Your Dripping Like An Over Saturated Sunrise

“Why are we going to a record store in the first place?” Sam sighs. 

Dean insisted upon going out of his way to a music store off the highway, tens of miles away from their last hunt. The drive has everybody feeling restless, even the driver in question. 

“Last I recall, you were the one who kept complaining about hearing the same songs over and over,” Dean huffs, shooting his brother a look. “I’d say I’m being rather courteous to go pick out some new tracks.”

“What a gentleman,” you snort from the backseat, leaning forward. You grasp the front bench, right behind Sam’s neck, and he feels your fingers graze his collar. He swallows thickly — not that you notice. “Let me guess: you’re gonna make all the decisions and we don’t get a say in it, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Dean says, flashing you a smug grin. “My car, my rules. Take a hike if you don’t like it.” 

You stick your tongue out at Dean — childish, yes, but it’s effectively vexing for his fragile ego. He huffs when he turns his attention back to the road.

Sam laughs, giving his brother a look. “You’re such a jerk, man.”

Dean is quick to follow up with: “Whatever, bitch.”

Blessedly, the Impala does eventually park outside the record store. You climb out before the Chevy has even finished rolling to a stop, much to Dean’s chagrin. Sam grins at your antics, and a minute later, he climbs out to find you stretching outside the store. 

“C’mon, yoga master,” Sam teases, strolling up beside you with his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Stretch your legs when we’re inside.”

After playfully shooting the younger Winchester some side eye, you follow him into the music store. Dean has already made it in, eagerly flipping through cassettes and gawking at the plethora of options. One of the workers strolls by to talk to him in a friendly, customer-service appropriate tone — a tall, brown-skinned brunette with shiny coiled hair — and Dean turns up the charm while he chats her up. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sight, and you roll your eyes, turning around to flip through the many, many bins of vinyl records. 

Sam hovers behind you, idly flipping through covers without any particular interest. You, however, take your time pulling out records, inspecting the cover art and the contents with a thoughtful hum. Sam keeps taking a peek at you from the corner of his eyes, smiling when your eyes flash with recognition.

“Oh, shit. I wish I could’ve brought my record player,” you sigh wistfully, holding up Weezer’s self-titled album. The bright blue cover shines under the buzzing fluorescents overhead. 

Sam glances over from the section behind you. He squints, nodding absentmindedly. “Weezer, huh? Are they any good?” 

The immediate, utter shock that crosses your features nearly makes him wince. 

Gently sliding the record back into place in the bins, you turn to fully face Sam, arms crossed. “‘Are they any good?’ They’re Weezer, Sam. They’re amazing.”

An embarrassed laugh puffs out of him. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry. My knowledge starts and ends with Island in the Sun.”

You gawk, jaw dropping halfway to the floor. “Are you serious? You really don’t listen to Weezer?”

Sam shrugs, wearing a shy smile that makes him look somehow even younger than he is. “I’ve only heard a little. Dean’s more of a classic rock kinda guy, so.”

You squint your eyes at him in accusation. “So you only listen to what you brother makes you listen to?” With a huff, you shake your head, already reaching into your jacket pocket for your precious iPod. “C’mere. There’s no way I’m letting you get away with this.”

A brow lifts, and Sam slowly crosses the few feet that separate him from you. If there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you guard your iPod with your life. Dean once tried to borrow it for a few hours while the three of you did research over a particularly tricky poltergeist, but you threatened to skin him alive and feed him to a pack of werewolves. The intensity of your reaction was enough to ward the brothers away from your beloved MP3 player like salt to a spirit. 

Sam hovers over you as you shuffle through your music, eyes darting over the names and albums that fly by. You scroll with one hand, using the other to plug your earbuds in, expertly unraveling them from a knot — all whilst you ramble. 

“I can’t believe you don’t listen to them! Island in the Sun is good, yeah, but you need more exposure than that. I mean, I’m definitely putting you on to the rest of that album later, but whatever. They just came out with Raditude — it’s different from their usual stuff and, like, way more pop-y, but I think you’d like it,” you say, offering Sam an earbud. 

