faggot baby 💞🏳️‍⚧️

“Hey.” You try to smile. It feels thin. “You okay?”

He exhales through his nose. “Better now.” His free hand flattens against the glass—palm wide, fingers long. You mirror him without thinking. Your fingertips don’t quite meet his. The barrier is cold. Impersonal. Cruel.

Two weeks. It was supposed to be seventy-two hours. A paperwork glitch. A pissed-off marshal. Whatever excuse they fed Dean this time. Two weeks of motel beds too big, of reaching for him in the dark and finding nothing but sheets. Two weeks of Sam in here, counting days, counting you.

“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. It cracks something open in his expression.

“Fuck, baby.” His voice drops lower. “You have no idea.” His eyes flick down your body—slow, deliberate—like he’s trying to memorize every inch through the glass. “Been thinking about you nonstop. Every night. Every goddamn minute.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You shift in the hard plastic chair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans closer to the partition. Breath fogs the glass for a second. “Tell me what you’re wearing under that shirt.”

You glance around—guard at the far end, half-turned, talking to another inmate’s visitor. No one’s paying attention. You lower your voice anyway.

“Same bra you like. The black one. No padding. And those panties you said made my ass look obscene.”

Sam’s throat works. Hard swallow. “Jesus.” His hand flexes against the glass. “Wish I could rip them off you. Right here. Bend you over this table and—”

“Sam.” Your breath hitches. You press your thighs together under the ledge. “Keep going.”

He does. Voice turns gravel-rough. “I’d start slow. Kiss that spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. Bite your neck just hard enough you’ll feel it tomorrow. Slide my hand down your stomach—fuck, I miss how soft you are there—then under the waistband. Feel how wet you already are for me.”

You’re breathing faster now. The phone cord twists around your finger. “I am,” you admit. Quiet. “Just hearing you.”

A low groan slips out of him—barely audible, but it hits you like a punch. “Touch yourself,” he says. Command wrapped in desperation. “Right now. Under the table. Where no one can see.”

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. Slips between your thighs, presses firm against the seam of your jeans. The pressure’s immediate. Not enough. Never enough without him.

“Done,” you whisper.

“Good.” His eyes are dark. Locked on your face like he’s trying to see through your skin. “Rub slow circles. Pretend it’s my fingers.The ones that know exactly how you like it.”

You do. Slow. Teasing. Your hips rock forward just a fraction—instinct. “Sam—”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Hot,” you breathe. “Achy. Wish it was you stretching me open. Wish I could feel you—fuck—deep.”

He makes a sound—half growl, half whimper. His free hand disappears below the table ledge. You can’t see it, but you know. The way his bicep flexes. The subtle shift of his shoulders.

“Are you—?”

“Yeah.” Voice strained. “Hard as fuck. Been hard since you walked in. Can’t help it. You in that shirt. That look on your face. Fuck.”

You bite your lip. Press harder. “Stroke yourself. Slow. Like you’re teasing me.”

He hisses through his teeth. “Already am. Thinking about your mouth. How you look when you take me—eyes watering, lips stretched. Goddamn, I miss that.”

Your rhythm falters—pleasure spiking sharp. “I’d suck you so good right now,” you tell him. “Deep. Messy. Let you fuck my throat until you’re shaking.”

“Fuck—baby—” His breathing turns ragged. “I’d hold your hair. Pull just enough. Watch you take every inch. Then flip you over. Spread you wide. Slide in so slow you beg.”

“I’d beg,” you gasp. Fingers circling faster now. The seam of your jeans is soaked through. “Please, Sam. Need you inside me.”

He groans—long, broken. “I’d fuck you hard. Deep. Make the table shake. Make you scream my name so loud the guards hear it. Mark you. Fill you up until it’s dripping down your thighs.”

You’re close. Too close. The glass between you feels like torture. “Sam—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he rasps. “Come for me. Right there. Let me watch your face when you fall apart.”

Your orgasm hits sudden and brutal—silent because you have to be, but your mouth opens on a soundless cry. Thighs clamp around your hand. Whole body locks up. Waves rolling through you while you stare at him through the haze.

Sam’s eyes blow wide. Jaw slack. Then his head tips back—just a fraction—and a low, choked moan tears out of him. His shoulders jerk once. Twice. You see the moment he spills—hot, helpless—into the jumpsuit pants he can’t even get off properly. His hand stays below the table, milking it out while he stares at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

For a long second neither of you speaks. Just heavy breathing down the line. Hearts hammering.

Finally he laughs—soft. Wrecked. “I just came in my fucking prison pants. Like a teenager.

”You huff a breathless laugh too. “Hot.”

“Yeah?” His smile is crooked. Tired. Adoring. “Next time I’m out of here—and I will be—I’m not letting you leave the bed for a week.”

“Promise?”

“Swear.”

You both stay quiet after that. Hands still pressed to the glass. Phones still at your ears. The guard calls time in five.

Sam’s thumb strokes the barrier like he can feel your skin.

“I love you,” he says. Quiet. Certain.

“Love you more.”

And for now—for two more weeks, maybe—that’s enough.

“Thought you were gonna crash on the couch again,” you say quietly.

Dean freezes mid-step, shoulders rigid. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. Sweat beads at his temples even though the bunker is cool. His pupils are blown wide, green almost swallowed by black.

“I’m fine,” he grits out. Voice like gravel dragged over broken glass.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” You step forward. He takes an automatic step back. Like he’s scared of what he’ll do if you get too close. “Talk to me.”

He drags a hand down his face. “The witch. Threw some kinda… vial at me. Shattered. Pink smoke. Smelled like goddamn cotton candy and sin.” A harsh laugh. “Been like this ever since.”

“Like what?”

He meets your eyes for the first time since he walked in. Pure, feral hunger stares back at you.

“Horny,” he rasps. “All the fuckin’ time. Can’t think. Can’t sleep. Can’t—Jesus, I’ve jerked off four times today and it still feels like my dick’s gonna explode. I don’t wanna… overwhelm you.”

You step closer anyway.

He doesn’t retreat this time.

“You think I can’t handle you?” you ask softly.

“I think I’d fuck you for hours. Literally hours. Won’t stop. Can’t stop. I’ll hurt you.”

You reach up, cup his jaw. His stubble is rough against your palm; he leans into the touch like a starving man.

“I want you to hurt me a little,” you whisper. “I want all of it.”

A broken groan rips out of him.

Then he’s on you.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing—hands under your thighs, slamming your back against the nearest wall. Mouth crashes into yours, teeth clacking, tongue demanding. He’s shaking so hard you feel it in your bones.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants against your lips. “Tell me right now.”

“Never.”

That’s all he needs.

Clothes come off in frantic pieces—your shirt rips at the seam, his belt clatters to the floor. He doesn’t bother with the bedroom. Just yanks your jeans and panties down your legs, drops to his knees, and buries his face between your thighs like a man possessed.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you gasp. He groans—deep, animal, vibrating against your clit. No teasing. No finesse. Just ravenous, sloppy licks and sucking until your knees buckle.

“Dean—oh god—”

He growls. Actually growls. Hands clamp on your hips, holding you still while he devours you. You come fast—shaking, crying out, fingers twisted in his hair. He doesn’t stop. Keeps licking through it, then pushes two thick fingers inside you and curls them hard.

“Again,” he snarls. “Need you to come again. Need you soaked. Need to be inside you.”

You do. Again. And again. Until your legs are jelly and you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

Only then does he stand—cock so hard it’s purple, leaking steadily. He lifts you again, pins you to the wall, and thrusts in with one brutal stroke.

You both cry out.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just starts fucking you—deep, punishing, relentless. Grunts and whines tear from his throat with every snap of his hips. “Fuck—fuck—so tight—can’t—can’t stop—sorry—sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Give it to me. All of it.”

He does.

Hours blur.

He takes you against the wall until your thighs burn.

On the floor when your legs give out—carpet scraping your back while he pounds into you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other rubbing frantic circles on your clit.

On the bed—finally—where he lays you out and fucks you missionary so he can watch your face every time you come. He’s whining now—high, desperate sounds every time you clench around him. “Gonna come again—fuck—can’t stop comin’—need you to come with me—please—”

You do. So many times you lose count. Each orgasm bleeds into the next until you’re both trembling wrecks—sweat-slick, shaking, covered in each other.

When he finally collapses beside you—still half-hard, still twitching—he pulls you against his chest like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

“Still… still want you,” he mumbles into your hair, voice hoarse. “Still hurts.”

You kiss his collarbone. “Then take me again.”

He groans—half tortured, half grateful—and rolls you underneath him once more.

The sun is coming up when he finally passes out—mid-thrust, buried deep, face buried in your neck, a low, satisfied rumble still vibrating in his chest.

You stroke his hair, smiling through your own exhaustion.

Whatever the witch did… you’ll deal with the cure later.

Much, much later.

The bathroom air feels stale against his tacky skin, the salt from his sweat tightening it, probably making his white singlet now a patchy damp grey. Breaths come in shudders. His chest heaving and nostrils flaring. Heartbeat thundering in his ears and throat, hammering at the insides of his wrists. The chill of the tiles underneath his clammy feet mix with the horrid heat pulsing from his body to make him feel like he’s superglued to the floor.

His still semi-hard but softening cock twitches momentarily in his briefs, and he’s suddenly brought back to the sickening wet patch in his boxers starting to dry. Sam groans in disgust, neck craning forward to see how bad of a mess he’s made, but realising there’s no light for his eyes to adjust to, so he throws his head back into the wooden door with a flat thud.

He lifts off the surface with a huff as he starts undressing himself – ruined boxers dragged down each leg first, followed by his singlet ripped over his shoulders – still in the dark, “That was wrong. That was so wrong.”

Sam drops the dirty clothing in a mound to the left of the door, then flicks the light switch up. The overhead fixture splutters to life with a cough, making him wince and quickly scrunch his face up as the bright, searing white light burns his eyes like he was being smote. Hunched, he pads over to the shower, pulling at the grimy glass door and reaching in to turn on the shower head.

He pauses for a second – does he turn the water to hot to scald and scold himself; to burn that even now still persisting hunger for you out of his body and dull the crushing shame of what he’s just done? Or cold to strip him and his undeserving, uncontrolled, and unrequited love for you down into individual parts, clean it all from his filth, and bind it back into something he can quietly survive with, maybe sometimes (selfishly) enjoy, in proper private. 

Sam opts for the latter.

He decides to only shut off the cold water when it no longer bites, which, thanks to the roadside motel’s rusting pipes, isn’t very long.

He sulks out of the glass cubicle, cursing at the lack of a bathmat, then reaching out for his hanging towel – still slightly damp from his earlier shower – and running it roughly through his hair, before swiping his face and dragging it down the rest of his body to dry himself off. Sam goes to hang the towel back on the hook, but is met with the realisation that he didn’t bring any clean clothes into the bathroom. Fuck.

It’s really not his night.

A frustrated groan leaves him, head tipping back and blinking up at the ceiling in such tired defeat like it might magically produce at least some underwear for him – because knowing his luck? You or Dean (god forbid it’s his brother) will wake up and ask why he’s had another shower. At this time of the night.

Sam wraps the sodden towel around his hips and walks towards the bathroom door. Just as he’s about to grab the handle with his left hand and flick off the light switch with his right, the pile of his dirty clothing skims the bottom of his vision.

Ha. Great, Sam thinks, barely able to look at it as he rolls his eyes away in disgust.

Bending down, he scoops up the reminder of his crimes in his left arm, straightening back up and turning the overhead fixture off to plunge himself back into darkness before stepping out into the shared room.

Although he can’t currently see anything, he can hear the ceiling fan still whirling above his head, pushing a now mildly warm current through the air that brushes past the raising hairs on his arms.

In the doorway, Sam shudders as he lets his eyes adapt to the low blue and silver lighting and shadows of the moon seeping in through the windows by the shared bed. The bed with you in it.

He can’t focus on you. Not right now.

He blinks a little stupidly, eyes scanning across the room and over worn, dated furniture, books with jutting out pages that are stacked in short, lopsided mountains, bags by the tv that– bags. Bags with clothes in them. His clothes. That he needs right now.

Sam silently shuffles past Dean’s bed over to his own duffel, crouching down to drop the ‘used’ clothing to the side of it and scrounge through the clean and orderly packed clothing to find another pair of boxers and a singlet to wear. He finds what he needs, pulling them out with a quick soothing sigh, and tucking the materials to his right side, then standing up and returning to the safety of the pitch-black bathroom to dress himself. Once the towel is hung back up, Sam quietly closes the bathroom door behind him and pads back over to his bag.

He’s staring down at the small heap of grimy, intermingling clothing like it’s personally offended him. Because it has. And really, it would offend anybody else who saw it, too.

Normally, he’d fold his dirty clothing in a neat pile, ready to be taken to a laundromat whenever necessary during a hunt. There’s already a heap next to his bag from yesterday. However, Sam doesn’t think he should leave evidence of his night emission out in the open. So, swiftly, he squats back down, both hands rummaging through the duffel to find a plastic bag that can hide at least the visible source of shame.

“That’ll do,” he whispers to himself when he finds it, reaching to his left and stuffing that mess into the plastic bag, and shoving it deep into his own duffel.

He rises, a slow and audible breath dragging from him. Then he turns back to the bed. Back to you. His eyes fall on your sheeted figure. You’re still fast asleep.

He takes four steps towards the bed to end up at his side, shins resting against the mattress as he looks down. His eyes glide over you and god, you’re so beautiful; your lips are in a sweet, gentle pout, softly parted as you take in and exhale small huffs of air, your lashes lightly fluttering for a second, then stilling as the ring and pinky finger of your right hand twitch.

He could reach out and touch you if he wanted. He does want to. But no, that’s creepy. And after what he’s done tonight, he knows he deserves nothing less.

Sam’s gaze lifts from you, almost taking physical effort, as he realises he may have left a gross wet patch where he was sleeping. He gulps, preparing himself for the damage, then scanning along the open space to assess with clinical precision.

There’s nothing there but the crumpled lines of the fitted sheet.

Oh thank god. Sam thinks he probably wouldn’t have survived the night – no, the rest of his life – if his cum had stained the bed.

Okay. You’ve got this, Sam.

With one quick, task-driven nod, carefully, he sinks himself onto the mattress next to you – years of hunting guiding his long limbs and breath into almost perfect silence. First, he sits. This is not something to rush. Then, once he’s certain he hasn’t woken you due to the weight change, he lifts just the corner of the flat sheet up and shifts to raise his right leg onto the bed. Finally, at last, he rolls his body smoothly into the open space.

He drops the sheet over him and wriggles ever so slightly, lightly spreading his arms and legs, lifting his head once, twice, and nestling into the pillow as he settles into the somewhat comfort of the old, lumpy bedding. Springs only letting off a faint, almost silent creaking.

You did it. Sam smiles to himself, almost feeling like he should give himself a pat on the back. Everything’s okay.

He closes his eyes, attempting to fall back into a deep and hopefully uneventful sleep, and a solid, warm limb grazes and crosses over his left arm, reaching to the middle of his chest. Smaller, warm hand splayed carefree, the palm and fingertips burning through his singlet to reach his skin. Sam seizes, neck almost snapping as he turns to you, eyes wide and frantic as a sudden wave of panic sweeps entirely over him that you’ve woken up.

He’s fucked it.

But when his gaze locks onto your face – eyes flicking between every space and curve to account for any movement, open features, anything that’s changed since he last looked at you – your own are still closed. Your mouth is softly shut now, though.

And then (and he’s so sure he doesn’t imagine it), Sam hears a small, content, so content, noise leave your throat as you rub your left cheek against your pillow.

Nope. Nope nope nope. He’s not doing this.

He wants your hand there. God, he really wants it there. He’s desperate for your touch, in whatever way he can have it, which is just so fucking selfish of him. He knows it. Beats himself up about it every day. But this can’t be happening. Not right now. Not after what’s happened, after what he’s done. He’s too dirty to have a touch so pure as yours on him.

Almost painfully, Sam carefully grabs your wrist with his left hand, fingers wrapping gently, timidly, around the bone to lift your arm off of him and place it back in the small space between you both.

He slips out from under the sheet and slides himself off the bed, fumbling a little this time as his legs twist under him and his feet miscalculate the distance from the mattress to the floor.

When he fully stands, he frowns, heart aching at the sight, his need for you. Sam has to get out of here. He turns his head to the right to look at the bedside table, specifically seeking the digital alarm clock – it reads 04:55. Way too early to go get coffee, even for Sam.

“Fuck.”

He spins on his feet and rushes back to his duffel to dress himself – sweats pulled up his legs, then a long sleeve flannel, unbuttoned, flung around his shoulders.

The only safe place he can go is outside.

He squints to locate some shoes, opting for his runners because god knows how long he’s gonna have to be gone for. Without even lacing them, just tucking the strings into the sides, Sam almost runs for the door, snatching a set of keys on the wooden table as he passes it.

Quietly, so quietly, he grabs the door knob and turns it, pushing the door with measured pressure, then slipping out through the crack without daring to turn back to look at you.

By the time Sam gets back to the motel, the sun is already warm over the red wooden panelled roof. He doesn’t know how long he’s been gone for, but it was long enough to devise a plan. A solid plan, he thinks. All he’s gotta do is keep his distance from you – limit any sort of verbal or physical (especially physical) contact with you. It won’t be long; just until the case is done. Which is hopefully only a few days. Then Sam can rent a car or something and say he needs to go visit an old friend back at Stanford and will be gone for a couple days.

Solid.

Heat is already brimming in the morning air, the crunching gravel parking lot offering some relief underfoot as Sam walks across it back to the room. Another hot day. Great.

If he’d really thought about it, actually used his usually analytical and cool-tempered brain, he wouldn’t have worn these stupid – now almost fully soaked through – sweatpants on the walk.

Sam pauses at the door, hand outreached for the handle, as he takes in an attempt at a deep and calming, centring breath. It doesn’t work.

“Ah! There you are, Sammy.”

It’s Dean.

Thank god.

“Was just about to send out a search party for you,” he says, quickly looking up from his seat around the other side of the wooden table as his younger brother steps through the doorway. Dean’s eyes fall back to the book splayed in front of him, then – they flick just as quickly back up to Sam, face scrunched, “You wore that for your run?”

Sam pays him no mind, walks straight past him to his duffel, “Didn’t run. Just needed some air.”

“Right.” A pause. “Well, next time you ‘just need some air’, can you take your damn phone with you? Had us both worryin’ about you.” Pages shuffle. “All for nothin’.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Just riffles through his bag to find a change of clothes for the day ahead. He hears Dean sigh, “You better go tell her you’re back.”

That makes Sam stop. Still crouched, he turns back to his brother and stares at him blankly, a little dumbly. Dean’s already turned towards him, looking at him, eyes sweeping over his face, trying to discretely track any sign of a reaction. Unsatisfied, Dean says your name like it's the most obvious answer in the world. Probably because, now that Sam thinks about it, it is. His brother exhales, shifting his body and attention returning back to the pages in front of him as he leans forward, left elbow braced on the table to prop up his head, “She’s in the reception askin’ abo–”

“Oh Sam! You’re back!”

Shit.

Sam can just see the wisps of your hair to the right of Dean’s face as you come in through the door. He struggles to complete a swallow.

You can do this, Sam. You can do this.

“We were getting a bit worried about you,” you close the door behind you, beginning to walk towards the table, “‘specially cause Dean and I tried to call you to figure out where you’d gone and your phone was here.” Sam doesn’t respond. Just shifts his neck back to his bag on the floor in front of him as he sifts through the clothing. His clean clothing.

He smells the coffee before he hears you place a cup on the table with a soft thud, Dean mumbling a thank you. To his horror, you don’t take a seat, no; you keep walking. Walk right around Dean’s chair and stop right by Sam’s right side. Your hips level with the side of his face.

Fuck.

“Here, take this one, Sam. I’ll get another.”

He’s frozen. He can see your legs in the far corner of his right eye, denim shorts finishing mid-thigh – but he can’t look at you. If he did, all he’d see is your face above him, looking down at him. Like you had last night. When he was buried in between those warm bare thighs, soft flesh and muscles bracketing and tensing around his head–

“T-that’s okay.” Sam’s cock twitches violently, hardening. “Don’t want one.”

“You don’t want any coffee?”

He shakes his head. Returns to searching for proper pants and a shirt.

Truthfully, he does want one, but he can’t risk touching you. He’ll just go get one afterwards. He’ll have to be discrete, though, make sure neither you nor Dean catch him. Although he can’t see you, he’s sure you’re nodding your head in that slow, rolling motion you do when you’re listening and processing something. You’re probably exchanging a quick, confused glance with Dean.

“Okay...” God, you do not sound convinced. “Did ya have a good run? Interesting outfit choice you’ve got on there.” “Um– yeah, no. Didn’t go for a run.” It sounds so much like he’s being short with you. He hates it.

He hunches over more, digging further into his bag as frustration starts to kick in. Not at you – never at you – but at the fact he can’t find his stupid clothes.

“Oh? What were you do–”

“He needed some ‘fresh air’.” The way Dean says it pisses Sam right off.

“Ah. Okay.” You’re not buying it. But you don’t push him. And for that, he’s so thankful. “Well, I just spoke with the man at reception about the kids in the paper and he sa–”, Sam stands abruptly, having found what he needed, and almost collides with you.

You’re wide-eyed. Brows raised, mouth parted in shock at the sudden almost contact. Sam jerks back reactively. His feet stumble, left one tripping on his duffel, but manages to save himself at the last second from fully falling.

Both of your hands, even the one still holding the rejected coffee cup, fly out from your sides to try and grab him. They stop just short of his body as Sam stabilises himself, your hands hovering mid-air, “Sorry, Sam. I– I didn’t mean–“ A rattled breath leaves him, “Y–you’re fine. My fault.”

His eyes drop immediately from yours, skirting and staring down at the thin carpeted floor, but not before he briefly catches the skin of your bare forearms left uncovered by the sleeves of your loose flannel bunched at your elbows. Sam can’t move, otherwise he might touch your arm or your hair or your beautiful face when he does.

You seem to notice this; sidestepping to the right, a little skittish, to give him plenty of room to walk past.

He stands there for a beat, blinks rapidly a few times, then moves, “I’m…I’m just gonna go and... get changed.”

You nod once from the corner of his vision as he passes you before he almost slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

When Sam emerges, showered again and now dressed in appropriate clothing for the day, you’re sitting at the small wooden table over by the wall with Dean, muttering softly and somewhat excitedly to each other, pointing at notes in your journal and shoving opened research books and scanned newspaper sheets in front of one another’s faces.

You don’t look up when he comes out.

But Dean does, craning his neck to the left behind him to track Sam as he passes the table. He shifts back to focus on you as Sam returns to his bag to put the used clothing in a neat pile next to it, “Sam, we think we’ve got it.”

Sam stands straight, arms crossed over his chest, gaze focused on his brother, preparing himself to listen to Dean speak.

But there’s just silence.

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Sam realises he’s waiting for you to start speaking. When you don’t, Dean kicks at you underneath the table, releasing your attention from the pages you’re staring down at with a small, annoyed sound as you look up at Dean, then to Sam. Sam doesn’t miss the way your big eyes snap away from his immediately and back to Dean’s, then down to your book when it clicks that you’re meant to be talking.

“Oh, um– yeah so...” Sam almost gets entirely lost in your voice right away.

You’d found the article online three days ago: One Teen Dead, One Hospitalised After Suspected Murder-Drowning by Mystery Figure in Local Sanatorium.  

Dean had waved it off, said ‘they probably got high and decided to go for a dip, needed a cover up and said they had a ‘Grave Encounters’ moment’.

But you paid him no mind, continued on by saying ‘who drowns in an empty pool?’

Dean’d paused at that – and Sam, equally as curious as you but also wanting to back you up, said ‘we’ve gone on hunts for much less’.

And that was that.

When the three of you arrived in town yesterday, you did your preliminary checks – located the Sanatorium, talked to a few locals about the teens (who then directed you to head to the newspaper office to go over their archives), and established there was only one bar within a 45 minute drive radius. Dean has his priorities.

