By the time they pulled into the motel, it was past midnight and Sam felt wrung out, every muscle tense, every nerve buzzing. He climbed out of the car with a little too much force, yanking the duffels out of the trunk. The weight of them grounded him, barely.

You stretched like you were doing it just to ruin him; slow, unhurried, arms reaching high enough that your shirt tugged up and flashed a strip of skin that should’ve been illegal at this hour. It was a casual little thing, nothing dramatic, but it hit Sam like a punch to the face. His breath caught, his ribs felt too tight, and for a split second he forgot how to function like a normal person. He turned too fast, nearly smacking himself with the duffels. Smooth. Real smooth. He rolled his shoulders, tried to shake it off, but the tension just sat there, humming low in his stomach like a live wire. 

He was done fighting himself. He was done pretending the backseat hadn’t been a special kind of hell all day, your thigh brushing his just enough to make him wonder if you noticed, if you liked it. Every accidental touch had burned through him like a warning flare, and now he was raw, twitchy, and one bad choice away from combusting entirely.

He needed distance. Space. A locked door and a gallon of cold water, maybe.

Because if he didn’t get it–if he kept standing here watching you stretch and breathe and exist–he was going to lose whatever grip he had left. He’d snap, and then what? Dean would come back to find him rabid, finally letting loose every thought he’d been choking down since this morning. Sam wondered if he’d even feel guilty. 

The crunch of your footsteps on the gravel made him tense. “You hungry, Sam?” Your voice came soft from behind him, husky with sleep, and it hit him like a hand pressed flat against his spine.

He twisted just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, duffels stacked high in his arms like he was using them for cover. “A little,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d meant it to be.

You hummed, slow and satisfied, as if that answer had been what you were waiting for all along. It wasn’t a big sound, barely more than a note in the air, but it hooked into him.

Sam swallowed hard and looked away, jaw tight. The only thing he wanted right now was the dark of the motel room. Somewhere to drop the bags, bury himself under a blanket, and shut down the part of his brain that kept pulling him back to you. The part that wanted too much. The part that didn’t care about boundaries or lines or the fact that you had him so wrapped around your finger, he stopped considering Dean at all. 

And then Dean came back, a sharp reminder of the reality of what Sam was actually thinking. Except you were already moving, already stepping toward him, plucking the key from his hand before he could blink.

“Can you get us food?” you asked, head tilted, voice dipped in honey.

Dean groaned, rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, but then he actually looked at you. Whatever he saw there shut him up.

“Fine,” he sighed, dramatic as ever, and trudged back toward the car.

Sam stood there, the weight in his hands suddenly secondary to the weight in his chest, and watched the Impala’s headlights sweep gold across the parking lot before sliding away into the dark.

And then it hit him. You’d gotten rid of Dean.

The realization hit him like a punch straight to the gut, hot and heavy, making his pulse jump like it had a mind of its own. And no, it wasn’t nerves. Not really. It was worse; this deliciously wrong, almost illegal surge of everything he’s pushed–no, shoved–out of his mind all day. He could swear he wasn’t some kind of perv. He wasn’t. But somehow, somehow, you had this effect on him; one look, one lazy stretch, one little sound, and suddenly his brain went haywire, scribbling all sorts of reckless ideas that made his stomach twist and his skin burn.

It was insane. And maybe that was the best part. You made him feel like he’d gone soft in the head, like his body was betraying him, like he might just lose control if he looked at you for another second. You just… did things to him. Things that left him twitching in all the wrong ways, craving, burning, and wondering if he’d ever make it out of tonight without going completely feral.

You unlocked the door without a word, slipping inside first, leaving it open just long enough for him to follow.

The room felt still when he stepped in. Too still, like it was waiting for something to happen. His skin prickled with it, the air itself buzzing, and his grip on the bags went tight before he tossed them onto the bed.

The sound cracked sharp through the quiet. It should’ve broken the spell. 

It didn’t.

Because you were still there. Watching him.

And suddenly it felt like everything was pressing in all at once. The heat of the day still trapped in his skin, the hours in the backseat sitting too close to you, the fact that Dean was gone and you’d made it that way. His jaw locked, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides, because he didn’t know what you were about to do. But he was too aware of what he wanted you to do. 

Sam moves through the motel room with too much purpose, his steps sharp, deliberate, the faint clink of the salt can in his hand betraying the restless energy threading through his body. He twists the locks, checks them again, presses salt along the window sills as though his entire focus rests there. But it doesn’t. Not really. He’s aware of you in every sense: the sound of your steps shifting from the table to the bed, the small click of your hair being unclipped, the way the strands fall over your shoulders in loose waves. Even without looking directly, he feels your gaze tethered to him, dragging across his back, his arms, the side of his face when he dares a glance. You don’t say anything, but he doesn’t need words–he can feel your eyes on him, heavy, unrelenting, like a tether pulling at every part of him he’s trying to keep under control.

His jaw locks, muscles twitching as he forces himself to keep moving, to stay busy. But it’s pointless. You’ve been different all day. Restless, charged, like you’re carrying something unspoken under your skin. Almost needy. And the way your gaze lingers on him now, following his every step, it makes him certain he isn’t imagining it. He isn’t crazy. And you’re not oblivious.

The heat in his gut that won’t settle, curls tight and low until it feels unbearable. Desire or frustration, he can’t tell the difference anymore. Maybe it’s both, tangled together, smoldering until it scorches his throat. He reminds himself of who he is, who he’s supposed to be. Patient. Careful. Better than the men who raised him. Better than Dean. He’s a good man. But good men don’t stand in dingy motel rooms, watching someone they shouldn’t want, craving something they can’t have, while their restraint slowly splinters apart.

The salt can hits the table with a sharp thud, louder than he meant, the sound reverberating through the tense quiet. His shoulders heave with the breath he drags in, rough and uneven, and for a moment he just stands there, staring at the floor like it might ground him. Then he looks up, and all that resolve slips.

You’re perched at the edge of the bed, hair loose around your face, your expression unreadable. But your eyes, your eyes are locked on him, daring him, waiting. 

Fuck this, Sam decides. His voice comes low, thick with something he can’t hide anymore. He meets your gaze head-on, every ounce of conflict written across his face, and asks, “Do you want something from me?”

You blink up at him from where you sit on the edge of the bed, head tilted just slightly, lips parting in that infuriatingly soft curve of feigned innocence. Sam knows better. You know exactly what you’re doing. The wide eyes, the delicate tone, the unwavering way you look at him, it all presses harder against the pressure building in his chest. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, the words barely above a whisper, too sweet, too pointed.

Sam huffs out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as if that’ll keep the tension from swallowing him whole. It doesn’t. His hands tug at the hem of his jacket, peeling it off with quick, sharp movements just so he has something to do, just so he doesn’t close the distance and grab you by the face like he aches to. He drapes it over the nearest chair and turns back, words spilling faster than he can filter them.

“Come on,” he scoffs, his voice a low rasp. “Ever since last night, you’ve been all over me. What are you getting at, exactly? Is this just some… stupid game to get back at Dean? Because if it is, I want no part of it.”

The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. He knows it, and judging by the flicker in your eyes, you know it too. Because truthfully? He’s let you use him before, in small, hidden ways he doesn’t even want to admit to himself. Let you press close, let you test his boundaries, let you make him feel wanted in ways that only left him hungrier. And when that realization cuts through him, he sees the way it registers on your face too. The silence stretches, heavy and dangerous. 

You lean forward onto your hands, the subtle shift in posture pulling his eyes helplessly down the line of your body before he drags them back up to meet your gaze. It’s then Sam feels it–like he’s slipped and said too much, let a truth bleed through that should’ve stayed locked up tight. It’s not a confession, not exactly, but it’s raw enough that it burns. Vulnerable enough that it feels like he just stood in front of you with a whole sign around his neck screaming I’m in love with you in bold letters. 

