𐙚

In the six months you'd known John Logan, you'd known him to be rational. His anger was taken out on the ice, his head stayed cool, and his fists stayed by his side. That's the type of man John Logan was. He didn't punch first and ask questions later.

So why then, did Tucker call you at ten at night to tell you that Logan had his fists in your ex's face?

You weren't sure. All you knew was that you needed to figure it out. Set it straight. Understand why Logan lost his cool so hard.

He'd never done that before, and something in you was worried.

So, you put shoes on and headed out the door, not even bothering to change out of your pjs as you got in the car and headed to the hockey house. The ride there was deafeningly silent. No music, no mumbling or humming or anything from you. Just the rumble of your car and the worry in your brain.

When you pulled up, you paused for a second, breath hitching. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing here. In reality, what could you do to help? But...you had to be there. You had to be.

If Logan was pissed off over your ex, you felt responsible.

So you got out of the car and headed up to the house in your slides and pjs, not bothering to knock as you opened the door. Tucker and Dean were in the living room, and Dean pointed upstairs wordlessly.

You didn't give him a second glance as you headed upstairs and to Logan's room. No knocking, no waiting, you just barged in, closing the door behind you. Logan was sitting on his bed, leg bouncing and knuckles busted open.

You swallowed. "What happened?" you asked, your voice suddenly quiet.

It was like he hadn't even realized you were there, not until now. His eyes shot up to you, a mix of confusion and anger still lingering, but there was something else too. Something...different. His jaw worked, his lips pressing together.

Then, he shook his head. "Nothing," he replied. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like this entire thing didn't happen.

You scoffed. "Nothing? Logan, look at your knuckles."

Logan looked down, his eyes glancing over his bloody knuckles, and he inhaled shakily, like he was seeing them for the first time. He brought a hand up, running it over his face. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" You sounded offended. You were offended. How could he tell you that? You huffed, turning around and leaving his room. You went to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, getting it wet with warm water and then adding some soap.

You walked back into Logan's room, and his eyes shot up again, surprise in them like he didn't expect you to come back. You walked over to me, dropping to your knees down in front of him and grabbing his hand gently.

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up," you mumbled, dabbing the rugged skin lightly. Logan hissed, hand tightening in yours, and you let him. Silence encompassed the room for a few seconds as you cleaned his knuckles, but curiosity got the best of you. "Why'd you do it?"

Your eyes met his. He swallowed. "He pissed me off."

You shook your head. "It's more than that. It has to be. You don't just beat up people because they piss you off, John."

The use of his first name seemed to get him. You only called him that when it was serious, and this was serious. You had to understand what was so special about your ex that he threw fists.

He sighed, throat bobbing as he swallowed once more. "He deserved it," he deflected again.

You weren't having it. "That's not what I asked."

He inhaled through his nose, squeezing your hand slightly tighter as you hit a sensitive spot with the washcloth. "He called you a slut," he grumbled out through gritted teeth.

You paused, eyes flickering up to his. You let out a shaky breath. You knew your ex had been saying shit about you, but it didn't make it affect you any less hearing it come from Logan. He scoffed softly, shaking your head. "So you beat his ass for that?"

"Of course I beat his ass for that, angel. Why the hell wouldn't I?"

Angel.

He only called you that on rare occasions. When he was really drunk or when it was really late and you were sleeping over. So to hear it now, in this moment? It struck your chest and made your stomach erupt with butterflies.

"It wasn't worth it," you mumbled, finishing up his knuckles. "It's just words."

You stood up, tossing the washcloth in his dirty hamper. "It's not just words, and it was worth it. It was worth it to me." He stood up then, hovering over you, his body inches from yours. "No one gets to talk about you like that."

You swallowed, shaking your head. "Why is it such a big deal to you?"

He tilted his head, eyes searching yours like the question was ridiculous to even ask. "Are you kidding me?" You shook your head, eyebrows furrowed. "Angel..." His hands came down to your hips, gripping gently and pulling you closer.

Your breath hitched. "Everything about you is a big deal to me," he whispered, a small smile on his face.

You smiled slightly, confusedly, trying to come to terms with what you knew he was saying. "I don't-" You paused. "I mean...you- you still shouldn't have hit him."

He chuckled, breathlessly and softly, like this was all funny. "Yeah, I should've." He leaned in, kissing you softly. Your breath was taken away, his lips soft and sure against yours. It took you a few seconds, but you caught up.

Your hands went to his hair and he pulled you even closer, the kiss deepening as he did so. The kiss lasted as long as it could before you both had to pull back, and you were smiling so hard it almost hurt. You'd never been kissed like that before.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You are..." You sighed, leaning in and resting your forehead against his. "Something else, John Logan."

Judging by the way he looked at her when she opened the door, hair messy, mouth curved, one hand already reaching for her waist like the rest of the evening had been mutually agreed upon by fate and grey sweatpants, it was very much the second.

“Hey, baby,” he said, warm and low, stepping inside before she could fully decide whether to warn him.

“Hi,” she said, and shifted the baby higher on her hip.

Garrett’s hand stopped halfway to her waist. His eyes dropped. For one perfect second, the great Garrett Graham, Briar’s captain, top-line centre, walking highlight reel, man who could read a defender’s shoulder from half a rink away and decide how to ruin his life in under two seconds, stared at the tiny six-month-old baby in her arms with the blank, careful horror of someone who had walked into an exam for the wrong subject.

The baby stared back. She had one fist shoved in her mouth, cheeks round and flushed from her bottle, dark lashes blinking slow and judgmental like she, too, had expected better situational awareness from him.

Garrett’s gaze flicked from the baby to her face. Then back to the baby. Then back to her. “Uh,” he said.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

His brows pulled together. “Did I… miss something?”

That broke her. A laugh came out before she could make it pretty, bright and helpless enough that Pippa startled, then smiled around her wet little fist like laughter was a game she had just invented and expected royalties from.

“No, idiot.” She bounced the baby once when Pippa’s legs kicked happily against her stomach. “This is my niece. Pippa.”

Garrett blinked. “Your niece.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” He nodded too many times, visibly reorganising the entire evening in his head. The door clicked shut behind him with his heel. “Yeah. Obviously. I knew that.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to Pippa again, his mouth doing something strange, not quite a grin yet, like he was afraid any sudden facial expression might commit him to childcare. “I just didn’t know she was gonna be… here.”

“She lives a very busy life.”

“Looks like it.” He leaned a little closer, cautious in a way she had literally never seen from him. Garrett Graham had taken hits from men built like refrigerators and grinned blood off his teeth. But faced with one damp, sleepy baby in a yellow onesie covered in tiny ducks, he suddenly looked like he was approaching an unexploded device. “Hi, Pippa,” he said, voice dropping into this awkward, overly polite register. “Nice to… meet you.”

Pippa took her fist out of her mouth with a soft pop and blew a bubble at him.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah. Cool.”

She laughed again, softer this time, because he looked so stupidly sincere about the whole thing. “Garrett, she’s a baby.”

“Okay, sorry I’m being respectful.” He shot her a look, then glanced back at Pippa, who had started patting her own chest with one open palm like she was applauding the conversation. “I don’t know her yet. I’m making a good first impression.”

“You came over to hook up and now you’re networking with an infant.”

“I’m versatile.”

“You’re scared.”

His head snapped up. “I’m not scared.”

“Babe.”

“I’m not.” He straightened a little, like the accusation had challenged his captaincy. “I’m just being careful. She’s tiny.”

Pippa made a happy little shriek at the exact same moment, startling herself so badly her eyes went huge. Garrett froze. She immediately shoved her fist back into her mouth and drooled down her wrist with the calm recovery of someone who had no idea she had just almost sent a six-foot-two hockey player into cardiac arrest.

Her whole chest went warm. Garrett standing in her entryway, still built for sex and hockey, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands because there was a baby in the room and the baby was looking at him like he might be interesting if he proved himself.

She shifted Pippa higher, the baby’s warm little body settling against her side, one socked foot digging into her thigh. “My sister’s anniversary dinner ran late. She asked if I could take her for a few hours.”

Garrett nodded, still watching Pippa like she might evolve in real time. “Right. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool.”

“You can go, you know,” she said, amused, because it was easier than admitting how weirdly sweet he looked standing there trying to adjust. “I know this probably isn’t what you had planned.”

His eyes lifted to hers at once, and the grin finally arrived, crooked and familiar and much easier to recognise. “Depends. Is she gonna be here the whole time?”

She stared at him. He lifted both hands. “I meant for hanging out. Jesus. Don’t look at me like that.”

“You had exactly one thought when you walked in.”

“I’m a man of focus.”

“You’re a man of grey sweatpants and bad timing.”

His grin widened. “You noticed the sweatpants.”

“I have eyes.”

He sucked at his bottom lip. “Good ones.”

“Don’t flirt with me in front of my niece.”

“She doesn’t know.”

Pippa squealed again, louder this time, and slapped her hand against the front of her sweatshirt hard enough to leave a damp little print.

Garrett looked at her. “Okay, maybe she knows.”

“She’s very advanced.”

“Clearly.”