Sam had gone to the office, scanned the articles he thought would be relevant, then met back up with you at the local library. Dean had busied himself by slinking around the perimeter of the derelict Sanatorium, all its doors blocked off by police. 

Before the incident, the one where Sam came in his underwear asleep because he thought he was eating you out, you and Sam had sat at the table together with his laptop, your notebook, and several scanned newspaper sheets in between you both, while Dean was comfortably splayed on his bed with several books for research.

With a ‘I think I’ve read the same paragraph four times’ just before 2am, you’d all called it a night.Then, this morning, while Sam was out getting some ‘fresh air’, you went to talk to the gruff receptionist who ‘smelt like stale wet laundry’ and had that ‘back in my day sort of attitude’(which Sam knows really grinds your gears), finding out that the ‘stupid local teens’ regularly went to ‘that ol’ haunted Sanatorium’ as a ‘dumb rite of passage’ because ‘kids these days got nothin’ better to do, ‘pparently’.

The morning’s research so far had pointed to the cause of death for one teen and hospitalisation of the other being from a pissed off ghost – a nasty doctor who used to secretly experiment on some of his patients and was killed during a major patient breakout.

A simple salt and burn.

‘–Well, I don’t think that, but Dean does. And we all know that Dean is always right–’

‘–Yeah. ‘Cause I’m the oldest.’

You snorted. ‘Whatever, old man.’

Cute, Sam thought.

He wanted to ask what you thought you were all hunting – because you’re smart; your brain considers every possibility, doesn’t let the small or seemingly insignificant details go missed, and you’re a very good hunter; one of the best he knows, and also? He cares what you think – but that would mean having to talk to you.

So Sam just stands there like a butter knife with no butter – technically functional, but not contributing to anything at all. A few nods here and there, maybe one or two ‘yeps’.

When you finish detailing all the research and opinion points for consideration, both you and Dean look up at Sam, clearly waiting for him to say something final. Maybe disagree or question what they’ve offered, because ‘Sam is the best researcher’ (your words, not his. He remembers it fondly when you first said it, the heat that had bloomed in his face and down his neck, the way his heart and chest had swelled). Well, Dean definitely is staring at him, and just in his peripheral vision, it looks like you are, too. Sam can’t be too sure, though. He didn’t look at you the entire time you were speaking – and he’s not about to start now. Can’t start now.

“So, Sam, what do you think?” You sound a little unsure. Timid. Like you’re a nervous student waiting on the teacher to tell you if your answer is right or wrong.

Oh sweetheart. He doesn’t want to make you feel insecure or uncertain.

But he still can’t look at you. “Sounds good.”

An awkward, prickling silence festers in the air. It’s so heavy. Sam could blame it on the summer heat leaking into the room through the old, draughty walls, under the gaping motel door, but he knows it’s not that.

He gulps, words flying around and ricocheting off the walls of his brain as he tries to breath a bit of air back into the suffocating room. “So what’s the plan? We go to the doctor’s grave first? Salt him and burn him, then head to the Sanatorium after nightfall? Make sure he’s gone for good?” Not looking at Sam, Dean rises from his seat, closing the book in front of him, “Nah, doc’s already been cremated. But the Sanatorium’s got both his hands out on display ‘cause he was this top shit amphibious surgeon who they wanted to commemorate or something – so we needa burn ‘em”

“Ambidextrous, Dean,” you offer absentmindedly. Dean throws his left hand in the air, waving you off. A small, suppressed grin tugs on Sam’s mouth, “That’s sort of weird.”

His brother shrugs, bending slightly to reach into his jacket hung over the back of his chair to find the car keys, “It’s a weird town.”

Sam notices you don’t move. How quiet you are. Normally, you’d be the first one up, gunning for the door, pushing past and shoving Dean, giggling, as you both race to the car. Not for any real purpose – just because you both can and you think it’s funny. Because ‘not everything in our lives has to be so damn serious, Sammy’. He likes how well you get along with his brother. Means that if you did want to be with Sam, maybe even marry him, life would just be so damn easy, so perfect.

Sam, not a very helpful thought to be having right at this moment.

But he risks a look at you. Because god does he miss looking at you. And when his eyes find your still-seated body, he realises you’re already looking at him.

Shit.

His eyes flick instantly back to the open space in front of him as he tries to play it off, starts to pat himself down as if he’s looking for the spare motel keys or his phone.

Sam didn’t have enough time to properly read you, but you looked...embarrassed. Maybe even a little bit hurt. Is that because of him? Christ, it’s definitely because of him. Fuck. This is not going to plan. He’s totally fucking up any abysmal chance he had with ever getting with y–

“Are you looking for this?”

Sam freezes. His breathing hitches, heartrate slowing like he’s prey playing dead, like motion might kill him. You’re closer, now. Sam slowly raises his head up. You’re not sitting at the other side of the table anymore – you’re standing in front of him, right arm outstretched with his phone in your hand.

He needs to remedy the situation. Just a little bit. Not look like such a complete asshole. So he meets your gaze, tracking you as you take in a quick, audible breath, “Y-you left it in your yesterday jeans. Thought you might’ve forgotten to take it before you left this morning.” Your eyes flick away from his, down to the phone still hanging between you both, “Took it out after we called it. Just in case.”

Sam swallows. For a second, just like he had last night when he passed you the tv remote, he considers spreading his fingers across the phone so that his fingers graze yours as he takes it from you. It’s been so long – too long – since he’s just touched you. No intent behind it. Just contact. But he can’t. “Thank you.”

He takes it, carefully, from you between his left thumb and two index and middle fingers. You give him a tight small smile, one that doesn't reach your eyes. Your hand drops back to your side, almost with a brushing motion as if you’re trying to shake off having to have touched something of his.

Sam notices it. Feels it. Like a metal nail scraping against something rawing – a thin, sharp, scratch slices right over his heart.

He goes to open his mouth, but you turn around towards Dean, waiting by the now opened door, before Sam can say something. Whether it would’ve been something to fix this or make it worse – Sam doesn’t know. 

He watches as you quickly look up at Dean when you pass him on your way outside. His brother looks down at you, offering a small, kind smile, and the thrumming wound inside Sam tears open just that little bit more.

Dean’s head shifts back to Sam, eyes barely catching as he skims over him, then tips his head in a silent order to leave.

Sam sighs, then reaches for the spare set of the motel room keys still on the wooden table and follows you out the motel.

By the time Dean closes the door behind Sam, you’re already waiting by the back right passenger door – the side Sam needs to be on – arms crossed over your chest, back leaning against the Impala and away from the two approaching brothers as you take in the surrounding mountains and summer scenery.

You don’t show any sort of acknowledgment of you noticing when Sam reaches the side you’re on, only moving to turn and open your door when Dean unlocks Baby.

A wall of heat drifts over Sam as he slides in, the leather interior already heating up the air.

“Phew, hotter than Hell in here,” Dean whistles as he shuts his door, buckling himself in, then plugging the keys into the ignition, “Well, not quite.”

Rolling his eyes at his brother, Sam places his phone still held in his left hand into his lap to drag the seatbelt across his chest and click it in. The engine rumbles to life, made louder by you rolling down the backseat window behind Sam. Joan Jett & the Blackhearts’ Bad Reputation starts as the cassette player kicks in – your attempt at expanding Dean’s music library – while both Sam and Dean echo your movements, letting a gentle wind current flow through as the car reverses over the gravel carpark and pulls out onto the road.

Sam turns his head to the passenger window, watching paddock after paddock fly by on the way to the Sanatorium as he tries to distract himself from overthinking. His right index finger begins unrhythmically tapping against the side of his right thigh, left leg bouncing restlessly. The repeated movement makes his phone sitting in his lap slip in between his thighs, causing Sam to shift his neck to look down at it. He pockets the phone into his jeans, then turns back to look out the window. A moment or two passes before a cold horror slashes straight through him.

His phone. In the jeans he wore yesterday. Oh fuck. You didn’t see his underwear, did you?

No, Sam. You wrapped them up in the plastic bag. Shoved them into that little pocket near the bottom. The jeans he worse yesterday were in the pile next to his duffel. You wouldn’t have seen it.

Right?

“Dude, what’s with the ice maiden this morning?” The rising panic building in Sam as he stares wide-eyed out the window is splintered, neck jerking to face his brother, “What?” Dean throws his head back to the right, motioning towards you sat silently in the backseat, “You’re being so weird to her this morning.” Sam’s face tenses. He doesn’t dare look back at you; his head and eyes starting the movement to the left to look at you, but stopping and snapping back to the front before he reaches too far. Dean stares at him, noticing the restrained and twitchy movements, then continues with a brow raise, “Weirder than usual. Than your Sam-weird–” “Shut up, dude.” Sam half-whispers, half-hisses, tone clipped and low. Despite the wind whipping past his ears and the loud music, there’s every chance you can still hear them talking.

Dean ignores him, eyes shifting back to the road ahead, with a small smirk brimming, voice needling, “Jeez, d’ya wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or somethin’?”

Sam’s nostrils flare.

“I’m jus’ sayin’”, Dean’s head tilts slightly to the left for a beat, fingers rapping on the steering wheel – and Sam knows it’s to punctuate his point, “if I’m picking up on this weird emotional brick wall thing you’ve got goin’ on, then–”

“Just drop it, Dean. Seriously not in the mood for it.”

Jaw so tight his teeth might crack, Sam leans sharply forward and cranks up the stereo dial, huffing with irritation as his back returns to the leather bench and he resumes staring out the window – face now in a deep scowl – deliberately drowning out any possibility for his brother to ask any further stupid questions.

“There’s a way in through the graveyard out the back of the Sanatorium. Underground entrance that’s covered by some bushes,” Dean says as he turns Baby’s engine off, “Don’t think the cops know it’s there – ‘s how the kids have been gettin’ in.”

The three of you are parked at a little lookout a couple hundred metres away from the Sanatorium – a lookout tucked off a shabby forgotten road with an even shabbier carpark, surrounded by looming trees so tall and dense that the sunlight barely makes it through the canopy.

“How the hell d’you find that out?”, Sam questions as he unbuckles. Dean tilts his head, clicking his tongue, “Saw some kids smokin’ pot when I was out here yesterday, thought they might know a thing or two, so I flashed my badge and told ‘em I’d lock ‘em up unless they told me how to get in.”

You scoff – and without looking, Sam knows you’re rolling your eyes, “What made you think they knew something?”

Dean twists back to you with a smirk, “Just a hunch, sweetheart. I’m full of ‘em,” finishing with a wink.

You give him a dismissive yet amused 'mmhhhmm' before opening the car door and sliding out.

Although Sam has no right to be, especially today, he can feel a flicker of jealously briefly tighten his chest, a low heat creeping up his neck and through his head.

Dean follows your movements, smoothly lifting himself off the front bench and closing the door behind him, leaving Sam in the quiet of the Impala all by himself. He sighs deeply, raising his left hand up to his face to massage the bridge of his nose.

It’s not even 10am yet and already Sam’s wishing for the day to end.

He makes an adjustment to his original no-contact-with-you plan. A little contact is okay, he tells himself. Just act like you had when you first met her and not like she’s got the plague. Or that you dreamt about kissing her and making her whine and moan and cum with your mouth and tongue.

Easy.

Despite his limbs still dragging as he climbs out from his seat, Sam moves with a slight more confidence than he had back at the motel. As he closes the door, he sees you and Dean are both standing behind Baby’s popped boot, words passing between the two of you that Sam can’t quite make out. You’re in the middle, on the right side of Dean, meaning if Sam walks over to you guys (which he kinda has to so that he can get some weapons), he’ll have to be next to you.

Okay, Sam. Breathe. Just go stand next to her.  

He walks around the car, dried dirt crunching under his shoes he moves to the back and stops next to you. You’re ducked, busy riffling through and grabbing the essential bits and bobs – some salt, a crowbar, some matches, a flashlight, and... a knife?

Sam raises his left arm, gesturing towards the weapon in your hands as you start stepping back and away from the trunk, “What’s the knife for?” You raise your head towards him briefly, giving him a small, sort of friendly smile, “Just in case.”

Sam goes to open his mouth, but Dean cuts in, saying your name with a gruff tease and a shake of his head, “You know you’re gonna look like a real idiot when we’re done here.”

You raise your left hand up in an acknowledgment of Dean’s snipe before spinning around and heading towards the wooden picnic table. Sam looks back to his brother after his comment, but Dean isn’t looking at him – eyes watching you walk away before sliding right back to the hunting arsenal in front of him. Sam exhales, starting to feel agitated again, then hunches and reaches in to also grab what he needs, while Dean takes a step to the side, left leg resting against the taillight and left hand loosely holding onto the boot’s lid as he waits for Sam to finish.

When Sam steps back to signal he’s done, Dean closes the trunk and locks the car. But instead of walking over to you, he just turns around and leans against Baby’s hood. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there in silence. Sam knows this move – Dean’ll have the palms of his hands against the car, just on the edge, fingers tapping expectantly for Sam to look at him as Dean contemplates if what he’s about to say is worth the reaction his brother might have, if he’ll even listen to him, consider his ‘words of older brother wisdom’.

Sam raises his brows, head still dropped downwards and eyes purposely not meeting any part of Dean, as he finishes tucking in the weapons he grabbed. He takes in a deep inhale as he goes to speak, but before any proper words form on his tongue, Dean lifts himself off the Impala and starts walking towards you.

It makes Sam lift his head. To pause, look for where his big brother’s gone; the brother who’s always meant to pull him back from the edge of a bad decision despite Sam’s persisting objections, talk some sense into him ‘because big brother’s know everything ‘nd someone has to teach the annoying little brother the rights and wrongs of the world’; the brother who’s just made it across the carpark and started talking to you, making it strikingly clear that Dean doesn’t think whatever he thinks is plaguing Sam right now just isn’t worth it.

Sam knows he’s being an asshole. And the fact the Dean won’t step in, even though Sam told him to get lost?

Well, the feeling in his chest is something he can’t name, but it’s along the lines of irritation, anger. But also dejection. Disappointment. And maybe a bit of shame.

Great, Sam thinks, lips pressing into a tight line.

Walking towards you both, he sees you’re perched on the table surface with your feet on the wooden bench, Dean standing in front of you. He notices you look at him – still continuing to talk to Dean – before your eyes flick a little too quickly back to his older brother, your face faltering a little.

Ouch.

Dean must notice it, too, because he turns towards Sam, but doesn’t offer more than a jerk of his head to the woods.

You jump off, waiting for Dean to move first, then following behind him once he starts walking towards a rough path through the trees which Sam assumes is the direction of the Sanatorium.

Normally, Sam and you would be walking side-by-side, close enough for him to catch your perfume that makes him pull in a deep inhale, smile and get a little lightheaded and flushed every time he smells it, your shampoo, too.

He’s too far away from you to do that this time, though. Maybe three steps behind. Further apart than he truly wants to be, but still the shortest amount of distance that he’d consider to be safe.

Nobody says anything the entire trek, the only sounds that meet Sam’s ears are of twigs snapping underfoot and soft bush moving aside, the occasional bird call ringing around the three of you. Maybe someone does say something, but Sam just doesn’t hear it. Or maybe, just neither of you say anything to him.

The quiet means last night’s dream that poor Sammy’s being trying so hard to keep at bay creeps back into his mind. Every time he tries to push it away, a scene paints itself in front of his eyes, demanding he relive it – your hand cupping his jaw, fingers stroking his face; his hand on the curve of your neck, keeping you as close to him as humanly possible; your warm, kiss-swollen lips; his legs tangled with yours; how wet your underwear was, how wet you were; your legs over his shoulders; the sheets fisted in your hands as he lapped at you; your hands pulling at his hair...god, how you tasted—

“Where’s all the cops?” Sam almost walks straight into the back of you. You’ve stopped just before the edge of the clearing that backs onto the Sanatorium, a mass of dilapidated and overgrown grass-covered headstones ahead.

He should probably take a step back. Or away. To the side. Something. You really do not need to feel how hard his dick is right now.

With a small shuffle backwards, Sam refocuses on reality in front of him. From at least where the three of you are standing, all the police cars are gone. No officers in sight. 

And, just as Dean had said, the ‘secret’ entrance into the Sanatorium is there, peeking out through some small trees and a couple bushes that have seen better days, a stairwell fenced by a row of rusted metal spikes on either side as the cement steps disappear down to a weathered wrought-iron door.

Dean tsks. “Guess it’s their day off,” he starts walking towards the shrub covered pit off to the edge of the graveyard, “lucky us.”

You turn your head to watch him walk away, “We should still be careful. Just in case they’re still here or they come back.” You’re right. Dean’s being his usual too reckless self. But you look back at Sam – a quick, tight-lipped smile flashing (which Sam notices again, doesn’t quite reach your eyes) – before following after his brother.

A deep, weary exhale leaves Sam, his chest puffing then deflating with the breath for a steadying moment, then moving his legs to trail after you.

Rust and stale moisture fill Sam’s nostrils and lungs as the three of you walk through the damp underground passage. It’s pitch black, save for the three light streams from your flashlights swaying with each step.

Sam knows your nose is scrunched at the reek without even seeing your face. You always do that when there’s a bad smell. And Sam’s ribs always feel too damn small to contain the overflowing of warmth and tender swelling pooling in his heart and lungs from your reaction.

Dean’s humming of ‘Enter Sandman’ can just be heard over the hollow echoing of footsteps, only pausing as you come to the end of the hallway, the transport corridor finishing at an open doorframe leading to a cement ramp.

The three of you make your way up, coming to another door that spits you out into one of the Sanatorium’s hallways. Windows clouded by years of grime line the front wall, weak daylight filtering through the dirt. Dust coats every surface, and rotting windblown leaves are scattered under a partly smashed window.

The three of you shine your torches down both sides of the passage, trying to figure out your bearings. Sam’s light lands on something big and blue ahead to the left and he squints his eyes, “Hey guys? I think there’s a map over there.”

The three of you make your way over and sure enough, he’s right – it’s a large enamel directory map, roughly two metres squared, white lettering and lines marking out corridors and rooms, some graffiti scratched into it.

You all study it for a minute. Then you speak, “Dean, do you wanna check out the West Wing? I think that’s where the doc’s hands are – and I know how badly you wanna see them.”

Oh no. “We’ll go through the East Wing–”

No no no no no.

“–it’s pretty big and splits off into all the patient bedrooms, so we’ll cover more ground that way. See if there’s anything else of the doctor’s on display that might cause him to stick around and murder some more curious teens.”

Shit.

“We can meet back up at this point here–,” your finger landing on a spot on the map.

Fuck.

“–this bridge or whatever that connects the two wings – I’m betting that’s where this supposed pool–”

“I, um–,” Sam interjects, “I think you should go with Dean.”

The room stills. Suddenly. Violently.

Maybe Sam didn’t think this fully through.

You and him always go together when you split for a hunt. It’s not even discussed; it’s just instinct.

But he can’t be alone with you today.

He sees the hurt crack across your face as soon as the words fall from his mouth. His suggestion like he’s ripped your already rawed and bruising heart straight from your chest with his bare fingers and nails, ground it into almost nothing between his teeth, and spat the bloodied remains back in your face.

Your lips part, brows cinching in visible confusion as you process what he’s just said. You try to recover as quickly as possible, but Sam sees the way your eyes start to glaze, reddening at the edges, mouth closing at a slight downwards curve. Your jaw clenched tight, throat working to swallow.

You’ve really done it now, you idiot, Sam chastises himself. 

“Oh.”

The silence is absolutely suffocating. An incredibly sour, guilty taste scars his mouth.

“Um...okay,” you turn to Dean – too quickly, practically forcing Sam out of your sight – as you speak, voice quiet, wavering a little, clipped, “Let’s go, Dean.”

Oh god.

You move, as if any slower and you might completely fall apart right on the spot, straight past his brother down the shabby grey hallway leading to the West Wing as Dean stares at Sam like he just shot him. His face is scrunched incredulously and head shaking, hands raising in a stunned question, mouthing each slowed syllable in ‘what the fuck?’ back at his idiot younger brother.

Sam can feel his heart hurt. Physically fucking hurt. Maybe even tear fully in half. Someone’s skinning the layers off one by one of the lurching muscles, each shredded layer dropping to the pit of his chest to sink him down to somewhere lower and darker than Hell itself.

Dean turns away from Sam – a sharp, cutting scoff leaving him that he definitely wanted him to hear – and starts after you with a quick run, leaving Sam alone by the map as the dragging silence and dark closes in around him and his crushing, pathetic mess of feelings.

“God, you are such an idiot.”

Sam’s stalking through the East Wing, jaw tight, movements snapping but twitchy as he tries to stay focused on the hunt.

“It’s not her fault you had a dirty sex dream about her – just ‘cause you can’t keep it in your damn pants.” He’s muttering to himself now, because he knows himself well enough (at least that’s what he tells himself) that dealing with his stupidity and ineptitude internally will just make him self-combust. Good, actually. Maybe then he’d feel even remotely clean again. Or maybe you would forgive him for hurting you because he was dead and he wouldn’t have to worry about facing you again.

What a cop-out.

“She’s your friend, Sam, fur-rend. Don’t subject her to your depravities.” He sighs, flashlight slicing through the space in front of him as his shoulders drop, that too familiar and well-worn feeling of defeat knowing that you would never reciprocate his love once again making itself proudly comfortable in every muscle and vein within his body, “She deserves better.”

He passes doorways, bedrooms, turned over chairs and scattered paperwork, filthy and torn open mattresses with stains he doesn’t want to think too long or hard about. Footprints of different sizes – probably from teenagers over the years – disturb the debris on the floor.

How on earth is he meant to explain, apologise for his callous, fucked-up behaviour when he sees you next? ‘Oh sorry, I was just sort of going through it and decided you had to take the full brunt of it’. Yeah. Real nice. Asshole.

Sam walks into a tiled room – maybe a medicinal closet – where murky vials are scattered across benches and tables, some still filled with mysterious and sickly liquids, others cracked and dry but still just as gross. He picks up one that’s still whole, turning it over in his fingers to try and decipher the faded writing.

That’s when a high, blood curdling scream cuts straight through the air.

Your scream.

The glass that was just in his hand smashes, thick fluid sludging across the ceramic flooring, as Sam drops it and sprints out the room, blind sprinting down the corridor.

Oh no.

He yells your name. Frantic. In terror. Scanning. Doorways pass in a blur. His footsteps slamming. Flashlight jolting wildly in one hand, fractured light thrown across the walls and floor, crowbar gripped and ready to slash in the other.

Sam didn’t think about this – the fact that you could get hurt and he wouldn’t be with you.

He’s shouting your name. Over and over and over. The words tearing apart his throat as he skids around corners, lungs burning, something horrible rising hot and fast and violent inside him.

You’re screaming his name now. Desperate. Urgent. Fear and pain bleeding. But it’s getting louder, so he must be going in the right direction.

He reaches a room with a large pool – the pool – and he sees you. Finally.

You’re crouched in the far right corner of the drained pool, down at its deepest end, your back to him and facing the walls hunched over and trembling, sobbing. Hands at your face.

Sam calls your name, voice scraped and shot, relief filling his lungs at finally finding you, but thorned panic still simmering underneath his skin at the unanswered question of your screaming. Are you hurt? What happened? Where’s Dean?

Moving from the doorway, he quickly surveys your body to check for any sign of injuries as he jumps down into the empty pit, boots smacking the pool’s tiles as he runs to you. With his left hand, still holding the flashlight, he reaches out to touch your shoulder, his voice already softening when he says your name again.

Just as his fingertips graze your shoulder, Sam’s entire body is thrown backwards through the air by a sudden explosive force.

His back hits the floor with a hard cracking sound, the air punched straight from his lungs. Flashlight and crowbar flying out from his grip and clattering somewhere far out of reach.

Sam tries to suck in a breath, breathe some air into his head to think, process what the hell just happened. Instead, something else starts filling his lungs. Something he can’t see, can’t feel outside his body.

