Lobster's Library

❝ 𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝘆'𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 ! reader

❨ soldier boy m.list◝ 7teen. stay at home daughter. skinny brunette ﹫au

🖇 " you gotta stay pretty f'the cameras, princess, you're my image. "

VS "c'mon, baby, y'know you're the only thing that matters to me."

❝ 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿'𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 ! reader

❨ homelander m.list◝ 6teen. model. dumb blonde ﹫au

🖇 " they have to like you! don't you understand?!? if they want you dumb, then just. give. them. dumb! "

VS "if anyone so much as breathes wrong when you're in their near vicinity, they will be executed."

❝ 𝗯𝘂𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗿'𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 ! reader

❨ butcher m.list◝ 8teen. antihero. blackhaired mutt ﹫au

🖇 "if i tell you to jump, you say how high. are we fucking clear, luv?"

VS "you're the only good t'ing I have left, baby, please, forgive your old man for being so bitter."

❝ 𝗺𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗻'𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 ! reader

❨ mr mrathon m.list◝ 6teen. nepo baby. ginger(bread) doll ﹫au

🖇 "my era has finished, but yours is just getting started! i know you don't like the cameras, but do it for me..?"

VS "i love you so so so much, honey, i don't know what I did to deserve you, I don't even know how I raised you this right-"

❝ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽'𝘀 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿 ! reader

❨ the deep m.list◝ 7teen. hero trainee. brunette mermaid ﹫au

🖇 "I am YOUR FATHER, and you will listen TO ME! If you EVER pull one of those 'Im more morally correct than you' stunts again I'm throwing you into the sea WITH CEMENT SHOES!"

VS "sweetheart- sweetie- you know I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it. I will kill myself if you leave me, I swear I will. Try me. You'll have to live with that for the rest of your life."

🏷 ( @reginaphalangelobster , @whimsicalbunnys , @mavixgirl , @anqeliical , @rentaldarling , @zooweiner , @r4wrr3-xpp , @destenyyyyy )

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who still remembers the acute pain he felt when he told you about Strange’s spell through blood and bruises, and how you’d have to forget him. He doesn’t think he can ever forget the look on your face, either.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who practiced for hours in front of his mirror, trying to get the perfect speech to rehearse to you at the bookshop you worked at.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who mustered up all his courage to walk into that dingy little corner spot, scanning the shelves for your familiar face.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who found you helping out an elderly man in the nonfiction section, giving him your recommendations.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who watched you fondly as you rambled on about your favorite picks, recognizing that look that you got when you got to talk about something you loved.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who didnt realize you caught him staring until it was far too late, and failed to play it off in typical Peter fashion.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who approached you after the old man ambled off, rubbing at his neck with an apologetic smile already working its way onto his lips.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who exchanged introductions with you, then promptly forgot everything he had prepared to say to you.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who still managed to converse normally, though barely. He stumbled through the first couple sentences, but gradually promoted to a stutter and then the odd awkward pause.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who can only remember being this nervous around you the first first time that you met, way back in freshman year.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who was about to walk out of the store, newly purchased book (that you recommended) in hand and feeling optimistic about his future, when you called out his name hesitantly, and then slid a slip of paper over the counter to him. Holding it in his hands, he realized you were giving him your number.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who nearly died when you suggested shyly that maybe you two could get a cup of coffee sometime, to chat about life because, if you were being honest, you thought he was really cute.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who would be a complete and total liar if he said he didn’t develop a huge, overbearing crush on you before everything went to shit, but never said anything for fear that he might screw it all up.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who eagerly agreed and promised you he’d call or text, whichever you prefered, to set up a date and time.

Best Friend!Peter Parker, who walks out of that rundown bookstore with flaming cheeks and a goofy spring in his step. Because even if he had to start all over with you, at least it might be better the second time around.

————

The world had ended five years ago.

That was the only way to describe it, really. The sky was a permanent bruise of grey and sickly yellow, the air thick with ash and the distant screams of the Croatoan-infected. Buildings lay in ruins, cars rusted on highways that led nowhere, and the few humans that remained huddled in corners like frightened animals, waiting for the end that everyone knew was coming.

You stood in the middle of what had once been a military checkpoint, now reduced to a skeleton of rusted metal and shattered concrete. The place—Camp Chitaqua, Dean called it—was a desperate attempt at civilization in a world that had abandoned the concept entirely. People moved around you with hollow eyes, their faces gaunt, their movements mechanical.

Dean, your Dean, the one who had been ripped from 2014 alongside you, stood beside you, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek. He was talking to this universe's Dean, older, harder, with a cruel look in his eyes that made you shiver.

You tried to listen to their conversation, tried to understand what was happening, but your attention kept drifting. Something felt wrong. Something felt fundamentally, cosmically off in a way you couldn't quite name.

And then you saw him.

He was walking toward you, moving through the crowd with a languid, almost drunken gait. His once-pristine trench coat was gone, his tie was missing, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a triangle of pale skin. His hair was longer, dirtier, sticking up in wild tufts. And his eyes were bloodshot and glassy, pupils dilated wide.

But it was him. It was Castiel.

He stopped about ten feet away from you, frozen mid-stride. His mouth fell open slightly, his hand, which had been raising a joint to his lips, dropped limply to his side. The joint fell to the ground, forgotten.

"Cas?" Dean said sharply, your Dean. He stepped forward, frowning at his friend's strange behavior. "Cas, what the hell is wrong with you? This is—"

But Castiel wasn't listening to Dean. He was staring at you. Through you. As if you were a ghost he'd been waiting to see.

"Impossible," he breathed. His voice was rougher than you remembered, scratchy and slurred. "You're… you're not real. I'm too high. I'm too fucking high."

Your heart lurched. This wasn't your Castiel. This was a version of him from this broken timeline, a version you had never met. But there was something in his eyes, something raw and desperate and aching that made you want to reach out to him.

"I am real." you said softly, taking a tentative step toward him. "I'm from… I'm from 2014. Zachariah sent us here, but I'm real. I promise."

Castiel's eyes searched your face, frantic and disbelieving. Then, without warning, he crossed the distance between you in three long strides and wrapped his arms around you.

It wasn't a casual hug. It wasn't a friendly embrace. It was a clinging, desperate, devastated clutch, like a drowning man grabbing onto driftwood. He buried his face in your hair and pulled you so tight against his chest that you could barely breathe.

"You're dead," he whispered against your ear, his voice cracking. "You died. I saw you die. I held you while you bled out and I couldn't- I couldn't do anything-"

You stood frozen in his arms, your own hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. This wasn't your Castiel. Your Castiel was still back in 2014. But this Castiel… this Castiel was hurting. This Castiel had lost you, and the grief was written in every line of his trembling body.

Slowly, hesitantly, you wrapped your arms around him and held him back.

Behind you, you heard Dean's sharp intake of breath. "What the hell is this?" He was looking at the older Dean, his eyes wide with sudden understanding. "In this timeline… she's dead, isn't she?"

The older Dean's silence was answer enough.

"Son of a bitch." Dean whispered. "and this Cas loves her or something?"

"Loved her," the older Dean repeated bitterly. "He doesn't love her anymore. The bastard's been fucking anything that moves since she died."

"Dean," you said sharply, pulling back slightly from Castiel's embrace. "That's not fair. You don't know what he's been through."

You didn't know why you were defending him. Maybe it was because you could feel the trembling in his shoulders, the desperate way his fingers were still digging into your back. Maybe it was because you knew, deep down, that if you lost your Castiel, you would fall apart too.

Castiel pulled back just enough to look at you, and what you saw in his eyes made your breath catch.

They were filled with tears.

The angel—the former angel—was crying. He looked younger like this, vulnerable, broken in a way that made your heart ache.

"I never got to tell you.." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, it was obvious, you knew that and I knew that you knew but- I was going to tell you that night. Before the raid. I had it all planned out, and then you were gone, and I never-"

He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

You reached up and cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing away the tears. "Tell me now," you said softly. "Tell me now, Castiel. I'm listening."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he breathed. "I've loved you since the moment I pulled you out of that burning building three years ago. You were covered in soot and screaming at me to save Dean first, and I thought… I thought this is what humans are supposed to feel. This is love. And I wanted.." His voice broke. "I wanted to feel it forever. With you."

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. This wasn't your Castiel. This was a version of him from a timeline where you were dead, where he'd had years to mourn you. But the words still hit you like a physical blow, because they were the words you'd been longing to hear from your own Castiel for months.

"I love him." you whispered, and you didn't know if you were talking about this Castiel or your own. Maybe both. "I love him so much, and I haven't told him or dona anything about it because.. angels can't… I- he won't…"

"He will." Castiel replied fiercely. "He does. I do. I love you, and I would give anything to go back and tell you, to spend one more night with you, just one-"

"Castiel." the older Dean interrupted, his voice harsh. "She's not her. You can't-"

"Don't." Castiel snapped, his eyes flashing with something that looked almost like his old angelic fury. "Don't you fucking dare take this from me. She's here. She's here, and I don't care how or why, I'm not letting her go again."

He grabbed your hand, his grip almost painfully tight, and started pulling you away from your Dean and his Dean.

"Where are we going?" you asked, stumbling after him.

"Somewhere private," he said, his voice rough. "I need to- I need to talk to you. Alone. Please."

You looked back at the two Deans, your Dean's eyes wide with concern. "It's okay!" you called out. "I'll be fine. I promise."

Your Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but something in your expression must have convinced him. He nodded once, jaw tight, and watched you disappear into the maze of tents and makeshift shelters.

Castiel's cabin was small and cluttered, filled with the detritus of a man who had given up on order. Empty bottles lined the shelves, dirty clothes were piled in corners, and the bed (a narrow cot pushed against the wall) was rumpled and unmade.

But you barely noticed any of it. You barely noticed anything except the way Castiel was looking at you, like you were the first real thing he'd seen in five years.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, running a hand through his dirty hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just grabbed you like that, I shouldn't have-"

"Castiel." You stepped closer to him, reaching out to take his hand. "Stop apologizing."

He flinched at your touch, but didn't pull away. "You don't understand. I'm not… I'm not the person you remember. I'm not the angel you know. I'm-" He laughed bitterly, gesturing at the mess around them. "I'm this. I'm a junkie. I'm a disgrace. I've done things that would make you sick."

"Then show me." you said softly.

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Show me who you are now." You squeezed his hand gently. "I'm not going to judge you, Castiel. I could never judge you. I just want to understand."

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then, slowly, he reached up with his free hand and touched your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw like he was memorizing you.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "You were always beautiful. I used to watch you sleep, you know. After we'd come back from a hunt, when you were exhausted and vulnerable, I would just… watch. I was so afraid you'd wake up and catch me, but I couldn't stop myself."

Your breath caught. "Does my Castiel do that?"

"Oh, he sure does, though in 2014 I still didn't have a fucking clue I did out of love rather than the 'duty to protect'." he said simply. "I loved you so much it hurts me. And I was too afraid to tell you because I didn't think I deserved you. That I deserved more than what we had, kissing, sleeping around, having it without naming it. I thought-" His voice cracked. "I thought I'd drag you down. That being with me would get you killed."

"But you didn't drag me down," you said. "I chose this life. I chose to be with you."

"You did," he agreed. "And I let you. And then I watched you die, and there was nothing I could do to save you. I screamed your name over and over, I begged God to bring you back, and He didn't listen. He never listened."

Tears were streaming down his face again, and you reached up to wipe them away. He caught your wrist, his grip almost desperate.

"I've been with so many people since my you died," he confessed, his voice low and ashamed. "So, so many. I thought maybe if I just… if I could find someone who reminded me of you, just a little bit, I could feel something again. But they never did. They were never you. And every time, every single time, it just made the hole in my chest bigger."

"Then why did you keep doing it?" you asked, not accusing, just curious.

He laughed, a broken sound. "Because it was the only time I could remember what it felt like to be close to you. I'd close my eyes, and I'd pretend. I'd imagine it was you, and for just a moment, I'd feel like I wasn't completely alone."

You couldn't take it anymore.

You surged forward and kissed him.

He made a sound against your lips.. surprise, relief, desperate longing, and then his hands were in your hair, pulling you closer, and he was kissing you back like you were the air he'd been drowning without.

The kiss was messy and frantic and everything you'd ever wanted. You'd spent months dreaming about kissing your Castiel, wondering what it would be like, and now here was this version of him, giving you everything you'd ever wanted.

"I need you," he gasped against your lips. "I need to feel you. Please. Please let me. Just once. Just one more time. I promise I'll let you go after this. I promise I won't-I won't keep you. I'll let you go back to your time and your Castiel and I won't-"

You silenced him with another kiss, deeper this time, your tongue sliding against his. He made a desperate, needy sound, and you felt something inside you shift.

This wasn't your Castiel. But he was a Castiel. And he needed you. He needed you so badly, so desperately, that it broke your heart.

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, Castiel. I want this. I want you."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you could taste the salt of his tears and something else, something that might have been hope.

You guided him backward toward the cot, your lips never leaving his. He was trembling, you realized, his whole body shaking with barely suppressed emotion. This wasn't the confident, commanding angel you knew. This was a broken man, desperate for any scrap of comfort you could give him.

"Lie down, Cas." you whispered against his lips, pushing gently at his chest.

He complied immediately, sinking onto the rumpled blankets with a soft groan. His eyes were glassy, his chest heaving, and he looked up at you with an expression of pure, naked need.

"Please," he begged, reaching for you. "Please, I need to feel you. I need to know this is real."

You climbed onto the cot, straddling his hips, and leaned down to kiss him again. He whimpered—actually whimpered—and his hands found your waist, gripping you like you might disappear at any moment.

"You're so good," you murmured against his lips. "You're so good, Castiel. I've got you."

"I don't deserve this," he said, his voice breaking. "I don't deserve you. After everything I've done-"

"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips. "None of that. I don't care about what happened in this timeline. I care about you. Right here, right now, you're the only thing that matters."

His eyes fluttered closed, and a single tear slipped down his cheek. You kissed it away, then moved to his neck, pressing soft kisses along his throat.

"Tell me what you need," you whispered. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you."

"You," he breathed. "Just you. I need you to touch me. I need to feel your hands on me. Please."