His head tilts much like a curious puppy when their owner rustles a bag of treats. “Only if you say so,” he muses. He takes the earbud from you, fingertips brushing against yours. He tries to ignore the sharp zap of electricity that ripples through him under that brief touch. Oblivious to his slightly flustered state, you land on the album in question, clicking the button on your iPod to begin playing the first track.

Your eyes flit up to catch Sam’s reactions as the first quick strums of a guitar ping through the earbuds, opening up the song to a steady tempo. He’s looking down at the tiny iPod screen, squinting at the leaping dog on the album cover. The upbeat kick of drums and Rivers Cuomo’s soft, whining voice gives way to a catchy chorus, filled out by call-and-response background vocals:

Then I said, “Girl, if you’re wondering if I want you to  (I want you to) I want you to (I want you to) So make a move (Make a move) ‘cause I ain’t got all night.”

Without noticing, Sam inches nearer to you, encroaching on your space. The longer the track goes on, the more he finds himself stealing glances at your expression: your head bopping to the beat, lips upturned and mouthing the lyrics, eyes sparkling. The energy is infectious; he smiles at you fondly, averting his gaze back to the screen every time he catches himself staring for too long at a time. 

Unbeknownst to Sam, you’re stealing glances at him, too. He’s smiling — thankfully — so he must like the song. Whether he realizes the subliminal messaging you’re sending his way is another story entirely. 

By pure coincidence, you finally happen to look up at Sam at the exact moment that he looks your way. Eyes meet, but neither of you turn away. Time slows down, crawling along so even Weezer isn’t at the forefront of your mind anymore. Despite the song blasting through your eardrums, everything narrows down to you and Sam alone. 

Of course, it’s only now that you realize just how close Sam is. His arm brushes against yours, hair hanging in his face as he leans in to meet your height. He’s near enough that you could reach up and touch him — kiss him, even — but you’re still waiting for Sam to catch on and make the move himself. 

He’s hesitating, though, as per usual. Sam wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t overthink every minute interaction. He leans in close, slanting his body in your direction, but he’s tight-lipped. What if he’s misreading the signs? What if he’s right but something terrible happens to you because he’s cursed? Sam can’t help but imagine you pinned to the ceiling, bloodied and on fire or dying some other miserable death all because his doomed touch fell upon you. But there you are, entirely oblivious to the worst of his shame, and he can’t stop staring at your mouth in spite of it all. 

“Alright, don’t start suckin’ face in public, now,” Dean interrupts, removing the illusion of choice altogether. Sam jumps away from you so fast that the earbud falls out, swinging toward you like a pendulum. You blink, finally looking up to see Dean, who’s looking awfully smug. He lifts up a plastic bag full of new cassette tapes, rustling it in your face. “Off we go, kids.”

“Shut up,” Sam huffs under his breath, flustered and annoyed by the suggestion in Dean’s words. He walks fast, hurrying ahead of you and Dean to get even a second to collect himself. Beside you, Dean wiggles his brows, bumping shoulders with you. 

“You might not be gettin’ lucky, but I am,” he jives, flashing his receipt in your face, where the cashier from earlier apparently wrote her number. “Sucks to suck, huh?”

If you could, you’d shank Dean here and now, but he bounces off to the Impala before you get the chance, whistling a chipper tune. At least one of you is getting laid.

. . .

Dean fucks off to “interrogate the locals” (read: sleep with the girl he met at the record store), and you’re being studious by doing research at the local library. Sam is left to fend for himself at the motel, given the fortune of a rare break as he flicks through the TV channels. He lets them play for a second each before popping to the next one, then the next, then the next. Sam’s thumb scrolls to the next channel on autopilot, bored out of his mind, until he lands on MTV. Miraculously, the channel is airing a Weezer music video. 

Sam knows you’re busy and all, but he’s also missing your company. He’s alone, he didn’t even find any decent porn to keep him occupied, and his cellphone is just an arm’s reach away. He dials your number before he can think about it for too long and psyche himself out of it.

You pick up on the second ring, your voice soft and tinny in his ear. “Hello? Everything okay?”

“Hey,” he greets, watching the television. “Weezer’s on MTV.”

There’s a pause. You’re knee-deep in searching for leads on any new cases, jotting down possible references for later. If Sam is calling you about what he’s watching at the motel, of all things, he must be bored as all hell. You laugh, rubbing your strained eyes — you’ve been staring at the computer for way too long. 