Water.

Warm, suffocating water.

He’s drowning.

Sam tries to move his hands to grab at his neck and chest, to push himself up so that he can claw the bodiless but choking water out – just something – but his arms are pinned flat to the cold tiling.

He doesn’t question why you did that – how you did that – he can’t, because his head’s flooding. Literally. Black spots, rimmed by hot blasts of colour, start forming in his vision.

Slow, smooth footsteps are padding towards him. He can feel the vibrations. The pressure in his lungs and head is building faster. Taking over every single pathetic inch of his helpless body, no space left now for any single thought but one. 

I’m going to die.

He does.

Almost.

A thick, chunky slashing sound splinters in the air.

Sam immediately begins spluttering, the heavy pressure evaporating in a sharp, brutal release. Cold air burning its way through him with each gulping breath.

He blinks harsh and rapid, clouded vision starting to clear back into reality, and you’re there above him, looking down at him; wide-eyed, panting heavily, a panicked expression across your face.

Feeling starts to come back to Sam’s limbs as Dean suddenly appears behind you up along the pool wall, gun at the ready, wearing a harrowed look and just as on edge as he stares at you both, “What the hell happened?”

“Was a Mimic,” you push out, voice breathless but still tight with adrenaline, chest puffed from an inhale then dropping, “Not a ghost. Told you, Dean.”

If Sam thought the car ride to the Sanatorium was quiet, the ride back to the motel is fucking death itself.

There’s no music blaring – in fact, no music at all. Silence, except for the rumbling of the Impala when Dean presses his foot down on the accelerator too quick.

At yours and Dean’s demand, Sam’s in the backseat, lain across the warm black leather as he drags himself back from the hunt. His lungs and head hurt, so does his back from the impact of hitting the hard pool tiling, but he’ll be okay. Physically. 

You and Dean are both in the front. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. Sam adjusts himself, body shuffling to try and slide himself up to sit against the car door, but wincing at the movement and change in pressure. He carefully lowers himself back down with a shaky breath, defeated. He’ll just have to try and talk to you from here. He calls your name, hoarse and quiet, “how did you know what to do?”

The way Sam’s positioned on the backbench means that all he can see is the back of your head, a little of your left side. You look down at him over your shoulder, eyes flicking briefly back to the moving road ahead, before turning your whole body slightly in the seat to face him as you speak, left arm bending over the bench, “I’ve, uh, hunted one before – they’re like Crocottas, I guess? Maybe a sub-species or something; copy the image and voice of someone you um... love.” Your voice drops on that last word, face flushing, eyes nervously skirting away from him, down to the space between you and Dean, then back to Sam, “But they don’t get you to kill yourself. They usually do that fun part for you.”

You offer him a small smile as you finish your sentence while Sam’s jaw ticks, your left thumb rubbing nervously over your index finger before shifting your body back to face the front of the car.

The three of you ride the rest of the way back to the motel in complete silence. Well, verbal silence, at least. Sam’s stomach tightens sickeningly as your words relentlessly repeat over and over and over in his head, ‘copy the image and voice of someone you love’.

Did you hear him screaming your name?

Did you see yourself on the pool floor with him?

Sam’s pulled out of the scattered thoughts and horrors whirling around in his head as Baby slows, the sound of gravel kicking up in a low scatter audible from the tyres rolling into the motel carpark. Dean parks, the brakes groaning softly then the keys jangling as the rumbling engine goes silent.

Sam sees your head disappear as you hop out the car first, the passenger door closing behind you almost within the same second. He slowly begins to push himself up to also get out, but when he does manage to fully sit upright, he realises Dean hasn’t moved.

“Dean—”

“You better fucking make it up to her.” His brother’s still facing the front, tone low and stern, disappointment and fury edging. Sam swallows. Here come those words of older brother wisdom that he was steeling himself for earlier. “She just saved your ass back there and all you’ve done today is be an absolute dick to her.”

“I—I know.”

“Seriously, Sam. All she does is look out for you. Look after you. And I thought you... you two...” A few moments pass while Sam waits for Dean to continue, but he doesn’t, save for a frustrated huff leaving him. Clearly, his brother’s initial chew out of him is finished. But Sam knows better, knows there’ll be more later, back at the Bunker.

Sam’s throat is even drier, cutting, head starting to prickle with static and shame as he turns in the seat, opening the car door and sliding out. He expects his brother to follow after, but instead, the car engine kicks up again. Sam’s barely taken a step away from the Impala as Dean reverses out the carpark without even looking at him.

A little stunned, Sam looks towards the motel room, expecting that you’ll be standing by the door, wearing a just as confused expression as he is. But you’re not. He can see the room’s door is slightly ajar, so you must have a set of the keys and already walked inside.

He takes in a ragged breath, steadying himself for the inevitable uncomfortable; facing you, and giving you the biggest, most desperate and guilt-ridden apology known to all of humanity – no, to every species of the world and beyond.

Working the words and tone, the pauses and inflections in his stupid brain to make sure he doesn’t somehow make this whole thing somehow any worse than it already is, Sam takes the first step towards the room and feels like he’s learning to walk again.

Time to be alone. With you.

He’s watching you, digging through your duffel bag, as the door closes behind him with a soft click.

Here goes nothing.

Sam starts with your name, careful, like it’s the first word to ever be spoken, then pauses, “Thank...thank you fo–” “It’s fine. Don’t mention it,” you cut in, still crouched, not looking at him. Your voice is steady, finishing on an uptick, but Sam can hear the effort it takes to keep it that way.

Fuck.

He stands there, frozen, unsure of what to do or say. He’d considered that you might shut him down, but he didn’t think you’d do it before he even got the first sentence out. Before he’d even been able to apologise.

“Are you feeling okay?” you ask, rising before turning to face him. Sam notices you giving him a quick once over from head to toe, shoulder to shoulder, “the Mimic didn’t hurt you too badly?”

Even after he’s been the biggest asshole to you, you’re still worried about him. It makes him feel exponentially, catastrophically worse.

“Y—yeah. Thanks to you.” You smile but don’t meet his eyes. “Just a bit of a sore back. Maybe a little head trauma to add to our library.” The Battle Scars of Alexandria – a little recurring inside gag of yours and Sam’s. He doesn’t know exactly when it started, maybe sometime back on a hunt in Mississippi (he’ll have to check the journal later), but it keeps you both accountable, and never fails to make a smile crack from either one of you.

Only this time? It does fail. You just nod, “Do you want the first shower or...”

Superb.

“No, you have it,” Sam exhales with a light smile, “Don’t think Dean’ll be in any competition for it, either – he’s off somewhere.” You start walking towards the bathroom, a clean change of clothes looped in your arm, “Probably to that bar we saw yesterday. Told me he wanted to ‘see if there were any hot chicks’ earlier when we were in the West Wing together.”

This is going so incredibly well.

“I’ll be quick,” you say softly from the bathroom doorway, left hand splayed over the wooden frame, offering him a small smile. Sam nods appreciatively, a nauseating ache shrouding his heart and settling low in his stomach, before you close the door.

You are quick. And Sam follows with the same efficiency.

When he steps out of the bathroom in pants and a grey shirt, the ceiling fan is going again. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the shared bed against the wall, pillow propped up behind your lower back, wearing a singlet with a new pair of denim shorts. Sam notices that you’re fidgeting with the bedspread, staring down at the fabric bunched between your fingers. You’re nervous.

You look up from your lap at the noise of him stepping into the room, “Sam, can we– can we talk?”

And for the first time today, yours and his eyes meet and stay. Gazes locked in a charged, fragile silence.

Sam swallows, blinks once, twice quickly, then nods, hands flexing by his side. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”

Shit. Okay. Here we go.

You’ve got a timid smile on your face, eyes dropping back down to your fingers as he walks around Dean’s bed. The bed squeaks under Sam’s weight despite the careful way he gently lowers himself down as if not to scare you, deciding to sit opposite you on Dean’s bed, sensing that being on the same bed as you might not be such a good choice given what he’s about to tell you.

Sam brings his hands into his lap as your eyes flick quickly up to look at him, then down to the space between you both, gaze almost unfocused.

You take in a sudden, deep wavering breath, your hands twisting together as you begin to speak, “I’m just gonna get it out of the way–um, about this morning... in bed...”

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

You did know.

You know that he came in his underwear. Next to you.

Dreaming about you. About going down on you.

You’ve known the entire day.

And Sam’s been the one giving you the cold shoulder, acting like a complete and utter douchebag, when you must be horrified, disgusted by hi–

“I’m really sorry about putting my arm over you.”

What?

“I... I didn’t think it would make you uncomfortable because we’ve... you know... we hug, and we’ve like–cuddled–before. And that’s not an excuse! I just... I think my half-asleep-mind thought it would be okay, but proper awake me knows that I really should’ve asked you first...”

Sam’s looking at you like you’ve just told him the sun is green.

“I’m really sorry for making you uncomfortable, Sam,” you’re looking up at him now, earnestly, your voice impossibly soft, “I’d never want to do that.” Your gaze drops, again. Guilt-ridden. Ashamed because you think you’ve hurt him.

“And I know that’s why you were gone this morning and why you’ve been avoiding me today – and I don’t blame you at all – I’m just...hoping that I can make it up to you and we can go bac—”

“That’s not why I’ve been avoiding you.”

That makes your eyes shoot up to his, “What?”

“That—you putting your arm over me this morning—that’s not why I’ve been...”, a stuttering breath leaves Sam, “...a gigantic but very stupidly apologetic dick to you today.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Um... what....what did I do?” Sam sighs, half-smiling. Of course you think you’ve done something wrong. Oh sweetheart. “I...” You’ve been truthful with him, laid yourself bare and fragile for him to judge. You deserve only the exact same from him. But the hollow churning, twisting burn happening in his stomach might just make him throw up.

Here goes fucking nothing, Sam tells himself.

He lifts his brows, shaking his head a little, “I had a dream. About you. Last night.”

No words leave your mouth. It opens, then closes. Then opens again, brows furrowing and raising with each movement of your mouth.

“I’m—I’m not proud of it.” He quickly adds, mouth dry, eyes flitting, nervous at your (lack of) reaction.

“What sort of dream?”

You’re staring at him, body stilled and a flicker of something Sam can’t quite decipher flashing over your face.

His mouth tightens at your question, a heavy, burning flush crawling out from his chest and up his neck, into his face. He clenches his jaw hard, the bone popping. Adam’s apple bobbing through the dry swallow he tries to take.

Sam thinks he can almost hear each cog turning in your brain as you piece together what he’s just admitted to you. And what he isn’t saying. You make a small ‘oh’, realisation beginning to rise. Then you look to his side of the bed that you’re sitting on, eyes widening as the truth hits you, then back to him, “Oh!”

Yeah...

“Is that why, um– was it...no...uh...” You seem to say more to yourself than to him.

But Sam knows exactly what you’re wondering, what you’re asking – did it make him cum?He can’t blame you. If you told him that you’d had a sex dream about him, he’d also be morbidly, pervertedly, guiltily curious. So he gives a slow, heavy nod, biting his bottom lip, saying what he thinks is perhaps a vague enough but not-too-crude admission that still gives you an answer, “I, uh, had to take a shower.”

The floor beneath his feet could crack wide open and engulf him whole, and he would gladly say ‘thank you’. Thank you thank you thank you.

You move your head in acknowledgment. Understanding and processing this revelation that he’s a freak. And now you’re not looking at him. Shit. 

 “What—” you take in a sudden breath, clear your throat, “what do you mean when you say ‘you’re not proud of it’?”

Sam rubs his mouth with his left hand. The right words seem too big yet too small, too much and too incomplete all at once. You look up at him, big eyes completely unreadable as you watch him.

He starts with your name, then exhales loudly, “You’re one of my best friends. And—and I shouldn’t have dreams about you like that,” he pauses, tongue poking the inside of his left cheek, “I don’t... don’t want things to be different between us. For you to feel weird or uncomfortable around me.”

God, he can only hope he’s said the right thing. And if he hasn’t? Well, hopefully he’s said enough good over bad. Sam watches your throat work, still holding your measured gaze. You’re biting the bottom corner of your lip, clearly thinking about something. Weighing up his sins and about to deliver his punishment.

But there’s something... different... on your face.

Something he doesn’t think he’s seen before.

“Would it make you feel better if I said I’ve also had a dream, um – like that – about you?”

What?

Sam thinks his whole heart stutters, starts beating impossibly faster. Harder. Pulse in his throat, vibrating almost painfully up the left side into his jaw and head.

“Look, Sam,” you continue, and there’s a low, beautiful blush dusting your cheeks, your hands are twisting again, “I care about you. A lot. And I know you care about me a lot too, but– oh fuck it, I care about you in a different way, too.”

Christ. Are you saying what he thinks you’re saying?

“And it’s okay if you don’t feel that way.” Fuck. You are saying what he thinks you’re saying. “I don’t.... expect—but I just want you to know that it’s okay. Everything’s okay. We’re okay— at least on my end...”

You’re rambling, now. You’re so fucking cute.

“Can I kiss you?”, Sam cuts in.

A small, airy laugh escapes you. “God, yes,” you breathe with a high end. It makes Sam chuckle fondly, his heart going painfully soft. “Even if it’s just to shut me up.”

There’s a stupid, wide grin on his face that he can’t stop from showing as his gaze drops from you for a moment, then rising back up to your face, “It isn’t, but if it helps...”

You huff, leaning forward to grab the pillow he slept on and throw it at him in response. Sam catches it with ease, tucking it into his right arm as he pushes himself up and moves over to your shared bed. Just behind him, he drops the pillow at the end of the mattress as it dips while he settles into the new spot, bending his left leg on the bed and tucking his foot into him while his right leg hangs off the side. He feels the mattress shift as you re-adjust yourself, leaning forward to crawl over from the other side of bed and sit opposite him cross-legged.

You’re facing each other now. And Sam might actually explode from the giddy, heating anticipation of it all. He’s suddenly aware of all his limbs and muscles; his chest visibly rising and falling as his breath drags in and out of him, his arms and legs suddenly feeling like they don’t belong to him, low humming electricity tingling through his fingers.

There’s still a gap between your bodies, maybe one and a half of his hands. It’s that line, again – of friendship that you’re both teetering on crossing and won’t be able to untangle yourselves from, won’t be able to go back to what once was if this goes badly.

Sam really hopes it doesn’t go badly.

Your eyes drop down, noticing that space. Your eyes lift back up to his as you inch closer to him, your right knee bumping his left leg, and Sam’s mouth parts as he inhales then swallows.

Your body starts leaning forward, towards him, and Sam is already moving before he realises it. Your right hand falls lightly on Sam’s left ankle, the touch so light yet grounding that it somehow steadies and unravels him all at once.

Both of Sam’s hands twitch by his sides. He doesn’t want to lock you out of having control by holding your face with his hands, just in case you change your mind about wanting him. He wouldn’t blame you.

But he still needs to touch you. So he moves his right arm to touch your left knee, palm barely against your soft skin.

You’re so close now. Sam can feel your breath tickle his face. Eyes are on lips, breaths slowing, syncing. His nose bumps your face, softly, and then you both slowly close your eyes.

When your lips touch Sam’s, the world all suddenly makes sense.

Sam thought his mind would be racing, a scrambled blur, a mess of every thought and word and everything else if he did ever get the chance to kiss you. But it’s silent. At peace. For one of the very few times in his pained life. Something warm and dizzy is unfurling beneath his ribs. Maybe it’s his heart.

You make a small, soft sound. A hum. And Sam doesn’t mean to, but his control slips for just a second, and he pushes further into you, to have more of you, to taste more of you. Your fingers tighten around his ankle at the movement, and then you mirror him, push forward into him.

Fuck.

Sam makes a low, almost broken noise at the contact, and he can’t help but give in to the consuming hunger to move even more into you.

Neither of you pull back as the moment stretches. Even when it should end, fade into a soft, sweet pause. He should probably pull back, right? Tell you how long he’s been wanting, needing to kiss you; how fucking sorry he is for being such an idiot; how he also cares about you in a different way–loves you. But he can’t tear himself away from your lips.

Instead, the kiss grows needier. More desperate. Pieces of Sam’s hair fall forward to graze your face as both yours and his breathing gets heavier, louder. His lips are sliding so easily against yours, and he can feel the warmth of it, how wet and unsteady its turning as something darker, primal builds more and more between you both.

Sam’s right hand flexes on your knee, starting to slide up and down a few inches, thumb grazing and pressing into your bare skin, fingers grabbing softly at your flesh. Goosebumps are rising under his touch, your skin growing with heat.

You begin rising slightly on your knees, steadying your weight with your left hand on his lower right thigh. Sam’s left hand moves from his side to grab your jaw, thumb against your right cheekbone, fingers and palm splaying across the side of your head as he angles you gently to deepen the kiss. You hum again, content and a little breathless. Sam’s already completely losing himself in you.

He feels your tongue swipe briefly at his lips – tentative and warm, wanting more of him – and he responds by softly biting at your bottom lip, making you gasp. And Christ if that sound doesn’t make his dick go instantly rock hard. The tension in his stomach and groin and balls tightening and dizzying.

Your grip on his thigh tenses, and he can feel the way you smile against his lips, “So tell me, Sam, what exactly we’re we doing in this dream of yours?” you mumble low and teasing, still kissing eagerly at him.

God, the way you say his name like that is so fucking dangerous to what little restraint he has left that he’s holding on to for dear life.

Sam’s mouth curves into a crooked grin at your question. Emboldened, he kisses you twice, heavy and unhurried, before starting to trail hot, dragging kisses across the right side of your jaw, “I might’ve been in between your thighs.” A light but sharp bite to your skin, making a deliciously heady moan fall from your mouth, then soothing the mark with the heat of his tongue and lips. “Makin’ you feel really good.”

“So good it made you cum?”

He chuckles lightly against the space between your jaw and your ear, a hint of embarrassment tinging his ears, but a dark coil burning low in his stomach, extremely turned on at your unfiltered words. “Think that just means I get a hell of a kick out of givin’ you pleasure,” he cooes with a squeeze to your upper left thigh. 

“Well, Sammy,” you begin, shifting your right arm up from his ankle to touch his chest, your palm flattening there as your fingers trace so slowly up towards his collarbone – his shirt still separating you both, but doing absolutely nothing to stop the hungry burning of your touch, “I’d like to show you what happens in my dreams first, if that’s okay.”

His dick pulses at that, a wet patch of his underwear making itself proudly known. He pauses against you, warm wet lips still pressed to yours. Shit? Shit. As he pulls back just a little, left thumb rubbing tenderly across your cheek, right hand gently kneading at your plush thigh, you have this soft, seductive look on your face that almost makes Sam let out a very pathetic whimper.

“Of—of course.” You smile at each other, all dimples and teeth and nerves, before you lean forward to kiss him again, but this time with something Sam thinks might be the something he’s been pining for, but doesn’t want to name, doesn’t want to impose on you. Just in case.

“Can you move up the bed for me, please?” You motion with a small flick of your head back. He nods, rising as you shift closer to the wall to allow him to move to where you want him. When he settles, you crawl up after him – an image fanning the fire sparking hotter and hotter somewhere deep inside him – and get him to lie down with his back against the mattress, still covered by the bedspread. You swing your right leg over him first so that you sit across his lower stomach, your right hand bracing against the plane of his chest to support yourself in the movement, both his hands coming to hold your hips. The heat from your skin with the weight of your body as you press against his own makes Sam’s heart swell in a warm, heavy roll, a light-headedness drifting over him. You both breath in, staring silently with shy smiles at each other for a soft moment as Sam’s fingers begin rubbing slow, gentle circles over your flesh.

Although he successfully fights the urge to flip you over and make you a whining mess below him, he knows without a doubt that you can definitely feel the prominent bulge straining in his pants by your ass.

Your warm hands move to cup his face as you lean down. Sam strains his neck to meet your lips, aching to have them on him again already, and the kiss pushes his head back into the pillow underneath him. A small, pleased sound leaves him, and then you grind your hips back and down lightly, testing, over his cock. He stutters a gruff moan, hands flexing before grabbing at a meatier part of you, making you giggle softly and stupidly beautifully against his mouth. “I like that sound, Sam.”

You move your mouth down to his neck, slow, measured touches of your lips and tongue to him, lingering just long enough to make his body buzz. Sam’s so sure that if you weren’t on top of him, tethering him to this fading bed, the weightless earth, he’d probably float away.

Heat and intensity grows as you begin sucking, paying particular attention at a hollowed part of the curve, before licking a long stripe over and up his neck, grazing your teeth at his right earlobe. You’re already making him feel too good, too powerful, the feeling of you sliding down his body, the changing pressure of your weight on his muscles, only adding to the euphoria.

He’s already missing your lips against his, but he can’t help the way his hips jerk up at you every time you kiss at him through his clothing, electricity trailing. You kneel between his thighs, hands outstretched and claiming at his waist as you press a kiss to his bulge, making Sam moan your name, brows drawing together, hands tightening their grip of the sheets in desire. You hum in acknowledgment, saccharine and smug, and when Sam’s eyes look down at you, your fingers quickly working at the button of his jeans, the metal teeth rasping as you pull down the zipper, he sees a telling damp mark of precum leaking through from his tip.

His heartrate is thundering. Almost choking. You rid him of his jeans, his proud, thick and slicked cock springing up as his boxers go down with them. Then you pause, still knelt between his legs. Sam’s eyes flick to your face, worry quickly threading through his focus and brain working frantically over your movements to determine if you’re okay, if you’re second-guessing what’s about to happen or if you’ve changed your mind or–

“Fuck, Sam. You’re...you’re even bigger than I thought you’d be.”

Sam knows he’s big. He’s a big guy. Got long limbs and all. But hearing you say that sends a bolt of white, breath-taking heat straight to his balls, and a helpless groan leaves him. Cheeks reddening a little, Sam dips his chin briefly, bashful, before his gaze returns back to you, grinning so wide at him.

“Hope I can take you.”

Oh fuck me.

You shuffle, leaning weight on your forearms over his thighs and hips, and then, with the most seductively heart-swelling grin that Sam’s ever seen, you lower your mouth, lips parting as you slowly, carefully, begin to take him in.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes, head falling back onto the pillow as intoxicating, wet heat surrounds his tip, bone-deep pleasure sweeping over him, making the muscles in his legs tense.

Sam feels more than hears the breathy chuckle come from you, the softness of your lips rolling just over the sensitive ridge of his swollen cock head, tongue bumping his leaking slit, before you pull back up, lips grazing along the reddened skin of his tip.

At the next dip of your mouth, your tongue slides along the underside of his sensitive, red tip, pressing flat against and around him. Sam grunts at the sensation, hips stuttering up in lapsing control as you run the tip of your tongue along his ridge and let more of his hard length into your warm mouth.

You still, only for a few seconds, eyelids hung low, moaning with him still in your mouth, “Mmhhmm, Sammy. Knew you’d taste so good.”

He’s going to go crazy. You’re going to make him go crazy.

You start bobbing your head, the motion guiding his tip to slip further and further down the back of your tongue. Sam raises his right hand from his side, resting it heavily on top of one of yours holding the upper side of his thigh, the warmth of his palm pressing into your knuckles. You hum as Sam’s breathing quickens, turning ragged, nostrils flaring and mouth gaping. The sound of your heated and wet mouth sliding up and down his cock is fucking maddening, overwhelmingly erotic.

His brows are pulled up in sweet, shuddering ecstasy as he holds back whimpering, trapping the burning ache in his chest, but the pleasure you’re giving him is making it a herculean task. Sam is strong, though. He can hold it back. Right?

You hollow your cheeks, beginning to suck him, your spit and his pre-cum combining to make the movements deliciously lewd and sloppy, working him up and up.

“That—hng, shit. You feel so good.” He’s trying so fucking hard to not thrust deep into your mouth – he’s worried he might hurt you, might make you choke on him.

