my thoughts you can’t decode

You occupy your time with tv shows, movies, books. Cleaning, tidying, cooking. Anything that’ll keep your mind from racing, wondering what Jax is doing, what the club are talking about, if they’re in trouble yet again.

But there’s none of that tonight. Tonight, you’re sat on the couch in nothing but a t shirt that belongs to your boyfriend, staring into empty space. All because you can’t stop thinking about something that happened this morning.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The glass had slipped from your hand before you could stop it, shattering all over the clubhouse floor. A chorus of patronising but amused sounds echoed around you, coming from all of the guys sat at the table.

Jax jumps up from his seat immediately, standing up to see if you’re alright.

“Ooo, Daddy’s disappointed.”

The quip has come from Tig, to no one’s surprise. You look up from your knees to see that actually, Jax doesn’t look disappointed. There’s a sparkle in his eye that you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s mischief and curiosity and self satisfaction all at once.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s replayed in your head all day.

That damn look in his eye.

At first, you thought that maybe it was because you were on your knees on the ground. He’s been very vocal about how he will never, ever, get sick of the sight of you staring up at him.

But the more you think about it, the more there’s no denying that the twinkle in his eye appeared when Tig had called him Daddy. Or maybe you’re just convincing yourself to twist the situation to fit the fantasies that swirl around in your head day in, day out.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t hear the side door open, footsteps rumbling across your kitchen floor.

“Baby, what have I told you about waiting up?”

“Hey,” you breathe, always happy to see him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Too busy daydreamin’,” he observes, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “Wish I could read your mind.”

“You don’t,” you laugh, securing your arms over his to squeeze him tight. “It’s not very interesting.”

He smells like gasoline and smoke, all musky and masculine. The scent of him drives you insane, like some sort of instant aphrodisiac designed just for you.

“Missed ya,” he whispers in your ear, pressing his body into yours. “Been thinking about you all day. Was secretly hoping you’d be sittin’ all pretty for me when I got back. And here you are, wearing nothing but my shirt, lookin’ like a goddamn angel.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“What did I do to deserve a sweetheart like you, huh?”

You hum, leaning back into the firm warmth of him.

“Now tell me, my little daydreamer… what have you been thinking about?”

His hands migrate from your waist, skimming up your body so they’re massaging your tits.

“Just you,” you breathe. “Always you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He’s hot and heavy against your back, grinding his hips into your ass to relieve some of the friction that’s driving him insane.

One of his hands winds it way around your neck, squeezing ever so gently to make you even dizzier. His other hand is slipping under his shirt that you’re wearing to cup you over your panties, his middle finger swiping along the seam to feel how wet you are.

“You’re fuckin’ soakin’,” he groans, all deep and raspy. “Fuck, you’re nothing but a desperate whore after midnight. Sittin’ here, thinking about all the things you want me to do to you when I get home…”

You seem to have lost your words, rendered speechless as you buck your hips to try and get him where you want him.

“What d’ya want, baby? Tell me.”

“Fingers,” you choke. “Please.”

He whips your panties down your legs before you can even process it, kicking your ankles apart to give him better access. His fingers are dragging through your core in an instant, gathering your slick and sliding right in without any protest.

Jax curls his digits and buckles your knees as he does it, while you grip onto the countertop for dear life.

“Right there? Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Filthy girl. Filthy fuckin’ girl.”

All you can do is whine, panting for breath as he slides his fingers in and out, his pace utterly relentless.

“Oh, baby. Can you feel it dripping down your legs? Can you feel it soakin’ my hand? My favourite little whore. Just can’t think straight when I’m touchin’ you, can ya?”

He’s rasping the words right into your ear, his breath tickling your neck and giving you instant goosebumps.

“Jax.”

“Atta girl. Say my name, darlin’. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

You’re not sure if it’s the way he’s curling his fingers, or the honeyed words he’s rasping down your ear, or the fact that he’s claiming you as his so brazenly that it makes you dizzy, but it slips off your tongue before you can even think about stopping it.

“Daddy.”

His movements halt completely, both of you frozen in place. You figure if you don’t move a muscle or make a sound, he’ll carry on like nothing occurred in the first place.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead, Jax pulls you flush to his body, plastering you to his chest. One hand is still in between your legs, the other one tightening its grip around your throat. He’s panting like he’s run a marathon, body vibrating with animalistic need.

“Oh honey… what was that?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, smart girl.”

You shrug, which is the wrong move entirely.

“Nuh uh, you ain’t getting away that easy. Repeat yourself, baby. Tell me what you said.”

You’re still hesitating, reluctant to potentially embarrass yourself. Jax dips his head so his mouth his resting against your ear, teeth nipping at that spot on your neck he knows makes you weak.

“Spit. It. Out.”

“Daddy,” you breathe, somewhat relieved to not have to bottle it up anymore. “Fuck, daddy.”

“That’s my girl,” he purrs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “That’s my fucking girl.”

His hand that was around your neck twists itself into your hair as his other hand pushes you firmly between your shoulder blades, bending you over the kitchen counter. He kicks your ankles apart, folding himself right over you.

“Daddy’s gonna fuck you now, pretty girl. Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember anyone’s name but mine.”

Both of you groan when he slides inside with no resistance. You grip the edge of the countertop for stability, knowing you’ll fly over it if you don’t hold on.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven. A filthy fucking angel.”

“Jax,” you choke. “You feel so good.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your head before setting a brutal pace with his hips, his pelvis slamming into your ass with every thrust. It takes everything in you to stay upright, knees buckling every time he pulls back and re enters.

“All mine,” he growls as he tugs your hair so your back arches. “Who do you belong to, hmm?”

“You,” you manage to squeak out. “You.”

“Hmm? Who?”

“You, Jax.”

“Say that again?”

“You, daddy. Fuck.”

“There it is. Perfect girl.”

He’s changed his angle ever so slightly to tilt his hips upwards, meaning he’s hitting exactly the right spot every time he slams into you. You’re dizzy with it, overwhelmed in the best way, gasping for air as your climax gets closer and closer.

“You wanna come? Yeah?”

All you can do is nod your head frantically, desperate for the release that’s been building up all day.

“Ask for it. Beg me like the whore you are.”

“Please,” you instantly start babbling. “Please, Jax. Want it, please.”

“So polite,” he laughs, tone dripping with condescension. “That’s not what I want to hear though, and you know it.”

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to think straight for one minute.

“Please let me come, daddy.”

That’s all he needs. He pulls his hand from your hair and slides it down your front, rubbing quick and firm circles on your clit to throw you over the edge. It does the trick instantly, your legs turning to jelly as your head tilts back and your back arches. Your orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, uncontrollable and all consuming in the best way.

You’re squeezing him so tight that Jax can’t hold on any longer, coming inside you with a deep groan that rumbles through both of your bones.

All that can be heard is two sets of lungs heaving for air, both of you half collapsed on the cool wood of the countertop. Jax wraps his arms around you, cushioning the impact as he hooks his foot around your ankle to take you both down to the ground. You melt against him on the kitchen floor, revelling in the warmth of his body against the cold bite of the tiles. Your boyfriend presses a kiss to your hair, fingertips tracing absent minded patterns across any skin he can reach.

You’re not sure if you’ve been laying there for five minutes or an hour when Jax speaks.

“So how long have you been sitting on that one, huh?”

“Shut up,” you whine, burying your face in his chest.

“Nuh uh, daddy wants an answer,” he teases, squeezing you as tightly as he can.

“I hate you,” you laugh, trying to squirm out of his grip to no avail.

“Daddy loves you too.”

“I hate you.”

Fourteen days.

Fourteen days that Dean Winchester has to be off his feet. Fourteen days that he can’t walk, can’t run, and can’t drive Baby around like a maniac. Fourteen days that he can’t hunt. 

Hell, that’s fourteen whole days that he’ll need crutches to even go piss without assistance.

Sam had called you early in the evening, his voice tight, but clearly trying to sound casual, the familiar rumble of the impala cutting through every pause. You could hear the hesitation between every word. The way his voice dipped low, undoubtedly apologetic, almost mumbled like a kid waiting to be scolded. The way he repeated his ‘sorry’s far too many times to count, and how the line went uncharacteristically silent for a moment after you’d picked up on the third ring.

He explained Dean’s little problem—nothing dramatic, he’d insisted, just a bad fall after tripping over a footstone—but enough to make getting around just about impossible, and to put hunting on hiatus until further notice. It really didn’t come as a surprise when he’d ended his ramble session with a question, one spoken through a sigh: can we crash with you?

For fourteen days.

Of course, you’d said yes without wasting a breath. You’ve never quite had a back bone when it came to the Winchester brothers, and, hey, the company could be nice. Maybe. As long as you can survive the bickering.

It’s nearing eleven when the impala’s tires crunch over the long, twisty gravel driveway of the Singer’s house. You hear it before you see it, purring low like a cat (or, as Dean would say, a lion), sleek black frame blending into the twilight. 

You’d just finished tucking the corners of the stubborn new sheets on your fathers bed when the sound finds your ears, and you slip from the room just in time to hear the engine go idle, one hand swinging the door open before either man can even slide out of the car. 

Sam rounds the impala first, slamming the door to the driver’s side shut with a bang, helping a grumbling Dean out the other side. He looks, put lightly, absolutely miserable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the older Winchester look so defeated, which is really saying something—not to mention the silly looking cast on his right foot, and the too-short crutches that he practically throws off the impalas bench. 

“Took ya’s long enough,” you call, leaning against the doorframe, the humid night air already clinging uncomfortably to your skin, cicadas buzzing in the tall sea of grass. You hear Sam huff a laugh, and Dean shoots you a look, just as he slaps Sam’s outstretched hand out of the way. 

Miraculously, he manages to hobble towards the deck without tripping, but once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he accepts defeat long enough to sling an arm over Sam’s broad shoulders.

“That’s ‘cause Sam drives like a freakin’ grandma in a school zone,” he complains, and Sam sends you a tired look, one that both says ‘please help’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ at the same time. You can’t help but snicker. 

Once all three Winchester boots hit the worn wood of the porch, Dean practically shoves Sam off of him like a petulant child. You have to fight off a snort. “How’re you, uh. How’re you feeling, Dean-o?”

