JORDAN

You’d been on your laptop a bit too long, the past half hour spent searching questions about angels. How to care for them, how to make them happy. You’re doing your due diligence on account of Cas’s silence in regard to his needs.

“Do angels like their wings touched?” — search.

It must’ve sounded too much like caring for a bird, as the article headlining your search is about that very thing. It catches your eye and you move your mouse to the link.

Click.

Do birds like being pet?

“When petting your bird, avoid rubbing or petting under their neck. This area can trigger mating behavior and make them view you as a potential mate, leading to sexual frustration, especially during their hormonal season. Birds have their sexual organs located in their back and under their wings.”

You wonder if it’s the same for angels. The article has to be linked for a reason.

Walking past Castiel later in the day, you slyly rub your hand against his back. The shiver that runs up his spine is instant— and frustrating. His shoulders heave, eyes bursting wide with want, picking up on your invitation and ready to accept. Before he can reach out to grab you, you’re already gone.

The article was right.

You do it again and again: gentle pats, back massages, small strokes to his wings, taunting the tent in his pants that forms every damn time. He wants you so badly but you won’t give it to him without a tease. It feels as inhumane as it is hot. Cas knows it too.

But one thing you forgot to read on that article are the consequences to sexually frustrating a creature.

“If your bird starts seeing you as their mate, they may become aggressive, regurgitate food, pluck their feathers, or scream loudly.”

The next time you try to feel up Castiel’s wings, he makes sure you can’t walk away. Cas picks you up by the arms and throws you to the floor. You land painfully face up, only for him to grip you by the neck and flip you over. He mounts quickly, animalistic in nature, and aggressive in character.

“N-no. No more. You asked for this. You wanted this!” He roars. “Take your clothes off.”

You gasp for air.

“I said take them off!”

You hands fumble the buttons on your top, while Cas takes his own shirt and coat off. Once you’re naked, he makes haste to knot his tie around your hands.

“What garbage on the computer gave you the idea that your actions were acceptable?” He’s straddling your prone body, leaning forward until his head is against the ground beside yours. He looks at you for a serious answer, but not a word can be formed at the sight of his shrunken pupils.

Castiel can hardly control his emotions. You’ve been casually jacking him off for days, all of that foreplay leading up to this very moment. He exhales shakily through his nose, consuming your body with his wings and pushing himself in with no hesitation. You gag from how full you feel, trapped under a ruthless mating press. It could be 200, even 300 pounds of pure muscle, changing pressure from your lumbar to your shoulder blades as his wings flap angrily to steady you.

Everything is hot and sticky and reeking of sex, Castiel spilling out days of pent-up frustration that you caused.

“Do you feel good about yourself?” He moans, finally falling limply next to you amidst a searing orgasm. He pulls the knot and frees your arms. A wing drapes your body and a pile of tar colored feathers coat the floor around you.

It’s impossible to say a word. All you can muster up is enough energy to stroke the wing covering your used-up body.

“I see.” Castiel murmurs, climbing onto you once more. “You didn’t learn your fucking lesson.”

you shift a little, testing, and his arm tightens instinctively.

“stay,” he mumbles against your shoulder, voice gravel-rough with sleep. 

you smile into the pillow, half-asleep still. “you’re barely conscious.”

his hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm broad and warm against your bare stomach. just skin on skin. 

his thumb strokes lazy circles just under your ribs. he presses a slow kiss to the back of your shoulder, then another, open-mouthed and lingering. you feel him harden against your ass, thick and insistent, but he doesn’t push. he just rocks forward once, slow, grinding against you with a low hum that vibrates through your back.

“morning,” he says, the word muffled.

you reach back, threading your fingers into his hair, “hi.”

his hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts. he cups you gently, fingers gliding through slick heat without urgency. 

a quiet groan escapes him when he feels how ready you already are. “always so fucking good for me.”

you push back against him, needy in that soft, half-dreaming way. he tugs your shorts down just enough, then his own. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he doesn’t thrust in. he rocks again, sliding along your folds, teasing the both of you until you’re breathing heavier.

“ben,” you whisper.

“yeah. i know.”

he pushes inside you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with that familiar burn. you both exhale at the same time when he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass. for a moment he just stays there, buried deep, arm wrapped around your middle.

then he starts to move. lazy rolls of his hips. every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, slow enough that you feel every inch of him. his mouth stays on your shoulder, kissing, sucking lightly, murmuring low praises against your skin.

“fuck, you feel good,” he breathes. “tight and warm and mine. could stay like this all day.”

you moan softly, pushing back to meet him. one of your hands covers his where it rests low on your stomach, fingers threading together. 

the rhythm stays gentle—sleepy grinding, bodies fitted together. his free hand slides up under your shirt again, palming your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in slow circles that match the pace of his hips.

it builds slow. no frantic chase. just steady pleasure winding tighter and tighter between you. his breathing grows ragged against your neck. you turn your head just enough for him to kiss you, messy and soft, tongues sliding lazy while he keeps fucking you.

the orgasm rolls through you quiet and devastating, clenching around him as warmth spreads through your limbs. he groans your name, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying himself deep as he comes inside you. the warmth of it, the way he holds you tighter through it, makes your chest ache in the best way. for a long minute you stay like that. 

eventually, he pulls out carefully and tugs your shorts back up, then rolls you gently so you’re facing him. his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into his chest. you tuck your face against his neck, one leg thrown over his hip. his hand strokes slow circles on your back under your shirt.

the safehouse is still quiet. no voices in the hall yet. no emergencies waiting. just the two of you in bed, tangled and warm and pretending for a little while longer that the world outside doesn’t exist.

neither of you moves. moving would make the morning real. moving would let the cold air in, and then the safehouse would remember itself around you: maeve bruised on the couch, butcher pacing holes into the floor, frenchie building something terrible with careful hands, homelander waiting somewhere with ryan and a family-shaped knife held out in front of him. moving would mean the tower; the plan; the dose.

so you stay tucked against soldier boy’s chest with his arm heavy around your waist and let the lie breathe a little longer. 

his fingers trace the slope of your spine beneath your shirt, slow and absent in a way that doesn’t feel absent at all. his body’s warm around yours. solid. human enough in the dark-soft morning that you almost forget what he can do when his chest starts to glow.

you stare at the hollow of his throat. there’s a scar near his collarbone you haevn’t noticed before, pale and thin, disappearing beneath the edge of his shirt. you trace it with one finger. 

“his hand stills on your back. “that your new hobby?”

“what?”

“counting marks.” 

you drag your fingertip along the scar once more, softer now. “you have a lot.” 

“came with the job.” 

“shit job,” you fire back, voice still soft. 

“had perks.” 

you lift just enough that your eyes meet his. “such as?”

his mouth twitches. he’s about to be an asshole. “got laid more than all presidents combined.” asshole indeed. 

you make a face. “classy.” 

“you asked.” 

“not exactly.” 

“you were thinking it.” 

you roll your eyes, but your face betrays you before you can stop. a small smile. tired. stupid. there and gone. 

he catches it anyway. 

his gaze lingers on your mouth, then drops lower, to the place where his shirt has ridden up over your thigh. his hand slides back down your back, settles at your hip, and for one second, you think he might pull you under him again. the thought warms you so quickly it should embarrass you. 

instead, he says, “you got that face.” 

your stomach tightens and it’s like he can sense the deflection on the tip of your tongue. 

