Alex. 30-something. Sam Girl, Dean Positive / 18+only! Masterlist / Buy Me A Coffee / Requests are Open (Send me an Ask) / Forever Tags are Open! Tag Yourself Here
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Series warnings: Implications of sexual abuse, mentions of torture, PTSD, angst, flesh trade, language, mention of violence and murder; reader discretion is strongly advised.
Series Summary: After spending over two years in captivity, and enduring assault, torture, and degradation of every kind, Y/N is finally sold off to the highest bidder. But when the deal is masked as a hushed marriage to a wealthy and powerful man, Y/N knows it means a few more nights of brutal torment ending in certain death. After all, why else would a man like him, want someone like her, except to fulfill desires so depraved that they would require owning a person. However, the Winchester mansion has mysteries of its own, woven in lies, betrayal, and death. Smack in the middle of it, she finds both hope and a home, in the person she least expected to find it with. But when it comes down to it, will she be able to save the thing that matters the most?
A/N: We managed to put a new chapter out, guys! :)
Beta: My darling, @deanssweetheart23
The new Mrs. Winchester masterlist
Sam woke up first, as he always did. Sam woke up in her arms, as he had never before. He stayed that way, covered in her limbs, with her arm over his chest and one leg draped over his own. What more? If she woke up now, she wouldn’t untangle herself. She might just stay.
He savoured the moment, committing to his memory the colour of her lips, the way her lashes fluttered ever so lightly right before she was about to wake up. So many times, Sam had found himself in the same bed as her and just that many times, he’d woken up before her to see the serene expression on her face.
But unlike all those other times, today, Sam craned his neck and kissed her forehead as lightly as he could. Sometimes, looking at her when she was tucked away in her corner, sleeping or lost in her work, made the corners of his eyes sting. The quick pain in his heart that came with it made Sam wonder if this was love. Not the frenzy his brain drove itself into when he appreciated her figure, or the chemical short circuit in his body when his lips touched hers… but this incessant urge to cry when she was like this, vulnerable and open.
He kissed her cheek this time, slowly untangled himself and then rolled out of the bed. The bathroom almost always smelled like her body wash, fruity, and Sam didn’t mind as he washed the grime from yesterday, letting the water roll off his body, and he thought the day over. He hadn’t had much time to process the past few days… the kids, Y/N’s face when she realised they were with her now and her wracking sobs in the car afterwards. Sam hadn’t expected the last bit. Jubilation perhaps? But that? She’d cried as if she were grieving a loss. He wasn’t sure he understood it entirely, but he could ask her now, and Sam knew she would tell him.
Unbidden, the image of Nick came to his mind. Nick, leaning over Y/N at the base of the staircase, leering. Her face had been tight with pain. Sam should have asked her the precise cause of the pain, but he was too much of a coward to face it now that he was living in this mirage-like bliss of her attention. That kind of attention.
The thought chipped at his bliss now as the shower poured over him.
What if the pain wasn’t one of hurt… but of longing? She had loved Nick at some point; what if the pain was an echo of that longing? Of what she could no longer have? Sam knew that Y/N didn’t see their marriage as a real one because it wasn’t. Sam had known of her first love. He’d very well intended to set her free, truly, once everything was over. What if she decided to go back to him?
No. He shook his head, dispelling the thought. She cared for him and was attracted to him.
Attraction and love aren’t the same thing. Neither are care and love, a voice whispered in his head.
No. Nick was an asshole. She might have been blinded by a relationship with him once, but she must know better now.
He grabbed the towel from the hook, and his eyes fell on his reflection in the mirror–hollowed cheeks and pale lips. He didn’t know where he’d caught the infection, but he needed to do something about it before it got to him. The coughing was bad, but he felt like his head was killing him all the time– a dull, constant ache.