“Peachy,” the man gripes, limping past you when you step back from the doorframe, appearing about two inches shorter from just how hunched over those damn crutches he is. He manages to make his way to a chair, some old leather thing that’s peeling on the arms, and he plops himself onto it gracelessly. An irritated huff of air escapes his chest as he props his foot up on the coffee table.

“Just… peachy.” He glares at the offending appendage like it’s personally insulted him, and you grimace, before redirecting your attention back to the door, where Sam’s hauling two duffels up the stairs that probably weigh about as much as a small child. 

Sam, the sweetheart, lingers there for a moment like he’s afraid of tracking mud on the floor. He gives you that lopsided smile of his, soft, tired, and just a touch apologetic, before stepping inside. He scuffs his boots on the mat, setting the bags by the door, his arm brushing your shoulder as he moves past you.

He stands… closer than he usually does. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and you can practically taste his scent. Not in an overwhelming, cool-it-with-the-axe way, but in a holy-shit-you-smell-like-heaven way. 

You’re not sure which is worse.

He bows his head towards you, hair falling over his eyes. It’s longer again, parted in the middle, tousled from travel or sleepless nights or Dean clunking him on the head for ‘hovering’. His flannel is unbuttoned too far at the top, probably because of the blistering heat that’s been plaguing the country for the past week, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with faint freckles and old scars. 

“Hey,” he says, gentle, simple. Quiet just for you to hear, like anything louder would cause you to shatter. “I’m sorry about… uh,” he gestures towards Dean, “…yeah. Sorry.”

You snort, shrugging, and you look towards Dean again: a stupid little pout on his face that reminds you of when you were kids. 

“Don’t be sorry. Things are quiet around here. I could use the entertainment,” you tease, turning back to Sam. He’s still looking at you. His expression is a little hard to decipher; warm, tired, and so agonizingly soft that your stomach just about flips. 

“You’ll be sick of it by tomorrow. Trust me,” he tells you, face cracking into a grin. It’s one of those rare, unrestrained ones that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and makes his dimples pop adorably.

“Probably. Can’t throw him out now, though. I did up Dad’s room for him, since he’s away on a hunt. Said he won’t be back for a few weeks.” You nod your head towards the hall, before glancing up at him with an expression that’s nothing short of mischievous. “…He even has shower rails in the bathroom. Planning to tell Dean I installed them just for him.”

Sam tries to hide his snicker by coughing into his hand, a soft sound that’s more adorable than it has any right to be. He nudges you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans in, just a little closer than probably necessary.

 Interesting.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of colourful ways to say thanks,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his lips quirking again when he catches your smile. He stares, then must realize it, because you swear his cheeks turn a shade of pink. He swallows a little awkwardly, almost like he’s gone all nervous—his palms sliding against the denim of his jeans.

Dean’s groan cuts through the moment like a freshly sharpened blade.

“Alright, what’re you two whispering about?” he demands, squinting suspiciously between the two of you. Sam straightens up, still smiling, but he clears his throat, holding his hands up in mock surrender. You flick your attention to him, raising a brow.

“You’re bunking in my dad’s room. Bathrooms attached, close to the kitchen, Sam and I only a yell away. Sound good?”

Dean’s expression flickers, green eyes narrowing with a funny mixture of irritation and resignation, before he slumps back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds fantastic,” he mutters, before gesturing vaguely at his plaster-covered foot. “Just gotta figure out how to get there.” He shoots Sam a pointed look.

Sam, who was still hovering close enough for his elbow to brush your arm, rolls his eyes, exhaling through his nose. How he’s so patient, you have no damn clue.

“C’mon,” he deadpans, crossing the short distance to his brother, and hauling him up with a grunt. He grabs the crutches, which Dean had tossed to the side like they aren’t a hundred goddamn dollars, pushing them against his chest. “Let’s get you to bed before you get us kicked to the streets for being a smartass.”

You watch them bicker for a moment, face twisted in a look of pure amusement, as Sam begins to guide him down the hall. 

You busy yourself by poking through the linen closet, yanking out a blanket that doesn’t smell like dust and death, tossing it onto the long, worn couch. You even slip up to your room just long enough to grab a pillow, one that’s not lumpy on one side, chucking it onto the makeshift bed. 

In the back of your mind… you hope it smells like you.

You make your way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, just as Sam’s finished wrestling Dean into the bed. He joins you with a sigh that sounds a lot like a father who’s just talked down his toddler from a tantrum. His palms together, a soothing gesture, and he leans against the counter with a tight-lipped smile that says ‘see what I have to deal with?’

The look you shoot him then is a little sympathetic, but mostly delighted.

“Sounds like you’ve had a fun week,” you tease, lifting the glass to your lips for a quick sip. “Can’t say I blame you for wanting to enlist some help.”

Sam exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, born out of sheer exhaustion, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fun,” he echoes, voice low, tired, and fond all at once. His eyes flick towards the closed door, Dean’s quarters for the next two weeks, before settling back on you. The way he softens is visible. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, buttons of his shirt straining (not that you’re looking, or anything), and his shoulders slump, like he’s finally letting himself relax. Really relax. The kitchen light catches the earthy green flecks in his eyes when he tilts his head at you, gaze gentle in a way that almost makes you squirm.

It’s warm. Steady. He looks at you like he’s tracing the shape of your face, and burning it into his memory. Not in a greedy, or outwardly obnoxious way; but in a way that makes your stomach swirl, and your throat feel strangely dry, and has you taking another sip from your glass. Silence stretches, and when he breaks it, it almost looks like he has to force himself out of his own head.

“…I owe you for this. Really,” he murmurs, voice low, thick like sticky-sweet honey. “It means a lot. I don’t know how to—”

“Sam. You don’t need to thank me,” you cut him off, maybe a little too quickly, but his expression remains sheepish. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like it’s been trained into his soul that being there for him is a burden, not a blessing. “I miss having you guys around. Just like the old times.”

That earns you a smile.

“…Yeah. Like the old times.”

By day three, you’ve already adapted to your new routine.

Dean’s still whiny. He still yells for Sam every time he has to move so much as an inch, despite the crutches, which he insists were invented by the devil himself. He complained to you about the water pressure on day two, then again because his cast got a little wet, even though he’d wrapped it in some plastic bag you found under the sink. He even tried to scold you for feeding him ‘rabbit food’ after you’d put some tomato in his burger.

As for Sam… if anything, he’s only gotten sweeter.

It’s grown impossible for you to perform any household task without the younger Winchester offering his assistance. He’s got his hands full with Dean, that much is clear, and yet? The second you step into the kitchen to wash up the dishes, he’s placing a big, warm hand on your wrist, and insisting you go sit down.

He helps with laundry. He sets the table before you eat. He wakes up extra early to brew coffee exactly the way you like it, and he apologizes each time Dean makes a snarky comment. 

Even when Dean shoots him a look, one that you can’t quite decipher, and he turns an adorable shade of pink. 

The day had gone by quick. It rained, for the first time in nearly a week; meaning you spent most of it inside, with some old book open over your thighs, your legs kicked up on the edge of the couch. Dean stayed in his room—probably watching some stupid movie (one that hopefully wasn’t erotic, for your sanity)—while Sam kept you company. 

And by keeping you company, you mean stealing glances at you over a book of his own every thirty seconds.

It was nice. Comfortable. Almost domestic, in a way. You’d slipped away to your room around ten, tucking yourself in bed with a racing heart and buzzing mind… only to be woken up at a quarter to two by the obnoxious sound of your phone ringing.

Unfortunately, for both you and your old man, he’d found himself in a rut on his hunt. The irritation in his tone was palpable as he described the sigil he’d found carved into the floor of some abandoned factory. You’d done up a quick sketch in your notebook as he spoke, his words painting a picture, just as he shoots you a blurry image with the instruction of ‘it’s in one of my books, go find it.’

Great. Just great.

You migrate to the dining room, sitting at the table with eye bags that would make a raccoon jealous, a lukewarm cup of coffee, and a stack of lore books taller than you. One second, you’re squinting at the faded ink of some obscure Enochian ward, pen tapping on the page. The next? There’s warmth at your back, and a big shadow leaning over your shoulder. 

“You always up this late?”

“Jesus—!” Your entire body jolts, your pen clattering to the table, hair on your neck standing tall, heart pounding a mile a minute, the whole nine yards. But the second you turn your head, finding the tired, worried, (and apologetic) puppy eyes of Sam Winchester, you relax.

Completely.

You laugh, an embarrassed sound, dragging a clammy hand over your face, like that’ll do anything to scrape off the exhaustion. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… ‘m not used to company while Dad’s away.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he smiles, sheepish now, eyes laced with sincerity. “Didn’t realize you were so jumpy. Bobby doesn’t sneak up on you enough, huh?”

“You say that like he could. He walks like his feet are made of lead.”

Sam snickers, taking your newfound relaxation as a sign he can lean in closer. Close enough that you can smell the faded, masculine scent of his soap, the hint of minty toothpaste in his breath, and feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his thin t-shirt. 

“What’re you doing, anyway?” His hand settles lightly on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder by accident (or not), as he squints at the page, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re not… you’re not hunting, are you?”

You cock your head to the side, just enough to look at him.

“No. Well, not me. My dad called. He’s at a dead end, n’ wants my help figuring out the origin of these sigils.” You nudge your journal towards him with your index finger, and he hums. He’s so close you can almost feel the vibration. “…Only problem is that he’s a fuckin’ lore hoarder. I don’t even know where to start.” 

“Oh.”

His brow furrows, silence falling between you for a fleeting moment. His eyes narrow.

“That’s… not Enochian,” he murmurs, shifting his weight, his chest pressing against your back for just a second before he catches himself, and pulls back. “…Uh. Sorry.”

His fingers tap absently against the chair, restless, thinking, maybe a little indecisive, before he exhales sharply, dragging a chair up beside you. His knee bumps yours as he folds himself next to you, elbows braced on the table, eyes scanning the symbols with quiet intensity. 

You tilt your head, opening your mouth to speak, but he’s faster.

“These letters look more like Latin to me. Maybe even some Hebrew,” he muses, turning to look at you. That sharpness in his gaze seems to soften almost immediately. “…You need some help?”

His voice is soft, careful, like it’s not just an offer. Like he wants to stay.