You sat up slightly, looking down at him. He was a wreck: hair mussed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with unshed tears. But he was beautiful. So impossibly beautiful.

Slowly, deliberately, you reached down and began to unbutton his shirt.

His breath caught. "What are you.."

"Shh," you soothed. "Let me take care of you. Just relax."

He nodded, swallowing hard, and let his hands fall to his sides. You pushed the shirt open, revealing the pale skin of his chest, and you couldn't help the soft sound of appreciation that escaped your lips.

"You're beautiful," you said, running your hands over his chest. "You're so beautiful, Castiel."

"Don't," he whispered, flinching slightly. "Don't say that. I'm not-"

"You are." You leaned down to press a kiss to his sternum. "You're beautiful, and I love you, and I'm going to make you feel so good tonight. Just let me."

He stopped arguing after that.

You worked your way down his body, pressing kisses to every inch of exposed skin you could reach. His stomach quivered beneath your lips, and his hands tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding on.

When you reached the waistband of his jeans, you looked up at him. "This okay?"

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, please, yes."

You made quick work of his belt and button, pulling his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. He was already hard, and the sight of him like this, so vulnerable, so desperate, sent a thrill through you.

"Tell me what you want." you said, wrapping your hand around him.

He gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Anything- fuck-" he choked out. "Anything you'll give me. Please."

"Such a good boy," you murmured, and the words made him shiver. "lemme take care of you."

"Oh," he gasped. "Oh, that's—that's—"

You stroked him slowly, watching his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut and his lips parted. He was so responsive, so beautifully undone by the simplest touch.

"More," he begged. "Please. Please. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to the head of his cock, and he sobbed, his whole body shuddering.

"Please," he gasped. "Please, I can't- I can't-"

You took him into your mouth, and he shattered.

He cried out, his hips bucking, his hands fisting in your hair. You took him deeper, working him with your tongue and your lips, and he was a wreck beneath you, shaking and crying and begging.

"Please," he was saying, over and over. "Please, please, please."

You hummed around him, and he came, spilling into your mouth with a broken cry. You swallowed, then pulled back, licking your lips.

He looked wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. His chest was heaving, his eyes were glassy, and there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I couldn't- you felt so good and.."

"Don't be sorry," you said, crawling up his body to kiss him. "That was beautiful."

He stared at you with those impossibly blue eyes, and you could see the war going on inside him: the shame and the guilt and the desperate, aching need.

"I want to be inside you," he whispered. "Please. I need to feel you around me. I need to know you're real."

It was your turn to feel a shiver of anticipation. "Yes," you breathed. "Yes, Castiel. Make love to me."

He flipped you onto your back with a strenght that surprised you, positioning himself between your legs.

His hands were shaking as they worked at the buttons of your shirt. He was clumsy, his fingers fumbling, and after a moment he made a frustrated sound and just pulled, ripping the fabric open.

"I'm sorry- m'sorry-" he said, but there was a smile in his voice. "I'll buy you a new one. I'll buy you a thousand new ones."

You laughed, and it felt like the first real thing you'd done since arriving in this nightmare timeline. "Castiel, there are no stores."

"I'll find one here and your Castiel can buy you more-" he said, and then his mouth was on your throat, and you forgot about stores and shirts and everything else.

His hands found your breasts, cupping them through your bra, and he made a sound of pure reverence. "I remember these," he murmured against your skin. "I remember the shape of them. The weight. I remember the sound you used to make when I touched you here-"

He brushed his thumb over your nipple, and you gasped, your back arching into his touch.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, just like that. I remember. I remember everything."

His mouth trailed down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He was murmuring against your skin, words of praise and desperation that made your head spin.

"I love you," he said again, his voice raw. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"I know," you whispered, stroking his hair. "I know, Cas. I love you too."

He nodded, swallowing hard, and reached down to guide himself to your entrance. He paused there, his forehead pressed against yours, trembling.

"I missed this," he said, his voice breaking. "I missed you. Every night. Every single night, I dreamed of this- of you- and I woke up alone."

"I'm here now," you said. "Now please, Cas. I need you."

He pushed inside you, slowly, so slowly, and you both gasped. He was perfect, so perfectly filling you, stretching you in all the right ways.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel- you feel so-"

"Move," you begged. "Please, Cas, move."

He did.

His thrusts were slow and deep, each one hitting that perfect spot inside you. He was so careful, so tender, as if he was afraid of breaking you. His eyes never left yours, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

"Good?" he asked, and his voice was desperate. "Is this good? Am I making you feel good?"

"So good," you breathed. "So good. But you can go harder with me." you encouraged. "I can take it. I can take all of you."

He obeyed, picking up the pace. But he never lost that tenderness, that overwhelming sense of worship in every touch. His hand found your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and you gasped at the sensation.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let go for me, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around me. Please. I need it. I need—"

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and you cried out his name, your body clenching around him. He groaned, burying his face in your neck, and you could feel him shaking with the effort of holding back.

"So good," he breathed. "You're so good for me. I love you so much. I love—"

He came with a strangled gasp, spilling inside you as his body shuddered above you.

But he didn't stop.

"Again," he murmured, already hard again, still inside you. "I need more. I need to feel you again. Please. Just one more time. I missed this so much, I need more."

You whimpered as he started moving again, his thrusts more desperate this time, more frantic. He was chasing something—the memory of you, the feeling of being whole, the desperate need to fill the void you'd left in him.

"One more," he pleaded, his hips driving into yours. "Just one more, baby, please. I need to hear you come again. I need to feel you."

His fingers found your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you could feel the pressure building again.

"Look at me," he begged. "Please, I need to see your eyes."

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and what you saw there made your heart ache. He was crying again, tears streaming down his face, but there was something else in his eyes: hope. Real, genuine hope.

"I love you," he said again, and the words sounded like a prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love-"

You came again, harder this time, and he followed you over the edge with a broken moan.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight warm and comforting, his face buried in your neck. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, could feel the desperate way he was clinging to you.

He was trembling, you realized. The adrenaline was fading, and the reality of what had just happened was settling over him.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, pulling back to look at you. "I shouldn't have- I don't have the right to-"

"Stop." You pressed a finger to his lips. "I wanted this too. I've wanted this for months. You don't have to apologize for giving me what I wanted."

"I'm not your Castiel," he said, his eyes filling with tears again. "I know that. I know I'm just some broken version of him, and you deserve better-"

"You're not 'just' anything." You cupped his face in your hands. "You're Castiel. The same Castiel I fell in love with. You've been through hell, and you made some choices you're not proud of, but that doesn't change who you are. That doesn't change how I feel about you."

"But what happens when you go back?" he asked, his voice breaking. "What happens when I have to watch you leave?"

You didn't have an answer for him. The truth was, you didn't know if you could go back. And part of you—a selfish, desperate part—didn't want to.

"Then I'll make sure to avoid this future," you said finally. "I will fix this, I will never die, never leave you. I promise."

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I love you," he said, and the words were a promise. "I'll never stop. Even if you leave, even if you go back to your timeline and forget about me-"

"I could never forget you," you interrupted fiercely. "Never. You're a part of me now. Both versions of you. I will never forget you."

He kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you felt a tear slip from his eye onto your cheek.

"Stay," he whispered against your lips. "Just for tonight. Please. Let me hold you."

"Always," you answered. "I'll stay as long as you need me."

He pulled the blankets up over both of you, tucking you against his chest like you were something precious. His legs tangled with yours, his arms wrapped around you, and you could feel the steady thump of his heart against your back.

"I never thought I'd get to hold you again," he murmured into your hair. "I dreamed about it every night, but I never thought.."

"Shh," you soothed. "I'm here, I'm here.."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "When you fall asleep, I'll watch," he said softly. "I used to watch you sleep, back when we were together. It was the only time I felt at peace."

"That's sweet," you murmured, your eyes already growing heavy. "Creepy, but sweet."

He laughed—a real laugh, the first you'd heard from him—and it was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard.

"I love you." he said one more time, as if he couldn't say it enough.

"I know," you answered. "I love you too, Cas. Now sleep."

He fell asleep with his arms wrapped around you, his lips pressed to your hair, and for the first time in five years, he didn't dream about losing you.

Because, for tonight at least, he had you back.

The Impala's engine rumbled beneath them like a living thing, its familiar growl filling the comfortable silence that had settled over the car. Dean's eyes were fixed on the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching for the half-empty beer bottle wedged between his thighs. The highway stretched out before them, endless and dark, the only illumination coming from the headlights cutting through the oppressive blackness of the rural Kansas night.

In the backseat, Sam Winchester sat with his long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped space, his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight. He'd been like this for days now. All coiled tension and barely suppressed irritation, snapping at the smallest things, his patience worn thinner than the tires on Baby after a particularly rough hunt.

You sat beside him, pressed against the opposite door, your posture relaxed despite the uncomfortable position. Your dark sunglasses were perched on your nose even in the darkness of the car, the thick frames and heavily tinted lenses hiding your eyes from view. Black long-sleeved shirt, black jeans, black boots—you looked like you'd stepped out of a noir film, all sharp angles and shadows. The only splash of color was your skin, almost luminous in the dim light filtering through the windows.

Three weeks. Three weeks of sleeping in cramped motel rooms with only one bed, three weeks of Sam's body screaming for relief and getting nothing but frustration. He couldn't even jerk off, not with Dean sleeping two feet away, not with you standing guard just outside the door with your supernatural hearing, not with the constant threat of monsters lurking in every shadow.

It was driving him slowly, torturously insane.

His jeans felt too tight. Everything felt too tight. His skin, his muscles, his control: all of it stretched to the breaking point. Every time you shifted beside him, every time your arm brushed against his, every time he caught a whiff of your scent, something clean and sharp and utterly foreign, his body responded with embarrassing eagerness. His cock would twitch in his pants, filling with blood, and he'd have to shift his position to hide the evidence of his desire.

God, he was pathetic.

A seventeen-year-old with his first crush couldn't have been more needy, more obviously desperate. He could feel the heat in his cheeks every time you so much as glanced in his direction, and he was absolutely certain you could hear his heartbeat racing whenever you got too close. Your supernatural senses had to be picking up on his agitation, his arousal, his complete inability to function like a normal human being around you.

"Alright, listen up," Dean said suddenly, breaking the silence. He pulled the Impala to the side of the road, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as he came to a stop. "I'm going to go find that bar we passed about two miles back. The one with the.." he paused, a grin spreading across his face. "blondie. The one who was giving me the look."

Sam's jaw tightened even further. "Dean, we're on a hunt. We don't have time for you to-"

"Relax, Sammy." Dean waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be back in a few hours. You two can sleep in the car—or not sleep in your case, vamps." he added, glancing at you with a wink. "Just keep an eye on my Baby while I'm gone. If I come back and she's got a single scratch on her, I'm blaming you."

"Dean."

"Sam." Dean's voice took on a sharper edge. "I haven't gotten laid in two weeks. I'm about to crawl out of my skin. And you've been in a shit mood for days, so honestly, I could use a break from your bitchy face. I'll be back before sunrise."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. What was the point? Dean was already getting out of the car, already striding away with that confident swagger he'd perfected over years of hunting and womanizing. Within seconds, he was just a dark shape on the road, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared around a bend.

The silence in the car was deafening.

Sam could feel you beside him, your presence radiating a strange kind of stillness. You didn't breathe, not really. Not in the way humans did. You'd fake it for the sake of appearances when around other people, but Sam knew you didn't need it. You were just... existing. Waiting. Watching.

He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that would be comfortable for his aching body. The movement jostled his legs, and he felt the unmistakable pressure of his hardening cock against his zipper. God, he'd been half-hard for hours now. It was getting worse by the minute, the heat in his gut building to a fever pitch.

He thought about the hunt they'd just finished. The vampire nest they'd cleared out, the bodies they'd burned, the constant fear that one of them would get bitten or turned. And here he was, sitting next to another vampire and all he could think about was how fucking bad he wanted to get his hands on you.

What was wrong with him?

His dick didn't care about morality. His dick didn't care about the danger. His dick only cared about the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you looked at him from behind those dark glasses. His dick only cared about the fact that you were a vampire, something dangerous, powerful, dark, and everything inside him wanted to submit to that darkness, to give in to the primal urge that had been building for weeks.

"I know you know."

The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He winced, turning his head to look at you. You were already watching him, your head tilted slightly, an expression he couldn't quite read on your face.

"I know you can hear it," he continued, his voice rough. "My heart. It's been pounding like crazy for the past few days. And you've definitely seen—" he gestured vaguely at his lap, where the unmistakable bulge in his jeans was pressing against the fabric. "—that, by now. So just... just go outside. Give me five minutes. Ten minutes, tops. I'll take care of it, and we'll never speak of this again."

The silence stretched between you for a long moment.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across your face. It was a dangerous smile, the kind that promised trouble and pleasure in equal measure. Sam felt his stomach drop, his cock twitching with sudden interest.

"What's so funny?" he asked, hating how defensive his voice sounded.

"You're so cute when you're flustered, Sam." Your voice was low, smooth, like honey poured over steel. "All that big, strong hunter attitude, and here you are, asking me to give you a little privacy so you can get yourself off. It's adorable, really."

Sam's face burned. "It's not- I'm not-"

"Not what?" You shifted closer, your body sliding across the seat until you were pressed against his side. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through his system, and he had to bite back a moan. "Not desperate?"

He let out a whiny sound of complain that would have embarassed him into an early grave if his brain wasn't deprived of blood enough to notice it.

"I'm a vampire, Sam." You reached up, your cool fingers brushing against his jaw. He shuddered at the contact, his eyes fluttering closed. "I know everything. I know you've been dying to get your hand down your pants, not that you could with Dean snoring right next to you or me keeping watch outside the door."

Your hand slid down his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. He was trembling now, his body reacting to your touch with a hunger he couldn't control.

"Let me help you," you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. "I can do it better than your hand."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. "You... you don't have to do this. I'm fine. I can-"

"You can't." Your voice was firm, insistent. "You've been pent up for weeks, Sam. I can practically taste it on you. Your need. Your desperation. It's.. intoxicating."