“Yeah? Which music video?”

Sam leans back against the headboard, cushioned by cheap, lumpy pillows. “Buddy Holly.”

“Oh? That’s a good one,” you muse, clearly enthusiastic. “They didn’t use CGI at all for the video, if you can believe it.” 

“Really? That’s cool.” Sam’s chest gets all warm from hearing your voice crackling through his phone, sharing your little bits of trivia. He’s still a little flustered and pent up from trying to jerk off a half hour ago, and your hushed tone sounds more seductive than you intended. He swallows, shifting on the bed and desperately attempting to ignore his growing hard-on. “Have you found any leads?”

Sam’s voice sounds a little funny — like he’s straining to keep his voice even — but you blame it on your imagination or the shotty cell reception.

“Nothing much,” you sigh, lips pursed as you flip through the notes you’ve compiled so far. “Some weird stuff in Oklahoma, but I don’t know if it’s our brand of weird. I figured we could go over it later.” You glance up, lowering your voice further when one of the librarians turns her head in your general direction, no doubt hearing the noise. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“A little bit,” he admits, smiling even though you can’t see it. Weezer are still bopping their heads to their own music, footage from Happy Days spliced into their performance. He wishes you were here to watch this with him, even though you’ve probably seen this music video a hundred times by now. He wishes he could feel your weight in the bed beside him, the heat of your body. Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment, pretending you’re leaning into his side — the hand on his thigh isn’t his, but yours, warm and heavy upon his worn denim jeans. 

You click your tongue, oblivious to Sam’s wandering hand back at the motel. “Well, maybe you should have come to the library with me, nerd. The research stuff is supposed to be your thing.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who volunteered to do it,” he huffs, cock twitching beneath his jeans. Your playful disapproval stirs up an unexpected wave of heat in the pit of his stomach that rushes downward. He starts to graze his hand over his crotch — no pressure yet, just the slightest weight dragging up and down the inner seam. His voice starts to drop in pitch. “You could’ve just stayed at the motel. You know I’d have let you use my laptop.” 

Your eyes roll. “Mhm, sure. For five minutes, maybe,” you tease, mindlessly scrolling through an article on the library’s computer. “You have control issues, babe. You’d probably hover over my shoulder the whole time.” 

The casual pet name that slips from your lips has Sam sucking in a sharp breath. He swallows, finally pressing the heel of his palm down against his jeans. They grow tighter, his cock straining to break free from the layers separating himself from his hand — the hand that Sam is still imagining as yours. 

“I wouldn’t hover,” he insists, though he hardly sounds convincing. “I’d let you do your thing.” Even Sam knows it isn’t true; he’s just arguing to hear your whispered, fluttery voice in his ear. If he tries hard enough, he swears he can almost feel your breath on his neck. 

“You are so full of shit,” you mutter; the grin in your voice is obvious. “You act like you’re hiding nuclear launch codes on that thing.” 

You lean forward on the desk, lightly tapping your fingers over the keyboard. The longer you sit here talking to Sam, the more you regret not staying behind at the motel; you’re in a hell of your own personal making, really. You could have done the usual thing and hung back with Sam while Dean fucked whatever poor girl he came across. Sure, you’d be stuck acting like a lovesick idiot all night, but at least you wouldn’t be the loser that chose to be all responsible instead of spending the day with the guy you’ve had a crush on for damn near a year. 

Sam doesn’t respond for a minute. He’s too busy unzipping his jeans, sliding his hand down the front of his boxers. His fingers follow the shape of his cock, brushing them lightly over himself like he imagines you might do for him. When he grips himself through the thin layer of fabric, he bites his tongue, hips jerking forward instinctively. 

A prolonged silence follows. You check your phone to make sure you’re still on the call; it hasn’t cut out at all. When you press your cell back to your ear, you can hear a bit of rustling and shallow breathing. 

“Sam?” Your tone is hesitant, prodding. “Still there?” 

He’s leaking precum, tenting his boxers. Sam swallows, and it’s audible through the phone.

“Yeah,” he grunts, cursing himself for how rough his voice comes out. He tries again, hoping to sound somewhere in the ballpark of normal. “Yeah, I’m still here.” 