She moved toward the living room, and Garrett followed, slower than usual, his bag dropped near the door, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie like he did not trust them unsupervised. Her apartment had been fully taken over in the last hour by things that were not hers. 

A soft blanket on the rug. A half-collapsed baby gym with dangling animals in colours nature had never intended. A bottle cooling on the coffee table. A diaper bag open on the couch, packed with enough wipes, tiny clothes, and unidentified pastel objects to suggest Pippa was planning a weekend away rather than a three-hour visit.

Garrett stopped beside the play mat and looked down at it. “She comes with gear.”

“She does.”

Pippa watched him over her fist, drool shining on her chin. Garrett watched her back. His mouth twitched. “She’s kind of staring me down.”

“She’s deciding if she likes you.”

“Important process. I respect it.”

“She usually likes everyone.”

His head turned toward her, offended. “Don’t say that. I wanna earn it.”

That got her again, the laugh catching lower this time, softer around the edges. She set Pippa down carefully on the blanket, one hand supporting the back of her head until she was settled on her tummy. Pippa made a small grunt of effort, immediately kicked both legs, and then began the serious business of trying to eat a cloth giraffe.

Garrett crouched beside the mat, forearms resting loosely on his knees, the size of him absurd next to all that baby softness. Big hands. Broad shoulders. Hoodie stretched over muscle. Hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked like someone had dropped a golden retriever into a nursery and told it to act natural.

Pippa lifted her head, saw him closer, and smiled so wide her whole face folded into it. Garrett went still. “Oh,” he said, quieter.

She felt the sound more than heard it, tucked under the faint hum of the dishwasher and the cartoonish crinkle of the giraffe toy. His face had changed. His eyes had gone a little softer, caught on this tiny person who had decided that he wasn’t a threat and maybe even funny-looking enough to enjoy.

“She smiled at me,” he said.

“She did.”

“Like, on purpose?”

“Probably.”

“Okay.” He nodded, trying very hard to look normal about this development and failing badly. “Yeah. She’s smart.”

“She likes the ceiling fan too, so don’t get cocky.”

Pippa drooled onto the giraffe. Garrett pointed. “Is that… fine?”

“That’s fine.”

“She’s eating it.”

“She’s gumming it. It’s made for babies.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the giraffe again, then at Pippa. “Carry on, then.”

She lasted maybe eight more minutes before Pippa decided the play mat was a cruel prison and began making the small, offended little sounds that meant she wanted to be upright, involved, and possibly worshipped. 

She picked her up first, mostly on instinct, rubbing a hand over Pippa’s back while the baby huffed against her shoulder, warm cheek pressed to the collar of her sweatshirt. Garrett watched from the couch, elbows on his knees now, all that earlier awkwardness hidden under interest he was clearly trying to pretend was casual.

“You wanna hold her?”

The question hit him like a puck to the sternum. His eyes lifted. “Me?”

“No, the other enormous hockey captain in my living room.”

He looked at Pippa, then at his own hands, like he was reassessing whether thumbs were enough. “I mean. Yeah. I can.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to.”

“You look like I just asked you to defuse a bomb.”

“That’s dramatic.” He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring. “Give me the baby.”

She paused. “Never say it like that again.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a nervous edge under it that made her smile before she could stop herself. “Okay, fine. May I please hold Pippa, the baby, respectfully?”

“Better.” She stepped between his knees and shifted Pippa carefully in her arms. “Okay, put your arm like this.”

Garrett’s hands came up, big and hesitant. He had beautiful hands, which was an annoying thing to think right now, but also true. Hands that knew sticks and steering wheels and the back of her neck in the dark. Hands that could be careless with his own body but were suddenly so careful around Pippa that her throat did something strange.

“Support her head,” she said softly, guiding his palm under the baby’s neck. “Yeah. Like that. And this arm under her bum. There you go.”

Pippa transferred over in a warm, squirming little bundle, and Garrett’s whole body went rigid. Alert. The way he got before a faceoff, only if the puck had chubby thighs and one sock sliding off.

“Oh my God,” he said under his breath.

She laughed, one hand still hovering near Pippa’s back. “You’re fine.”

“She’s moving.”

“She does that.”

“Cool. Great.” Garrett stared down at the baby now nestled against the crook of his arm, his voice lowering like volume itself could destabilise her. “Hey, Pippa. We’re good, right? You and me?”

Pippa stared up at him, serious for one second, then reached out with one damp fist and grabbed the string of his hoodie. 

Garrett looked at her. “Strong grip.”

“She likes strings.”

“She can’t have it if it’s dangerous, right?”

“Right.”

He immediately tucked the other string away with his free hand, jaw set in concentration. “No choking hazards. I know that.”

“Look at you.”

He glanced up at her, smugness making a brave return despite the fact that he was still holding Pippa like she was made of glass and university liability. “Told you I got this.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I’m post-practice.”

He carefully adjusted Pippa higher, the movement clumsy for half a second before his instincts caught up and his hold settled into something sturdier. The baby’s cheek turned into his hoodie. Her little fist stayed locked around the fabric near his chest, and Garrett looked down at her with such focused, faintly stunned attention that the joke waiting on her tongue dissolved before it could leave her mouth.

Pippa made a sleepy sound and rubbed her face into his chest.

Garrett’s eyes lifted to hers, quieter now. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. She cleared her throat. “She likes you.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Smart girl.”

“She also likes licking table legs.”

“Still smart.”

She shook her head, smiling, and sat beside him on the couch, close enough that her thigh pressed into his. Garrett didn’t move away. If anything, he tilted slightly toward her, careful not to jostle Pippa, letting the baby’s weight settle between them like something neither of them had expected and both of them were, in their own ways, trying not to overreact to.

The TV was on low, some episode of a show neither of them was watching moving blue light across the room. The apartment smelled faintly like baby lotion and Garrett’s soap and the pasta she’d eaten standing at the counter before Pippa’s bottle because babysitting had made time weird and dinner had become whatever she could fork into her mouth while bouncing a tiny person with opinions. 

Somewhere outside, a car rolled down the street with music thudding faintly through closed windows. Normal stuff. Little stuff. The kind of evening that would not have felt dangerous at all if Garrett didn’t look so unexpectedly right with a baby tucked into his arm.

She hated that, a little. The sweetness of it. The way it slipped under her skin without asking. Garrett glanced over and caught her staring.

His grin appeared immediately, soft and unbearable. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

“I’m just watching you panic.”

“I’m not panicking. I’m thriving.”

She laughed and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, careful of Pippa between them. Garrett’s cheek tipped down for half a second, brushing the top of her hair. It was so absent, so automatic, that it made her chest tighten more than if he’d said something sweet on purpose.

Pippa’s eyelids started to droop. Her fist loosened in Garrett’s hoodie, fingers uncurling one by one. He noticed before she did. “She’s doing something.”

“She’s getting sleepy.”

His voice dropped even lower. “Oh.”

“You can breathe, babe.”

“I am breathing.”

Pippa sighed then, a full-body little sound that ended with her mouth falling slightly open against Garrett’s chest. Garrett went still again, but differently this time. Less fear. More wonder trying very hard not to show up as wonder because he was still a twenty-one-year-old hockey player in grey sweats who had come over intending to get laid and had instead been promoted, temporarily, to furniture for a sleeping infant.

His hand shifted carefully over Pippa’s back, one broad palm almost covering the whole of her. He rubbed once, slow, then looked at her for confirmation.

She nodded. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth softened. He looked back down at the baby. “She’s tiny.”

“She’s actually chunky for her age.”

“She’s tiny,” he repeated, like this wasn’t up for debate, and there was something in his voice that made her stop teasing.

For a second, she wondered if he was thinking about his own family. Sometimes, when something gentle entered the room too suddenly, she could see the way he didn’t quite know where to put his hands around it. Like softness needed instructions. Like if he held it wrong, someone might blow a whistle somewhere only he could hear.

So she didn’t say anything too big. She only reached over and fixed Pippa’s fallen sock, tugging it back over one tiny heel, and let her fingers brush Garrett’s thigh on the way back. “You’re doing good,” she said.

His eyes came to her face. For once, he didn’t grin immediately. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Natural.”

That made him huff. “Liar.”

“A little,” she admitted, smiling. “But you’re cute, and very brave.”

“I know.” His grin came back, smaller now. “Might put it on my résumé. Can hold one baby under supervision.”

She scoffed softly. “Barely.”

“Successfully.”

“For seven minutes.”

“Still undefeated.”

She laughed softly, and Pippa stirred against him, face scrunching. Both of them froze. The baby sighed and settled again. Garrett exhaled through his nose, triumphant and silent, like he’d just won a championship in not waking up infants. She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing again.

He looked at her, eyes bright. “Did you see that?”

“I saw.”

“Handled.”

“You did.”

“Captain material.”

She leaned into him a little more, her shoulder tucked against his arm, the warmth of him spreading through the old sweatshirt she was wearing. His body was still keyed underneath the stillness, all coiled athlete forced into gentleness, but his breathing had slowed. 

Pippa’s small back rose and fell beneath his hand. The room seemed to soften around the three of them, domestic in a way she didn’t want to name because naming it would make it too real and maybe too much.