You pulled back, and he could have sworn he saw something flicker in your eyes behind those sunglasses. "Don't you want to know what it's like? To have me take care of you?"

Sam swallowed hard. Every rational thought in his head was screaming at him to say no, to push you away, to pretend this conversation had never happened. But his body, his stupid, traitorous body, was already leaning into your touch, his hips shifting to create more pressure against his aching erection.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice cracking. "God, yes."

Your smile widened. "Come on, then."

He was moving before he could think, lunging across the backseat and crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the kind of raw need that came from three weeks of denial. You made a sound against his mouth—surprise, pleasure, he couldn't tell—and then you were kissing him back, your cool hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

Sam groaned into your mouth, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. This was what he'd been craving. This was what he'd been dreaming about. Your lips, your taste, the way you moved against him like you wanted to devour him whole—

"Sam," you breathed against his mouth, and the sound of his name on your lips almost sent him over the edge right there. "Sam, slow down. We have time."

"I don't want to slow down," he gasped, his hands finding your hips, pulling you into his lap. "I've been waiting for weeks. I can't—I need—"

"I know." Your lips traced along his jaw, down his throat, and his head fell back against the seat with a thud. "I know, baby. I've got you. Just let me take care of you."

His hands tangled in your hair as you kissed your way down his neck, your teeth grazing his skin in a way that made him shudder. He could feel your fangs, just barely there, and the knowledge that you could bite him at any moment sent a thrill of fear and desire straight to his core.

But you didn't bite. Not yet.

Instead, you pulled back, looking down at him with that same unreadable expression. "You've been so patient," you murmured, your hand sliding down his chest, over his stomach, to the button of his jeans. "So good for me. I think you deserve a reward, don't you?"

His mind was a haze of sensation and need. He could feel every inch of you against him, the coolness of your skin through your clothes, the subtle shift of your muscles as you moved atop him. He could smell you, too.. that strange, clean scent that drove him crazy, and taste you on his lips, something metallic and sweet, like copper and honey.

"I'm going to lose my mind," he muttered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I've been so fucking pent up, and you're so-" He broke off with a groan as you arched, your hips meeting his in a perfect rhythm.

"So what, Sam?" Your voice was teasing, almost playful. "So what am I?"

"So fucking perfect," he breathed. "So dangerous. So... everything."

You laughed, a soft, musical sound that made his heart stutter in his chest. "You're sweet, Sam Winchester. Stupid, but sweet."

"Stupid?" He pulled back, his eyes wide. "How am I-"

"Because you're about to lose control," you said calmly. "Because you've been holding back for so long that you're about to come in your pants like a teenager. And you think I'm not going to notice?"

Sam's face flamed. "I'm not- I can control myself-"

"Can you?" Your hand slid down further and he practically sobbed at the feeling. When you reached his belt, you paused, your fingers hovering over the buckle. "Because I think you're right on the edge, Sam. I think you've been on the edge since the moment Dean left. And I think you need someone to push you over."

He didn't have words. He couldn't form thoughts. All he could do was nod, his eyes fixed on your hands as they worked at his belt.

"Then let me help you," you said softly. "Let me give you what you need."

The next few minutes were a blur of desperate movement and barely controlled noise. Sam's hands fumbled at his jeans, trying to get them off while you worked at your own clothes. The Impala's backseat was cramped and awkward, practically no room to maneuver, but neither of you cared. The need was too great, the urgency too overwhelming.

Somehow, you ended up with Sam on his back, his jeans and boxers shoved down around his thighs, his cock standing proud and aching against his stomach. And you were on top of him, your legs straddling his hips, your own pants and panties discarded somewhere on the floor of the car. He could feel you, the heat of you, the wetness of you, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to thrust up into you like a fucking animal.

"You're so big," you breathed, your voice filled with wonder and heat. "Sam, you're fucking huge."

He groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "Fuck- don' say that shit to me-"

"What?" You chuckled breathlesly as you leaned forward, your hair falling around his face like a dark curtain. "It's the truth, Sammy."

You lowered yourself fully onto him, and Sam saw stars.

The feeling was indescribable, your heat enveloping him inch by agonizing inch. He was so hard it hurt, so desperate he could barely breathe, and you were so tight, so perfect, so fucking good. He moaned, a broken, desperate sound that he'd be embarrassed about later. Right now, all he could do was feel.

"That's it," you murmured, your hips rolling against his. "That's it, Sam. Let me have you."

He did. He let you have everything: his control, his worries, his fear of the darkness inside him. He let himself sink into the feeling of you, the pleasure of your body moving against his. And when you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his neck, he almost came right there.

"Bite me."

The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He heard them echo in the small space of the car, felt the shock of his own need ripple through his body. His hands tightened on your hips, his hips thrusting up into you even as he spoke.

"Please. Please, bite me. I need it. I need to feel your fangs in my neck, to feel you drink from me. Please, please, please-"

You froze above him, your eyes wide behind your sunglasses. "Sammy-"

"Fuck, please." He was begging now, and he didn't even care. "I've been dreaming about it for weeks. It's all I can think about. I've been so fucking hard just from the fantasy of it, and now- please. Please, just-"

"Sam, that's... that's a lot." Your voice was softer now, almost tender. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation, no doubt. "Yes, I'm sure. I want this. I want you."

For a long moment, you just looked at him. Then slowly, so slowly, you leaned forward once again, your breath warm against his neck. He could feel your fangs grazing his skin, sharp and dangerous, and his entire body shuddered with anticipation.

"Tell me again," you whispered. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to bite me," he whined, his voice rough with need. "I want you to drink my blood. I want you to make me yours."

"Yes." He felt your lips curve into a smile against his skin. "Yes, Sam. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

And then your teeth sank into his neck.

The pain was sharp and shocking, a burst of white-hot agony that made him cry out. But it was followed by something else.. something incredible. Pleasure flooded through him, hotter and more intense than anything he'd ever experienced. The feeling of your mouth on his neck, of your fangs deep in his flesh, of his blood flowing into your mouth..

His orgasm hit him like a freight train. He came harder than he'd ever come in his life, his hips bucking up into you as his cock pulsed and spilled inside you. He could feel your own climax, your muscles clenching around him as you milked him for everything he had. And still, you drank from him, your fangs buried in his neck, his blood flowing into your mouth in a slow, steady stream.

He felt lightheaded, disconnected from his body. The pleasure was so intense, so all-encompassing, that he couldn't tell where he ended and you began. He was just sensation, just feeling, just pure, blissful surrender.

Eventually, you pulled away, your tongue laving over the wounds on his neck. He whimpered at the feeling, his cock twitching weakly inside you. Your lips brushed against his jaw, his cheek, his lips. leaving a trail of soft, tender kisses that seemed almost reverent.

"Sam," you whispered. "Sam, wake up."

He blinked, his eyes focusing on your face. He hadn't realized he'd closed them, had forgotten he had a body. Your glasses had been discarded somewhere sometime, and he could see your eyes for the first time.. dark and deep, filled with something that looked almost like affection.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "That was..."

"Yeah." You smiled, a soft, genuine smile that made his heart ache. "It was."

The Impala was warm and intimate, the windows fogged with the heat of your bodies. Sam lay beneath you, his softening cock still inside you, his cum slowly leaking out of you and onto his stomach. He should have felt gross, or weird, or at least a little awkward. Instead, he just felt... content. Peaceful. Like every nerve in his body had been soothed.

You kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips. Small, gentle kisses that made his heart flutter in his chest. Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, soothing and soft.

"Are you okay?" you asked. "I didn't take too much?"

"fine." His voice was hoarse, but genuine.

"Yeah?" You smiled again, that soft smile that made him melt. "Good. You deserved that, Sam. After all these weeks of putting up with Dean's snoring and bad jokes and sleeping in the car, you deserved something good."

He chuckled weakly. "don't think Dean would agree with you.."

"Dean's an idiot." You kissed his jaw, his neck, just below where the bite marks were.

His heart swelled. He opened his mouth to say something, to tell you what you meant to him, but you silenced him with a kiss.

"Don't," you murmured against his lips. "Don't say it. Not now. Just... let this be what it is. Let us have this."

He nodded, not trusting his voice. He could feel sleep pulling at him, his body demanding rest after the ordeal of the past few weeks. He let himself sink into it, let himself drift, with you curled against his side and his blood still on your lips.

He was safe. He was warm. And for the first time in a long time, he was completely, utterly at peace.

Sam drifted in a haze of contentment, his body still humming with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm of his life. Every muscle in his body felt loose, relaxed, like he was floating on a cloud. He could feel you still pressed against him, your cool skin a perfect counterbalance to his flushed heat, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his bare chest.

He was getting sleepy—really sleepy, in a way he hadn't felt in weeks. The constant tension, the constant vigilance, the constant need that had been driving him crazy—it was all gone now, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

"You did so well, Sam." Your voice was soft, almost dreamy, a warm murmur against his skin. "So good for me. You were so sweet."

He made a small, pleased sound, his hips shifting slightly. He was still inside you, softening but not completely soft, and the sensation of your warmth around him was keeping him in a state of blissful semi-arousal.

"Are you going to sleep?" you asked, your lips brushing against his collarbone. "Because I can stay with you, if you want. I can keep watch while you rest."

"Mn." He couldn't form words. His brain had melted somewhere around the moment his orgasm had hit him, and it hadn't reformed yet. All he could do was make small sounds of contentment.

Your soft laughter washed over him like music. "You're adorable like this, Sam. All fuzzy and cuddly. Is this how you always are after sex, or is this a blood-loss thing?"

He made a vague noise. It didn't mean anything. He wasn't sure he even knew what his own noises meant anymore.

"That's okay. You don't have to talk." You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Just rest. I'll take care of everything."

His eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the car's engine, still running, he realized, and felt a small surge of gratitude that the air conditioning was keeping them from overheating, as a faint vibration beneath you. The hum was soothing, a white noise that mixed with the slow haze of his thoughts.

"We should probably clean up.." you murmured eventually.

"Probably." He didn't move.

You laughed, a soft sound that vibrated against his skin. "Dean's going to be back soon, Sammy."

"Dean can wait."

"Sam." There was a warning note in your voice, but it was undercut by amusement. "He's going to know."

"don' care." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Let'im know."

You pulled back, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You mean that?"

"mean it." He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The smile that spread across your face was like sunrise after a long night. "Okay," you said softly. "Okay."

You untangled yourself from him, and he immediately missed the warmth of your body. But you were right, you needed to clean up, needed to make sure there was no evidence of what had happened before Dean got back.

Sam watched as you found a napkin from the glove compartment and started wiping yourself down, and the sight of his cum dripping from between your thighs made his cock twitch with renewed interest.

"Don't even think about it, mister." you said without looking up. "We don't have time."

"wasn't thinkin' 'bout nothin'."

"Liar." But you were smiling as you said it.

Dean came back two hours later.

Sam was half-asleep in the backseat, his head resting against the window, his body limp with exhaustion and satisfaction. His jeans were hastily buttoned but not zipped, half hidden under the blanket you had drapped over him.

You were outside, leaning against the Impala's hood, your sunglasses back in place despite the darkness. When Dean approached, you gave him a lazy wave.

"Have fun?" you asked, your voice perfectly neutral.

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking between you and Sam. "What happened to him?"

"Fell asleep." You shrugged. "He was tired."

"Riight." Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, and then back to you. "And those marks on his neck?"

"Bugs."

"Bugs." His voice was flat. "Bugs bit him in the shape of two perfect puncture wounds."

You smiled, and Dean saw it—the flash of your fangs, still extended, still stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood. "Mosquitoes," you said innocently. "They're vicious this time of year."

Dean groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "You're telling me you- in my car- with my baby brother-"

"Don't worry." You patted his shoulder, and Dean shot you a look that could curdle milk. "We cleaned up."

"I don't-" He stopped, turning to look at Sam again. The younger Winchester had shifted in his sleep, revealing the full extent of the marks on his neck and chest. He groaned, opening the door as you stepped aside to reach down and shake his brother into awakeness.

"Sam. Sam, wake up."

"Hmm?"

"Did you-" Dean couldn't even finish the sentence. "Did you two seriously-"

"Mnh." Sam's eyes fluttered open, and there was a dreamy quality to his gaze that made Dean want to bash his head in against the door. "Hey, Dean. Did you have fun?"

"Don't 'hey, Dean' me. What the hell happened while I was gone?"

Sam blinked, seeming to process the question. Then a slow and lazy smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that made Dean want to smack him into tomorrow morning. "We fucked." he said, his voice filled with a lazy and smug kind of satisfaction that made Dean groan.

"With the vampire."

"My vampire."

"For fuck's sake- in my Baby, Im going to be sick."

The room was steeped in amber shadow, the late afternoon sun fighting a losing battle against the drawn blinds. It was warm—almost too warm—the kind of stuffy heat that came from two bodies sharing the same air for hours, from skin pressed to skin, from the low, lazy buzz of cheap whiskey settling in your veins. Not enough to get drunk. Just enough to take the sharp edges off the world.

Just enough to make everything feel soft.

Jake was sprawled on the floor, his back against the edge of his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, denim-clad thighs parted just enough for you to fit perfectly between them. His head was tilted back, the column of his throat exposed, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, and his chest was rising and falling a little too fast for someone who was just sitting there.

You were in his lap, straddling his thighs, your knees bracketing his hips. The position was familiar. Easy. You'd been here before, more times than either of you cared to count, and the rhythm of it was as natural as breathing. Dakota had her ways of getting under his skin, and you had your own. You just took. And Jake let you. He always let you.

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging gently at the dark strands at the nape of his neck as you kissed him. Deep and slow at first, then harder, hungrier. His mouth opened for you without hesitation, soft and warm and tasting faintly of whiskey. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a whimper, and his hands came up to grip your hips.

And you loved that. God, you loved that.

He was always so put together out there, with his sharp wit and his clever hands and that smirk that made people think he had everything figured out. But here, like this, with your tongue in his mouth and your weight pressing him into the floor, he fell apart so beautifully.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and the sight made something hot curl low in your belly.