“the one right before you say some dumb shit. spit it.” 

the quiet shrinks. you consider not doing it. you consider giving yourself another minute with his hand on your hip and his chest under your palm and his body still close enough to pretend that the rest of the world can’t reach you here. but the thing has been sitting behind your teeth since last night, since homelander’s voice filled the living room, since ryan’s name turned butcher’s face into something haunted, since you saw the containment plans begin to take shape in frenchie’s careful silence. 

you sit up. 

his arm falls away from your waist. all sleep is burned out of him in a second. 

you pull the blanket higher over your lap even though there’s no modesty left to rescue. “i’m taking temp v.” 

soldier boy’s face closes. not gradually. not with confusion. a door slamming. “no.”

“i’m going to the tower.”

“no.”

“and i’m taking temp v.”

he sits up too, the mattress dipping hard under the shift of his weight. his hair’s still wrecked from sleep and your hands. his mouth is still soft from kissing you. the rest of him is already sharp.

“you hard of hearing now?”

your jaw tightens. “it’s our fight.”

“it’s homelander.”

“it’s vought. it’s butcher. it’s ryan. it’s maeve. it’s my face on every screen in the country. it’s the files, it’s the temp v, it’s everything they’ve done and everything they’re going to do if we don’t end this!” your voice stays quieter than the anger deserves. “so, yeah. our fight.”

his eyes stay locked on yours. “you’re not taking that shit again.”

“i am.”

he breathes out once, hard through his nose, and looks away like he has to put his anger somewhere else before he puts it through the wall. “you really don’t learn.”

“i learned that if i’m human in that room, i’m a liability.”

his head turns back.

you don’t soften it. “if i stay here, you’ll wonder if i’m safe. if i go without it, you’ll look over every time someone gets close to me. if homelander clocks that i matter to you, he’ll use it. he’ll use me.” the words taste bad because they’re true. “and if you change target again, we lose.”

his jaw flexes. because your words carry everything—noir; the hallway; the mission snapping in half because you were cornered and soldier boy chose you.

“i’m not trying to hurt you.”

“bullshit.”

“i’m trying to keep you focused.”

“by putting a death sentence in your arm?”

“it’ll be my second dose.”

“that supposed to make me feel better?”

“it makes me the safest one to take it.”

he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “you hear yourself? you sound like butcher.”

that lands hard enough that your mouth shuts. you pull the blanket tighter around your thighs. “don’t do that.”

“don’t make it easy.”

“i’m not him.”

“then stop talking like the thing killing you is just math.”

your throat tightens. you look down at your hands in your lap, at the faint mark his fingers left on your wrist last night, at your nails, at the place where your body still feels warm from him. “i’m not trying to die.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

“i’m trying not to be the reason you do.”

that shuts him up. not for long. but long enough. he stares at you with something ugly moving behind his eyes, something that wants to become cruelty because cruelty is easier than fear. you can almost see him reaching for it. a sharper sentence. a dirtier hit. something about your body or your mouth or how you keep making trouble and expecting people to survive it. instead, he says, “you think that makes it better?”

he gets out of bed. the movement is too sudden, too controlled. he grabs his sweats from the floor and yanks them on, then runs a hand through his hair in a way that makes it worse. you stay on the mattress because following him would make the room feel smaller than it already does.

“you use it,” he says, back to you, “and what? you tell homelander to hold still?”

“if i can hold him back long enough for you to hit him, yes.”

“that’s not a plan. that’s a suicide note with tits.”

you stare at him. he looks back, unrepentant. “incredible,” you say. “you almost made concern sound misogynistic.”

“you’re being reckless.”

“you’re going to vought tower to meet your lab-grown son and kill him in front of his child.”

his face goes cold. the words hang there, brutal and accurate. too accurate. your anger stumbles under the weight of them.

you look away first. “so maybe don’t lecture me on reckless.”

for a second, there is only the radiator ticking near the wall and both of you breathing like you have climbed out of the same wreck.

when he speaks again, his voice is lower. flatter. “you won’t use it on me.”

you look at him. he’s not asking. or maybe he is, in the only way he knows how.

“no.”

his eyes narrow. “say it.”

you push the blanket aside and stand, shirt falling crooked around your thighs. “i won’t use it on you.”

“not if i get in the way.”

“not if you get in the way.”

“not if you think you’re saving me.”

your throat tightens. that one is harder.

he notices. “say it.”

you hate him a little for making you. you love him a little for needing it said. both feelings sit too close together to tell apart. “not if i think i’m saving you. not to stop you. not to move you. not to make you listen. never again.”

his face does something you can’t read. not forgiveness. not relief. it might be the shape trust makes when it has to crawl through broken glass to reach the room.

“you take it behind my back,” he says, “we’re done.”

the words hit through your chest before you can pretend they don’t. you lift your chin anyway. “that’s why i’m telling you.”

his mouth tightens.

you step closer, not touching him yet. “and you know i’m right.”

he looks at you like he wants you to be wrong so badly it almost becomes hatred. then he looks toward the door. the safehouse creaks beyond it. a low murmur from the living room. frenchie’s voice, fast and worried. butcher’s answering, rougher. the day has started without you.

then he says, “fine.”

you blink. the word is too quick. too blunt. too easy. “fine?”

he looks back at you. “you deaf again?”

“no, i just didn’t expect you to give in that easily.”

“don’t get used to it.”

you should feel relieved. something in you doesn’t.

but then he steps closer, and his hand comes to your jaw, rough thumb brushing once near your cheek, almost too brief to count. his eyes stay on yours. 

“you stay close,” he says.

your chest tightens. “okay.”

“you don’t get cute.”

“i’m always cute.” his stare flattens. “fine, i won’t get cute.” you mutter. 

“you fight how i trained you.”

“dirty?”

“smart.” his hand drops from your face. “and i’m the one giving it to you.”

the words settle strangely in the room. not permission. not approval. something worse and better at the same time. you nod once. “okay.”

he holds your gaze another second, then turns toward his clothes. you stand there in the gray morning light, bare-legged and aching, and try not to wonder why winning feels so much like walking into a trap. by the time you reach the living room, the safehouse has become a war room with bad lighting.

frenchie has taken over the table. wires snake between two laptops, a small open tool case, a cracked tower schematic printed across three mismatched sheets, and a row of supplies that make your skin crawl on sight. gauze. tape. stolen badges. two earpieces. 

maeve sits on the couch with her boots planted wide, one arm wrapped carefully around her ribs, jaw clenched against pain as annie hovers too close and pretends not to. kimiko sits on the arm of the couch beside her, watching frenchie’s hands. mm stands near the table with a marker, adding notes to the schematic. hughie has a cup of coffee he hasn’t touched. butcher looks awake in the way only a man with violence for breakfast can look awake.

everyone looks over when you and soldier boy enter. then everyone looks away a little too late. you resist the urge to fix your hair.

soldier boy doesn’t resist anything. he walks straight to the table and looks down at the maps. “talk.”

butcher’s mouth curls. “morning to you too, sunshine.”

maeve’s eyes flick between you and soldier boy. if she notices the bruise at your collarbone or the fact that soldier boy’s shirt is inside out, she keeps it to herself. dignity, apparently, still exists somewhere in the house.

frenchie clears his throat. “we have a possible entry through the west loading dock. after yesterday, vought’s moving security upward and inward. public floors are watched. executive floors are chaos. there’re blind spots, but only if we’re moving very quickly.”

“homelander’s going to expect that,” mm says.

“homelander expects people to be afraid of him,” maeve says. 

“helpful,” butcher says.

annie leans over the map, pointing to a marked floor. “if ryan’s there, where would homelander take him?”

maeve’s expression changes. not soft. not even close. but more careful. “somewhere symbolic. somewhere high. somewhere with windows, probably. he likes height. he likes people looking up at him.”