Lids hung low in desire, you look up at him, meeting his hungry gaze on you. Your left hand squeezes at his thigh before sliding out from underneath his right one atop of yours, only to lace and interlock your fingers with his as you continue building the starved bliss swimming in his body, the tenderness and intimacy of it in such a dirty, salacious moment incredibly heart stopping. And completely undoing. 

Sam feels it. The tension coiling low in his stomach, his balls pulling tight. Quick. Too quick.

He squeezes your hand twice.

“Sweetheart–,” he rasps, head straining off the pillow, trying to keep it forward to watch you, indulge in you, but only failing as the intense rushing feeling and pleasure of your tongue and mouth on him becomes too much, “–y-you need to– need to stop– I wanna– fuck–wanna make you feel good. Feel good with my cock.” You moan filthily around him, the vibration almost tipping him right over the edge, as you pull your mouth off him with a dick-twitchingly erotic noise that sears its notes into his memory, looking up at his panting and tensed face over his heaving chest from under your lashes. He doesn’t miss the way a wet string of saliva is still connecting you to his throbbing cock, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m sure we can do something to get you ready again.”

Oh. He catches your tone.

And who is he to deny you from enjoying yourself?

“Yes, ma’am.”

There’s a ridiculously sexy smile on your face that makes Sam’s hips uncontrollably flex up just a little as you lower your face back down to his cock, placing a deceptively sweet kiss to the swollen tip once, before letting go of his fingers and wrapping your left hand around his length. Your right hand moves to between his thick thighs, beginning to gently massage his aching balls while your mouth opens again to let your tongue run over his leaking slit and around the head’s ridge.

As your fingers close around his slicked cock, you squeeze it slow twice, then start a measured stroking movement, your grip tightening as you reach his head then loosening as you slide back down to his base. You repeat the motion, drool pooling down from your lips and mouth to make each run velvet smooth and mind-numbingly hot and pornographic, your right hand fondling his left ball, then moving to the right, igniting the pleasure.

But poor Sammy can’t stop the pathetic, needy whimper (that you definitely hear) rip from him this time at the renewed, devoted attention of your hands on his taut and ridiculously sensitive body.

Fuck.

Searing heat shoots up the back of his neck all the way to the crown of his head, creeping over his face, prickling his cheeks. His body goes rigid, worried you’re going to stop – because fuck, that was embarrassing.

But you don’t. No. In fact, you moan, deep and hard, the sound reverberating through his cock and washing over his body as you give him more, squeezing with your left hand what you can’t fit in your mouth while you take his length further down your tight, warm throat, his swollen tip bumping the back and making you gag as you mumble a low ‘mmm, good boy, Sammy’.

Oh.

Oh. 

Christ, that’s way too hot.

He whines, even more wantonly, hips jerking up in a quick stutter at your touching, your praise. Sam didn’t know he’d like that, that he needed your praise – needed more of it like air – that he could possibly get any more fucking turned on than he already was.

You chuckle this time, he can feel it in the way your lips curve in a smirk when they glide back down his length, a hard suck following when you come back up.

Sam’s breathing shallows, chest flaring, the muscles of his entire body tensing as he lets himself give in to you. Now, unapologetic and desperate. The taut coiling in his stomach is winding again, numbing heated pleasure creeping over his skin and flowing throughout him, his fingertips and toes curling and beginning to tingle.

Your right hand lifts from between his thighs, reaching up to the middle of his lower chest before your nails press into his skin to rake down and over his abs – sharp, angry red marks left glowing behind. The hand slides to his hip, moving almost underneath him as you grip his flesh to try and rock him into your mouth, moaning for him to give you more. He surrenders, his hands grabbing at the sheets beside him, his entire body desperate as he begins to feel his cock swell.

“Fuck—I’m gonna—,” he pants, dry swallowing, voice wavering, “I’m gonna cum.”

You look up at him, nodding your head frantically, your mouth tightening around his tip and tongue swirling faster and sloppier while your left hand starts to pump and twist his cock, deepening the intense, white-hot burning inside him, “Please, Sam. Please cum down my throat.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s gone. His stomach and abs seize as the first euphoric wave pulls him under. Sam cums hard, mouth slackening and brows scrunched, a swear with your name drowned by his shamelessly loud and broken moaning, his eyes rolling up and his upper back and head lifting off the bed as three long, hot white ropes spurt into your mouth. You continue working him, your hand slightly slowing, drawing out his pleasure for as long as possible as you swallow him down through each wave.

Your mouth switches between softer, more careful sucks and licks of his sensitive cock to ease and guide him down. Sam realises he’s covered in sweat as his back meets the bedding again, bliss and warmth flowing through him from head to fingers to toes.

Gently, you take him out of your mouth, big, lust-blown eyes meeting one another’s.

“Holy shit.”

You giggle, sweet and seductive, wiping along your bottom lip and the sides of your mouth with your thumb before sliding it into your mouth, sucking and then licking it with your tongue to make sure you don’t miss a single drop of him, “Good, Sammy?”

God, I wish I could eat you.

He responds with a low and wrecked, feral moan as he grabs your arms and pulls you up into a filthy, claiming kiss, all saliva and heat and longing hunger for you, tasting the salt of himself on you. A sharp noise leaves you, surprise at the sudden contact, before you kiss him back with just as much unbridled need as him.

Sam’s lips never leave you as he manoeuvres you, manhandling your body under him as he drops his weight, rolls his hips into yours. You moan, high and wanting, your fingers fumbling for purchase on his big shoulders, running up the nape of his neck and tangling in his soft curling hair.

His dick should be softening, maybe twitching in overstimulation, but Sam can already feel the blood pulsing into his swollen tip again, bare skin prodding insistently at a warm soft spot of your inner right thigh.

“Sam. Sammy.” 

Oh he needs to hear you calling his name like that when he’s between your thighs.

He groans against your lips, the kiss urgent and demanding, “I know, sweetheart. Gonna take good care of you – such good care of you, yeah?”

It’s not a question; he just wants you to know that he means it, but the way you nod urgently at him only spurs him on, makes his stomach and balls tighten and twist almost painfully in arousal.

Sam braces himself on his left forearm against the mattress, hand cupping the side of your neck, bare legs shifting to bracket your left one, while his right hand moves in between your bodies, snaking slowly down the expanse of your clothed stomach, past your navel, down to the button of your shorts. Your breath hitches, hips thrusting up at his heavy touch, and you push your mouth up into him. Unbuttoning it with devastating precision, Sam drags the zipper down like his sanity depends on it. If he’s being honest, though, it does a little.

The thought that he should go slower, take his time with you as his fingers and palm slip hastily over your mound crosses his determined, lust-driven mind. Next time. Next time.

Despite still being separated by your underwear, he groans possessively as the pads of his index and middle fingers finally touch you where he most desperately wants his face to be, fingers separating as they run down the outsides of your puffy folds before sliding back up through your slit to give you one, two measured circles of your clit, making your body flex up at him. You’re perfect. How could you not be. “God, you’re fucking soaked. Could probably taste you through your damn shorts.”

You smile, fingers tightening your greedy gripping of him, whining against his lips with a breathy ‘mmhhmm’.

Sam places one last lingering, searing kiss to your swollen lips before he takes his right hand out from between your thighs, repositioning both his arms to either side of your body. Lifting himself up from his forearms to his hands, he lowers slightly and begins to ease himself down the bed, down your body. He dips his head, his lips leaving a heated, wet and branding kiss to each spot where your nipples are peaking through your bra and singlet. It makes your back arch, breasts bumping into his face as you moan softly.

Smirking, pride stirring, a breathy huff slips past his lips. He looks up at you from just below your breasts, keeping eye contact with you as he continues his slide down your torso, shifting his leg still between your own lower first. He can feel his heavy and hard cock sticking to his shirt-covered-stomach, already ready and desperate to go again. His right hand pulls up the hem of your singlet to expose the soft warm flesh of your lower navel, dragging it further up to your waist and ribs, scattered kisses dotting your skin. He bites at a spot to your right, teeth sharp but careful, rolling his tongue over it and tasting the faint glow of your shower gel and light sweat, then blowing cool air at the blooming mark, your breathing going quick and shallow, sucking in air.

Big, warm, calloused yet tender hands gripping at your hipbones, Sam pauses at the space between them, making sure that you’re looking at him. Your nostrils flare, “You’re such a tease, Winchester.”

“Well,” he rasps, dark and dangerous, your name hanging in the air as, kneeling, he begins pulling down your shorts without breaking eye contact, “you seem to be enjoying it.” You bite your bottom lip, blushing and grinning, eyelids hung low as you lift your hips and move your legs to help and watch him as he slides the shorts down your legs. Sam brushes a kiss to your bent right knee as he draws the fabric lower. You kick them off, a little impatiently (Sam notices), letting them fall somewhere out of sight to the floor.

And when Sam’s gaze drops to between your now parted thighs and he sees your underwear, well, fuck. He knew you were wet – could feel it – but your underwear is literally soaked through with your arousal, outlining every curve and dip of your wet cunt. 

An absolutely fucking rough, animalistic groan tears from him, the exhale rattling his bones.

Sam thinks he almost blacks out for a few seconds as a possessive hunger drags over him. He drops back down in a sharp, controlled motion to kneel lower between your plush thighs, beginning to peel off your drenched underwear. He can’t wait any longer. He’s not patient enough.

A small shiver runs through your body as the air of the motel hits your core. He settles hurriedly, his thick cock throbbing against the firm mattress, precum dribbling from his slit and smearing the bedding beneath him.

Gonna have to burn these sheets afterwards.

“I gotta be honest with you,” he murmurs, a little wrecked, guiding your legs over each of his broad, muscled shoulders, “I made a fuckin’ mess when I did this last night.”

“Jesus, Sam,” you moan low. He knows he looks like a wild, rabid animal with the way the blacks of his pupils are blown wide, mouth gaping and panting, drooling. He slides his grabby, greedy hot hands up the outside flesh of your thighs, over your hips, fingers gripping at your waist, palm cupping the soft curves. Muscled forearms deliberately push your thighs against the sides of his head, the pressure and warmth adding to the growing, fever haze he’s swimming in.

Just like he’d done last night, Sam starts slow, reverent; kissing the softest part of the inside of your left thigh, then shifting to the right one to place an equally as tender yet heated kiss. He looks up at you from between your thighs, admiring and drowning in how the colour of your irises is almost fully swallowed, the way your chest is rising and falling in weighted, staggered pulls. His shuddering warm breath brushes over your pussy, his nose nudging at your slicked clit and swollen folds. With a heavy inhale, he takes in the first heady scent of you, blooming across his senses as if he can taste you through the air alone.

Fucking fuck fuck fuck.

You start squirming, hips slightly twisting and hips bucking. Oh you want him badly.

Sam’s not a cruel man. He’s enjoying this, how badly you want him to eat you out just as much as he does, how it’s making your body react so much in anticipation. But making you wait any longer after today is cruel. So he pushes forward, letting the tip of his tongue run from the top of your puffy slit all the way down to your soaked, clenching entrance.

“Oh, fuck—” a sinful, heavenly gasp cuts you off, and fuck that sound needs to go straight into a museum, your right hand flying up from your side to grip the pillow under your head, left hand flexing hard by your hip, scrunching up the bedsheet.

Fucking. Christ. You somehow taste even fucking better than he’d fantasised as you flood his mouth and nostrils. Rich and warm and smooth and sweet, intoxicatingly and simply you. This – everything – is so much better than last night. So much better.

“Fuck,” Sam groans, “fuck. You taste too fucking good.”

He means to go slow, make sure that he doesn’t hurt you by going too fast or do something that isn’t pleasurable, but Sam can’t help himself as he licks you again, this time really pushing his nose and flattening his thick tongue into your cunt, and his cock jumps between his stomach and the bedding below him. You both whimper. Maybe an attempt at trying to say the other’s name, but lost entirely to the sensation of and pathetic need for each other.

Sam didn’t realise, but his eyes had closed, rolled so hard to the back of his head that if you weren’t just as consumed as he was – your head tipped back in soft radiating, tingling pleasure – you would’ve only seen bits of white peaking from underneath his fluttering eyelids.

He moans heavy and deep and rough into your heat, then buries his face into you to show you just how starved he is for you.

Despite the almost violent urge to suffocate in you, Sam begins small, slow, measured kitten licks at your clit and wet puffy folds, doing everything in his willpower to keep his heavily hooded eyes open and locked on you.

Soft, high gasps shatter around him as his big hands dig into you, thumbs pressing into the front of your waist as his splayed fingers curl and grip at each of your ribsets. He’s already getting drunk on it, on you, in him and all around him.

I hope you let me do this every night, Sam thinks.

He can feel the sheets beside his head shift as you claw at them, chasing to move and grab something. “You can pull on my hair, honey. It’s okay. Show me where you want me,” he says with your name, somewhere between a weak coo and a pleading beg, “Show me how you want me.”

Sam sucks your clit into his mouth and your left hand shoots to his head to bury in his hair. He moans in encouragement, the feeling of your fingers and nails running through the soft brown curls and against his scalp lighting up every single nerve in his entire body, leaving a pleasant, warm tremor to roll through him.

He tests something from his dream, licks the left side of your folds and rubs his nose in a circle over your clit. And fuck. Fuck. You look like you might cum then; mouth slackening and brows pulling into the most beautiful, holy scrunch as your hips buck off the bed. Sam grins, dark and hungrily, moving his left arm from his hold on your waist to drape over your hips and press you into the mattress to keep you, pin you in place so he can keep making you feel like that.

Maybe he does still have some of those psychic abilities...

The muscles of your stomach under his forearm shudder and tense as Sam’s tongue starts moving up and down your cunt – spit, slick, and heat coating his chin and cheeks and nose, sliding down his throat as his mouth works to swallow every single bit you give him.

You’re even more responsive to him than he could’ve possibly dreamed or hoped. He’s in heaven. This is his heaven.

“Sam—Sammy, oh my god,” you cry, voice high and needy.

There we go.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Makin’ you feel good with my tongue? My mouth?” Unable to speak, you tug the locks of his hair in your left fist in response, making him grunt, brows cinching and hips rutting into the mattress below him. “Good girl,” he growls against your soaking sweet and heady heat, words vibrating up into your core, doubling his efforts, “Keep tellin’ me– need to...need to know how good I’m makin’ you feel. Please.”

You whimper, and he’s greeted by a fresh flush of wetness when he licks into you again. Your hand releases from its grip, nails scraping down and over his scalp, palm pressing to push him further into you. Devour more of you.

Fucking yes yes yes.

Desire is pulsing in his blood and ears, pulling deep in his stomach, coiling tighter and tighter.

You start writhing, trying to roll your hips, grind up into his face as Sam increases the speed and swirling of his tongue and lips; the wet, lewd squelching sound of him hungrily eating you out mixing with the desperate, feral noises coming from both of you and reverberating off the motel walls.

Sam pushes his tongue into your gushing hole, making you clench around him at the intrusion and giving a new, beautiful sound he’s cataloguing. Your breathing’s getting tighter, higher, thighs tensing, shaking around his head, the heel of your right foot digging into his clothed back as the pleasure from his movements builds and builds and builds.

Oh you’re about to fucking cum.

“Yes, baby, yes,” he slurs, shaking his head side to side then up and down, dragging his curled tongue over and through your puffy folds, messy on your clit, “Just like that. I know, I know— doing so well for me, honey. Just wanna cum, don’t you?”

“Unngh, ye—yeah. Fuck, Sam!” He can’t help rolling his hips and cock into the mattress – it’s all feeling too fucking good. You feel too fucking good.

Your right hand is suddenly over his one across your hip, palming into the back of his hand, nails biting at the skin. Sam hopes you leave long, pretty red marks and scratches, dark purple bruises that’ll be a reminder of how completely undone you both are.

He’s feverish. Hands hot and heavy, tight in awe and indulgence of your bare flesh against his touch. Loose, wet brown curls cling in damp strands to his forehead as he starts grunting, whimpering into your pussy, burying his face impossibly further into your slick warmth, sloppily mouthing and slurping and lapping at every part of you he can reach.

A seraphic mixture of his spit and your arousal is dripping down onto the bedding below you both, marking it in a sticky, filthy, widening wet patch of sin and lust, and too-long-harboured, needy, aching love. 

Definitely burning the mattress.

There’s a sound.

Not from you. Not from him.

Metal scraping against metal.

Sam only just registers it over your high, desperate moaning and the way your soft, warm thighs are twitching, tensing, pressing firm against his ears as your back starts arching.

With a surge of fear, he stops his movements between your legs, rushing to lift himself up. You realise at the same time, a pained sound leaving you, heaving heavily as you sit just on the precipice of your orgasm, panic stiffening your body. Sam starts ripping at the sheets underneath and around you to pull them over your body, to shield you from the cock-block-of-a-brother named Dean Winchester.

“Dean, stop!” Sam shouts, scrambling for the bedspread and rolling over the top of you to the side closest to the door so that your half-naked body now shivering with adrenaline is even more protected. But Dean? He doesn’t hear his brother.

No, he swings open the door, one hand holding onto a plastic bag presumably filled with a hearty, greasy takeaway lunch, a six-pack of beer in the other.

Dean pauses as his eyes land on the scene before him – his brother; flushed and panting, hair wild, face smeared and glistening with something wet, in bed. With you. Both of you under rumpled sheets. Clothes scattered on the floor.

“Oh– hah– oh fuck.” “Dean, just get out!”

The older brother stands in the doorway, motel door wide-open as he looks away from the scandalous and unexpected situation of you two in the bed in front of him, head shifting around in every direction and unable to stop anywhere, “Sammy, you sly dog. When I said ‘make it up to her’, this,” he gestures vaguely with his right hand at you both, “wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Dude!” Sam yells, while you loudly groan Dean’s name at the same time, annoyed and exasperated, but equally as mortified.

“Alright! Alright! I’m leaving.” He chuckles, backing out the door with his eyes stuck to the motel floor as he pulls the door shut with him, food and alcohol still in his grips.

Sam turns his head back to you, ducked in front of his broad chest, legs slightly tangled with his own. You peep up at him, face red, brows and nose crinkled in embarrassment.

Both of you burst out in laughter, Sam dipping his jaw with a shake of his head, then rolling to the side and falling back onto the mattress with a groan from the bed springs, eyes facing up at the whirling ceiling fan.

He huffs, nostrils expanding with a sheepish, dimpled smile creeping across his face as his gaze shifts back onto you lying beside him.

“Well, shit.”

OOPS. sorry for leaving yall in the lurch. again. BUT NOT NEXT TIME. YOU WILL BE REWARDED FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I PROMISE.

and a GIGANTIC thank you to my lovely @theedaythatnevercomes for proof-reading this first - would be lost without you ❣️ AND @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for their formatting support 💗

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Dean glances down at each packet. He snorts and tosses the first one into the metal garbage bin beside his desk. Sam frowns.

“What was wrong with that one?”

“He’s a dude. Don’t you think we’ve got enough of a sausage fest going on around here?” Dean says, gesturing wide at the multi-floor building that makes up HunterCorp. His father’s enterprise, distilled down to two sons who, on their best day, have very different opinions on what makes for a good executive assistant.

Sam utters a longsuffering sigh.

“Man or woman, you need a real assistant, Dean. Someone competent enough to deal with your demanding schedule and…personality.”

“What’s wrong with my personality?”

“And I need you to have an assistant so I can focus on my real job. You know, running the entire Legal department.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I know how to do my job, okay? I think I’ve picked up the slack pretty damn well since Dad died.”

Sam pauses, acknowledging that with a nod, and a heavier note.

“Yeah. You have.”

“So while I’m throwing money away hiring for a wholly unnecessary assistant, who I’m gonna have to tolerate looking at every day, I might as well be looking at somebody hot,” Dean says.

Another exhale leaves Sam’s body, along with the brief buoyant feeling of admiration for his brother.

And now we’re back where the neanderthals live. 

Sam gets a text from Reception that has his pocket buzzing. After he checks the message, he nods to himself. Here we go.

“All right. The first one is on her way up now, so do me a favor and get yourself together,” he says. “For example, it’s a little early for the booze, don’t you think? It’s 10:00 a.m.”

Dean pauses. The crystal decanter in his hand is halfway to pouring his first fifth of whiskey.

Second breakfast, if you will.

He gives his brother a flat look, one that’s accusing him of being an eternal wet blanket. But he begrudgingly concedes the point and puts both the decanter and the tumbler in a cabinet under his desk.

Classy. Sam rolls his eyes.

A knock at the door stops him from commenting out loud.

Clearing his throat, he walks over to let you in.

“Hi, Sam…and Mr. Winchester,” you say, shaking hands with the slightly taller brother. Then you turn to Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp. He stands and leaves his desk to greet you.

In the time it takes him to cross the room, he takes you in within the breadth of a few seconds. More than the professional pantsuit and your pretty face, he notices your bright smile, the slight bout of nerves in the way you shake his hand. He finds himself smiling back.

“Uh, hi,” he says eloquently. “Call me Dean. Can we get ya some water, coffee, iced tea…”

He doesn’t even think they have iced tea, but he’s willing to make Sam go and find some.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” you reply.

“Okay, then. Just, uh, take a seat.” He gestures to the open seat in front of his desk before he returns to his own plush leather chair. It squeaks as he swivels back in place. He shares a nod with Sam, who heads out of the office. The door closes behind him.

Dean glances down at the list of questions Sam prepared for him to ask each candidate, a sheet of paper that lies over your resume. He brushes the questions aside and focuses on the information printed under your name.

His brows raise in interest. “You graduated from Stanford University like my brainiac brother?”

The sound of your light laugh draws his gaze from the page, up to your face.

“Yeah, we were actually friends. It’s just been…a while,” you say, clearing your throat a little.

Dean inclines his head. His understanding grows along with his suspicion as he reads.

“Look at that, a Marketing major. Looks like you had a couple of promising internships too.”

“In college, yes.”

“And you were a Communications Specialist at Ashland for…eight months in 2021?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Again, you nod, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle in your pants. Your gaze falls away from his.

This time, Dean thinks you know full well what he’s getting at when he sets down your resume.

“That was five years ago,” he says. “You haven’t worked in five years since getting out of college?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you admit, though you sit a little straighter. “I gave birth to my daughter, Emma, in November of 2021. My ex…was not supportive. My mother was also having some heath issues, so I moved back home to help my father take care of her. They took care of me too.”

Your fingers flex and interlace together in your lap. Dean notices the subtle fidget, but otherwise you’re calm and professional as you admit to something so personal. He can respect that you didn’t try to bullshit him.

“Hmm. Complicated,” he nods, then hesitates. “How’s your mom doing now?”

Your lips tug, but not at a smile. “She passed away a few weeks ago.”

Dean dims further as he inhales deeply. “I’m sorry.”

You give a tight nod, your throat swallowing.

“Look, since you’ve been honest with me, I’m gonna be real with you,” he says. “I run a company of 300 employees, 20 departments, 10 floors. I work 60-hour weeks minimum. I meet with department heads, shareholders, business partners and prospective clients on the daily—the kind of schedule that would make your head spin. I know you’ve done what you had to do, but I’m not sure you’re ready for a job like this. And that’s besides the fact that I’m not convinced I even need an assistant who’s probably just going to slow me down by sticking her nose into my process and asking questions I don’t have the damn time to answer.”

You tighten up at that, understandably taken aback. Your lips purse, but instead of tossing him a fuck you then and walking out, like he half expects, you sit with his words. You think it through, and you give him exactly what he doesn’t expect. 

“I may not have been clocking into an office for the past few years, but I haven’t been a stranger to hard work, Mr. Winchester. I’ve done nothing but fulfill the role of an assistant,” you say, and your gaze never leaves his when you say it. “Appointments, calls, messages, emails, paperwork, finances, data reports, coffee, power lunches, drycleaning—whatever you need, however quickly you need it, I can get it and I can make it happen. If there’s someone you can rely on, it’s a single mother who knows how to get shit done.”

Dean understands now. He understands the pain hidden in your eyes, and the too-tight set of your shoulders that hold the weight of responsibility. Urgency. A hint of desperation.

You need this job, maybe a little too much.