Absentmindedly, he exited the bathroom and then dressed quickly for work. A light knock sounded on the door of the suite, and Sam hurried to open it. He pressed a finger to his lips as soon as the door opened, and Abby nodded, understanding lighting her eyes. She carried the tray as quietly as she could to the bedroom’s side table and tiptoed back to the seating area.
“Umm, Mr Winchester?” She asked hesitantly, lingering at the door.
“Yes, Abby?”
“I was wondering if I could have my salary early this month. My sister–”
“Is Kristy alright?”
She did a double-take. “You know her name?”
Y/N had told him one day how Abby worked so hard to send money home so both her siblings could study, not just her brother. He’d never had a good reputation with Abby, but lately, they seemed to have come to an understanding that the person they cared about the most in the house needed as much support as they could muster. She’d been even civil to him.
Sam ignored her question and repeated his own.
“She’s fine,” Abby mumbled, suddenly interested in the threads of the carpet. “I need to get her fees in. This is the last week, and I am running low on balance.”
He could see how Y/N must have seen herself in Abby in the first few weeks. Their priorities were the same. Besides, Sam was eternally grateful for Abby’s presence and fierce loyalty to Y/N. So it was with a certain finality that he said, “It’ll be taken care of. Let Cas know which school Kristy is in. This doesn’t come out of your salary.”
“Mr Winchester!”
She looked like she was about to protest, so Sam made a show of putting his finger on his lips again, pointing towards the bedroom vestibule with his other hand.
“I don’t need favours,” she hissed, but the words held none of the vitriol that Sam used to be subjected to only a month ago.
Sam shook his head and whispered. “It’s a repayment. You’ve been there for my wife when I couldn’t. I want to thank you. If I had bought you something expensive, you might have chucked it at my head–” He smiled and added– “You know you would have.”
She bit her lips, holding back her own smile.
“Just this once,” she whispered.
He raised his hands, palms facing her. “Just this once.”
She did grin this time, and Sam admired the glint in her eyes as she went out the door. If Y/N’s speculations were true, Sam couldn’t help but feel happy for Jack.
Just as he closed the door, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Unsaved number, but Sam could hazard a guess who it could be, and he was right.
“Sammy,” Dean said on the other end as soon as he picked up the call.
“Any luck?” Sam asked
Dean paused, then uttered. “Some.” A deep breath. “This all is so messed up, Sam, you have no idea. Jody’s with me, and she wants to involve the FBI. Every last cop seems dirty here.
“Where exactly are you?” Sam wondered.
“Can’t tell you. I don’t trust the line. But I can tell you that we aren’t the only ones trying to uncover this.”
“Really?”
“Y/N seems to have underestimated the love she gets.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Never mind that,” Dean said quickly. “Tell me how she’s holding up.”
Sam recalled the bliss on her face as she looked upon her siblings. “She’s doing well, I think.”
“And you?”
Sam was probably the happiest he’s been in years. “I’m… I’m okay, too.”
“Okay, huh?”
He did a double-take at the loaded tone. He hadn’t spoken to Dean that one evening they got to be with one another. Sam had been too preoccupied with Y/N and making her see that he really hadn’t known, hadn’t betrayed her, to talk to his brother. Later on, that guilt had tacked itself onto him, too. He’d finally met his brother after so long and then let him go, without one clear look at him.
“Stop doing that,” Dean reprimanded on the other end of the line.
“Doing what?”
“Going into one of your broody-Sam modes.”
Sam cracked a smile, but answered Dean’s earlier question. “Alright. I am better than okay.”
“There’s my boy,” Dean chuckled. “Called Bobby yesterday. Ol’ man wants to have a drink with you. Don’t be surprised if you find him in your office with that shit whiskey he drinks.”
Sam laughed, warmed at the thought of seeing Bobby.
“I’ll find a burner and call you in the evening,” Dean said, and the phone clicked.
He found himself back by the bed. He picked up his coffee and finished it in one go, wrinkling his nose at the taste. Maybe everyone’s whining about the coffee was getting to him. The jar was nearly empty, and Sam suspected neither Martha nor Y/N would let him refill it.