His lips were swollen, pink and slick with spit. His cheeks were flushed, a deep, ruddy color that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. His eyes—those gorgeous, green eyes—were half-lidded and glassy, pupils blown so wide they were almost black.

He looked wrecked. And you'd barely even started.

"You okay there, Gray?" you murmured, your voice a low, breathy tease. You rocked your hips forward, just a little, just enough to feel the hard length of him pressing against the seam of your jeans.

He nodded, a jerky little motion, and his hands tightened on your hips. "Mhm."

"Yeah?" You rolled your hips against him, just a slow, deliberate grind, and his breath hitched. His head fell back against the bed again, eyes fluttering shut. "You sure?"

"Fuck-" The word came out on a shaky exhale, and his fingers dug into the fabric of your jeans, pulling you closer. "Y'gonna kill me."

"Oh, don't be dramatic, Jake" you said, and you kissed him again, swallowing the helpless little noise he made.

You chuckled breathlessly, leaning in to press your lips to the corner of his jaw, then down to the column of his throat. His pulse was racing under your mouth, fluttering like a trapped bird. "So needy," you murmured against his skin. "You're always so needy for me, aren't you?"

He didn't answer—couldn't, probably—just made another one of those helpless sounds and arched up into you. His hips rolled beneath yours, instinctive and desperate, and you felt the heat of him through the layers between you.

You ground down against him, slow and deliberate, and he moaned. It was a broken, breathy sound, punched out of him like you'd stolen the air from his lungs. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your back, fisting in the fabric of your shirt. He wasn't trying to undress you. He just needed you closer, like he could pull you into his skin if he tried hard enough.

"Jake," you breathed, and his eyes snapped open at the sound of his name.

God, the look on his face.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the green of his irises. His lips were parted, shiny and red, and his breathing was shallow and uneven. He looked wrecked. Absolutely destroyed. And you'd barely even started.

"mnhyeah?"

"Jus' wanted to see you," you cooed, rolling your hips again, harder this time. His hands flew to your thighs, gripping tight, and he let out a strangled sound that was half-groan, half-whine. "Look how fucking wrecked you are for me. And I haven't even touched you."

"Please," he breathed, and it was barely a whisper, cracked and desperate. "Please."

You didn't know what he was asking for. You didn't think he knew. But you gave it to him anyway—more friction, more pressure, more of you. You set a rhythm, slow and grinding, and he matched it as best he could,

his hips stuttering up to meet yours. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, and the sounds spilling out of him were obscene. Breathless little gasps and moans that he couldn't seem to stop.

You leaned down, your mouth hovering over his ear, and you let him hear your smile in your voice. "You sound so pretty like this, Jake. So fucking pretty."

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. The sound went straight to your core, and you ground down harder, chasing the friction, chasing the heat building low in your belly.

His hands slid up under your shirt, palms flat against your bare back, and he pulled you down until you were pressed flush against him, chest to chest. His mouth found your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck—open-mouthed kisses and the faint scrape of teeth. You could feel the tremors running through him, could feel how close he was, and it made you reckless.

You let him. You let him drag you closer, let him arch up into you, let him grind against you like he was desperate for it. Because he was desperate. You could feel it in the way his breath came in short, sharp bursts against your mouth, in the way he kept making those tiny, helpless sounds that he probably didn't even realize he was making.

"Jake." you breathed, pulling back just far enough to watch his face as you rolled your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind that had his eyes fluttering shut.

"mnhgm-" His head fell forward, forehead thunking against your shoulder, and you felt the hot puff of his breath through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Fuck, yeah, just- right there, shit-"

"Look at you," you cooed, your voice thick with amusement and want. You did it again, a little harder this time, and his whole body shuddered. "So fucking needy. You're pathetic, you know that?"

He nodded against your shoulder, a frantic, jerky motion. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, whatever you say, don't care. Jus' don't stop, please, please don't stop-"

You laughed, a breathless, shaky sound that didn't quite hide how affected you were. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs, the slick wetness soaking through the cotton of your underwear, and every time you ground down against him, the pressure sent sparks shooting up your spine.

"Wasn't planning on it, baby."

Your hands were in his hair again, tugging just hard enough to make his breath catch, and his hands were everywhere: on your hips, your waist, your back, your thighs, your ass, gripping and clutching like he was drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

"Y'feel so good," he mumbled against your neck, the words slurred and clumsy. "So good, so fucking good, I can't—I'm not gonna last—"

"That's okay," you breathed out, voice soft and sweet despite the filth of what you were doing. "Not gonna be mad if you come before me."

His eyes opened at that, and the look he gave you made your heart clench.

"Promise?" he whined, and there was something almost childlike in the question.

"Promise, honey." you said with a smirk, and you meant it.

You let your hips find a new rhythm, something faster, harder, dirtier. The friction was perfect, the drag of denim against denim sending sparks of pleasure through both of you, and Jake was making those sounds again, those helpless, broken little noises that bubbled up his troath and made you want to devour him whole.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and he arched up into you, chasing the pressure, chasing the heat.

"Close," he gasped, the word barely coherent. "So close, please, please-"

"Come on," you urged, grinding down harder, faster. "Come on, Jake."

His whole body went taut beneath you, and then he was shuddering, a broken cry falling from his lips as he came in his jeans. You felt the heat of it, the dampness spreading between you, and you were so close- so fucking close-

And then he bit you.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't playful. His teeth sank into the curve of your neck, hard and sudden, and you felt the sting of broken skin, the warmth of blood welling up under his tongue. The pain was sharp, electric, and it pushed you right over the edge. You came with a choked gasp, grinding down against him as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was the harsh rasp of your breathing, the thundering of your hearts, the distant hum of the refrigerator from downstairs.

Then Jake's grip on you loosened, and you felt him go slack beneath you, his body suddenly boneless and heavy.

You pulled back slowly, and he made a sound of protest—a wordless, breathy whine that was almost wounded. His hands tried to keep you close, trying to pull you back to him, but you eased away just enough to look at him.

And oh, what a sight he was.

His face was flushed, his eyes glassy and unfocused as they stared into your own, his lips parted as he panted for air. His dark hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction from your fingers. He looked utterly fucked out, completely destroyed, and the dazed, needy expression in his eyes made your chest ache with affection.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and he froze.

He tasted it.

Your blood.

His eyes widened, flicking from your eyes down to the mark on your neck. The blood. The bite. You saw the moment he realized what he'd done.

And then, before either of you could say a word, his breath hitched, and his hips jerked beneath you. A broken sound escaped him—something close to "unghn-?"—and you felt the telltale shudder of another orgasm ripping through him. His eyes fluttered, rolling back, and a desperate, needy whine fell from his lips as he came again, helpless and overwhelmed.

"Oh," you breathed, and you couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of you. It was breathless and shaky and a little bit unhinged, but you couldn't stop it. "Oh my God, Jake. Did you just-"

"I don't- I don't know-" He was panting, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and dazed. "I couldn't- it was like I just- fuck—"

"Did you just come again from tasting my blood?" you asked, and there was no judgment in your voice, just sheer, delighted incredulity. "Jake Gray. You fucking animal."

You couldn't help yourself. You ground down against him, just once, and he cried out, his head thrown back against the bed, his face scrunching in that adorable way you loved—forehead furrowed, nose wrinkling, mouth open in a silent plea.

"No more," he gasped, his voice wrecked and shaky. "N'more... please..."

You finally took pity on him, lifting yourself off his lap and settling beside him on the floor. He was a mess, sprawled out and panting, his jeans damp and his face flushed. He looked utterly wrecked. Completely ruined.

And you couldn't stop smiling.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the words came out in a rush, all tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean to- I don't know what happened, it was like I just-I couldn't stop myself, it was like something just took over, and I-"

You silenced him with a kiss, soft and sweet, your lips brushing against his. You could taste the faint copper tang of your own blood on his mouth, and the strangest part was that you didn't mind. You liked it.

"Shh," you murmured against his lips. "s'okay. I'm not mad."

He blinked up at you, pulling back enough to get a good look at you, his eyes still glassy, his expression still dazed. "You're not?"

"No," you said, and you kissed him again, a little deeper this time. "You just bit me and made me come harder than I have in months. I think I can forgive you."

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he let his head fall back against the bedframe, his chest still heaving. "Jesus," he breathed. "I'm so fucked up."

"You're really not," you said, and you reached down to cup his cheek, stroking your thumb over the flushed skin. "You're just... a hungry boy. That's all. You're still growing, after all."

He turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, huffing out a reluctant laugh at the joke. "Still, m'sorry I bit you. That was- that was really not-"

"It's fine," you said again. "Really. I liked it."

His eyes searched yours, looking for the lie, and when he didn't find one, something in his expression eased. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said, and you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth. "But you're still a needy little thing, aren't you? Coming twice in your pants like a teenager."

He groaned, covering his face with both hands. "Don't remind me."

"Oh, I will. Every day of your life." you teased, and you reached down to gently pry his hands away from his face. "I'm going to remember this forever. The first time Jake Gray bit me and came in his jeans like a fucking fiend."

"Please stop," he groaned, but there was no heat in it. His eyes were soft, his lips curved into a reluctant smile. "You're so mean to me."

"You love it," you said, and you kissed him again, soft and slow and sweet.

He hummed against your mouth, his hands coming up to cup your face, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

Then he pulled back, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Are you okay, though? Your neck-"

"Jake." You caught his hand and brought it up to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I'm fine. It's just a little bite. I've had worse."

His brow furrowed. "From who?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "From you. But seriously. I'm fine. It barely hurts."

He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop, his thumb stroking absently across your lower lip. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay."

You sat there for a long moment, just looking at each other, the room silent except for the sound of your breathing.

Then you shifted, wincing slightly at the wet spot in your jeans.

"Okay," you said, pushing yourself up off his lap. "We need to get cleaned up before your dad gets home."

Jake groaned, letting his head thunk back against the bedframe. "Fuck."

"Too late," you said, already on your feet, offering him a hand. "Come on. Up."

He took your hand, letting you pull him to his feet, and the two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, tangled up in each other.

Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the spot on your neck where he'd bitten you, soft and reverent, like an apology.

"Sorry.." he murmured against your skin.

"Stop apologizing," you said, but your voice was soft, your hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. "I told you. I liked it."

He pulled back, and there was something in his eyes—something dark and hungry and a little bit terrified—that made your breath catch.

"You probably shouldn't like it," he said quietly. "I probably shouldn't like it either."

"Probably not," you agreed. "But here we are."

He laughed at that, a surprised, breathless sound, and the darkness in his eyes receded, replaced by something warmer.

"Here we are." he echoed.

The room was steeped in amber shadow, the late afternoon sun fighting a losing battle against the drawn blinds. It was warm—almost too warm—the kind of stuffy heat that came from two bodies sharing the same air for hours, from skin pressed to skin, from the low, lazy buzz of cheap whiskey settling in your veins. Not enough to get drunk. Just enough to take the sharp edges off the world.

Just enough to make everything feel soft.

Jake was sprawled on the floor, his back against the edge of his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, denim-clad thighs parted just enough for you to fit perfectly between them. His head was tilted back, the column of his throat exposed, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, and his chest was rising and falling a little too fast for someone who was just sitting there.

You were in his lap, straddling his thighs, your knees bracketing his hips. The position was familiar. Easy. You'd been here before, more times than either of you cared to count, and the rhythm of it was as natural as breathing. Dakota had her ways of getting under his skin, and you had your own. You just took. And Jake let you. He always let you.

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging gently at the dark strands at the nape of his neck as you kissed him. Deep and slow at first, then harder, hungrier. His mouth opened for you without hesitation, soft and warm and tasting faintly of whiskey. He made a low sound in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a whimper, and his hands came up to grip your hips.

And you loved that. God, you loved that.

He was always so put together out there, with his sharp wit and his clever hands and that smirk that made people think he had everything figured out. But here, like this, with your tongue in his mouth and your weight pressing him into the floor, he fell apart so beautifully.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and the sight made something hot curl low in your belly.

His lips were swollen, pink and slick with spit. His cheeks were flushed, a deep, ruddy color that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. His eyes—those gorgeous, green eyes—were half-lidded and glassy, pupils blown so wide they were almost black.

He looked wrecked. And you'd barely even started.

"You okay there, Gray?" you murmured, your voice a low, breathy tease. You rocked your hips forward, just a little, just enough to feel the hard length of him pressing against the seam of your jeans.

He nodded, a jerky little motion, and his hands tightened on your hips. "Mhm."

"Yeah?" You rolled your hips against him, just a slow, deliberate grind, and his breath hitched. His head fell back against the bed again, eyes fluttering shut. "You sure?"

"Fuck-" The word came out on a shaky exhale, and his fingers dug into the fabric of your jeans, pulling you closer. "Y'gonna kill me."

"Oh, don't be dramatic, Jake" you said, and you kissed him again, swallowing the helpless little noise he made.

You chuckled breathlessly, leaning in to press your lips to the corner of his jaw, then down to the column of his throat. His pulse was racing under your mouth, fluttering like a trapped bird. "So needy," you murmured against his skin. "You're always so needy for me, aren't you?"

He didn't answer—couldn't, probably—just made another one of those helpless sounds and arched up into you. His hips rolled beneath yours, instinctive and desperate, and you felt the heat of him through the layers between you.

You ground down against him, slow and deliberate, and he moaned. It was a broken, breathy sound, punched out of him like you'd stolen the air from his lungs. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your back, fisting in the fabric of your shirt. He wasn't trying to undress you. He just needed you closer, like he could pull you into his skin if he tried hard enough.

"Jake," you breathed, and his eyes snapped open at the sound of his name.

God, the look on his face.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly swallowing the green of his irises. His lips were parted, shiny and red, and his breathing was shallow and uneven. He looked wrecked. Absolutely destroyed. And you'd barely even started.

"mnhyeah?"

"Jus' wanted to see you," you cooed, rolling your hips again, harder this time. His hands flew to your thighs, gripping tight, and he let out a strangled sound that was half-groan, half-whine. "Look how fucking wrecked you are for me. And I haven't even touched you."

"Please," he breathed, and it was barely a whisper, cracked and desperate. "Please."