He should let you down gently. You’re not the kind of girl he’s looking for.

But whenever his mind and his gut are in conflict, he usually heeds his gut. That’s worked out well for him so far.

So he shrugs, and he stands up, holding out his hand to you across the desk.

“Like I said, call me Dean.”

Two Weeks

He groans into the ceramic mug at the first sip. Jesus Christ, you make a good fucking cup of coffee. That’s not even in the top five of the talents you possess, as it pertains to his business and your ability to learn quickly, talk minimally, and begin to anticipate his needs.

You dress nice, you’re always on time, and hell, you smell good too. Like body lotion and just the right amount of perfume. Obviously he can’t comment on any of these things, unless he wants a visit from Meg in HR. But it doesn’t stop him from noticing you, his heart thumping whenever you come in close to show him a document or ask him a question about a report.

Instead of rolling his eyes or snapping that you should have someone who’s not running this entire company explain it to you—like he did the last assistant who didn’t even survive three days—Dean finds an ounce of patience to spare for you.

He sits there and explains the difference between an M1911 handgun and a shotgun, and why the background checks take two months for one model and a few weeks for the other one is just a difference of state law, not HunterCorp’s manufacturing techniques.

Sam is rather fucking gloaty about it too—mainly at the fact that his top candidate made it through Dean’s initial hiring plans.

“Admit it, she’s good,” Sam says later in the day, while the two of them eat lunch together in his office. You just had it delivered ten minutes ago, still piping hot.

“She’s all right, for being your little college friend.” Dean slurps his lo mien and casts his brother some side-eye. “Is that all she was, or did you two occasionally sneak off for a little rec room break on the side?”

Sam gives him a flat look. “No, I was with Jess by then.”

“Just asking.” Dean shrugs. Secretly, he’s pleased. “You know anything about the ex-boyfriend, Father of the Year?”

Sam snorts in derision. “Some asshole in Sales while she was at Ashland. From what I heard, they were dating for six months or so, and she got pregnant. He, uh, tried to get her to end it.”

Dean frowns, and actually pauses eating to raise his head.

“She told you that?” he asks.

Sam holds back on answering for a suspicious moment, his eyes shifting down at his food.

“Made a couple calls to some contacts I have over there,” he says.

Spies, in other words. Dean nods in understanding. His brother’s always been the smart one. That’s what everyone used to say, including their father.

Two Months

You’re not sure if you should do it.

You have a sensitive report in your hand, fresh off the printer. You really think Dean should see it before he gets any deeper into his negotiations with Roman Enterprises, but he’s meeting with them right now in the big conference room, with Dick Roman himself, as well as the rest of his sales and legal representatives.

This isn’t the first meeting Sam and Dean have undergone with the company; Roman Enterprises been courting HunterCorp into a partnership on a new product, but this could be the day that makes the big swinging dicks in the room shake hands (even if that little visual almost makes you snort).

Dean’s never expressly warned you about entering a meeting uninvited, but it’s still nerve wracking as you stand outside the door. You can hear familiar voices, including the nasally tone of Alastair, the one who gives you the creeps whenever he slithers through the office and gives you a “charming” once-over.

But you also hear Dean. His voice is deep and smooth and confident. It gives you the little confidence boost you need to twist the knob and push the door open.

Just as you predicted, with a sinking feeling, all eyes turn to you when you enter the conference room. Sam and Dean and their lead sales manager, Cas, look over at you in varying degrees of surprise (Cas with disapproval). Dick Roman remains impassive, if slightly amused when you squeak out an, “I’m sorry.”

It’s Alastair’s gaze you feel on your profile when you quickly make your way around the large conference room table and over to Dean. You lean over to hand him the paperwork.

His lips purse when he notices the line of Alistair’s gaze—on your ass.

Dean then frowns at you, and your express delivery.

“What’s this? You think it could’ve waited?” he asks in a low whisper.

“Look,” you whisper back, pointing to the section you starred. It’s a report that Roman Enterprises failed to disclose about their product, a double-chambered gun that can store silver rounds and witch-killing bullets as well as salt rounds: the perfect gun for a hunter.

The problem is the safety and performance report. The one Dean has up on his laptop doesn’t match the one now physically in his hands—the one that says two out of three units of this gun fail to chamber correctly on reloading, resulting in a backfire on the user.

Dean’s brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Is something wrong?” Dick asks. He straightens in his seat, his demeanor a fraction sharper.

Dean glances up at him, then at Sam and Cas, who wear similar looks of confusion. Sam raises his brows expectantly.

“Sorry, one moment,” Dean says to the room, before redirecting his attention to you.

You’re all too aware of being the rabbit caught in the proverbial trap in this room of nearly all men, but you rest a hand on the table and lean in near his ear.

“Their weapons analyst sent this to me,” you explain. “He almost got his hand blown off. Said they didn’t want to go back to the drawing board and waste time when they had us as a prospective distributor.”

Dean blinks in surprise. A fucking whistleblower just outed his own company, but he supposes he can’t blame the guy. If he had half a hand, he’d sue everybody.

“Okay, thank you,” Dean tells you.

It sounds like a dismissal, and truth be told, you’re ready to get the hell of this room. You make a quick escape and shut the door carefully behind you.

Dean watches you leave, but then he collects the report you gave him and passes it along to Sam, with a pointed look that says read it now. Sam doesn’t need the prompting. He shares it with Cas, and they both eventually come to the same frowning conclusions as Dean.

“You gonna fill us in on what that little skirt just gave you that has all of you so fucking sour?” Alastair remarks.

It makes Dean bristle. “That’s my assistant. Have some fucking respect.”

Dick shoots his associate a warning look, as well as a placating hand before he folds both of his on the table.

“Apologies. I’d like to move forward here. How about we discuss oversees shipping—”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dean says. He shares a look with Sam. He’s disappointed, but he nods in agreement all the same.

Dick’s head tilts. His fake-ass smile twitches at the corners. “Excuse me?” 

Dean closes his laptop and slides your report across the table.

“We deal with all kinds, but there’s nothing I hate more than a liar,” he says. “Cas will see you guys out to your line of Teslas out front.”

You’re sitting at your desk, stress-eating with a snack bag of popcorn while you answer emails, even though your mind is racing as you imagine what might be going on in that conference room.

You perk up in your seat when the door swings open, and the entire team of Roman Enterprises files out with steam practically coming out of Dick’s ears. You’re more than happy to see the back of Alastair. Cas follows them closely, while Sam and Dean are the last ones lingering outside the door.

They speak for a moment there in the hall, though you’re too far to hear what they’re saying. Dean eventually rubs a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks and jawline as he heads toward his office, and toward you. He gives you a wry look when he steps through the glass doors of the reception area, squeezing your shoulder as he passes by.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

That’s all he says as he disappears back into his office. You can’t help the warm blush blooming across your cheeks, but you do get up to follow him.

“Um, Dean…”

He turns to you as the door of his office closes behind you. You fold your hands in front of you, an almost contrite expression across your face.

“I’m sorry. That just cost you a lot of money, didn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. What you saved me is one bitch of a headache, and probably millions in legal fees. So thank you.”

You smile, making him smile in return.

“Okay, um, would you mind if I leave just a few minutes early today?” you ask. “My father usually picks up my daughter after school, but he has a doctor’s appointment. I can come back after she’s settled.”

Dean frowns. “What time does she usually get out of school?”

“Three. She’s in kindergarten.”

He considers it for a moment. “You know, we have a daycare. Cas brings his kids here too.”

You do know that, all too well. Cas is married to Meg in HR, and they have two, very odd twin daughters. You think they’re stealing ink from the printer and using it for “ink blot tests.” You didn’t know that eight-year-olds knew what those were.

“We do. But I, uh…I can’t afford it,” you admit, with some embarrassment. You’re still helping your dad pay off your mom’s medical bills, and even her funeral. It’s not easy to afford to live and provide for a child, but it seems like it’s almost as expensive to die.

Dean taps his fingers on his desk. He shrugs and rounds his desk to sit down in his comfortable chair.

“How much does it cost?” he asks.

“$500 a month. I’m already trying to get her into a private school…”

Dean does the math in his head, easy. Then he sends a quick text to Meg in HR.

“Well, now you can afford it. I’m gonna raise your annual salary by $10K,” he says. “That should cover the tax deductions and extra gas mileage.”

Your mouth falls open in shock. It closes, then opens again before you’re able to make words pass through them.

“Um, w…what?” you ask.

Dean leans back in his chair and smiles. It isn’t often he gets you flustered.

“Consider it an early Christmas bonus,” he says.

You laugh, slightly breathless still in wonder. “It’s the middle of July.”

Again, Dean shrugs. “Just say thank you.”

You bite your lip in amusement, but you nod. Your gaze on him is sincere, and a little shiny with emotion. Your daughter’s definitely getting into private school now.

“Thank you,” you say.

Dean watches you walk out of his office, along with that brief look over your shoulder before you close the door. His smile fades.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He sits up in his chair and goes for that stash of whiskey under his desk. If he wasn’t already an alcoholic, you sure were on your way to making him one.

Three Months

Dean blows out a sigh, then rubs his eyes at the strain of just how long he’s stared at a screen and tried to make these goddamn numbers work.

The building is probably empty by now. Even his brother left two hours ago to go home and have dinner with Jess. Dean’s reluctant to go home to his empty apartment. So here he sits, the workaholic that he is, as the sun fades behind other buildings and casts his apartment into darker shades. He switches on the desk lamp.

A knock on the door kicks his thoughts out of alignment, like an old engine sparking out, into crispy defeat.

“Yeah,” he calls out without looking up. He does though, when you come into view.

“Hey, I’m heading out,” you say.

He can see you’re ready to go, packed up and on your way downstairs to pick Emma up from daycare. He still hasn’t met the kid. He’s surprised himself with the idea that he wants to, though he’s never asked. Never wanted to intrude on your life outside of work. Never wanted to get too close to it.

You’re a single mother living with your father, and that’s complicated enough. You don’t need a man like Dean upsetting the delicate balance. And he doesn’t think he can give a woman like you what you need…besides the fact that you’re his employee.

“All right. Make sure Benny keeps an eye on you heading to your car. It’s getting late,” he says.

“Not that late,” you say with a smile. Though you’re a bit concerned when you step further into his office. “When do you typically head home?”

“Uh, around eight or nine, usually.”

“That’s pretty late. You don’t have anyone waiting on you?”

“Not unless you count the beers in the fridge,” he remarks, sending off another email to a sales rep to get his ass in gear if they’re going to make quota for Quarter 3.

By the time Dean looks up, he sees your small frown. Concern.

It rubs him the wrong way (or maybe the right one), so he clears his throat and waves you over to his computer, opening up a tab he was looking at earlier.

“Hey, do me a favor. Tell me what you think of these. I have to go to some tech expo this weekend with Sam,” he says.

You look over his shoulder at the rows of ties on the screen.

“Well, first of all, don’t get them off Amazon. Go to a men’s store,” you say with a short laugh. “Second, what color is the suit?”

“Uh, just black,” he says in amusement.

You hum in contemplation. The man does look good in his usual slacks and nice buttoned-down shirts, but picturing him in a full suit and tie is an enticing image.

“This burgundy one looks nice. Or the blue one with the pattern,” you suggest.

“You don’t think it’s too loud?”

“No, I think it would look nice with a black dress shirt. Or hey, a black vest with a white dress shirt underneath.” 

“A vest?” Dean intones.

“Yeah, with your shoulders, you’ll look really sharp when you pair it with the suit jacket,” you say.

“My shoulders, huh? What about ‘em?” he asks in amusement, verging on the edge of flirtatious, before he realizes what he’s doing.

You both pause then.

You eventually find something approaching a respectable response, if not really a professional one.

“Just…you have a strong frame for a suit. I’m sure whatever you pick will look good,” you say. Though you turn away to grab your purse from where you left it leaning against his desk on the floor. Your face is blushing hot all the while. “Um, have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nods, clearing his throat. He tries not to watch you leave, but he can’t help himself. The natural sway of your hips is too hard to ignore, as is the way you walk away from him on those heels.

Once the door is firmly shut, he tips his head back against his chair and groans. He hates himself for hoping, even fantasizing, that one day you’ll come back and straddle him on this goddamn chair and fuck him with those heels still on.

He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the chair, as if that could rid him of his pig-like thoughts.

Fuck. Me.

Four Months

Dean steps into his office after four hours of solid back-to-back meetings. If he had to sit through even five more minutes of Crowley’s condescending ass explain 15 subsections of a contract, as if Dean didn’t know how to fucking read, then he was going to throw his laptop into the nearest window.

He expects to find the quiet refuge of his office, and very quickly his stash of Angel’s Envy. What he gets is a kid sitting in his chair, eating his Doritos. She doesn’t look older than five or six, swinging her little legs as she swivels in his nice leather chair.

The sight is so dumbfounding that Dean stops not two steps through the doorway, his hand still lingering on the doorknob. He frowns.

“Hey,” he says. Not in a nice way. In a who the hell are you way.

“Hi!” The kid smiles and waves at him with fingers coated in Cool Ranch Dorito dust.

Dean’s head tilts. “Uh, hi.”

“You said that,” she says.

His lips twitch upward. He points at her, and the chair she’s sitting in.

“That’s my seat,” he says, with some censure in his voice. “You wanna get down?”

She blinks and pauses, realizing she might be in trouble.

“Sorry.” She slides down carefully without letting go of her snack. She wears a private school uniform: a plaid skirt, navy polo, and a matching headband. Her pink Peppa Pig sneakers give away her personality though. It matches her backpack, which boasts a Minnie Mouse keychain and a princess sticker of Belle in her yellow ballgown.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Emma,” she replies.

Dean’s brows raise high in recognition, then they furrow.

“Interesting. Where’s your mom?”

“She had to talk to Miss Nancy, so she told me to stay here.”

Miss Nancy. Gotta be the daycare lady, Dean thinks.

“Here? As in, my office?” he asks in suspicion. “Or did your mom tell you to hang out at her desk?”

Emma guiltily glances down at her feet instead of at him, like Sammy did when he was four, and didn’t want to admit he broke their dad’s watch.

Here, it looks like Emma got bored and wanted to go into the big mysterious room. She continues eating her Doritos.

Dean can’t help but smile. “Did you find those in my desk drawer?”

She blinks up at him with the face. Like when Sam got caught looking through their dad’s old collection of baseball cards with peanut butter and jelly stains on his hands. That puppy dog look had Dean taking the fall—and the week-long grounding.

Emma tentatively offers him her snack. “Want one?”

The look on her face tells him that she’d rather not share, but it’s a clever little manipulation with those big doe eyes. Girls learn quick, don’t they?

Dean shakes his head and pulls out a nearby guest chair after setting down his laptop on the desk.

“It’s okay. You can sit here if you want,” he says.

The chair is a little high, so she reaches for the edge of his desk to help her. Dean offers her his hand instead. She’s happy to settle her little Dorito grime-covered hand in his and have him help her into the chair.

“Thank you,” she says, with that cute little voice. He almost laughs.

“You’re welcome,” he says. You’re definitely going to owe him for this one.

Dean sits at his desk and contemplates just what the hell he’s going to do with this kid for the next few minutes. At least, he hopes it’s just a few minutes. Does he need reinforcements? Should he call Sam up here? Cas?

“Are you and Mommy friends?” Emma asks.

Dean considers her question with a quirk of his head.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work with your mom.”

“She said you’re her boss.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah. Your face is on her phone when you call,” Emma says. When she finishes the chips, he can tell she’s looking for a garbage can. He takes the empty bag from her and tosses it in the small bin under his desk. He wishes he could pour himself a much needed adult drink, but he thinks you’d have something to say about that later.

He settles on the bottles of water you keep putting in his other drawer. He grabs one for the kid, and even opens the cap for her, like he used to do for Sam when they were little.

“Uh, how was school?” Dean asks. Because what else do you ask a kindergartner?

She shrugs. “Okay.”

Fair enough, he thinks. He never liked school much, but he has to keep this conversation going somehow.

“Just okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I don’t like math, but Music was fun. We’re learning how to play the recorder. Oh! And I drew Peppa after school. Wanna see?” she says, pointing at her backpack.

Dean raises a brow, but he grabs her backpack off the floor and hands it to her. She unzips it and rifles through her notebooks and her modest collection of crayons. She then pulls out her prized drawing to show him. It looks more like a ball of pink squiggles to him. But he looks harder, and he can see the eyes and the mouth and the nose are close enough to the character on her sneakers.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he indulges her, earning her shy smile.

“Thank you,” she says. But her face soon falls. “I wanted to draw her yellow crown, but a boy took my crayon and broke it.”

“Aw, that sucks,” Dean says. Though a smile threatens his lips at the little angry pout on her face. “What did you do when he wouldn’t give it back?”

“I just pushed his arm and he fell and cried,” she says.

Dean blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

Yikes. No wonder you had to go back and talk to Miss Nancy.

“But I didn’t mean to! He was mean to me first,” Emma argues.

Dean shakes his head in amusement, once again tempted to laugh.

“Well, you know, you should never put your hands on somebody. You wouldn’t want him to hit you, right?” he reasons.

The girl considers it, still with that little pout, but she nods begrudgingly.

“See? But if that kid messes with you again, you come tell me, okay? I’ll set him straight, man to man,” Dean says.

She starts to smile again. “Promise?”

“I promise. Let’s shake on it,” he says, giving her his hand. She puts her much smaller one in his, and they shake on it like adults.

“Emma?” your voice calls from outside the office in worry. The door is still open, so you catch sight of your daughter just as Dean tells you to come over. Your eyes grow wide with embarrassment as you realize where Emma ended up. You hasten inside his office.

“What are you doing in here?” you ask her sternly, taking her hand and leading her off the chair. “You were supposed to be doing your homework at my desk. Dean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long.”

“It’s all right,” he says.

You still look a bit mortified and apologetic.

“Seriously, it’s okay. She’s a good kid,” Dean says. You smile, if a bit wryly as you caress her head.

“Well, she wasn’t on her best behavior today, so we’re going to sort that out tonight. But thank you for watching her.”

Dean sends you off with a raised hand, though it turns into a small wave when Emma looks back at him with a sneaking smile.

He chuckles and shakes his head. Kids. Jesus.

She looks just like you.

Five Months

The insistent ring and vibration of your cell phone disturbs your deeply rooted slumber. You slap at the device charging on your nightstand and nearly yank out the cord in attempt to bring the screen to your eyeballs.

Once your bleary vision adjusts to the brightness, you growl in annoyance.

Still, you answer the call.

“Dean. Jesus Christ, it’s three in the morning.”

“I just need your opinion on the new crossbow flame throwers.”

Your sigh can probably be heard across the Atlantic Ocean.

“It’s fine, but it would make more sense on a gun, right? Half gun, half flame thrower.”

“That’s what I said! But Cas says we need to diversify—”

“Dean. Three. In the morning. Go to sleep and let me get back to dreaming about Pedro Pascal as a gladiator, feeding me grapes as his queen.”

“…You like Latin guys, huh?”

You groan and turn your face fully into your pillow.

“Sleeping now. I’ll see you in five hours.”

Six Months

“Look! Emma got first place in the Spelling Bee.”

You pass Dean your phone while he scrapes the pickled onions off his burger and onto your plate. In turn, you give him the pickle wedge off your plate. By now you know that he’s a veritable bottomless pit when it comes to food in general, except for the fact that he doesn’t like pickled onions, and doesn’t trust sushi.

He smiles as he scrolls through the pictures of your daughter’s kindergarten class.

“Clearly taking after her mom in the smarts department. Though you didn’t have to do her like that with those Pippi Longstocking braids,” he remarks.

You scoff in amusement. “Oh, come on, they’re not that bad. It’s not like she’s got a wire hanger in there. She’s just going through a frizzy phase. No matter what products I use, I can’t seem to tame that hair.”

Dean chomps his burger. You’ve reminded him at least 30 times, but he still talks with his mouth full.

“Looks like she’s trying to land a plane,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. You shove his arm lightly and go back to eating, while Dean takes another look at the pictures.

He sees a lot of you in that little girl. She’s got your eyes, your smile, but she probably has her dad’s hair, his chin. Dean hopes that’s all the girl’s going to get from that fucking deadbeat, biologically speaking. From what you’ve told Dean, all that guy is good for is sending monthly wire payments. After you got your raise, he even tried taking you to court to get his child support reduced.

“Did you want kids—you know, before? Was that even on your radar?” Dean asks.

He doesn’t know what possesses him, but he asks.

You hum in contemplation. “Honestly, it wasn’t. I was focused on my career.”

You wipe your mouth as the thought settles in.

“I thought I’d do it right, you know? Work hard, achieve my goals, find a husband who wanted the same things I did, then build a life, and a family. I always thought I was smarter than a broken condom in the back of his goddamn Lexus,” you say, your tone bordering on disgust at the end. You shake your head and sip your iced tea.

Dean quirks his head. “Well, we’ve all been thrown a few curveballs in life. What matters is how you take it. And I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal. You get Emma, a good job, the best boss in the world…”

You shoot him a knowing smile.

Dean smirks, but he’s still serious.

“And that guy, all he gets is a life without his kid, and without the woman who could’ve given him a family,” he says. “Sounds like a fucking chump to me.”

He continues eating, but you’re not sure if he realizes how that just tilted your entire axis. It makes you look at him differently, the warmth of admiration in your chest, and something deeper coiling in your belly, stirring up something unexpected.

You stare at him long enough that his brows furrow.

“What? Got something in my teeth?” he asks. 

Your face relaxes, your lips tugging at a smile.

“Yeah, ground beef. Can you please swallow before you talk?”

“This is how I am, sweetheart. Don’t try to change me,” Dean says, taking another massive bite. Oily ketchup dangles from the bun and threatens to stain one of his nicer buttoned-down shirts.

You roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You stick a napkin in his collar, just in time for the ketchup drip.

Seven Months

You and Sam have lunch together every Wednesday. It started out as a way to reconnect with your old friend, but it’s often devolved into an hourly venting session about his brother’s many idiosyncrasies, how he’s driving you both fucking crazy, and how to best manage the man’s schedule, as well as steer him away from any half-cocked decisions that could cause a PR disaster.

Like the time he accidentally asked a reporter at a charity benefit why albacore tuna was becoming an endangered species.

“I mean, come on. They’ve literally got fish on the menu tonight. Maybe if you people stopped eating so much damn sushi with your avocado toast, we wouldn’t need this bougie dinner party. $5,000 a plate? Give me a fucking break.”

The fact that he slept with her that night still didn’t save him from the article she published later that week, complete with direct quotes. She had a good goddamn memory.

Today though, your weekly lunch with Sam is less about quasi-therapy, and more about celebrating the fact that Jess is pregnant. You’re even helping her and her sister plan the baby shower.

“Any advice? Just, you know, about parenting in general,” Sam asks. For once, he seems less his normal confident self, and a little more sheepish. It’s sweet, even endearing.

You smile. “God, I don’t know. I’ve been winging it from the beginning. Just…be present, as much as you can. Jess is going to need you to show the hell up, without being asked, without being nagged. You’re the rock she’ll need to lean on, even when she thinks she can do it all while you’re here trying to show up for the job. Especially when the baby’s born. If you’re not covered in three layers of bodily fluids, then you’re not doing it right.”

He laughs a little. “Noted.”

Your mind veers into other directions as you finish up your sandwich and crumple up the foil wrapper. Most predictably, along the road that leads back to Dean.

“Dean doesn’t seem to be the family man type,” you remark. “More married to his work, but…he’s been really good with Emma every time I’ve brought her up to visit the office.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. He basically half raised me after Mom died. More than half, actually. Dad was always working,” Sam says.

“What about relationships?” you ask.

It earns you a certain look from Sam. You’ve come to learn that both Winchester brothers are incredibly sharp, just in different ways. Dean knows how to read people. He’s a good judge of character, and it makes him a shark in the board room, the kind of man that can take in the information his department heads serve him and make swift decisions that often pan out well for HunterCorp.