Y/N was still asleep in clothes from yesterday. Living with her, he was used to her nighttime routine. Tying her hair back up in the knot, she’d brush her teeth, not in the bathroom, but pacing around the room, a book in her hand that wasn’t holding the brush. Sometimes, he thought that she might manage to read through all the poems in his library. Then she’d wash her face and dry it on her fuzzy red towel. He’d first noticed all of this when they used to sleep on either side of the bed on the floor. Right before her head touched the pillow, she’d reach out and unhook her bra in the back under the T-shirt she wore to bed. Red in the face, Sam has quickly looked away the first time and pointedly done it every evening since.
Over time, though, he had found her slowly struggling under her blanket, and when he had thrown her an investigating look from under the frame of the bed’s legs, she had shaken her head and ducked under the blanket. Only later had it occurred to him that she’d been trying to get rid of the bra under the blanket. Maybe she couldn’t sleep with one on and didn’t want to be without one in front of Sam.
The intimate details of their daily life and Sam’s juvenile reactions to them were a case study in innocent awkwardness.
But now he could see the strap digging into her shoulder, as the thin white shirt had displaced itself at the collar. She’d fallen asleep in the car and hadn’t roused even when he’d carried her up the stairs and put her into bed. Sam hadn’t had the heart to wake her after that. The straps must be cutting into her skin, and Sam could not tolerate it. She’d been through much worse in terms of bodily harm, but this little thing made Sam lose his mind. Maybe that’s what real love was.
Yes, she was attracted to him. Yes, she cared for him. Would she come to love him, too?
He’d never wanted anything more in his life.
Y/N groaned and threw her hand over her eyes, trying to shield herself from the light, then blinked and slowly sat up.
“Morning,” Sam smiled and couldn’t stop himself from kissing her forehead.
She looked at her surroundings, seemingly confused, before understanding dawned. Her hand unconsciously went to the strap, easing it to the side, as she smiled up at him.
Sam offered his hand, and when she took it, he yanked her out of the bed and right into his arms. She looked down shyly, and Sam had to marvel at the novelty of it. Fierce as she was, he’d never imagined this side of her, nor the side of him that she brought out. So, he flattened his right hand against her back, pushing her into his body and with the tip of his left index finger, he tilted her chin up so his lips could meet hers.
“This is one way to wake up,” she laughed breathily, and Sam laughed with her.
“I’m heading to work,” he said, tracing the column of her throat with his lips now. “It’s unfortunate, but I have to go.” She nodded, seemingly dazed, as Sam let go of her. But right before he dropped his hand, with his thumb and index finger, he unclasped the catch at the back, and Y/N gasped quietly. He winked at her as he exited the room.
She would never be in pain as long as he could help it, not even the smallest kind.
*************
Red. Red and silky and outrageously skimpy. Your face burned merely looking at it, but you reached out to grab the nightwear and tug it from the hanger with shaking hands. The shiny, slippery cloth threatened to spill from your fingers, but you fisted them. The nightwear would hang quite low, barely covering the tops of your thighs, and the spaghetti straps only just held together the plunging neckline. The material wasn’t see-through, but it wouldn’t leave much to the imagination with its cling either.
You took the nightdress with you to the bathroom and submerged yourself in the bath, trying to calm your breath. There were so many things to think through– not the least pressing of them, your suspicions about Nick– yet this was what you were worried about– Sam’s touch.
His fingers had touched you, grazed your skin lovingly, but also wrapped themselves firmly over your shoulders, wound themselves in your hair, and it had felt blissful, wonderful and divine all at the same time. His lips, when they kissed yours, seemed to resuscitate long-lost breath. His eyes, when they met yours, reminded you of the reason for the world to exist.
How would last night have proceeded if you hadn’t fallen asleep?
Would he have peeled your clothes away and then touched you the way he wanted to?
Would you have torn his clothes away and touched him the way you wanted to?