You didn't know what he was asking for. You didn't think he knew. But you gave it to him anyway—more friction, more pressure, more of you. You set a rhythm, slow and grinding, and he matched it as best he could,

his hips stuttering up to meet yours. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, and the sounds spilling out of him were obscene. Breathless little gasps and moans that he couldn't seem to stop.

You leaned down, your mouth hovering over his ear, and you let him hear your smile in your voice. "You sound so pretty like this, Jake. So fucking pretty."

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. The sound went straight to your core, and you ground down harder, chasing the friction, chasing the heat building low in your belly.

His hands slid up under your shirt, palms flat against your bare back, and he pulled you down until you were pressed flush against him, chest to chest. His mouth found your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck—open-mouthed kisses and the faint scrape of teeth. You could feel the tremors running through him, could feel how close he was, and it made you reckless.

You let him. You let him drag you closer, let him arch up into you, let him grind against you like he was desperate for it. Because he was desperate. You could feel it in the way his breath came in short, sharp bursts against your mouth, in the way he kept making those tiny, helpless sounds that he probably didn't even realize he was making.

"Jake." you breathed, pulling back just far enough to watch his face as you rolled your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind that had his eyes fluttering shut.

"mnhgm-" His head fell forward, forehead thunking against your shoulder, and you felt the hot puff of his breath through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Fuck, yeah, just- right there, shit-"

"Look at you," you cooed, your voice thick with amusement and want. You did it again, a little harder this time, and his whole body shuddered. "So fucking needy. You're pathetic, you know that?"

He nodded against your shoulder, a frantic, jerky motion. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, whatever you say, don't care. Jus' don't stop, please, please don't stop-"

You laughed, a breathless, shaky sound that didn't quite hide how affected you were. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs, the slick wetness soaking through the cotton of your underwear, and every time you ground down against him, the pressure sent sparks shooting up your spine.

"Wasn't planning on it, baby."

Your hands were in his hair again, tugging just hard enough to make his breath catch, and his hands were everywhere: on your hips, your waist, your back, your thighs, your ass, gripping and clutching like he was drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

"Y'feel so good," he mumbled against your neck, the words slurred and clumsy. "So good, so fucking good, I can't—I'm not gonna last—"

"That's okay," you breathed out, voice soft and sweet despite the filth of what you were doing. "Not gonna be mad if you come before me."

His eyes opened at that, and the look he gave you made your heart clench.

"Promise?" he whined, and there was something almost childlike in the question.

"Promise, honey." you said with a smirk, and you meant it.

You let your hips find a new rhythm, something faster, harder, dirtier. The friction was perfect, the drag of denim against denim sending sparks of pleasure through both of you, and Jake was making those sounds again, those helpless, broken little noises that bubbled up his troath and made you want to devour him whole.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and he arched up into you, chasing the pressure, chasing the heat.

"Close," he gasped, the word barely coherent. "So close, please, please-"

"Come on," you urged, grinding down harder, faster. "Come on, Jake."

His whole body went taut beneath you, and then he was shuddering, a broken cry falling from his lips as he came in his jeans. You felt the heat of it, the dampness spreading between you, and you were so close- so fucking close-

And then he bit you.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't playful. His teeth sank into the curve of your neck, hard and sudden, and you felt the sting of broken skin, the warmth of blood welling up under his tongue. The pain was sharp, electric, and it pushed you right over the edge. You came with a choked gasp, grinding down against him as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sound was the harsh rasp of your breathing, the thundering of your hearts, the distant hum of the refrigerator from downstairs.

Then Jake's grip on you loosened, and you felt him go slack beneath you, his body suddenly boneless and heavy.

You pulled back slowly, and he made a sound of protest—a wordless, breathy whine that was almost wounded. His hands tried to keep you close, trying to pull you back to him, but you eased away just enough to look at him.

And oh, what a sight he was.

His face was flushed, his eyes glassy and unfocused as they stared into your own, his lips parted as he panted for air. His dark hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction from your fingers. He looked utterly fucked out, completely destroyed, and the dazed, needy expression in his eyes made your chest ache with affection.

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and he froze.

He tasted it.

Your blood.

His eyes widened, flicking from your eyes down to the mark on your neck. The blood. The bite. You saw the moment he realized what he'd done.

And then, before either of you could say a word, his breath hitched, and his hips jerked beneath you. A broken sound escaped him—something close to "unghn-?"—and you felt the telltale shudder of another orgasm ripping through him. His eyes fluttered, rolling back, and a desperate, needy whine fell from his lips as he came again, helpless and overwhelmed.

"Oh," you breathed, and you couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of you. It was breathless and shaky and a little bit unhinged, but you couldn't stop it. "Oh my God, Jake. Did you just-"

"I don't- I don't know-" He was panting, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and dazed. "I couldn't- it was like I just- fuck—"

"Did you just come again from tasting my blood?" you asked, and there was no judgment in your voice, just sheer, delighted incredulity. "Jake Gray. You fucking animal."

You couldn't help yourself. You ground down against him, just once, and he cried out, his head thrown back against the bed, his face scrunching in that adorable way you loved—forehead furrowed, nose wrinkling, mouth open in a silent plea.

"No more," he gasped, his voice wrecked and shaky. "N'more... please..."

You finally took pity on him, lifting yourself off his lap and settling beside him on the floor. He was a mess, sprawled out and panting, his jeans damp and his face flushed. He looked utterly wrecked. Completely ruined.

And you couldn't stop smiling.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the words came out in a rush, all tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean to- I don't know what happened, it was like I just-I couldn't stop myself, it was like something just took over, and I-"

You silenced him with a kiss, soft and sweet, your lips brushing against his. You could taste the faint copper tang of your own blood on his mouth, and the strangest part was that you didn't mind. You liked it.

"Shh," you murmured against his lips. "s'okay. I'm not mad."

He blinked up at you, pulling back enough to get a good look at you, his eyes still glassy, his expression still dazed. "You're not?"

"No," you said, and you kissed him again, a little deeper this time. "You just bit me and made me come harder than I have in months. I think I can forgive you."

A shaky laugh escaped him, and he let his head fall back against the bedframe, his chest still heaving. "Jesus," he breathed. "I'm so fucked up."

"You're really not," you said, and you reached down to cup his cheek, stroking your thumb over the flushed skin. "You're just... a hungry boy. That's all. You're still growing, after all."

He turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, huffing out a reluctant laugh at the joke. "Still, m'sorry I bit you. That was- that was really not-"

"It's fine," you said again. "Really. I liked it."

His eyes searched yours, looking for the lie, and when he didn't find one, something in his expression eased. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said, and you leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth. "But you're still a needy little thing, aren't you? Coming twice in your pants like a teenager."

He groaned, covering his face with both hands. "Don't remind me."

"Oh, I will. Every day of your life." you teased, and you reached down to gently pry his hands away from his face. "I'm going to remember this forever. The first time Jake Gray bit me and came in his jeans like a fucking fiend."

"Please stop," he groaned, but there was no heat in it. His eyes were soft, his lips curved into a reluctant smile. "You're so mean to me."

"You love it," you said, and you kissed him again, soft and slow and sweet.

He hummed against your mouth, his hands coming up to cup your face, and for a moment, everything was perfect.

Then he pulled back, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Are you okay, though? Your neck-"

"Jake." You caught his hand and brought it up to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I'm fine. It's just a little bite. I've had worse."

His brow furrowed. "From who?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "From you. But seriously. I'm fine. It barely hurts."

He didn't look convinced, but he let it drop, his thumb stroking absently across your lower lip. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay."

You sat there for a long moment, just looking at each other, the room silent except for the sound of your breathing.

Then you shifted, wincing slightly at the wet spot in your jeans.

"Okay," you said, pushing yourself up off his lap. "We need to get cleaned up before your dad gets home."

Jake groaned, letting his head thunk back against the bedframe. "Fuck."

"Too late," you said, already on your feet, offering him a hand. "Come on. Up."

He took your hand, letting you pull him to his feet, and the two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly, tangled up in each other.

Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the spot on your neck where he'd bitten you, soft and reverent, like an apology.

"Sorry.." he murmured against your skin.

"Stop apologizing," you said, but your voice was soft, your hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. "I told you. I liked it."

He pulled back, and there was something in his eyes—something dark and hungry and a little bit terrified—that made your breath catch.

"You probably shouldn't like it," he said quietly. "I probably shouldn't like it either."

"Probably not," you agreed. "But here we are."

He laughed at that, a surprised, breathless sound, and the darkness in his eyes receded, replaced by something warmer.

"Here we are." he echoed.

The Impala's engine rumbled beneath them like a living thing, its familiar growl filling the comfortable silence that had settled over the car. Dean's eyes were fixed on the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching for the half-empty beer bottle wedged between his thighs. The highway stretched out before them, endless and dark, the only illumination coming from the headlights cutting through the oppressive blackness of the rural Kansas night.

In the backseat, Sam Winchester sat with his long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped space, his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight. He'd been like this for days now. All coiled tension and barely suppressed irritation, snapping at the smallest things, his patience worn thinner than the tires on Baby after a particularly rough hunt.

You sat beside him, pressed against the opposite door, your posture relaxed despite the uncomfortable position. Your dark sunglasses were perched on your nose even in the darkness of the car, the thick frames and heavily tinted lenses hiding your eyes from view. Black long-sleeved shirt, black jeans, black boots—you looked like you'd stepped out of a noir film, all sharp angles and shadows. The only splash of color was your skin, almost luminous in the dim light filtering through the windows.

Three weeks. Three weeks of sleeping in cramped motel rooms with only one bed, three weeks of Sam's body screaming for relief and getting nothing but frustration. He couldn't even jerk off, not with Dean sleeping two feet away, not with you standing guard just outside the door with your supernatural hearing, not with the constant threat of monsters lurking in every shadow.

It was driving him slowly, torturously insane.

His jeans felt too tight. Everything felt too tight. His skin, his muscles, his control: all of it stretched to the breaking point. Every time you shifted beside him, every time your arm brushed against his, every time he caught a whiff of your scent, something clean and sharp and utterly foreign, his body responded with embarrassing eagerness. His cock would twitch in his pants, filling with blood, and he'd have to shift his position to hide the evidence of his desire.

God, he was pathetic.

A seventeen-year-old with his first crush couldn't have been more needy, more obviously desperate. He could feel the heat in his cheeks every time you so much as glanced in his direction, and he was absolutely certain you could hear his heartbeat racing whenever you got too close. Your supernatural senses had to be picking up on his agitation, his arousal, his complete inability to function like a normal human being around you.

"Alright, listen up," Dean said suddenly, breaking the silence. He pulled the Impala to the side of the road, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as he came to a stop. "I'm going to go find that bar we passed about two miles back. The one with the.." he paused, a grin spreading across his face. "blondie. The one who was giving me the look."

Sam's jaw tightened even further. "Dean, we're on a hunt. We don't have time for you to-"

"Relax, Sammy." Dean waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be back in a few hours. You two can sleep in the car—or not sleep in your case, vamps." he added, glancing at you with a wink. "Just keep an eye on my Baby while I'm gone. If I come back and she's got a single scratch on her, I'm blaming you."

"Dean."

"Sam." Dean's voice took on a sharper edge. "I haven't gotten laid in two weeks. I'm about to crawl out of my skin. And you've been in a shit mood for days, so honestly, I could use a break from your bitchy face. I'll be back before sunrise."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. What was the point? Dean was already getting out of the car, already striding away with that confident swagger he'd perfected over years of hunting and womanizing. Within seconds, he was just a dark shape on the road, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared around a bend.

The silence in the car was deafening.

Sam could feel you beside him, your presence radiating a strange kind of stillness. You didn't breathe, not really. Not in the way humans did. You'd fake it for the sake of appearances when around other people, but Sam knew you didn't need it. You were just... existing. Waiting. Watching.

He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that would be comfortable for his aching body. The movement jostled his legs, and he felt the unmistakable pressure of his hardening cock against his zipper. God, he'd been half-hard for hours now. It was getting worse by the minute, the heat in his gut building to a fever pitch.

He thought about the hunt they'd just finished. The vampire nest they'd cleared out, the bodies they'd burned, the constant fear that one of them would get bitten or turned. And here he was, sitting next to another vampire and all he could think about was how fucking bad he wanted to get his hands on you.

What was wrong with him?

His dick didn't care about morality. His dick didn't care about the danger. His dick only cared about the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you looked at him from behind those dark glasses. His dick only cared about the fact that you were a vampire, something dangerous, powerful, dark, and everything inside him wanted to submit to that darkness, to give in to the primal urge that had been building for weeks.

"I know you know."

The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He winced, turning his head to look at you. You were already watching him, your head tilted slightly, an expression he couldn't quite read on your face.

"I know you can hear it," he continued, his voice rough. "My heart. It's been pounding like crazy for the past few days. And you've definitely seen—" he gestured vaguely at his lap, where the unmistakable bulge in his jeans was pressing against the fabric. "—that, by now. So just... just go outside. Give me five minutes. Ten minutes, tops. I'll take care of it, and we'll never speak of this again."

The silence stretched between you for a long moment.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across your face. It was a dangerous smile, the kind that promised trouble and pleasure in equal measure. Sam felt his stomach drop, his cock twitching with sudden interest.

"What's so funny?" he asked, hating how defensive his voice sounded.

"You're so cute when you're flustered, Sam." Your voice was low, smooth, like honey poured over steel. "All that big, strong hunter attitude, and here you are, asking me to give you a little privacy so you can get yourself off. It's adorable, really."

Sam's face burned. "It's not- I'm not-"

"Not what?" You shifted closer, your body sliding across the seat until you were pressed against his side. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through his system, and he had to bite back a moan. "Not desperate?"

He let out a whiny sound of complain that would have embarassed him into an early grave if his brain wasn't deprived of blood enough to notice it.

"I'm a vampire, Sam." You reached up, your cool fingers brushing against his jaw. He shuddered at the contact, his eyes fluttering closed. "I know everything. I know you've been dying to get your hand down your pants, not that you could with Dean snoring right next to you or me keeping watch outside the door."

Your hand slid down his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. He was trembling now, his body reacting to your touch with a hunger he couldn't control.