“conference room?” hughie asks.

“or the broadcast level,” maeve says. “he wants an audience nearby. even if he doesn’t turn the cameras on.”

mm taps the table with the marker. “we need a way to keep homelander still long enough for soldier boy to charge. without ryan in the middle of it.”

frenchie goes quiet. that kind of quiet has a shape. you look at him. “what did you make?”

frenchie sighs. “i have made something terrible.”

he opens the metal case. inside sits a mask. not a regular gas mask. heavier, reinforced around the seal, with a canister fitted at the side and a thick strap meant to lock around the back of someone’s head. the thing looks brutal in the cleanest possible way. built for a face. built to stay there.

soldier boy’s gaze drops to it. no reaction.

frenchie lifts it carefully. “it is a delivery system. close range. very close. if we can get it over homelander’s mouth and nose, the canister releases a concentrated agent. not enough to put him down completely… i do not think such a thing exists for him, but enough to confuse, impair, maybe slow his reactions for a small window.”

“how small?” annie asks.

“ninety seconds if god loves us.”

“does he?” butcher asks.

frenchie looks at him. “have you met us?”

maeve leans forward despite annie making a disapproving sound. “homelander won’t let anyone get that on him.”

“that’s what soldier boy’s for,” butcher says. soldier boy looks at him. butcher meets it. “and maeve. and kimiko. and anyone else who fancies keeping their limbs.”

“i can help,” hughie says.

annie turns immediately. “no.”

he looks at her. “i didn’t say temp v.”

“you were thinking it.”

“you don’t know that.”

“hughie.”

he rubs a hand over his mouth. “i can’t sit in the van again while everyone else—”

“yes, you can.”

“annie—”

“no.” her voice breaks sharp enough to cut the room. not loud. not glowing. worse than both. “you’re not taking another dose.”

hughie looks down.

“you heard frenchie,” she says, softer now but no less furious. “three to five. sometimes sooner. you’re already at two.”

“butcher’s at two.”

“and butcher is a suicidal asshole.”

butcher lifts a hand. “accurate, but rude.”

annie doesn’t look at him. “you don’t get to die because you’re embarrassed you’re human.”

the words land in you too. soldier boy notices. you feel his eyes before you see them.

hughie’s face twists. “that’s not what this is.”

“then prove it,” annie says. “help me without it.”

the room holds its breath. hughie looks at the vial case on the table. then at annie. then down at his own hands. “what do you need?” he asks finally.

annie’s face changes. the relief is there so quickly it almost hurts to see.

butcher claps his hands once. “lovely. relationship saved. back to killing the cunt.”

mm looks at you then. you know why before he says anything. “and you?”

the whole room shifts toward you. you lift your chin. “i’m taking temp v.”

mm’s expression hardens, but not with surprise. with disappointment that had been waiting for confirmation.

butcher grins. “least someone here understands arithmetic.”

soldier boy’s head turns slowly toward him. “keep smiling.”

butcher’s mouth stays exactly where it is. “or what?”

“you’ll find out.”

“boys,” mm says, tired and dangerous.

you step around soldier boy because if he blocks you from the room, you might actually bite him. “i’m going. with temp v, i can survive a hit. i can move fast enough to get ryan clear if i have to. and if homelander gets close enough, i can hold him for a second.”

maeve looks at you. really looks. “hold him how?”

“command compulsion,” frenchie says quietly before you have to.

maeve’s eyes sharpen. “you can make people obey you?”

annie shakes her head. “you can’t know what another dose will do.”

“i know what going in human will do.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i do.” your voice stays even. you’re proud of that, absurdly. “because homelander knows my face. firecracker handed him my name. if i’m there as myself, i’m bait with shoes.”

“then don’t be there,” annie argues.

soldier boy scoffs, “tried that.”

your head turns toward him. he doesn’t look at you. his eyes stay on the table, on the mask, on the vials, on every ugly thing the room’s decided might keep people alive.

mm’s jaw works once. “we said no secret doses.”

“not secret,” you say.

“doesn’t make it smart.”

“no,” you agree. “it doesn’t.”

that seems to bother him more than arguing would have.

kimiko signs, small and sharp. frenchie translates softly. “she says… no dying.”

you look at kimiko. her face’s stern enough to hide the fear badly. you nod. “that’s the plan.”

the plan keeps moving because plans always do once enough people agree to be stupid in the same direction.

maeve marks the likely routes. frenchie explains the mask again, then the canister, then the release trigger. mm forces everyone to repeat their roles because nobody in this house trusts anybody to remember sanity under pressure. butcher asks where he needs to stand to put a crowbar through homelander’s skull if soldier boy’s blast works. nobody laughs.

soldier boy stays quiet through most of it. he listens. watches. stores. every few minutes his eyes find the mask. sometimes the vial. sometimes you.

by the time frenchie lays one temp v vial on the table, the safehouse feels too small to hold the color of it. green. cold. impossible bright beneath the kitchen light.

you’ve seen it before. felt it before—the way it turned your blood into voltage, your voice into a locked door opening from the wrong side, your body into something strong enough to move soldier boy when your human hands never could. you remember the power. you remember his face.

soldier boy reaches for the vial before anyone else can. his fingers close around it. too careful for a man who can crush bone without trying.

your pulse jumps as you follow soldier boy when he nods toward the living room. beside the couch, near the radiator that clanks whenever the heat kicks in. the others are still at the table behind you, close enough to see, far enough that the air feels suddenly private anyway. 

frenchie’s voice lowers as he says something to mm. annie watches with her arms folded, unhappy all the way down to the bone. hughie looks at the floor. maeve watches soldier boy. you watch the vial.

soldier boy stands in front of you, blocking most of the room with his body. his shield is propped against the couch within reach. the temp v glows between his fingers.

“sleeve,” he says.

you pull your sleeve up. his eyes drop to your bare arm. the inside of your elbow. the vulnerable skin there. his jaw tightens. he steps closer. his free hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading against your side. not for the room. not for show. just there, holding you steady or holding himself back. you cannot tell.

“you fight how i trained you,” he murmurs.

“dirty and mean.”

“dirty and smart.”

“you keep adding smart.”

“because you keep forgetting it.”

you almost smile.

his thumb shifts once against your waist. “you use that voice on anyone you need to—guards. homelander. butcher if he gets stupid.”

from the table, butcher calls, “i can hear you.”

“good,” soldier boy says.

your throat tightens despite the joke. you know what comes next before he says it.

he looks down at the vial, then back at you. “not me.”

“not you.”

he holds your gaze.

for one second, the room around you fades. no butcher. no annie. no tower map. no gas mask waiting on the table. just his hand on your waist, the vial in his other hand, and the awful, fragile thing between you that keeps surviving every time one of you tries to kill it.

he takes your arm. his hand is warm beneath your elbow. his thumb presses lightly over your pulse.

you look at the needle. you brace for the burn.

soldier boy’s fingers tighten around the vial.

then glass cracks.

at first, your brain doesn’t understand the sound. it’s too small. too final.

the vial shatters in his fist. green liquid bursts between his fingers and spills down over his knuckles, bright and wasted, dripping onto the floor in thin, electric threads. you stare at soldier boy’s hand. the broken glass. the ruined dose.

then you look up at him. “ben—”

his face is unreadable. that’s when the cuff snaps around your wrist. cold metal. fast. brutal. final. you jerk back, but he already has the other end locked around the radiator pipe beside the couch. the metal bites when you pull. the radiator rattles hard against the wall.