Maybe. Definitely. Probably in that order.
Stepping out of the bathtub, you took your time with the body lotion, slipping the nightdress on with trepidation. Sam had mentioned he would be late, so before the bath, you’d already had dinner with Abby.
Once back in your bed, you drew the cover all the way up to your chin, glancing at the clock on the wall.
11:10.
You closed your eyes. Sam should have been back by now.
As if on cue, the door to the seating area opened, then closed, and you heard the taps of Sam’s shoes drawing closer to the bedroom. With each tap, your heart hammered against your ribs. Briefly, you closed your eyes, feeling hot in the face when the curtain drew, and then drew back. The scuffle of shoes being removed, a bag being set aside and a coat discarded. You felt the heat of a person standing so close to you that you breathed the same air.
“Y/N” Sam said, as if your name existed only to be uttered by him.
His fingers wound in your hair, and you opened your eyes to see him, hair dishevelled, lips parted and pupils so blown that his eyes seemed black.
“Y/N,” he said again, closing that little distance and parting your lips with his, thoughtlessly, ferociously, and you could taste the bitterness of whiskey in the wetness. He kissed you as if he’d done it a million times. His hands unabashedly yanked the cover away and grabbed the silk of your nightdress. The touch must’ve been jarringly soft because he pulled back and then focused just enough to look at you.
Softly, Sam gasped, fingers shivering lightly where they touched you, then he withdrew, shaking his head.
“Sam?”
He stepped back. “You’re a dream,” he said decidedly, but his otherwise crisp cadence was slightly slurred. Sam was drunk.
Feeling suddenly bereft as his heat was withdrawn, you leaned in. But he moved further away and whispered. “You can’t be real. You’re a dream.” And the way he looked at you, as if you were the last drop of water in an infinite desert, so precious that he was afraid to use it up, like his heart didn’t really reside in his body, but beat somewhere within you.
“But if you are a dream, if this is a dream,” he said, closing the distance. “You already know the things I’ve done to you, don’t you? The things that I want to do to you. How I’ve died a thousand deaths sleeping inches away from you and not getting to touch you, taste your skin.” His hands held your face in his, delicately. “But I’ve died a million times more calling you mine in front of the world, but not being yours in these four walls. I… I want to be yours, Y/N. Only yours. I want you. All of you. Always.”
“Sam…” You blinked your eyes rapidly, unable to believe his words, but how could they be anything but true when he was looking at you like that?
He didn’t give you a chance to say anything more as he clambered onto the bed and hitched the silk up to your waist, yanking you harshly against his body. The thin straps slid easily down your shoulders, revealing the tops of your breasts, and Sam’s lips traced the column of your throat, from your chin, down and down, fingers deftly sliding under in what seemed like a practised move, up your bare thigh to your hips, one hand moving up while the other moving down between your legs. You had been yanking at his shirt, desperate to see his skin, touch him the way he was touching you, but the moment he touched you there and when his lips came up again to seek yours, the smell of the whiskey, the texture of his fingers, the heat of his body, it became too much. Blood pounded in your ears, breath coming in bursts.
“S-Sam,” you whispered, vision tunnelling in, throat constricting.
His hand pushed you against him further, lips indomitable on yours.
“SAM!” You shoved with both hands, and he staggered, blinking, eyes slowly focusing on your face. Then he blinked again, the hazy, intoxicated expression slowly morphing into recognition, then apallment.
Next second, he slid to the end of the bed, hand to his mouth. You watched him climb out of the bed and put some distance between himself and you, realisation slowly dawning on his face. He stumbled once, palm rubbing his eyes. “I…” he started, but seemed ata loss to follow it up.
The back of your eyes suddenly ached, and tears pressed them. You’d wanted this. You’d chosen a particularly skimpy outfit just so it would lead to exactly this, and now Sam was staring at the floor like some kind of criminal, ashamed of something you had initiated.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, and his voice held a hollowness that made you want to slap yourself. “It’s no excuse,” he added, “of course it's no excuse… thought I was dreaming. What you’re wearing–” gulp– “and Bobby pushed down more than a few drinks.”