"Let me help you," you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. "I can do it better than your hand."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. "You... you don't have to do this. I'm fine. I can-"

"You can't." Your voice was firm, insistent. "You've been pent up for weeks, Sam. I can practically taste it on you. Your need. Your desperation. It's.. intoxicating."

You pulled back, and he could have sworn he saw something flicker in your eyes behind those sunglasses. "Don't you want to know what it's like? To have me take care of you?"

Sam swallowed hard. Every rational thought in his head was screaming at him to say no, to push you away, to pretend this conversation had never happened. But his body, his stupid, traitorous body, was already leaning into your touch, his hips shifting to create more pressure against his aching erection.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice cracking. "God, yes."

Your smile widened. "Come on, then."

He was moving before he could think, lunging across the backseat and crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the kind of raw need that came from three weeks of denial. You made a sound against his mouth—surprise, pleasure, he couldn't tell—and then you were kissing him back, your cool hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

Sam groaned into your mouth, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. This was what he'd been craving. This was what he'd been dreaming about. Your lips, your taste, the way you moved against him like you wanted to devour him whole—

"Sam," you breathed against his mouth, and the sound of his name on your lips almost sent him over the edge right there. "Sam, slow down. We have time."

"I don't want to slow down," he gasped, his hands finding your hips, pulling you into his lap. "I've been waiting for weeks. I can't—I need—"

"I know." Your lips traced along his jaw, down his throat, and his head fell back against the seat with a thud. "I know, baby. I've got you. Just let me take care of you."

His hands tangled in your hair as you kissed your way down his neck, your teeth grazing his skin in a way that made him shudder. He could feel your fangs, just barely there, and the knowledge that you could bite him at any moment sent a thrill of fear and desire straight to his core.

But you didn't bite. Not yet.

Instead, you pulled back, looking down at him with that same unreadable expression. "You've been so patient," you murmured, your hand sliding down his chest, over his stomach, to the button of his jeans. "So good for me. I think you deserve a reward, don't you?"

His mind was a haze of sensation and need. He could feel every inch of you against him, the coolness of your skin through your clothes, the subtle shift of your muscles as you moved atop him. He could smell you, too.. that strange, clean scent that drove him crazy, and taste you on his lips, something metallic and sweet, like copper and honey.

"I'm going to lose my mind," he muttered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I've been so fucking pent up, and you're so-" He broke off with a groan as you arched, your hips meeting his in a perfect rhythm.

"So what, Sam?" Your voice was teasing, almost playful. "So what am I?"

"So fucking perfect," he breathed. "So dangerous. So... everything."

You laughed, a soft, musical sound that made his heart stutter in his chest. "You're sweet, Sam Winchester. Stupid, but sweet."

"Stupid?" He pulled back, his eyes wide. "How am I-"

"Because you're about to lose control," you said calmly. "Because you've been holding back for so long that you're about to come in your pants like a teenager. And you think I'm not going to notice?"

Sam's face flamed. "I'm not- I can control myself-"

"Can you?" Your hand slid down further and he practically sobbed at the feeling. When you reached his belt, you paused, your fingers hovering over the buckle. "Because I think you're right on the edge, Sam. I think you've been on the edge since the moment Dean left. And I think you need someone to push you over."

He didn't have words. He couldn't form thoughts. All he could do was nod, his eyes fixed on your hands as they worked at his belt.

"Then let me help you," you said softly. "Let me give you what you need."

The next few minutes were a blur of desperate movement and barely controlled noise. Sam's hands fumbled at his jeans, trying to get them off while you worked at your own clothes. The Impala's backseat was cramped and awkward, practically no room to maneuver, but neither of you cared. The need was too great, the urgency too overwhelming.

Somehow, you ended up with Sam on his back, his jeans and boxers shoved down around his thighs, his cock standing proud and aching against his stomach. And you were on top of him, your legs straddling his hips, your own pants and panties discarded somewhere on the floor of the car. He could feel you, the heat of you, the wetness of you, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to thrust up into you like a fucking animal.

"You're so big," you breathed, your voice filled with wonder and heat. "Sam, you're fucking huge."

He groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "Fuck- don' say that shit to me-"

"What?" You chuckled breathlesly as you leaned forward, your hair falling around his face like a dark curtain. "It's the truth, Sammy."

You lowered yourself fully onto him, and Sam saw stars.

The feeling was indescribable, your heat enveloping him inch by agonizing inch. He was so hard it hurt, so desperate he could barely breathe, and you were so tight, so perfect, so fucking good. He moaned, a broken, desperate sound that he'd be embarrassed about later. Right now, all he could do was feel.

"That's it," you murmured, your hips rolling against his. "That's it, Sam. Let me have you."

He did. He let you have everything: his control, his worries, his fear of the darkness inside him. He let himself sink into the feeling of you, the pleasure of your body moving against his. And when you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his neck, he almost came right there.

"Bite me."

The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He heard them echo in the small space of the car, felt the shock of his own need ripple through his body. His hands tightened on your hips, his hips thrusting up into you even as he spoke.

"Please. Please, bite me. I need it. I need to feel your fangs in my neck, to feel you drink from me. Please, please, please-"

You froze above him, your eyes wide behind your sunglasses. "Sammy-"

"Fuck, please." He was begging now, and he didn't even care. "I've been dreaming about it for weeks. It's all I can think about. I've been so fucking hard just from the fantasy of it, and now- please. Please, just-"

"Sam, that's... that's a lot." Your voice was softer now, almost tender. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation, no doubt. "Yes, I'm sure. I want this. I want you."

For a long moment, you just looked at him. Then slowly, so slowly, you leaned forward once again, your breath warm against his neck. He could feel your fangs grazing his skin, sharp and dangerous, and his entire body shuddered with anticipation.

"Tell me again," you whispered. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to bite me," he whined, his voice rough with need. "I want you to drink my blood. I want you to make me yours."

"Yes." He felt your lips curve into a smile against his skin. "Yes, Sam. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

And then your teeth sank into his neck.

The pain was sharp and shocking, a burst of white-hot agony that made him cry out. But it was followed by something else.. something incredible. Pleasure flooded through him, hotter and more intense than anything he'd ever experienced. The feeling of your mouth on his neck, of your fangs deep in his flesh, of his blood flowing into your mouth..

His orgasm hit him like a freight train. He came harder than he'd ever come in his life, his hips bucking up into you as his cock pulsed and spilled inside you. He could feel your own climax, your muscles clenching around him as you milked him for everything he had. And still, you drank from him, your fangs buried in his neck, his blood flowing into your mouth in a slow, steady stream.

He felt lightheaded, disconnected from his body. The pleasure was so intense, so all-encompassing, that he couldn't tell where he ended and you began. He was just sensation, just feeling, just pure, blissful surrender.

Eventually, you pulled away, your tongue laving over the wounds on his neck. He whimpered at the feeling, his cock twitching weakly inside you. Your lips brushed against his jaw, his cheek, his lips. leaving a trail of soft, tender kisses that seemed almost reverent.

"Sam," you whispered. "Sam, wake up."

He blinked, his eyes focusing on your face. He hadn't realized he'd closed them, had forgotten he had a body. Your glasses had been discarded somewhere sometime, and he could see your eyes for the first time.. dark and deep, filled with something that looked almost like affection.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "That was..."

"Yeah." You smiled, a soft, genuine smile that made his heart ache. "It was."

The Impala was warm and intimate, the windows fogged with the heat of your bodies. Sam lay beneath you, his softening cock still inside you, his cum slowly leaking out of you and onto his stomach. He should have felt gross, or weird, or at least a little awkward. Instead, he just felt... content. Peaceful. Like every nerve in his body had been soothed.

You kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips. Small, gentle kisses that made his heart flutter in his chest. Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, soothing and soft.

"Are you okay?" you asked. "I didn't take too much?"

"fine." His voice was hoarse, but genuine.

"Yeah?" You smiled again, that soft smile that made him melt. "Good. You deserved that, Sam. After all these weeks of putting up with Dean's snoring and bad jokes and sleeping in the car, you deserved something good."

He chuckled weakly. "don't think Dean would agree with you.."

"Dean's an idiot." You kissed his jaw, his neck, just below where the bite marks were.

His heart swelled. He opened his mouth to say something, to tell you what you meant to him, but you silenced him with a kiss.

"Don't," you murmured against his lips. "Don't say it. Not now. Just... let this be what it is. Let us have this."

He nodded, not trusting his voice. He could feel sleep pulling at him, his body demanding rest after the ordeal of the past few weeks. He let himself sink into it, let himself drift, with you curled against his side and his blood still on your lips.

He was safe. He was warm. And for the first time in a long time, he was completely, utterly at peace.

Sam drifted in a haze of contentment, his body still humming with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm of his life. Every muscle in his body felt loose, relaxed, like he was floating on a cloud. He could feel you still pressed against him, your cool skin a perfect counterbalance to his flushed heat, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his bare chest.

He was getting sleepy—really sleepy, in a way he hadn't felt in weeks. The constant tension, the constant vigilance, the constant need that had been driving him crazy—it was all gone now, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

"You did so well, Sam." Your voice was soft, almost dreamy, a warm murmur against his skin. "So good for me. You were so sweet."

He made a small, pleased sound, his hips shifting slightly. He was still inside you, softening but not completely soft, and the sensation of your warmth around him was keeping him in a state of blissful semi-arousal.

"Are you going to sleep?" you asked, your lips brushing against his collarbone. "Because I can stay with you, if you want. I can keep watch while you rest."

"Mn." He couldn't form words. His brain had melted somewhere around the moment his orgasm had hit him, and it hadn't reformed yet. All he could do was make small sounds of contentment.

Your soft laughter washed over him like music. "You're adorable like this, Sam. All fuzzy and cuddly. Is this how you always are after sex, or is this a blood-loss thing?"

He made a vague noise. It didn't mean anything. He wasn't sure he even knew what his own noises meant anymore.

"That's okay. You don't have to talk." You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Just rest. I'll take care of everything."

His eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the car's engine, still running, he realized, and felt a small surge of gratitude that the air conditioning was keeping them from overheating, as a faint vibration beneath you. The hum was soothing, a white noise that mixed with the slow haze of his thoughts.

"We should probably clean up.." you murmured eventually.

"Probably." He didn't move.

You laughed, a soft sound that vibrated against his skin. "Dean's going to be back soon, Sammy."

"Dean can wait."

"Sam." There was a warning note in your voice, but it was undercut by amusement. "He's going to know."

"don' care." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Let'im know."

You pulled back, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You mean that?"

"mean it." He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The smile that spread across your face was like sunrise after a long night. "Okay," you said softly. "Okay."

You untangled yourself from him, and he immediately missed the warmth of your body. But you were right, you needed to clean up, needed to make sure there was no evidence of what had happened before Dean got back.

Sam watched as you found a napkin from the glove compartment and started wiping yourself down, and the sight of his cum dripping from between your thighs made his cock twitch with renewed interest.

"Don't even think about it, mister." you said without looking up. "We don't have time."

"wasn't thinkin' 'bout nothin'."

"Liar." But you were smiling as you said it.

Dean came back two hours later.

Sam was half-asleep in the backseat, his head resting against the window, his body limp with exhaustion and satisfaction. His jeans were hastily buttoned but not zipped, half hidden under the blanket you had drapped over him.

You were outside, leaning against the Impala's hood, your sunglasses back in place despite the darkness. When Dean approached, you gave him a lazy wave.

"Have fun?" you asked, your voice perfectly neutral.

Dean narrowed his eyes, looking between you and Sam. "What happened to him?"

"Fell asleep." You shrugged. "He was tired."

"Riight." Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, and then back to you. "And those marks on his neck?"

"Bugs."

"Bugs." His voice was flat. "Bugs bit him in the shape of two perfect puncture wounds."

You smiled, and Dean saw it—the flash of your fangs, still extended, still stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood. "Mosquitoes," you said innocently. "They're vicious this time of year."

Dean groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "You're telling me you- in my car- with my baby brother-"

"Don't worry." You patted his shoulder, and Dean shot you a look that could curdle milk. "We cleaned up."

"I don't-" He stopped, turning to look at Sam again. The younger Winchester had shifted in his sleep, revealing the full extent of the marks on his neck and chest. He groaned, opening the door as you stepped aside to reach down and shake his brother into awakeness.

"Sam. Sam, wake up."

"Hmm?"

"Did you-" Dean couldn't even finish the sentence. "Did you two seriously-"

"Mnh." Sam's eyes fluttered open, and there was a dreamy quality to his gaze that made Dean want to bash his head in against the door. "Hey, Dean. Did you have fun?"

"Don't 'hey, Dean' me. What the hell happened while I was gone?"

Sam blinked, seeming to process the question. Then a slow and lazy smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that made Dean want to smack him into tomorrow morning. "We fucked." he said, his voice filled with a lazy and smug kind of satisfaction that made Dean groan.

"With the vampire."

"My vampire."

"For fuck's sake- in my Baby, Im going to be sick."

The first thing you register is the warmth. It's everywhere—wrapped around you like a blanket, seeping into your skin, making you feel safe and content in a way that only happens when you're still suspended in that hazy space between sleep and waking. The second thing you register is the weight. A leg thrown over yours, an arm draped across your stomach, the soft press of a body curled against your side. The third thing you register is the hair. Blonde. Golden. Spilling across your pillow like spilled sunlight.

You blink your eyes open slowly, your vision adjusting to the pale morning light filtering through your curtains. The room is quiet, peaceful, and for a moment you just lie there, letting yourself exist in this soft pocket of time. Then you turn your head, and you see her.

Stacey.

She's beautiful in the way that only someone who's just woken up can be. Her makeup is smudged from last night, her hair a tangled mess, her lips slightly parted as she breathes softly. Her face half-buried in the fabric of your pillow, and there's a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She looks like an angel, and you can't help the warmth that blooms in your chest.

Last night had been… good. Really good. She'd approached you at the party, all confidence and bright smiles, and you'd been instantly charmed. She was younger than you. A year under, you think, though you hadn't really asked. But she'd been so sure of herself, so forward, and there was something about that confidence that had drawn you in. One thing had led to another, and now here she was, in your bed, looking like she belonged there.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake her, but the movement makes her stir. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and you freeze, watching her face. Her brow furrows slightly, and then her eyes flutter open.