“what the fuck—”

“sorry, doll,” he doesn’t sound sorry.

your heart slams once, hard enough to hurt. he lets go of your wrist. you yank against the cuff again. pain shoots up your arm. “ben.”

he steps back.

“don’t you fucking dare.”

his jaw flexes. you see the cost then. not enough to stop him. enough to make it ugly. “you’re not coming.”

all your blood has gone hot with rage. you pull against the cuff so hard the radiator screams. “you don’t get to do this to me!”

his eyes flicker.

“you do not get to stand there after everything and make this choice for me.”

he doesn’t answer.

“look at me, you coward!”

that gets his eyes back on yours, face hardened. for a second, the whole safehouse narrows to the two of you and the ruined blue stain drying between his fingers. 

you want to scream. you want to command him. you want temp v hot in your blood so badly you can almost feel the shape of the word in your throat. but there is nothing there. no power. no wrongness. only your human voice, breaking on anger. “you promised!”

something in his expression shifts by a fraction. then it’s gone. “no. you did.”

the words land like a slap. not because they’re fair. because he knows exactly where to cut. you lunge against the cuff again. “fuck you.”

“yeah,” he says, voice flat. “heard that one.”

annie steps toward the radiator. “i’m not leaving her cuffed to a fucking pipe.”

soldier boy turns his head slightly. “then don’t come.”

butcher watches from the table, eyes bright and awful, calculating faster than anyone else is feeling. you see the moment he decides not to stop it. you see him look at you, then the cuff, then soldier boy, then the door.

you hate him almost as much as you hate soldier boy in that second.

mm’s face is thunder. “this isn’t the plan.”

“plan’s better now,” soldier boy says.

you laugh once, sharp and furious. “better because i can’t ruin it?”

his eyes cut back to you.

you wish they hadn’t. you wish he’d leave without looking. you wish you didn’t see the thing buried under his cruelty, the fear dressed up as command, the care warped into something unforgivable because that’s the only shape he knows how to hold it in.

“better because you live,” he looks at you for one long second. then he turns away. just like that. shield in hand. broken vial bleeding green down his fingers. no goodbye. no final touch. nothing soft enough for you to keep.

“ben!”

he doesn’t stop.

“soldier boy, i swear to god—”

he walks into the entryway. butcher’s already moving. of everyone in the room, he’s the only one soldier boy looks at. not annie. not mm. not maeve. not you. butcher. the ugliest person in the room to understand an ugly choice.

soldier boy’s voice comes out steady. “we’re going.”

Sam found the first note tucked inside a book on demonic omens.

It was not where a note belonged.

The book itself was ancient, leather-bound, and smelled like dust, smoke, and something faintly metallic. It had been sitting in the bunker library for two days while the three of you searched for anything that might explain the string of weird deaths in Nebraska.

Dean had given up after twenty minutes and declared the case “a Google problem.” You had lasted two hours. Sam, naturally, had lasted until sunrise.

That was when he opened the chapter on blood eclipses and found a folded piece of paper shaped, very badly, like a heart.

You were asleep at the table, cheek pressed against your forearm, a pen still loosely held in your fingers. Dean had vanished sometime after midnight. The bunker was quiet except for the hum of old lights and the soft turning of pages.

Sam unfolded the paper.

Inside, in your handwriting, it said:

You are allowed to take breaks, Winchester. This book smells evil. Go drink water.

Sam stared at it for longer than necessary. Then he smiled.

He didn’t take a break immediately, because he was Sam, and apparently stubbornness was part of his bone structure. But he did get up five minutes later, fill a glass with water, and drink the whole thing while standing at the kitchen sink.

When he came back, he carefully tucked the note into his laptop case.

The second note appeared in his jacket pocket three days later.

The case in Nebraska turned out not to be demonic. It was a cursed locket, because apparently jewelry was never just jewelry. By the time you got back to the bunker, everyone smelled like grave dirt and cheap diner coffee.

Sam didn’t find the note until he reached into his pocket for his phone.

This one was not shaped like a heart. It was shaped like a lopsided star.

Good job not getting strangled by cursed necklace lady. Proud of you.

He read it in the hallway outside his room. His face did something complicated.

You were coming out of the kitchen when you saw him standing there, note in hand.

You stopped. He looked up.

For one second, neither of you said anything.

Then you pointed at the paper. “That was supposed to be more star-like.”

“It has personality.”

“It has corners. That’s close enough.”

Sam looked down at the note again. “You’re proud of me?”

You suddenly became very interested in the floor. “It was a joke.”

“Was it?”

“Mostly.”

Sam’s voice softened. “Thanks.”

You shrugged, but your ears felt warm. “You looked like you needed to hear it.”

He folded the note carefully. Not crumpled. Not tossed aside. Folded. Like it mattered to him. That was the thing about Sam. He made small kindnesses feel enormous just by receiving them gently.

After that, the notes became a habit.

You didn’t plan it that way. At least, that was what you told yourself.

But Sam was easy to worry about. Too easy. He carried exhaustion like a second jacket, always present, always worn close. He pushed through pain, hunger, fear, grief, and every awful thing the world threw at him with a quiet determination that made you want to shake him and hug him in equal measure.

So you left notes.

In books.

In his duffel.

Under his coffee mug.

Once, inside the box of cereal Dean kept threatening to finish.

That one said:

Eat something with nutrients today. Coffee is not a vegetable.

Sam had found it at breakfast and laughed so suddenly that Dean nearly dropped his spoon.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Nothing.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “That was not a nothing laugh. That was a secret laugh.”

“There are no secret laughs.”

“There are absolutely secret laughs.”

You sat across from them, silently eating toast and refusing to look suspicious.

Dean’s gaze flicked to you, then to Sam, then back to you.

“Oh,” he said.

You pointed your toast at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said oh.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, but he was smiling.

The notes kept going.

Some were jokes. Some were reminders. Some were things you couldn’t say out loud because the bunker made emotions echo weirdly, and because Sam always looked too surprised by tenderness.

You did enough today.

Sleep before you start reading Latin sideways.

Your hair is doing the dramatic thing again. Very hunter chic.

You are not responsible for every bad thing that happens.

You thought maybe you had gone too far.

Sam didn’t mention it like he did others. He moved through the bunker quieter than usual, answering questions with half-smiles, spending more time in the library than his room. You tried not to hover. Hovering made him retreat, you had learned.

Then one night, long after Dean went to bed, you found Sam in the kitchen.

He was standing by the counter with a mug of tea between his hands. The room was dim, lit only by the stove light. He looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

Your note was on the counter beside him.

“You found that one,” you said softly.

Sam nodded.

You stepped inside but stayed near the doorway. “Too much?”

“No.” His thumb brushed the edge of the paper. “Just… accurate.”

Your chest tightened.

“That’s allowed, you know,” you said.

He looked at you.

“Needing to be reminded.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Then he said, “I don’t think I know how to believe it.”

You walked farther into the kitchen. “That’s okay. You don’t have to believe it all at once.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like something you’d write on a note.”

“I can make one right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He looked down into his mug, then back at you. “Why do you do it?”

You leaned against the counter, leaving a careful space between you. “The notes?”

“Yeah.”

There were easy answers.

Because you’re my friend.

Because you worry me.

Because someone should.

Because I don’t know what else to do with how much I care about you.

You chose something close to the truth.

“Because you notice everyone else,” you said. “And sometimes I think someone should notice you back.”

Sam’s eyes changed, his expression softening in a way that made your breath catch.

“You notice me?” he asked.

“Sam.”

His name came out almost too tender. You both heard it. The kitchen seemed to shrink around you.