Sam staggered back a little, then looked up. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”
You wanted to get down and shake him out of the needless spiral he was going into, but that would only draw attention to the outfit. Instead, you adjusted the straps, pulled the cover up to your waist and put your face in your hands. “I… I wanted to try,” you whispered. “You didn’t misunderstand. I just overestimated myself. Please don’t go away. I can try again.”
At that, he looked up, eyes sharpening. He took three deliberate steps forward, so you were left staring at the third button of his rumpled white shirt. Sam looked at you for the longest time; you could feel his eyes on you, and yet you couldn’t meet his, not without tearing up. Every single second of second-guessing your presence in his life threatened to overwhelm you. How many times had you fantasised about him? And yet, you had doubted your ability to be with him physically a hundred times more. And here was the proof… You had failed. But Sam wasn’t talking still. You let out the breath you’d been holding and looked up. His face was blurry.
He regarded you a minute longer, then very slowly put his hand on top of your head. “We’ll try again, if that’s what you want, but only when you are ready.”
“What if I am not ready? Tomorrow or even a week later?”
“Then I’ll wait.”
It took some effort to make your throat work. “What if I’m not ready ev– ever?”
Another long moment. “Then we’ll have to do without that, won’t we?” He smiled a small, careful smile. “I’d say we get by fine without all that, too.”
A sob. “You think you know what you’re giving up, Sam. But you d–don’t. You think you can get by without it, but what if you come to resent me for it?”
“Don’t presume my feelings, Y/N.” Sam’s voice was gentle, but firm, alcohol’s slurriness barely there. “And don’t tell me what I can or can’t get by without, when, in fact, what I can’t get by without is right in front of me. I want you to feel safe for your sake, not for mine.”
“You don’t understand–”
“Of course, I don’t.” His voice became gentler still. “I don’t understand what you’ve been through. Only you do. If you force yourself to get intimate for my sake, eventually, you will end up resenting me.”
You gave in to the tears. “What are you made of, Sam? How can you be this… this person? This good?”
He stepped back, dropping his hand. “I am not doing this because of the goodness of my heart. I am doing this because what we have is enough for me. Because I love you.” Simple. Sam even followed it up with, “I am heading for a shower. Get some rest.”
You watched him go.
Love and Shower in the same damn breath.
Hadn’t you, once upon a time, after the gallery inauguration, planned a whole romantic date to declare your love for him? And he’d gone ahead and said it so simply, as if he were reading out from the weather column: temperature is touching 80 degrees, 90% humidity and light showers are expected, and I love you.
The shower started in the bathroom, and you tried to hold on to the sound of his voice as he’d said it.
I love you.
He hadn’t waited long enough to hear your reply, as one might… and you did not want to presume his reasons. You lay back and closed your eyes furiously against the tears, so in love that you wondered if it was possible to lose your mind in it. You concentrated on the whisper of water as the shower ran for too long, the rhythm of the pitter-patter against the floor. When the murmur of water turned into a soundless oblivion, you did not know, but it must’ve been hours later that you woke up with a jerk.
The guard must be at the grill, banging on it.
But you were in your bed, the satin sheets wrapping your silk-clad body.
Sam.
You reached out with your hand, but his side of the bed was empty and cold. With a fear more than dread, you sat upright. Only then did you notice the sleeping figure. Sam lay on his side on the floor, facing the bed, his head resting on his arm. A thin cotton sheet was draped over his body, and a book lay by his head. Your eyes must have been swollen, because painfully, tears sprang up in them again. You stepped out of bed gingerly and made your way to the bathroom. From the hamper there, you pulled out the t-shirt and slacks you had discarded to put on the nightwear and dressed in them again. Then, back in the bedroom, you yanked the duvet off the bed and carefully put it on top of Sam. He breathed out deeply, but otherwise was still. Pulling the bed covers off, you lay on the floor, on the other side of the bed, just like before, so you could see Sam’s face from under the bed.