“I’m not getting at anything,” you say, uncrossing your legs with ease, as if you aren’t aware of the fire you’re stoking. “Was I making you uncomfortable?” Your voice is quiet, coaxing, sweet when it should be poison.

Sam exhales slowly, jaw tight. “You’re–” His throat works, his voice catching before he cuts himself off with a low sigh. “That’s not important.”

“So, no?” you hum, leaning back again, brushing a strand of hair from your face like you hadn’t just cracked him open.

Sam’s jaw ticks, the muscle tight as he forces words through clenched teeth. “So, I’m right. This is a game.”

“I’m not playing with you, Sam.” For once, your tone is firm, almost serious. But he doesn’t let himself believe it. He can’t. He presses his lips together, a bitter edge slipping into his silence. And you notice. Of course you notice. “I like spending time with you,” you add, and it’s almost gentle, too genuine for him to handle.

He scoffs, but it sounds more like a laugh hollowed out by something jagged. He shakes his head and stalks to the other bed, the distance between you a flimsy shield. Sitting down, he yanks at the laces of his boots, needing something, anything, to keep his hands occupied. If he doesn’t, they’ll find their way to you. “Yeah. When you’re bored of Dean. Or when he’s too busy, right?”

It comes out harsher than he intended, bitter enough to taste in his mouth. That wasn’t him. Not usually. But jealousy has been clawing at him for so long he hardly recognizes the sound of his own voice anymore.

The mattress dips behind him, subtle, but his whole body reacts. In the window’s reflection, he sees your figure move closer until your shoulder presses into his. The contact is small, but it floods him–your warmth bleeding into his arm, the faint brush of your hair, your scent wrapping around him until he can’t breathe right.

“Maybe I just… shifted focus,” you murmur. “Is that so bad?”

Yes. God, yes, it’s terrible, because it’s all he’s ever wanted. And wanting you feels like betrayal carved into his bones. He turns to face you, and you’re already too close, your warmth radiating into his skin. It’s unbearable, it’s intoxicating. He leans back a fraction, but it’s useless. You’re still right there, burning through him.

“You can’t,” he breathes, voice frayed and low, meant more for himself than you. “You and Dean… that’s too far.”

But then, your scoff cuts through him. Light, almost amused. “Me and Dean? That’s basically nothing.”

Sam stiffens. His pulse spikes. “Nothing?” His hand flexes restlessly against his knee, like if he doesn’t hold himself together he’ll reach out. “I’ve seen you do more than nothing.”

“You count making out as serious?” You nudge him with your shoulder, casual, infuriatingly so. “You’ve got to get more play, man.”

Sam narrows his eyes at you, his heartbeat hammering. His thoughts stumble over the words he can’t even finish. “You haven’t…?” The silence that follows is deafening. His whole world seems to tilt as the possibility sinks in. He’d always assumed that line was crossed a while ago, of course he had. It was the only way to make sense of his frustration, the only excuse to chain down the want that burned in him. But if you hadn’t…

“Gosh, no, Sam.” You glance away like you’re embarrassed, but the curve at your lips gives you away. This is going exactly the way you wanted it. 

Silence settles between you, thick and charged. Sam’s pulse thunders in his ears, his head going light as he scrambles to process what you’ve just admitted. Dean never had you like that. Not fully. Not the way Sam always feared. And now here you are, pressed into his side, every subtle brush of contact tearing down the walls he’s spent years trying to maintain. You tilt closer, and Sam swears the air around him bends. He leans, too, just barely, but enough to betray how the pull of you is stronger than the weight of his restraint. For once, he isn’t running from the thought. He’s chasing it.

“Why not?” The words tumble out before he can stop them, rough, clumsy. He winces at himself the second they hit the air. 

Your smile softens into something more awkward, a little bashful. Sam hangs on the pause, on the way you toy with silence before giving it up. “I don’t really know. I just… couldn’t bring myself to do that.” Your lashes lift, your eyes locking on him in a way that feels intentional, searing. “I had my reasons, I guess.”

Sam hums low in his throat, though his mouth feels dry, parched from the heat of the moment. He shifts on the mattress, a restless adjustment meant to ground him, but it only reminds him how close you are. The wrong thoughts, the inevitable ones, flood back, sharper than before. How easy it would be to tilt his head, close the gap, taste the curve of that almost-smile. He wants to show you what it means to want it. And he’s the one who pushed this conversation here. He dug the hole and now he’s the one trapped at the bottom, burning for you with no way out.

His stare lingers too long. He knows it, but he can’t stop. The air feels too thick, his lungs too shallow. When he finally clears his throat, the sound is rough, his voice unsteady. “Now you’ve… shifted focus.”

The words slip out heavy, weighted with everything unsaid–his desire, his jealousy, his hunger. They hang between you like a dare. If this is his chance, then it’s one you’ve been carving out all day, piece by piece, breadcrumb by breadcrumb. When you nod, slow and certain, it’s confirmation. Proof he isn’t imagining it, proof that you’ve been watching him as much as he’s been watching you. That’s when Sam knows he’s in real danger, not of losing control, but of giving in on purpose. 

You lean in, hand rising to brush that loose strand of hair from his face, slow enough to make him feel each second stretch. Your fingertip skims his temple, grazing hot across his skin, and Sam’s breath stutters, chest tightening with the unfair calm you wear like armor. You don’t look nervous, not even close. It’s frustrating how steady you are, how practiced, as if being this close to him has always been inevitable.

His jaw ticks hard, the muscle jumping, because all he can think about is how many nights he’s imagined this exact contact. How often he’s let himself replay the ghost of your hand against his face, only to curse himself for it after. But now you’re here, real and warm and impossibly close, and when your hand starts to drop away, instinct snaps through him. He catches it. Fingers wrapping too tight around yours, rough and desperate, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he lets go. His knuckles brush your wrist, pulse pounding against his skin like a secret he doesn’t want you to feel. But you do.

“Do you mean that?” It tears out of him low and hushed, too sharp, too raw. Pathetic, his mind spits, but he doesn’t care. He needs it, your answer, your voice confirming what his body already knows, what his heart is too cowardly to say outright. Needs the one push that’ll let him stop fighting and finally fall.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking over him like you can read the panic and want written in every line of his face. Your fingertip traces his cheekbone, feather-light. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Sam.” The words are soft, almost tender, but the charge underneath them bites sharp. There’s no hiding the tremor threaded through your tone, no masking the invitation woven into it. 

Sam doesn’t just let go of your hand, he lowers it deliberately, like every inch matters, until it rests at your side. His chest is tight, breath coming heavier as he closes the last of the distance, so close that the tip of his nose skims yours. It’s a test, one final chance to turn away before he ruins everything, but the second he feels the whisper of your breath against his lips, he knows there’s no pulling back. His palm slides up, finding the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair with a restrained urgency. His thumb drags slowly across your jaw, tracing the line of bone down to the tender hinge, and it has him biting back a groan. You tilt into his touch, lashes lowering, lips parting like you’re waiting for him to make the move–and God, the trust in that small surrender makes his chest ache.

Sam hesitates only long enough to meet your eyes. One thick swallow, one shared heartbeat stretched thin, and then he breaks. His mouth finds yours, firm but reverent, like he’s both worshipping you and punishing himself for waiting this long.

The kiss is slow at first. He wants to memorize it, savor the impossible softness of your lips, the little hum you let slip against his mouth. But the taste of you undoes him. Sam groans low in his chest. He angles in deeper, tongue sliding past your lips to meet yours, greed and desperation bleeding through. It’s not neat; it’s hungry, messy, years of restraint ripping loose in a single breathless clash. 