Sam set his mug down slowly. “I notice you too.”

Your heart gave one hard, stupid thump.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “When you pretend you’re not limping after hunts. When you refill Dean’s coffee even if you’re mad at him. When you read the last page of a book first because you say surprises are overrated.”

“That is a valid reading strategy.”

“It’s chaos.”

“It’s preparation.”

“It’s cheating.”

“You fight monsters for a living and this is where you draw the moral line?”

He laughed, and the tension loosened just enough for you to breathe again. But then his smile faded into something quieter.

“I notice when you leave notes,” he said. “And I keep them.”

You blinked. “You keep them?”

Sam looked almost embarrassed. “Most of them.”

“Most?”

“One got coffee spilled on it,” He smiled faintly. “It was the one about coffee not being a vegetable.”

Of course it was. Something warm bloomed in your chest, bright and terrifying.

“You really kept them?”

Sam nodded. “They help.”

The words settled between you.

You reached for the notepad on the counter, the one Dean used for grocery lists that mostly said beer, burgers, and pie. You tore off a corner and picked up a pen.

Sam watched you write.

You folded the paper once, then slid it across the counter to him.

He opened it.

I notice you. I’m not going anywhere.

Sam read it. Then he read it again. And for good measure, once more. When he looked up, his eyes were bright and his smile was steady.

“Can I keep this one too?” he asked.

Your throat felt tight.

“Yeah,” you said. “Especially that one.”

Sam folded it carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his flannel, right over his heart. For a second, you thought he might say something else. Instead, he reached across the small space between you and gently took your hand. His fingers were warm. You looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him.

You squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back.

In the morning, Dean found a new note stuck to the coffee maker.

It said:

Do not make this weird.

Dean read it.

Looked at Sam.

Looked at you.

Grinned.

“I know how much you like the way I look in them!” You put your hands on your hips, “And you’re the only person whose attention I care about!”

His eyes flash, the muscles of his jaw jutting out as he clenches his teeth. “I’m not the only one who was looking.”

You narrow your eyes in disbelief. “Are you really so insecure that you think I’d leave you for one of them?”

“No—”

“—For Chase and Lewis?” You gape, “One of those two fucking bozos? I mean they’re hot but—”

“—Shut up.”

Something is different about Sam’s voice then. Whatever it is you said that set him off turns him stoney and rigid. You were being nasty by bringing up insecurity but now you’re starting to wonder if that didn’t just hit home because it was mean— maybe also because it was somewhat right.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about them any more.” His voice is low and dark. “And I don’t want you hunting with them again.”

You scoff in genuine disbelief. “Seriously? Sam, do you really expect me to listen to your ‘marching orders’ like that? How about you try asking a little nicer and we’ll see what—”

You cut yourself off when you seen the muscle on his jaw jutting out again. By the look of it he’s clenching his teeth as hard as he can. He only does that when he’s holding something back. And it’s also unfairly hot.

“Careful there,” You cross your arms, “you’re gonna chip a tooth.”

His jaw relaxes and he takes a moment to roll his eyes. You watch him settle a bit then turn back to you, his eyebrows raised expectantly. This makes you scoff again.

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to promise you that?”

“Yes.” He replies immediately.

Your features narrow in incredulity. “Sam that is absolutely ridiculous!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sam, in what universe is it reasonable to ask your girlfriend to not interface with certain other people just because you don’t like ‘em? You know how that sounds objectively! You’re too smart not to!”

“Yeah well maybe I can’t be smart about this, alright?! You almost died!” He snaps, “Sorry if I can’t be rational about the woman I love almost getting torn to shreds by a monster because some dipshit idiot can’t stick to a fucking plan! I can’t believe I’m having this argument with you!”

“Well I can’t believe you thought I’d just roll over and do as you say because you love me!” You plant your hands on your hips, “What, because you love me you’re entitled to my agency?! Grow up!”

He inhales sharply through his nose and glances away. You can see on his face that he’s trying to regain any semblance of his calm. It’s not like him to get this worked up about other people, especially hunters whom he usually gives a bit more moral-leeway to than you do.

There’s some real concern underneath this, you know it, something Sam’s holding back for some reason. Whatever it is, it’s worrisome enough to him that it’s coming out in anger, not plain concern. Unfortunately for him, your sympathy only extends to the point before a man starts telling you what to do like you’re a robot capable of being programmed.

“I don’t want you hunting with them again.” He repeats steadily, meeting your gaze again. “And you also know that objectively, they handled this hunt like morons. I don’t know how the two of them are still alive.”

You roll your eyes animatedly and finally shake his hand off of you with force. “I knew them before I knew you. I’ve worked with them on-and-off for years.”

You start walking again and you can hear him following close behind.

“They’re good hunters, they’ve saved my ass a few times, just like you—”

“—Don’t compare me to them!” Sam’s nose wrinkles with repugnance, “Don’t compare what we have to some half-assed alliance you had to make before you actually had competent people around to watch your back!”

That surprises you a bit. You spin on your heel with eyes narrowed, about to challenge that when he keeps going.

“Neither of them— neither of them! —watched your back when you told them to! They both left you open to attack while raiding a vamp’s nest!”

“That’s not—”

“—Where the hell were they, huh? I had to come running across the damn building because when that fucking idiot Chase full-body tackled a vamp on top of you, your scream—” He cuts himself off and it’s almost a little shaky.

His chest rises and falls noticeably with his next deep breath. The worry is seeping through and he can see it softening you. He doesn’t want your sympathy, though, he wants to be angry. He wants to get some kind of rise out of you that he hasn’t gotten yet.

“And they were both drunk.”

“No they weren’t.” You scoff, immediately back to defensiveness and no sympathy.

“Yes, sweetheart, they were. Their breath reeked.” He takes a firmer tone, “I’m really baffled by this being an argument! I thought we’d both come away from that hunt with the same feeling, but instead I had to sit through a whole night out with those two fucking idiots drinking and listening to you all reminisce when I know for a fact that those two stopped caring about you the moment you showed up with a boyfriend!”

Your jaw drops and your brows shoot up to your hairline. “Presumptuous, much?!”

He shifts a little in place, clearly uncomfortable, “You know I’m right.”

“No, what I know is that you are fucking paranoid.”

“You might think they’re just idiots— and you’re definitely right —but the two of them thought they had a chance with you, at least at one time, and the second they knew you weren’t going to sleep with them, they stopped caring about keeping you safe. Because the whole time, all they wanted was you to be alive and not scuffed up too bad, so then maybe you might have the energy to put out for them after the job’s done.”

You’re stunned for a moment, staring agape at your boyfriend. “That’s disgusting, Sam! Why would you say something like that?!”

“You know they want you, I refuse to believe you don’t.”

“I don’t know why it matters!” You cry, “I love you! It’s not like they’re ever gonna get anything from me!”

“Well, you should try telling them that. I don’t think they’ll believe you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means that they’re the kind of guys who play nice just to get what they want!”

“You barely know them!”

“So do you!”

“I don’t need to know their whole life’s story and their fucking social security number to hunt with them, Samuel!”

“Stop it!” He menaces while you keep going.

“You always act like such a know-it-all about everything! Why do you think you can assess their character better than me, huh?”

“Because I know how men work! Especially those kind of men.”

Your eyes narrow a little. “Oh, and I don’t know?”

He shrugs forcefully, “I can’t tell at this point! You’re acting so oblivious I don’t know what you do or don’t understand! All I’m asking is that the next time they say ‘we’re hunting nearby and need some backup’ you say that you’re busy!”