Love probably wouldn’t make you lose your mind, but it had definitely altered your being.
*****************************
A/N 2: I am doing a new thing where I stop apologising for things that weren't in my control, such as for not being able to put out this update sooner. I couldn't have. Instead, I am practising gratitude towards each one of you for not giving up on me and this story. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Please do let me know what you think of this part. Reblogs and comments are what keep me going!
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My headcanon of the day is that Ilya is not used to getting calls from family members unless they need something from him. Nobody ever calls him (maybe apart from Shane) to just simply check up on him. So the first time David calls him on a random day of the week, asks him about his day, hands the phone to Yuna to do the same—Ilya is a little confused as to why these people are just randomly calling him. He even texts David after they've hung up to confirm if they needed something and have just forgotten to mention it. When David texts back "no son we just wanted to check up on you" Ilya sits and stares at that text until he feels his throat close up and there's an odd sting in his eyes.
I know we’ve talked about this before but the retroactive realization for Shane Hollander that Ilya has been his future husband the entire time must have sent that boy spinning. What do you mean I introduced myself to my future husband. What do you mean my husband was there standing beside me the day I got drafted. What do you mean I jerked off to thoughts of my husband on the most important day of my entire life up to then. What do you mean my husband took my virginity. My husband and I watched each other grow up. My husband and I fell in love for the first time together. My husband was my first ex. My husband has been the most consistent, sensual, irritating, understanding, solid, loving presence in my entire life. Since I became a man, the thoughts I have reached for to comfort myself or bring myself pleasure have been those of my husband. I memorized the moles on my future husband’s body before I fully understood the wants and needs of my own. My husband taught me how to pleasure a man by pleasuring me. The first person I willingly came out to was my husband. My friends have NEVER known me at a time in my life when I was not in love with my husband.
this is actually HILARIOUS because both domestic rabbits and domestic cats practice dominance-related social grooming but for wildly different reasons.
if you're a rabbit, the boss rabbit is the one who gets groomed by its subordinate rabbits.
but if you're a cat... the boss cat is the one that grooms the other cats.
BOTH these idiots are going "aw yeah, it's good to be on top >:) "
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I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
I remember being at the monitor and my intimacy coordinator and producer were like, “Is that kiss too sweet?” I remember just being like, “I don’t care. It’s so good. It’s sweet. I want it to exist.” It wasn’t scripted that way, but at the same time it was Episode 2 so there had to be hesitation. But I was like, “I love it. I just want to watch them kiss each other.” When Ilya takes his hoodie [from Shane], they just had it.
— Jacob Tierney on the stairwell scene [via Gold Derby]
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I love how Boyfriend™️ Shane becomes with Ilya at the cottage. He’s picking him up from the airport. He’s carrying in his suitcase. He’s making hamburgers on the grill. He’s lighting campfires and holding Ilya in his lap and scaring off loons. Shane Hollander might be surprised when Ilya pulls out the boyfriend word at dinner with his parents but this man has been training his whole life to be a Boyfriend™️
I have this headcanon where Shane is the more butch one between the two. I imagine his dad taught him how to be handy around the house, how to do some minor construction/repairs, how to start a campfire, and he enjoys the outdoors, and maybe did scouts when he was a boy. And in contrast, Ilya grew up as a slick, city boy in Moscow and hated the wilderness and hires people to fix things and is like afraid of spiders.
Btw, in this headcanon Ilya just *loves* when Shane goes Boyfriend™️ mode (and later Husband™️ mode). Ilya loves watching that man mow the grass and repair the deck. He loves being taken care of by Shane, and especially loves it when he does it in front of people. Neither are emasculated by the other in the ways they embody their own masculinity within the relationship. It just balances them out and turns each other on.
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