Garrett was quiet for a while. He didn’t rush to fill the space with some joke about her baby-trapping him or ask if this meant his original plans were permanently cancelled or make one of the million stupid comments he could have made to rescue himself from looking soft. He just held Pippa and let his thumb move, once, twice, barely there over the baby’s back. Then, very quietly, he said, “She smells good.”

She looked at him.

He glanced back. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I was thinking you just discovered babies smell nice.”

“Well, I didn’t know.” He looked down again, faintly defensive. “I don’t hang out with a lot of babies.”

“Your loss.”

“Clearly. Pippa and I are boys now.”

“She’s a girl.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

He nudged her knee with his. “Don’t start.”

She smiled down at Pippa, asleep against the big Briar captain like this was a perfectly reasonable place for a nap. Her cheek was squished into the soft cotton of Garrett’s hoodie, one hand curled near his collar, one sock already trying to escape again. Garrett followed her gaze and, with great seriousness, adjusted the sock before it could fall.

Her stomach did something deeply stupid. His eyes flicked to her face, and the grin that spread this time was slow. Warm. A little cocky around the edges, because Garrett Graham could hold a baby for ten minutes and immediately become insufferable about it.

“What?” he asked.

“You look very pleased with yourself.”

“I am.”

“Because you’re holding a sleeping baby?”

“Because I’m good at it.”

“You were shaking when I handed her to you.”

“Yeah, and now look at me.” He nodded down at Pippa with all the confidence of a man who had survived one diaper-free interaction and was ready to write a parenting manual. “Growth.”

“She’s asleep. That’s mostly her doing.”

“Team effort.”

“Sure.”

His grin widened, then softened again when Pippa moved, tiny mouth working against the fabric of his hoodie. Garrett’s eyes dropped, and his hand stilled until she settled. He looked ridiculous. Gorgeous and too big for the couch and smug over the smallest possible achievement, with a baby asleep in his arms and his original plans for the night lying somewhere dead in the entryway beside his gym bag.

She leaned up and kissed the corner of his jaw.

Garrett’s eyes cut to hers, interested immediately despite Pippa, because he was still Garrett and there were some instincts not even a sleeping infant could fully neutralise. “Careful.”

She smiled against his skin. “What?”

“You start kissing me while I’m holding a baby, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s tragic for you.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It’s one kiss.”

“Yeah, that’s how it starts.”

She laughed under her breath, and Pippa didn’t wake this time, only snuggled closer into Garrett’s chest like she had decided he was acceptable and possibly permanent. 

Garrett watched her for a second, then looked back at the girl beside him, his mouth softer than his voice when he spoke. “So,” he said. “How long until your sister gets back?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Garrett.”

“What?” He looked almost offended, except his grin was doing too much damage. “I’m asking because I care about Pippa’s schedule.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“I’m deeply invested in her routine.”

“Her routine is bottle, nap, diaper, maybe scream at a lamp for no reason.”

“Sounds like Dean.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder to muffle the laugh, and Garrett smiled down at her, his hand still steady over Pippa’s back. For a while, they stayed like that. Pippa asleep. Garrett pretending not to be proud. Her tucked into his side with one hand resting lightly on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his body, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the tiny rise and fall of the baby between them. The evening hadn’t gone where he wanted. Not even close.

But when her phone buzzed twenty minutes later with a text from her sister saying they were on their way, Garrett looked down at Pippa, then at her, and frowned. “Already?”

She stared at him.

He shrugged, defensive. “What? We were hanging out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“You like her.”

“She likes me.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Exactly. Trust.”

She smiled so hard she had to look away. His knee knocked gently into hers, and when she looked back, he was watching her with that soft, stupid, dangerous warmth that always made her feel like she’d missed a step coming down stairs.

“What?” she asked, quieter.

He shook his head once, eyes dropping briefly to Pippa before coming back to her. “Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

“Yeah,” he said, and leaned in carefully, Pippa still asleep between them, to kiss her once. Soft. Quick. Warm enough to make her toes curl against the edge of the rug. “But you like it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling when he pulled back, and Garrett, holding her sleeping niece like he’d been trusted with the Stanley Cup and maybe something more important, looked far too pleased to be proven right.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

taglist ⋆⁺₊ ₄₄❅. @xlinxdax0704  |  @snowtargaryen  |  @goodbyetuesday  |  @staystrongsoa  |  @dadshirrt  |  @miya-111  |  @softburrow  |  @darlinglux  |  @waitingforsmartpeople  |  @seon9yeonie  |  @laceyvt3  |  @sunny747  |  @cosmoh0lic  |  @blackgurlieee  |  @matchieee  |  @loomiz  |  @corvusmorte  |  @erin-alice  |  @cloudsxcherriesx  |  @lolskunk  |  @elizabeth123456767  |  @purplerainx1  |  @pinkgiraffebeach  |  @lucyysthings  |  @outpostsworld  |  @s0ftdr1nks  |  @maybankslover  |  @instantplaiddream  |  @droppedyourhnd  |  @bsenpai  |  @urfavadi  |  @em1ly57  |  @parker-barnes-af  |  @violyn20  |  @bootyliciousbutterfly  |  @bloomingflower13  |  @rexit-mo  |  @tpwkmera  |  @cherryrry581  |  @stevesxwhore  |  @solapeachtea  |  @giuliaasstuff  |  @pamacs-macs  |  @loonylosworld  |  @alice07ea  |  @hitting-euphoria4  |  @tessf13  |  @canupourme14theroad  |  @jayda12  |  @kmc1989  |  click here to be added to the taglist!

the two of you had run into each other by accident, or something close to it, outside a liquor store with flickering fluorescent lights. he’d said your name before he could stop himself, and you’d turned around with a bottle tucked under one arm, eyes widening in a way that made the years between you feel suddenly thin. too thin.

one drink had become two. catching up had turned into your knee brushing his beneath the booth, your laugh warming over the rim of your glass, sam trying very hard not to stare at the curve of your mouth when you asked if he was still getting into trouble.

“less than before,” he had lied.

“you’ve never been good at lying to me.”

and god, that had been the problem. you still knew him. not all of him, not the parts that had been carved out and rebuilt wrong by hell and blood and angels and grief, but enough. you looked at him and saw through the careful distance he tried to keep, through the polite smile and the lowered voice and the way he held himself as if wanting anything too much might turn it rotten.

then he drove you home.

then you invited him up.

and sam, because he’s determined to be noble at the worst possible time, said no.

you had gone quiet for half a second, not hurt exactly, but close enough that he almost took it back. then you stepped closer, one hand resting against the edge of the open passenger door, your face soft under the streetlight.

“still careful, huh?”

“trying to be.”

“with me?”

he should have said yes. should have said always. instead, he just looked at you, and you seemed to understand because your expression shifted into something that made his pulse drag low in his stomach.

you kissed his cheek. slow. warm. far too close to the corner of his mouth. “goodnight, sam.”

now, he’s sitting in the car with his jaw clenched, watching your building from the curb like an idiot. like a man with no decency. the air inside the car is cool enough to fog faintly against the glass, but his skin feels too warm beneath his jacket. he tells himself he’s only making sure you get inside safely. that’s reasonable. that’s sam. that is the version of himself he can defend.

then your bedroom light flicks on. he looks up before he can stop himself.

you’re framed by the window on the second floor, your back turned as you tug your shirt over your head, and sam’s entire body locks. he should look away. he does look away, for one harsh, panicked second, staring at the dashboard while his heart slams against his ribs.

“no,” he mutters under his breath. “no, don’t—”

his phone buzzes.

the sound makes him flinch.

your name glows on the screen.

𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜?

sam stares at the message, throat dry. his thumb hovers over the keyboard, then types and deletes three different answers before he manages one.

𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢.

your reply comes almost immediately.

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝. 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎.

sam closes his eyes.

another buzz.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚜𝚊𝚖. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜.

the breath leaves him all at once.

when he looks up again and now you’re facing the window. not fully exposed. not careless. you stand in your bra and jeans, the dark lace cupping your breasts, hair falling a little messily from where your shirt had dragged it loose. your arms are crossed at first, almost shy, which does something worse to him than if you’d been bold from the beginning. then your gaze drops toward the street, toward the car, toward him.

you cannot really see him through the windshield. still, sam feels seen.

his phone buzzes again.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙.

his fingers feel clumsy.

𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘.

the pause before your answer is short enough to hurt.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚎.

sam’s head falls back against the seat. “fuck…” it comes out low and strained, dragged from the deepest part of him.

he looks around the quiet street once, twice, making sure no one’s close, no headlights rolling slowly past, no neighbor walking a dog at the wrong time. then his hand drops to his lap, palm pressing hard over the thick, aching line of his cock already straining painfully against his jeans.

he should still leave. he doesn’t.

the sound of his zipper is obscenely loud in the silent car. he shoves his jeans and boxer-briefs down just enough, hissing through his teeth as his cock springs free. the first rough stroke of his fist makes his hips jerk and a broken groan tear from his throat. he keeps his eyes fixed on your window, shameful and raw, filthy want twisting together so tightly he can barely breathe.

you reach behind yourself.

your bra loosens.

sam’s grip tightens, stroking himself harder now, the wet sound of his hand sliding over precum-slick skin filling the car. your straps slip down your arms, and the lace falls away, revealing the soft, weight of your breasts, nipples already tight in the cool air of your room. the sight punches the air out of his lungs. his cock throbs violently in his fist as he twists his wrist on the upstroke, thumb pressing firmly over the sensitive head, spreading the slickness.