You stare at him for a long moment in taut silence. His chest rises and falls with his intense breathing but he tries to maintain an emotionless expression. You know him too well at this point for that face to be believable.

Your voice grows dark like tinted glass. “I know how to handle men, Sam.”

His next breath in is a little shaky. You take note. Was your statement meant to be a hint at your shared sex life? No. Will you happily take his physical response to it as proof that he seems to be having the same reaction to this fight as you are? Absolutely.

“I heard them.” He says softly. “Talking. About you. About… us.”

Your brows furrow and you shift your stance, now more curious than combative. “What d’you mean?”

He swallows, the bobbing movement of his throat catching your eye for a split second. You immediately look back up to his face but he saw you look, you know it.

“What did they say?” There’s a new wariness to your voice.

Sam runs his tongue across his lower row of teeth, trying to settle himself. “Chase… said that Lewis should’ve… ‘taken his chance when he could in Atlantic City’. When you were ‘drunk and heartbroken’ because… then you might’ve… ‘just finally put out already.’”

Your skin crawls at those words and the tone Sam imitates. It’s not the grossest thing anyone’s ever said about you, but it’s by no means flattering. You were heartbroken three years ago while drunk in a casino with Chase and Lewis (their idea). Lewis had been attentive all night, caring for you in the kind of gruff, noncommittal way hunters can sometimes be. You were indeed considering kissing Lewis at one point but when you noticed that he was treating you nicer than usual, you thought: this must be what it feels like to be the ‘civilian’. For some reason that thought was repellent so you didn’t act on any drunk impulses and went to bed alone that night.

Crossing your arms stubbornly you respond, “Well, he’s not wrong. I was drunk and heartbroken and I did almost kiss Lewis—”

You’ve barely finished your sentence when he raises his voice over yours.

“—What?!” He gapes, “And hold on, wait a second! Wasn’t the Atlantic City hunt you went on the one where you got that big scar on your ribs?! That was them not taking care of you back then, either!”

Goddamn it he’s so fucking hot.

You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Is it strange for you to be horny over how well Sam knows your body? When you first got together you were stunned by how much he wanted to look at you. After the first time you had sex you went to put clothes back on and he softly asked you to stay.

“I’ll be right back.” You giggled at him, a little bemused.

He gave you this gooey look of pleading. “But then you’ll be all covered up. And I don’t want that just yet.”

“What do you want then?”

He tugged you close under the sheets, getting as close to you as possible for a moment. “I wanna look at you laying in our bed.”

And who were you to deny him when he asked so sweetly?

During those first few weeks of lovemaking there would always be about 20 minutes afterward where Sam would just hold you and caress your skin, all of this wonder in his gaze. When he found a new mark, or cut, or scar he’d ask you about it. What he just said now proves without a doubt that he was actually listening when you answered.

“Lewis actually did like me. He asked me out the next time we saw each other, alright?” You say, “I’m not thrilled by the language Chase used either but you know better than me how guys talk to each other about vulnerable stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like, evasively! Like you’re making it kinda into a joke so you can pretend it’s not meaningful or whatever, I don’t know!”

He’s kind of pouting now. “I don’t know how telling me that one of them used to have a thing for you is supposed to make me more okay with you hunting with them again.”

“Oh, come off it, Sam!” You cry, “Just because not everyone who hunts is as good as you or Dean doesn’t mean they aren’t worth helping!”

Muttering your name like it’s a curse he says, “What does it take for you to give up on someone unworthy, huh?”

“For fuck’s—!” You raise and drop your hands, “—I’ve never really given it much thought!”

“Well maybe you should!”

“Maybe you should stop riding my ass!”

“I just don’t think you should help them anymore, that’s all I’m saying!”

“Well I guess I’ll take that opinion into consideration.”

He grits your name out through his teeth, “I don’t wanna keep going around in circles with you like this!”

“Then stop talking!”

The both of you go dead silent. You could swear the Bunker is so quiet now that even this deep into the place you’d be able to clearly hear something fall off a shelf in the library. Somewhat to your surprise, Sam actually doesn’t keep talking. You two stand at a stalemate for a long moment.

His breathing gets more intense the longer you just study him in silence. His chest rises and falls dramatically again and you finally break. Without a word you lean up, grab his cheek and yank him down for a kiss. A noise of surprise and almost dissent escapes his throat but his hands immediately drag you closer— it’s all just muscle memory at this point, reflexes triggered by your proximity that he cannot control.

“Don’t think you can— mm! —make me forget—!” He mumbles in protest against your lips.

“—Fuckin’ watch me, Lawboy.” You grumble back, shoving him into the tiled wall.

All of your plush warmth comes flush with him. Between you both and through his jeans you feel his cock already reacting to your proximity. Fuck you’ve missed this. It’s only been five days while you were assisting the guys since you’ve gotten your fix of Sam’s body and carnal affection but it’s long enough that you’re craving his closeness badly. Your hands fumble with the buttons on his flannel.

He grabs your waist with both deliciously large hands, pulling back enough to speak but not enough to push you away. “You don’t just get to shut me up with your—”

You cut him off again with a searing kiss, hand fisting into the hair on the nape of his neck. He groans against you, both hands moving to palm your butt.

“So— mm— goddamn impatient!” He fumbles with the doorknob closest to him before he crowds you into the room.

It’s one of the spare rooms that Dean’s been slowly converting into an armory. You’re clinging onto Sam like a barnacle, nipping and kissing at his throat while your fingers tangle into his hair. Trying to handle all of you makes turning the lights on a bit of a challenge but he manages to smack them on eventually. You press all of your body up against his front again, knowing from both empirical data and the current state of him that he can’t resist your body— you’re too enticing to him, just the way he is to you. His jaw clenches in frustration at his inability to overcome desire and remain mad. His foot kicks the door closed behind him with a bit more force than he might’ve used otherwise, the sound sharp and loud enough to make you flinch a little. You don’t pull away an inch, though, pushing up to kiss him more.

Both of his hands grab the sides of your head, fiercely returning the kiss as he guides you backwards. Your eyes are closed while you stand on your tiptoes and loop your arms around his neck. A low sound, almost like a growl, rumbles up out of him and into your mouth as his strong hands hoist you up by your thighs. You squeal against his lips, knowing that he’s not got a very solid hold on you. Luckily, he’s only going to the table a few feet behind you.

He deposits you onto the metal surface with a dull thunk and shoves things out of the way around you. They clang to the floor raucously and you giggle a little against his lips— he’s never this loud when it comes to sex with you. He only ever wants you and him alone in a bubble of intimacy that no one can disturb. So him being this careless about drawing attention is exciting. His need is intoxicating.

Your hands immediately go back to the buttons of his shirt. Were you kissing a different man, you might’ve just ripped the thing open but you know that isn’t so appealing to Sam. He pulls back from your lips to catch his breath. As you fumble with the bottom ones, he grins a little at your impatient fingers, his palms running up and down your thighs.

“I thought you’d have just yanked the thing open by now.” He pants.

You lean up to kiss him as you get the final two. Pulling away just slightly you smirk up at him through your lashes. “I know you like this shirt. I’m not tryin’ta break the things you care about just because I’m impatient.”

With an emphatic flurry you shove the two ends of the now open shirt aside. One of his big hands lifts off your thigh to cup your cheek tenderly. You look up into his face as he bows closer, an expression of all-consuming adoration on his beautiful face.

“I love you.” He murmurs, forehead bumping into yours so gently.

You bite down on a wicked grin. “I thought you said I couldn’t make you forget about the argument—”

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, the force of it sending you backwards a little. Both of your hands fly back to brace yourself against the table.