“You sure? It’s late. You don’t have to—”

“I’m sure,” he states, thumb skimming the edge of those yellowing pages of the book spread open in front of him like he needs something to fidget with. His voice drops, quiet, warm, into something so gentle that your heart just about skips a beat. “…You’re exhausted. Let me help. Please.”

Yeah.

It’s not quite possible for you to say no to that. 

You don’t respond right away, not with words, at least. If the conflict shows on your face, Sam doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t scoff, or even look annoyed. No, instead, he simply… watches you. His eyes are soft, encouraging, expression warm with lingering sleep. 

And when you finally nod, leaning back in your chair, he smiles. Not wide, or with teeth—more of a quiet, gentle thing, that makes his face light up in the best way, and displays those sweet dimples when the light hits his face just right.

He moves slowly, turning your journal back towards you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in.

It’s electric. 

“See how the letters curve here? It’s more like a hook, rather than a smooth arc.” He traces the shape lightly, his fingertip just hovering over your work, like he’s afraid to smudge the ink. “…That tells me it’s not Enochian. The Enochian alphabet is more… round. I’m thinking this is ancient Hebrew—” he points at a letter, “—and see these circles? There’s even some Malachim script.”

You hover as he explains, nodding, and… yeah. He’s right. Of course he is. Your lips part in an inaudible ‘ohhh’, your own hand moving to follow his in its silent trace, fingers brushing his. 

He pauses. You see it, or, more accurately, you feel it. The way his breathing seems to freeze for a moment, before coming out in a jagged exhale that fans over your cheek, his body pressed so close to yours. He shifts, knee brushing yours again; to move away? To get closer?

You can’t be sure. 

“…So, not Enochian. A combination of other things. You’re thinking, what… The Lesser Key?” 

“Yeah. Maybe,” he murmurs, “or some kind of interpretation. Mind if I…” He trails off, long arm stretching over you to brush the worn leather spine of a book stacked next to you. His touch is careful. Thoughtful. And when you nod, he hums gratefully. 

You watch as he pulls the book from the pile, already flipping ahead to the intended section like he’s read it a thousand times before. Two long fingers trace the faded ink over each page, each one silverfish bitten, bleached with time, his soft eyes searching. And when he finds what he’s looking for, he stops abruptly, pressing his fingertips over a pale illustration. 

“There.”

And there it is.

Maybe not exactly. Some of the letters look reversed, like they were intended to be written backwards. A couple of the symbols etched into the sigil are written cleaner, sharper, but… yeah. The main idea is there, and that’s enough for you.

“Well, holy shit.” You huff an impressed laugh, settling just a little closer to him. “Thanks, Sam. You’re good. Really good,” you nudge him with your shoulder, “I see why Dean keeps you around.”

He chokes out a laugh of his own, soft and surprised, and ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. His fingers linger there, tapping over his nape, but he’s not looking at the book anymore.

He’s looking at you.

“Yeah, uh. Anytime,” he murmurs, simple, but sincere. His eyes flicker over your face, lingering on the tired shadows under your eyes, before he finally moves, extending his free hand out to hold the back of your chair. Those pretty fingers twitch, like he wants to go further. Be bolder. Run his palm over your back, touch, comfort you the way he’s wanted for years. 

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

“It’s not an exact match. But I’d guess it’s the same demon, or same category, at least,” he adds, a sweet flush creeping up his neck, like your sudden silence is suffocating him. “I can keep digging if you want. Find something more accurate.”

“No.” You cut him off quickly, and he frowns, face twisting into an expression that reminds you far too much of a kicked puppy. It’s both adorable, and a little heartbreaking. “You’ve just saved me about six hours of staring at lore until my eyes fall out of my skull. It’s two in the morning. Go to bed, Sammy.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, and you swear he looks even more embarrassed than before. Of course, though, because he’ll never quite let it go, he still mumbles out a near-silent, “it’s Sam.” 

He lingers like he’s seconds away from arguing with you. Fortunately, you win in the end, and he pushes up from the table, stretching his arms behind his back with a quiet groan. His shirt rides up just slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of skin above his waistband (again, not that you’re looking), and when he lowers his arms—he places his palm on your shoulder. Squeezes. Even when his face heats up, and his pulse races so quick, he wonders if you can feel it.

“Fine. But… get some sleep, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pads silently back towards the couch in the other room, leaving that undeniable warmth to prickle beneath your skin. 

It takes until day six for Dean’s constant complaining to claw its way beneath your skin, and in your defence, half of it was because of the heat.

As it turns out, the rain had served to be nothing but a short-lived sense of false relief, because not a day later, another blistering heatwave hit. Full force.

More than hot enough to make your shirt cling to your body like a second skin, for the horizon to look all hazy like you’re staring at it through clear water, and to make the older Winchester’s whining just that much more irritating. Thankfully, both for your well being and Deans, you’d plotted your escape to the junkyard—because that way, you could strangle the fucked-up wiring in your old Trans Am, instead of his sweaty throat.

You stand half hunched over the open hood of the car, damp tank top rubbing uncomfortably against your sticky skin. Your sweaty hands fumble with the socket wrench as it slips from your grasp, hot metal heating your palms like it just wants you to snap. Your molars dig into your cheek, knuckles white, fingers already grease stained, a string of curses slipping out between irritated puffs of breath. Nothing about it should be difficult, you’ve disconnected a thousand batteries before, but there’s something about the goddamn heat that has your jaw tensing and your fist tightening.

“You sound just like your father.”

You hadn’t even heard Sam approach, curse his stealth, his voice cutting through your exasperation with a jolt. Luckily for you, you don’t startle quite as hard as the other night (and if you had, you surely would’ve clunked your head on the hood), but you still let out a groan, bowing your head with an exaggerated shake.

“Do you take pride in your ability to scare the living hell out of me, Winchester?” you tease, cocking your head towards him, pointing the offending socket wrench in his direction.

Sam grins, bright and very unapologetic, the bastard, as he comes just a little closer. He leans against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. He has the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to mid forearm, revealing freshly sun-kissed skin, and a glittery sheen of sweat.

“Maybe,” he admits shamelessly, tilting his head, which earns him a playful glare. His hair sticks to his forehead slightly, damp from the heat, and he shakes his head absently to swipe it back. “You’re the one who keeps letting me sneak up on you, though.”

You roll your eyes, finally laying down that stupid wrench, and Sam takes the opportunity to just… look at you. Really look at you. His gaze flicks over your face, lingering at the sweat beading at your temple, before dropping to the way your tank top clings to your shoulders, the smudges of grease that stain your arms. 

The moment you catch him, though, you swear his cheeks turn just a little more red, his brows furrowing into something almost sheepish.

“I, uh. Here,” he chokes the words out, extending his arm towards you in a stiff, mechanical motion, a cold plastic water bottle clutched in his hand. 

The sight damn near brings you to your knees.

You take the bottle with a blissful ‘thank you’, the icy condensation soothing your overheated palm like balm to a wound. Still, you don’t drink right away. The water has a faint sheen to it, almost cloudy, and you lift a brow, amused.

“You druggin’ me?”

Sam’s eyes shoot open comically wide, his head shaking before your words even fully land, and you can’t help but laugh at the look of sheer horror on his face. 

“What? No—God, no,” he blurts, just as you twist the cap open with a quiet snicker. “It’s… electrolytes. That powder stuff, y’know? It’s hot, ‘n I figured you wouldn’t be drinking enough ‘cause you’re so damn stubborn. I thought about making you something else, like, a smoothie, since you love fruit, but I didn’t know where you kept the blender—”

“Sam.” You cut him off gently, taking a swig. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you, like he’s unsure of how to respond to the praise. Then he clears his throat, an awkward, punched out sound, before he jerks his head towards the engine.

“…Need a hand?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping up beside you, nudging your knee with his as he peers under the hood. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid, as he hums thoughtfully, like he has any clue what he’s looking at.

He doesn’t.

You take another sip of your drink before setting it to the side.

“Y’ever replace an alternator, Sam?” you ask, and the crooked smile you receive is answer enough. Dean? Sure. He knows his way around an engine. And as for you, you’ve been tearing your way through your father’s junkyard since you could walk. But Sam?

Yeah. No. 

“I mean, uh. Y’know, I’ve...” He tilts his head, considering the mess of bolts and wiring before him, before shooting you a sidelong glance, pretty eyes crinkling at the corners. “…No.”

You snicker, picking the socket wrench back up, tightening your grip on the hot metal with slippery fingers.

“But I’ve been told I’ve got a real talent for holding a flashlight,” he offers, voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that never fails to make your stomach flip. “And I won’t complain like a certain individual back in the house. Promise.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips, and for the first time in hours, you don’t feel two seconds away from strangling someone. 

“Ah. There’s your real motive. Trying to avoid your brother so you don’t bite his head off,” you joke, and he shrugs noncommittedly, telling you all you need to know. “No need for a light, though. Not at this time of day.”

His smile falters.

You regret your words instantly. You didn’t mean it like that—God, no, not like you were brushing him off—but he looks almost hurt, and those puppy eyes are just lethal.

“Why don’t I teach you?” you suggest quickly. Surprise flickers across his face, and the sight makes your heart stutter. “It’s pretty easy,” you add, softer now, “and you’re a real quick learner.”

“…Yeah?” he questions gently, almost like he’s expecting you to take it back, before the corners of his lips quirk right back up in a quietly pleased grin. He shifts closer, hovering over the engine, his hand sliding from the fender to rest just above the grille. 

He doesn’t look back at the car right away, though, no; he just… watches you for a second. He lingers on the small smudge of grease on your cheek, the little crease between your brows that always forms whenever you’re focused, the way your tongue swipes across your lower lip… before ducking his head with a nod.

“Okay.”

He exhales, almost a laugh, like he’s shaking off nerves. Rolling his sleeves up just a little higher over his elbows, he exposes the lean muscle of his forearms when he braces his palms back on the edge of the engine bay. The sun catches his tan skin, warm and shining under the golden light.

You swallow. Hard.

“…Walk me through it?” he adds after a moment, breaking your trance, and you have to shake your head lightly to refocus, before nodding as your confidence slips back in place. You tilt your wrist forward, pointing at the battery. 