"Hey," you say softly, a smile already spreading across your face. "Good morning."

Stacey blinks at you, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and then a slow smile spreads across her face. It's beautiful: genuine and unguarded and so, so warm. "Hey," she murmurs back, her voice rough with sleep. "Good morning."

You reach out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Sleep okay?"

"Like a baby," she says, stretching slightly. Her arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. "Your bed is really comfortable."

"Glad to hear it." You lean in and press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth. She giggles at the last one, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart skip. "You want breakfast? I can make us something. Or we can go to the café—"

"Actually," Stacey interrupts gently, her voice soft and apologetic. "I should probably get going. I have a class at nine, and I still need to shower and… you know, figure out what I'm wearing."

"Right," you say, and you try to ignore the slight pang of disappointment. "Yeah, that's… that's fair."

But Stacey reaches out and cups your face, her palm warm against your cheek. "Hey," she says softly, her blue eyes meeting yours. "I had a really good time last night. Like, really good." She emphasizes the words, making sure you understand.

"I did too." you say, and you mean it.

She smiles, and it's so genuine it makes your chest ache. "I'd love to do this again sometime. If you're interested, I mean." She's suddenly shy, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "No pressure, obviously. But… I'd like to see you again."

"I'd like that too." you tell her, and you lean in to kiss her. It's soft and slow and unhurried, and when you pull back, she's smiling again.

"Okay," she says, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I should probably get dressed now."

You lie there for a moment, just watching her as she stands and stretches. The shirt she's wearing—your shirt—rides up just a little, exposing a sliver of her stomach, and you feel a flicker of warmth at the sight of her in your clothes. There's something intimate about it, something that feels like more than just a one-night stand.

"Hey," you call out, and she turns to look at you. "You can keep the shirt, if you want. For today, I mean. If you don't have anything else to wear."

Stacey's face lights up. "Really? You don't mind?"

"Not at all. It looks better on you anyway."

She laughs, that same soft, breathy sound, and you could get used to hearing it. She pulls on her jeans, the flared ones that make her legs look a mile long, and then tugs the shirt down, smoothing it over her hips. She looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine.

"Thank you," she says, and there's a warmth in her voice that makes your heart flutter. "For everything. Last night, this morning… you're really something, you know that?"

"Pretty sure that's my line, honey." you tease, and she laughs again. It's a good sound. A really good sound.

She walks over to where you're still lying in bed and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips, quick and soft. "I'll text you," she says. "And you better answer."

"I'll be waiting." you promise.

She grins, and then she's heading for the door, her steps light and bouncy. She pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you one last time. "Bye bye." she says, her voice soft.

"Bye, Stacey."

She slips out the door, and you hear her footsteps retreating down the hall.

And then you hear a muffled voice, low and deep, saying something that sounds like, "Hey! Watch where you're going, sweetheart."

You can't make out Stacey's response, but you hear her laugh, and then the sound fades as she continues down the hall. Whoever it was she almost ran into, it doesn't sound like an issue. You file it away in the back of your mind and turn your attention to the morning ahead.

You lie there for a moment, letting the morning light warm your face. The sheets still smell like her. A mix of her perfume and something sweeter, something that's just her. You sigh, a contented sound, and then you push yourself up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

Time to get ready.

You pad over to the bathroom, your feet cold against the tile, and start your morning routine. You brush your teeth, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Last night was good. Really good. And there's something about starting the day like this, with the memory of warmth still clinging to your skin, that makes everything feel.. nicer.

You wash your face, splashing cold water to wake yourself up. Then you brush your hair, tie it back, and survey your reflection one more time. Satisfied, you head back into the bedroom and start picking out your clothes for the day. You go for something comfortable but presentable. You're not trying to impress anyone today. Well, not everyone, anyways.

You slip out of your room, the door clicking shut behind you, and pad down the hallway. It's early—too early for most students to be awake—but you're used to this routine. You've been doing it for months now, ever since that first breakfast. It's become second nature, a habit you don't even have to think about.

Two doors down. To the right.

You stop in front of the door and raise your hand, knocking lightly. "Sam?" you call out, your voice soft. "You up?"

No answer.

You frown, knocking again, a little harder this time. "Sam? Come on, sleepyhead. We have to get breakfast."

Still nothing.

You huff, a sound of fond exasperation, and start knocking more insistently, your fists hitting the wood with a rhythmic beat. "Samuel Winchester, get up! You know we have to go eat breakfast!"

There's a beat of silence, and then you hear a muffled voice from inside. It's followed by a series of thumps and bumps, the sound of someone stumbling out of bed, and then footsteps approaching the door.

"fuck— m'comin', m'comin'!"

The door swings open, and there he is.

Sam Winchester.

He's clearly just woken up. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction; his eyes are heavy-lidded and slightly unfocused; and he's wearing a t-shirt that looks like it's seen better days. He's blinking down at you, looking genuinely confused, like he's not entirely sure where he is or what's happening.

You can't help the smirk that spreads across your face. "Didn't know I was interrupting, pretty."

For a moment, nothing. Sam just stares down at you, processing. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, his sleep-deprived brain working through your words. The innuendo. The way you'd responded to his "comin', comin'."

His face goes completely deadpan.

"At 7:15 a.m...?" His voice is incredulous, his disbelief dripping from every word. "Really? And you've already started?" He shakes his head, stepping back to let you in. "God save me."

You laugh, stepping past him into the room. "You're exactly where you wanna be, Sammy. Don't lie to yourself."

"m'not lying to m'self," he mutters, closing the door behind you. "jus' questioning all m'life choices."

You just laugh again, and the sound echoes in the small room. You take in the space—the papers scattered across his desk, the books stacked in piles on the floor, the bed that's still rumpled from the night before. It's Sam's room, through and through.

"I'm going to wash my face," he tells you, already heading toward the bathroom. "You can wait here. Try not to break anything."

"Can't make any promises." you call after him, and you hear him mutter something under his breath that sounds like "unbelievable."

You're already busy, moving around the room with familiar ease. You spot the coffee cups first: four of them, scattered across his desk and the windowsill. You grimace, picking them up one by one and stacking them together.

You grimace, reaching down to pick them up. They're from yesterday, the remnants of whatever study session he'd forced himself through. You know Sam. He doesn't sleep when he's stressed. He doesn't eat, doesn't rest, just pushes himself relentlessly until his body gives out.

You turn and walk toward the bathroom, the coffee cups cradled in your arms. Sam is at the sink, brushing his teeth. His back is to you, but you can see his reflection in the mirror. He looks up as you approach, watching you through the glass.

"Wha're y'doin'?" he asks, his words garbled by the toothbrush.

You hold up the cups. "What am I doing? What are you doing? Four cups of coffee? In one night? You're going to give yourself a heart attack."

He rolls his eyes, turning back to the mirror to spit the toothpaste into the sink. "It's not that big of a deal."

"It is a big deal," you insist, setting the cups down on his desk. "Sam, you need to take better care of yourself. There aren't even exams this week, and you're pulling all-nighters like you're studying for the bar exam or something. You're going to end up falling asleep in class."

He rinses his mouth, then looks at you through the mirror. "I'll be fine."

"You say that every time," you fire back. "And every time, you're not fine. You need to eat more, sleep more, and stop drinking so much caffeine. Do you know what happens when you don't eat enough? You pass out. You pass out in P.E., and then you're the embarrassing senior who collapsed in front of everyone."

He sighs, turning to face you. His expression shifts when he sees your face, your gently concerned expression. The stubborn set of his jaw softens.

He walks over to you, closing the distance. He drapes his arms over your shoulders, a loose, easy hug, and you step into it without thinking. Your arms circle his waist, and you look up at him. He's so tall, this ridiculous giant of a man, and you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

He looks down at you, his expression soft. "I'll eat more," he says. "I promise."

You both know it isn't true. Sam's relationship with food is complicated, tangled up in the control issues and trauma from his childhood. He'll eat more today, maybe, but tomorrow it'll be right back to skipping meals and forgetting to take care of himself. You know this. He knows you know this.

But you appreciate the sentiment anyway. You appreciate that he's trying, even when it's hard.

You squeeze his waist, your fingers digging into the soft material of his t-shirt. "Just... try," you say quietly. "Please? I hate seeing you like this. I hate knowing you're not taking care of yourself."

He squeezes you back, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head. "I know, sunshine. I'm sorry. I'll do better."

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other. It's comfortable. Safe. This is what you love about your friendship with Sam—the way you can be close without it being weird, the way you can just exist together without having to explain yourself.

Then you pull back, patting his chest. "Okay. That's enough of that. Go get changed. We're going to be late for breakfast."

"Okay," he says, pulling back. "Let me change."

He steps out of the embrace, and you turn around, giving him privacy. But you don't leave the room. Instead, you find yourself busying yourself with the notes on his desk, scanning them without really seeing. The paper is covered in his neat handwriting, and you can't help but admire the way he organizes his thoughts.

"You know," you say absently, "these are for the class you have on Thursday. You don't even have class today."

"I was reviewing," Sam says, and you can hear the rustle of fabric as he changes. "I wanted to be prepared."

"For Thursday? Sam, you're literally the most prepared person I've ever met."

"I just like to be thorough."

"You're a control freak," you call out, and you hear him make a disgruntled sound.

"I am not a control freak. I just like things to be organized."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing!"

"You're getting defensive. That means I'm right."

"I'm getting defensive because you're attacking my character."

"I'm not attacking your character. I'm celebrating it. People use 'control freak' as an insult, but I think it's your best quality. You're like… a tiny, meticulous little professor."

"I'm not tiny," he says flatly. "I'm six-foot-four."

"Exactly. You're a giant control freak."

The rustling stops, and there's a beat of silence. Then, "Okay. I'm decent."

You turn around, and there he is. Sam Winchester, all six-foot-four of him, dressed in jeans and a soft flannel shirt. His hair is still slightly messy, but he's run his fingers through it, taming the worst of the bedhead. His eyes are clearer now, more alert, and there's a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

You can't help it. Your face splits into a grin. "There he is. My favorite boy friend."

"Your only boy friend," he corrects, picking up his bag from the chair. "Even if you've got loads of boyfriends."

"Oh, come on! You wound me."

"Your reputation preceeds you."

You laugh, because he's right. "Okay, fair point. But you're still my boy ever, boy friend or boyfriend. Happy?"

"Thrilled," he says dryly, and he shoulders his bag. "Come on. Let's go get breakfast before you start lecturing me about my dietary habits again."

"I'm always going to lecture you about your dietary habits," you say, falling into step beside him as you head for the door. "It's part of my job description."

"Your job description? You're not my nutritionist."

"I'm your best friend. That's even more important."

Sam opens the door and holds it for you, a gesture that makes your heart skip. "Somehow, I don't think best friends are supposed to be this bossy."

"Somehow, I think best friends are the ones who care enough to be bossy. And I care about you, Sam. A lot."

His eyes soften, and you see that flicker of vulnerability again, the one he tries so hard to hide. "I know you do," he says quietly. "I care about you too."

The campus is quiet this early, only a few students milling about. The air is cool and crisp, the last traces of morning fog burning off as the sun rises higher in the sky. You walk side by side, Sam's long legs slowing to match your pace, and the silence between you is comfortable, familiar.

"So what's on your schedule today?" you ask.

"Not too much," he says. "English Lit at ten, History at two. That's it."

"And you needed four cups of coffee for two classes?" you tease. "That's not a thing."

"I had a paper due," he says defensively. "And I wanted to get ahead on the reading for next week."

"And you stayed up all night to do that?"

"It wasn't all night. Just... late."

"Sam."

"I know, I know." He holds his hands up in surrender. "I'm working on it. I promise."

You give him a skeptical look, but you let it go. You've learned to pick your battles with him. The important thing is that he heard you, that he knows you're watching out for him. The rest will come with time.

You reach the café, a small place tucked between two larger buildings, and you hold the door open for him. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, and you follow him inside.

The café is quiet, only a few other students scattered around. The barista, Maria, gives you a wave from behind the counter. You're regulars here by now and she knows your order by heart.

"Morning, kids!" she calls out. "The usual?"

"One of the usual," Sam says, his voice still carrying that morning roughness. "And a coffee-"

"Sam." you say, your voice sharp.

He turns to look at you, and you're giving him that look, the one that's all narrowed eyes and pursed lips. The "I'm not kidding" look.

Sam sighs. It's a long, dramatic sound, the kind that's designed to convey his immense suffering at having to deal with your overbearing concern. "Fine," he says, turning back to Maria. "Just a diet Coke. And a croissant. Please."

You beam. Raising yourself on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his jaw. It's the best you can do, since he's too tall for you to reach his cheek without him bending down.

Sam's face softens, just a little. "Happy, huh?"

"Very."

Maria is watching this exchange with a barely suppressed smile. "I'll bring it right over." she says, and there's something knowing in her voice.

You and Sam head for the window seat, sliding into the familiar booth. The morning light is streaming through the glass, warming the tabletop and making everything look golden. You settle into your seat, looking out at the campus, watching the early risers make their way across the quad.

"So," you say, turning your attention back to Sam. "What are you doing today? After class, I mean."

"Library."

"Of course you are."

"What else am I supposed to do? It's Wednesday."

"Live a little, Sam. Do something reckless, i don't know. Skip the library and go to the movie theater instead."

"You want me to skip my reading?"

"Yes."

"I can't skip my reading. I have a test on Friday."

"The test is on Friday. You have two whole days."

"Three days is not enough time."

"Sam, you've been reading for that class since the first week of the semester. I think you're fine."

"You can never be too prepared."

"You can be too prepared," you counter. "You can be so prepared that you forget to actually live your life."

"Mnm, and you can live your life so much you forget to be prepared." He's teasing you, you can tell. His eyes are dancing with mischief. "Had fun last night?"

You roll your eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh." Maria comes and sets down the the food: a diet coke and a croissant for Sam, and an orange juice and two pieces of toast with butter for you. "Sure you don't."

"Sam."