“You can’t.” He affirms in a brief break between your mouths. “I still don— want you to see ‘em.”

“See them?” You gape, “What, I can’t have friends that you disapprove of?”

He kisses down your throat, tugging the collar of your shirt aside to keep going along your shoulder. “They’re not your friends.”

“Yes—”

One of his arms slipped around your waist at some point and now he tugs you sharply forwards to press the ridge of his cock into the heat of your core.

“Friends don’t act like that.” He mutters, yanking your shirt over your head, “Friends don’t dislike someone who makes you happy.”

You snort as he unhooks your bra, “Oh, so that’s why you’re really mad? Because they don’t approve of you?”

He grunts in annoyance as he tears the bra off your chest, you doing the work to shrug out of the straps. “I don’t give a shit what they think of me.”

“Is that really true, Spaceman?” You continue taunting him, watching it rile him up further and further.

“Yes!” He reaches behind him to tug his hands free from the flannel sleeves. “They’re two-bit douchebags who treat you like a piece’a meat.”

You help him pull his t-shirt off over his head, biting your lip. “You’re sure you’re not mad at them for how they look at you?”

He gives you a flat, displeased look. “How do they look at me?”

You hook both index fingers into the waistband of his jeans and yank him close. His hands thump heavily down onto the table on either side of you. Your chin tips up so you can run your nose along the line of his jaw. All the sudden your touches are soft and fleeting, teasing him with all the love you have for him.

“Like they wanna obliterate you.” You nip at his earlobe, one hand raking into his hair.

“That’s supposed to be a good thing?”

Your grip tightens to a fist in his locks. “They’re jealous of you, honey. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Shut up.” He scoffs half-heartedly, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Who wouldn’t be, hm?” You pull back to look at him, your head cocking to the side, “The second you walk into a room their chances of anyone noticing them are diminished to zero.”

He rolls his eyes a bit, “I don’t care.”

“Oh, you don’t, huh?”

“No, I don’t.” He replies firmly, “Because it’s not about me, it’s about you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about you being kept safe.” He swoops down, massaging both breasts and kissing along your jaw, “You should have nothing less than the best watching your back, always.”

You whine listlessly as he ducks down to suck a nipple into his mouth. Your hands cradle his head just for something to hold onto. When he pulls off of that one he kisses across your chest to your other peak, still talking.

“You shouldn’t lose value to them because you’re not available anymore,” He growls, sinking his teeth into the meat of your breast for a fleeting moment, “I’ll kill them if they try that shit again.”

“Sam!” You gasp sharply at that, shoving him back to make him meet your gaze.

He sees your horror at that statement plain as day on your face. He digs his heels in.

“I will. I’ll do it.” He pulls you up to his lips briefly, then murmurs against them, “I don’t care what it says about me— I don’t care what it does.”

You shake your head slowly at him, “Weren’t you just saying you think they’re gonna get themselves killed anyhow?”

“Yeah. And potentially it’ll be by me. If they pull some shit like that again—”

Your nails bite into the swells of his shoulders, “—Sam! You can’t just kill people you don’t like!”

“If those two fuckers got you killed then I’d be dead too!” He raises his voice all the sudden.

When that comes out he swallows thickly, gaze dropping as shame finally slips into his expression. His hands slow on you, moving to rub cautiously up and down your thighs again, a layer of denim separating him from the skin he adores. He can’t look you in the eye then, just stares at the ground.

“It wouldn’t matter any more.” He mumbles, “What reason is there to keep my conscience if I’m already dead inside?”

Your brows knit together, and you reach up to cup his cheek. “Sam.”

Hesitantly, he lifts his eyes to yours, looking like a scolded puppy.

“Your conscience is what makes you special.” You trace some hair behind his ear, “It’s what keeps you human in a job like this. Don’t let someone take that from you— including you.”

He tilts his head into your palm. His eyes follow his hands as they glide carefully up to your waist then to your ribs. They pause there, his thumbs brushing across your flesh tenderly.

“I’m sorry I scared you just now.” He murmurs, “I didn’t… mean to get so intense.”

You smirk adoringly, a sympathetically sad look in your eyes for the man you love with all your heart. So much pain is held in that beautiful sinewy body of his. On the outside he seems like a well-oiled machine but you know the truth; Sam Winchester is a tight knot of sadness and pain, always striving to breathe goodness into the world.

“Well, that’s kinda what makes you special, too.” You say, “Well, there’s a lot of things that make you special, but that’s definitely a big one.”

His eyes flicker up to yours, a hopeful glint in them.

“The same way you said I shouldn’t only be worth something to the two of them if I’m on the market or whatever,” You take a deep breath, “you can’t tie all of your worth to me, honey.”

He nods, face tilting down again. “I know.”

You wrap your legs around his and guide him closer again. “I love you, Samuel.”

He rolls his eyes but can’t subdue all of his smile. “It’s Sam.”

“Well, Sam,” You emphasize the correct name, “promise me something?”

He nods gently, eyes lost in yours.

“Even if I do go before you—”

He makes a small noise in protest at the back of his throat, barely audible with his brows pinching together. You shush him sweetly and press one fingertip to his chest.

“Even if I go before you, promise me you won’t let that be an excuse to give up.”

He blinks a few times, honestly stunned by that.

“You’re stronger than loss, Spaceman.” You reinforce, “I know you are. I’ve seen it.”

“It’s different with you.”

“I know.” You nod, both hands smoothing down his front, his chest hair tickling your palms, “I’m not saying it would be easy. But… even if I never hunt with those two again, there’s still… the possibility of either of us dying.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes are so miserable, you wish you could make it better, but this is the reality. You need him to say it. You need to hear it.

“Promise me?” Your voice drops to a tentative whisper, “Promise me that you won’t kill Sam Winchester on the off chance I get killed first?”

His eyes flit back and forth between yours, a deep sadness in them. He doesn’t protest though, because he knows that you’re right— both of you are at risk a lot of the time. And Sam’s made promises before that have been more painful than this. He’s sworn oaths to untrustworthy people, he’s made bargains with unsavory characters, and he’s been able to keep the ones that mattered, whether they were easy or not. Nothing matters more than this, though— what you two have.

He nods, his stubble brushing the palm you’re still using to hold his cheek. “Okay. I can promise you that.”

You beam up at him, eyes just a little glassy with relief. “I love you so damn much, Sam, it’s ridiculous.”

He chuckles, “Me too. I love you so much.”

You crane up to kiss his lips. He returns the contact, one of his hands cupping the side of your face.

“Even when you’re as stubborn as a mule.” He grins against your lips.

A noise of indignation puffs out of you, your head pulling back to look him more directly in the eye. The playful spark is back between you two, his face all fondness and mischief.

“I’ll show you stubborn—”

He smushes his lips to yours and wraps both his arms around you. Kissing you until your breathless, he lays you back on the table, bracing one of his hands over your head to keep himself somewhat upright. When you settle, your breasts heave with a deep breath, the both of them sitting so pretty on your chest. He hums a groan, cupping them again and beginning a gentle massage.

“I can’t blame ‘em, honestly.” He murmurs, ghosting a kiss between your collarbones, “If I were them? I’d be kicking myself for missing my chance with you, too.”

You laugh, fingers carding through his hair as he kisses lower down your front. “You’re too sweet on me, Sam.”

That makes him smirk, his head lifting back up. His lips peck your throat and then sweetly on your chin. You can’t help a warm giggle at him, watching his features melt in adoration at the sound.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers, falling to his elbow so that hand can trace patterns into your scalp, “I’m so damn lucky I found you.”