His weight shifts, pressing into you until you’re easing back onto the mattress, and he follows, caging you in with the width of his body. One hand fists in the sheets beside your hip, the other still buried in your hair, tugging just enough to keep your face tipped to his. Every part of him is screaming to feel more–your warmth, your pulse, your body pressed flush beneath his. You taste like a secret he’s starved for, and every stroke of your tongue against his makes him chase harder, deeper, as if he could drown in you and call it salvation. He doesn’t stop to breathe; he doesn’t want to. All he can think is more, closer. 

Sam drags himself down from your lips with a hunger that feels biblical, teeth scraping your jaw, tongue dragging hot over the hollow of your throat. Every sound you make winds him tighter, his mouth working at your skin like he wants to leave his name etched there. His hands are everywhere: gripping your hips, skimming beneath your shirt, palming the heat of your stomach. When he shoves the fabric up and presses open-mouthed kisses over the soft skin there, his breath is hot.

“Sam!” you gasp, your nails biting into his shoulder. It isn’t a warning. It’s need–bright in your voice, shining in your eyes–and it tears a low sound out of him. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down.

He hums against you, lips dragging lower as his fingers fumble with your jeans. The metal button pops, the zipper lowers, and then he’s tugging them down your legs with single-minded focus. His jaw tightens at the sight of you in nothing but panties and that thin, teasing tank top that’s been driving him insane all day.

“Fuck…” The word slips out raw, unfiltered. His eyes darken as they drink you in, his chest heaving like he’s trying to steady himself against the sheer ache of wanting you. You’re laid out beneath him like something he’s only ever dared to dream about–curves and soft lines exactly how he imagined when he was alone, restless, hard, fists clenched as he thought of you. Only this time you’re here, real, trembling for him.

He surges up to kiss you again, mouth crashing to yours with all the pent-up desperation he’s been choking down. His hips rut against you instinctively, groaning when he feels you respond, your soft moan vibrating against his tongue, your thighs shifting to pull him closer. He breaks the kiss only to hover just above your lips, grinning like he can’t help himself, eyes wild.

“I wanna taste you,” he breathes, his voice ragged, almost broken with how badly he means it. His fingers ghost over your panties, dragging across the dampness there like he’s proving a point to both of you. The second he feels just how wet you already are for him, his grin deepens into something darker, proud, starving. All of this–your trembling thighs, your heat, the way you’re practically arching up to meet his hand–it’s all for him.

You nod so fast it borders on frantic, that desperate little plea in your eyes sending him crashing down between your legs. His thick fingers hook under the thin fabric, and he drags your panties down with agonizing slowness, his knuckles brushing over your thighs as if he’s purposely dragging out every second of unveiling you. The whine that escapes you makes his cock twitch, but Sam doesn’t say a word. He’s too far gone, laser-focused on the sight of you bared before him.

The moment your panties hit the floor, he dives in, pressing his mouth to your folds with a hunger that knocks the air from your lungs. His tongue drags one long, slow stroke through your slick, savoring it, groaning into you when the taste hits his tongue. It runs down his chin, and it’s not nearly enough. He latches on harder, licking, sucking, teasing with the kind of desperation that makes your hips buck up against his face.

“God, you taste so good,” he whimpers against you, the words muffled by your body, his voice vibrating straight through your core. His eyes flick up, dark and blown wide, catching you in the middle of your unraveling. You’re sprawled out across the bed, hair mussed, thighs trembling, biting down on your lip like you can keep the sounds in. It makes him ache. 

He slides a finger inside you, slow at first, then curling and pumping as his tongue finds your clit again. You jolt, shuddering hard under his mouth, your hips jerking forward. Sam presses his free hand down on your stomach, holding you steady as he devours you like a man starved. Every whimper, every gasp, every broken little moan fuels him, pulls him deeper into the frenzy.

“Fuck, Sam!” you cry, your voice breaking on his name, and that does it. The sound lights him up, burns through every last shred of restraint. He works his tongue faster, his finger curling just right, desperate to pull more of those beautiful sounds out of you. 

Sam doesn’t let up, not for a second. His tongue circles your clit with ruthless precision, his finger curling inside you in perfect rhythm, and the wet sounds of his mouth working you over fill the room. He’s relentless, like he’s trying to study every reaction you give him, every twitch of your hips, every breathless sound that tumbles past your lips. Your thighs clamp around his head, but he only grunts into your core, the feeling making you jolt. He pries you open again with the strength of his shoulders, forcing you to take it. He wants all of you laid out, open and undone just for him.

“Sam–oh–Sam,” you cry, your voice breaking apart as your back arches off the bed. He looks up through his lashes, chin and mouth glistening, his eyes gone black with hunger, sweat dotting his face. The sight alone nearly tips you over.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your clit, voice wrecked, lips dragging over you like he can’t get enough. “Just like that.”

The filthy encouragement makes your whole body seize with tension. Your hands claw at his hair, at his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as the heat in your stomach grows tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. The orgasm tears through you, violent and consuming, and Sam drinks it in like he’s been waiting for this exact moment his entire life. He groans against you, sucking harder, keeping his finger pumping inside you as your body convulses. Your cries fill the room, and he rides it out with you, refusing to let you go until you’re writhing too much to take any more.

When he finally pulls back, his lips and chin are slick with you, his chest heaving like he’s the one who just came. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand but doesn’t bother hiding the smug, desperate grin tugging at his lips. He leans back over you, pressing a kiss to your thigh, then your hip, then dragging up until he’s hovering over your flushed, wrecked face.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” Sam breathes against your neck, his voice ragged. His mouth latches to the curve where your throat meets your shoulder, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, every kiss branding you. His hips roll into yours, the thick ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, catching in the slick mess you’ve already made between your thighs. The wet heat bleeding through the denim makes him groan low in his chest, guttural.

His hands slide beneath your shirt again, this time with no hesitation. The cotton drags up your body in one smooth motion before he peels it over your head, tossing it aside like it’s been standing between him and salvation. His palms cup your bare breasts through your bra, rough and greedy, and then he’s tugging at the clasp, fumbling only once before it pops open. The garment slips down your arms and he’s already mouthing at one of your nipples, hot tongue circling, lips sealing around it with a deep suck that makes your back arch and your breath catch. When his teeth graze you, playful and sharp, you gasp out his name, and it shoots straight to his cock.

Your hands tug at his shirt, desperate, nails scraping over his skin beneath the fabric. It’s a wordless plea, and Sam listens. He rips it off himself, buttons clattering against the floor, every second of lost contact making him curse. He doesn’t bother slowing down–just strips down to his boxers in a blur, his muscles taut, veins prominent as he leans back over you like a man starved.

He crashes his mouth back onto yours, the kiss hot, messy, full of tongue and teeth, before he shoves his boxers down enough to free himself. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed, heavy, glistening with precum, and when you see it, your lips part in shock, your breath stolen. Sam notices. God, he notices. His chest swells with pride, hunger flickering in his eyes as he drags the thick head along your folds, smearing your slick back and forth, teasing. He groans into your ear. 

Your hips buck, impatient, begging silently, but Sam just smirks against your throat, pressing the blunt tip at your entrance, circling, sliding away, coming back again. He wants to watch you unravel, watch you lose patience.

Finally, he pushes in–slow, deliberate, every thick inch stretching you, making your nails dig into the hard muscle of his arms. A shared gasp leaves you both, tangled, ragged, his forehead pressed hard to yours like he can’t bear to look anywhere else.

He doesn’t move right away. He gives you time, his jaw clenched tight with restraint while your chest heaves beneath him. You grip him like you’re molded to him, and the look on your face–brows furrowed, lips parted, overwhelmed by him–etches itself into his memory as the single most beautiful, devastating thing he’s ever seen.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t deserve the sight of you spread beneath him, full of him. He dips his head, kissing you softer this time, but his hips twitch against yours, betraying how badly he’s holding himself back.