Sam is perceptive in an almost clinical way, analytical and methodical. He’s the one who can read the data and find the one thing that’s missing. He can anticipate problems before they start, and when it comes to people, Sam often catches the little things, tells and underlying motivations. It gives you away before you’ve even realized it.

“Well, Dean’s been pretty predictable when it comes to women, even before Dad passed,” Sam says.

And it’s true. Dean’s never seen the same woman more than a week at a time. You know this, because you’ve seen the “consolation gifts” he sends them. A Tiffany bracelet. An Apple Watch. Gucci sunglasses. The perfect gift that tells a girl she won’t need to stick around for breakfast.

“But to his credit, he’s up front with them,” Sam says, drawing your gaze. “They know what not to expect.”

Your lips quirk. “Sounds so transactional…and lonely.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “but I get it. He took a lot onto his shoulders when Dad died. Right now, Dean’s more focused on making sure we survive than on what he might want. To be honest, I doubt he’s even thought about what that is.”

For some reason, that hits you behind the ribs in a quiet, sharp strike. In your mind, you can’t help but see the familiar tense set of Dean’s shoulders hunched at his desk, eyes glued to his computer while an evening sun sets behind his head.

Even in that big office overlooking the entire city scape, he never has time to admire the view.

Eight Months

It’s your mistake.

Your fingers brush Dean’s for half a second too long when you give him a stack of purchase orders to sign. His eyes meet yours. You point out the new way you’ve color-coded the departments for each PO.

Your heel wobbles on your pivot, an uneven floorboard. Suddenly it’s his hand closing around your wrist and the other wrapping around your waist, giving you stability. Your eyes meet his, heated breaths in between.

A thank you falls from your lips, drawing Dean’s attention there.

But he lets you go.

You walk away, pretending you don’t know his eyes are following you.

You bite your lip against a smile.

One Year

“Seriously, which one?”

“Jesus, Dean. Green! I already told you.”

“No need to get snippy. I just want your opinion.”

“You always want my opinion. That’s why I already laid out the green one for you.”

“But I like the black one.”

“You always wear the black one. The black one says politician. The green one says you’re the boss, but you’re approachable.”

“I don’t want to be approachable. That’s how I get stuck in a 45-minute fucking conversation in the break room with Garth about his side hustle YouTube sock puppet show. That shit was deeply uncomfortable. I just wanted my damn coffee.”

“You know, you could also cut back on the caffeine and the booze while we’re on the subject.”

“Oh, what are you, my mother?”

“You tell me. I’m the one dressing you right now.”

You work the collar dark green suit jacket over his shoulder and smooth down the wrinkles. You firmly ignore how his gaze roams your face, and lower still. You want to pretend you haven’t noticed these signs, all while you try to stop yourself from giving any yourself.

“There, looks good,” you say. Though you make the mistake of meeting his eyes.

He grins. One of those grins that makes you want to grab his face, either mushing it into his seventeen mugs of coffee, or kissing him fucking stupid. You’ve been restraining the latter urge by a tenuous thread for several months now, mostly because you sicken yourself.

He’s your fucking boss. It’s unprofessional. You’ve already been down this road once in your life, and—

“You okay?” he asks.

Suddenly you realize how close he is. You can feel the warmth of his body, you can smell his cologne, and he sounds so sincere in his concern, briefly touching your arm.

You nod, knowing you should create some distance between you and him. Somehow you can’t force yourself to take that one small step back.

Instead, you reach for his tie. “Remember, you’re meeting Frank Devereau and his wife tonight, and Charlie Bradbury. She’s the brains behind the project, so you’ll want to talk to her about the details, how the program works, and how we can incorporate it into our existing tech.”

Dean hums in agreement, but in truth, his attention is on your nimble hands as you work on his tie. You slide the knot up to settle snugly, but not too tight against his throat. You allow your hands to slide down his chest while you admire your handiwork with satisfaction, but your small smile fades. Your mouth goes dry as your gaze travels back up to his, lingering on his parted mouth.

His hands slowly come to hold you by your arms, making your heart tap a syncopated beat.

“Does that look mean you want me to kiss you, or am I just seeing things?” he says at last.

Your eyes widen. You bite the inside of your lip, nervous energy fluttering through you, even as everything within you would like to scream a resounding yes.

“We can’t…shouldn’t,” you say, in a quieter voice. His office door is closed, but it’s not locked. There are far better reasons than that though, and you struggle to remind yourself of each and every one of them.

Dean steals your focus, however. His eyes seem greener than usual, probably because of the jacket. You picked it with that in mind.

“In this case, shouldn’t isn’t a moral argument,” he says. “It’s society’s rules. I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’ve never much cared about what people who don’t matter think about me.”

Your brows begin to knit together. “Who matters to you? Because my daughter and my father. They matter to me.”

“Being with me doesn’t hurt them,” he argues, a little peeved at the implication that it would; that he would hurt them, or you.

“Being with you?” you ask in shock.

Dean’s mouth opens, but he hesitates, like what he just said surprises even himself. His lips quirk at a smile.

“I know you, uh, probably think I’m not capable of something like that,” he asks.

“I mean, it is surprising,” you admit airily. Your cheeks warm in a blush. “You could have anyone, Dean…and you have.”

He chuckles dryly. “All right, fair enough. But other than Sam, who gets me better than you? Who else is gonna handle this, the pressure of my life and everything that goes with it…better than you?”

Your eyes widen. A softer smile threatens your lips, because you realize then that he’s actually serious.

About you?

Of course, that’s when your very real, rational doubt creeps in.

“People are going to talk,” you point out. “That’s why shouldn’t always matters. And you and me? Jesus, Dean, this is the oldest cliché in the fucking book.”

His hands move down to your waist, squeezing gently. Enticingly.

“Then we’ll be discreet,” he says, with one of his crooked grins. You shake your head, but you start to smile too. You allow him to pull you back in, figuratively and literally as he bows his head closer to yours.

“You really think you can pull that off?” you ask.

“Sweetheart, with the right motivation, we can pull off anything,” he says, half whispering them on your lips as he captures them with his own.

It’s slow and laced with a curling heat that licks tingles down your spine, just like his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you into him. Your body betrays you then, with a moan in your throat and your own hands traveling up his arms, over his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck.

The graze of your nails at his nape makes him shiver and groan as he licks into your mouth, holds you tighter. You feel the press of his growing arousal against your belly.

Your good sense knocks at the door of lust and yearning, reminding you that you’re making all the same mistakes again. This isn’t a man you can trust—not with this. But Dean’s lips are hard to ignore, covered in the remnants of your lipstick as he kisses his way along your jaw and down your neck, where he sucks and nips just hard enough to make you gasp his name and writhe against him. He squeezes your ass and smiles against your skin.

“So fucking beautiful, you know that? Even the little sounds you make when I touch you. I wanna find out what that pretty voice sounds like when you come,” he says, in a voice dripped in whiskey and wicked promises.

Jesus. Your heart flutters. You haven’t been touched like this in so very long. You haven’t felt desired like this in…

“How long have you been thinking about that?” you ask, a little breathlessly. He continues his exploration, his lips blazing a sensuous trail down the column of your throat, along the line of your collar bone, and between the rise and fall your breasts. He slides open the buttons of your blouse with a practiced hand, his eyes drinking in the sight of your lace bra.

“Since the day you started wearing these sexy fucking heels,” he says, dragging his hand up your thigh, over your skirt, in a way that raises goosebumps on your arms. But he hesitates. His eyes ask a question as they meet yours.

“You need to tell me what you want though,” Dean says, more seriously than you expected. “You want me to touch you?”

Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat, but you nod, biting your lip.

“Kiss me, touch me, make me fucking come,” you say. “But first, you need to lock that door.”

A crooked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He steals another kiss before he does exactly that—he crosses the room and locks that fucking door. You lean against his desk for a breather, but you realize that half this shit needs to go. You move stacks of files to the side, the coasters you put for his mugs of coffee along with the empty cups themselves. You push his double-screen monitors forward, giving Dean just the angle he needs to hold you from behind and start laying more tantalizing kisses along your neck.

You sigh and help him with the zipper of your skirt while he works on the bra clasp. The straps loosen down your arms, and he flings the bra away so he can get a handful each of your breasts. You moan and rest your head against his as he begins to squeeze and tease, gently twisting your nipples between his fingers. He leaves open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, sucking at your pulse point.

When his hand moves further down and slips behind the waistband of your skirt and panties, he feels your pulse flutter and trip along with your gasp. His fingers dip between your folds and find the slick mess of your arousal.

“Goddamn, baby. Soaked for me already,” he teases.

You don’t need to see his face to know that smug smirk is plastered across it. You reach back and tug sharply on his hair.

“You can gloat, or you can fuck me,” you retort.

He chuckles and kisses your temple. “Don’t you worry. You’re gonna have to bite down on my belt to keep from screaming in a minute.”

His hand that never left your breast begins to strum the hardened, sensitive nub, at the same time his other hand finds your clit. You shudder against him at that first touch, that perfect moment when you realize he knows exactly what he’s doing as he learns your body. He circles your clit slowly, but with a delicious pressure until it swells under his fingertips.

Then his long fingers dip down into your needy channel, making you whimper as you hold onto him and the desk for stability. His fingers pump smooth strokes inside you, almost as deep as he plans to fuck you with his cock.

He knows he has you when his fingers curl and brush deliberately against that perfect spot inside your inner walls. Your thighs begin to shake, your breaths labored, your hips bucking against his hand in a quiet plea.

Your orgasm rolls swift and steady against his fingers. Your pussy flutters around his hand, and he groans along with you.

“Good girl. Can’t wait to feel that squeeze around my cock,” he says, a filthy whisper in your ear.

You laugh a little, nodding in agreement. You turn around to help him with his belt.

“Yeah, right now. Want you inside me before we run out of time. You have to meet Sam downstairs soon.”

It’s another work event Dean can’t get himself out of, even if the networking opportunities are good for the company.

“You should come with me,” he says, grinning at the way you slide his jacket off his shoulders, but you toss it as carefully as you can across the nearest chair. You just had it drycleaned this morning.

“What?” you laugh. “Dean, you don’t need me there. I’m just an assistant—”

“No,” Dean says, stilling your movements when his hand cups your cheek. Your lashes raise as you look up at him, finding him serious again. His gaze roams your face, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “If it ain’t fucking obvious, you’re more.”

Your mouth falls open, but you’re not sure what’s going to spill out. Dean doesn’t give you time to figure it out, or even let himself settle into his own admission.

He just kisses you, hard and thorough, knocking any more doubts out of your mind, and any deeper thoughts out of his.

He grabs you up by your hips and seats you on his desk, rattling the surface. Your arms wrap around his shoulders on reflex. You feel the muscles flexing under his dress shirt—a crisp black. You help him yank up your skirt and kick off your panties, though they get tangled around your ankle. His slacks and boxer briefs end up coiled around his knees, just far enough to give him room and leverage to slide into your heat.

You both moan at the feeling of him settling snug inside, bottoming out, his almost bruising grip on your ass. Your thighs are wrapped almost as tightly around his waist as he lays you out more fully on the desk. It’s probably harder to do it this way, instead of him just bending you over the hard mahogany. But you’re glad you get to see his face, get to run your fingers through his hair and share his breaths while he fucks you in a slow-rolling rhythm.

It’s more intimate. It feels like it means something, especially when he once again cradles your cheek and brushes wild strands of hair away from your face. Especially when he kisses you deep enough to taste the Almond Joy you snacked on earlier.

You kiss him back just as fervently, as if this will be the first and the last time. You have no idea what happens after today, and you know that probably makes you a fucking idiot. It could lead to the end of your second chance at a career, but you want to trust this. You want to trust the steadiness in Dean’s hands and the look in his eyes.

So you give into what you want, sitting up to lay nipping kissing along his prickly cheek and neck, sucking your own marks against his skin. The way he groans and shudders and fucks you harder—it makes you feel powerful.

“Lean back, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Touch yourself for me.”

You manage to follow his lead, shakily laying back down and letting your hand drift back down your body, finding your clit. Dean watches you play with yourself, his fingers flexing against your hip. You feel him so deep, so good, that the coil of pleasure in your lower belly begins to tighten in earnest.

He’s only satisfied when you have to smother your own mouth against a cry, your hips snapping up to meet his as your release finally hits. Another few ragged strokes, and he spills into you as well.

“Fuck,” he groans into your neck, catching his breath. That was awesome.

But then, his eyes widen. “Christ, forgot a condom.”

“I’m on birth control.” You breathe out a laugh as you soothe him, caressing his shoulders.

He blinks, then he relaxes, chuckling faintly.

“Guess you just make me lose my head,” he says.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to doing the thinking for you,” you tease, biting your lip.

Dean stares down at you, brows raised, yet amused at your cheek.

“Hmm, I’m gonna remember that one. Might have to punish you tomorrow,” he remarks.

You smirk, though a blush burns down your neck at the idea, and the depths of his voice.

He withdraws from you with a quiet moan, then helps you up with a steading grip on your arms when he feels that you’re still a bit shaky. After pulling up his pants, he finds the paper towels you keep handy in one of his desk drawers for the cleanup.

“Seriously, come with me tonight. I’m sure you’ve got a nice dress. If not, I’ll buy you one on the way,” he says, as you two start to pull your clothes back on. And in your case, find your bra.

“Dean, I need to take Emma home,” you say.

You pause with your fingers poised on his dark green jacket, ready to smooth down any wrinkles. The color matches his slacks perfectly. His hair is a bit messy, but overall, he looks edible and professional at the same time. He’s ready to shmooze with the heads of conglomerates and Silicon Valley tycoons and the politicians they own.

But you know you’re not a part of that world.

“Maybe next time,” you say, though you don’t really mean it. Your hand falls.

Dean nods, but he catches your hand before you walk away from him. He slowly winds you back in and kisses you thoroughly enough to make your knees buckle, just a little.

You’re still not sure if he meant what he said about wanting to be with you, or if this is just something he’ll change his mind about in the morning after a few glasses of whiskey.

You definitely think about more than just the road ahead while on your way home, Emma’s chatter filling the car. For once, you can’t say you’re fully paying attention.

Your fingers keep touching the memory lingering on your lips.

AN: 😘❤️‍🔥 How'd you like the slow build? lol Did Dean's earnest appeal surprise you there at the end? He's been a pretty successful play boy up until now, but he's really going to prove himself in Part 3 of our adventure, set shortly after Pratt Fall.

Next Time in Nothing by Halves:

Dean finds a guest spot in front of the school. The old Impala rumbles to a stop there, and he climbs out, grabbing the bouquet resting in his passenger seat.

His keys jangle in his other hand as he makes his way to the front office to check in, just like you told him to in your texted instructions. The nice ladies there give him a guest badge that he slaps on his chest, over his dress shirt, and they tell him how to get to the theater. He feels awkward and out of place walking down the halls of this school alone, but you had to take Emma over there early before the show. 

The hell am I doing here?

He has to fucking wonder.

But he promised you. He promised the kid. So he’s here.

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"Yeah. You're the only one I've done anything with."

"And the morning after you're ready to try butt stuff." He said it so deadpan that you felt your cheeks heating, but you nodded anyway.

You rolled on top of him, your lips slotting right against his ear so you wouldn't have to look at him for your next reveal. "I've, um. I've tried it," you squeaked out, desperately trying to squirrel away again when he grabbed you by the shoulders to hold you face to face.

"Nuh-uh. Sit the fuck up when you tell me this." There was not an ounce of judgement in his tone, just wonder. The look on his face was incredulous, and with you forced to sit upright on his stomach you thought your face was about to catch fire.

"Just tried it a little with myself. It's not, you know, a big deal."

His hands started stroking your thighs, in a way that was obviously trying to soothe you.

"You are... fuck." He looked up at you with his face filled with adoration, and his acceptance kept you from bolting right then and there. "Did you use your fingers?" He asked, his voice dropping to a gravely tone.

"...Sometimes?"

A punched-out groan left him. "Are you trying to tell me that you've stuffed your ass full of a plug while you still had a virgin pussy?"

You nodded, aching to hide back in your safe spot on his neck.

"Jesus. How the hell does that happen."

"I dunno," you responded shyly. "Just got curious and tired of waiting, I guess."

"And you learned this where?"

"The internet?" You responded, your voice getting impossibly small, and almost completely indecipherable when you trailed off. "Just reading and porn, mostly."

His hands left your thighs to drag down his face, and he almost looked like he was in pain.

"Sweetheart. Unless you're ready for this now don't look behind you."

Reflexively, you twisted around to see his cock, now leaking against his stomach and an angry red.

"If you need a second, some alone time," he said gently, his eyes searching your face for a single speck of agreement, "I am happy to run you a bath and take a cold shower, or we can go through a drive-thru with a towel on my lap. I wasn't expecting to get hard again like a fucking teenager."

In lieu of words, you gave him a shy smile before flipped yourself around to face his cock, dipping your head to lick up the beads of precum. Dean groaned, the sound low and loud and hot enough to keep you from getting self-conscious about the way your pussy was now in his face.

"The porn," he said absently, the observation made in a voice that sounded like he was barely hanging onto reality. "Of course you know how to 69."

Before you could register his words he hauled you back to his face, his vice grip on your hips keeping you planted on his face despite your squirming. His broad tongue found your clit and licked back far enough to make you squirm in discomfort, the sensation of his warm mouth so intimate that you tried to pull away.

"If you're uncomfortable I'll stop," he muttered into your skin, "but if you're just bein' shy you gotta buck up and let me taste you."

His words helped you settle, assured you that he is where he wants to be, but his mouth felt completely different licking at your back entrance than it did wrapped around your clit. The tip of his tongue circled your puckered hole, only lightly pressing before moving back to your pussy. The predictable motions soothed you into relaxing, finally able to dip back down to take his cock in your mouth. Dean groaned against your folds, gently canting his hips into your mouth.

"Already takin' me to the back of your little virgin throat. Fuck." His low voice was hot against your skin, and the gentle vibrations made you want to roll your hips greedily against his mouth.

You couldn't stop humming in pleasure around his cock, and you wanted to take him as deep as possible; impress him and show him you're ready for more. You tried to stay focused on him, get a good rhythm going, but his thumb was creeping too close to your ass to ignore. He started rubbing circles around the soft skin, applying pressure to the entrance without forcing his way inside. Between the tease of his thumb and the warmth of his tongue you felt hot all over. Your back involuntarily arched from the way your muscles were tightening, and the feeling of anticipation made the weight of his cock in your mouth feel like more of an intrusion than a comfort. Your forehead found it's place resting on the junction of his hip, and your tongue darted out to mouth at his sac.

"Just tell me to stop," he murmured before starting the slow sink of his thumb. Almost instantly your body started convulsing in pleasure, the gentle stretch and pressure in conjunction with his tongue forcing a high whine from your throat while your release tore through you; if you weren't too overwhelmed to think you would be embarrassed.

"Jesus fucking christ." Dean's voice was absolutely wrecked, his tongue torn between enunciating and helping you ride out your orgasm.

"Sweetheart," he started, still finishing his reverent clean-up job on your pussy with his thumb decidedly locked inside of you. "What the fuck was that."

You shrugged your shoulders, still feeling mute after he wrung that type of pleasure out of you

"Does that normally happen?" His voice was softer now seeming to sense that you didn't have an explanation. "You can just nod for me if you're always that sensitive there."

You nodded slowly, feeling blessed that you were turned away from him so he couldn't see the way your cheeks heated.

"Got a cute little whore on my hands, huh?" The hand that wasn't caught inside of you possessively squeezed your hip, and he placed a chaste kiss against your clit. "Gonna answer me?"

"Yes," you breathed, watching his cock turn an angry shade of red.

"What was that sweetheart? You obviously don't want me to go easy, so if I were you I'd speak up."

"I'm your cute little whore." The words felt like sandpaper for how easy they slipped out, and even though you'd heard the words a hundred times, read them even more, they felt dirty and foreign coming from your own mouth.

“o-oh, yea—mmff, fuck—” dean gasped out, a loopey grin spreading across his face.

have you ever had sex with a man?

“oh my fuckin’ go-ohd—” his fingers tightened around the edge of the marble countertop. your countertop.

what’s the youngest you’d go?

“mmh-mmm-ah shit!—” the back of dean’s head hit the marble, though he paid no mind to it. the pleasure was so intense that the pain didn’t even register.

what about a guy in his twenties? would ya shag him?

you still remember the grin on his face when he asked that.

“ghhh-sonovabitch..” his voice was higher pitched. slurred. broken, even. shirt bunched up to his chest. he shivered violently when your teeth just barely grazed his pulse point.

“god—fuck—please—” such a pleading tone. he was begging.

“please what?” you whisper, eyes flitting up to his face, fingers digging into the skin of his thighs like a brand, rough yet grounding. there. definitely not meaningless. “you wanted this. now take it.”

dean whimpered before a sob tore out from his throat, head thrashing around against the marmoreal stone, hips stuttering, cock twitching—untouched, leaking, aching. neglected. just barely rubbing up against your abdomen.

your pace fastened, not by a lot, but enough for dean to arch his back and struggle against your hold. his thighs quaked, legs hanging off of the counter, toes curled.

you were big. thicker than he anticipated. first time with a guy and he was already getting stretched to fucking oblivion. he felt full. it hurt, of course it did, but what was dean if not a masochist.

with a broken, loud moan, he willed his shaking body to meet your relentless, sharp thrusts. his ears were ringing and he could barely even hear himself, the only thing clearly audible was the sound of skin slapping against skin.

“you—you told me i could ask you- a-ah—anything..” he panted out, glossy eyes barely open as they locked onto yours.

“…and look where it got you.”

your response was simple, almost mocking. with a deliberate roll of your hips, you had dean’s eyes rolling into the back of his head, mouth falling open in a soundless gasp as he bared his neck.

the brutal drag of your cock inside him made his brain turn to mush. he clenched around you, involuntarily of course, just because his imagition was conjuring filthier images. he couldn’t help it. the thought of you fucking him whenever you wanted wherever you wanted? it practically made him salivate.

“dean.”

he keened. at the sound of his name on your lips, he fucking keened. desperately so, like he was just happy you were acknowledging him. and maybe he was.

“dean,” you repeated, moving a hand to pat his face before gripping his jaw. “eyes on me.”

oh you didn’t have to tell him twice. you had that quiet authority, one that made others do exactly what you asked with no need to reiterate. dean loved it. he craved it.

his hazy eyes locked onto your own.

“you with me, space cadet?”

always, he wanted to say. but he bit it back with a choked groan, in response only nodding his head, though the action was barely noticeable.

“say yes.”

You know they'll keep that. They'll make sure to keep anything he says. Those are always the parts that get the most replays- hell they're the parts you replay. When you're up late, watching his videos, hand between your thighs.

"-I didn't tell you to fucking move."

You don't know how it still works for you. You know it's not him, he even ran through ideas of lines he was gonna use before you started. He was very sweet about it, almost shy when you were alone- he's anything but shy now.

His grip on you tightens as he moves back to your clit, his tongue working against you rapidly. You're gripping the sheets, trying to keep yourself steady, your whole body convulsing as another orgasm starts to rise quickly.

"Fuck- please-"

He's already told you to beg, a couple times actually. You know he will again. It gets you hot just thinking about it, the stern tone in his voice. You bite your lip hard, trying to stop your hips from rising again. Your gaze falls to the camera, a reminder that you're supposed to be performing, you batter your eyelashes, let out another loud moan.

He pulls back suddenly, his sticky hand wrapping around your thigh, his other hand moving up to wipe his mouth. He looks like a mess, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, chin glistening with your arousal. He glances around to the set, speaking louder, "Sorry guys- I've gotta- I've gotta take a break."

The room picks up in a flash, people moving around, cameras resetting. People come running over with robes, one gets draped over your shoulders, a plastic cup of water pushes into your hands. You take a big swig of it, suddenly realizing how dry your mouth is.

People move around you, you see a few people checking the monitors, gearing up for the next shot. You glance at Dean, he's pulling in a shaky breath, pushing his hair out of his face with his long fingers.