He really shouldn’t be doing this — if you find out that he’s jerking off to your voice, he’s royally fucked. He flubs every attempt to ask you out on a date, he goes red when you mindlessly flirt with him or call him a pet name — yet here he is, acting like a fucking pervert while you’re doing something important. Even Dean would call him a freak for acting like this. At least Sam has enough self-restraint not to take it a step further and start smelling your clothes — he’s not that stupid. Despite the thought crossing his mind, he wouldn’t risk cumming all over your underwear or whatever just to get off. 

That still doesn’t justify his current predicament, though. 

You hum, sensing that something strange is afoot. “Is Weezer still on?” 

Sam completely forgot about the TV. When he peeks his eyes open, the image has shifted to showcase an entirely different band. He doesn’t know who they are or what the song is; his attention is far from the music right now. 

“No, not anymore,” he murmurs, grinding against his palm. He tips his head back on the creaky wooden headboard. A sigh brushes past his lips before he can think to cover it. 

For a few beats, you say nothing, shifting your cell phone to the other ear. You lean back in your seat, listening closely to Sam’s breathing; even over the fuzzy quality of the speaker, his sharp, baited breath crackles through clear as day. It makes you feel warm all over, thighs pressing together unconsciously. Your eyes dart around the library; you lower your voice even more, ducking behind the privacy dividers that separate the computers. 

“Sam,” you murmur — and oh, if you knew what your saying his name like that did to him, you’d be on your feet right now. “What are you doing?”

He chokes, hand freezing over his erection. “N-Nothing.” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Even he knows that wasn’t even remotely convincing. 

You huff in amusement, licking your lips thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” you say, shifting in your seat. The heat between your legs is flaring up quick, spreading like a wildfire. “Are you… enjoying yourself?”

If Sam had any doubts about whether you knew what he was doing or not, that teasing question confirmed the truth. You know exactly what’s happening, and you’re toying with him like a cat to a mouse. His skin burns with a blush that explodes from head to toe. He removes his hand from his crotch in an instant, running it through his shaggy hair instead. He sputters into the phone, feeling like a complete fucking idiot loser creep. What kind of sicko gets off like this? To a person he’s not even dating, no less? It’s not like you’re some stranger — you hunt with him and Dean, you’ve known them for years, you’re a friend. He must be truly psychotic if he’s actually dumb enough to start jerking off to someone who’s basically his coworker, someone he’ll have to see in close proximity for the foreseeable future. 

“I’m not— I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Your voice cuts him off, and Sam doesn’t dare to move an inch, convinced that he hallucinated the words. 

“Wh… What?”

You roll your eyes, forcibly shutting down the computer and grabbing your bag from the floor beside your feet. “Keep going,” you reiterate. “I’ll be over soon.”

“What?” Sam sputters intelligently, only for the call to abruptly end. He sits up, eyes wide as he stares down at his cell phone. His hand goes slack, and it bounces off the bed and to the floor. Swallowing harshly, he shifts against the sheets, turning his gaze to the obvious tent in his pants. 

You told him to keep going, but Sam isn’t so sure he can do that. If this goes how he thinks it’s going to go, he’s going to bust in his hand only to proceed to struggle to get it up again by the time you make it to the motel. He sinks back, groaning, clutching the sheets and humping the air — the only semblance of relief he’ll allow himself.

But the minutes drag on. Realistically, he knows it won’t take long for you to return to the motel room, but he was already so close to cumming from the sound of your voice; he’s barely holding on as it is. 

Sam takes deep breaths. His jeans feel absolutely suffocating. It wouldn’t hurt to just relieve some pressure, right? That’s all he can do to keep from cumming in his pants, after all. With shaking hands, Sam reaches down, popping the button of his jeans, then slowly pulling the zipper down. The interlocking teeth break loose, and he lets out a sigh when his cock has a bit more room to breathe. His boxers are still too tight, but the cotton at least has some stretch to it that doesn’t make this so unbearable. 

Just then, you finally bust through the door, breathing heavily. Sam jolts upright, startled by the sudden intrusion. He swings his legs to sit on the edge of the bed, hitting his skull on the headboard in the process. He scrambles to look normal and totally inconspicuous, even though his jeans are unzipped and his damp boxers have a very obvious tent in them. 

“Hey,” he chokes out, taking in your appearance — frazzled, jacket slipping down your shoulders, chest heaving. He squints. “Did you—?”

“Run here? Yeah,” you confirm, kicking the door closed behind you. Your bag is haphazardly tossed on the desk near the window. It’s impossible to keep your eyes from drifting down to Sam’s clothed erection; you nod towards him, already shrugging your jacket off, draping it over the desk chair. “You didn’t finish.”

Sam is starting to think he’s on another planet. How you can be so casual about all of this is equal parts concerning and reassuring. 

“No, I didn’t— I couldn’t…” He trails off, and despite how embarrassing this all is, it only gets worse when Sam blushes. He wipes at his cheeks like it might somehow remove the redness from them, but it stubbornly remains. 

Your head tilts. “You couldn’t?” You approach slowly, crossing the short distance between you two until you’re standing between his legs. “What, you need help?”

Sam stares up at you. His cock twitches, straining painfully against his boxers. He almost wishes he could die on the spot to escape the shame of it all. 

“I… This is so weird,” he sighs, laughing dryly to himself. He looks down, starting to cover his erection, but you get closer, nudging his knees further apart. 

“Don’t do that,” you say — not scolding, exactly, but deeply dismayed by his lack of confidence. “You’re the one who seduced me with Weezer over the phone.”

Even though your words are in jest, Sam groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, that’s the weird part.” 

He’s retreating in on himself before you’ve even gotten the chance to touch him yet. That won’t do, not when you ran here, sweating for twelve minutes straight just to jump his bones. 

“Well, maybe I like weird,” you huff, reaching out to tip his chin back. He finally looks at you, guided by your hand; his brows are upturned, eyes all big and glinting and puppy-like. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him all the aggressively fond (and downright filthy) thoughts that press against the forefront of your mind. 

“You… liked that?” He asks tentatively. Sam is half-convinced that he’s about to wake up from a wet dream, that he’ll wake to find that he’s perspiring through his clothes for a whole different reason.

His question almost makes you laugh, but this is clearly a sensitive subject — Sam is deathly allergic to realizing his own attractiveness, as you’ve long since deduced — so you nod, leaning in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, mouth hovering over his. “I like it, Sam. I like you.”

You take the leap and kiss him so hard that he nearly falls back against the bed. He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back for a split second as if to convince himself that you’re actually here, actually wanting this. When you don’t show any sign of stopping, he finally turns his brain off and pulls you into his lap. 

Teeth click together as you both fall against the bed, kissing sloppily. It’s like a switch has been flipped, because suddenly, Sam isn’t the shy, gentle giant you’re used to talking to. He sucks at your bottom lip, surprising you with the eagerness behind it. You brace your hands against the sheets, holding yourself upright as Sam’s hands grip your waist, already pushing your shirt up to feel more skin. 

With your legs slotted alongside his, you’re able to press your knee against his erection while you grind on his thigh. Sam groans, hooking a finger through the belt loop of your jeans to guide your hips. The feeling is dizzying — even more so when he parts his lips, licking into your mouth. 

Everything is escalating fast. The motel room feels hot; you couldn’t stand another minute in your clothes if you tried. Thankfully, Sam has the same idea, because he hastily tugs your shirt up and over your head. He helps you with your jeans, next, hands fumbling over your hips and thighs; you climb off of him for just long enough to shimmy out of the denim, kicking it to the floor. 

Once you’ve crawled back into his lap, Sam yanks you closer, rolling over to lay on top with you below him. He hovers over you on the mattress, the springs squeaking under your combined weight. His mouth lands on your neck, spreading wet kisses across your skin while he shoves his jeans all the way down with one hand, kicking them off his ankles. 