Sam hovers over you, every nerve screaming for contact, for the heat of your skin on his, but he forces himself to pause just long enough to drink in the sight of you. Every curve, every shiver, every sound escaping your lips is something for only him. 

“You feel so… good,” he rasps, his voice thick, broken. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer, urging you into him even before he’s moved. You whine at the pressure, teeth grazing his shoulder as your fingers thread into his hair, tugging him down, pulling him toward what he’s been craving for so, so long.

He groans, the sound rough and hungry, and finally, he lets himself move–slow, deliberate thrusts that press every inch of him into you. His hips roll with precision, the thick length sliding in and out, dragging your slick with him, painting the curve of your body with every stroke. He buries his face in your neck, breathing hot, his lips brushing against your collarbone, letting you feel the tremor of his need.

“Sam… please,” you whimper, tugging on his shoulders, arching into him. Your voice is small but fierce, raw with want, and it sends a shiver down his spine. The way you say his name, the way your chest heaves beneath him, is more addictive than he could have imagined.

He loses the last thread of control. His movements sharpen, faster, more desperate, but he keeps it purposeful, watching you writhe under him, watching every shudder and arch of your body. Fingers dig into your thighs, gripping, anchoring, and he leans forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, over your cheek, finally returning to your lips, teeth grazing, tongue tangling.

Your back arches, nails digging into his arms, hips rolling involuntarily with his, and he leans into you harder, relishing the sound of your moans and the way your body folds around his. Every second, every touch, every gasp is like fuel, burning through him until all that exists is you, him, and the desperate, divine friction between you.

He’s trembling now, driven by the want and need he’s been pushing away, and the pressure builds in his chest and down his length. Your lips part, your hands clutching him as if keeping him from vanishing, and he knows he doesn’t want to stop. He can’t. Every inch of him is tethered to your reactions, your cries, your surrender.

“Please, Sam… don’t stop,” you gasp, and that’s all he needs. That’s permission and demand all in one, and he answers, hips snapping harder, thrusts deeper, marking you with the heat of his body, claiming every shiver, every gasp, every wet, needy moan that leaves your lips. 

Sam loses the last threads of restraint, his hands digging into your hips with almost feral intensity, knuckles whitening as he drives himself deep into you. Each thrust is precise, yet animalistic, dragging every inch of him through you, leaving fire in his wake. His lips find your nipple again, teeth grazing, tongue swirling, tugging and licking in tandem with the rhythm of his hips, as if he’s trying to claim every inch of your body with both mouth and hands.

You grip at his hair, tugging as though you could pull him closer, deeper, wanting more than just his body pressed against yours. The sound you make–half moan, half whine–fills the room, raw, ragged, almost pleading, and it drives him wild.

“S’close… I’m so close,” you gasp, voice trembling, broken with want, and utterly undone.

At your words, Sam’s hand slides down, settling against you, thumb brushing over your clit with a slow pressure that makes your hips jerk involuntarily, a shiver wracking through your body. His thrusts stutter, faltering for the barest moment as he revels in the way your body clenches around him, hot and needy, every slick fold of you slickening his length further. Your nails dig into his biceps, leaving shallow marks as your moans rise higher, sharper, a mixture of a whine and a scream that reverberates through him like electricity.

You tighten around him, slick coating him heavier with every shiver, every small whine, and Sam feels it deep in his core. Your body curls instinctively, trembling and writhing against him, desperate for release, and it’s almost too much to bear. He groans low, voice rough and unsteady, gripping your hips like he could anchor himself to you, trying to pace, trying to drag this moment out just enough to savor every arch, every shudder, every tiny cry that escapes you.

And then he watches, feels, your body unravel completely. Your muscles clench around him so hard, so tight, it makes him gasp in pleasure and disbelief. Sam has to pull back, slowly, reluctantly, letting his warm, thick release coat your stomach, the sensation mingling with your slick and your soft, ragged moans. Your cries combined with his own guttural groans fill the small motel room like an echo, a symphony of heat and tension finally unleashed.

He leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, slower this time, softer, breathless but grounded, tasting you in a new, intimate way. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb brushing lazily over his lower lip as if to anchor him even as your own body trembles, still tingling from the aftermath.

“So good, Sammy,” you whisper, voice thick and spent, yet full of satisfaction.

Sam lets out a low, tired chuckle, eyes flicking down to take in the soft curves of your body, then flicking back to your face, glinting with a playful light. “I’m Sammy after that?” he teases, voice husky with lingering need.

“Sorry,” you murmur, tugging his hair back from his forehead, a lazy, soft smile tugging at your lips. He watches you–worn out, vulnerable–and a rush of pride, smugness, and uncontainable heat courses through him. He had done this. He had finally pushed past the months of restraint, the agonizing tension, and now you were here, surrendered to him in a way that felt impossibly intimate.

“So, so good,” you breathe again, eyes glossy, lips parted. Sam tucks a hand into the crook of your neck, heart hammering. Not just from the physicality, though that’s undeniable, but because this was real. You were under him, holding him, full of him, and it felt impossibly right.

It was right. Sam swears to himself, tightening his grip ever so slightly, pressing his forehead against yours, and knows he’s not letting go. Not now, not ever. Finally, after holding back for so long, he has you, and he’s not letting anything, or anyone, interfere.

-

The burger joint is exactly what Sam expected: neon lights buzzing faintly in the window, a few cracked vinyl booths, and a sleepy man behind the counter flipping through a newspaper. The place smells like fryer oil and burnt coffee, but somehow that only makes it feel warmer, safer. A refuge from the motel and the things neither of you wants to face tonight.

The bell over the door gives a half-hearted jingle as you step inside, still leaning more into him than you realize. Sam guides you toward a booth tucked in the corner, one far enough away from the humming lights overhead, and you slide into the seat with a soft sigh like you’ve just put down the weight of the world. He sits across from you, stretching his long legs beneath the table until his knee bumps yours by accident. He pulls back immediately, jaw tightening, but not before catching the faint curve of a smile tugging at your lips.

The waitress shuffles over, hair pulled back into a loose bun, eyes heavy with exhaustion. You order a burger and fries without hesitation, slurring a little, and Sam adds a veggie burger and black coffee for himself. He doesn’t even like diner coffee, but right now he needs something to keep his hands occupied, something to stop him from staring too openly at you.

When the waitress leaves, the silence at the table feels both heavy and fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of breaking. You toy with a napkin, twisting it between your fingers, your eyes drifting toward the window as if you’re afraid to meet his. The neon sign outside throws shifting colors across your face–blue, then red, then back to blue again-and Sam finds himself memorizing each version of you as if they’re all different and equally important.

“You didn’t have to drag me here,” you murmur after a while, voice low and frayed around the edges.

“I wanted to,” Sam says simply. And it’s the truth, though it carries more weight than he means it to.

Your gaze flicks back to him then, sharp and searching, and for a moment it feels like you might see too much; like you might catch all the things he’s buried behind steady eyes and quiet words. But then you let out a small laugh, shaking your head, and reach across the table to steal the spoon from his coffee mug, tapping it against the rim. 

The food comes quickly, two plates sliding onto the table with a clatter. You dive in without hesitation, pulling a fry between your teeth, and Sam watches the way you eat like you haven’t in days. Something about it, something about the looseness of your grin when you realize there’s ketchup smeared at the corner of your mouth, it weakens him. He wants to reach across, thumb it away. He wants to memorize this version of you too, unguarded, tired, alive in a way that makes his head buzz. 

Instead, he takes a bite of his veggie burger and lets the bitter coffee ground him, reminding himself where he is, who he is, who you are. Reminding himself that wanting isn’t the same as taking.

The plates are long gone, but neither of you have moved. Sam sits slouched back against the booth, legs stretched forward, his long frame taking up too much space. He’s talking about nothing in particular–weather, the case, the diner’s terrible coffee–anything to keep you here a little longer, anything to keep your focus on him. You’re leaned forward on your elbows, chin neatly in your palms, and it takes every ounce of control for him to keep his gaze fixed on your face. You look too good tonight, and he hates himself for noticing as much as he does. You look soft, softer than you did on the dance floor: hair mussed, makeup slightly smudged, like you’ve been living inside this night longer than he has. The thin clothes you’re still wearing seem out of place here, against the peeling vinyl and fluorescent lights, and while a part of him wonders if you’re cold, another, more selfish part thanks whatever higher power is out there for keeping you exactly like this.

It’s always baffled him, the way Dean could have you, nearly all of you, and still let his attention drift to whoever else smiled his way. Sam has never had that luxury. His gaze has always stayed fixed, like he’s afraid to miss something if he blinks. He’s good at playing it cool, at burying every thought too loud to say, but then you reach up and tuck your hair behind your ear. The strands slip down the curve of your neck, exposing a strip of skin that makes the air feel thinner, and Sam looks away so quickly it almost hurts. The window beside him becomes suddenly fascinating, the passing headlights smearing against the glass as he sucks in a quiet, steadying breath.

“Still feeling drunk?” he asks, voice lower than he means for it to be, just to fill the silence he’s created. His fingers tap against the table in a restless rhythm, as if movement alone might keep him from thinking too much, from feeling too much.

You hum in response, and he catches the motion of you leaning back through the corner of his eye. He drops his head, looking down at his hands now, too tense, too aware of himself. He can feel your gaze on him, heavy and knowing, like you see through him more than you should. It pins him in place.

“Nah,” you say at last, your voice softened by a yawn, and he dares to glance up at you again. “Just ready for bed.”

And God help him, all he can think about is what it would mean if you asked him to follow. 

Sam nods once, a small, tight motion, and forces a smile that feels like it might crack if he holds it too long. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to shake off the tension coiled in them, but it doesn’t leave. His phone buzzes against the table, sharp and insistent, and your eyes flick down toward the sound. He takes the chance to look at you, really look, before dragging his gaze to the screen.

Dean: sam where are you shes gone ok come back

Sam exhales through his nose, a sound that could pass for a chuckle if you weren’t paying attention. But inside, his chest feels heavy, like something has settled there that won’t leave. Relief is there, sure, but tangled with guilt, anger, and something else he doesn’t have the guts to name. He slips the phone into his back pocket and rises to his feet in one smooth motion, forcing his mouth into a polite smile.

“Looks like you’re getting your wish,” he says lightly, but the words don’t feel light in his throat.

“We have the all clear?” you ask, brows raised, the corner of your mouth tugging into something that’s supposed to be teasing. There’s an ease to your voice, but he hears what’s underneath: the bitterness, the edge that reminds him why you’re even here with him in the first place. It’s one more reason for his resentment to simmer, another reason for the weight building behind his ribs.

He shrugs on his jacket, fingers fussing with the collar longer than he needs to, giving himself one last excuse to study you. The way your hair falls over your shoulder, the faint crease between your brows, the guarded set of your mouth. He swallows and shakes it off before it settles too deep, before it becomes something he can’t hide. Not tonight. Tonight, he just has to get you home, keep you steady, make sure you don’t spiral the way he’s watched you do too many times before.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice lower than he means it to be, clearing his throat as he steps aside and motions for you to go first.

You walk ahead with a kind of stubborn grace, like you’re determined not to let anything show, and Sam follows, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The night air bites at his skin, but it does little to cool him down. Every step feels louder than it should, and it’s not until halfway to the motel that you slow your pace and fall into stride beside him.

He feels you looking at him, head tilted slightly, fingers laced behind your back like you’re holding something in. He keeps his gaze trained on the road ahead, pretending to count the cracks in the pavement just to give you space, to keep from giving himself away.

“You make really good company, Sam,” you say finally. Your voice is quiet but warm, with a weight behind it that makes his stomach clench. It sounds simple, but it isn’t–there’s something else in it, something he almost wishes he could ignore because it makes it that much harder to be good.

He risks a glance at you, just long enough to catch the way your eyes glint under the streetlights, the softness there that could undo him if he let it. His throat feels tight, so he looks away again, focusing on the cold air spilling out of his mouth with every breath.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a little rough, his lips curling into a small, helpless smile. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

The silence that follows feels louder than anything, but neither of you break it. You stay close enough that your arms nearly brush, and Sam swears he can feel the warmth of you even through the chill. He tells himself to focus on the pavement, the sound of your steps, anything but how badly he wants to reach for your hand.

The motel room feels like it’s holding its breath when you and Sam step inside, the only sounds are the shuffle of your shoes and the soft thud of the door closing behind you. Dean is sprawled across his bed, boots kicked half-off, snoring so loudly it’s almost insulting. The sound seems to fill the entire space, and you glance at Sam with a faintly amused, faintly exhausted look that makes his mouth twitch despite himself. You shake your head, wordlessly, and disappear into the bathroom with your pajamas in hand.

Sam just stands there for a beat, glancing from the couch to Dean to the empty bed that will be yours. He lowers himself onto the couch without a second thought, deciding you’ve had enough to carry tonight. You shouldn’t have to give this up too.

The sound of running water fades, replaced by the soft hum of the bathroom fan, and Sam leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, palms pressed to his face. He’s not sure what he’s bracing for, but when the door finally opens and light spills into the room, he finds out.

You step out barefoot, hair a little damp where you must have splashed your face, swimming in a shirt that’s clearly stolen from one of them, probably Dean. The hem brushes mid-thigh, your legs bare except for the tiniest pair of shorts, and Sam drags a hand down his face like it might erase the thoughts crowding his head. You look delicate like this, quiet, almost domestic, and that’s what does him in. It’s not the shirt or the bare legs, it’s the illusion that this could be something else. That you could just belong here, like this, with him.

You catch his eye as you cross the room to your duffel, that tired little half-smile playing at your lips, and he can’t bring himself to look away until you duck under the covers. The room goes darker once the bathroom light clicks off, leaving only the soft glow from the streetlamp outside. Sam lays back, eyes shut, listening to the even rhythm of your movements as you settle.

Then your voice threads softly through the quiet, gentle enough that it almost doesn’t feel real. “Night, Sam.”

He smiles, just a small, private curve of his lips into the dark where no one can see. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he says back, his voice low and careful. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy, not with you breathing steadily just feet away and Dean’s snores sawing through the room, but for now, Sam lets himself pretend–just for a minute–that this could mean something more.

The next morning carries a strange, weightless quiet; familiar, but not quite right. The three of you move through the same routine as always, brushing teeth, pulling on boots, trading tired jokes, but underneath it all, something feels different.

You step out of the motel last, sunlight catching on your hair, and Sam forgets how to breathe for a moment. Your jeans sit low on your hips, the worn denim hugging you just right, and the thin white t-shirt you’ve thrown on rides just high enough that a strip of skin flashes when you move. Sam leans against the Impala, palm flat on the roof like he needs it to ground him, and tips his head away before anyone can see how hard he’s staring.

Dean, of course, sees enough. A low whistle leaves him, smug and casual. “Good lookin’, sweetheart.”

Normally you’d roll your eyes, toss back a sarcastic comment that would make Dean laugh. But today, you don’t even glance at him. You just keep walking, your mouth pulling into something that looks like a smile but isn’t. You cross the lot to Sam’s side, and Sam chokes back a scoff meant for his brother. Dean doesn’t notice–doesn’t seem to notice much at all–and that’s what needles Sam more than anything. He should notice when you’re hurt. He should care.

Sam’s still staring at Dean, jaw tight, when you catch his eye. You tilt your head toward the car with a little nod, casual but pointed. “You wanna sit in the back with me this time?”

Sam blinks at you, startled, and even Dean looks up from where he’s digging for his keys, his eyebrows jumping in surprise.

“What? Why?” Dean asks, not jealous, just confused.

You frown in mock offense, pressing an invisible tear under your eye. “Because you two always get to sit together and I get sad and lonely,” you deadpan, your voice light and playful again. But when your gaze swings back to Sam, there’s a quiet thread of sincerity there, just for him.

Sam’s mouth goes dry, but he nods before words can catch up. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly, a little too eager. “Yeah, sure.”

Dean shrugs it off, muttering something about how it’s your funeral if you want to be stuck with Sasquatch in the back, but Sam hardly hears him. His focus is already on you, the way you brighten just slightly at his answer, the way your hand lingers on the door handle before you pull it open.

As you slip into the backseat, Sam follows, ducking under the frame and sliding in beside you. The leather creaks under his weight, and for a fleeting moment, he’s struck by how strange it feels to be here, in your space, not Dean’s. Strange, but right. The Impala smells like oil and leather and the faint trace of your perfume clinging to the air between them. The sunlight cuts through the windows, catching the curve of your cheek as you turn your head toward the glass, and Sam feels the smallest, guiltiest flicker of gratitude that Dean’s eyes are finally on the road instead of you.

The drive ahead stretches out like a test of endurance, the kind that wears on all three of you before you’ve even cleared the city limits. The Impala hums beneath you, steady and low, the only constant against the passing blur of cars and neon signs and the distant, muffled rush of early-morning streets. Sam tries to focus. He tries to walk you and Dean through the details of the next case, voice even, laptop balanced on his knees, but he can feel how thin his concentration is, strung tight as wire.

In his defense, you make it impossible.

Every time he pulls up a new page, you lean closer to read, shoulder brushing his, hair falling just enough to ghost against his jaw. It’s innocent, probably–just you trying to be involved–but to Sam it feels like the air inside the car grows heavier every time you move closer. You study the screen intently, head tilted in quiet concentration, humming under your breath like you’re piecing it all together. He can’t help it. His gaze flickers away from the screen to watch you, tracing the subtle shifts of your expression, the way your lips press together when you think hard, the soft rise and fall of your breath.

The faint scent of your perfume wraps around him, clinging to his senses until it’s all he can smell. He can feel the heat radiating from where your arm almost rests against his, so close he swears he can feel the static building under his skin. He’s supposed to be explaining the case, supposed to be the responsible one, but every word in his head scatters like birds the longer you stay this close.

“Sam?”

Dean’s rough voice cuts through the haze, pulling Sam back so abruptly that his head snaps toward the driver’s seat, his neck actually cracking at the movement.

Dean glances at him in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow cocked. “You were saying?”

Sam clears his throat, snapping his laptop shut a little too fast, like he can physically force himself back into focus. “Right,” he says, voice a little hoarse, and opens it again, determined to look at the screen this time and not at you. “I think our best option is to check the morgue first, rule out anything with the bodies, then move on to the schools where the victims were taken from.”

You nod, eyes flicking to his screen, then click your tongue and tilt your head toward him, leaning back into your seat just enough that your thigh brushes against his. Sam stiffens immediately, a familiar, helpless heat rising in his chest, and he glances at you despite every rational part of him telling him not to.

“By the time we get there, it’ll be too late to do any of that,” you say softly, dragging the words out, a strange weight settling in your tone. “We’re going to have to wait it out until morning.”

There’s something in the way you say it, a subtle tension Sam can’t place. He tries to shrug it off, but can he ever shrug off anything with you? His eyes linger on yours, scanning, searching for whatever thoughts are behind them. Is it last night still gnawing at you? Is Dean’s presence pressing in on you? Or is it something else entirely, something unspoken?

“Wait it out…with some booze?” Dean’s voice slices through, catching your attention in the rearview mirror. Sam hears the soft sigh that escapes you, a small, resigned exhale that makes his lips twitch with amusement. Dean clearly isn’t reading the room at all.

“You can go ahead,” you huff, arms folding across your chest. You lean closer into Sam, seeking the small comfort only he seems to provide. Your eyes flick forward, trying to focus elsewhere, but he can feel the small hesitations in your posture, the tiny invitations you don’t quite voice.

Dean grumbles something incoherent from the front seat, and Sam ignores it entirely. Instead, he shifts slightly, letting his head tilt closer to yours, a quiet, amused smile tugging at his lips.

“No fun tonight?” he teases, his voice low, meant just for you.

You twist just enough to meet his gaze for a fleeting second before letting yourself settle back comfortably against him, shoulders brushing his. A faint, soft shake of your head follows, carrying an unspoken promise.

“I’ll have enough fun with you,” you murmur softly, almost like a secret.

It isn’t long before Dean pulls into the parking lot of a grimy, half-lit gas station, the kind of place that smells faintly of stale coffee and motor oil. Dean steps out of the Impala, and the weight of indecision presses down on Sam like a physical force. He lingered a moment in the backseat, tempted to stay tucked away, to savor the moment alone with you, but he knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to say the words that had been gnawing at his insides all morning. He forced himself to stand, dragging long, deliberate strides to catch up to Dean, whose casual swagger toward the gas station made Sam grit his teeth.

Inside, the lights buzzed overhead, harsh and sterile against the dull grime of the aisles. Dean immediately veered toward the R-rated magazine section, as if Sam wasn’t even there. Sam waited, jaw tight, letting Dean rifle through the covers of glossy, over-sexualized magazines, before finally raising one up for him to see. Sam’s hand shot out, shoving it away, his patience thin.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low and tight, eyebrows pinched.

Dean didn’t even look up, eyes flicking between two editions of Busty Asian Beauties with the precision of a man weighing a life-altering decision. “Uh…I’m trying to decide between these two,” he said, lifting the covers like they were fine wine or rare cigars. “This is a hard one.”

“No,” Sam said, firmer this time, tapping Dean’s shoulder with a sharp push. “About last night.”

Dean finally looked up, brows raising in that infuriating, casual way that made Sam’s chest tighten with something hot. “I was havin’ some fun, Sammy, you should try it sometime–”

“Not that,” Sam interrupted, almost strangled with disbelief. He couldn’t even bring himself to say your name; it made the whole thing feel too personal, too cutting. “Her.”

Dean’s gaze drifted to the window where you sat, half-leaning against the car door, absorbed in the lore book Sam had handed you. “What about her?” Dean asked, as if Sam’s rising anger was nothing more than background noise.

“You kicked her out of the motel so you could sleep with a stranger,” Sam spat out, frustration slicing through his words like a knife. His chest felt tight, every muscle pressed together. Dean blinked at him, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, and Sam’s irritation flared hotter.

“You’re saying that like I’m her boyfriend, dude, relax,” Dean replied, returning his focus to the magazines as if the last words hadn’t even been spoken.

Sam froze for a moment, letting the absurdity of his brother’s obliviousness sink in. He let out a slow, sharp breath and turned, walking away toward the snack aisle, letting his hands brush over the shelves, picking up whatever looked vaguely edible. His mind raced, not at the snacks, but at you.

He felt the ache in his chest, the way anger and longing collided. You didn’t deserve to be brushed aside, overlooked, treated as some casual amusement while someone else’s attention took priority. And yet, you had been so graceful, so composed, while Dean fumbled and flailed around your boundaries.

Sam’s hands hovered over bags of chips and candy, mind still buzzing around you, sitting there quietly in the car, absorbed in the book, patient, trying not to make a scene while the world of men around you failed spectacularly. His stomach twisted. Not from hunger, but from the weight of how badly you’d been treated, and how badly he wanted to be the one to make sure you knew what it felt like to be taken care of by a real man. By a man like him. 