You try to go over everything that just happened- why he wanted to stop. Maybe it's the way your bare heel had dug into his back the last time you came, maybe it's the way you tugged his hair a few minutes ago. Maybe he's just getting sick of being the only one actually doing any work.

He moves closer to you on the mattress, settling close enough that he could reach out if he wanted to. He looks up, gaze falling over you, then turns away fast, back to his own cup.

You speak quickly, nervously, "I'm sorry- did I-"

He cuts you off, leaning his head down slightly so he can speak in a hushed voice, "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart."

It catches you off guard, "What?"

He takes a swig of water, then speaks slowly, "If we keep going, I'm gonna cum."

You're still not sure you've understood him, "What do you-"

"I'm not kidding here, I feel like I'm gonna fuckin' explode- if they catch that on film my whole tough guy act is fucked-"

"We haven't even- I haven't touched you-" you manage to get out.

"I'll never live it down if I blow my load just from tongue fuckin' you- jesus-" he shifts awkwardly, you realize he's trying to hide his boner- it's not easy when his cock is larger than any you've seen before.

"You're gonna cum just from going down on me?"

"You're moaning like you've never had a guy touch you before- it's not exactly helping."

You raise an eyebrow, "I can stop?"

He grins at you, "Don't you dare."

Your heart skips a beat, thighs clench together. Forget any video- this is what you're gonna be thinking about tonight.

Strong arms slid around your waist from behind, and you didn’t flinch. You never did anymore. Sam’s chest pressed warm and solid against your back, his chin settling on top of your head for a beat before he dipped lower to brush his lips against the side of your neck.

“You’re spoiling me,” he murmured, voice still rough from too little sleep and too much research. His hands stayed at your hips, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over the thin fabric of your shirt. “I was gonna get that in a minute.”

“You were gonna forget it existed until it went cold,” you said, turning in his arms. Your hands found their way under the open flannel he wore over a faded gray t-shirt, palms sliding up the warm plane of his stomach. “Again.”

Sam’s mouth curved into that small, private smile he only ever gave you- the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and his whole face soften. He leaned down and kissed you properly then, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. One of his hands came up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. The other stayed low on your back, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

You tasted coffee and the faint mint of his toothpaste. Felt the solid strength of him, the way his body always seemed to tower over yours in the best way. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Love you,” he said quietly, like it was still new even though it wasn’t.

Before you could answer, your phone lit up on the counter, Charlie’s name flashing across the screen. You answered on speaker without thinking, still half-distracted by the way Sam’s thumb kept stroking the bare skin just above your waistband.

“Charlie,” you said. “You’re up early. Or late. Hard to tell with you.”

Her voice came through bright and a little breathless, the way it always got when she was neck-deep in something weird. “Okay, don’t freak out, but I’m at Comic Con in Dallas. Yes, I know, shut up. I won tickets in a very legal and definitely not hacked raffle. And there’s a case. Like, a real one. People are going missing between panels and acting weird as hell. I saw some seriously cursed-looking jewelry in one of the artist alleys. I need backup. Real backup. You and Sam. Please tell me you’re not in the middle of something apocalyptic right now.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted, but his hands didn’t leave you. If anything, they tightened a fraction, possessive in that quiet way he got when a hunt was mentioned and you were involved. You could already see the wheels turning behind his eyes- research, logistics, worst-case scenarios.

From down the hall, Dean’s voice carried in before you could even respond.

“Did somebody say Comic Con?”

He appeared in the kitchen doorway a second later, beer in hand despite the early hour, wearing the same robe he’d been living in for days. His gaze flicked between the two of you- Sam’s arms still around you, your hands under his shirt- and he grinned, all teeth.

“Oh, hell yes. Perfect. You two are going.”

Sam sighed, the long suffering sound he reserved almost exclusively for his brother. “Dean- ”

“Nope. Don’t even start with the responsible hunter speech. Dallas. Nerds in costumes. Some monster probably getting off on the chaos. It’s got your names all over it.” Dean took a long pull from his beer, then pointed the bottle at you both. “And I need a weekend. Just one. No forced research. No you two making heart eyes and doing… whatever it is you do in the library when you think I’m asleep. I want the bunker to myself. Beer. TV. Maybe company with some plastic tits. Go. Gank whatever’s there. Bring me back a lightsaber or some shit. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just go.”

You felt Sam’s chest move with a quiet laugh against your cheek. His hand slid higher under your shirt, warm palm spanning your lower back, fingers pressing in just enough to remind you he was there. That you were his. That even when Dean was being Dean, this- whatever you had- was steady.

Sam looked down at you, one eyebrow raised in question. His voice dropped low, just for you. “What do you think? Could be nice. Get out of here for a couple days. Just us and whatever’s causing trouble at a convention full of people in capes.”

You tilted your head up, catching his mouth in another kiss- quicker this time, but no less deliberate. When you pulled back, your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

“Yeah,” you said. “Let’s go.”

Dean made a gagging noise and backed out of the kitchen. “Gross. I’m leaving before you start making out on the counter again. Text me when you’re on the road. And try not to traumatize the cosplayers too much.”

Sam’s arms tightened around you one last time before he let go, already shifting into planning mode even as his eyes stayed soft on yours. “I’ll grab our bags. You call Charlie back, get the details. We can be on the road in an hour.”

He lingered for a second longer, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then leaned in and kissed you again- deeper this time, a promise of exactly how he planned to spend at least part of the drive and whatever motel room you ended up in. When he finally pulled away, his voice was rougher.

“Weekend away,” he said quietly. “Just you and me. Even if we have to kill something in between.”

You watched him head toward the bedrooms, tall frame filling the doorway for a moment before he disappeared down the hall. The bunker felt different already- lighter, charged with the low thrum of anticipation that always came before a hunt.

But this time it wasn’t just the case.

This time it was the promise of nights that belonged to the two of you, away from Dean’s knowing looks and the endless weight of the world outside these walls. A Comic Con full of monsters and costumes and whatever fresh hell Charlie had stumbled into.

And Sam.

Always Sam.

You picked up your phone, already smiling as you hit Charlie’s number again.

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The drive from Kansas to Dallas had been long, but the kind of long that felt good. Sam had taken most of the wheel, one hand steady on the steering wheel, the other resting warm and heavy on your thigh for miles at a time. Every now and then he’d glance over, that soft half-smile on his face, and squeeze gently like he still couldn’t believe you were both here instead of buried in the bunker.

You’d teased him about his legs taking up half the front seat. He’d laughed, low and easy, and told you to stop complaining or he’d make you drive the last stretch. You both knew he wouldn’t. Around hour six he’d pulled off at a rest stop, bought you the exact bag of chips you liked without asking, and kissed the top of your head when he handed them over like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you rolled into Dallas the sun was setting, the convention center already glowing in the distance with flashing lights and cosplay banners. The hotel Dean had “generously” booked for you was only a block away- close enough to walk, far enough that the noise wouldn’t keep you up all night.

Check-in had been its own little comedy show. The front desk clerk took one look at Sam’s towering frame and your hand tucked into his back pocket and grinned like she’d won something.

“King bed, non-smoking, and… oh, looks like you got the last one with the jacuzzi tub. Lucky couple.”

Sam had gone a little pink around the ears, but he’d just thanked her, taken the key cards, and steered you toward the elevators with his hand low on your back. The second the door to your room clicked shut behind you, he dropped both duffel bags, turned, and pulled you straight into his chest.

“Finally,” he muttered against your hair, arms wrapping all the way around you. “No Dean. Just us and whatever fresh hell Charlie’s cooked up.”

You tipped your head back for a kiss that started sweet and quickly turned warmer, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. He tasted like the gas station coffee you’d shared two hours ago and the mint gum he’d been chewing since Oklahoma. When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, breathing a little uneven.

“We should probably go meet Charlie before I decide the case can wait until tomorrow,” he said, voice rough with a smile.

You laughed and poked his side. “She’ll hunt us down if we ghost her. Come on, Gigantor. Velma’s waiting.”

Charlie had picked a little diner two blocks from the con center- loud, neon, smelled like fries and syrup. You spotted her the second you walked in.

She was in full Velma cosplay- orange turtleneck sweater, short pleated skirt, knee-high socks, black wig with the classic bob, and thick black glasses. The moment she saw you both she lit up like a Christmas tree, nearly knocking over her chair as she stood.

“Jinkies!” she shouted, loud enough that half the diner turned to look. She sprinted over and threw her arms around both of you at once, which mostly meant she hugged your side while her face smushed into Sam’s chest. “My favorite duo made it! And wow, you two look exhausted.”

Sam chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest as he hugged her back one-armed, the other hand still holding yours. “Good to see you too, Charlie. Nice… everything.”

She pulled back, adjusted her wig dramatically, then “accidentally” dropped her glasses on the table. “My glasses!” she cried in a perfect Velma voice before cracking up and putting them back on. “Okay, okay, I’ll drop the bit in a minute. But first- sit! I already ordered you both burgers because I’m an angel and I know you’re starving after that drive.”

You slid into the booth across from her, Sam right beside you. His long legs bumped yours under the table and stayed there, one ankle hooking gently around yours like he needed the contact. Charlie launched into the case the second the food hit the table, talking a mile a minute between bites of her own fries.

“So here’s the sitch,” she said, leaning forward like she was sharing state secrets. “There’s this booth in Artist Alley- guy’s name is Marty, looks like your creepy uncle who collects porcelain dolls. He’s selling these ‘vintage cursed comics’ from the seventies. Advertises them as haunted for the aesthetic, right? Except they’re actually haunted. Like, for real. I swiped one- don’t look at me like that, Sam, it was for science- and when I opened it in my hotel room the pages started glowing and I had this weird vision where I was in a comic panel saying ‘Zoinks! This con just got a whole lot more haunted!’ in big yellow letters. It was awesome and terrifying.”

Sam’s eyebrows went up, but he was smiling. His free hand found yours on the seat between you, fingers lacing together. “Sigils in the art?”

“Hidden in the panels! Some of them light up under blacklight. And everyone who’s gone missing? They all bought or touched something from Marty’s booth. One guy in a full Batman costume tried to glide off the second floor balcony with his cape after he bought a comic. Security had to tackle him. Another couple started slow dancing in the middle of the food court to music only they could hear. It was actually kinda cute until they walked straight into a wall still holding hands.”

You snorted into your burger. Sam’s thumb stroked over your knuckles, and when you glanced at him he was already looking at you, eyes warm and amused.

Charlie kept going, waving a fry like a pointer. “I’ve been tracking weird reports through the con app. People leaving dramatic voice notes in their rooms like ‘BAM! The shadows claim another soul!’ before they vanish. One girl wrote her goodbye message entirely in comic book sound effects. It’s like the comics are pulling people into the stories- pocket dimensions that look like old comic panels. They have to ‘complete the arc’ or whatever to get out, but it’s dangerous. I saw one guy get yeeted into a service hallway by an invisible force after he started monologuing about his tragic backstory in the middle of a panel line.”

Sam’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh. He leaned in a little closer to you, voice low so only you could hear. “This might be the weirdest case we’ve ever taken.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “And the most on-brand for Charlie.”

Charlie pointed at both of you with another fry. “Hey, I heard that. And yes, it’s very on-brand, thank you. Also, pretty sure the vendor guy has no idea he's causing this- or he does and he just wants to get rid of them. Either way- tomorrow we hit Artist Alley first thing, scope the booth, and figure out how to break whatever spell is yanking people into comic book limbo.”

She paused, then grinned and slipped back into Velma voice. “Like, the gang’s all here! Now let’s go solve this mystery before someone tries to fight a food truck again.”

Sam shook his head, still smiling, and lifted your joined hands to press a quick kiss to the back of yours without even thinking about it. The gesture was so casual, so easy, that your stomach did a little flip.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed. Then, quieter, just for you: “Tonight, though… we’ve got that jacuzzi tub and no Dean banging on the door at 2 a.m. Could be worse.”

Charlie made loud gagging noises across the table. “Gag. I’m still in character, you can’t be gross in front of Velma!”

You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a fry. Sam just ducked his head, ears pink again, but his hand stayed right where it was- warm and steady around yours under the table while Charlie launched into another story about a guy who’d tried to use “the force” on a churro vendor.

Before you left to go back to the hotel, Charlie handed you a bag full of clothes that clinked together as you took it and walked away screaming “See ya tomorrow bitches!” before you could protest.

Yeah, this case is gonna be a doozy.

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The morning light filtered through the cheap hotel curtains in thin golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. Sam was still half asleep beside you, one long arm thrown over your waist, his face buried in the pillow. You reached for your phone on the nightstand, thumbed Dean’s name, and hit speaker.

It rang twice before he picked up, voice gravelly with sleep and probably a hangover.

“Yeah?”

“Morning, sunshine,” you said. “We’re in Dallas. Case is… weird.”

Sam made a low, sleepy noise and shifted closer, nuzzling the back of your neck without opening his eyes. You felt him smile against your skin.

Dean grunted. “Weird how? You two get arrested for public indecency at the nerd prom yet?”

“Haunted comics,” you told him, ignoring his comment. “Vendor in Artist Alley selling vintage issues that are actually cursed. People who touch them start acting like they’re in the panels- dramatic monologues, trying to ‘complete the story,’ then they vanish into some kind of pocket dimension that looks like old comic pages. Charlie swiped one. It glowed.”

There was a beat of silence, then Dean’s rough laugh. “Comic book ghosts. At Comic Con. Of course. You two are living the dream. Please tell me you’re at least going in costume so you blend in with the rest of the virgins.”

Sam’s eyes cracked open. He lifted his head just enough to mouth costume? at you, brow furrowed in sleepy confusion.

You grinned and kept talking. “Charlie left us outfits last night. We’re about to put them on.”

“Oh this I gotta hear,” Dean said, sounding far too awake now. “What’d she give Sammy? Please say it’s something stupid like a Jedi robe that makes him look ridiculous.”

“Luke Skywalker,” you confirmed. “And she gave me… uh. The Leia slave one.”

Dean howled. Actual howling. You had to hold the phone away from your ear.

“Metal bikini? Oh my God. Sammy’s gonna have a heart attack in the middle of Artist Alley. Send pictures. No- wait- don’t send pictures. I don’t need that shit burned into my brain. Just… gank the nerd ghosts and try not to traumatize the furries. Call me if it goes sideways.”

“Will do,” you said, still laughing.

“Later, lovebirds. And Sammy- try not to pop a boner in the Jedi pants. It’s a family show.”

Dean hung up before either of you could respond. Sam groaned and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“I hate him.”

“You love him,” you corrected, rolling over to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Now come on. Costumes. We’ve got a case.”

You had peaked into the bag last night after you got back to the hotel. The costumes sat perfectly folded in separate bags with a sticky note that just said Blend in, nerds! - C in her messy handwriting. You unzipped yours first.

The Princess Leia slave costume was… a lot. Even more revealing in person than you remembered from the movies. The metal bikini top was two curved plates connected by thin chains, barely covering anything. The bottom was the same- intricate metal that sat low on your hips with long, sheer panels of fabric hanging down the sides and back like a skirt that did almost nothing to hide your legs or the curve of your ass. A matching collar and chain completed the look. It was cold against your skin when you slipped it on, the metal warming slowly to your body temperature. You adjusted the top, turned to check yourself in the mirror, and had to admit Charlie had nailed the sizes. It fit like it had been made for you.

You heard Sam’s sharp inhale behind you.

When you turned, he was standing there in the black Luke Skywalker outfit from Return of the Jedi- the fitted tunic and pants that hugged his tall frame, the belt sitting low on his hips. He looked good. Really good. The black made his shoulders look even broader, his hair falling into his eyes in that way that always did things to you.

But he wasn’t looking at himself.

He was staring at you.

His eyes had gone dark, jaw tight, one hand flexing at his side like he was physically stopping himself from reaching out. You watched the way his gaze dragged down your body- over the bare skin between the metal plates, the way the chains shifted when you moved, the long lines of your legs. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. You could see the exact moment he started to get hard, the front of the black pants tightening noticeably.

A slow, wicked little smile curved your mouth.

You turned back to the mirror, pretending to adjust the chain at your throat, and arched your back just a little. The movement made the metal plates shift, catching the light. You heard Sam’s breath hitch.

“Charlie really went all out,” you said casually, like you weren’t watching him in the reflection. “What do you think?”

Sam’s voice came out rough. “You look… fuck. You look incredible.”

You turned to face him fully, taking a slow step closer. Close enough that the sheer side panels of your “skirt” brushed against his thigh. His hands came up automatically, hovering at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch.

You reached up and straightened the collar of his tunic, letting your fingers drag slowly down the center of his chest, over his stomach, stopping just above his belt. You felt the muscles there jump under your touch.

“Luke Skywalker suits you,” you murmured, tilting your head like you were studying him. “Very heroic. Very… upstanding.”

Sam swallowed hard. His hands finally settled on your bare waist, thumbs brushing the warm metal at your hips. “Baby…”

You leaned in like you were going to kiss him- close enough that he could feel your breath on his lips- then pulled back at the last second with a soft laugh. You turned away again, walking across the room to grab your phone off the dresser. The chains at your hips swayed with every step. You bent over deliberately to pick up your bag, giving him a full view of the way the costume hugged your ass.

When you straightened and glanced back, Sam’s eyes were glued to you. His cock was visibly hard now, straining against the front of the black pants. His hands had curled into fists at his sides.

You sauntered back over, stopping just out of reach. You trailed one finger down the center of his chest again, slower this time, and let it drift lower until your fingertips brushed the hard line of him through the fabric. Sam’s breath punched out of him. His hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing the touch.

You pulled your hand away.

“We should probably head down soon,” you said, voice light, almost innocent. “Charlie’s meeting us at the con entrance. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

Sam made a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat. His hands came up again, this time gripping your hips properly, metal and skin under his palms. He pulled you in until your bodies were flush, his erection pressing hot and insistent against your stomach through the layers of costume.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, voice low and rough. He ducked his head, mouth finding the side of your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse. One hand slid down to cup your ass, squeezing. “You know what this is doing to me, right?”

You hummed, tilting your head to give him better access even as your hands came up to his chest and pushed- just enough to create a few inches of space between you again. You rose up on your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and teasing, then nipped his bottom lip before stepping back completely.

“I know,” you said, smiling sweetly. Your eyes flicked down to the obvious bulge in his pants, then back up to his face. “And you look really good like this. All worked up and trying to be good.”

Sam’s jaw flexed. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. He took a half-step forward like he was going to grab you again, but you just raised an eyebrow and he stopped, breathing hard.

You turned to the mirror one more time, adjusting the chain between your breasts with deliberate slowness, watching him watch you in the reflection.

“Later,” you promised, voice low and sweet. “If you’re good at the con. Maybe I’ll let you bend me over in this thing when we get back.”

You saw the way his whole body reacted to that- the sharp inhale, the way his cock twitched visibly in the tight pants. He looked like he was one second away from saying fuck the case and hauling you to the bed anyway.

But you just grabbed your bag, tossed him a smirk over your shoulder, and headed for the door.

“Come on, Skywalker. Time to go hunt some comic book monsters.”

Sam stood there for another few seconds, visibly trying to will his erection down, one hand raking through his hair. When he finally followed you, his voice was hoarse.

“You’re evil.”

You laughed, light and bright, and reached back to lace your fingers with his as you stepped into the hallway.

“Maybe. But you love it.”

The convention center was pure chaos in the best and worst way- thousands of people in costumes, the air thick with the smell of popcorn, B.O., and too many bodies in one space. Lights flashed from every booth, music thumped from different stages, and somewhere in the distance someone was yelling “For the Alliance!” at the top of their lungs.

You and Sam stepped through the main doors in your costumes, and the reaction was immediate.

A group of guys in stormtrooper armor actually stopped walking to stare. Someone in a full Chewbacca suit gave you a very enthusiastic thumbs-up. You heard at least three camera shutters go off in the first thirty seconds.

Sam’s hand found the small of your back immediately- possessive, warm, and a little too tight. His eyes kept flicking down to the way the metal bikini plates caught the light every time you moved, to the long bare stretch of your legs between the sheer panels. He was still half-hard from the hotel room- you could tell by the way he kept subtly adjusting the front of his black Luke pants and the tight set of his jaw.

You were living for it.

Charlie was waiting near the big central fountain, wearing a Wonder Woman cosplay, and the second she spotted you two her entire face lit up like she’d won the lottery.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, loud enough to carry. She actually clutched her chest dramatically. “Oh my God. Sam. Your face. I knew the Leia one would break you but this is better than I imagined. You look like you’re about to have a religious experience in the middle of the con floor.”

Sam made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Charlie-”

“Nope. No take-backs. I’m documenting this for science.” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture before either of you could stop her. “For the case file. Obviously.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing and leaned into Sam’s side, letting the chains of your costume brush against his arm. His fingers flexed against your bare skin.

“Focus,” he muttered, but his voice was rough and his eyes kept dropping to your chest when he thought you weren’t looking.

Charlie looped her arm through yours and started walking, dragging you both toward Artist Alley. “Okay, so I did some more digging last night after you left. The vendor’s name is Marty Kline. He’s been coming to this con for three years. Always has the same booth. Always sells the same batch of ‘cursed vintage comics.’ People started going missing last year but it was written off as con crud or people just ditching. This year it’s worse.”

She led you through the crowds, chattering the whole time while you and Sam tried (and mostly failed) to look like normal con-goers. Sam kept one hand on you at all times- your waist, your hip, the small of your back- partly because the crowds were thick and partly because he couldn’t seem to stop touching the bare skin the costume left exposed. Every time you brushed against him on purpose, you felt him twitch.

You were being evil and you knew it.

You “accidentally” let the sheer panel of your skirt drag across his thigh while you walked. You reached up to adjust the chain between your breasts and watched his eyes follow the movement like it was magnetic. When you had to squeeze through a tight group of people, you pressed back against him for a second longer than necessary, feeling the hard line of his cock against your ass through the thin fabric of his pants.

Sam’s breath hitched. His hand tightened on your hip hard enough to bruise.

“Behave,” he growled low in your ear.

You just smiled sweetly over your shoulder. “I am behaving. I’m blending in.”

Charlie, walking a few steps ahead, glanced back and cackled. “You two are disgusting. I love it. Sam, your lightsaber is very much on right now, by the way. The black pants are not hiding anything.”

“Charlie,” Sam warned, ears burning.

“I’m just saying! It’s impressive. Leia’s working overtime.”

You reached back and gave Sam’s hand a squeeze, thumb stroking over his knuckles in fake innocence while your other hand “fixed” the metal plate sitting low on your hip. His eyes followed the movement like he was hypnotized.

Artist Alley was even louder and more crowded. Booths lined both sides of the wide hallway, artists and vendors shouting about commissions and prints. You spotted Marty’s table from a distance- big banner that said VINTAGE CURSED COMICS - AUTHENTIC HAUNTED MEMORABILIA. The man himself was a nervous looking forty-something in a faded band t-shirt, constantly adjusting his glasses and glancing around like he expected to get caught.

As you got closer, you saw exactly why the case was escalating.

A girl in a full Supergirl costume had picked up one of the comics from the table. She flipped it open, and within seconds her posture changed. She struck a dramatic pose, one fist on her hip, and announced in a loud, theatrical voice, “The shadows grow long… but my will is unbreakable!” Then she started marching toward the emergency exit like she was on a quest.

Two security guards had to gently redirect her.

Another guy nearby- dressed as some anime character- had tears in his eyes and was monologuing to no one about “the tragic fate of my lost love” while dramatically clutching a print he’d just bought.

“See?” Charlie whispered. “It’s spreading faster. People don’t even have to buy them anymore. Just touching the table or breathing near the stack is enough now.”

You and Sam exchanged a look. His hand was still on your waist, thumb absently stroking the bare skin just above the metal bikini bottom. He was trying so hard to focus on the case, but every time you shifted your weight the chains moved and his eyes flicked down.

You leaned up and murmured, just for him, “You’re really struggling, aren’t you?”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “You have no idea.”

