ relax, love,” he murmurs in your ear, kissing the back of your neck. “I’ve got you.”

And relax you do. How could you do anything but that when his hands work through your muscles like that? He starts at your hips, rubbing circles into the skin where the muscles are the tensest, easing them out like untying a knot in a shoelace. You groan in relief at the way he works to soothe your aches, face burying into a pillow as you sigh happily. He moves up your back when he’s done with your hips, strong fingers teasing out the knots from your back like he does from your hair after a nasty hunt. Calm, methodical, careful and tender. All the things that make up Sam Winchester.

Somehow, despite all this relaxing work, Sam still falls asleep before you. After he finishes making sure you won’t cramp up during the night, he slides you over a touch, climbing into bed behind you and tossing the blankets over your partly clothed body. The shirt is long enough that anyone who comes in (namely, Dean), won’t see anything, but he doesn’t play around when it comes to your modesty. He leaves the blankets pooling around your waist, though, held up by his fist curling at his own waist, his bare chest still subject to the motel air.

He tugs you closer, letting you curl onto your side as he rests on his back, one arm curving around you as you cling to it, letting his fingers rest in the crook of your pulled-up knee. Your back is pressed flush against Sam’s side, the heat coming from him almost unnaturally warm as it lulls you into sleep. Sam’s out before you can whisper a goodnight; for some reason you’ve yet to uncover, sex takes the insomnia right out of him. He’ll sleep like a log for the next eight hours or so, completely impossible to wake unless someone shouts right in his ear.

As predicted, you sleep soundly through the night. Sam’s gentle snoring fills the room, deepening only slightly as the night wears on. Dean comes back bright and early, keys jingling in the motel door loud enough to wake the dead; except for Sam and you, that is. You only pick your head up slightly when Dean thumps inside the room, never waking up enough to open your eyes, instead electing to lay your head back down on Sam’s chest.

Dean’s boot kicks Sam’s jeans out from the middle of the floor, and he groans frustrated deep in his throat. “You’d better not have-.”

His words cut short when his eyes drift over to you and Sam still in bed, Sam still snoring away quietly, messy hair knotted against the pillow from your activities. A tiny sliver of your thigh is visible between Sam’s shirt and the blanket, and Dean dramatically rolls his eyes and fake gags before covering you up with the blanket, tugging it under your chin.

“You two are so gross,” he complains, stalking off to sit on his own bed. “Damn it Sammy, other people live here.”

Sam grumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, like he’s subconsciously responding to his brother’s dig. He shifts slightly, arm twitching tighter around you and chest heaving once as he exhales a deep breath before settling again.

“Damn Valentine’s day. Hope you got this outta your damn system, Sammy. Don’t need t’see you making fuck-me eyes at ‘em again ‘s long as I live.”

Sam just hums low and gravelly, and you roll against his chest again, hand curling loosely over his sternum. Dean’ll wait you out until you and Sam both wake up, and then he’ll subject you to teasing for scarring him. All Sam will do is laugh and play along, throwing you a wink over his shoulder when Dean’s not looking. Next time you run out of chapstick, Sam knows exactly what scent he’s buying to replace it; honey-sweet, just like how you taste.