Sam sinks back into the seat beside you, every muscle taut with a tension he can’t shake. He hadn’t waited for Dean to finish inside the gas station. The impulse to get back to you had been too strong. When you glance at him, curiosity flickering in your eyes, he almost softens, but doesn’t. You say nothing, and there’s a quiet relief in that restraint. You shift slightly, angling the pages of your book so he can see them, your back leaning lightly against his arm.  He glances down, trying to focus on the book instead of the curve of your neck, the softness of your shoulder brushing his arm, the way your hair falls over your cheek, catching the dim light.

He reaches into the bag, pulling out your favorite drink, and slides it toward you. “Hope you weren’t too sad and lonely while we were gone,” he says, voice low, a careful mix of teasing and something heavier, something he doesn’t name.

“Just lonely this time,” you reply, snickering softly, fingers curling around the bottle as you take a long sip. Sam’s gaze is drawn instinctively to your lips, watching the subtle curve as you drink, the gentle pulse of your throat, the tiny tremor of your hand as you catch a drop that escaped. 

He can’t help it. His mind betrays him, painting you in ways that are far too intimate, far too consuming. The casual brush of your finger across your chin becomes an electric spark in his imagination, a memory of something that hasn’t even happened yet, and it sends a chill through his body before he could stop it. You’re too close. You’ve been too close all day. The heat of you pressed against his side in the back seat had been a quiet form of torture, your knee brushing his once, twice, then staying there like it was no big deal. If he even breathed too deep, he swore he’d touch you.

It didn’t feel like an accident. It felt deliberate, like you were doing it on purpose just to see if he’d crack. And maybe that’s what messed with him most, because you weren’t careless. You weren’t dumb. You didn’t do anything without meaning to.

So why did it feel like you were baiting him? Was this just another way to get Dean’s attention, using Sam as the unlucky middleman, or was it something else? Something that curled sharp and hot in his gut because he wanted–really wanted–it to be just for him.

When Dean finally slid back into the driver’s seat, Sam almost sagged with relief. The silence in the car felt heavier than the miles slipping away beneath them, like something was wound too tight, just waiting to snap. Sunlight bled out of the sky, replaced by the long stretch of night, and your head lolled against the window as you dozed off, lashes soft against your cheeks.

You’re just drunk.

Sam turns the words over in his head like a prayer, clinging to them when you keep trying to shove past his limits. He’d thought he knew how the night would go: you and Dean working your way through half the bar, Sam nursing a couple of beers, steady as always. And in the end, he’d be the one to slide in the driver's seat of the Impala, headlights carving through the dark road, while you and Dean dissolved into each other in the back seat. Your giggles would be drowned out by the scrape of Dean’s mouth, and his hands would be too curious, too certain. Sam would keep his eyes on the road, ignoring the slow twist in his stomach. 

But he never predicted this. 

You tugged him from his post at the table and onto the dance floor, pulling him out of the safety of his laptop. At first he stood stiff, uncertain–he wasn’t nearly at the point you were, and you were already far gone, your body loose with liquor, moving like the music belonged to you. You weren’t much of a dancer, but with the help of more alcohol than any person your size should be consuming, every sway and spin landed perfectly. He only budged when your arms loop around his neck, drawing him close enough that your breath brushes against his skin, lips grazing the bottom of his ear.

“C’mon, Sammy,” you murmur underneath the hum of the music, your voice carrying a playful edge that almost makes him flinch. “Let loose a little.”

He lets out a nervous breath that almost passes for a laugh. His hands stay planted at his sides, holding him in place as if he’s scared of what they’ll do if they stray too close to you.

“I don’t really dance.” Sam admits, leaning close so you can hear him, his voice awkward in your ear, too stiff against the ease in yours. 

“Just move to the music.” you say, and instead of leaning in to hear him, you tilt your head, letting your body move to the rhythm. Your arms stay looped around his neck, and he has no other choice but to follow along. Still, he refused to reach out in return. He can’t.

Sam doesn’t know why you’re suddenly interested in spending time with him tonight. Not that you never did. But when you were like this – drunk, loose, needy – you always went to Dean. Never him. And even if every fiber of him ached to be the one pressed in the backseat with you instead, to feel your laugh vibrate against his mouth, the electric weight of your body under his hands… he had learned to ignore that feeling. 

So why now?

When your focus drifts to the music, pulling him close in a way that feels torturous, Sam finally allows his gaze to wonder. He catches a glimpse of Dean across the bar, unmistakably flirting with a woman who seems to think he’s the funniest guy she’s ever met with how much she’s giggling. That smirk, the glint in his eyes… Dean Winchester in his element. And suddenly, everything clicks.

He’s still not the one you chose. He’s just… here. 

Even knowing, even understanding how tangled it all is, Sam doesn’t pull away. He just keeps watching you, body obediently mirroring yours. The bass hums through the floorboards, the warm press of bodies around you both fading into a blur; except for you, always just you. God, he’s powerless against you. Somewhere deep down, he knew how wrong it all was–knew the line he shouldn’t cross–but the thought of stepping back never surfaced. Not tonight, not in the haze of late-night laughter and spilled drinks, not in the quiet hours in the motel room when you’d slip into his bed while Dean was out chasing someone else, not ever. He remains, bound to you by a thread he can’t name, and the weight of it lodges in his chest like a cancer. 

“You should dance more, Sammy,” you call over the music, voice cutting through the thump of the speakers. That nickname you keep saying–Sammy–just like Dean uses. Like he’s a kid, someone not to be taken seriously. He pushes the thought away, instead focusing on the warmth of your body brushing against his, the sway of your hips, the soft press of your hands running down from his neck and to his chest, and the closeness that makes his head spin.

“Yeah?” he manages, voice shaky, the uncertainty he can’t seem to shake on full display. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re a natural,” you answer, nodding with that loopy, mischievous smile tugging at your lips. It’s not the smirk you give to Dean, it's not the polite smile you save for strangers, no, this one is just for him. Sam swallows hard, caught off guard by the way your eyes light up when they meet his. Your hands trail lightly, teasing over the curve of his chest, and the heat of your gaze pins him in place. He wants to pull back, but he can’t. He wants to lean in closer, but he knows he shouldn’t. The room tilts, music pounding, chest tight, head spinning, and all he can do is try to anchor himself somewhere–anywhere–while the pull of you threatens to unravel him.

He shakes his head, trying to look away, and is rewarded with a soft giggle from you. It’s like a knife through him, sharp and sweet all at once, and he knows nothing will ever make this easier. 

After a few more songs, Sam finally manages to coax you off the dance floor–thank God. His head feels light, chest unsteady, like if it went on any longer he might actually collapse under the strain of pretending. He tries to slip back into the rhythm of the night as he knows it, the easy routine he clings to, but your fingers stay laced with his all the way to the table. That grip lingers, stubborn and warm, and it tells him enough: tonight is different, and it’s completely out of his control.

“Take a shot with me?” you grin, tugging him closer.

Sam steps back automatically, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. “No,” he says, an awkward smile tugging at his lips, too thin to hide the nerves behind it.

You boo dramatically, already half-turning toward the bar, swaying under the weight of too much liquor. Instinct kicks in and Sam pulls you back by your hand before he can think better of it. You glance up at him, curious, questioning, and he freezes, searching for words. They don’t come easily. After a long pause, he finally manages, “We should head back to the motel.”

“Why?” you draw out in what's almost a whine. “We’re having so much fun!”

Sam clicks his tongue, forcing himself through the motions, trying not to focus on the way you lean into him, warm and careless. “We have a long day tomorrow,” he says, then pauses, studying you the way he always does. He’s memorized your tells: the tilt of your mouth, the flicker of your eyes, the way your energy dips before you feel it yourself. He’s always known what you need before you know to ask. But you don’t know that. You never have.