“fuck… look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

you move closer to the window and lift your phone. a second later, his screen lights up.

𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏?

sam looks at the message, then back up at your bare tits, at the way your thumb brushes slowly over one nipple like you’re putting on a show just for him.

he answers with one hand, the other still furiously working his cock.

𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍.

the single word burns through him like gasoline. sam groans louder, fist pumping faster, the steering wheel digging into his forearm as he fucks up into his hand with short, desperate thrusts. his balls draw up tight, aching. he imagines pinning you against that window, mouth on your tits, sucking hard while he grinds his cock against your thigh. imagines dropping to his knees and burying his face between your legs until you’re shaking. imagines finally sinking into the tight, wet heat of you and fucking you until neither of you can think.

his rhythm turns sloppy, frantic. precum drips steadily over his knuckles, easing the glide. every stroke pulls filthy, wet sounds from his fist. his thighs tremble. sweat beads at his hairline.

you press your hand to the glass, head tilted, watching the dark shape of him in the driver’s seat like you can feel every desperate stroke.

sam comes brutally. his whole body seizes, hips snapping up hard as thick ropes of cum spill over his fist, splattering across his shirt and the steering wheel. a wrecked, guttural moan rips out of him—too loud for the quiet street—but he can’t stop it. he keeps stroking through it, milking every last pulse, eyes locked on you the entire time, vision whiting out at the edges from the intensity.

when it’s over, he slumps back against the seat, chest heaving, cum cooling on his fingers and stomach, shame already licking at the edges of the afterglow.

his phone buzzes.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢?

sam exhales shakily and types back with trembling fingers.

𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

he looks up. you’re still standing there, bra dangling from one hand, arm loosely across your chest—not hiding, just waiting. soft. patient. wanting.

sam’s thumb hovers.

𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘.

then, after a moment—

𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘.

your posture shifts. even from the street he can see the way your breath catches.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎.

sam sits there with his heart still hammering and his spent cock twitching against his thigh, staring up at your window while the night presses close around the car.

he doesn’t start the engine.

“yeah,” you say, smiling into your coffee. “big faces. tall stems. they’re basically the golden retrievers of flowers.”

he laughs under his breath, soft enough that you almost miss it. “that makes sense,” he says.

you narrow your eyes. “what does that mean?”

“nothing,” he says too quickly, which means something, obviously.

you throw a sugar packet at him. he catches it without looking proud, because he’s sam, and that’s somehow worse.

you don’t think about it again. sam does.

the first time he brings one home, you’re elbow-deep in laundry, trying to figure out if dean’s socks are cursed or just naturally horrible, when sam walks into the room sweaty from his run, hair damp at his temples, cheeks pink from the cold.

there’s a sunflower in his hand.

not a bouquet. not anything polished or planned. just one sunflower, bright and uneven, its stem wrapped in a napkin from some gas station.

you stare at it. then at him.

“i saw it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “on the way back. figured you’d, uh… want it.”

your chest does this embarrassing little thing. “you figured right,” you say, taking it carefully.

his fingers brush yours. barely. still, you feel it.

after that, it becomes a habit he never announces. every couple of days, when he goes out for a run or a walk to clear his head, he comes back with another one. sometimes fresh and huge, sometimes a little crooked, sometimes missing a petal or two because the wind got to it first.

he always acts casual, like he didn’t clearly change his route just to pass that field outside town. you know, because one morning you watch from the garage as he takes the left road instead of the shorter one. the long way. for you.

stupidly, it makes you want to cry. just in the way soft things can sneak up and knock the air out of you.

one evening, he finds you in the library, sliding the newest sunflower into an old glass bottle you’ve stolen from the kitchen. there are five now, lined up along the table, gold heads tilted in different directions.

“you’re keeping all of them?” he asks, voice gentle.

“of course i am.”

he looks down, smiling at the floor. shy. too shy for someone so tall. “they don’t last forever.”

“neither do most good things,” you say, then immediately regret how honest it sounds.

sam’s smile fades into something quieter.

you look at the flowers instead of him. “but i still want them.”

there’s a pause. then he steps closer—slow and careful—the same way he handles everything he’s afraid to break. “i can keep bringing them,” he says.

your fingers tighten around the bottle. “yeah?”

“yeah.” his voice dips. “if you want.”

you turn toward him, heart doing too much, hands smelling faintly green from the stem. “i do,” you say.

sam’s eyes flick to your mouth for half a second, then back up, and the room feels suddenly too quiet, too full of everything neither of you has been brave enough to touch.

he doesn’t kiss you. not yet. but his hand brushes yours again, warm and nervous and real, and this time neither of you moves away. the sunflower leans between you, bright and ridiculous, while sam looks at you like he’d take the long way home forever for you.

“easy, baby,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice low and warm. “just let me hear you. that’s all i want.”

your cheeks burn. you’re so shy it hurts sometimes, the way noises try to crawl up your throat and you swallow them back down.

sam knows. he loves it.

the way you bite your lip, the way your hips twitch like you can’t decide whether to push closer or hide.

he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss right above your clit. you suck in a sharp breath, fingers twisting in the sheets.

“there you go,” he whispers, smiling against your skin. “give me one more.”

his tongue slides through your folds, flat and warm, tasting you like he’s got all night. a tiny, broken whimper slips out before you can stop it. your thighs try to close on instinct. sam’s hands hold them apart.

“don’t hide from me,” he says softly. “i love every sound you make. even the quiet ones.”

he licks again, slower this time, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking lightly. your back arches off the bed. another whimper, higher, shakier. you press the back of your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle it.

sam groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “fuck, baby. do that again.”

he sucks harder, tongue flicking fast and perfect. you can’t help it—a soft, needy moan escapes, then another when he slides one long finger inside you, curling just right. your hips jerk, squirming under his mouth. the wet sounds of his tongue and your slick fill the room, embarrassingly loud to your own ears.

“s-sam…” it comes out tiny, almost a whisper.

“louder,” he encourages, voice rough with want. he adds a second finger, thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays on your clit. “let me hear how good it feels.”

you’re panting now, chest heaving, trying so hard to stay quiet and failing beautifully.

every lick, every curl of his fingers pulls another whimper, another broken moan from your throat. your legs shake. your free hand fists in his hair.

sam’s hips rock against the mattress in time with your sounds. he’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against his jeans, leaking just from the shy little noises you’re giving him.

he doesn’t touch himself. doesn’t need to. your whimpers are enough.

“you’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs between licks, voice reverent. “so wet for me. so shy and still letting me hear you. god, i could stay here all night.”

a particularly loud moan tears from you when he sucks your clit between his lips and hums. your whole body squirms, hips bucking up into his mouth. you’re close, embarrassingly fast, the pressure building tight and hot.

“sam— please—” the words come out whiny, needy, nothing like your usual quiet voice.

“that’s it,” he praises, fingers moving faster. “come on, baby. let go. let me hear you come.”

you do. the orgasm crashes over you in waves, and for once you don’t try to stop the sounds. soft cries and whimpers spill from your lips, growing louder as pleasure rolls through you.

sam moans against your clit, hips grinding harder into the bed, chasing his own release just from the sound of you falling apart.

he works you through it, tongue gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive, little aftershocks making you whimper softly. only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes dark with lust and affection.

you’re still breathing hard, face flushed, when he crawls up your body and kisses you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth. “every single sound.”

your heart flutters, shy again now that the haze is lifting. but sam just smiles, nuzzling into your neck, his own breathing still ragged. he came untouched, just from listening to you. and the way he holds you after, like you’re something precious, makes the shyness feel a little less heavy.

you tuck your face into his shoulder anyway, hiding the small, satisfied smile that won’t quite leave your lips.

Currently, Sam is buried in a book with more pages than he has hairs on his head. They’re thin, brittle with age and filled with smudged handwriting that you know strains his eyes to read. If you listen close to the silence around him, you can fill it with whatever internal commentary he has on the text; anecdotes to the lines on the page, mental reminders to search for a connection in another book later. You file those notes away too, because two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to an angel. Your memory is plenty good enough to handle the both of you, but Sam takes pride in how much he knows, and you’re not one to underestimate the power of knowledge.

You watch, fixated, as he raises a thumb to his mouth, wetting it with the tip of his tongue so he can better turn the pages, careful not to damage the ancient paper. It’s a simple gesture, one you’ve seen him do hundreds of times before on case files or poetry anthology pages, but for some reason it makes your face hot. You avert your eyes quickly, instead opting to trace the lines on the tabletop, listening to their stories. It doesn’t tell you much, because it is just a piece of wood turned into a tabletop and carved with initials, but you can pretend there’s a wise voice telling you it’s tale.