“Alright. We’ve just gotta take out the battery first. Don’t wanna fuck up the electrical, or give yourself a nasty shock. You just have to disconnect the cables. This one first—” you gesture towards the back cable, Sam humming thoughtfully, “—negative. That’ll break the ground circuit. Then you can take off the red one next, remove the hold-down clamp, and lift it out. You with me?”

Sam makes a low, affirmative sound, his brows drawing together in concentration. He follows along, he really does—but when his eyes drift, he seriously can’t help it. He takes in the cables first, committing them to memory, but his eyes wander to trace your fingers, up to the soft angle of your wrist before he can catch them. 

And then he’s just looking at you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

You smile before continuing. “Once the battery’s out, you’ve got to remove the serpentine belt. That’s not too bad. Loosening it can be a bitch, though.” The metal wrench tinks against the tensioner as you point, your head tilting towards him. “Then you can start working on the alternator. But that’s hands-on work. Can’t really explain it.”

You don’t move to demonstrate. No, instead, you extend the socket wrench out in your overheated palm. An offer.

“Have at ‘er.”

Sam hesitates, a brief moment of almost-panic flickering over his face, breaking through his newfound ease. For a second, he just stares at the tool, at your outstretched hand, like he can’t quite believe that you’re handing him the task. Like it’s some sort of test.

“Me?” he questions, stunned, and when you nod, he takes an extra beat to move. 

His fingers close around the handle tentatively, warm and calloused, and you swear he has the slightest tremor. His thumb brushes yours as he takes it, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up your arm despite the sweltering heat; and this time, he lets it linger. Just a little. 

He clears his throat softly before turning back to the mess of cables, rolling his shoulders like a pitcher getting ready to throw.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, I mean, if you ever want this thing on the road again.” He laughs, but the hesitation is still present, threaded with just a touch of Sam-Winchester-self-depreciation that twists at your heart. 

You don’t entertain it. Not this time. Instead, your hip drops to lean against the bumper as you turn your body towards him, arms folded across your chest.

“Nah. I trust you.”

And for a heartbeat, Sam just freezes. The wrench hovers in his grip like he’s suddenly forgotten what to do with it. His lips part slightly, like he’s going to say something. But for once? He doesn’t have a smart remark. He doesn’t have a dumb joke to deflect with. He just blinks once, twice, gaze so damn soft it makes something deep in your chest ache. 

Then, without a word, he leans forward, and gets to work. 

The wrench clicks into place on the first bolt, his grip steadying, instinct taking over. He ratchets in careful yet powerful strokes, confidence surfacing, piece by piece. You watch closely: the way his bangs fall over his forehead, each quiet puff of his breath, the way the tendon in his forearm jumps with each back-and-forth pull. Sam’s in his element, working, learning, and if it gives you a bit of a show?

Well, that’s just a bonus. 

On day ten, you finally crack open your first beer.

The living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp in one corner, the one that’s bulb has gone a faded shade of orange, and that flickers every few moments. Empty glass bottles and half-full longnecks scatter the coffee table, Dean’s cast covered foot thrown haphazardly next to them, one good kick from sloshing foam onto plaster.

The three of you are sprawled out easily in the room, Dean in that old chair he’s claimed as his own, tipsy fingers picking leather from the armrest, while you and Sam share the tiny couch, close enough to feel the brush of his knee every time his leg bounces restlessly. Laughter flows freely through loose lips, paired with the heavy bass of some old rock track booming through your ancient speaker, filling the usually quiet room with a new kind of comfort.

“Oh, come on, Dean. Load is good!” you manage between snickers with impressive seriousness, your heated debate about Metallica albums becoming equally as important as monster talk to your intoxicated mind. 

“Good?” Dean drawls, who’s already had double yet is somehow half as tipsy, voice thick with playful disdain. “That shit is not Metallica. They went mainstream, I’m telling you.”

He takes another swig from his bottle (his eighth? Ninth? Who even knows), and levels a glare at you like you’ve just taken Baby for a joyride.

Sam, meanwhile, is slumped against the loveseat, warm and heavy in that almost-drunk Sam way where he leans into you just a little more than usual, like it’s as simple as breathing. One arm is thrown along the backside of the couch, fingertips tapping along to the beat, brushing your shoulder every so often when his hand slips limply. The other stays in his lap, fingers idly twisting around the neck of an open bottle. 

He almost looks a little lost. Happy lost, you note, if that dimpled smile is saying anything. 

“Seriously?” you groan, albeit dramatically, but there’s no mistaking the way the corner of your lips curve upwards.

You take a sip of your beer, the liquid fizzing pleasantly on your tongue. The cold stings your teeth in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead, seems to be just right. 

“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause it’s newer. You’re blinded by the classics,” you accuse, jutting out one finger from around the neck of your bottle, pointing it in the older Winchester’s direction, before sparing a glance at Sam. “Help me out here, would ya?”

Sam blinks, slow, buzzed, like the words take a moment to travel from his ears to his brain. 

For a second, he just stares, lips slightly parted like he’s forgotten what the argument was about. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink from the beer, warm from the golden glow of the lamp, his hair a little messy from running his fingers through it all night.

When he snaps out of it, finally, a lazy grin spreads across his face, and your stomach seems to flip even more than usual. He lifts his beer in some sort of salute, before taking a swig.

“It’s not… bad,” he says carefully, ever the mediator, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. 

His eyes flick to yours as he says it, as if searching for some sort of approval, and he sure as hell gets it—you flashing him a triumphant smile, landing your obnoxious ‘aha!’. Dean rolls his eyes so hard, you think they might fall out of his skull.

“Dude, you always take her side,” he complains, hardening his gaze into something that’s probably supposed to be scrutinizing.

“No I don’t,” Sam defends, sounding almost pouty, but it’s weak. Really weak.

“It’s ‘cause I’m always right,” you butt in, giggling all over again, Sam’s soft smile growing at the sound alone.

“Yeah, no,” Dean decides, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “That’s not why. Wanna know why? It’s just ‘cause he…” he trails off, slowly, voice dipping into something uncharacteristically quiet, and you feel the way Sam stiffens by your side. Hard. 

They exchange a look, one you don’t quite understand. Sharp, quick, silent Winchester communication—like they know something you don’t. And when Dean speaks again, he waves his arm as if to brush you off.

“…Whatever. His opinions invalid, anyway. He likes freakin’ Bon Jovi.”

For a beat too long, you don’t respond. Long enough to make the air in the room feel slightly unnatural, like it’s suddenly gotten thicker, grown from an easy flow to something a little suffocating. Dean’s words still hang between you, unfinished in a way that somehow makes them worse. He left space, too much space, leaving room for you to fill in blanks that you don’t quite understand.

Your mind should be racing to reach it. Should be grabbing onto something, anything, but instead, every thought drifts lazily past, tangled and unhelpful, like puzzle pieces that almost fit together but never quite click.

And God, Sam… Sam looks a little like he’s about to bolt.

That snaps you out of it, quick, your brain catching a thought, flipping it over, and blurting out a response before it really settles. 

“Dean, even I like Bon Jovi.”

Dean’s gaze flicks back to you, thrown off just enough for some of that smothering tension to crack, even just a fraction. He looks at you, then Sam, then back to you—like he’s trying to gauge if opening his mouth will get him punched or not—before giving you another scowl.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to shake off some of the pressure. “That’s his influence.”

He sticks the neck of his bottle in Sam’s direction, who seems to have relaxed a little, but just barely. 

“His poor, poor influence.”

“Poor? You could argue that Bon Jovi’s classic, too,” you challenge, tilting your head, a half-smile tugging at your lips again. You’re still trying to keep it light, even if something in the room still feels a little off.

Even if that something is right next to you, knee to knee, and radiating an intense amount of heat that you have to fight yourself not to lean into.

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then huffs. 

“Very poor,” he lands on, weakly. “Jovi is the pop of rock. Nothing about that is classic, ‘n you know it.”

You scoff, which almost earns you a smirk, but it doesn’t stick. Not really.

Because Sam still hasn’t said anything.

You glance over at him, and yeah. Definitely off. He’s stiff, posture tight like his muscles are locked in place, his shoulders just a touch too taut. His jaw’s set hard enough to hurt, and his eyes are fixed somewhere past Dean like he’s trying to become one with the couch, or maybe just disappear entirely.

“Sammy.” You nudge him with your elbow, a quick, gentle motion, and he startles like you’d jammed a knife between his ribs. He bows his head to look at you, loopy-eyed from that alcohol induced haze, cheeks still a flustered red. 

He doesn’t even correct you this time.

“…Hm?”

“Are y’going to defend yourself,” you ask, voice tipping into a more teasing register, watching him just a little closer, “or just let him slander you?”

Sam doesn’t respond right away. His grip on his bottle loosens just a touch, thumb dragging lazily along the peeling label as his gaze flickers down, then back to you. Then he huffs. Shakes his head. And suddenly, a small, familiar smile tugs at his lips again, dimples creating pretty little indents on his still pink cheeks.

“…You love ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, Dean.”

You snicker, Dean groans, and Sam seems to relax in a way that helps you breathe easy again. The tension doesn’t disappear, not entirely anyway, but it loosens, unwinding like a knot pulled in the right direction. And when Sam takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking to you, there’s something softer in it now. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago—or maybe something he just couldn’t quite hide this time. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean concedes, waving both of you off, planting his now empty bottle on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “You’re both still wrong. I’m just outnumbered.”

“Right…” you drawl, still giggling, and Sam lets out a real laugh this time. The kind that lights up his entire face, and makes your chest tighten without even realizing it. 

The music hums into another solo, the room settling back into something familiar. Sam shifts, just slightly, and his fingertips brush your shoulder in soft, rhythmic circles where his arm’s draped along the back of the couch.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away at all. 

On day fourteen, it’s your turn to scare the soul clean out of Sam’s body.

You wake up early, too early for most, before the sun has even fully breached the horizon. The sky is still a faded pink, the world sitting quietly, where everything feels as though it’s paused and waiting. The air’s already warm, already heavy, but it’s not suffocating yet; it’s gentle. The kind of warmth that settles over your skin just right, or glows through your kitchen blinds as you brew a pot of rich coffee.

When you shake Sam awake, he startles. Of course he does. Hunters never quite wake easy. There’s a flash of immediate alertness in his eyes, maybe a little bit of panic, before it fades into soft recognition. And as it turns out, it doesn’t take much convincing, if any at all, to get him to follow.