Sam works his way further up, kissing behind your ear; your breathing gets increasingly heavy as his tongue starts to drag up that sensitive strip near your hairline. You’re still sweaty from running all the way from the library to the motel — definitely from this, too — but Sam moans when he tastes the salt on your skin. There’s a moment where he stops kissing you to press his nose against your damp skin, inhaling deeply; he could spend forever with his face buried against your neck like this, smelling the familiar musk of your sweat. He pants heavily, the hot air making you shudder and sigh. He tugs you closer by the hips, and that’s when you feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You start to reach for it without a second thought, gravitating towards the bulge as if compelled by some higher, hornier power. You bite your lip as your hand lands against his erection. Sam groans, his sounds unkempt as you palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. Emboldened by the noise he makes, you curl your fingers around his length, tracing the shape of him. The sizable wet patch from his precum is soaking through the cotton, making your hand damp along with it. 

Sam’s mouth lands over your ear, and he licks the outline of it. Unexpectedly, it feels good. A weak whimper escapes you under the attention, your spine tingling when his hot tongue swirls around the soft appendage. You briefly forget that you were touching him, too busy melting into the sheets. When your eyes flutter shut, Sam groans again, tracing down your arm to find your hand. He gently guides you to his waistband — letting his desires be known for once in his life — and you remember exactly what you were getting to. 

Your fingers break past the elastic of his boxers. The happy trail leading down to his cock is sparse; even without giving it a proper look, you can feel that he’s neatly trimmed all around. Sam’s hand leaves yours to push his boxers further down, and you wrap your hand around his length before it can spring out and hit your thigh. It’s thick and heavy, flushed at the tip from all the blood rushing south. Sam’s breath hitches in your ear as you work your fingers to the head of his cock, circling your thumb over the tip before spreading the precum down the length of him. 

“Fuck,” Sam sighs, unable to help himself; he rolls his hips into your open hand. Pride swells up in your chest, and you wrap your fingers completely around him, slowly guiding your fist up and down his cock. He gives up on tonguing your ear for a minute, dropping his forehead against the bed, moaning and thrusting his hips forward. Your free hand slips around him to slide up his back — that stupidly tight shirt still on for reasons that make you want to tear it off — until your fingers card through his hair. 

“When’s the last time somebody touched you?” You ask, voice low and breathy in his ear. It clearly triggers something in him; he bucks into your fist, gripping at the sheets. 

His reply is shy, ears blazing red. “Can you, ah, not ask that?” 

It takes a Herculean amount of effort not to grin. “I’m just asking. You’re so sensitive.”

Sam all but whimpers, shoving his face against the crumpled bedsheets. “Feels good,” he mutters, muffled against the mattress. “...Been a while.”

You lick your lips, slowing the rhythm of your hand. He huffs and puffs, trying to make up for it by canting his hips faster, but it’s of little use. He’s on the verge of begging you not to stop when you speak again: “It gets better than just my hand, you know.”

You’re lucky that you survive after saying that. 

Sam pounces on you, forgoing all attempts at restraint and conveniently forgetting his own shyness. His mouth presses against yours in a hungry kiss, devouring you like you’re his last meal. You finally tug at his shirt, and — to your immediate relief — he pulls it over his head, carelessly tossing it to the floor. 

Sam finally makes a move for your underwear, greedily slipping his hand under the waistband. He only gives you a brief glance to check that this is okay, that you really want more, but your hand finds his and guides it down to answer without words — just like he did for you. Sam flashes a small, grateful smile, letting his middle finger swipe through your wet folds. You moan, but the sound is quickly swallowed up by his mouth in another kiss. His long fingers experimentally run over the heat between your legs, applying gentle pressure to see what makes you tick. 

Every part of you feels sensitive; you’re practically gushing all over his fingers already, and he’s barely even massaged your clit yet. He leaves teasing swipes, his hand getting stuck between your thighs when you close them around his wrist. Sam doesn’t mind at all; he still manages to slip a finger inside you despite your closed legs, and ironically, that has your legs falling open like a door off its hinges. 

Sam’s kisses turn sloppy as he divides his attention between your mouth and your fluttering cunt. He pumps his finger inside you whilst using his thumb to lightly press against your clit, massaging it with tight circles. A second finger joins the first, stretching you open, and you choke on a moan. Your hands fly up to grab his bicep — which is unfairly huge — as your hips finally give up and impatiently buck against his deft fingers. He pants against your mouth, briefly reeling back to watch as you cum. It happens fast — his fingers are slipping through your folds, drowning in the release that spills onto his digits. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing his nose against your jawline while your walls pulse around his fingers; Sam only removes his hand when your legs kick against the bed, sensitive from the overstimulation. 

You lay against the mattress, sighing deeply. Your arm covers your eyes for a moment, and Sam watches you breathe through it. He can’t help but tear his eyes away, trailing his gaze down your body, watching your chest rise and fall with every exhalation. He looks down at his own fingers, now shining in the light, slick with a thick layer of your cum. 

Sam doesn’t give it a second thought: he lifts his hands to his own mouth, tasting you. His cock recovers quickly, springing up to nudge against your thigh, and you remove your arm to find him blissfully licking your cum off his fingers. It gets you hot all over again. He looks far too happy to lap you up like that; but you don’t know how many times he’s woken up from a wet dream about you, imagining you like this or with his head between your legs or your lips around his cock. 

When he remembers to open his eyes, you’re already looking at him. He’s still savoring the taste of you when you tug him back down, dragging him into another kiss. Sam feels suddenly, terribly impatient after waiting so long to get off; he reaches for your thigh, pushing it up to spread you open, and he lines himself up with your glistening center. He presses the head of his shaft between your folds, smearing your wetness up and down his length, watching you squirm beneath him. His breath hitches, and he finally can’t take another second of waiting. He’s so hard it hurts, and he hasn’t gotten to cum once, but he’s determined to last long enough to fit himself snugly inside you. 

His cock finally pierces into you, and your eyelids fall shut. He fills you up completely when he bottoms out — and even then, he’s so big that the full length of him doesn’t fit all the way inside of you. There’s still another inch hanging out, but he doesn’t try to force it in, not when you’re already being stretched thin. 

Sam hovers over you, gripping the sheets beside your head. His long lashes flutter as he rolls his hips nice and slow, mindful enough even now to let you adjust. You sigh and tremble beneath him, squirming under his weight. Your hands reach around his body, fingers crawling up like spiders to grip his back. The pressure of your touch encourages him to pick things up, to go at a steady — but not distasteful — pace. He’s trying so hard to be a gentleman; he doesn’t want to get too carried away, not after he’s already spent so long pining after you and praying he might get to touch you. Sam isn’t selfish. If he’s going to get you in bed, he wants you to feel good before anything else. 

You lay under him, breathing heavily, and slide your hands down to his lower back. He falters from the feeling of your possessive tug, so you raise your hips to meet his next downward thrust. He’s holding back — you can tell. His brows are upturned, eyes squeezed shut — all of his features twisted up in concentration. It’s sort of cute how courteous he is, but you’re determined to whittle him down to the shape of his desires. 

“Sam,” you breathe, “you’re thinking too hard.”

Sam opens his eyes. His expression is still a little tense, his pace still dreadfully polite. He swallows harshly, fingers twitching against the bunched up bedsheets beneath your head. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he manages to say, cheeks burning. 

You tip your head at an angle, staring up at him with a fond, lightly exasperated expression. “You won’t,” you assure him. “Please, Sam. Don’t make me beg. It’s not really my thing.” 

He huffs out a flustered laugh, always so easily amused by you. He leans down to steal a kiss from you, sucking in a breath and offering a dangerously deep roll of his hips. Your hands tighten your grip on his back, pulling him closer still, and he groans into your mouth. With renewed confidence, Sam tips in to his own needs, thrusting harder, making the bed shake. 

It’s not enough, not for either of you. Sam pulls out, letting his hard, leaking cock spring back against his navel. Before you can complain or ask questions, Sam turns you on your side, laying behind you. He slides one large hand between your legs, gripping your inner thigh and lifting it up. He spreads you out, using that same hand to guide the head of his cock back inside you. The tight drag of his cock through your walls — every vein and ridge — is delicious. His hand quickly returns to hold your thigh up, and he takes you from behind, groaning against the back of your neck. 

The angle has Sam dizzy with want, possessing him to finally stop giving a fuck and take you the way he’s always dreamed of. He spreads you out, rocking into you viciously, punched-out moans filtering past your parted lips. He kisses behind your ear, digging his hand into the meat of your thigh while the other keeps him upright on the mattress. Underneath you, the bedsprings squeak and strain, and the heat in the dingy motel room nears a boiling point. 

Sam feels his orgasm coming before he has the sense to warn you. It’s a wonder how he even managed to make it this far, given how close he was just listening to you on the phone — but now he’s about to cum inside you if he doesn’t get his shit together. He bucks his hips a few more times before beginning to reel back, carefully guiding himself out—

“Don’t,” you say quickly, reaching down to catch his wrist against your thigh. “It’s okay. Don’t move.”

If Sam could, he’d probably marry you on the spot.

Sam bucks his hips forward, sharper than before, and you gasp. He hangs his head, pressing his nose against your neck and panting like a dog. Damp skin slaps together as he nears his release. Sam can feel how you squeeze around his cock, and if your desperate whines are any indication, you must be close, too. 

Pushing himself up, Sam moves to hover over you, keeping you on your side. The hand on your thigh slides up to the back of your knee, bending it as he fucks into you at an angle. You moan, close to drooling against the damn pillow as he drives you into the mattress; his own sounds grow louder, unkempt and unashamed, until Sam feels his balls tighten. He groans aloud, his free hand practically tearing a hole in the sheets as he cums inside you. His release is hot and thick, filling you to the brim.

The heat that fills you is almost enough to have you tumbling over the edge yourself. Sam is still thrusting into you, hand flying to your clit to massage it with tight circles. You choke on a moan, cheek buried in the pillow as your walls suck him in one last time, squeezing tight, before bursting open with your release. Sam lets out a shuddering breath, watching you whimper and tremble beneath his weight. His hand leaves your clit, moving back to your thigh; he squeezes it lightly, staying inside you until your breathing evens out. 

Sam finally slides out of you, moving to lay by your side. You roll onto your back, shoulder to shoulder with him. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, blotched red from his flush. Sam stares at the ceiling for a good, long while, as if expecting your body to float up and be set aflame at any moment. 

But nothing happens. No demons, no fires, no mercy killings, no death. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re still right where you were minutes ago. Sensing his stare, you loll your head to the side, opening your eyes to find him already looking at you. Relief tugs at the corners of his mouth, his expression melting into its usual boyish tenderness. You squint at him, a smile of your own steadily growing. 

“You look happy,” you muse. “Proud of yourself?”

He snickers, searching your expression. “Something like that,” he rasps. There’s not a hint of regret to be found. He lays on his side, draping an arm across your waist to pull you in. You sidle up to him without hesitation, caressing his forearm affectionately. How many months had you spent hoping for this? Praying you could get even a smidgeon of courage to get close to him? If this is a dream, you’d be a fool to pinch yourself awake.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing, startling you both from the peaceful silence, and — with a disgruntled sigh — Sam rolls over to fish for his phone on the floor beside the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and flicks it open with his thumb, pressing it to his ear. 

“Hey,” Dean greets from the other line, sounding mysteriously serious. “Have you gotten laid yet?” 

Sam blanches, staring at his phone as if his brother might be able to sense the glare Sam is trying to send his way. “What? Why would you—?”

“So you did,” Dean says proudly. “I have a sixth sense for these things, man. Forward my congratulations or whatever. I’ll let you have some extra alone time, you seem like the girly pillow talk type.”

“Dean—”

“Deuces, brother.” 

Dean abruptly hangs up. You sit up in bed, the sheets rumpled beneath your form. With a wrinkled nose, you lean towards Sam. 

“He knows, doesn’t he?” 

Sam sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. He tosses his phone on the nightstand, nodding gravely. “Apparently.”

You click your tongue, rolling your eyes. “Figures,” you mutter. “He has a sixth sense for these things.” Sam is still sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to you. With a low, thoughtful hum, you shimmy closer to him, laying a hand against the ridges of his spine, propping your chin up on his shoulder. “I mean, if he already knows, we could always go again. While we have time and all.”

He freezes, a renewed blush covering him from head to toe. Sam releases a wheezy laugh, running a hand through his hair and glancing your way. Your eyes are sparkling, mischievous and wanting. Sam is a weak, weak man — he turns to face you again, his confidence returning like the tide. 

“Yeah? You want to?” He asks, already climbing on top of you. 

Falling back against the sheets, you laugh, tossing your arms around his neck. “I want you to.”

> masterlist. > main.