"Just saying you looked happy when you came to my room. So.. good for you, it's what I meant."

Something warm settles in your chest. "Thanks." you say, your voice softer than you meant it to be. "I did have fun."

"I'm glad." He takes a sip of his diet coke with a smirk, then sighs. "I could really use a coffee, you know. Like, a real one."

"Nope. You're not having caffeine today. You need to sleep tonight."

"I'm not a child."

"You act like one sometimes."

He scoffs, but he's smiling. The banter between you is easy, comfortable, a dance you've been doing for months now. You don't know how you ever survived without mornings like this, without this familiar rhythm of teasing and understanding.

You start to eat, your toast warm and buttery. The conversation flows naturally between you, moving from class schedules to weekend plans to the latest campus gossip. Sam's been auditioning for a student film, and he tells you all about the director, a dramatic arts major named Brady who's apparently "very intense and maybe a little full of himself."

"And you're sure you want to do this?" you ask, arching an eyebrow. "He sounds like a nightmare."

Sam shrugs, picking at the edge of his croissant. "It's just a small part. A few lines, maybe a scene or two. It could be good experience."

"Just be careful," you say, because you worry about him. You always worry about him. "If he starts getting weird, or like, pressuring you to do something you're not comfortable with, I want you to tell me. I'll come down there and—"

"Defend my honor?" he interrupts, laughing. "That's very gallant of you."

"Shut up." But you're laughing too. "I just don't want you to get taken advantage of, okay? You're too nice for your own good."

"I'm a grown man," he says, but there's no heat in it. "I can take care of myself."

"I know you can." And you do know it. You just hate the thought of him being hurt.

The conversation shifts to safer topics—the basketball game next weekend, the upcoming English Lit exam, the weird new guy who keeps showing up in the library and has to be the loudest human on the planet. It's easy and natural, and you feel yourself relaxing into the rhythm of it.

Your toast is gone, and you're working on your orange juice, when you notice Sam hasn't touched his croissant. He's been drinking his diet coke and talking, but the pastry sits on its plate, uneaten.

You point to it with your finger. "Eat that."

He frowns at you. "I'm not hungry."

"You said you would. You promised."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not really in the mood for—"

"Sam." You hold his gaze, your expression imploring. "Please. You need to eat. Just a little bit. For me?"

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and you can see the war going on behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to refuse, to maintain control. The part of him that wants to make you happy.

He sighs again, and you know you've won. He picks up the croissant, takes a hesitant bite. Chews. Swallows. He's not enjoying it, but he's doing it.

You beam at him. "See? That wasn't so hard."

"I hate you." he mutters around the bite.

"You love me."

"That is... debatable."

"Is not."

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"Flatterer."

"Eat," you say, pointing to the croissant.

Sam sighs, picking up the croissant and taking a bite. "There. Happy?"

"Very."

He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, and that's enough for you.

You're about to respond when a voice cuts through the peaceful morning air.

"Guys! Thank fuck I've found you!"

You groan, your head dropping back. You know that voice. You know it intimately, the way you know the back of your own hand. It's the voice that's been tormenting you for at least weeks now.

"Good morning to you too, Dean." Sam says, his voice utterly flat.

ΔΨΟ. Delta Psi Omicron, better known as St. Delta. Rumors circle around about how the frat got its nickname— some say it’s because of their charity work, while others say it’s because they own the biggest house on University Avenue. But most know it’s because the people who flood to their parties always end up on their knees.

Your roommate won’t shut up about St. Delta. You got unlucky with dorm pairings, and all year you’ve been nothing but pressured to attend one of the frat’s events.

“Come on. Maybe you’ll find someone to cuddle up and watch Netflix with you or some shit.” Your roommate laughs at you, gesturing to the posters messily taped to your side of the dorm wall. “People travel like, two, three hours to go to their parties and you’re telling me that living across the street from them does nothing to you?”

You groan. This is the third time St. Delta’s been mentioned today, and the millionth thing mentioned about how ‘crazy’ or ‘insane’ or some other intense synonym pulled from his ass to describe their parties.

“What if I don’t want to go?” You murmur back to your roommate from your bed. He knows you’re not much of a partier. You’re hardly even a drinker on the weekend.

“Whatever, man.” He shrugs. “The boys are tasty. Thought I was doing a favor saying you’d want a bite.”

That is tempting.

When your roommate disappears to the bathroom, you wonder if it’s worth trying.

‘The boys are tasty.’

…

You decide to go without the company of your roommate. If it’s really that crazy of a party, making friends should be easy, right? The lights are off and the music is loud in the three story building. St. Delta is the oldest frat at your college, but they must destroy the house so much that the interior looks newly remodeled. LEDs mounted to the ceiling flash rainbows into your eyes. God, is this really going to be worth it? You should’ve just stayed home, but since you’re here you may as well have a free drink.

You try to make your rounds to find a cooler but you get blocked by a bunch of guys are crowded around one man, cheering and laughing louder than the music. The man in the center has his fly and jeans buttons undone, his suit shirt is torn and hangs at the waist by the single bottom button. His tie is still around his neck and he’s holding up a new shirt, clearly gifted, against his body to measure its size. It’s a plain white shirt with the words COMMUNITY DICK printed in big black lettering.

“How many times did’ja get your cock sucked, Cas?” One guy shouts. Another wraps an arm around Cas while a guy takes a photo.

“At least four times! He probably sucked some too, he’s got cum in his hair!” Another guy laughs and runs his fingers roughly through Cas’s hair, causing Cas to moan a little. Someone sticks a dollar bill in the man’s waistband and the group goes wild.

“Say cheese, Cassie!”

The group hollers and Cas sticks his tongue out for the picture. He puts the shirt on, which ends up being too short, and the crowd disperses for more alcohol. You try to follow the horde in the direction of drinks and accidentally ram into this Cas guy.

“Ah- Sorry!” You say timidly. Cas doesn’t seem bothered. His tired blue eyes sweep your body up and down, clearly liking what he sees.

Castiel’s pants are low enough to see his v-line and trimmed happy trail poking from his boxers. The man looks like he’s been tossed around in every way possible, played with, fucked silly, and got off to it every time.

“You’re new…” Cas takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

“How’d you know..?”

“If you weren’t new then you’d be naked by now.” He says it matter-of-factly, voice slightly slurred.

“Oh.”

You notice he has a tattoo above his groin— lineart of a church with three Greek letters underneath: ΔΨΟ. Oh. He must be one of the frat boys your roommate was talking about.

You like what you see, and it’s shameful.

“Virgin?”

You look back up at his face and shrug. None of his business.

“Hm.”

“Thanks anyway.” You walk past him into the kitchen. The men from earlier are there, grinning and looking at the pictures they took of Castiel.

“Fuck, someone needs to plow him or he’s going to be pissy tomorrow.”

“How much more does he fuckin’ need?”

“Until his tie goes missing.”

The group laughs even louder. You help yourself to an unopened bottle of vodka, cracking it open and dumping a generous helping into a solo cup. There’s no chaser in sight. Not even a Coke can. So you down the thing straight, fighting back the expression your face wants to contort to. You whip around when the group gets rowdy again. Castiel hobbles into the room clutching his tie.

“Ohhh, looks like he’s not letting anyone have it tonight.” The guy with the camera giggles, gesturing at the tie: “The head’s really that bad?”

“Unfortunately, Michael.” Castiel limps to the counter beside you to get a drink. He casts a sideways glance at you. “What’re you staring for?”

You stutter like you were caught doing something bad. “I just wanted to know what they’re talking about. And if you’re okay.”

“Jesus, you really are ignorant…” Castiel reaches for a second shot. He tugs at his tie like it’s a badge of honor, then at his sagging jeans in an attempt to cover his obviously bruised ass. “…But you’re pretty. D’ya like guys?”

For some reason the alcohol starts to hit you now. Not enough to be drunk, but enough to make you honest. You nod.

“Then I’m trying to figure out why you haven’t even tried to fuck me.”

All of the blood in your body rushes down faster than you thought humanly possible. “You…didn’t ask..”

“You don’t need to ask.” Cas stumbles until he’s leaning sloppily against you. “I belong to the St. Delta, the house and her visitors.” A hand finds its way into his boxers and he starts panting. You don’t know what to do. Your back is against the kitchen counter and you just…let him. At least for now.

He’s so tired that he can hardly please himself with the proper form— it’s kind of embarrassing how he looks more like a cheap body than anything else. Your lip twitches. Fuck it.

You pull his arm from his boxers and replace it with yours. You know what you’re doing because you take care of yourself. If this guy is so desperate for something, he needs to get it right.

Your hand squeezes him until he gags, working him just until the edge before stopping. He swaps positions with you against the counter and you have him pinned, causing the cups and cans on the counter to topple over. Castiel looks like he’s going to fall over or throw up. You’re not going to let that happen.

“Is this it? What you want?” You ask like you’re guilty of something, but Cas is so into it that he almost looks hypnotized.

“Mmh…mhm….” He presses his forehead to your chest. Castiel’s stupid shirt rises up higher and you can feel the muscles on his stomach grind against yours. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever met. Thicker. Your tongue slips loose and suddenly all the thoughts in your head announce themselves to the room:

“What the fuck’s your problem?”

You don’t stop though. You pinch him and he gasps. He’s twitching in all the right ways and it makes you hungry for something you didn’t think you’d ever indulge. You’re in public, at a frat party of all places, the friends of your new toy standing across the room like nothing’s new.

“It’s okay…” Castiel whines. “Doesn’t count if you have a purity ring.” He says with complete seriousness, grabbing your bicep with his sticky hand and you feel the metal of his ring rub against you. He’s so proud of himself, so compliant and so willing to do whatever it is you want.

“No wonder you’re the household toy,” you spit on your hand and work him harder. “You just say ‘yes’ to everything. How do you function in class?”

“I get good grades…” he whimpers. “I—ungh…gonna get my master’s.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re looking for a few masters…” you scoff, squeezing him so he squeaks out his response.

“M’serious—ah!”

“I don’t listen to dumb holes.”

“Maybe a PhD…”

“Paying so much for school just to pimp yourself out for free. Sounds pretty stupid to me.”

You get him off quickly after feeling the crowd of eyes on you from across the room. Michael makes a lewd gesture, twisting his hands in front of his open jaw. He mouths something:

“Take his tie.”

The others stick their tongues out and continue with the jeering. Castiel collapses against you, thighs shaking, sweating a storm. You catch him by the arms and set him on the alcohol and cum covered floor. The guy’s in pure bliss— you’re not one to kink shame but Christ is it impressive how okay with it he is. You hastily down another drink to cope with the feeling of what you just did. You take his tie off his neck and tuck it in your pocket.

“That’s the first time he’s let someone take it without a fight.” One of the guys announces. “I might need some of you later.”

That’s enough for one night. If you’re going to get your own rocks off it’ll be in the privacy of your bathroom, replaying the image of Cas whining to you, his self-reporting shirt, the letters tattoed under his v-line, the ecstasy on his face when you forced a mess in his boxers better than anyone here—

You wash your hand in the nearby sink, checking on Castiel periodically before you leave. His friends haul him up the floor and put him on the kitchen chair. One of his friends tells you that he’s fine, and Cas confirms it.

“Come back next week…” Cas coos. “I’ll be good for you.”

You’re definitely using that tie in the bathroom tonight. And considering joining a frat.

Get a kiss from an angel by joining my Taglist~🪽

In this lifetime, you’re two seashells at the beach, feeling the cool waves wash over your ridges. Sam is a delicate cream shell, flecks of pink and gold making their way into the colour, pale against the sand. You’re a pale purple, a twisting ridge dancing across your shell. You lay side by side; two natural treasures of the world open to the sun and sky. The warmth of the sand warms you, and the coolness of the nighttime waves drown you in pleasure. Someday, a kid will come along and pick you up, turning you over in their grimy fingers before pocketing you. That same kid will inevitably turn towards Sam, tucking him in the pocket alongside you. Because where one of you goes, the other follows. Even if that happens to be the salty pocket of some kid’s swimsuit.

In this lifetime, you’re freer than you’ve ever been before. You’re light as a feather, floating in the breeze. But you’re not a feather, and neither is Sam. You both came from the same place; the soft head of a pure white dandelion. You will both end up in the same place too; a field miles away, coming to rest gently in the tall grass of the untouched plain. You will take root and grow and change in that field, and Sam will be right there with you through it all. You will sit together and watch birds wheel overhead, point out the shapes of the clouds as they move above, unconsciously lean into each other when the nights get too cold. Sam’s warmth will flood into you even in this state, and it’ll feel just right. Because this is how it’s meant to be, just you and him, together in a field of your own, completely free.

In this lifetime, you have what you can only imagine to be perhaps one of the most intimate, perfect outcomes. You are two books, sitting together on a shelf. Not just any two books, no. Two books in a duology. The beginning and end and everything in between. The only compliment you need is each other, because where one’s tale has gaps, the other can fill them in. Where one’s story has plot holes, the other has the solutions. Cover to cover you sit on the shelf, pages well-loved and full of annotations. Highlighted words, dog-eared pages, suspicious stains that are likely coffee spilled in a careless moment. The domesticity of it all is what makes the moment, because you are loved. Your story has been read back to front and back again a million times, and someone has bothered to go through and highlight every shared moment, every touch, every breath.

No matter what happens to you two, you will always be with Sam. Because Sam doesn’t do anything halfway. He goes to the end, and you will happily follow him, wherever the story takes you. Heaven couldn’t tear you apart if they tried, because Sam’s grip on your essence is so tight that it would pull him apart to have you part from him. His footsteps will go first, making a path through heavy snow and tall weeds, and your footsteps will follow, mirroring his perfectly. Your hand will be in his, fingers intertwined, thumbs rubbing over knuckles with a tenderness found nowhere else. When you step into a bar with Sam, the hunters know who you are. Because you are Sam’s other half, the only person they can think of who knows more about the obscure and occult than him. The one who he will toss the shotgun to with no second thought, because he trusts you just that much. The only one other than Dean who can call him Sammy and get away with it (many have tried, and all have failed. Sam plays favourites). The perfect love story. The perfect couple. In every universe.