Your eyes follow the lines as far as they go, tracing them until they wind up at Sam’s bare forearm. Those stupid bare arms, covering the ends to the forest’s stories, because he’s chosen to roll up the sleeves of his navy button-up to his elbows. Even from this distance you can count every mole on his skin, the freckles faded by age and made bright again by the summer sun. The faint hairs that curl like fern fronds across his skin, connecting his freckles the same way an astronomer might draw lines to connect the constellations in the sky. Thin, soft, etched into where they belong. Sam turns another page, the muscle under his skin rippling as he moves, your eyes tracking it the whole way from rest to motion to rest again.

Everything about Sam is soft in ways you’d expect it to be sharp. The lines and ridges of his bones and muscles under his skin are rounded and soft, somehow managing to be gentle without sacrificing their power. Where Dean’s hands are large, the bones thickening his fingers enough that you can see where one or two have been broken, Sam’s hands are bigger yet but timid, a little shaky at times, always asking for permission to be big. The way he manages to round down the expanses of his shoulders both impresses you and makes you sad that he feels the need to take up less space. Even the way he’s just cleared his throat isn’t harsh or cracking like it is for most people. Instead, it’s light, quiet, filling the space like it really is nothing more than just a temporary sound.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs softly, barely looking up from his page.

“I am not staring,” you reply.

Sam huffs a laugh, grinning in that careful way that makes his dimple pop on his cheek. It’s hard to see it now that he’s growing a bit of a beard, but you don’t think you could forget what it looks like if you tried. Even now the soft divot is visible to you, pockmarking his skin like a little meteor fell into it, rounding it out and giving it meaning until it was something beautiful and kind instead of fiery. His eyes flick up from the page to your face and back again, the same path they make thousands of times a day.

“If you’re not staring, then what are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

Sam’s eyes pause their trek across the page, coming up to meet your steady gaze for a second longer than normal. The longer he watches you, the more you see his expression shift from something relaxed into something strung, an animal ready to move. The lamplight flickers off him in waning waves of gold, his eyes shifting from a dark brown to something lighter, the colour of the worn wood on the table you’d been studying earlier, something golden he doesn’t know exists swimming in them too. Sam looks away first, his cheeks dusted a pale pink, unable to hide the ghost of a smile that lands on his face every time he sees you.

“I’m not kidding,” you say.

“I know.”

He shifts in his chair, the movement disjointed and awkward, settling himself both deeper into the seat and also closer to the edge. Ready to get up and move at a moment’s notice, but making himself comfortable, like he can melt into it and disappear if you asked him to. One hand drifts under the table, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers rearranging denim reaching your ears. His hand drifts back up, fidgeting momentarily with the collar of his shirt before falling back to rest in his lap, book now forgotten. His legs stretch long under the table, ankles crossed and socked feet tapping a rhythm against the floor, eyes drifting anywhere but you.

“Are you done?” you ask, gesturing to his book.

Sam nods, clearing his throat a second time. “I can be. Why?”

You stare, your expression shifting into something deadpan and serious. “I can wait if you’re busy.”

“No, no, I’m not busy.”

“You’re halfway through a chapter. You never stop reading halfway through a chapter.”

Sam shrugs, caught. “First time for everything?”

You absorb the information, standing from your chair in an abrupt motion that makes Sam’s brows furrow as he watches you. It’s not unlike you to move in a space like you’re not used to the space existing, but this is too precise for even that. You’re moving on a mission, and Sam’s starting to understand what it is.

“Come with me,” you say, holding out your hand and cupping his chin with it.

“Where are we going?”

You nod in the direction of the hall. “You are going to have a first time.”

Sam swallows, something that looks like uncertainty flickering across his features. You frown, leaning down to look him in the eyes, softening your expression into something you know he understands as gentle. Your eyes flick over him, from his worried expression to the shirt collar he still hasn’t fixed, down his lightly freckled arms, to the lump in his jeans he was adjusting earlier. Perhaps you’ve misread something. Maybe whatever fire simmers under your skin doesn’t live under his; maybe you’ve overstepped, crossed a line you know you should never cross, hurt the parts of him you promised you would never hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “If I was too direct.”

Sam waves off your apology with a hand, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t apologize.”

“I made you uncomfortable.”

“Not uncomfortable. Very much the opposite of uncomfortable.”

Your face scrunches up, confusion etched into your features. Sam chuckles low, putting one of his hands on the wrist that still holds his chin in your hand. His thumb strokes up and down the back of your hand, drawing you in with the way that every touch of his does, promising everything good and more. When he turns his head slightly, his beard scrapes at your palm, scratching a surface itch and stoking the deeper one.

“But you look…uncertain.”

“Not uncertain.”

“Then what would you call it?”

Sam thinks, eyes flittering over your features, hesitating on your lips. His tongue darts out to wet his own, fingers tightening momentarily on your wrist.

“Anticipation.”

You hum, the sound vibrating through your chest to Sam just by how close you are to him. His knees tip open a little as you step forward, legs spreading just enough that you can stand between them. Experimentally, your hand tips low, trailing a faint path along the line of his jaw, down the side of his neck, brushing his adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. Slowly, your fingertips brush the collar of the shirt he’d been playing with earlier, nails brushing half-moon shapes along what you can see of his collarbone. His breath hitches when you reach the dip at the base of his neck, a shaky inhale and exhale that you know is holding back something fuller.

“Okay,” you say. “Anticipation is good?”

Sam nods, the motion slightly detached. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?”

Sam’s eyes gleam with something hidden that he keeps carefully locked away, slowly brimming to the surface under your heated touch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

His voice is unsteady, like it was knocked off balance by a punch to the chest. Something about the reverent breathlessness of it stokes the pot from a simmer to a slow boil, foamy sea roiling under your skin, impatient as it waits. You watch Sam for a moment longer, studying the ridge of his brow under the light, the way it normally shades his eyes but now seems to push the darkness back for you to see his pretty hazel eyes watching you just as intently as you watch him. You brush your hand through his hair slow, raking it back from his forehead. He gives a soft, punched-out noise when your fingers catch on a knot and yank harder than you’d intended, his face immediately flushing pink.

“Sorry,” he whispers when you remove your hand.

“Did it hurt?”

“A little.”

“But you-.”

Sam holds up a hand to stop you. “Something can hurt and feel good at the same time.”

You frown. “How on Earth does that work?”

Sam chuckles, tipping into your hand with the weight of it. “I wish I knew.”

“Do you-. Can I do it again?”

Sam’s eyes focus on you. “Please.”

You follow the same path again, fingers running along his scalp like a rake as they pull his hair back, finding a spot near the top of his head that looks suitable. Quietly, you wrap two fingers around the roots, pulling just hard enough to draw out a low groan from the base of his throat, one that comes up from his chest and sounds like heaven. You move on to a new spot, repeating the same motion but slightly harder, earning yourself another groan, this one louder.

“Wait- wait. Stop,” Sam pants.

You retract your hand immediately. “Too much?”

“No, no. God, no. Just-. We’re in the library.”

You nod, slow. “There is no door.”

“Right.”

“And Dean could walk past.”

“Right again.”

“And you would like to be somewhere else.”

“Three in a row.”

You hum, grabbing Sam’s large hand and pulling him to his feet. He goes a little wobbly, never expecting the strength you have over him, but he stands upright, slamming the book closed and shoving it down the table for Dean to put somewhere else. His hand falls again to the front of his jeans, making an attempt to adjust himself in case you come across Dean. You and Sam both know it’s probably pointless, but it’s the thought that counts.

Your steps on the bunker floor tread so light they barely make a sound, almost like you’re floating over the ground. Maybe you are, in a way, walking light and subtle and with the kind of gentleness that comes from being held up by wings. Sam walks so close behind you it would crowd if he were anyone else; he has a talent for existing shoulder to shoulder with you in your space and never leaving you feeling overwhelming. One hand hovers at the small of your back, his nose nudging at your neck while he lays soft kisses to the skin as you walk, your pace quickening the closer you get to his room.

Sam mutters something impatient when it takes you more than a second to open the door to his room, and you give him a half-hearted glare from the corner of your eye. He apologizes with an open-mouthed kiss to your pulse point, exhaling soft through his nose as he does, the heat of his breath curling against the skin of your neck. He nudges the door closed with his heel, the latch rattling lightly against the frame as it comes to rest, something Dean will no doubt complain about later, but neither of you care. The sound of wood hitting frame doesn’t matter, the sound of socked feet on floor isn’t important; the sound of panted breaths and increasingly heated kisses does.

You spin him around, so his chest is pressed to yours, slinging your arms around his neck and pulling him ever closer. His hands fall to your waist, smoothing up and down your ribcage, cupping them and stroking his thumb along the lower ribs in time with your breaths. Your fingertips find their earlier path to the base of his neck, scooping under his hair and bunching it up in your hands as you trail upward, inching toward the roots and tugging when you get there. The first few times only reward you with a huff of breath against your skin, but after some experimentation, you find the right section of his hair that drags a whine from his chest into the kiss.

Despite his size, it’s devastatingly easy to walk him toward the bed, using just a fraction of your strength to push him onto the mattress. His knees buckle when he reaches the edge, gripping your hips and pulling you down into his lap. Your knees land on either side of his hips, leading you to subtly grind yourself down on his growing hardness under the denim of his jeans. Each circle of your hips on his drags a moan from Sam, spitting it out into the air like he’s ashamed of the pleasure, afraid to let you know what he feels.

Eventually, Sam pulls away from you, gazing up at you with blown pupils and the most beautiful eyes you’ve seen. His lashes tangle together as he blinks at you, doe eyes perfectly matching the flush on his cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands make a path down his shoulder blades and around to his chest, palm landing flat over his heart. Sam’s hands cup your face like angelic statues cup holy water, holding it like it’s rare, precious, something to be closely guarded. Softly, testing the waters, Sam’s hips jerk upward, your lips parting for a sound that never comes.

“Sam?” you ask, breathless.

Sam makes a noise in response that’s airy and light, something you take for agreement but could easily have no meaning attached to it.

“Do you want to try something new?”

He freezes. “Like what?”

Your hips shift minutely, Sam’s eyes squeezing shut in response.

“Making you feel what I feel.”

“You feel it different?”

You nod, the motion jerky.

“What kind of different?” he prods.

“More feeling. More energy. Just-. More. You’d like it.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. “Yeah, angel.”

One hand cups his chin, holding it between your thumb and fingers. The other hand drifts up in the familiar sort of salute you use when you heal him, fingers brushing Sam’s hairline, tracing the creases on his forehead as he watches you. A soft press of weight, a faint pulse of blue, and a sharp inhale from Sam, and you know it’s worked. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and soft as you drop your fingers away, grace fading out until it’s no brighter than the room’s shadows. The lamplight fades out too, letting gentle darkness creep in to replace what was once a soft gold, Sam’s pupils widening further as he adjusts to the darkness.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” you murmur in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.

“Promise,” he whispers back, shivering, goosebumps cropping up along his arms.

Slowly, you move in tandem. Sam crawls on his elbows back until his head hits the pillows, hair spreading around his head all tangled and knotted, like some kind of halo. Your palms, burning warm, trail up his forearms as you lay him back, hovering yourself over his body. Deft fingers pop the buttons on his shirtsleeves, Sam’s huge hands helping undo the ones on his chest. You watch, fascinated, as his chest comes into view, bare under the shirt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight, hair dark like the hair on his head a faint brush trail over his pecs. He crunches as he removes the shirt properly, a hand pressed flat to the muscles of his abs feeling the way they ripple and contract through his movements, flattening out again when he lays back down with a sigh.

“Off?” he asks, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Not yet” you reply, delicately pushing his hands away.

“Want to feel you.”

“You will.”

Sam almost pouts, something so sweet you nearly cave and let him remove your shirt, but you know his limits. With your grace flowing under his skin, electrifying every nerve until they all sing the same chorus, having your chest bare to him to roam his hands over would be too much for him right now when it’s so new. He’d burn up, skin flushing red and angry, burning out until he’s a shell of himself. You’re not here to hurt him, after all. You’re just here to give him a good time, a first experience he’s never had before; it’s not every day Sam gets to mess around with an angel in his bed.

Drifting downward, your mouth returns to his as your hands palm downward, inching closer toward where he’s straining in his jeans. You go slow, giving him time to adjust to this new state of overwhelm, every nerve in his body no doubt firing a thousand times stronger than usual. You reach the happy trail that points down the slim v of his hips, sharp angled hipbones cutting into his skin and disappearing into the denim hem decorating his waist. The moment your fingers brush through the hair, Sam inhales sharp in a poorly concealed whine, back arching and hips jerking upward. You press down to keep him still, cautious with how much feeling you let himself get high on, keeping control over the situation, keeping control over Sam.

And he lets you. And he likes it.

He likes giving you control to do whatever you want with him. He likes letting himself feel everything a hundred times stronger than usual; every valley of your fingerprints, every particle of your breath on his cheek. Everything else he can’t wait to feel waiting for him under your clothes.

The button to his jeans pops open, zipper pulled down slow, the sound of the metal parts unlinking impossibly loud in the space. Rustling denim fills the room, the soft press of your palms on his skin as you drag his jeans down past your legs, lifting your hips to give him enough motion to kick them off, still drunk on the taste of his mint chapstick. Settling into place again, your kisses trail blazing hot down the skin of his neck, his head tipped back to give you access to the striking ropes of muscle on the sides. Cautiously, you nip at one of them, your teeth driving a full-bodied moan from Sam’s chest.

The tent in Sam’s boxers presses insistently against your inner thigh, warm and full. Slow, painfully slow, you grip the waistband and work them down his legs, fingernails trailing along his skin and leaving faint white lines in their wake, the skin around turning gentle pink like rose petals. Once the fabric is clear of his feet, you make your way back up, equally slow, relishing every sound you can pull from Sam. Holding his legs down while you press a soft kiss to the inside of his knee makes his back arch lightly and makes him breathless, but leaving messy kisses along his thighs makes him squirm a little, almost whimpering with the anticipation. Taking advantage of it, you suck two careful marks on his thighs just near his hipbones, blooming dark pink that will surely fade into reddish purple by the time you’re done.

His dick is resting hard on his lower stomach, coarse hair curling at his base that you run your hand through, teasing. Letting him feel how your fingers catch on every hair, skin goosebumped and hot to the touch. He shivers when your hand ghosts over his length, swollen and pink at the tip, waiting patiently for you to do something. When your hands move back down his thighs instead, trailing along the insides so close to where he needs you yet refusing to touch him there, he exhales shakily, moving on your behalf.

Eyes screwed shut, Sam drifts a cautious hand towards his dick, trembling a little as he goes. You watch, confused, thinking he’s reaching for you. A low noise comes from his throat when his fingers wrap around himself, attempting desperately to alleviate some of the pressure that’s built up in his abdomen while you were busy. You watch him stroke himself, tracking the way his fingers move over himself, likely something he’s done a hundred times before in cheap motels with too much energy and nowhere to put it. For a brief selfish moment, you wonder how many of those times have been to the thought of you; how many motel showers have heard your name, how many magazines he’s read and replaced the models with you in his head. The number likely isn’t zero, and that makes you painfully hot and bothered about it.

A half-satisfied sigh spills from Sam’s lips, thumb smoothing over his tip and coating himself in his arousal. It’s pretty to you in a strange way, the same kind of iridescence as a pearl. If you look close enough, you swear you can see a faint rainbow sheen to it. Sam seems wildly unaware of the natural beauty of it, and you suspect he just can’t see the same colours you can, can’t see the same prettiness to what’s not meant to be pretty.

“You gonna do something?” Sam asks, wrecked. “Or just stare?”

Sliding your own pants off, you climb back up his body. Sitting yourself on his stomach, you’re just high enough that he can’t grind against you.

“Ask nicely,” you comment, frowning a little.

To you, there’s nothing strange about that comment. It’s something you say several times a day, usually directed at his brother who seems to have no concept of manners or the word ‘please’. To you, this is just an everyday comment that means nothing more than what it asks for; respect.

To Sam, it means that and everything more. To Sam, it’s a command, a request he simply can’t ignore. He turns his eyes on you, filled with something lustful and gorgeous, the kind of sin that draws you in because you know it can’t hurt you. His lips form an ‘o’ shape, but no words come out; not until he clears his throat, the sound cracking in the space.

“Please, angel. Do something. I can’t-. I need-. Please.”

When his voice sounds that airy and high, that close to drifting out of his body and up somewhere far away, you have no choice but to listen to him. You seal his lips in a searing kiss, swiping your tongue along the bottom one, lapping up his taste. His hands come up to hold you, lacing together at the back as he holds your head in them, thumbs near your eyebrows. He kisses you back like you’re oxygen, hands feeling like they completely cover the sides of your head, grabbing at you and holding you close because he needs you there, your skin scraping along his beard and tickling deliciously.

You work your hips backward, shimmying them along his torso and dragging your heat over his stomach, down his happy trail until you reach his dick. It’s hot and heavy against your ass, still slick from his earlier ministrations in what you now realize were meant to be preparation. Sam’s working at the foil on a condom when you look back up, ripping it open with his teeth when his hands shake too much to be useful.

“Don’t need it,” you say, knocking it from his hands.

“I-.”

“I am an angel, Sam.”

“Ever heard of a Nephilim?”

You laugh, melodic. “It can’t happen.”

“You’re sure?”

You stare. “I would not be saying this if I wasn’t.”

Sam looks like he’s about to protest again, and there’s only so much convincing you can do with words before Sam starts getting frustrated. Instead, you move the rest of the way back, grabbing Sam’s dick and stroking him softly while you align yourself with him. The moment your fingers close around him, he whimpers high in his throat, stomach muscles jumping in time with your movements. It only takes a few seconds, but to Sam, it feels like it takes an hour; an hour of just feeling the heat of your palm on his sensitive heat, moving too slow and too fast. It takes all he has to keep it together. You hear him make a mental reminder to do this again.

“Of course we can,” you reply aloud.

“What?”

You nod toward him. “I heard you.”

Sam blushes furiously red. “Sorry.”

“Sam. I told you that you would like this. Stop feeling ashamed for it.”

