Summary:
You love treating Sam like a lost puppy, especially after a hunt. In a motel room, he snaps and takes control, but crumbles inside you, crying, begging for praise, and asking if he’s doing a good job.
warnings: Sam Winchester x fem!Reader (Reader is named Bambi'I hate the Y/n thingy, just know it's you' ), Season 1-2 vibes, Bratty!Black Cat!Reader x Whiny!Golden Retriever! Sam, Crying during sex (male tears), Praise Kink, Size Kink, Desperation, Emotional hurt/comfort, Rough sex turned soft, Begging, Dean Winchester is a judgmental brother, Overstimulation, Hair pulling, Aftercare, Clingy!Sam, Slight OOC
The hunt in Ardmore, Oklahoma had been a nightmare from start to finish. A nest of vamps that turned out to be twice the size they’d anticipated, a sewage system backup that left everyone smelling like rot and sulfur, and a missed night of sleep that was currently pushing forty hours.
But the worst part, at least for Sam, wasn’t the physical exhaustion or the throbbing cut above his eyebrow. It was you.
You were in a mood. A specifically sharp-tongued, nails-out, 'don't touch me unless I say so' mood. You were currently sitting across from him in a booth at a 24-hour diner, picking listlessly at a waffle that had seen better days, radiating an energy that dared the world to test you.
Sam sat opposite you, hunched over his plate because the booth was too small for his frame. He looked like a giant, guilty secret trying to hide behind a coffee mug. His shaggy brown hair—still damp from a quick gas station shower-wipe—fell in curtains around his face, shielding his eyes. Every time he shifted, his leather jacket creaked, and every time he looked up at you, you rolled your eyes or sighed dramatically.
"Can you pass the sugar?" Sam asked softly. His voice was raspy, rough from smoke inhalation during the fight.
You didn't look up. You just pushed the sugar shaker across the table with a little too much force. It tipped over, spilling granules onto the Formica.
"Oops," you said, voice flat. "Clean it up, Sam."
Dean, sitting on the edge of the booth next to you, paused with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. He looked at the spilled sugar, then at Sam’s trembling hand as he reached for a napkin, and finally at your bored expression.
"Okay," Dean said, dropping his fork. "What the hell is going on? We just ganked six bloodsuckers, we’re alive, we’re eating. Why are you acting like Sam kicked your puppy?"
You snorted, finally looking up. "Sam couldn't kick a puppy, Dean. He'd probably adopt it and cry when it got a flea."
Sam’s jaw tightened. He cleaned up the sugar, his movements precise and controlled, trying to keep his composure. "I'm just tired, Bambi. I didn't mean to... be in the way."
"See?" Dean pointed a bacon strip at his brother. "That. That right there. You’re apologizing for existing. It’s depressing, man. Grow a spine."
Sam flinched like he’d been slapped. He ducked his head further, his shoulders curling inward. It was a defense mechanism, one he’d used his whole life. Make himself small. Make himself invisible.
"It's fine," you snapped at Dean, though your eyes were fixed on Sam. "He likes it when I'm mean to him. Don't you, Sam?"
The question hung in the greasy air, heavy and charged.
Sam didn't answer. He just gripped his coffee cup until his knuckles turned white. But you saw the flush creeping up his neck—the very same reaction he had when he was turned on, or ashamed, or both.
Dean let out a groan of disgust. "I’m done. I can’t listen to this freaky foreplay." He shoved the last of his eggs into his mouth and stood up, throwing a few crumpled bills on the table. "I’m gonna crash in the Impala. I need silence and beauty sleep. You two get a room. And seriously, Sam? If she tells you to sit, maybe just... don't."
Dean walked out, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully as he left.
Silence settled over the booth. You looked at Sam. Sam looked at his coffee cup.
"We should go," Sam mumbled. "Dean has the keys."
"He'll be asleep in five minutes," you said, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "We can get a room here."
Sam finally looked up. His eyes were wide, wet, and bloodshot. He looked wrecked. "Bambi, please. I'm so tired. Can we just... not tonight? I can't take the teasing right now."
You tilted your head, studying him. He looked so pathetic. So beautiful. The cut on his eyebrow was stark against his pale skin. He was vibrating with anxiety, desperate for comfort but terrified to ask for it.
"Who says 𝓘'𝓶 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰?" you asked.
Sam let out a shuddering breath. "Because that's what you do. You poke and you prod and you make me feel like an idiot until I snap. And I don't want to snap. I just want to sleep."
"You want to sleep?" You stood up, grabbing your jacket. "Fine. Let's go."
Getting a room took ten minutes. The walk to the room took thirty seconds. The moment the door clicked shut, Sam dropped his duffel bag and sank onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into his palms. "I'm sorry I'm so boring."
You stood by the door, watching him. The room was dim, lit only by the buzzing neon sign from the parking lot outside. It cast long, red shadows across the cheap floral bedding.
You walked over to him, stepping between his knees. He didn't look up. You could feel the heat radiating off his body. He was massive, taking up so much space, yet he was trying to make himself disappear.
He hesitated, then slowly lowered his hands. His eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. It broke your heart, just a little, but it also lit a fire in your belly. He was so open, so raw.
"I'm not boring, Sam," you said softly, running a hand through his hair. It was silky and damp. "I'm just... bored."
"I know," he choked out. "I know. I'm sorry."
"I think you need to stop apologizing," you said, your grip tightening in his hair, tilting his head back. "And I think you need to give me what I want."
Sam swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "What do you want?"
"I want you to stop acting like a kicked puppy and start acting like the man who killed six vampires tonight."
He let out a wet, broken laugh. "I don't feel like him. I feel like a mess. Bambi, please, I just... I need you. I need you so bad it hurts."
He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your stomach. He held on like you were a life raft in a storm. You could feel him trembling against you.
"I know," you murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know you do."
"I try to be good," he whimpered into your shirt. "I try so hard. Why is it never enough?"
"It is enough," you said. "You're enough. But you're also annoying when you mope."
You pushed him back, just a little. He looked up at you, panicked, thinking you were rejecting him. But you just grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.
Sam froze. His eyes darted across your skin, drinking you in. "Bambi..."
"Take your clothes off, Sam."
He scrambled to obey. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn't get his jacket off. You sighed, stepping forward to help him, shrugging the leather off his shoulders. You undid the buttons of his flannel shirt, pushing it open, revealing the tight white t-shirt underneath, straining against his muscles.
He pulled the t-shirt over his head. His chest was heaving, his skin flushed. You ran a hand down his chest, tracing the lines of his abs. He shivered, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Look at me," you said again.
He opened his eyes. They were dark, dilated, filled with a desperate kind of hunger.
"You're going to fuck me now, Sam," you told him. "And you're not going to be gentle. You're not going to ask if it hurts. You're going to take what you need, and you're going to make sure I feel it tomorrow."
Sam let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. "I can't. I'll hurt you. I'm too—"
"You're perfect," you cut him off, grabbing his face with both hands. "And if I say stop, you stop. But until then? You stop being a puppy, and you be a wolf."
Something in him snapped.
It wasn't a clean break. It was messy, jagged, and filled with emotion. He surged up, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was more teeth than lips. It was bruising, desperate, hungry. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to consume you whole.
He stood up, forcing you backward until your back hit the wall. He kicked his jeans and boxers off in one clumsy, desperate motion. He was naked now, towering over you, all hard muscle and frantic energy.
"𝓢𝓪𝓶," you gasped as he lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.
"I got you," he mumbled against your neck. "I got you, I got you."
He carried you to the bed, dropping you onto the mattress. He didn't give you a moment to breathe. He crawled on top of you, his weight heavy and grounding. He tore your pants and underwear down your legs, tossing them carelessly onto the floor.
He hovered over you, his hair falling into his eyes. He looked terrified.
"Bambi," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Bambi, I'm scared."
"It's okay," you said, reaching up to touch his face. "It's just me."
"I don't want to disappoint you," he said, a single tear spilling over and tracking down his cheek. "I want to be good for you. I want to be so good."
"You are," you assured him. "Now, Sam. Please."
He didn't need any more encouragement. He lined himself up and thrust into you, hard and deep.
You cried out, your back arching off the bed. He was huge, and the sudden stretch burned. But he didn't stop. He set a rhythm that was punishing, fast and deep. The bed frame slammed against the wall with a rhythmic thud that echoed through the room.
"Is this okay?" he choked out, his eyes squeezed shut. "Tell me it's okay. Please."
"Yes," you moaned, digging your nails into his shoulders. "Yes, Sam, god—"
"I love you," he sobbed, fucking into you with a desperation that bordered on violence. "I love you so much. It hurts. It hurts how much I love you."
He was crying freely now, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto your chest. It was overwhelming—the sight of this powerful warrior breaking apart over you, trembling and weeping as he took you.
"Look at me," you demanded.
He opened his eyes. They were red-rimmed and swimming with tears. He looked so vulnerable it made your chest ache.
"You're doing so good," you told him, your voice breathless. "You're fucking me so good, Sammy."
"Yeah?" he whimpered, his hips snapping forward, driving deeper into you. "You like it? You like me?"
"I love it. I love you. You're mine, Sam. All mine."
"Yours," he agreed, burying his face in your neck again. He was panting, his breath hot against your skin. "I'm yours. I'm your good boy."
He slowed down, grinding his hips into yours, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision white out. He wasn't rushing anymore. He was savoring it, clinging to you like he was afraid you'd disappear.
"Am I doing a good job?" he whispered against your ear. "Am I making you feel good? Please say yes."
You ran your fingers through his damp hair, holding him close. "The best job, baby. The best job."
He let out a shuddering sob of relief. "Thank you. Thank you."
He started moving again, faster this time, chasing his release. He was lost in it, completely undone. He was a mess of contradictions—strong enough to crush you, but breaking apart in your arms. Dominant enough to take what he wanted, but submissive enough to beg for permission to have it.
"Come on, Sam," you urged him, feeling your own climax building. "Come for me. Be a good boy and come for me."
With a broken cry, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone. His whole body shook violently, his muscles locking up as he spilled into you. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the mattress, sobbing into your shoulder.
You held him while he shook, stroking his back, whispering soothing nonsense into his hair. He cried for a long time, letting out all the stress, the fear, the exhaustion of the hunt. He cried until he was empty, until there was nothing left but the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.
Eventually, he rolled off you, pulling you into his arms. He tucked you under his chin, wrapping his long limbs around you like a cocoon. He was still sniffling, his eyes swollen and red.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the dark. "I'm sorry I cried."
"Don't be stupid," you mumbled, sleep already pulling at you. "I like it when you cry."
He let out a weak, huff of laughter. "You're weird."
"And you're a giant, emotionally unstable puppy," you replied. "Now go to sleep."
"Okay," he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Goodnight, Bambi."
The next evening, the three of you were at a bar on the edge of town.
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of cheap beer. A pool game was in full swing in the corner, and the jukebox was playing something classic and loud.
Dean was in his element. He was leaning against the bar, flirting with the bartender, a cocky grin plastered on his face. He looked clean, rested, and entirely too pleased with himself.
You were perched on a barstool, sipping a gin and tonic, feeling pleasantly sore.
Sam was standing behind you. He hadn't left your side since you woke up. He was wearing a fresh t-shirt and his leather jacket, his hair still slightly damp from the shower. He looked better—less haunted—but his energy was different. He was clingy.
He was standing with his chest pressed against your back, his chin resting on your shoulder. Every time you shifted, he followed you, maintaining contact like he was physically glued to you.
Dean wandered over, two fresh beers in hand. He looked at the two of you and raised an eyebrow.
"You know," Dean said, setting a beer down on the coaster. "Most people go to a bar to, you know, socialize. Mingle. Not act like a sentient backpack."
Sam ignored him. He just nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. He was being subtle about it, or at least he thought he was. But to anyone watching, it looked like a six-foot-four giant trying to hide inside a five-foot-six woman.
"Sammy, you alive in there?" Dean poked Sam’s arm.
Sam grunted, but didn't pull away. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tighter against him. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, his eyes closing.
"He's tired," you said, resting your hand on top of Sam’s where it interlocked over your stomach.
"He's always tired," Dean scoffed. "But this is new. He's usually brooding in the corner by himself. Now he's fused to your hip."
Sam lifted his head slightly, just enough to be heard. "She smells good."
Dean choked on his beer. "Okay. That was TMI. I'm going to go play pool. Before I vomit."
Dean walked away, shaking his head.
You turned slightly in Sam’s arms. He looked down at you, his eyes soft and warm. The vulnerability from the night before was still there, but it was quieter now. Muted.
"You okay?" you asked, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.
He nodded, leaning into your touch. "Yeah. Just... still processing."
"You liked it," you stated, a smirk playing on your lips.
Sam blushed, looking down at his boots. "Yeah. I... I really liked it."
He looked up, his gaze intense. "I liked letting go. I liked... you taking control, but also... I liked feeling like I could... I don't know... take care of you, too."
"You did take care of me, Sam," you said softly. "You did a really good job."
A small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You leaned up and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss. When you pulled away, he looked dazed.
"Can we stay like this for a while?" he asked, his voice dropping to that low, whiny register that made your stomach flip. "Just... like this? I don't want to let go."
"You're such a puppy," you sighed, but you leaned back against his chest, settling into his warmth.
"I know," he murmured, burying his face in your hair. "𝓘'𝓶 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓹𝓾𝓹𝓹𝔂"
"And don't you forget it."
He tightened his arms around you, burying his nose in the curve of your neck, completely blocking out the bar, the noise, and Dean. For the moment, it was just the two of you the bratty black cat and her devoted, oversized, slightly traumatized dog. And somehow, it was exactly what you both needed.
A/N: I honestly feel like I made Sam A little OOC, but I was really trying to make him submissive cause if yk, he's more dominant in later seasons, which is why I chose seasons 1-2 I tried to proofread it idk how that went but I HOPE YOU ENJOY!! I also made the banner thingy heh
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