And so your short journey begins.

You walk side by side in an easy, peaceful quiet, the kind that doesn’t really need any filling. The fields stretch endlessly around you, overgrown grass tickling your legs, the odd car or rusted-out part scattered around every corner. Remnants of old memories, of laughter-fueled moments that you hold oh so close to your heart. 

Then the trees cast cool shadows as you move through the woods, ducking under low branches that force Sam to practically fold himself in half, step over fallen logs, and push through bushes that scrape your knees, practiced like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Because you have.

Eventually, you reach it. The two of you lie out the old blanket you’d packed, right where the trees clear out, a quiet lake opens up, and the land dips into something almost hidden just for you. It’s the kind of place no one would ever find unless they really went looking. The place that was always just… yours. Yours and Sam’s. 

You lean back into the blanket, your hair fanning across worn fabric as you let yourself relax, flipping open your journal, graphite smudging against the curve of your palm as you begin to sketch. Sam settles beside you, the movement quiet, unhurried, and so damn familiar. Neither of you speak, not at first, and neither of you really have to. 

The lake is still, in that glassy, undisturbed sort of way, except from the occasional ripple from a fish breaching the surface, or a leaf falling from a nearby tree. Morning light cascades over it in pretty golds and soft blues, shining in a way that makes everything feel a little softer around the edges.

It’s all so… familiar.

Every rock, every tree, every incline in the field has a memory attached. It’s the place you used to go all the time as kids, after school or when the pressure at home got too heavy. Escaping out to the hills like you weren’t the children of hunters, but two regular kids who liked skipping stones and splashing water, or two teenagers who would sneak a couple beers from your fathers fridge. The place that held all of your goodbyes, before John would snatch the boys away for months, and you wouldn’t hear a thing until they returned just a little older, a little rougher. 

It makes this feel like goodbye all over again.

Next to you, it seems Sam might be thinking just the same thing. He doesn’t say it out loud yet, but he just breathes it all in, mapping the space around him like a trail he knows better than the back of his hand. He watches the birds fly from tree to tree, takes in the scent of damp earth and wild flowers, listens to the way your pencil scratches lightly against your paper. 

Eventually though, he turns to look at you instead. 

His gaze lingers in a way that shouldn’t feel as heavy as it does. He doesn’t look at your journal, or the way your hands grip your pencil. No, he stares at your profile. Your relaxed expression. The way your hair frames your face, the slope of your nose, the soft bow of your lips. A soft smile tugs at his own as he quietly slips down to his elbow beside you, closing some of that space so naturally it could be framed as unintentional.

But now, you know better than that.

Your pencil glides across the paper in deep strokes, before your fingertip darts out to smudge the graphite, blending it into something softer. You try to ignore his gaze. You really do. But you can feel it—and it makes your heart thump like a drum against your ribs, flutter in a way you can feel up in your throat. 

Slowly, so slowly as to not break the quiet, your pencil lowers to rest between the pages, as you turn your head gently to the side. 

“…You okay there, Sam?”

His expression does something a little complicated when you speak. It softens into something sweet, the way it always does when you meet his gaze, but at the same time, it almost gets heavier. He gives you that damn look, that puppy-eyed stare, the one that makes your chest warm with affection so intense, it’s near impossible to stifle.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still a little rough from sleep, or maybe just emotion he hasn’t quite faced. “Just… thinking.”

His knee brushes yours as he shifts, bending it where it rests over the blanket so he can look at you more fully. It doesn’t feel like an accident, not this time, and he certainly doesn’t rush to pull it away. 

“Thinking?” you echo. “About what?”

Sam exhales, a quiet, shaky breath, like the question weighs on him.

“About… this. Staying here. How it’s coming to an end.” His voice comes out careful and almost measured, too measured, like he’s trying to mask that undercurrent of sadness that’s already starting to ache. “I could’ve sworn two weeks felt so much longer when we were kids.”

Fourteen days was never meant to last forever. You knew that. And yet, sitting by the lake, surrounded by old memories, it feels a little like time has slipped through your fingers like the sunrise melting into noon. 

Your relaxed smile fades into something a little more sullen, even as warmth clings to your skin, both from the sun, and the barely-there touch of his knee.

“Yeah. It did.” You swallow, forcing yourself to look away briefly, like that’ll do anything to loosen the pressure in your chest. You sit up a little further, pushing onto your elbows, and your journal slides off your lap, pencil rolling into the overgrown grass. 

“…You know you don’t need a reason to just… visit, right?”

For a moment, the words just… sit. And you’d expected just that.

Because the Winchesters don’t do things like that. They don’t go on hunt-free road trips, or lazy Sunday afternoons, or spontaneous visits unless blood is involved. Their lives are simple, that of a hunter’s: case files, salt rounds, and constant movement from crisis to crisis with no room for reunions. 

And you know that. You really do. And yet…

“I just mean… you don’t need to be hunting. Or injured.” Your fingers curl into the blanket below as you find his eyes again. “You don’t need to justify it. You can just… come.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, and he turns towards the water for a fleeting second, like he’s anchoring himself against a wave of emotion threatening to spill over all at once.

“I don’t want to impose,” he lands on, slowly, spelling out the syllables. Bracing for rejection. “This is Bobby’s place. Your place. It’s safe. I’m not… Dean and I can’t just…”

He huffs, frustrated, shaking his head. 

“Sam,” you start again, still gentle, voice so low, it almost gets lost in the passing breeze. “I’m saying I want you guys here.”

Silence falls. The trees sway with a soft gust of wind, and the pages of your journal flip by your side, but you don’t worry yourself about losing your place. You don’t tear your gaze away. You can’t. And when you speak again, your voice comes out more firm than before.

“I’m saying I want you here.”

He doesn’t respond right away, barely even blinks. Your own gaze finally slips away from his, dropping to your lap, then back out to the lake ahead—and you let out a breath that’s almost as frustrated as his own.

“I meant what I said when you first got here. I miss having you guys around. So much,” you whisper, and the words seem to catch in your throat, shaky and thick enough to ache. “I don’t… I don’t want this to be goodbye for the next six months. I don’t want to watch the impala pull onto the road and wonder when I’ll see your face again. I don’t—God, Sam, I don’t… I can’t—”

“Hey.” His voice slices through your words like the world’s softest blade.  

“Yeah?”

“…Can I kiss you?”

You don’t answer right away. You think you do—your brain sends the signal, your lips part—but nothing actually comes out. The moment hangs there, frozen, like you’d pressed pause on the world, and forgot to press play again. 

The words seem to replay in your head on repeat. Not once, not twice, but over and over and over, as you stare at him like if you look hard enough, the universe will rewind like some cruel joke. Because this is Sam. 

This is Sam, and he’s just asked if he could kiss you. 

You’re not sure how long your hesitation lasts, but it’s long enough for Sam’s eyes to widen. For his muscles to go tense. For his face to crumble like he’s just fucked up, really fucked up, and for him to lean away like he’s about to pull back. You don’t let him. 

Because when your response finally comes, it has nothing to do with words. 

You surge forward, capturing his lips with so much intensity that you get the brick wall that is Sam Winchester to sway. He inhales into it like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes a moment to register, but once it does, he melts. Completely.

It’s like every nerve lights up all at once. Warm and electric and so damn right that your head spins, and your stomach flips.

It’s sweet. So damn sweet.

He kisses you back slowly, cautiously, like he’s terrified of messing things up; but with so much tenderness that it steals the air straight out of your lungs. There’s no rush, no urgency, just quiet wonder. Like the moment is fragile, and all either of you want to do is preserve it forever.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough to suck in a deep, lingering breath, he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half lidded, and so full of adoration that it would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already so reclined. 

“…You okay?” he questions, voice barely above a breath, as he searches your face for even the smallest ounce of doubt. He doesn’t find any.

“Perfect.”

He nods, and then he’s leaning in this time. Every muscle in your body relaxes the moment his lips slot against yours again, giving way to something warm and almost pliant. His hands rise, slow and tentative at first, before he cups your jaw with infinite gentleness. Two warm palms brush your cheeks as he tilts you impossibly closer, his fingers spanning the length of your face, his thumbs brushing sweetly over the delicate curve of your cheekbone in a clingy way that just about makes your eyes water.

And for a while, that’s all there is. You, him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing as your lips collide, the breeze ruffling through the field, and the soft rippling waves in the lake.

When you pull back again, it’s not that either of you want to, and you can feel it in the way he hesitates. The way his thumb traces your face, the way his lips linger a fraction too long before parting from yours. He doesn’t go far. He stays close enough for your noses to brush, for his bangs to tickle your forehead, and one of his hands never leaves your cheek.

There’s a faint, disbelieving huff of a laugh that comes from him, and after a moment of shock—one of your own follows.

“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s trying the words out, testing his reality. Testing if this is all real. “Okay.”

Your lips curve into a smile despite yourself. “…Yeah?” you whisper, and you don’t say much else, at least not for the moment. Because if you do, you almost worry you’ll say something cheesy. Something cliché, like ‘you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.’

Because it’s true.

Your hand shifts where it rests between you, brushing against his wrist. He stills for a second at the contact, instinctive, and you feel his hesitation in his breath. But then he softens. Turns his hand. And finally, he slides his palm just enough so his fingers can lace between yours. Careful, so careful, like he’s still not quite sure if he’s allowed.

You squeeze, and he squeezes back.

“I’m not… good at this,” he admits, gaze dropping briefly to stare at your interlocked fingers, and his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Showing up just because. Having a life off the road.”

Your smile lingers, but your gaze searches his, just for a second. “You don’t have to be good at it. But… I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to. I just want you here. I want… all of it.”

“All of it,” he echoes, and he lifts his head again, expression so warm, you feel like you could melt. His hand lifts from your cheek, only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, holding just a moment longer than necessary. “…I’m not good at this, but I want to try. For you.”

“For us,” you correct, and he smiles so hard, the golden shine of the sun catches on his dimples. 

“Yeah. For us.”

AN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SAMMY 🎉🥳 as a gift to all the Sam lovers, here is almost 10K words of pure fluff.

This one is pretty different from my other work, honestly, lol, and I made up some demonology here that’s definitely inaccurate, so enjoy being thoroughly confused there (I was too). But I hope everyone’s had a great Sam day 🖤

(Dividers from @cursed-carmine)

“‘welcome to morrow creek. population 1,206.’” you squinted out the window, voice flat with disdain. “cute.”

dean snorted from the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel with a finger. he was already bored. “bet they sell nasty homemade jam.”

“three women,” sam muttered from the passenger seat, flipping through the thick folder of clippings in his lap. “all under twenty-five. found dead in bed, no forced entry, no signs of struggle, uh, local cops think it’s a carbon monoxide leak. but each of ‘em..” he paused, glancing back at you. “they were all virgins.”

the word dropped heavy between the seats, even though dean chuckled like it was just another day at the office. “so.. we’ve got a purity-sucking monster. awesome. what’s next, a ghost nun with mommy issues?”

you leaned your head against the cold window, lips quirking into a smirk that felt a little too tight. “well, good thing none of us fit the bill, right?..”

dean laughed under his breath, but you felt sam’s eyes flick back to you, too quick to mean nothing. you didn’t meet his gaze. instead, you stared hard at the road and let your smile fade.

the motel was standard horror-flick material, though. the three of you tossed your bags into one of the two-bed rooms and you immediately claimed the lumpy couch in the corner before the brothers could bicker about it.

“i’ll take the death trap,” you said, dropping your bag with a thud. “i’ve had worse.”

dean smirked, eyeing the couch like it owed him money. “suit yourself, sweetheart. hope you like springs in your spine.”

sam didn’t say anything, just watched you with an unreadable expression he got when he was thinking too hard. “you sure?” he asked after a beat. his voice wasn’t pushy, it was gentle, as if he wasn’t asking about the couch at all.

you raised an eyebrow, already pulling out the iron blade you kept tucked beneath your jacket. “don’t worry about me, sammy. i’m not exactly delicate.”

that earned the tiniest smile from him, but his eyes didn’t let go of yours right away. you turned your back before it could linger.

the three of you spent the afternoon digging through the town’s pathetic excuse for a library. sam and dean did their usual tag-team, sam sweet-talking the clerk for access to records, dean bitching about how much dust was on the damn files. you tucked yourself into a quiet corner and started scribbling connections, your fingers stained with ink and that familiar buzz of adrenaline humming under your skin.

you were good at this. better than good. you’d learned from the best, but you had your own rhythm now, your own gut instincts that whispered before the lore caught up.

you leaned over the table and tapped your notebook with the back of your pen. “look at the dates. all three deaths were on the waxing crescent. always between midnight and 3 a.m., always in their homes. no signs of entry. that means it’s either incorporeal, or it’s being let in.”

dean leaned over your shoulder, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne. “damn,” he muttered, lips close enough to your ear to make your skin prickle. “you’re getting scary good at this.”

“i’ve been scary good,” you replied coolly, not looking at him.

you could feel sam watching you again, from behind the half-wall of old encyclopedias. you could feel he was trying to peel something back. you didn’t give him the chance.

by the time night crawled in, the motel felt colder than it should’ve. dean was lounging on his bed with a beer, flipping channels, while sam meticulously salted the windows and doors, making sure every corner was sealed. you added your own touch, drawing sigils on the mirror with charcoal, tucking your blade under your pillow, double checking the line of salt at the threshold until it looked right. you told yourself it was just muscle memory. that you weren’t nervous.

but you were. not because of the hunt.

because of you.

because the second Sam said the v-word earlier, your body went cold. not because you were ashamed, or insecure, or anything stupid like that. you just hadn’t wanted them to know. you hadn’t wanted them to realize you were the kind of girl this monster wanted. pure, untouched. you’d spent years building yourself into something sharp and untouchable. and now, something out there could sniff it out like blood in the water.

you cracked open a beer and forced yourself to take a long sip, masking the shake in your hands with practiced ease. then you stood. “i’m beat. gonna crash early.”

dean waved you off with a lazy salute. “sweet dreams, killer.”

sam said nothing. just watched you walk out like he already knew something you didn’t want him to.

your motel room was just a few doors down, but it felt like another planet once you locked yourself inside. you did what you always did. you locked the door, salted the windows, tested your knife grip, triple-checked the lines on the floor. but your chest still felt tight. your palms were damp. your skin felt… exposed.

you weren’t scared of dying. that had stopped being your biggest fear a long time ago. what made your stomach twist was the idea that you might get chosen. that this thing might sniff you out, and suddenly sam and dean would know. they’d look at you differently. pity you, protect you.

and you didn’t want to be protected. you wanted to be seen as dangerous.

but right now? sitting alone in a dark motel room, knees pulled up to your chest as you stared at the door like it might explode inward, you felt like prey.

a knock broke the silence. your head snapped up.

“hey… it’s me.” sam’s voice was low through the door, almost gentle. he already knew not to scare you more than you were.

you hesitated, heart hammering. “what the hell, sam?”

“i saw that expression when you left,” he said. “you okay?”

the words caught in your throat. you didn’t know how to lie to him right now. there was a long pause. thank fuck he didn’t push.

you stood slowly, crossed the room on quiet feet, and undid the lock. your hand trembled just slightly on the doorknob before you opened it.

“…come in.”

sam stepped inside slowly. honestly, he wasn’t sure you’d actually let him. his eyes scanned the room, your over-prepared salt lines, the open blade on the nightstand, the half-drunk beer. then they found you again. that same look.

and that, somehow, felt even worse.

he stood in the middle of your motel room like he didn’t want to make the first move.

“you gonna say something?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp. defensive. if he touched the wrong nerve, you might shatter or explode. you weren’t sure which.

sam’s gaze softened a little, but it didn’t lose focus. “did you really come in here just to sleep?”

you turned away, busying yourself by pretending to adjust the salt line by the window. “what the hell does that mean?”

“you’re scared,” he said, blunt now. “not of the hunt, or the monster. of being its target. and I think you already know why.”

you felt your pulse in your throat, your fingers twitching at your sides. “so what? you gonna tell dean? put me on some kinda leash? lock me in the car like a liability?”

he was behind you before you even heard his steps, his voice brushed close to your neck. “no. i’m not gonna tell him anything. i’m not here to judge you. i’m here because…” he paused, like he needed to find the exact words. “because if you are what this thing’s looking for, that means you’re in danger. and i’m not letting anything happen to you.”

you turned to face him, and suddenly he was close, his chest nearly brushing yours, his hand ghosting over the air between you. “you don’t get it,” you said quietly. “you don’t know what it’s like… walking around with this stupid secret. being the only one in the room who hasn’t-.. who is-..”

“a fuckin’ virgin?” sam finished for you, gently but without hesitation. “yeah, i got that part.”

your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “…you think it makes me weak, don’t you?”

“no,” he said, voice low and certain. “i think it makes you brave as hell for coming out here and hunting with us anyway. for pretending like it doesn’t matter when i can tell it’s tearing you apart inside.”

you felt something split wide open in your chest. a dam cracking. you were so tired of holding it in. of hiding behind sharp jokes and harder walls.

“i didn’t plan on staying that way forever,” you murmured. “it just… didn’t happen. didn’t feel right. not yet.”

sam’s thumb brushed your jaw. “and now?”

you swallowed. looked up at him through your lashes. “now i feel like a goddamn target. like it’s this thing hanging over me and, sam, i hate it. i hate being afraid.”

his lips hovered close to yours, voice a whisper against your skin. “then let me help.”

you stared at him. “you don’t have to-”

“i want to.”

there was no hesitation in his eyes. no lust-fueled pressure. he leaned in, mouth catching yours in a kiss that was patient but deep, like he’d been holding it back for too long. you melted against him before you could even think, hands grabbing the front of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you.

his tongue brushed yours and the groan he let out was filthy, like the taste of you knocked the breath out of him. “you taste so fucking sweet,” he muttered against your lips. “been wondering what it’d feel like to kiss that mouth since you first mouthed off at me.”

you pulled back slightly, breathless. “that was, like… day three.”

sam smiled, hand sliding down to the curve of your hip. “yeah. i’m patient.”

you tugged his shirt off, finally getting your hands on all that muscle he kept hidden under layers. his stomach taut under your fingers as he stepped you back toward the bed.

“you sure about this?” he asked one last time, voice rough but gentle.

you nodded. “i don’t want it to be fear that takes it away from me. i want you.”

that did something to him. suddenly he was all over you, mouth on your neck, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. he kissed down your body like a promise. every touch was careful and intentional, but so hungry. and when he finally pushed your thighs apart and knelt between them, he looked up at you like he was about to ruin you.

“i’m gonna make this good for you,” he murmured, voice so deep it made your toes curl. “so good you forget why you were scared at all. so good it won’t matter that you waited this long.”

you barely managed to gasp before his mouth was on you. hot, skilled, tongue licking long deliberate strokes on your pussy. he was memorizing every single sound you made. you clawed at the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer, and he just held you open with those strong hands, eating you out. he’d literally die if you pulled away.

and when you finally came, shaking and gasping, he kissed back up your body, slow and sweet. “i’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your jaw. “let me take care of the rest.”

sam moved over you like he’d been dreaming about it. until now, until your back was arched against the bed and his body was finally settled between your thighs, all warmth with pressure and want. the motel room around you felt like it didn’t matter. the only thing real was him.

“you good?” he asked again, voice wrecked and whisper-rough, his fingers brushing your cheek while his other hand slowly guided his cock along your folds, teasing. not out of cruelty, but to give you time to breathe.

you nodded, but your voice cracked a little when you said, “yeah. i want it.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to calm your heartbeat with his mouth. “gonna go real slow,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “you tell me if you want me to stop. you say the word, and i back off. no questions.”

“i won’t,” you whispered, hips already lifting to meet him. “i want you, sam. just you.”

the first push was gentle. he went slow, careful, watching your face the entire time, not even trying to hide how hard he was breathing. you were tight, hot, the stretch just on the edge of too much, and the feeling of him filling you had your eyes rolling back almost instantly.

“oh my god,” you gasped, fingers gripping his shoulders. “sam..”

“i know, baby. i know.” his voice was tight, controlled, but he was barely holding back a growl. “you feel-fuck-you feel perfect.”

he paused once he was buried inside, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and running one hand slowly up your thigh like it would help you relax. “breathe,” he whispered. “you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

you were trembling, half from nerves, half from the feeling of him, all of him, seated so deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that felt devastating and intimate all at once. you didn’t even realize tears were brimming at your lashes until sam kissed one off your cheek. “you okay?” he murmured, thumb brushing under your eye again.

“i’m perfect,” you whispered. “just, holy fuck, don’t stop.”

his hips pulled back slowly, and when he pushed in again, it was smoother. still deliberate, but deeper, more rhythmic, trying to find his pace with you, tuning his body to yours. you wrapped your legs around his waist and let your head fall back, moaning shamelessly as he started fucking you in deep, slow strokes that made your breath hitch every time he bottomed out.

“that’s it,” he grunted, forehead still pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “taking me so fuckin’ well, baby… i’ve got you. just let go.”

you couldn’t think. couldn’t speak. the way he was moving slow, his name kept falling from your lips in a quiet chant, the only word you could seem to remember.

sam’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb pressing soft circles into your clit. you gasped, body jolting, and he smiled against your neck. “that feel good, sweetheart?” he whispered. “you like when i touch you like this?”

“yesyes, please, don’t stop-” your voice broke again as pleasure started coiling hot and heavy in your belly. “i’m gonna, sam..”

“i’ve got you,” he said again, voice so loving it hurt. “you can let go. you’re safe.”

you came around him hard, clenching so tightly around his cock that he had to bite his lip to keep it together. your whole body tensed, then collapsed under him as you shook and gasped through it, and he held you like you were something precious, whispering through every twitch.

“that’s it, that’s my girl… fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful like this…”

he kept moving, chasing his own high now, breath stuttering as he fucked into you deeper, a little faster, but never rough. his face was buried in your neck, hand gripping your thigh, and when he came, it was with a full-body groan. he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, panting like he’d just run a marathon.

and then… silence.

heavy breathing. the weight of him on top of you, solid and real and safe. you ran your fingers through his hair, and he let out the softest sound, content, like he didn’t want to move.

he stayed draped over you, his hand still curled around your waist like he needed to keep you close in case you disappeared. you felt wrecked, in the best way.

after a while, sam leaned up on his elbow, pushing the sweaty hair off your forehead, looking down at you like you were made of fucking starlight. “you still okay?” he whispered, and his voice was so gentle, so low and fond, it made your throat get tight.

“mhm,” you mumbled, already half-asleep, still spread out and naked beneath him. “i think you fixed me.”

sam chuckled, brushing his lips over your temple. “i’m a healer now?”

“literally,” you sighed. “virginity demon who?”

he kissed your jaw. “oh, the spirit is banished, alright. world saved.”

you rolled into him, lazy grin pulling at your lips. “one orgasm at a time.”

“…one?”

you blinked up at him, then immediately burst out laughing as he smirked like the smug bastard he was. “okay, chill, sam,” you groaned. “my body’s not even functioning yet.”

“i’ll give you thirty minutes,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest, tucking the blanket around both of you like you weren’t still sticky and sweaty and fucked dumb.

“i’m gonna fall asleep like this,” you whispered, fingers drawing little shapes on his bare chest.

“good. you should.” his voice was all honey again. “you’re safe with me.”

and that was the last thing you heard before you drifted off, wrapped in sam’s arms, thoroughly wrecked and absolutely ruined for anyone who wasn’t a 6’4” soft-spoken demon hunter who fucked like he was trying to put your soul back together.

it felt nice finally falling asleep. your legs were tangled with sam’s, your head tucked under his chin, and his hand was still splayed across your ass like it belonged there. which, to be fair, it did. the room was still warm with sex and body heat and whatever leftover cologne he wore that now lived in your hair.

until the door slammed open like it was kicked by a cop.

“you have got to be kidding me.”

you screamed. sam jolted awake with military precision, reaching for the knife on the nightstand in one motion while covering you with his body in the next.

and standing in the doorway, framed by shitty motel light and holding a crumpled paper bag full of snacks, was dean winchester.

mouth open. face full of regret.

you just stared at each other.

“…dude,” sam said groggily, arm still around you like he didn’t have his whole ass out under the sheet. “what the fuck.”

dean blinked again. “nah.”

he turned around immediately. stared at the wall. took a deep breath.

“oh, no, no no no, this is not happening. this is not how I start my fuckin’ morning. i got beef jerky and a coke and now I have to go pour bleach in my brain because my little brother decided to go all lust in the dust with you.”

you groaned, flopping onto your back and dragging the sheet over your head like a corpse. “please kill me. please kill me now.”

“don’t tempt me.” dean yelled, still facing the wall with his arms out like he was trying to keep a crime scene untouched. “i trusted you! you were the normal one! you sat next to me during stakeouts! you made fun of him with me! what the hell?!”

“i don’t think I’ve ever made fun of sam with you-” you started to say, but dean spun around dramatically, index finger raised like a furious little league coach.

“don’t lie to me now, sex goblin! i saw what i saw, and i can’t ever go back from that!”

sam had the audacity to rub his eyes and mumble, “you could’ve knocked, dude.”

“oh, don’t you start,” dean snapped, pacing now. “i’ve heard you. i knew you were in here. i was trying to be respectful. i thought, ‘hey, they probably just fell asleep watching TV, maybe they’re sharing the room, maybe sam’s just being weird and overprotective, maybe she had a nightmare..’ BUT NO.”

he spun to face you both again, looking personally betrayed.

“y’all were out here doing the monster mash and i walked in ten seconds too late to stop my retinas from dissolving.”

you peeked out from under the covers. “we didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“oh really?” dean scoffed. “how were you planning to tell me? group text? powerpoint? smoke signals from your fucking bedroom?!”

sam sighed. “dean-”

“no. no ‘dean.’ i need castiel to erase the last ten minutes of my life.”

he turned back toward the door, paused dramatically, and looked over his shoulder with the most betrayed face known to man.

“i hope you know,” he said solemnly, “that i will never sit on that bed again.”

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tendertulip @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah @anxiety-prime-max @amsliajskxkxkx @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @kimxwinchester @incubusimmolation @riteofpassage77 @ohangeleyes @kcundercover4 @southernimpala @laceandlipstick @bowbowrry @fernsplace ⊹ ࣪ ˖

۶ৎ wanna be tagged too?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. They’re thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and you’re not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.

You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesn’t tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend there’s a wise voice telling you it’s tale.

Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Sam’s bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forest’s stories, because he’s chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.

Everything about Sam is soft in ways you’d expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Dean’s hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Sam’s hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way he’s just cleared his throat isn’t harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, it’s light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.

“I am not staring,” you reply.

Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. It’s hard to see it now that he’s growing a bit of a beard, but you don’t think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.

“If you’re not staring, then what are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

Sam’s eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table you’d been studying earlier, something golden he doesn’t know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.

“I’m not kidding,” you say.

“I know.”

He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a moment’s notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.

“Are you done?” you ask, gesturing to his book.

Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. “I can be. Why?”

You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. “I can wait if you’re busy.”

“No, no, I’m not busy.”

“You’re halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.”

Sam shrugs, caught. “First time for everything?”

You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Sam’s brows furrow as he watches you. It’s not unlike you to move in a space like you’re not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. You’re moving on a mission, and Sam’s starting to understand what it is.

“Come with me,” you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.

“Where are we going?”

You nod in the direction of the hall. “You are going to have a first time.”

Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasn’t fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps you’ve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesn’t live under his; maybe you’ve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “If I was too direct.”

Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t apologize.”

“I made you uncomfortable.”

“Not uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.”

Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.

“But you look…uncertain.”

“Not uncertain.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.

“Anticipation.”

You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt he’d been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.

“Okay,” you say. “Anticipation is good?”

Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

Sam’s eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than you’d intended, his face immediately flushing pink.

“Sorry,” he whispers when you remove your hand.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“But you-.”

Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “Something can hurt and feel good at the same time.”

You frown. “How on Earth does that work?”

Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. “I wish I knew.”

“Do you-. Can I do it again?”

Sam’s eyes focus on you. “Please.”

You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.

“Wait- wait. Stop,” Sam pants.

You retract your hand immediately. “Too much?”

“No, no. God, no. Just-. We’re in the library.”

You nod, slow. “There is no door.”

“Right.”

“And Dean could walk past.”

“Right again.”

“And you would like to be somewhere else.”

“Three in a row.”

You hum, grabbing Sam’s large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know it’s probably pointless, but it’s the thought that counts.

Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like you’re floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.

Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesn’t matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isn’t important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.

You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.

Despite his size, it’s devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like he’s ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.

Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes you’ve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Sam’s hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like it’s rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Sam’s hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.

“Sam?” you ask, breathless.

Sam makes a noise in response that’s airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.

“Do you want to try something new?”

He freezes. “Like what?”

Your hips shift minutely, Sam’s eyes squeezing shut in response.

“Making you feel what I feel.”

“You feel it different?”

You nod, the motion jerky.

“What kind of different?” he prods.

“More feeling. More energy. Just-. More. You’d like it.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. “Yeah, angel.”

One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Sam’s hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know it’s worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until it’s no brighter than the room’s shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Sam’s pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.

“Promise,” he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.

Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Sam’s huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.

“Off?” he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Not yet” you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.

“Want to feel you.”

“You will.”

Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when it’s so new. He’d burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until he’s a shell of himself. You’re not here to hurt him, after all. You’re just here to give him a good time, a first experience he’s never had before; it’s not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.

Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where he’s straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.

And he lets you. And he likes it.

He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he can’t wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.

The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Sam’s chest.

The tent in Sam’s boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time you’re done.

His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.

Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking he’s reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure that’s built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something he’s done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines he’s read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isn’t zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.

A half-satisfied sigh spills from Sam’s lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. It’s pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just can’t see the same colours you can, can’t see the same prettiness to what’s not meant to be pretty.

“You gonna do something?” Sam asks, wrecked. “Or just stare?”

Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, you’re just high enough that he can’t grind against you.

“Ask nicely,” you comment, frowning a little.

To you, there’s nothing strange about that comment. It’s something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word ‘please’. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.

To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, it’s a command, a request he simply can’t ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it can’t hurt you. His lips form an ‘o’ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.

“Please, angel. Do something. I can’t-. I need-. Please.”

When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like you’re oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.

You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. It’s hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Sam’s working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.

“Don’t need it,” you say, knocking it from his hands.

“I-.”

“I am an angel, Sam.”

“Ever heard of a Nephilim?”

You laugh, melodic. “It can’t happen.”

“You’re sure?”

You stare. “I would not be saying this if I wasn’t.”

Sam looks like he’s about to protest again, and there’s only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Sam’s dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.

“Of course we can,” you reply aloud.

“What?”

You nod toward him. “I heard you.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Sorry.”

“Sam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.”

Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he can’t decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Dean’s footsteps outside getting closer, praying that he’ll walk past without commenting on anything.

“Sammy?” Dean yells. “You in there?”

You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look he’s trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.

“What’re you doing?” he whispers low.

“You said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,” you whisper back. “I’m testing that theory.”

Sam’s eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Dean’s banging on the doorframe.

“I got questions for you, Sammy,” he yells.

“Dude, go read a book or something,” Sam shouts back.

You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.

“I did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, would’ya?”

Sam groans, this time from his brother’s sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.

“Make it quick.”

“Do I get to come in or am I stuck yellin’ at this door?”

“Don’t come in!” you and Sam both yell at the same time.

Dean mutters something Sam can’t hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.

“What’s the question?” Sam asks.

“Got this case here, says it’s in, uh, Milwaukee.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s talkin’ ‘bout some drownin’s.”

“Wisconsin’s covered in lakes, Dean.”

“Well yeah. But this one’s weird.”

You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.

“Why’s that?” Sam replies, voice careful and steady.

“’Cause the guy drowned on land.”

Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.

“Oh..kay. Weird.”

“Yeah. And there’s this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted t’show you. ‘Cause I can’t find it.”

“Why would I know?”

“Eh, thought your angel pal could help us out.”

Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.

“What’s it look like?” Sam asks.

Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know he’s taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear you’re surprised Sam can’t see it floating between your chests. There’s a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. It’s surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Sam’s sweat-flushed cheeks.

Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Sam’s doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he can’t, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesn’t hear.

“Could be a binding sigil,” Sam answers.

You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.

“Not right?” Sam whispers to you.

“No. The spiral should be a triangle.”

Sam redraws his mental image. “Dean?”

“What?”

“Is it Celtic?”

Dean shuffles some pages around. You still don’t move.

“No,” you and Dean both say.

Sam groans, frustrated. “Okay. It’s either Enochian or some bastardization of it.”

That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.

“Good,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.

“Great. What’s it do?” Dean asks.

Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.

“Pr- probably binds- ah.”

You stop.

“No, sorry. Not binding.”

You can see the gears turning in Sam’s brain.

“Wait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?”

“Uh…left.”

A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Dean’s silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Sam’s fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that you’re notice later and wear because they came from Sam’s hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until you’re certain that whatever pressure he’s feeling now is worse than he’s ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell he’s close, heat burning sharp between you.

“Hurts,” he whines.

Just as Sam’s about to tip over the edge, you stop. You don’t give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Dean’s ears, Sam’s eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.

“The hell?” he whispers, throat wrecked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” is your answer.

“Dean?” Sam asks, weak. “You there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just readin’ somethin’. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.”

“It’s a sigil for a plague,” he comments.

“Good,” you whisper, starting a slow roll.

“Oh great. Which one?” Dean asks, exasperated.

“Seven, I think.”

You stop. Sam whines.

“Not seven, not seven,” he says, punched out and breathy. “’S not seven.”

“Well, that’s great. Y’only got, what, nine more to go through?”

“Shut up.”

You lean down to Sam’s ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.

“Seven was hail, Sam.”

“I know.”

“Ask him what the man drowned in.”

Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he drown in? Water?”

You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam can’t see it.

“No, uh…drowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.”

Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Sam’s forehead.

“It’s one. Dean, it’s the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.”

Your grip tightens on Sam’s hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until he’s just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Sam’s eye.

“What now?” he murmurs to you.

“You haven’t told him how to remove it.”

“I don’t know how to remove it.”

“Yes, you do, Sam.”

Dean shuffles. “How am I supposed to get it off these people?”

“Fire?”

You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.

“Hellfire, maybe?” Sam adds.

You stop.

“What other fire is there?” Sam murmurs to himself. “Not hellfire…not fire…f…it’s…holy…holy fire. Dean! Dean, it’s holy fire.”

“Good boy,” you coo, nipping at the dip between Sam’s collarbones and moving again.

“Anything else?” Sam asks his brother.

“Nah. Just needed that geek brain o’yours.”

Dean’s footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once you’re certain he’s not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Sam’s closet. Some worn t-shirt that’s seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.

Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how he’s squeezing your hand. He’s panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Sam’s hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.

“Hurts s’bad,” he whimpers.

“Mhm?”

“Yeah, ‘s- ow. Hurts, hurts. Please, angel. Please lemme just-.”

“Hm,” you hum.

“Please, I need-.”

You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Sam’s eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, breathless.

You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Sam’s lips. The bubble bursts in Sam’s core, and then he’s coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the room’s night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but you’re too focused on Sam and Sam’s too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.

He’s panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesn’t go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until it’s back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you don’t pull at the knots you’ve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.

Finally, slowly, when he’s soft enough you’re both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace you’d given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that he’s fully human once more.

“I will clean up here,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “Get yourself sorted out.”

“Do I have to?” he murmurs back.

You smile gently. “Yes, love. You do. It won’t take very long.”

Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. He’s getting older, you know this. He’s older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. He’s getting to an age he never assumed he’d reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means he’s running out of time on earth, something you’re distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.

Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if they’d just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isn’t dented by Sam’s head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.

When he shuffles back into the room, you’re in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So?” you murmur, turning to face him.

“So,” he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.

“Was it too much?”

Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.

“No. ‘S perfect. Thank you.”

“Would- would you do it again?”

Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. “Not now.”

You laugh light and airy. “I didn’t mean now, love.”

“Oh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”

You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. He’s barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand won’t go numb; you won’t let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.

“Okay?” you ask when he stills.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.

You kiss the top of his head. “Rest well, Sam.”

“You know I will.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. “I love you, angel.”

“You know I love you too.”

“I know.”

It’s the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You don’t sleep, Sam knows you don’t, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. It’s never annoying, and you’ve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesn’t shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.

tonight, they do.

your arms loop around his neck, face buried in the warm skin just below his ear. the smell of him—soap and a hint of beer and that faint library-book scent he always carries—makes everything feel safe even while the world tilts.

“i’m so damn in love with you, sam,” you mumble, lips brushing his earlobe. the words tumble out sloppy and honest, soaked in tequila.

sam stills for half a second, his grip tightening. then a slow grin spreads across his face, surprised and so damn bright it cuts through the haze in your head. he pulls back just enough to look at you, hazel eyes warm and a little wide.

“say that again,” he says, voice low, right against your mouth.

your knees buckle a little more. you smile, drunk and dizzy and stupidly happy. “i said i’m stupidly in love with you, sammy.”

the grin turns into something hungrier. he doesn’t answer with words. instead he catches your hand, laces your fingers together, and starts weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway. you stumble after him, giggling, the music still thumping in your chest.

he pushes open the bathroom door—a single stall—locks it behind you with a quick click, and the noise of the bar dulls to a muffled pulse.

before you can say anything he lifts you, big hands under your thighs, and sits you on the edge of the counter, your ass half in the sink, the porcelain is cool through your skirt. sam steps between your legs, tall frame crowding you, and you feel how hard he already is, pressed right against your core through his jeans.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. his voice is rough, breath warm with alcohol and want brushing your cheek. “you can’t just say shit like that when i’m trying to be responsible.”

you laugh softly, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm skin of his back. “but i mean it. been meaning it for months. just… scared, i guess. now i’m drunk and brave.”

sam kisses you then, deep and messy, tongues sliding together while his hands push your skirt higher up your thighs. you moan into his mouth, needy, hips rocking forward to chase the friction.

he’s so hard it makes your stomach flutter.

responsible sam, always the careful one, still pulls a condom from his wallet without breaking the kiss. you hear the foil tear and it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“need you,” you whisper against his lips, fingers fumbling with his belt. “right now, sam. please.”

“i’ve got you.” his voice cracks a little, too much feeling packed into three words.

he shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, rolls the condom on with steady hands even though his breath is coming fast. then he’s pushing your panties aside, fingers sliding through your slick folds once, twice, checking you’re ready.

“jesus christ, baby,” he hisses.

you are. embarrassingly so. the alcohol and the confession and the way he’s looking at you like you hung the moon have you dripping.

he lines up and sinks in slow, one long push that stretches you open and steals the air from your lungs. you gasp, head falling back against the mirror, and sam groans low in his throat, hips stuttering once before he catches himself.

“god, you feel so good,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours again. he starts moving, deep and steady, the angle perfect because of how high the counter is.

every thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes sparks shoot up your spine.

“been wanting to hear you say it. i love you too, baby. so fucking much. didn’t know how to say it either.”

your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt. the confession feels raw, perfect, the words tumbling out between moans and the wet sound of skin meeting skin.

“love you,” you pant, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “love your stupid giant brain and how you make me coffee exactly right and how you look at me like i’m the only person in the room even when we’re in a crowd.”

sam’s rhythm falters for a second, then picks up, harder, deeper, like your words are fuel. the counter creaks under you. his hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that make your vision spark white at the edges.

“say it again,” he demands softly, voice strained. “please.”

“i’m in love with you, sam winchester.” the words come out breathy, broken by a moan when he hits that perfect angle again. “so in love it scares me sometimes.”

he kisses you hard, swallowing the sound, hips snapping forward. the tension coils tight and fast, alcohol making everything feel brighter, more intense. you come first, clenching around him with a cry that he muffles against your neck, body shaking through the waves.

sam follows right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name, hips jerking through the aftershocks. for a long moment you just cling to each other, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync.

he stays inside you while you both come down, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “we’re doing this right,” he whispers, still a little breathless. “the apartment, the future, all of it. i’m not letting you go.”

you smile against his skin, drunk and sated and so full of love it hurts in the best way. your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close while the muffled music from the bar pulses on.

the bathroom light is too bright and the counter is uncomfortable and tomorrow you’ll probably have a killer hangover, but right now none of that matters. sam is warm and solid and yours, and the words you finally said are still hanging in the air between you like a promise neither of you plan to break.