Putting an end to the debate, you sink down on his length, slapping a hand over his mouth when he moans loud enough you worry Dean will hear from behind the closed door. Sam whines when he finally bottoms out, hands flying to your waist in an attempt to keep you still and make you move; he can’t decide which would feel better at this point. To fit him fully, you rock your hips slightly back and forth, his tip notching on your walls as he fits where he always has, buried completely inside you. He gives another moan when you settle still again, the sound devolving into a muffled groan when you tighten your hand on his mouth. You can hear Dean’s footsteps outside getting closer, praying that he’ll walk past without commenting on anything.

“Sammy?” Dean yells. “You in there?”

You and Sam both sigh in defeat. Sam goes to lift you off of him, but you stop his hands where they are. His head tips to the side, the confused puppy look he’s trademarked in your brain, and all you do is kiss him deep in reply.

“What’re you doing?” he whispers low.

“You said something can hurt and feel good at the same time,” you whisper back. “I’m testing that theory.”

Sam’s eyes widen in understanding, a soft grin slowly curling across his bearded face. He pecks your cheek before getting interrupted again by Dean’s banging on the doorframe.

“I got questions for you, Sammy,” he yells.

“Dude, go read a book or something,” Sam shouts back.

You still your minute rocking. Sam looks, confused. You shrug, grinning.

“I did. I still got questions. Help a guy out, would’ya?”

Sam groans, this time from his brother’s sheer audacity instead of your heated touch.

“Make it quick.”

“Do I get to come in or am I stuck yellin’ at this door?”

“Don’t come in!” you and Sam both yell at the same time.

Dean mutters something Sam can’t hear but your ears pick up, something nasty that makes you chuckle and would make Sam slap his brother across the face if he heard it.

“What’s the question?” Sam asks.

“Got this case here, says it’s in, uh, Milwaukee.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s talkin’ ‘bout some drownin’s.”

“Wisconsin’s covered in lakes, Dean.”

“Well yeah. But this one’s weird.”

You start moving again, gentle circles that make Sam muffle the breath he sucks in.

“Why’s that?” Sam replies, voice careful and steady.

“’Cause the guy drowned on land.”

Sam makes the kind of scrunched-up face he makes when something is definitely supernatural, but still impressive enough for him to be surprised about it.

“Oh..kay. Weird.”

“Yeah. And there’s this symbol they found on his wrist that I wanted t’show you. ‘Cause I can’t find it.”

“Why would I know?”

“Eh, thought your angel pal could help us out.”

Sam rolls his eyes right at the time you grind down harsh on him, his eyes stopping their motion to flutter closed as his head jerks back into the soft down of the pillows.

“What’s it look like?” Sam asks.

Dean describes the shape as best he can, but you and Sam both know he’s taking several creative liberties in an attempt to draw Sam out of his room and shoulder the work for him. You keep a mental image of what Dean draws, the picture so sharp and clear you’re surprised Sam can’t see it floating between your chests. There’s a few vertical lines and a couple diagonal ones, something that looks like a spiral and is probably mean to be a triangle. It’s surrounded by a circle, and Dean says it looks like a brand, flaying the skin around it the same shade of pink as Sam’s sweat-flushed cheeks.

Each shape Dean describes currently earns Sam another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down on his length as best you can. Occasionally, he hits a spot that makes your toes curl against his legs and forces you to brace a palm on the middle of his ribcage, using his sternum to keep you upright. Sam’s doing a decent job of keeping quiet, his sounds mostly reduced to quiet, shaky exhales of breath, but when he can’t, your palm is quick enough to keep his moans quiet so that Dean doesn’t hear.

“Could be a binding sigil,” Sam answers.

You still abruptly, thighs falling open and movements reduced to nothing so quickly Sam almost tears up at the loss of friction.

“Not right?” Sam whispers to you.

“No. The spiral should be a triangle.”

Sam redraws his mental image. “Dean?”

“What?”

“Is it Celtic?”

Dean shuffles some pages around. You still don’t move.

“No,” you and Dean both say.

Sam groans, frustrated. “Okay. It’s either Enochian or some bastardization of it.”

That grants Sam another thrust of your hips downward, drawing up a whine.

“Good,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, kissing his pulse point.

“Great. What’s it do?” Dean asks.

Sam shifts the both of you, tangling his fingers in your hair and burying his face into your shoulder to suppress the resulting groan.

“Pr- probably binds- ah.”

You stop.

“No, sorry. Not binding.”

You can see the gears turning in Sam’s brain.

“Wait, Dean. Do the diagonals start at the left or right?”

“Uh…left.”

A small movement from you, a reward for asking the right question. Dean’s silence continues, so you continue too, waiting them both out for whoever makes a mistake first. Sam’s fingers squeeze the plush of your waist, nails leaving tiny half-moons that you’re notice later and wear because they came from Sam’s hands. You keep kissing him, swallowing his moans as you build him up higher, working him until you’re certain that whatever pressure he’s feeling now is worse than he’s ever had. His face is screwed up, his mouth mumbling incoherent sounds into yours, nose scrunching. You can tell he’s close, heat burning sharp between you.

“Hurts,” he whines.

Just as Sam’s about to tip over the edge, you stop. You don’t give him the pleasure of slowing down; just a full stop, thighs loosening and heels removed from his legs, palms off his chest and mouth away from his. Your palm blocks his desperate whine from reaching Dean’s ears, Sam’s eyes peering at you bloodshot and frustrated.

“The hell?” he whispers, throat wrecked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet,” is your answer.

“Dean?” Sam asks, weak. “You there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just readin’ somethin’. Says the lines start from the bottom left, not the top left.”

“It’s a sigil for a plague,” he comments.

“Good,” you whisper, starting a slow roll.

“Oh great. Which one?” Dean asks, exasperated.

“Seven, I think.”

You stop. Sam whines.

“Not seven, not seven,” he says, punched out and breathy. “’S not seven.”

“Well, that’s great. Y’only got, what, nine more to go through?”

“Shut up.”

You lean down to Sam’s ear, lacing your fingers through his hand and bringing it up to rest beside his head.

“Seven was hail, Sam.”

“I know.”

“Ask him what the man drowned in.”

Sam clears his throat, taking a shaky breath in.

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d he drown in? Water?”

You can hear Dean shake his head, then remember Sam can’t see it.

“No, uh…drowned in his own blood. Saw trap style.”

Your hand brushes sweaty hair back from Sam’s forehead.

“It’s one. Dean, it’s the first plague. The whole turning water into blood situation.”

Your grip tightens on Sam’s hair, pulling until you draw a whimper from his throat. Again, you start slow circles, mouthing at his pulse point, your hand still locked in his. Again, you build him all the way up until he’s just about to let himself go. Again, you stop abruptly, this time drawing gentle tears from the corner of Sam’s eye.

“What now?” he murmurs to you.

“You haven’t told him how to remove it.”

“I don’t know how to remove it.”

“Yes, you do, Sam.”

Dean shuffles. “How am I supposed to get it off these people?”

“Fire?”

You move, cautious, slow. A half answer, but not complete.

“Hellfire, maybe?” Sam adds.

You stop.

“What other fire is there?” Sam murmurs to himself. “Not hellfire…not fire…f…it’s…holy…holy fire. Dean! Dean, it’s holy fire.”

“Good boy,” you coo, nipping at the dip between Sam’s collarbones and moving again.

“Anything else?” Sam asks his brother.

“Nah. Just needed that geek brain o’yours.”

Dean’s footsteps thud heavily off to the library, your ears picking up the sounds of him rummaging for whiskey in the room before dropping heavily into a chair and commenting something about how late it is. Once you’re certain he’s not coming back, you let yourself move again, thumbing along the hem of your shirt that you stole from Sam’s closet. Some worn t-shirt that’s seen several years of motel rooms and duffel bag bottoms, travelling with him everywhere he goes. It smells like him too, something soft like pavement after rain and cedar wood burning. Sam helps you slide it over your head and drop it to the floor, hands eagerly resting on your ribs again, this time bare.

Your movements turn from circles to proper thrusts forward, your stomach brushing his at some moments, his arms anchoring you against him. Your hand is still holding his near his head, his knuckles white from how he’s squeezing your hand. He’s panting now, full-bodied pants every time you break the kiss, the bundle of arousal in his stomach gripping him tighter and tighter the longer it builds for, radiating to his spine and arching his back off the mattress. You clench around him, earning yourself a heavy moan that echoes in your ears, building the both of you higher and higher. Sam’s hard to the point of pain, aching with every rock of your hips, desperately pleading for you to let him come.

“Hurts s’bad,” he whimpers.

“Mhm?”

“Yeah, ‘s- ow. Hurts, hurts. Please, angel. Please lemme just-.”

“Hm,” you hum.

“Please, I need-.”

You slow, almost stopping but not quite. Tears fills Sam’s eyes, and you realize, after a quick delve into his soul, it really does hurt.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he begs, breathless.

You grind down harsh, a cracked whine breaking the air from Sam’s lips. The bubble bursts in Sam’s core, and then he’s coming hot and heavy into you, moaning an incomprehensible version of your name into the room’s night air. Tears slip sideways into his hairline as he lets go, the consequences of reaching the height of pleasured pain. His hips shove up into you, pushing himself impossibly deeper as he finally empties himself, the pressure abating slow and steady with each bit. Somewhere along the way you come too, but you’re too focused on Sam and Sam’s too focused on his own orgasm to notice. You slow, a gentle wind-down unlike earlier, only fully stopping when Sam whimpers something about being sensitive, tingles arching up your back when you tip onto him.