“Good.”

Charlie had wandered ahead to the next booth to “distract” while you and Sam got closer to Marty’s table. You picked up one of the comics- carefully, with two fingers- and felt the low thrum of wrongness coming off it immediately. The pages were old, yellowed, but the ink in certain panels seemed to shift if you looked at it too long. Hidden in the art were the same sigils you’d seen in Charlie’s stolen copy.

Sam leaned in close over your shoulder, pretending to look at the comic with you. His chest pressed against your back. You could feel how hard he still was.

“If we destroy the comics,” he said quietly, voice low enough only you could hear, “the binding breaks. The people get pulled back out. The magic’s tied to the physical copies. Burn them, shred them, whatever- as long as the pages with the sigils are gone, the pocket dimensions collapse.”

You turned your head slightly. Your lips brushed his jaw. “All of them?”

“Every copy. Every issue he’s got here. If even one stays intact, the link stays open.”

You felt him swallow. His free hand had drifted lower on your hip, fingers splayed possessively over the metal and skin. He was barely holding it together.

Charlie reappeared at your elbow, grinning like a gremlin. “So? What’s the play, team?”

You held up the comic between two fingers like it was radioactive. “We need to get every single one of these out of here and destroy them. Burn them, probably with salt and the usual hunter special. But we can’t exactly torch the booth in the middle of Artist Alley.”

Sam’s hand tightened on you again. His voice was still rough. “We either steal the whole stock when he’s not looking… or we get him away from the table long enough to grab everything.”

Charlie’s eyes sparkled with pure chaos gremlin energy. “I like both those options. Especially the one where Sam has to keep standing here in those pants while you walk around looking like that. I’m living.”

You smirked and deliberately brushed your ass back against Sam one more time as you “put the comic down.” He made a quiet, pained sound and you felt his cock twitch against you.

Charlie cackled. “This is the best case we’ve ever had.”

Sam’s voice was low and strained right against your ear. “You’re going to pay for this later.”

You turned in his arms just enough to look up at him through your lashes, all fake innocence. “Promise?”

His eyes went almost black.

Charlie clapped her hands once, delighted. “Okay, children. Focus. We need a plan that doesn’t involve Sam combusting in the middle of the convention center. Ideas?”

You looked back at the booth, at the nervous vendor, at the stack of cursed comics, then up at Sam’s flushed face and the very obvious problem in his pants.

The answer was obvious.

“We create a distraction,” you said sweetly. “Something big enough to pull Marty away from the table. Then we grab every comic he’s got and get the hell out of here before anyone notices.”

Sam’s hand slid around to your stomach, pulling you back against him properly this time. His mouth brushed your ear.

“And after that,” he murmured, voice dark with promise, “we’re going back to the hotel. And you’re keeping that costume on.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, and reached back to give his thigh a light squeeze.

“We’ll see,” you said. “If you’re good.”

Charlie made a loud, dramatic gagging noise. “I’m right here. I can hear you. I’m both traumatized and invested. Let’s go steal some haunted nerd porn before Sam’s lightsaber actually ignites something.”

The plan came together fast.

Charlie was already vibrating with chaotic energy as she adjusted her black wig. “Okay. I cause a scene at the booth- loud Wonder Woman savior complex rant about ‘cursed artifacts.’ You swoop in like the concerned friend. We argue. It escalates. We make out. Hard. Everyone within twenty feet will be too busy filming or cheering to notice Sam robbing the place blind.”

Sam looked like he was already regretting every life choice that had led him here. His eyes kept flicking between you in the metal bikini and Charlie in her getup, and the front of his black pants was doing absolutely nothing to hide how on edge he still was.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low.

You stepped in close, rose up on your toes, and kissed the corner of his mouth- soft, lingering, just enough to make his breath catch.

“Positive,” you murmured. “Just grab the comics and try not to get caught staring.”

Charlie grabbed your hand and yanked you toward Marty’s booth before Sam could argue.

It started exactly like she said.

Charlie marched right up to the table, planted both hands on it, and went full Wonder Woman. “Halt! This area is unsafe for humans. Sir, are you aware your merchandise is actively cursed?!”

Marty’s head snapped up. “What? No- no, they’re just vintage- ”

You jumped in on cue, grabbing Charlie’s arm like you were trying to pull her back. “Charlie, come on, you’re making a scene- ”

“I’m making a scene because this man is selling haunted paper!” she shouted, loud enough that people were already turning to watch. A small crowd started forming. Phones came out.

Marty was flustered, trying to calm her down while also glancing nervously at the growing audience. Perfect.

You and Charlie “argued” louder, stepping closer to each other, voices rising. Then Charlie grabbed the front of your metal bikini top and pulled you in.

The kiss was sudden and messy and way more convincing than it had any right to be.

Charlie’s mouth was warm and a little sticky from the cherry lip balm she’d been using. She kissed like she did everything else- enthusiastic, a little chaotic, one hand sliding into your hair and the other gripping your bare waist just above the metal. You kissed her back just as hard, one hand on her hip, the other cupping her jaw. The crowd reacted exactly how you hoped- cheers, whistles, someone yelling “YEAH GET IT LEIA,” and at least three different people filming.

It was working. Marty was completely distracted, half trying to stop the “fight” and half staring like everyone else.

You broke the kiss just long enough to glance past Charlie’s shoulder.

Sam was at the table.

He’d moved fast, duffel bag already open on the floor as he swept stacks of comics into it with both hands. But he kept looking over. Every few seconds his eyes would flick up to where you and Charlie were still pressed together, mouths moving, and you watched his focus shatter. His hands slowed. He stared for a full second too long while someone in the crowd started chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

A comic slipped from his fingers and hit the table with a soft thump.

You saw it happen- the exact moment the magic touched him.

The second his skin made contact with the pages, his posture changed. His shoulders rolled back. His chin lifted. When he grabbed the next stack, he moved like he was in slow motion, like the panels were directing him. His mouth moved, barely audible over the noise of the crowd, but you caught the words-

“The hero moved through the shadows… swift. Silent. Determined to complete the mission before the darkness claimed another soul…”

His eyes looked glassy for a second. He shook his head hard, like he was trying to clear it, and kept shoving comics into the bag. But every few seconds the narration slipped out again, low and dramatic.

“…the warrior’s resolve was tested by the vision before him… two figures locked in an embrace that could shatter worlds…”

Charlie pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper against your lips, grinning. “He’s watching. He’s so fucked up right now. This is the best day of my life.”

You smiled against her mouth and kissed her again- slower this time, deeper, just to twist the knife. Sam made a quiet, wrecked sound from the table. Another comic tumbled from his hands.

He forced himself to focus, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump from across the booth. He swept the last of the cursed issues into the duffel, zipped it with shaking hands, and slung it over his shoulder. The bag was heavy. The magic was still crawling over him- you could see it in the way he kept striking these weird, heroic little poses without realizing it, like his body was trying to act out whatever story the comics were feeding him.

Marty finally noticed the missing stock.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

Sam didn’t answer. He just turned, grabbed your free hand, and started walking fast.

Charlie whooped, grabbed your other hand, and the three of you took off through Artist Alley like the devil himself was behind you.

People were still cheering about the make-out. Someone yelled “Run, Leia!” as you sprinted past in the metal bikini and sheer panels. Sam was breathing hard, the duffel banging against his hip, still muttering under his breath in that low, dramatic cadence.

“…the stolen artifacts burned against his side… the price of victory… but the warrior would not falter…”

You squeezed his hand tighter and yanked him around a corner toward the nearest exit, laughing breathlessly.

“Sam. Snap out of it.”

He blinked hard, shook his head again, and the glassy look faded a little. But his eyes were still dark, pupils blown, and the second you were clear of the worst of the crowds he pulled you in by the waist, mouth crashing against yours in a desperate, messy kiss that tasted like adrenaline.

Charlie cackled behind you. “Okay, okay, save it for the hotel! We still have to burn like forty haunted comics before they pull us into panel limbo!”

Sam broke the kiss but didn’t let you go. His forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“You,” he said, voice wrecked, “are in so much trouble when we get back.”

You smiled, sweet and wicked, and dragged your nails lightly down the front of his tunic.

“Good,” you whispered. “Now keep moving, Skywalker. We’ve got comics to destroy.”

Behind you, Charlie was already on her phone, probably live tweeting the entire escape with the hashtag #WonderWomanSolvesTheCase.

The three of you barely made it back to the hotel without someone recognizing the Leia and Wonder Woman make-out duo from the viral clips already circulating. Charlie had her laptop open before the door even clicked shut behind you, fingers flying across the keyboard while she muttered about “amateur security” and “bless these idiots for using the same password for everything.”

Sam dropped the heavy duffel on the bed like it weighed a thousand pounds. The second it hit the mattress he was on you again- one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up your bare back between the chains of the costume. His mouth found your neck, hot and desperate.

“You have no idea what you did to me back there,” he growled against your skin. His voice still had that faint, dramatic edge from the comics. “Watching you with her… the way everyone was looking at you in this thing…”

You let him kiss you for a few seconds- deep, messy, all teeth and tongue- then pulled back with a wicked little smile, pressing your palm to the center of his chest.

“Later,” you said, echoing your earlier promise. “First we finish the job.”

Sam made a low, frustrated sound but didn’t push. He knew the rules you’d set. His eyes stayed dark, though, tracking every movement of the metal plates against your skin as you stepped away.

Charlie didn’t even look up from her screen. “Oh good you guys stopped being gross. I’m in the con’s security feed. Deleting footage of us now. There’s already like six different angles of you two making out post heist. You’re welcome for the free publicity, by the way. Also- holy shit- people are already posting theories that it was performance art. Nerds are the best.”

You and Sam spread the comics out across the bottom of the big bathtub. Salt first- thick lines across every page, every sigil. Then lighter fluid. Sam struck the match, and the first comic went up with a whoosh that smelled like old paper, ink, and something sour.

The effect was immediate.

As the flames caught the first sigil-heavy page, there was a pulse- like static electricity rolling through the room. Charlie’s laptop chimed. She glanced at it and grinned.

“Got one. Some guy in a Batman costume just reappeared outside the food court looking confused as hell. Con security is already with him.”

One by one the comics burned. Every time a major panel with binding sigils caught fire, another pulse went through the room. Sam kept slipping in and out of the narration without realizing it.

“The flames consumed the cursed pages… the warrior watched as the darkness began to unravel…”

You caught his wrist gently. “Sam. Stay with me.”

He blinked, shook his head, and focused on feeding another comic into the fire. But his free hand stayed on you the whole time- sliding over your hip, fingers tracing the edge of the metal bikini bottom like he couldn’t help himself. Every time you moved to grab another stack, the chains and sheer panels shifted and his eyes followed like he was starving.

Charlie kept up a running commentary from the desk, eyes on her screen.

“Another one back. Girl in the Supergirl costume just walked out of a service hallway looking like she’d seen God. Or like she was God. Hard to tell.” She paused, then laughed. “Oh my God, someone just posted a video of us kissing with the caption ‘Leia said happy pride.’ I’m saving that forever.”

The last few comics went up together. The flames burned hotter, brighter, the sigils flaring electric blue for a split second before they crumbled into ash. The final pulse was the strongest- strong enough that the lights in the room flickered and Sam actually staggered a step, one hand shooting out to brace on the bathroom counter.

Then it was gone.

Quiet.

Charlie’s laptop pinged one last time. She scanned the feed, then let out a triumphant little whoop.

“All clear. Every missing person is back. Most of them are being treated for ‘con exhaustion’ or ‘heat stroke.’ No one remembers anything useful. And I just wiped every camera angle of us from the last two hours. We were never here.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching the last of the ashes settle in the tub. The air still smelled like burned paper and salt. Sam was standing right behind you, chest against your back, one arm wrapped around your waist. His other hand was splayed low on your stomach, fingers brushing the top edge of the metal bikini.

He was still hard. You could feel it against your ass through the thin black fabric of his costume.

Charlie finally looked up from her laptop and took in the scene- the two of you in your ridiculous costumes, the tension thick enough to choke on, Sam’s eyes glassy with leftover magic and pure want.

She snapped her laptop shut and stood up.

“Alright. My work here is done. I’m gonna go find the afterparty and pretend I didn’t just watch my two favorite hunters almost combust from sexual tension. Text me if the world ends again. Or don’t. I’m busy being a hero.”

She grabbed her bag, shot you both a wicked grin, and paused at the door.

“Oh, and Sam? The black pants still aren’t hiding anything. Have fun, you absolute disasters.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

Sam’s hand tightened on your waist. He turned you slowly until your back was against the bathroom door, caging you in with his body. His eyes dragged down over the costume one more time- slow, hungry, almost reverent.

“Everyone’s safe,” he said, voice rough. “Evidence is gone. Comics are ash.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him through your lashes, and let your fingers trail down the front of his tunic again- slow, teasing, stopping just above his belt like before.

“Looks like you were good after all,” you murmured.

Sam’s breath shuddered out. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping the bare skin there, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh right below the metal.

“Can I-” His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “Can I have you now? In this outfit?”

You smiled, slow and sweet and a little cruel, and rose up on your toes to brush your mouth against his.

“Maybe,” you whispered against his lips. “If you ask nicely.”

His groan was low and desperate, and the way he kissed you after that made it very clear he was done waiting.

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for hours- messy, desperate, a low sound rumbling in his chest as his hands roamed over the cool metal of the bikini and the warm skin between the chains.

“Please,” he whispered against your mouth, already hard and pressing insistently against your hip. “I need- fuck, I need to taste you. Let me, baby. Please.”

You barely got the word “yes” out before he dropped to his knees in front of you, big hands sliding up the backs of your thighs. He pulled aside the sheer panels of Leia costume with shaking fingers, and buried his face between your legs like he’d been dying for it.

The first long, slow drag of his tongue made your knees buckle.

Sam moaned like he was the one being touched- deep and grateful- his tongue broad and hot as he licked through your folds. He didn’t rush. He savored. He licked you in long, deliberate strokes, then sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked gently, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting something holy. One of his hands stayed splayed over your lower stomach, thumb stroking the edge of the metal bikini like he couldn’t stop touching it. The other gripped your thigh, holding you open for him.

The wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room- his tongue working you, the occasional soft jingle of the chains when you shifted, his own low, desperate noises vibrating against you. He kept glancing up at you, eyes dark and glassy, like he needed to see your face while he did this.

“God, you taste so good,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. He licked into you, tongue fucking you shallowly, then moved back up to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue in tight, perfect strokes. “Been thinking about this all day… watching you in this fucking costume… watching you kiss Charlie… I couldn’t think straight.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair and tugged. Sam whined softly and pressed closer, licking you with more focus now, two thick fingers sliding inside you and curling just right. He worked you slowly, steadily, like he wanted to draw it out as long as possible. Every time you got close he would ease off- softening his tongue, slowing his fingers- just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. He was desperate, but he was also savoring every second of having you like this.

Your thighs started to shake. The metal of the bikini was cool against your overheated skin where it pressed between your bodies. Sam’s stubble scraped lightly against your inner thighs. His fingers were soaked, sliding in and out of you with filthy wet sounds while his tongue kept flicking over your clit in that perfect rhythm.

“Sam-” you gasped, hips rolling against his face. “I’m- fuck, I’m close- ”

He moaned again, louder this time, and doubled down. His fingers pumped faster, curling hard against that spot inside you while he sucked your clit between his lips and flicked his tongue over it relentlessly. The chains on the costume jingled with every twitch of your hips.

When you came, it hit hard.

Your whole body locked up for a second before the orgasm crashed through you- intense and overwhelming. You felt yourself gush, hot and wet, and Sam groaned like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He didn’t pull back. He licked you through it, drinking down everything you gave him, fingers still working inside you as you squirted around them. The wet sounds got even messier. You could feel it dripping down his chin, onto his wrist, soaking the front of his black tunic.

Sam made a broken, overwhelmed sound against you.

“Thank you,” he gasped when you finally started to come down, voice hoarse and wrecked. He pressed soft, grateful kisses to your inner thighs, your clit, the crease of your hip. “Fuck- thank you, baby. Thank you for letting me have that. For- god, you’re so fucking perfect. Thank you.”

He stayed on his knees for another minute, licking you clean with slow, gentle strokes of his tongue, like he couldn’t bear to stop. Every few seconds he’d murmur another soft “thank you” against your skin, voice thick with gratitude and desperation.

When he finally stood, his mouth and chin were shiny, his eyes glassy and dark. He kissed you immediately- deep and slow- so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was rock hard against your stomach, leaking steadily through the open front of his pants.

“Please,” he breathed against your mouth, voice already wrecked. “I’ve been so fucking good. All day. Please let me have you.”

You smiled against his lips, but you didn’t make him wait any longer. You’d teased him enough.

“Take what you need, baby.”

You pushed him back toward the bed and climbed into his lap the second he sat down. The metal bikini stayed mostly on- top pulled down just enough for your breasts to spill over, bottom shoved to the side. Sam’s hands were trembling as he helped guide himself to your entrance. The second you sank down onto him he dropped his head back with a broken moan, fingers digging into your hips.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You feel- fuck, you’re so wet. Thank you. Thank you for letting me-”

You rode him slow and deep, rolling your hips in a way that made the chains on the costume jingle softly with every movement. He was so worked up he couldn’t stay still. His hips kept twitching up into you in little desperate thrusts even as you tried to set a rhythm. Sam couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t stop thanking you. His hands roamed constantly- over the cool metal, down the chains, gripping your ass, sliding up to thumb your nipples. Every few thrusts he’d lean in and mouth at your chest or neck, whispering between kisses.

“Love you… love you so much… been needing you all day… thank you... fuck baby…”

When he got too close too fast he made a desperate, embarrassed little noise and stilled your hips with both hands.

“Wait- wait, baby, I’m gonna come if you keep doing that. I don’t wanna- fuck- I want it to last.”

You kissed him slow and sweet, forehead pressed to his. “It’s okay. You can come. We’ve got all night.”

That seemed to break something in him.

He flipped you carefully onto your back, still buried deep inside you, and started fucking you in long, deep strokes that made the whole bed creak. The metal bikini was cold against your skin where it pressed between you. Sam braced himself on one forearm, the other hand laced with yours above your head. His face was buried in your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“I love you,” he kept saying, over and over, voice cracking. “Love you so much. You’re everything. Been needing you all day- couldn’t think- please, please- ”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and that was it. He came with a desperate, overwhelmed sound, hips stuttering up into you as he buried his face in your neck. You felt every pulse of it, hot and deep inside you. Even after he finished he kept rocking up into you in tiny, shaky thrusts, like he couldn’t bear to stop.

When he finally stilled, he stayed buried inside you, breathing hard against your shoulder. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, holding you close like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

After a minute he lifted his head. His eyes were soft now, a little dazed, but so full of warmth it made your chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, always checking, even when he was the one who’d been falling apart.

You smiled and stroked his hair back from his damp forehead. “More than okay.”

Sam let out a shaky little laugh and carefully helped you off his lap, wincing at the sensitivity. He laid you down gently and cleaned you up with soft, careful hands before pulling you into his arms under the sheets. The metal bikini had been discarded somewhere on the floor, leaving you soft and warm against him. 

He tucked you against his chest, one leg thrown over yours, and pressed slow kisses to your hair.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice already heavy with sleep. “Thank you for today. For the costume. For… everything.”

You kissed the center of his chest and closed your eyes, listening to his heartbeat slow down.

Sam was already half-asleep when he mumbled one last thing against your temple.

“We're not giving that costume back… you wear the costume again… and I get to take my time.”

You smiled in the dark and kissed his jaw.

“Deal.”

Sam held you like you were something precious, one hand resting warm and steady on your bare back, thumb stroking slow circles even as he drifted off.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

The next morning came slow and golden through the hotel curtains. Sam was already awake, propped on one elbow and watching you with soft, sleepy eyes. His hand rested warm on your bare stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles just above your hip.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep and last night. He leaned down and kissed you slow and sweet, no urgency left- just quiet affection. “You okay?”

You smiled against his mouth. “Always okay with you.”

He pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin. For a while you just stayed like that, tangled together in the wrecked sheets, the faint smell of burned comics still lingering in the air. Eventually Sam sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Time to go home, I guess.”

Saying goodbye to Charlie happened over greasy diner pancakes two blocks from the convention center. She was back in her normal clothes but still buzzing with leftover chaos energy, already planning which panels she was hitting before she flew out.

“You two are disgusting and I love you,” she said, hugging you both at once. “Text me when you get home so I know you're safe. And send me a video if our distraction gets even more viral and Dean sees it. I want to watch his reaction in real time.”

Sam groaned. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Charlie just grinned, saluted, and disappeared into the crowd with a final “Jinkies!” that made you smile at your best friend. 

The drive back to the bunker was quiet in the best way. Sam kept one hand on your thigh for most of it, occasionally lifting it to kiss your knuckles at red lights. Every so often he’d glance over and smile like he still couldn’t believe the weekend had happened.

When you finally pulled into the garage, the bunker felt exactly the same as you’d left it- dim lights, old books, the faint smell of coffee and gun oil. Dean was waiting in the war room, feet kicked up on the table, laptop open in front of him.

The second you and Sam walked in, he turned the screen around.

There you were- Leia slave costume glittering under the convention lights, Charlie in her Wonder Woman outfit, the two of you very enthusiastically making out in the middle of Artist Alley while a crowd cheered and filmed. The video already had several hundred thousand views and a dozen different captions ranging from “happy pride” to “best con moment ever.”

Dean stared at you both, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline.

“Why the hell,” he said slowly, “are you two going viral right now?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, ears already turning pink. “It was… part of the distraction.”

Dean clicked play again. On screen, you and Charlie were still going at it. Someone in the background yelled “YEAH GET IT, LEIA!”

Dean made a dramatic gagging noise and slammed the laptop shut.

“Nope. No. I need brain bleach. I just watched my brother’s girlfriend make out with our best friend while wearing the metal bikini from hell and you- ” he pointed at Sam, “-were apparently totally okay with this like some kind of horny Jedi. I can never unsee this. My eyes are burning.”

You tried (and failed) to hide your smile. Sam looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.

Dean kept going, because of course he did.

“I leave you two alone for one weekend and you come back trending on every nerd website on the internet. There are already fan edits. Fan edits. Of my brother’s girlfriend swapping spit with Charlie while Sam stands there with a boner in Jedi pants. I’m scarred for life.”

Sam dropped his duffel with a thud and gave his brother a flat look. “Are you done?”

“Am I done?” Dean repeated, outraged. “No, Samuel, I am not done. I have questions. So many questions. Starting with whose idea the make out was and ending with whether I need to start knocking before I walk into any room you two are in ever again.”

You finally laughed and stepped forward, dropping into the chair across from him. “It worked, didn’t it? We got the comics. Burned them. Everyone’s safe. Charlie wiped the security footage.”

Dean waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, case solved, good job, blah blah. But at what cost?” He gestured dramatically at the closed laptop. “My innocence. My peace of mind. I had to watch my brother’s girlfriend in a slave Leia costume making out with Wonder Woman while half the internet lost their minds. I’m never recovering from this.”

Sam moved behind your chair and rested his hands on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the back of your neck in that absent, affectionate way he always did. You reached up and laced your fingers with one of his.

Dean watched the two of you for a second, then sighed and shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

“Whatever. I’m glad you’re back. Both of you.” He stood up, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed. “Next time you two go on a case, try not to become internet famous for public indecency. Or at least send me a warning text so I can avoid the trauma.”

He disappeared down the hallway toward the kitchen, still muttering about “brain bleach” and “never trusting either of you again.”

Sam leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice low and warm.

“Welcome home.”

You tilted your head back to look up at him and smiled.

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The bunker settled around you- quiet, familiar, safe. Somewhere down the hall Dean was probably still complaining loudly to the empty kitchen. Sam’s hands stayed on your shoulders, steady and sure.

Outside, the world kept spinning- Comic Cons and cursed comics and viral videos and all the rest of it.

But here, for now, it was just the two of you.