“And I know you’re tired already,” he adds softly, more truth than excuse. 

He feels you soften under his hand, your weight giving just slightly, and any resistance drains from you. For a moment he lets himself hold on, lets himself imagine what it would feel like if this touch belonged to him, if the ground beneath his feet wasn’t always shifting. But when he glances down at your joined hands, reality rushes in, sharp and overwhelming. His chest tightens. He releases you, too quickly, like he’s afraid of being burned.

He distracts himself by gathering the scattered things on the table–his jacket, your bag–anything to keep his hands busy, to keep from reaching back for you. Dean’s things are missing: no jacket, no keys, no trace of him at all. Sam frowns, certain he must still be around. Dean never leaves him alone with you on nights like this. Never. But as Sam moves through the crowd, you stumbling after him, the truth starts to gnaw. He pushes through the door into the cool night air, scanning the lot. Empty space. The Impala is gone.

That wasn’t what he expected. 

He lets out a sharp, annoyed breath, the kind meant for Dean alone, something bitter and biting on the tip of his tongue. But when he turns to you, the words die in his throat like smoke.

The sight of you under the dim streetlights nearly undoes him. Your eyes shimmer, glossy and glass-bright, and there’s more there than just alcohol. Your hair has come undone from all the dancing, wild strands catching the glow of the lamp overhead, still framing your face in a way that twists something low in his gut. And your mouth–tugged down at the corners, unsettled–makes him pause. It’s as if you already know exactly where Dean is, exactly what he’s doing, and it bothers you more than you’ll ever allow yourself to admit.

Sam has always known what the two of you had; it’s etched into every corner of his memory, branded there whether he wants it or not. But feelings? This… wounded look? He hadn’t let himself imagine it. It stops him cold, takes the sting out of whatever sharp remark he’d been ready to make. Instead, his gaze softens despite himself.

You’re drunk, he tells himself, again and again. Too drunk to notice if he slips, if he shows the way he’s looking at you. Maybe you’d forget. Or maybe you wouldn’t, and you’d just bury it, deny it, like everything else you don’t want to face. The thought hollows him, but it doesn’t stop him.

“Guess we’re walking,” he says, voice low, steady, though it doesn’t feel steady inside him. You don’t answer right away. Your eyes are fixed on the empty space where the Impala should be, like if you stare hard enough it might just materialize, Dean sliding out with that easy grin to scoop you back up. But it doesn’t. It won’t.

Finally, you sigh, shoulders sagging, and let Sam guide you toward the street. The night air is cool, sharp against skin still overheated from the dance floor, and the echo of music fades the farther you walk. Your steps are uneven, weaving slightly, so Sam steadies you with a gentle hand at your elbow. It’s barely a touch. It’s really nothing at all, but to him, it feels like crossing some invisible line, like breaking a rule only he knows about. 

The streets are empty, save for the whir of a neon sign buzzing and the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You lean into him more than once, warm against his side, and Sam can’t decide if it feels like a mercy or a curse. He wants to memorize all of it–your hiccup-laughter, the brush of your fingers against his hand every time you stumble–but the more he allows himself, the less sure he is that he can make it through the night. Yet he clings to it all the same, because some part of you, however unsteady or blurred by drink, is still you. And some of you, even now, is better than nothing. 

By the time the motel glows in the distance, his thoughts are a mess, hands trembling though he hasn’t had nearly enough to drink for that. You’re shivering now, your clothes no match for the night. And all he wants–more than anything, more than the things he shouldn’t want–is for you to be warm, safe, unburdened. He wants to be the one who gives you that, though he knows it isn’t his to give you. 

At the door, you lean into the frame, eyes glassy but fixed on him as he fumbles for the key. His fingers slip, not from clumsiness but from nerves from the way you look at him without meaning to. You murmur about needing to pee, voice breaking into a whine, and he finally gets the key into the lock, only to find the top latch sealed.

Confusion flares for a heartbeat before the muffled sound inside makes everything clear. Dean. Dean with someone else.

Sam shuts the door hard, the echo sharp in the hallway.

“What–?” you start, turning, but his hand finds your arm too quickly, too firmly, pulling you away from the sound.

His chest feels like it might split. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to shield you, to protect Dean, or to save himself from the wreck of seeing your face when you put the pieces together. Maybe it’s all three. Maybe it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he can’t let you stand there and hear it.

“We can’t.” Sam’s voice comes out rougher than he means, his hand on your arm carrying a weight he hopes will steer you away. But the urgency only makes you dig your heels in harder, resisting with that same stubborn streak that’s both infuriated and undone him a hundred times before. He’s never hated it more than now, when it drags you closer to a truth you don’t need to hear.

You get near enough to the door that the muffled sounds bleed through the crack, unmistakable. And Sam watches, helpless, as your face changes. First disbelief. Then disgust, a twist of your mouth that makes his own frown deepen. And then–worst of all–indifference. A flicker of resignation so practiced it looks casual, like you’ve been here before and already built the walls high enough to take the blow.

Sam doesn’t move. He can’t. He just stands there, locked in place, watching you absorb it. Waiting to see if you’ll crack, if you’ll storm back inside, if you’ll break in front of him the way he sometimes fears you might. Instead, you step back from the door without a word, make your way to the curb, and drop down onto the cold concrete. You lean back on your hands, posture loose, almost careless. But Sam knows you too well: he can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your jaw locks, the faint tremor in your fingers. You’re pretending it’s nothing, pretending it doesn’t matter.

It makes him ache.

He hesitates before joining you, lowering himself beside you with the slow weight of someone carrying too much. A sigh escapes him, half frustration, half sorrow, and he scrubs a hand over his face before looking back at the door. “He’s being stupid,” Sam mutters, shaking his head, jaw tight. The words feel useless, but they’re all he has.

“Don’t.” Your voice cuts sharper than you probably mean, rough at the edges. You don’t look at him, not yet. “Don’t do that. It’s… whatever.”

And God, the way you say it–like it really doesn’t matter, like you’ve trained yourself to believe that, it makes Sam’s heart twist. He wants to argue, to tell you it does matter, that you matter, that you deserve better than nights like this and hurts you’ll carry quietly until no one notices anymore. The words snag in his throat, too heavy, too dangerous to say out loud.

The silence hums between you, filled only by the occasional buzz of the streetlamp overhead and the distant hum of traffic on the highway. He doesn’t know what words would help, what words wouldn’t break something fragile between you. But he knows one thing with certainty: he doesn’t want you sitting here alone, stewing in this kind of quiet.

He weighs his options. They could stay here, lingering in the glow of the streetlight until Dean finished whatever he was doing behind that locked door. But then you’d have to see it–the girl, the aftermath–and Sam can’t bear the thought of that expression returning to your face. The other option is to get you moving, give you something else to focus on, something as simple and solid as food. His stomach growls at the thought, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten much tonight anyway.

“Let’s go,” he says finally, voice firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. He pushes himself to his feet and offers his hand down to you. You tilt your head up at him, brows lifted like you’re testing his resolve.

“There’s a twenty-four-hour burger joint down the street,” he adds, coaxing, as if that might tip the scales.

You pause, lips twitching. “You don’t eat burgers.”

The smile sneaks up on him before he can stop it. “They’ve got veggie burgers,” he says, tilting his head, extending his hand with a little dip of insistence.

At last, you slip your hand into his, and he pulls you up easily, steadying you when your legs waver. You’re still a little woozy, and without thinking he catches your hip, the width of his palm spanning it like it belongs there. He feels the shiver that runs through you, though whether it’s from the cold or from him, he can’t be sure. You nod, small but sure, and his chest eases just a fraction.

“Your treat?” you tease, the lightness in your voice thin but welcome.

“Always,” he says, though you’ve already started ahead of him, steps uneven but determined.