He’s panting heavily now, lying spread-eagled on the bed with one arm hanging half off. His chest rises and falls dramatically, your lips kissing up and down it as you wait patiently for him to come down enough that you can slip away for a cloth. Your first attempt at moving doesn’t go far, Sam mumbling for a few more minutes despite your insistence that he gets up soon. Eventually, his breathing slows into something normal, heart calming down until it’s back to thudding its regular steady rhythm in his chest. You brush his hair back again, this time ensuring you don’t pull at the knots you’ve created by fisting your hands through it; just getting the sweat-sticky strands off his forehead so you can lay a soft kiss to it.

Finally, slowly, when he’s soft enough you’re both sure you can move, you lift yourself off of Sam. He sucks in a breath at the cold of the room reaching his skin that was previously covered by you, adjusting to the room temperature while you search for sleep clothes. He has a hand thrown over his eyes when you come back to bed with fresh clothes, and you peel it back gently to watch him. Your fingers return to his forehead, retracting the grace you’d given him, your eyes watching how he sinks deeper into the mattress again now that he’s fully human once more.

“I will clean up here,” you murmur, kissing him softly. “Get yourself sorted out.”

“Do I have to?” he murmurs back.

You smile gently. “Yes, love. You do. It won’t take very long.”

Sam hauls himself upright with a grunt, sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his long arms over his head, twisting his back to get out the tension from earlier. His hip cracks loud when he stands, and something twists in your heart when you catch the silvers in his hair and beard glint in the grey nighttime light. He’s getting older, you know this. He’s older than he was when you met, and something about that makes you feel overjoyed but also a little sad. He’s getting to an age he never assumed he’d reach, surviving everything that brought him to this point. But that also means he’s running out of time on earth, something you’re distraught at. For someone like him who loves earth so much, it seems cruel to take it away from him.

Turning your thoughts away from his mortality, you straighten out the bedsheets, a snap of your fingers cleaning and drying them, a second snap making them carry the same warmth that they would if they’d just been removed from the dryer or just brought inside from the sunlight. Your hands fluff the pillows into something that isn’t dented by Sam’s head, straightening the pillowcases again. Your ears pick up the sounds of Sam in the bathroom, your brain filtering out the sound of him peeing and focusing instead on his soft humming as he washes his hands.

When he shuffles back into the room, you’re in the process of putting on your sleep clothes; an old thin shirt of his that you only wear because anything warmer makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out and pants made out of some kind of athletic material you hate but keep wearing. Sam struggles into a clean pair of boxers, nearly falling over when his heel gets stuck in the leg. You pull the sheets back so Sam can climb in, throwing them over him as he snuggles into your side, one impossibly heavy arm thrown over your waist. Boneless, without putting in any effort to keep himself light for you, he has the weight of tons of rocks; it never hurts, just a comforting heaviness that proves he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

“So?” you murmur, turning to face him.

“So,” he replies, soft and tired eyes watching you fondly.

“Was it too much?”

Sam shakes his head, shaking strands of hair into his eyes in the process.

“No. ‘S perfect. Thank you.”

“Would- would you do it again?”

Sam pushes into the pillows groaning a soft comment about angel stamina. “Not now.”

You laugh light and airy. “I didn’t mean now, love.”

“Oh. He hauls himself up on one elbow, blinking slow. “Yeah. Yeah, I really would.”

You reach for him, dragging him to you. The perk of your angel strength means Sam can go completely boneless in your hold, putting in no effort whatsoever, and you can still drag him around like he weighs nothing. He’s barely in control of his muscles right now, but he still slings his arms around you when you pull him to your chest, one hand disappearing under your pillow and the other resting somewhere on your shoulder blade. His hand won’t go numb; you won’t let it. Instead, he melts himself completely over you, burying his face into your shoulder and humming as he gets comfortable.

“Okay?” you ask when he stills.

“Okay,” he murmurs, barely a word rather than just a sound.

You kiss the top of his head. “Rest well, Sam.”

“You know I will.”

You smile into his hair. “I know.”

He presses a lazy ghost of a kiss to the side of your neck. “I love you, angel.”

“You know I love you too.”

“I know.”

It’s the last conscious thing he says before the sleep crawling up his spine claims him, surrounding him in a warm blanket as he drifts off in your arms. You don’t sleep, Sam knows you don’t, but for his sake you slow your breathing and heart rate until it matches his; beat for beat, breath for breath. Your eyes drift shut, brain alert and awake but eyes sleeping with the rest of the room. You notice the moment his exhales change from through his nose to through his mouth, then shift into soft snores that get gradually louder as the night progresses. It’s never annoying, and you’ve told him this, but he still tries his best to keep it to a minimum with you. He doesn’t shift at all during the night, sleeping as heavy and deep as a fallen log. And if he drools a little on your shirt in his deep sleep? Well, nobody but you will know.

tonight, they do.

your arms loop around his neck, face buried in the warm skin just below his ear. the smell of him—soap and a hint of beer and that faint library-book scent he always carries—makes everything feel safe even while the world tilts.

“i’m so damn in love with you, sam,” you mumble, lips brushing his earlobe. the words tumble out sloppy and honest, soaked in tequila.

sam stills for half a second, his grip tightening. then a slow grin spreads across his face, surprised and so damn bright it cuts through the haze in your head. he pulls back just enough to look at you, hazel eyes warm and a little wide.

“say that again,” he says, voice low, right against your mouth.

your knees buckle a little more. you smile, drunk and dizzy and stupidly happy. “i said i’m stupidly in love with you, sammy.”

the grin turns into something hungrier. he doesn’t answer with words. instead he catches your hand, laces your fingers together, and starts weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway. you stumble after him, giggling, the music still thumping in your chest.

he pushes open the bathroom door—a single stall—locks it behind you with a quick click, and the noise of the bar dulls to a muffled pulse.

before you can say anything he lifts you, big hands under your thighs, and sits you on the edge of the counter, your ass half in the sink, the porcelain is cool through your skirt. sam steps between your legs, tall frame crowding you, and you feel how hard he already is, pressed right against your core through his jeans.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. his voice is rough, breath warm with alcohol and want brushing your cheek. “you can’t just say shit like that when i’m trying to be responsible.”

you laugh softly, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm skin of his back. “but i mean it. been meaning it for months. just… scared, i guess. now i’m drunk and brave.”

sam kisses you then, deep and messy, tongues sliding together while his hands push your skirt higher up your thighs. you moan into his mouth, needy, hips rocking forward to chase the friction.

he’s so hard it makes your stomach flutter.

responsible sam, always the careful one, still pulls a condom from his wallet without breaking the kiss. you hear the foil tear and it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“need you,” you whisper against his lips, fingers fumbling with his belt. “right now, sam. please.”

“i’ve got you.” his voice cracks a little, too much feeling packed into three words.

he shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, rolls the condom on with steady hands even though his breath is coming fast. then he’s pushing your panties aside, fingers sliding through your slick folds once, twice, checking you’re ready.

“jesus christ, baby,” he hisses.

you are. embarrassingly so. the alcohol and the confession and the way he’s looking at you like you hung the moon have you dripping.

he lines up and sinks in slow, one long push that stretches you open and steals the air from your lungs. you gasp, head falling back against the mirror, and sam groans low in his throat, hips stuttering once before he catches himself.

“god, you feel so good,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours again. he starts moving, deep and steady, the angle perfect because of how high the counter is.

every thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes sparks shoot up your spine.

“been wanting to hear you say it. i love you too, baby. so fucking much. didn’t know how to say it either.”

your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt. the confession feels raw, perfect, the words tumbling out between moans and the wet sound of skin meeting skin.

“love you,” you pant, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “love your stupid giant brain and how you make me coffee exactly right and how you look at me like i’m the only person in the room even when we’re in a crowd.”

sam’s rhythm falters for a second, then picks up, harder, deeper, like your words are fuel. the counter creaks under you. his hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that make your vision spark white at the edges.

“say it again,” he demands softly, voice strained. “please.”

“i’m in love with you, sam winchester.” the words come out breathy, broken by a moan when he hits that perfect angle again. “so in love it scares me sometimes.”

he kisses you hard, swallowing the sound, hips snapping forward. the tension coils tight and fast, alcohol making everything feel brighter, more intense. you come first, clenching around him with a cry that he muffles against your neck, body shaking through the waves.

sam follows right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name, hips jerking through the aftershocks. for a long moment you just cling to each other, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync.

he stays inside you while you both come down, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “we’re doing this right,” he whispers, still a little breathless. “the apartment, the future, all of it. i’m not letting you go.”

you smile against his skin, drunk and sated and so full of love it hurts in the best way. your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close while the muffled music from the bar pulses on.

the bathroom light is too bright and the counter is uncomfortable and tomorrow you’ll probably have a killer hangover, but right now none of that matters. sam is warm and solid and yours, and the words you finally said are still hanging in the air between you like a promise neither of you plan to break.