You bite down on a big smile, cheeks flushing under his gaze. With his eyes boring deep into yours, his hand glides down the swell of your stomach to the button of your jeans. You squirm a little in anticipation, eyes going from gooey adoration to hesitantly needy. You want him to touch you but you don’t want to have to ask too much— not this time.

He kisses under your jaw again, his warm hand slipping under your clothes right to your bare skin. You shiver from both sensations, a little whine escaping your parted lips. Both of your hands tangle up into his hair again. His fingers part your folds and find them just as wet as he hoped they would be.

“Mm…” He hums, nipping lightly a few times at the column of your throat, “…you’re soaked f’me, sweetheart.”

You release a full-throated whine, unable to stem it.

He groans as he begins slowly circling your clit with two fingers. “The noises you make… s’damn pretty…”

Your throat hiccups with another high-pitched sound that makes him shiver with want. His fingers speed up just a touch, the other hand running up and down the length of your torso, pausing intermittently to kneed your breasts.

“Honey,” You breathe, back arching, “need you.”

“You’ve got me.”

You emit a petulant noise of impatience, “I need you, Sam. Inside baby, need you to fuck me.”

He can’t help a growl as he peppers kisses all over your chest. Inside your jeans he switches his hand’s position to start teasing your entrance too. You writhe under him, back arching in a sensuous roll that presses all of you to him. He pushes back with all his weight, pressing you flat down again.

“Not yet.” He growls, “I’m not ready yet.”

You shudder, feeling one of his fingers breach your hole, then joined by a second one to sink all the way inside. A choked noise of almost disbelief at the pleasure comes out of you instantly. His skilled fingers work quick, pulling you up in a spiral of building pleasure.

“C’mon baby,” He whispers into your skin between kisses laid on your chest, “c’mon sweetheart, come for me. I know you can… you’re so good f’r me, right baby?”

You nod listlessly with a loud keen, eyes squeezed shut. The coil inside of you snaps and waves of bliss wash over your body. It’s so intense that you lurch a few times with the aftershocks, almost feeling a little dizzy off him. Your body deflates with a long exhale of ecstasy, eyes fluttering shut agains the force of it.

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn pretty, baby, you’ve got no idea.” He groans, pulling back for a moment, “S’perfect. All for me, huh?”

You nod again, eyes still closed as the world’s spinning slows down. You hear the rasp of a zipper and then the soft sound of his jeans dropping to the floor. Then his careful hands are tugging yours down with your panties, tender and reverent.

“Sam…” You mumble, a hand reaching out for him while your eyes stay shut.

“I’m comin’ baby,” His heat returns to you, making your eyes open. One of his big hands cups your cheek while he gazes down at you with so much adoration it almost makes you shiver. “Hi, sweetheart,” He brushes his knuckles across your cheek, “You ready for me?”

You nod again, movements sluggish and loopy. He beams down at you, one hand braced by your head again and the other disappearing out of your sight. The blunt crown of his cock drags up your folds, slow enough as to almost be torturous. You whine impatiently for the umpteenth time and he shushes you softly. The tip of him catches on your opening and then he presses forwards.

Your jaw drops with a deep gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he slides home. Your hands scramble up his arms, nails scratching at his skin desperately. He lets out a long, content groan, like he’s laying down in his bed after a long, hard day. The hand near your head tangles fingers into your hair and he bows down to kiss your lips. He’s so soft against your mouth even while he’s hard as steel and hilted inside of you. It’s a contradiction that almost feels unfair due to it’s power over your heart.

“So perfect,” He mumbles, grinding into you with rolls of his hips, not yet thrusting, “s’ warm… so wet… nowhere else I’d rather be…”

You can’t help a breathless giggle at that, despite knowing he’s being completely honest. He doesn’t get butthurt though, he presses a kiss to your lips with a smile. Limply, you throw your arms around his neck, kissing him back and meeting his next roll into you with a grind of your own. He grunts into your kiss as your walls pulse around him.

“More,” You pant between kisses, “more, Sam, please…”

He groans like your words make him weak. As if he can’t resist your command due to it being wrapped up in your sweetness. He pulls out a little then pushes back in. The friction is perfect— a delicious drag that sends sparks outwards into your muscles. Your hands fumble down to his hips, pulling him back in again on the next thrust, encouraging him to move faster.

“Mm…!” You release a long moan and it spurs him on further.

His rhythm picks up. Your nails dig into the meat of his ass, feeling all the muscles working under his skin with every movement. He drops lower onto his forearm beside your head, bathing that side of your face in messy kisses. You reach up to grip his hair with one hand, the other adjusting your hold on his butt. He keeps mumbling and muttering to you between kisses, like he’s delirious. He very well might be.

The pace picks up steadily over some amount of time you don’t bother even trying to count. His panting breaths tickle the sensitive skin of your throat and ear. You feel yourself beginning to get swept away by the pleasure. Your fingers fist in his hair, your other hand slipping weakly off his ass towards the place where you’re connected, searching for your nub of nerves. He grunts and bats your hand aside, using his unoccupied one instead.

You keen loudly as his fingers restart steady circles on your clit. Your arm draws his head closer to you, your face turning to blindly search for his lips since your eyes won’t stay open. He groans your name with the most pleasure anyone’s ever said it.

The thrusts reach a crescendo. You’re getting lost in the bliss, spiraling up and up to your peak with dizzying speed. Vaguely, you catch on to his voice, still rumbling low just for your ears.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he mutters under his breath like an incantation— like a seal of protection he could place over you. “My girl— my beautiful fuckin’ girl. So perfect, just for me.”

You manage a little nod before your body shatters into your orgasm. As you come, your voice calls shrilly, “Always…!”

The noise he makes at that is akin to the sound of when he gets punched really hard, except this time it’s all pleasure in his rich moan. Your walls pulse around him, milking his cock for everything he’s worth. His fingers press and pinch at your clit as you both ride out your highs. Your body twitches and lurches and writhes under his. He’s not much better, shuddering and choking on whiny noises as he pushes himself a little further into overstimulation. Your fist tightens in his hair until your knuckles pale. Very gradually, both of your movements slow to a halt. Then all that’s left is proximity and panted breaths against sweaty flesh.

“I love you.” He slurs at a mumble, kissing the first bit of you he can reach which ends up being your cheek.

You beam, cheeks burning from exertion and adoration, your arms looping around his neck to hold him close. “I love you, too.”

He hugs you back as best he can, staying inside of you for a few minutes as he softens. Eventually his back starts getting stiff and he reluctantly pulls away from your embrace. Your hands slide down his arms as he goes, not wanting to cease touching him yet. He catches one to kiss the seam of your palm, sweet and fleeting. With his hands gentle on your hips he pulls his cock out of you. He can’t help bending a little to watch the pearly white cum bead at your entrance. His fingers massage the insides of your thighs as a low, content rumble escapes him at the sight.

“Yours.” You whisper without thinking.

His gaze flickers up to meet yours.

“Only yours.” You reaffirm.

The words seem to overwhelm him. His next inhale makes him shudder a bit. Before you can say anything else, he scoops you up into his arms and carries you to the bathroom. Halfway there you tease him about someone coming home to see you both butt-naked in the hallway. He smudges a kiss to your chin and tells you he couldn’t care any less about a single other person in the whole world right now.

A few weeks pass before Chase texts you again. He and Lewis are “in the area” on a hunt and “could use the extra hands”. Sam’s sitting in bed beside you reading, completely absorbed in his book. Biting down on a self-satisfied smirk you text back a simple reply: