Sam&Viv

POV: Vivian, who is Sam’s girlfriend, is the host for a being that outdates Heaven & Hell itself. Her mental dam is crumbling and the enteral being is peaking through the veil, threatening to take total control of her: All the while, Sam, Dean and Cas are in a race against the clock to try & rid Vivian of this entity while trying to spare her life.

Vivian’s Mark- Origins: Part One- Reconnect: This is part one of prequel to my series, Vivian’s Mark. It traces the beginning of Sam and Vivian’s connection—and what happens when their paths cross again, years later.

Vivian’s Mark: Part One

Vivian’s Mark: Part Two

Other Fanfics

Cut Short: Soulless Sam smut- Cut short by Dean

Cabin Thunderstorm: Sam and Vivian are in a cozy cabin alone while Dean & Cas make a supply run

Dinner at Jody’s: Vivian has just been on a hunt with Sam, Dean & Claire and now they’re back at Jody’s having dinner. Vivian has never met the brothers before, but her chemistry with Sam in undeniable and there’s no telling what’s going to happen when those two are left alone in Jody’s kitchen…

Close Quarters: After a failed hunt leaves them wounded and furious, Sam and Vivian retreat to a remote cabin to recover. Tensions run high, old walls crack, and emotions simmer just beneath the surface…

Forgive me, Father: Sam Winchester poses as a priest to investigate a haunting at a quiet rural church, using the confessional to coax secrets from the locals. But what happens when an innocent woman starts whispering sinful thoughts through the screen… and Father Sam finds himself wanting to make every one of them real?

Earn it Next Time: After a dangerous hunt pushes things too far, she tries to escape the fallout in silence. But Sam’s patience has limits—and so does hers. Behind closed doors, lines blur… and control is no longer hers to keep.

Dark Romance Stories

I have a few random dark romance stories swirling around in my head, inspired by true events. Mafia inspired. I hope you guys read and enjoy.

Chapter One: Part one-Reconnected

This is part one of prequel to my series, Vivian’s Mark. It traces the beginning of Sam and Vivian’s connection—and what happens when their paths cross again, years later.

Warnings: NSFW, oral, M&F receiving, unprotected p in v, finishing p in v, angst, smut, size kink if you squint, LOTS of fluff

*****************************************

Vivian swirled the last of her champagne, watching the bubbles rise and pop like promises in reverse. She didn’t know why she stayed this long—maybe pride, maybe just to feel expensive for a night. The candlelight flickered across her skin, catching in the sheer line of her dress, low-cut and backless. She’d come ready to seduce, and now all she had to show for it was a full glass and an empty booth.

Too bad her date hadn’t shown up.

She took another sip of the champagne she’d already paid for. No texts. No calls. Just the sting of expensive bubbles and silence. She set the glass down, ready to get out of there before she looked as pathetic as she felt.

And then…

The door opened.

Her gaze lifted automatically—and her breath caught.

Tall. Broad. Hair a little longer than she remembered, curling just slightly at the ends. A navy suit hugged his shoulders and tapered down his lean frame like he belonged on the cover of some high-end magazine, not striding into a half-empty restaurant with a laptop bag slung over one arm. He moved with quiet certainty, as if nothing around him could possibly surprise him.

But Vivian was stunned.

Sam Winchester.

Older. Sharper. His face a little more chiseled, his jaw dusted with the start of stubble. His hands—God, his hands—still big, strong, and callused in a way that didn’t belong to a man in a suit. And that voice, when he thanked the bartender in a smooth baritone, sent a shiver right down her spine. She could feel it in her chest. Like muscle memory.

He didn’t see her—not yet. He was setting his laptop on the bar, flipping open a worn notebook, already lost in whatever he was there to work on.

Vivian hurriedly put cash on the table to pay for her tab. She stood from the table, heart racing, clutching her purse. Maybe, if she left fast enough, he wouldn’t-

“Vivian?”

Too late.

She froze at the sound of her name. His voice was lower now, more gravel than she remembered. Rougher. Like it had grown up too.

She turned slowly, smoothing her expression, trying not to let it show just how hard her heart was pounding.

And Sam was already standing.

He looked just as shocked as she felt—eyes sweeping down her body, catching on the cut of her dress, the way it hugged her, the silver at her throat and ears, the white heels on her feet. His lips parted, just barely.

“Wow,” he said under his breath. Then louder, almost laughing, but in disbelief: “You look… incredible.”

Vivian let out a soft laugh—nervous, surprised—and clutched her small white purse a little tighter.

“Sam Winchester,” she said, blinking like she wasn’t sure he was really there. “What are the odds?”

He stepped closer, that crooked half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Slim, apparently. Unless you’ve been stalking me.”

Vivian tilted her head. “Please. I’d do a better job hiding if I was stalking you.”

Sam grinned. “Fair.”

He gestured toward the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Vivian hesitated, glancing at the champagne on her table, then back at Sam’s face. He looked good. Too good. Her stomach still felt tight from the initial shock, but something in his voice—his calm, familiar steadiness—made her exhale.

“Alright,” she said, voice soft. “One drink.”

He moved a laptop and notebook to make space for her, pulling out the stool beside him. His hand grazed her back as she slid up onto the seat, just a brief touch, but enough to light her skin on fire.

Sam flagged down the bartender. “What’s your poison these days?”

“Still a champagne girl,” she said. “But maybe something stronger tonight.”

“Whiskey?” he offered, already half-smiling. “You used to like stealing sips of mine.”

Vivian raised a brow, caught off guard by how well he remembered. “Let’s go with that.”

When the drinks arrived, she cradled hers between her fingers, watching the ice shift and melt. She could feel his eyes on her—curious, studying.

“So,” he said, “you dress like that just to torment the staff, or…?”

Vivian laughed, finally relaxing just a little. “I had a date.”

Sam lifted his brows. “Had?”

She gave a wry smile. “He bailed.”

Sam blinked, clearly surprised. “He stood you up?”

Vivian shrugged, sipping her drink. “Apparently.”

“That’s… insane.” He shook his head, scoffing. “Guy’s either blind or a complete idiot.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Thanks.”

He leaned on one elbow, his large hand resting casually near hers on the bar. “Seriously though. His loss.”

She smiled, eyes dropping for a second—nervous again. He was still Sam, but not. Older. More put together. A quiet intensity in his posture, like a man who’d seen things and lived through all of it.

“So what about you?” she asked, twisting her glass slowly in place. “What are you doing here? Work, you said?”

“Mhm,” he nodded. “Sort of a research trip. Boring stuff.”

She gave him a look. “You always were terrible at lying.”

Sam chuckled, and this time, it was low and rich. “Still am.”

Their hands rested close. Too close. His pinky brushed hers once, then again—and then he reached up, slow and deliberate, and tucked a loose wave of her hair behind her ear.

The touch was featherlight, but intimate. Almost reverent.

Vivian’s breath hitched slightly, and she turned to face him—closer now. Eyes catching. Holding.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “You had a… thing.” He motioned vaguely to her hair, but his hand lingered near her cheek.

She swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “You always used to do that.”

Sam met her eyes again. “I know.”

He glanced down at her hand on the bar—delicate fingers, silver ring, pale polish—and reached out, brushing the back of her hand with his thumb. Light. Testing.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentler now. “About the date?”

Vivian gave a small laugh. “Honestly, I think this is better.”

His mouth curved into a slow smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

Vivian relaxed her shoulders and leaned a little more on the bar, her body angling toward his without meaning to. It felt strangely easy, sitting like this with Sam. The air between them still crackled, but it wasn’t so sharp now—more like a hum under her skin.

“You still wear cologne,” she said after a moment, teasing.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You still remember how I smell?”

She smirked. “You had a very… memorable scent. Woodsy. Kind of warm.”

Sam gave a soft laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I peaked early.”

Vivian tilted her head. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve… grown into yourself.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and the corner of his mouth twitched. “So have you.”

They both went quiet for a moment, sipping their drinks. The quiet was comfortable now, not awkward. Around them, the bar was soft-lit and low conversation buzzed, but the world felt smaller—like it had narrowed just to this moment.

“Do you remember,” Vivian began, voice lighter now, “when we used to drive out to that abandoned barn in Wilkes County?”

Sam snorted. “The one with the roof half caved in?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That place had no insulation, no power, no privacy… but you insisted it was romantic.”

“I did not!”

“You brought candles!”

Vivian burst out laughing. “Okay, fine. But you brought a blanket and snacks.”

“I was trying to impress you,” he said, mock-defensive. “You were this confident, gorgeous girl who had absolutely no business wanting anything to do with a guy like me.”

Vivian scoffed, but it was softened by her smile. “Are you kidding? I was obsessed with you. You were the smartest person I’d ever met—and the only guy I knew who actually listened when I talked.”

He looked at her, quieter now, the smile still tugging at his lips but his eyes a little more serious. “I never forgot you, Viv.”

Something about the way he said it made her breath hitch. But instead of backing away, she leaned forward a little more, resting her elbow on the bar, chin in hand.

“Me neither,” she said. “You… stuck.”

Sam looked down at his drink swirling in his hand, blushing.

Vivian smiled into her drink. “So. Do you live nearby? Or are you just passing through?”

“Passing through.” He said “I don’t really… settle anywhere.”

“You always were kind of a wanderer.”

He nodded. “And you? Are you still in town?”

“Yeah. Took over my aunt’s place a few years back. It’s small, but I like it. Quiet.”

“I remember your aunt,” Sam said, thoughtful. “She made the world’s driest meatloaf.”

Vivian laughed—full, real this time—and Sam smiled like he’d won a prize.

“God,” she said, breathless, still laughing, “how do you even remember that?”

He shrugged. “You were important to me. I remember a lot.”

Something in her chest pulled tight—but not in a painful way. Not anymore.

She set her drink down, fingers still resting near his on the bar.

“I’m really glad you walked in tonight, Sam.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Vivian was mid-laugh, telling Sam about the time she nearly lit her bedroom curtains on fire trying to surprise him with birthday candles on a takeout pizza, when a voice cut through the hum of the bar behind them.

“There you are.”

Vivian froze, shoulders tightening.

She turned slowly, and there he was—Andrew. Crisp shirt, blazer slightly rumpled, cheeks flushed from rushing. He looked winded, flustered, and very much not the guy she expected to see again tonight.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, stepping up to the bar. “I lost track of time, and my phone died, and traffic was a nightmare—”

Vivian offered a polite smile, already sliding off the stool. “It’s okay. Really. I figured something must’ve happened.”

Andrew’s eyes flicked to Sam, then back to her. His brows pulled in slightly. “I didn’t expect you to… still be here. Or to be with someone else.”

Sam stayed seated, calm and composed, but his posture had subtly shifted—more alert, more still. His hand rested flat on the bar near Vivian’s again, not touching, but close.

Vivian stepped between them slightly. “This is Sam. An old friend. We were just catching up while I waited.”

Andrew looked at Sam, then at Vivian again—his jaw working. “So are we still having dinner, or…?”

Vivian’s tone stayed gentle, but firm. “I don’t think so. I waited a while, and I was just about to head out when Sam showed up. It’s… probably not the right night.”

Andrew’s expression soured, the charm slipping. “Seriously? You’re ditching me for this guy?”

Sam stood then. Slow. Calm. His height alone made the air shift.

“She’s not ‘ditching’ anyone,” he said, his voice low, even. “She was polite. You’re pushing it.”

Andrew looked up—way up—and had the good sense to take half a step back. “Whatever, man.”

He turned back to Vivian, voice clipped. “I guess I misread things.”

Vivian’s smile thinned. “I guess you did.”

Andrew left without another word, muttering something under his breath as he pushed through the door.

The silence that followed felt thick and awkward—until Sam broke it with a dry, amused murmur:

“Well. That was smooth.”

Vivian snorted, half-horrified, half-laughing. “God, that was mortifying.”

Sam turned to her, his tone softening again. “You okay?”

She nodded, smoothing her dress and tucking her hair back behind her ear. “Yeah. Just… embarrassed. That’s not usually how my nights go.”

Sam glanced around the restaurant, sensing the shift in atmosphere. The warmth they’d built had chilled under the interruption.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked. “Walk for a bit. Or sit somewhere quieter. Only if you’re comfortable.”

Vivian looked at him—really looked—and saw nothing but quiet confidence in his expression. No pressure. No expectation. Just that steady, familiar presence.

She smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

*****************************************

The night air was warm, stirred by the faintest breeze as they stepped out of the restaurant. Vivian wrapped her arms lightly around herself, more from habit than cold. Her heels clicked softly on the pavement beside Sam’s heavier, measured steps.

They didn’t speak at first. It wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, like silence was just another shape they shared.

The sidewalks were mostly empty now, the buzz of the city mellowing into something quieter, slower. They turned down a side street lined with storefronts long closed for the night, their windows glowing faintly with leftover light.

“I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Sam said after a while, his voice low and calm.

Vivian glanced at him. “You didn’t. He did.”

Still, he looked vaguely apologetic. “I just don’t like people talking to you like that.”

Something about the way he said you made her stomach tighten.

A block or two later, they reached a small park tucked between buildings—nothing fancy, just a handful of trees, a brick path, and a bench facing a fountain. The water trickled gently, lit by a single soft spotlight.

Sam paused. “Want to sit for a minute?”

Vivian nodded, already moving toward the bench. The heels were finally catching up to her.

They sat close, but not touching. For a few moments, all that filled the space between them was the sound of water and wind.

Vivian shifted slightly, turning toward him. “You really haven’t changed much.”

Sam gave her a sideways glance. “No?”

“You’re still protective. Still steady. Still make me feel like everything’s fine, even when it’s not.”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little wistful. “I don’t know about that. But I’m glad you feel that way.”

She stared at him for a moment, letting her eyes linger. The slope of his jaw. The way his long fingers rested loosely over his knee. His hair moved just slightly in the breeze.

He caught her watching him and gave a soft laugh. “What?”

“You’re just… really handsome now,” she said, lightly, like it wasn’t the thousandth time the thought had struck her tonight.

Sam looked down, a little bashful, but pleased. “You weren’t exactly subtle in that dress, you know.”

She smirked. “Neither were you in that suit.”

He glanced sideways at her, his gaze a little heavier now—but still careful. Still measured.

Slowly, his hand reached out and rested lightly on her knee. Just fingertips. No pressure.

Vivian didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into the contact.

“I don’t want to cross any lines,” Sam said softly. “I know it’s been a long time.”

She turned to face him more fully. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

He studied her for a moment—then gently lifted his arm, inviting her wordlessly to lean in.

She did. Without hesitation.

She tucked herself into his side, her head resting just beneath his shoulder, her hand brushing lightly against his chest. His arm settled around her, warm and strong, pulling her just a little closer.

They stayed that way for a while. Just breathing. Just being.

Vivian’s voice was soft when she spoke again. “Did you ever think about me?”

Sam looked down at her, his fingers tracing slow circles against her bare shoulder.

“All the time.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, lips parting slightly.

And when he kissed her—finally—it was slow. Gentle at first. Like a question.

Vivian answered by lifting her hand to his jaw, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, not rushed, not hungry—just full. With everything left unsaid over the years. With everything still burning underneath the surface.

When they pulled apart, she stayed close, forehead resting against his.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” she whispered.

Sam’s voice was barely audible. “I didn’t.”

Vivian stayed tucked beneath his arm, her fingers playing lightly with the lapel of his suit jacket. The kiss still lingered on her lips, warm and heavy, like it had settled in her bones.

She didn’t want to ruin the moment, but something inside her stirred—something hesitant and quietly hopeful.

“So…” she said softly, her voice muffled slightly against his chest. “How long are you in town?”

Sam looked down at her, studying her with a faint smile. “Not sure yet. Few days, maybe. Depends how things shake out.”

She nodded slowly. “Right. Work stuff.”

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his fingers along the edge of her shoulder, tracing the strap of her dress with the lightest touch.

“Why?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You hoping I stick around?”

Vivian let out a quiet laugh—nervous and soft. “Maybe.”

He waited, watching her closely. She was quiet for a moment longer, gathering herself.

Then, finally, she looked up at him—just a little shy, just a little daring—and said, “Would you want to come back to my place? Just for tonight. I mean…”

She trailed off, chewing the inside of her lip before adding, “No parents to sneak past this time.”

That made Sam laugh—low and warm, the sound vibrating through her. “God,” he said, eyes gleaming with memory. “I forgot about your mom’s creaky staircase.”

“And your dad’s weird sixth sense,” Vivian added. “I swear he always knew.”

“He did,” Sam said. “He definitely did.”

Their laughter faded into something softer again, and Sam leaned in just enough that their noses brushed.

“I’d like that,” he said. “Going home with you.”

Vivian’s breath hitched again, but she smiled. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She kissed him again—quicker this time, a little bolder—and when she pulled back, her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Come on. Before I lose my nerve.”

Sam rose first, offering his hand to help her up. She slid her fingers into his without hesitation, lacing them together as they stepped off the quiet path and back toward the road—toward the rest of the night that waited for them.

*****************************************

Vivian pulled into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the front porch and flower beds before cutting off. Sam pulled in right behind her, engine rumbling low before it, too, went quiet.

She stepped out first, heels clicking on the concrete, clutch still in hand. Sam followed, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, eyes drifting up to the little house bathed in warm porch light.

“This is nice,” he said as they met at the steps. “Cozy. Looks like it actually feels like home.”

Vivian gave a small smile, unlocking the door. “Yeah. It does, most days.”

He followed her inside, the scent of lavender and cedar floating faintly in the air. The entryway opened into a small living room, soft lighting, warm wood floors, a few books stacked on the coffee table, and a worn but inviting couch.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Vivian groaned and kicked off her heels with zero ceremony.

“God. I knew these were a mistake.”

Sam chuckled, dropping his bag beside the couch. “You looked amazing in them.”

“I looked like a glamorous hostage,” she said, rubbing one sore foot with a dramatic wince. “My feet are going to mutiny in the morning.”

“You want me to take a look?” he teased.

Vivian gave him a playful glare. “Don’t start with me, Winchester.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Noted.”

She stretched, then turned toward the hallway. “I’m gonna get changed. These clothes have done their job.”

Sam nodded and patted his bag. “I’ll get into something a little more human, too. Mind if I change out here?”

Vivian waved a hand over her shoulder. “Make yourself at home.”

As she slipped into her bedroom, she couldn’t help the thoughts already racing through her mind. She peeled off the halter dress slowly, the zipper whispering down her back as she changed into something soft and loose—an old cotton sleep tank and shorts that barely reached mid-thigh.

But her brain wasn’t on her outfit. It was on him.

Sam. In her living room. Pulling off that tailored suit. Peeling away layers.

Shit.

Her heart sped up just thinking about it. She imagined him in sweats and a T-shirt, maybe—something soft and worn, maybe—

Or nothing.

Oh God.

She tried to breathe, tried to brush it off, but by the time she padded barefoot down the hallway and turned into the living room, she really wasn’t ready.

Sam stood facing the couch, rummaging through his duffel bag, a shirt crumpled in one hand.

He hadn’t put it on yet.

The soft glow of her floor lamp cast shadows across his bare back—shoulders broad, defined, every muscle moving under his skin as he shifted. His sweats rode low on his hips, light gray and thin enough that she could make out the curve of his waist, the line of his obliques.

Vivian stopped in her tracks.

And stared.

Jesus Christ.

Sam turned slightly, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked over his shoulder—and caught her dead in the act.

Vivian’s eyes went wide, and she turned fast, flustered. “Oh my God—I’m sorry, I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

Sam laughed softly behind her, the sound deep and amused.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I’m not exactly modest.”

She kept her back turned, one hand to her forehead. “I just walked into a Calvin Klein ad in my own damn house.”

Sam chuckled,”well now I’m flattered.”

Vivian peeked at him over her shoulder, only to see him tug the shirt on slowly—deliberately slow, she suspected. The fabric slid down over his torso like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Unfair,” she muttered.

He smirked. “What can I say? You started it.”

Vivian forced herself to breathe, dragging her eyes away from Sam and heading toward the kitchen, barefoot on the hardwood.

“Drink?” she called over her shoulder. “I’ve got whiskey, wine, a few leftover hard ciders… something stronger if tonight calls for it.”

“Whiskey’s good,” Sam answered. His voice was smooth, still laced with that low amusement, like he could feel the storm he was stirring in her.

She opened a cabinet, trying to focus on anything but the image of him standing shirtless in her living room five seconds ago. Her hands were too aware, her heart racing for no good reason, and she could still smell him in the air—clean soap and something deeper, warmer. Like cedar smoke and skin.

She reached for two glasses, fingers curling around the cool rims. The bottle clinked softly against the counter as she opened it.

“You okay in there?” Sam called.

“Peachy,” she replied, just a bit too quickly.

She heard his footsteps then—slow, deliberate—and when she turned around, he was there.

Leaning in the doorway. Smirking.

He’d pulled the dark t-shirt over his torso, but it clung to him in all the right places, and the gray sweats still hung low on his hips like they had a grudge against self-control.

His arms were crossed lazily, one shoulder braced against the frame, hazel eyes fixed on her like he already knew exactly what she was thinking.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Vivian blinked. “Do you… need something?”

He shrugged, still smirking. “Just figured I’d keep you company. You looked a little…” His eyes flicked down, just briefly. “Distracted.”

She set the glasses down with a light clink and poured two fingers of whiskey into each, trying not to roll her eyes—or blush. “Distracted is generous.”

“Flustered, then?”

“Maybe.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Because of me?”

Vivian handed him his glass and gave him a look. “Don’t get cocky.”

Sam took it with a quiet chuckle. “Too late.”

She tried to sip her drink like she wasn’t sweating under her tank top. “You’ve gotten smug since I last saw you.”

“I’ve gotten older,” he said. “More confident. Little less afraid of saying what I want.”

Vivian raised a brow. “And what do you want, Sam?”

His smile softened—still playful, but steadier now. “To be here. With you.”

That quiet honesty, so simple, so direct, caught her off guard.

She looked down into her glass, feeling her pulse flutter against her wrist. “Well… I think you’ve got that.”

Vivian lifted her glass again, but her fingers barely brushed the rim before she felt him.

Sam crossed the kitchen in a few slow, sure steps—his presence swallowing the space between them without a word.

She looked up.

And up.

He was so much taller now than she remembered. Broader. His frame filled the kitchen like it was built for him, shadows catching along his collarbones beneath the soft black tee. His sweatpants rode low on his hips, his body loose but completely controlled.

Then—deliberately—he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her whiskey glass.

He didn’t take it all at once. He let his fingertips drag slowly over hers as he lifted it from her grasp—his skin brushing the backs of her knuckles with maddening precision.

The contact was brief, barely there. But it burned.

Vivian’s breath hitched as he raised the glass to his lips, never breaking eye contact.

He drank.

Slow. Confident. The amber liquid disappeared down his throat, and she could hear the swallow, could feel it, somehow.

Then he stepped closer.

And didn’t stop.

Her back nearly brushed the edge of the counter, but she didn’t move. Didn’t want to. The air was thick with heat and something else—something charged.

He was standing so close now she could feel the warmth of his chest through her tank top. His height, his weight, his quiet, calculated awareness of every inch between them had her dizzy.

Vivian tilted her chin to look up at him.

Sam reached for her face with the gentlest touch—two fingers lifting her jaw, tilting her head ever so slightly, his grip light but firm.

His thumb ghosted along the edge of her cheek, his eyes steady and unreadable.

And then—

“Do you wanna move to the couch?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough. “Put on a movie?”

Vivian blinked, momentarily stunned by the turn.

It was almost infuriating—how he was right there, all over her skin without really touching her, and then asking something as casual as that. Like they weren’t already caught in the undertow of something electric.

She swallowed hard. “A movie.”

Sam gave a faint smile. “You know. Something to take the edge off.”

Her voice came out a little breathless. “You think that’s gonna help?”

His eyes dropped to her lips, lingering. “Nope.”

Then he stepped back—just an inch. Just enough to let her breathe again.

“But we can try.”

They ended up choosing a documentary—something about ancient cities or cave drawings. Vivian barely remembered what they settled on. It was background noise at best, an excuse to sit close without technically crossing a line.

The lights were dim, the room warm. She’d thrown on a blanket without thinking, and now it was draped across both of them, pulled high around her legs, tucked just over Sam’s lap.

He was sitting close. Really close. One arm stretched behind her along the back of the couch, his body turned slightly toward hers. He’d let her curl up beside him, her knees bent beneath the blanket, her side pressed along his.

She hadn’t meant to cuddle him. Not intentionally.

But now she was nestled against his chest, her head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in the clean scent of him. His arm had settled across her back sometime during the first ten minutes of the film, his hand resting lightly at her hip.

Just enough to make her aware of it.

And every so often, his thumb would move—tiny, slow, almost-thoughtless circles against her side. Barely touching. But felt.

Vivian shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable, but it only made things worse—her thigh brushed against his under the blanket, and she felt his muscles flex faintly in response.

Sam glanced down at her, his voice low. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” she murmured, not looking up. “Just… warm.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Want me to move?”

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “You’re fine.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Just let his arm tighten ever so slightly around her, his palm pressing more fully to her waist.

They both went still again. The documentary droned on about symbols carved into stone—ancient hands reaching across time—but Vivian barely registered any of it. Her mind was consumed by this: the way his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, the heat of his body next to hers, the whisper-soft touch of his fingertips through the thin fabric of her tank top.

And he wasn’t unaffected, either.

She could feel the tension in him—controlled, yes, but undeniable. His breathing was just a little too even. His hand stilled a little too carefully, like he was holding back from doing exactly what he wanted to.

Vivian swallowed.

Then tilted her head up—just a little—to look at him.

Sam’s eyes were already on her.

Hazel and heavy, full of something that buzzed under her skin like electricity.

Neither of them spoke.

His gaze dropped to her lips.

Vivian didn’t breathe.

She couldn’t—not with him looking at her like that. Not with the air charged and still between them, her body coiled tight beneath the blanket.

And then—

Sam reached up, slow and certain, and cradled her face in both hands. His touch was gentle, reverent, like she was something he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold—but couldn’t stop himself from touching anyway.

His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones. His fingers slipped into her hair.

And he leaned in.

The kiss started soft. Careful. Just a press of lips, a brush, a taste.

But Vivian melted into him with a sound she hadn’t meant to make—a quiet whimper against his mouth as her hands found the front of his shirt, gripping tight.

That was all it took.

The moment shattered into something hotter, hungrier. She kissed him like she was starving for him, and Sam matched her with a heat that had been simmering for years.

His body shifted, coaxing hers down with him. He laid her back across the couch, his mouth never leaving hers, his large hands guiding her like she was something precious. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, pooling at their waists.

Vivian’s breath hitched as she felt the weight of him above her—broad and warm and so solid.

She wrapped her legs around his waist without thinking, knees falling open as he pressed down into the cradle of her hips.

Sam broke the kiss, breath heavy, forehead resting against hers. He smiled softly, voice low and rasped.

“Jesus, Vivian…”

His lips moved to her jaw, then down to her neck—slow, lingering kisses, dragging heat across her skin.

Vivian gasped as his teeth grazed the spot beneath her ear. He smiled.

“You remember how crazy we used to be?” he whispered. “Couldn’t keep our hands off each other for five minutes…”

She arched against him, her nails digging lightly into his back.

“I remember,” she breathed. “I remember everything.”

His hands slid down her sides, mapping her curves like he was relearning her, savoring every inch. His mouth followed—pressing hot, open kisses along her collarbone, the top of her chest, just above her shorts.

“You’ve gotten even sweeter,” he said, nuzzling between her breasts, his hands squeezing her hips. “Fucking perfect, Viv.”

She whimpered again, her body already aching for more. And she could feel him—thick and hard between her thighs, only the thin barrier of his sweats and her dress keeping them apart.

And he wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t hurrying.

He was savoring her.

Every kiss. Every word. Every slow rock of his hips that left her breathless.

Vivian’s pajamas weren’t much—a loose, sleeveless top and soft cotton shorts—but somehow, they felt like too much now.

Especially with Sam above her. All muscle and heat. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and she could still feel him, impossibly hard between her legs, restrained only by will and cloth.

He was kissing her slow again. Like the urgency had passed, or maybe like he just wanted to make this last. His mouth trailed back to her neck, down to her shoulder, where the strap of her top had slipped.

Sam dragged it lower, just enough to press his lips to the skin beneath.

“You always wore these little tank tops to bed,” he murmured, voice low, breath hot. “Used to drive me crazy.”

She smiled against his cheek, her fingers threading into his hair. “You never complained.”

“No,” he whispered, kissing lower. “No, I didn’t.”

His hand slid under the hem of her top, palm flat against her stomach. He moved slowly—exploring her curves, her ribs, the underside of her breast. When he brushed his thumb just beneath the soft swell, Vivian gasped, hips shifting against his.

Sam looked up at her, eyes dark and heavy.

“Still okay?”

“Please,” she breathed.

He didn’t need more.

With gentle hands, he eased the top up and over her head, dropping it somewhere behind them. His gaze swept over her bare chest—no shame in it, no hesitation—just raw appreciation.

“God, Vivian…”

His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing lightly across her nipples. She arched into his touch, breath catching in her throat.

He kissed down her chest, mouth warm and soft as he lavished her with attention—first one breast, then the other. He kissed, sucked, licked slow and tender until she was trembling beneath him, clutching at his arms.

Then his hands moved lower.

To her shorts.

He looked at her again, waiting.

She gave a tiny nod, heart pounding.

Sam hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged them down, slow, slow, kissing the skin he exposed inch by inch. Her hips, her thighs. Down to her knees, then her ankles. He tossed the shorts to the floor and came back up, sliding his hands up her legs as he did.

And now she was bare beneath him.

Laid out on the couch, flushed and breathless and beautiful in the soft light.

He settled between her thighs, pressing a kiss to her hipbone, then the inside of her thigh.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, lips brushing against her skin. “You always were. But now…”

He looked up at her.

Now, she was speechless.

And he was devouring her—slowly, reverently, with every touch and kiss like it was meant to be remembered.

Vivian’s breath caught as he kissed the inside of her knee, then higher—trailing his lips slowly up her thigh, his hands keeping her gently open for him.

And then his mouth found her.

Soft, warm pressure at first—teasing, tasting. He groaned low in his throat like just the act of touching her there was something he’d craved. Like he remembered exactly how she tasted and had been aching for it ever since.

Vivian’s back arched sharply.

Her hands flew to his hair—tugging, twisting as he buried his face between her thighs. His tongue moved with deliberate care, lazy at first, like he had all night. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Sam—” she gasped, voice already breaking.

One of his hands slipped upward, thumb circling slow and sweet where his mouth had just been. And then his fingers—

She moaned loud, head falling back against the couch cushions, as two of his thick fingers pushed into her, deep and perfect. Curling just right.

He moved his mouth to her inner thigh, kissing her there while his fingers worked inside her. Steady. Loving. Ruthless.

Vivian was falling apart beneath him, body tightening, legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

She could feel it. Right there. Close. So close—

And then Sam pulled away.

His fingers slid out of her, leaving her aching and empty.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he was already climbing up her body, kissing her stomach, her chest, her neck—soft, slow kisses meant to soothe and stir at once.

He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear.

“I want you in bed,” he whispered. “Not on a couch. Not like this.”

Vivian blinked up at him, her heart thundering.

Sam pressed a kiss to her lips. Gentle. Reverent.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, breath warm against her cheek

He stood, holding out a hand. She took it with shaking fingers, letting him pull her to her feet—naked and flushed and buzzing all over.

Still breathless, still wanting, she led him down the short hallway to her bedroom, her hand in his.

Neither of them said a word.

The quiet between them was electric.

The bedroom was quiet, bathed in warm, golden light from the single lamp on the nightstand. Everything inside felt soft—soft sheets, soft shadows, soft air.

But Vivian felt anything but soft.

She stepped inside slowly, Sam just behind her. Her skin still tingled from his mouth, his hands, and now, standing in the gentle glow of her most private space—naked—she suddenly felt the weight of his gaze.

Exposed.

She crossed her arms over her chest instinctively, glancing over her shoulder.

“So, uh… this is it,” she said, voice smaller than before. “Not much, but it’s—”

Sam closed the door behind him and crossed the room in three strides before she could finish.

His hands gripped her arms, pulling them from her chest with more force than she expected—not unkind, but firm.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said, voice low, rough with something deeper. “Not you.”

She barely had time to breathe before he spun her gently, pressing her chest-first against the wall beside the dresser. The cool surface kissed her skin as her palms braced instinctively.

Sam’s body came up behind her, solid heat at her back. He caught both her wrists and pinned them just above her hips, holding them easily with one hand.

His other hand dragged slowly up her arm, then down her side, skimming over her waist, her hip, her thigh.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled into her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

He kissed her shoulder, slow and hot. Then her neck. Her spine. Her skin was burning under every place he touched.

He rocked against her once—slow and deliberate—grinding his cock through the thin barrier of his sweats into the curve of her ass.

Vivian gasped, forehead resting against the wall, back arching instinctively.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”

She was trembling in his grip, mouth parted, eyes fluttering closed.

And then, just as slowly, he released her wrists and stepped back.

Vivian turned around, breath catching in her throat as she looked at him.

He was standing there, eyes dark and waiting, his chest rising and falling like he was barely keeping himself together.

She stepped forward—quiet and sure.

No more shyness.

Her fingers reached for the hem of his t-shirt. She looked up at him once, asking silently.

Sam didn’t move. Just stared down at her like she was everything.

Vivian tugged the shirt up over his torso, slow and reverent, letting her fingers drag along his skin as it lifted. He raised his arms for her and let it go, discarded to the floor.

Then she stepped closer, pressing her palms to his bare chest, kissing softly along his collarbone as her hands slid down.

Down to the drawstring of his sweats.

She undid the knot with quiet hands.

And pushed them down.

Vivian’s breath caught as the waistband slid past his hips.

She pushed them lower, letting them fall to the floor with a quiet whisper of fabric—and then she saw him.

Her lips parted slightly.

God. He was…

Her eyes slowly drifted over him, taking in every inch of exposed skin. Broad chest, the cut of muscle through his abdomen, the soft trail of hair leading down from his navel—and then lower, to where he stood fully hard for her.

Thick. Heavy. Beautiful.

Vivian blinked once, then looked up at him—his eyes already fixed on her, jaw clenched tight.

She saw it—the restraint. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands flexed slightly at his sides, like he wasn’t sure if he should touch her or hold still.

She dropped to her knees.

Sam exhaled sharply, a quiet sound of surprise and heat.

Vivian’s hands came up to his thighs, fingertips lightly dragging along his skin as she settled in front of him on the plush bedroom rug. Her mouth was just inches away, and she took her time—kissing his hip, his lower stomach, teasing her nails gently across the tops of his thighs.

Sam’s hand came to her hair, not pulling, not guiding—just resting there, shaking slightly.

“You don’t have to—” he started to say, voice rough.

But Vivian looked up through her lashes and smiled.

“I want to,” she said softly.

His mouth twitched, but he was still holding himself back.

That wouldn’t last.

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the base of him. Then another, halfway up. And when her tongue finally touched the tip, slow and deliberate, she felt his whole body tense under her palms.

She took him into her mouth—inch by inch—slow, steady, deliberate, until her lips wrapped around the full weight of him.

Sam groaned.

His fingers tightened slightly in her hair.

Vivian began to move, slow and sweet, one hand wrapped around the base, the other resting on his thigh for balance. Her eyes never left his face—watching the way his jaw set, the way his head tilted back, the way he breathed when she did something he liked.

When she hollowed her cheeks and moaned around him?

He swore under his breath, voice wrecked.

“Vivian—fuck—”

It only spurred her on. Her pace stayed steady, unhurried, her tongue teasing, lips soft and warm.

She wanted to undo him.

And he was close. She could feel it in the way his hips bucked slightly, the way his hand trembled, the way he cursed her name like a prayer and a threat.

But then Sam pulled back.

He eased himself from her mouth, chest heaving, thumb brushing the corner of her lips as he looked down at her—eyes dark and wild.

Sam didn’t say a word as he hauled her up from the floor, one strong arm wrapped around her back, the other gripping her thigh.

Vivian squealed as he lifted her off her knees—and before she could even catch her breath, he was tossing her onto the bed.

She bounced softly against the comforter, breathless, her hair fanned out across the pillow as she looked up at him, heart hammering.

“You think that was fair?” she laughed, cheeks flushed. “I was busy—”

But Sam was already crawling onto the bed after her, slow and sure, like a predator closing in. He kissed the inside of her ankle, then her shin, her knee… and kept going. One inch at a time.

“God, I missed that laugh,” he murmured against her skin, voice low and wrecked.

He kissed the inside of her thigh—lingering there—then moved higher.

Vivian’s breath caught.

And then he was on her, chest to chest, arms braced on either side of her head. His body warm and solid and everywhere. He was grinning now, devilish and knowing, and he dipped his head to kiss her jaw, her neck, the little place just behind her ear that made her hips buck into his.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. “So goddamn beautiful…”

His hand slid between her legs, fingers slipping through her wet heat with easy, aching familiarity. Vivian gasped, arching beneath him.

Sam groaned in her ear, slow and reverent.

“So wet for me already?” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Sweetheart…”

He kissed just beneath her earlobe, and she whimpered.

“Tell me how you want it,” he said, fingers teasing her with slow, perfect pressure.

Vivian whimpered, caught between a moan and a breathless laugh, nails curling into his back.

“Do you want me to go slow?- so you can feel every inch? Or do you want it hard and deep, the way you always used to beg for it?”

“Sam…”

He kissed her again, deep and slow this time—tongue brushing hers, claiming her, tasting her. His fingers never stopped moving, building her up, keeping her trembling.

“I want to give you everything you want,” he said against her lips.

Sam didn’t wait for an answer—her breathless moan was all he needed.

He kissed her again, deep and possessive, and then gently turned her over onto her stomach, her hair tumbling across the pillow like waves of shadow and fire. Vivian gasped, more from anticipation than surprise, her hands clutching at the comforter as she shifted her hips.

Sam’s hands slid over her back, slow and reverent. He climbed over her, straddling her hips, his large hands spreading wide across her waist before gliding down, gripping her curves, spreading her ass with a groan.

“You look so fucking incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick and low, close to her ear. His chest brushed along her bare back as he leaned down, lips grazing her shoulder blade.

Vivian arched toward him instinctively, body humming with need.

He slid a hand down between her thighs, teasing, slow—his fingertips brushing places that made her whimper. His other hand caressed her hip, grounding her, possessive and gentle all at once.

She felt him settle behind her, every inch of him radiating heat and restraint. His mouth returned to her neck, lips parting as he kissed just behind her ear.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “So warm… so ready.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, letting her feel the weight of him, the heat, the promise. Vivian trembled beneath him, her breath shallow, her heart pounding.

Sam pressed soft kisses down her spine, his hands still firm on her hips, holding her steady, holding her close.

And then, just as she thought she might burst from the tension, he leaned in again, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he whispered. “I’m going to take my time. And you’re going to feel everything.”

Vivian gasped as Sam shifted above her, his hand still cupping her hip, the other trailing slowly up her spine. His body blanketed hers, warm and firm, the weight of him pressing her gently into the mattress—an embrace, a claiming.

He adjusted, guiding himself against her with practiced care. And when she felt the first press of him, thick and hot and so achingly slow, her breath hitched.

“Oh—Sam,” she whispered, stunned by how full she already felt, how much of him there was.

He stilled, kissing the base of her neck, his fingers squeezing her hip gently. “I know,” he murmured, voice thick and breathless. “God, you’re so tight…”

She exhaled shakily, her body trembling beneath him. And then, slowly, carefully, he eased deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her, stretched deep and wrapped in heat.

Vivian whimpered, pressing her forehead to the pillow. She felt every inch of him—how he filled her completely, how he moved so slowly it made her ache.

“Shh,” he whispered, dragging his mouth along her shoulder. “You’re doing so good. Let me take care of you.”

She reached back blindly, and he caught her hand, threading his fingers with hers again and pinning them gently to the bed beside her head. His other hand slipped beneath her, wrapped around her waist, holding her tight.

Then he began to move—rocking into her with slow, devastating purpose. Each thrust coaxed another gasp from her lips, her body pulsing around him with desperate pleasure.

“You feel so good, baby,” he whispered against her skin. “So damn perfect. I want you to remember this… how I feel inside you. I want you to ache for me tomorrow.”

Vivian moaned, her body burning with every word, every inch of him. She was dizzy with it—his voice, his hands, the slow, sensual rhythm that sent sparks curling through her nerves.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said, his voice low and reverent, laced with heat.

She turned her face slightly, just enough for him to kiss the corner of her mouth. Their fingers stayed tangled, hearts pounding in sync, the rest of the world falling away as they moved together—slow and deep and completely lost in each other.

Sam’s rhythm stayed steady, deep and slow, every movement intentional, meant to make her feel everything. Vivian’s fingers gripped the sheets now, her body taut and trembling beneath his as the pleasure coiled tighter, higher, with each stroke.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groaned, lips brushing her ear. “So goddamn good for me.”

She could barely breathe. Every nerve in her body was focused on the way he filled her, the way he held her—one arm wrapped under her to press her back against his chest, the other braced beside her head, fingers tangled with hers again.

Her hips arched into him, desperate and hungry. “Sam—” she gasped, her voice broken and pleading.

He shushed her softly, his lips skimming her cheek. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just let go for me, baby.”

He shifted his angle slightly, and she cried out—loud and sharp—his name slipping from her lips like a prayer. He was hitting something so deep and perfect it made her vision blur.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath ragged now, pressed close behind her ear. “Right there- so good for me.”

She nodded frantically, unable to form words. Her body was shaking, the muscles in her thighs clenching around his hips.

And then his hand slid lower, between her legs, his fingers finding that aching, swollen spot—circling, stroking, syncing with the rhythm of his hips.

“Come for me,” Sam murmured.

That did it.

Vivian’s whole body tensed—then shattered. She came with a cry, legs trembling, hands clawing at the sheets, her body clenching around him in pulsing waves.

Sam cursed under his breath, his control breaking. He released her hand & gripped her hips, hard, bringing her up to meet his desperate strokes. He followed her seconds later, hips stuttering as he spilled into her with a low groan of her name, pulsating somewhere deep inside her. He fell forward, his body wrapped tight around hers, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

They stayed like that—tangled, breathless, his chest rising and falling against her back, lips brushing the slope of her shoulder.

He whispered something then—so soft she almost missed it.

“I missed you so much, Vivian.”

The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the bedside lamp and the slowing rhythm of their breaths. Vivian lay curled on her side, her back tucked against Sam’s chest, his arms wrapped securely around her like he was afraid she’d disappear.

One of his hands rested on her bare stomach, fingers splayed over her skin. His other arm was beneath her head, cradling her close. Every now and then, his lips brushed her shoulder or the back of her neck—light, thoughtless kisses that spoke more than words could.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice thick and low from everything they’d just shared.

She nodded, smiling faintly against the pillow. “Yeah,” she whispered. “More than okay.”

Sam shifted closer, if that was even possible, pulling the blanket up around them both. “Didn’t mean to go so hard,” he said softly, a bit of concern slipping into his tone. “Just… couldn’t help it with you.”

Vivian reached down and threaded her fingers through his where they lay against her stomach. “I didn’t want you to hold back,” she said, turning her head slightly so she could see him. “I wanted all of it. I wanted you.”

His eyes searched hers in the low light, then softened. “You still do?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I never really stopped.”

He let out a long breath and pressed a kiss to her temple, just above her hairline.

There was a silence that stretched, comfortable but full.

“I missed you,” she said at last, her voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t realize how much until I saw you tonight. And then… everything just came rushing back.”

Sam’s arms tightened around her.

“I missed you too,” he murmured. “So much. I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Vivian blinked at that, but before she could answer, she found herself curling in closer, tucking herself deeper into his warmth.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” she said softly, the words slipping out like a secret she’d been holding too long. “I wish… we had more time.”

Sam didn’t speak right away. He just rested his chin lightly against her head, his hand brushing slow circles on her stomach.

“Maybe we do,” he said finally, low and honest. “Maybe we figure it out this time.”

Vivian didn’t say anything. She just held his hand tighter.

And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she had to hope alone.

Vivian shifted gently beneath the blanket, rolling over to face him. The sheets brushed softly against her skin, and the air was cooler on this side, but she welcomed the exposure—needed it, really. Sam’s arm slipped easily around her waist again, like muscle memory, his big hand settling at the small of her back.

She took a moment to really look at him. The glow from the nightstand lamp cast him in soft amber light. His hair was a little messy, still damp near the edges, and his cheeks were dusted with the faintest pink. She reached up and brushed her fingers along the stubble on his jaw, trailing over the curve of his mouth, his temple, the scar at his hairline she didn’t remember from before.

“You look older,” she murmured, but it wasn’t a bad thing. “More tired. But also… better. Stronger.”

Sam smiled faintly, something flickering in his eyes—affection, maybe, or the heaviness of memories too long buried.

She let her fingers fall away, resting her palm against his chest now. “Sam,” she said, voice soft but steady. “If this is going to be a real thing again… you can’t be so mysterious with me.”

His eyebrows twitched, but his smile lingered, crooked and amused. “Mysterious?” he repeated, playing innocent. “I’m mysterious now?”

Vivian didn’t laugh. She just looked at him, gaze unwavering.

His smile faded a little, just at the edges.

“I’m serious,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Back then, we were just kids. I didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t offer answers. But if you’re going to keep showing up looking like this,” she gestured loosely at him beneath the sheets, “and making me feel like that…” her voice wavered slightly before she grounded it again, “then you have to let me in.”

Sam exhaled slowly, eyes searching hers. The playful glint faded, replaced by something much heavier—an understanding. Maybe even guilt.

“Viv…” he started.

“I don’t need every secret right now,” she said, touching his chest again, fingertips brushing over his heart. “I just need to know you’re not going to keep shutting me out the second things get complicated. Because I can already tell…” she swallowed, “this isn’t casual. Not for me. And not for you either.”

He was quiet. His hand moved slowly along her back, grounding them both.

“I’m not used to being known,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “Not really.”

Vivian nodded once. “Then start now.”

There was a long pause. Then Sam leaned in, brushing his nose against hers, his voice barely a breath.

“I’ll try.”

Vivian curled into Sam’s chest, absorbing his heat, feeling his breath in her hair, and before she knew it she had drifted off to sleep.

*****************************************

After a dangerous hunt pushes things too far, she tries to escape the fallout in silence. But Sam’s patience has limits—and so does hers. Behind closed doors, lines blur… and control is no longer hers to keep.

Warnings: NSFW, pure smut, oral, male and female receiving, angry/controlling Sam, PinV, edging, orgasm denial, choking, bondage, BDSMish

*****************************************

Rain drums against the roof of the Impala. The only sound between you and Sam for the last thirty minutes of the drive. No music. No talking. Just the occasional whisper of the windshield wipers and the low growl of the engine as he pushes a little too hard on the gas.

You shouldn’t have done it.

You know that.

But at the time? It felt like the right move. You saw a way to distract the ghoul, to give Sam an opening, and you took it without thinking. Adrenaline made it feel noble. Smart, even.

But Sam didn’t see it that way.

He hasn’t said a damn word since the hunt ended. Just… looked at you. Once. That look said everything.

You shift in the passenger seat, soaked in damp silence, clothes stiff from dried blood and rain. You try to catch a glimpse of his face in the dark—his jaw’s tight, hands gripping the wheel like he’s trying not to put a hole through it. His knuckles are pale.

The Impala pulls into the garage of the bunker. Headlights off. Engine cuts.

Still, no words.

You reach for the door handle, the tension clawing at your throat.

Sam speaks before you get it open.

Low. Even.

“Inside.”

Your stomach flips.

You don’t argue.

Your boots hit the wet concrete. You trail a few paces behind him into the bunker, feeling the shift in pressure the moment the door shuts behind you. The air’s thick. Dense. Too quiet.

You make a move for the hallway.

If you can just get to your room—take a hot shower, strip off these clothes, not deal with the way he’s staring at you like you almost died back there—

His hand snaps around your wrist.

You freeze.

Before you can open your mouth, he turns, eyes dark, grip firm. “Sit down.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade.

You glance toward your bedroom. He pulls you toward the map table instead.

His fingers don’t leave your wrist.

“Sam—”

“You don’t get to walk away from this.”

He points at a chair with his free hand. You hesitate.

His gaze drops, sharp and cold.

“I said. Sit.”

You sit.

The chair’s cold. So is the bunker. But your skin is hot under his stare.

He paces once. Hands on his hips. Breathing hard through his nose.

“I told you to wait for me,” he finally says. “We had a plan.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He shakes his head, tongue pressing into his cheek like he’s holding back a snarl.

“You think I give a damn if you meant well?” His voice gets low again. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. And for what? To play hero? To piss me off?”

“No,” you snap. “To save someone. We were running out of time, and I didn’t think you were going to make it—”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

His hands slam down on either side of your chair, caging you in. His body leans close, towering, soaked shirt clinging to the planes of his chest. You can smell the rain, leather, blood.

“You don’t get to decide what your life is worth.”

His voice is shaking now. With fury. With something else, too—something tight and protective that burns under his skin.

You tilt your chin up, defiant. “You don’t get to decide that either.”

His jaw ticks. His breath brushes your cheek.

He leans closer. Inches from your face.

“I’m not gonna let you throw yourself away,” he growls. “Not on my watch.”

You swallow hard. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

His eyes flick down—not to your lips, not to your body—but to the bloodstained sleeve of your soaked jacket. The sliver of red still clinging to your collar. His nostrils flare.

He straightens suddenly. Hands still braced on the chair, but his posture shifts like he’s trying to pull his own fury back into place.

“You’re shivering,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You blink. “I’m fine.”

He looks at you. Really looks. His jaw flexes once before he leans back and spits it out:

“You’re soaked. You’re bleeding. You smell like grave dirt and bad decisions.”

You open your mouth to fire something back—something sharp—but you don’t get the chance.

His hand wraps around your wrist again. Not as harsh as before, but not gentle, either. You’re on your feet before you know what’s happening.

“Sam, what are you—”

“You’re going to get out of those damn clothes before you get sick.”

You try to yank your arm back. “I can change in my room.”

“No.” His voice is a low snarl. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

And that’s when it hits you.

He’s not angry. He’s rattled.

Terrified.

You almost died tonight, and instead of showing that fear, he’s turning it into this—into control, into barked orders and dragging you down the hallway by the wrist like a disobedient soldier.

You dig your heels in as he pulls you along. “Sam, you’re being ridiculous—”

“I don’t care.”

The words are flat. Final.

He doesn’t even turn to look at you as he marches you toward his room.

“You’re going to sit your ass down, strip out of those wet clothes, and let me clean that cut on your shoulder,” he says, voice low and cold. “Then we’re going to talk about what the hell you were thinking out there.”

You scoff. “Oh, now you want to talk?”

He stops dead in his tracks. Turns.

And suddenly you’re pressed against the wall.

His hand slams next to your head—not touching you, not hurting you—but the wall shakes under his palm.

His eyes burn into yours.

“You don’t get to act like this is normal,” he growls. “You don’t get to nearly die and then brush past me like I’m just—just some guy you don’t have to answer to.”

He exhales sharply, and for a second, the crack shows. The edge of his voice fractures.

“I saw you go down. I thought—” He shuts his eyes. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

You stare at him, stunned.

And then his eyes open again. Stone.

“Get in the room,” he says, backing up just enough to let you move. “Now.”

The door to Sam’s room slams shut behind you.

You’re still fuming. Still wet. Still bleeding. But your hands are already going to the zipper of your jacket, fingers stiff from the cold. Sam says nothing as he brushes past you, heading to the small cabinet tucked in the corner—grabbing gauze, rubbing alcohol, butterfly closures. His movements are sharp. Efficient. Angry.

You shrug off the jacket. It hits the floor with a wet splat.

Then your shirt. Clings to your skin, soaked through, streaked with grime and blood from the hunt. You peel it off slowly, muscles aching, cold air hitting the fresh scrapes on your shoulder.

You glance up.

Sam’s got his back to you, digging through the kit.

His shoulders shift, and then his hands go to the hem of his shirt—

He yanks it over his head in one motion.

You look away too fast.

Why is he still so goddamn calm?

The muscles in his back twitch as he moves. The light catches the angry red scratch running down his ribcage. He doesn’t seem to notice.

When he finally turns around, eyes land on the gash along your shoulder.

“Sit.” His voice is gravel.

You sit on the edge of his bed.

He kneels in front of you, eyes locked on the wound like it personally insulted him. You watch his face as he douses gauze in antiseptic, jaw still clenched, mouth pressed into a flat line.

He doesn’t speak.

But his hands?

His hands are gentle.

He dabs at the blood with quiet precision, careful not to press too hard. When you hiss through your teeth, his touch immediately eases. He’s still pissed. Still radiating frustration in thick waves. But he doesn’t take it out on your skin.

And that—somehow—is worse.

You can feel it bubbling. Low in your stomach, your spine, your throat.

He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to be angry and gentle and silent all at once.

“I’m not a kid, Sam,” you mutter, flinching slightly as he starts to clean the edges of the wound.

He doesn’t respond. Just applies more antiseptic.

You try again. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

He pauses for half a second. Looks up at you through his lashes.

Then goes right back to work, like you didn’t say a damn thing.

Your voice rises. “I made a call. It wasn’t reckless, it was—”

“You got hurt.” He finally snaps, pressing gauze into your shoulder just a little too hard. “You almost got yourself killed.”

You shove his hand away.

“I’m not yours to control!”

He stands up suddenly. Gauze falls to the floor.

His chest is rising and falling, slow and deep.

Like he’s trying very, very hard not to explode.

“You think this is about control?” he bites out.

“I think you don’t trust me to handle myself!”

“I don’t trust you to throw your life away to prove a point!”

You stand now, toe to toe with him, fists clenched at your sides. “You think you’re the only one who gets to decide what’s too risky? You think because you’re taller, stronger, or some kind of goddamn Winchester that you get to call all the shots?”

“I think someone has to, when you’re too stubborn to care if you live or die!”

That one cuts deeper than either of you expect.

You both freeze.

His chest is inches from yours. His fists are clenched. Your shoulder’s still bleeding. The room’s quiet except for the sound of your harsh breaths.

But he doesn’t back down. Not even an inch.

And then?

He moves.

Faster than you expect—his hands gripping your arms, spinning you, pushing you back until your spine hits the wall with a solid thud. Your breath catches, but before you can get a word out, his body is pressed against yours, towering, unyielding.

His hand grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to force your eyes up to his.

“You just don’t learn, do you?”

His voice is gravel. Cold. But there’s something else now, curled behind it—dark and hungry.

“You think you can mouth off, throw yourself into danger, ignore every damn thing I say—and just walk away like you didn’t do a damn thing wrong?”

You glare at him, defiant, panting through your teeth. “I don’t need your permission to be a hunter.”

His grip tightens on your jaw, eyes burning.

“No,” he growls. “But maybe what you do need—”

He leans in closer, lips just beside your ear.

“—is to be taught a lesson.”

A jolt shoots through you. You don’t say anything. Don’t need to.

You don’t stop him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—studying your face, daring you to flinch, to tell him no.

But your eyes stay locked on his. Chest heaving.

And that’s all the permission he needs.

His hand is on your throat next, dragging you from the wall just to slam you back against it again, hard enough to rattle the frame behind you. You gasp—but the sound is swallowed the second his other hand dives down between your bodies, shoving past your waistband like he owns you.

Your hips jerk against his touch.

“You get off on disobedience?” he spits, voice low, rough. “That it?”

You gasp, body jolting as his fingers slide straight to your heat—already wet, slick with anticipation. His smile is sharp. Mean.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Two fingers press inside, rough and unforgiving. No teasing. No warm-up. Just him, deep and demanding.

You bite your lip, head tipping back to hit the wall. He grinds his palm against your clit in slow, deliberate circles while his fingers pump mercilessly.

“You need to remember who the hell you’re talking to,” he mutters. “Who you answer to when you’re too reckless to keep your damn self alive.”

Your legs tremble.

“Sam—”

He cuts you off with a sharp curl of his fingers.

“You don’t get to say my name like that after tonight,” he growls. “You want to act like a brat, you’re gonna be treated like one.”

You try to push against his chest—but he grabs both your wrists and slams them against the wall above your head, holding them there with one hand while the other keeps working you mercilessly.

“You don’t get to run your mouth,” he grits out. “You’re gonna take what I give you, and you’re not gonna make a goddamn sound unless I say so.”

You whimper, arching into his touch, completely at his mercy.

He leans in close again—breath hot against your cheek.

“You want to act out?” His voice is pure fire now. “Then I’ll give you something to act out for.”

“You wanna play games out there?” he snarls. “Then you’ll play my way in here.”

You barely find your footing before he shoves you—flat onto the mattress. Your arms splay out as you bounce once, breath ripped from your lungs, but you’re scrambling to push up again, to claw back just a sliver of control—

But he’s already on you.

Big hands grip your thighs, dragging you down the bed so fast your spine slams against the edge. His fingers hook in the waistband of your pants, and in one brutal motion, he yanks them down, ripping them past your hips and knees like they’re in his way.

You try to sit up.

Sam presses a hand to your chest—forces you flat against the mattress again.

“You’re done talking,” he growls.

You open your mouth to argue—but your voice is cut off the moment he grabs the waistband of your panties, rips them down, then balls them in his hand.

You barely gasp before he shoves the soaked fabric between your lips—stuffing your mouth full with your own ruined underwear.

Your eyes go wide.

He grins. Dark. Territorial.

“There,” he mutters, voice low as his hand presses against your mouth, holding the fabric in place. “Now you’ll shut up for once.”

He leans over you. Huge over your body, wild hair still damp, chest streaked with blood and rain, eyes burning.

“You don’t get to talk back. Don’t get to argue. You act like a brat, you get used like one.”

He sits back on his knees, eyes dragging down your body—exposed, trembling, spread wide on his bed like a goddamn offering.

“You belong to me right now,” he says, voice tight with control. “You wanna act like you don’t answer to anyone? That no one can touch you, no one can stop you?”

He grabs your thighs, yanks you closer, until your ass is at the edge of the bed and your legs are draped over his shoulders.

“I’ll stop you.”

His mouth crashes into your cunt—rough, punishing, no slow build, no softness. He devours you. Tongue driving into you like he’s trying to erase your attitude from the inside out.

You cry out—but it’s nothing but muffled noise through your panties.

He moans against you. “Yeah. That’s better.”

He eats you like it’s a punishment. Like he’s furious with your taste. His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide, locking you down while his tongue works you mercilessly—relentless flicks against your clit, deep thrusts inside, the scruff of his jaw rubbing you raw.

You try to pull your wrists down. Try to twist away.

Sam’s hand slams your hips flat against the bed.

“You stay right where I put you.”

Your body’s shaking now, sweat beading on your chest, thighs starting to twitch—

And just as you’re about to break—

He stops.

You whimper. Desperate. Trembling.

He looks up from between your legs, lips slick with you, jaw clenched.

“You don’t come,” he growls. “Not until I say.”

He grabs your legs and flips you like you weigh nothing. Face down now, ass up, panties falling from your mouth as you gasp for breath.

He pulls your hips up to his, voice rough in your ear as he leans over you.

“You’re mine tonight.”

“Every fucking inch of you.”

Your breath is ragged, face pressed to the blanket, heart hammering in your ribs.

You barely register the sound of his belt unbuckling until you hear the hiss—leather sliding through denim loops—and the soft jingle of the metal buckle hitting the floor.

You shift slightly—until his hand slaps your ass hard, jolting a cry out of you.

“Still,” he growls.

And then your arms are wrenched gently but firmly behind your back. You feel the leather coil around your wrists—tight and rough, pulled snug, the long strap looping again until you’re bound, completely at his mercy.

“You don’t listen,” he mutters, voice dripping with cocky amusement. “But goddamn, you look good tied up.”

You hear the floor creak under his boots as he backs away from the bed.

Steps slow. Deliberate.

You glance over your shoulder—and there he is.

Sam, looming at the foot of the bed.

Hair wild. Bare chest glistening. His belt around your wrists.

And those jeans hanging loose, unzipped, barely clinging to his hips.

His cock is hard, flushed, dripping, heavy and thick and leaking against his stomach—but he’s not rushing.

He’s watching you.

Admiring you.

Eyes dragging up and down your body like you’re a piece of property he’s just broken in.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and dark. “Look at you.”

You squirm under his gaze, arms bound tight, face flushed.

“Face down,” he says. “Hands behind your back. Cunt soaked. Mouth wide open.”

He smirks. Smirks.

“I should tie you up like this more often.”

He circles the bed slowly, hips rolling as he walks—predator, cock bobbing between his thighs. And when he reaches your face, he crouches down low in front of you, fingers gripping your chin.

You try to glare at him. Try to hold onto some shred of pride.

He just chuckles. Deep and hungry.

“Still got attitude, huh?” he murmurs. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of that.”

He holds up the sodden scrap of your panties again—smirking wider when you flinch.

Then he shoves them between your lips again. Rough. No hesitation.

“Yeah,” he growls, palm pressing against your cheek to hold them in place. “You look so much better like this.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours, voice dropping to a whisper.

“All tied up. Gagged. Used.”

He stays there for a beat, crouched in front of you, taking you in.

Face flushed, arms bound behind your back, ass in the air—completely helpless.

You shift slightly, trying to close your legs—your skin flushed with heat, embarrassment, frustration—

He laughs under his breath.

“Still squirming,” he mutters. “Good.”

Then he stands.

Right in front of you now, legs spread just wide enough that your eyes fall straight to the open fly of his jeans.

His hand slowly drops to the waistband.

You can’t look away.

He drags them down inch by inch, no rush, no shame. The denim slides off his hips, down powerful thighs, until they hang low around his knees. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, hard and heavy against his stomach, the head slick and glistening.

He catches you staring. Smirks.

Then—he spits in his palm.

Slow. Deliberate.

Strokes himself once. Twice. Spit and precum slicking his shaft as his fist pumps over it in long, lazy drags.

All while you watch.

All while you’re gagged and tied, helpless on your stomach with your cheek pressed into the blanket.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice thick. “That’s right. You sit there and watch while I decide what the fuck I’m gonna do with you.”

You whimper behind the gag, thighs pressing together.

He groans when he sees it.

“Making a mess and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He strokes himself again—slower this time, cock twitching in his grip.

And then?

He reaches down and grabs your hair.

You grunt as he yanks you up from the bed by your bound arms and tangled hair, dragging you forward like you’re nothing—onto your knees in front of him, eyes wide, mouth gagged, staring up at the cock you’ve been watching this whole time.

He slides the panties from your mouth, slow and wet, dragging them out with a satisfied smirk.

Your lips stay parted—panting, breathless.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice gone low and dangerous. “Keep that mouth open.”

His hand fists in your hair again, holding your head back.

And then?

He shoves his cock into your throat.

No warning. No buildup. Just Sam, thick and brutal, driving deep until your lips are stretched around him and your gag reflex kicks. You choke, sputter—but he doesn’t stop.

“Yeah,” he groans, thrusting shallow and hard. “You look so fucking good like this.”

He rocks into your mouth, hips rolling with precision, one hand gripping your bound wrists behind your back, the other buried in your hair. His cock hits the back of your throat again and again, and you can feel the burn in your jaw, the tears springing to your eyes.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he growls. “This what you needed?”

You choke again, drool spilling down your chin.

He groans at the sight.

“That’s it. Take it. Gag on it.”

He thrusts harder now, more possessive, the wet sound of your mouth around him filling the room.

Your knees burn. Your lungs burn.

And he just keeps fucking your throat like it’s his.

Your throat burns. Eyes are glassy. Drool’s running freely down your chin. But Sam’s nowhere near done.

“Take a breath,” he mutters—voice thick with arousal, hand tight in your hair.

You barely inhale—

And then he slams his cock back down your throat—deeper than before.

You gag, reflex kicking instantly—but this time he doesn’t pull back.

He grabs your jaw with one hand, the back of your head with the other, and holds you there.

Buried.

His cock down your throat, your nose pressed to the base of him, your lungs screaming for air.

“Yeah,” he growls, watching your eyes flutter. “There it is. Fucking perfect.”

You squirm—knees digging into the floor, shoulders tense, the belt around your wrists pulling tight behind you—but he keeps you there. Keeps you right where he wants you.

“Take it,” he hisses through his teeth. “Fucking take all of me.”

Your vision goes soft at the edges. Stars. Lights. Everything begins to fade—

Then he pulls out.

Fast. Wet. Brutal.

You fall forward, coughing violently, chest heaving, a string of spit hanging from your swollen lips as you gasp in a breath so sharp it feels like your first.

Air floods your lungs.

You don’t even have time to fully recover before his hands are on you again.

Grabbing your bound arms, Sam hauls you up, tosses you like you weigh nothing, your body landing face down on the bed with a bounce. He climbs up behind you in one motion, knees spreading your thighs wide.

“Should’ve fucked the attitude out of you days ago,” he mutters, lining himself up.

You barely manage to lift your head before he slams into you—one long, thick thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.

No pause. No prep. Just Sam.

Rough. Deep. Unrelenting.

He drives into you hard enough to shove you up the bed with every thrust, your bound wrists pressing into your back, face rubbing into the sheets as the mattress creaks beneath his weight.

“Fuck, this is what you needed,” he pants. “You wanted this.”

He leans over you—pressing you down, body caging yours in completely—and snarls in your ear.

“My cock in your throat. My belt on your wrists. Your cunt dripping all over me.”

He grinds into you, deeper than before, and you cry out, hips bucking wildly beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “You hear me? This pussy—this attitude—belongs to me.”

Your body’s trembling, close to breaking, the heat building fast in your gut as he pounds into you with merciless rhythm.

You can barely breathe. Barely think.

All you can feel is Sam.

Everywhere.

Inside you. Over you. Owning you.

And he’s not stopping until every part of you knows exactly who you belong to.

Sam’s pace is brutal now.

Every thrust drives you forward, hips slapping loud and fast, your bound wrists arching your back perfectly for him.

He growls as he watches them strain—his belt cutting into your skin just enough to leave a mark.

“You feel that?” he pants. “How deep I am?”

You try to nod—but he grabs the belt, yanks it back, forcing your shoulders even tighter, your spine arching like a bow. You whimper, jaw falling open.

That’s when his hand slides into your hair.

Gripping it hard. Pulling your head back until you’re arched under him, throat exposed, helpless.

“Fucking look at you,” he grits out. “Tied up. Taking every inch. Dripping all over my cock like a needy little slut.”

You moan—choked and desperate.

His hand wraps around your throat.

Not enough to cut off breath—but enough to hold you still.

You feel his body shift—leaning over you, thick cock still driving into you as he brings his lips to your open mouth.

And then?

He spits into it.

Warm and heavy, right past your lips. You swallow without thinking, eyes rolling back, and Sam fucking groans.

“God, you love that,” he mutters dark. “Filthy fucking girl.”

His hand smacks down on your ass—hard.

The sound cracks through the room. You cry out against the sheets.

Again.

SMACK.

And again.

SMACK.

“Gotta mark you up,” he pants, watching your skin bloom red beneath his palm. “Make sure you feel it tomorrow when you try to walk away again.”

You’re spiraling. Drenched. Mind gone.

And he can feel it—how close you are.

His hand slides back to your throat, pulling you upright into his chest, your wrists still bound tight behind you. His cock slams up into you at just the right angle, and your whole body locks up.

“Wanna come, don’t you?” he whispers in your ear. “Wanna come while I ruin this pretty little cunt.”

You nod frantically, body trembling, right on the edge.

His teeth graze your ear.

Then he whispers:

“You want it inside, don’t you? Want me to fill you up—just like you don’t deserve.”

And then—just as you’re about to break—

He pulls out.

You gasp—wrecked, empty, whining into the blankets.

“No,” you try to plead—but it’s too late.

He fists his cock hard, strokes once, twice—then groans loud, thick ropes of cum painting your back, your ass, your thighs, hot and messy and all over your skin.

He finishes with a grunt, hips twitching.

You collapse forward, shaking.

He grabs your ass once more—squeezes hard.

“That’s your punishment,” he mutters behind clenched teeth. “You only get me inside you when you’ve earned it.”

Your limbs are jelly. Your wrists are still bound, face planted in the sheets, back painted with his release.

And Sam?

Sam’s just standing there behind you—admiring his work.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, voice muffled into the mattress. “You gonna untie me or just stand there gawking?”

He hums, slow and satisfied. “Not sure yet.”

You try to push up, but your arms won’t move. “Sam.”

He smirks. “Kinda like you just like this.”

You groan and kick your heel back toward him halfheartedly. He easily catches your ankle and plants a kiss to it.

“Alright, alright.” He climbs onto the bed beside you and finally loosens the belt. Your arms fall free with a little thud, and you groan as the blood rushes back.

Sam watches you roll over and stretch out your sore muscles, his eyes trailing over the bruises blooming on your wrists, the red print on your ass, the sheen still glistening across your skin.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You look good ruined.”

You shoot him a look. “You didn’t even let me come.”

His grin is slow, wicked. “Yeah. I know.”

You sit up, jaw slack. “You’re such a—”

“—punishment,” he cuts in smoothly. “That’s what that was, remember?”

You shove at his chest, but he just laughs and catches your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist where the mark is most vivid. Then another to your shoulder. Your collarbone. The corner of your mouth.

Each kiss gentler than the last.

You hate how much you melt into them.

“You’re lucky I don’t hate you right now,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’m done punishing you?”

You open your mouth to snap back—but he’s already pulling you to your feet, hands warm and steady on your waist.

“Come on,” he says, nudging you toward the bathroom. “You’re a mess. Let’s clean you up before you pass out and drool on my pillows.”

You hesitate at the threshold, looking over your shoulder with a scowl.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t let me come.”

He smirks and leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Earn it next time.”

*****************************************

Sam Winchester poses as a priest to investigate a haunting at a quiet rural church, using the confessional to coax secrets from the locals. Most offer nothing but empty guilt—until she enters. Timid, trembling, and burdened by desires she can barely speak aloud, her confession quickly turns into something far more dangerous. But what happens when an innocent woman starts whispering sinful thoughts through the screen… and Father Sam finds himself wanting to make every one of them real?

Warnings: NSFW, PinV, unprotected, finishing PinV, grinding, priest Sam

*********************************************************

St. Agnes Catholic Church

Midweek. Overcast. Quiet.

The church was too still. The kind of still that made Sam Winchester uneasy.

He stood near the altar for a moment, taking in the hollow echo of his footsteps on the marble floor, then turned his gaze to the confessional tucked into the side chapel. Dean was doing a sweep of the perimeter, EMF in hand, tracking what they suspected was a minor demonic haunting—just strong enough to mess with parishioners’ minds.

But Sam was skeptical. Something about the place felt more… personal. And he didn’t believe in coincidences.

He adjusted the stiff clerical collar at his neck—Dean’s idea, of course. “You look the part,” he’d said, barely hiding his smirk. Sam hadn’t disagreed. He just didn’t like how right it felt.

He stepped into the confessional and sat down, the small space pressing in around him. For a few minutes, there was nothing. Just the creak of the old wood. The sound of his own breath.

And then—

The door to the opposite booth opened. Gently.

A soft shuffle of steps. A quiet inhale.

And then, a voice.

“Bless me, Father… for I’ve sinned.”

Sam sat straighter. His eyes narrowed slightly at the panel. The voice was feminine, young, unsure. Almost trembling.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asked, slipping into character.

“I’ve never… done this before,” she whispered. “But I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

The raw honesty in her tone hit something in him. She wasn’t playing a game. Not yet.

“You’re welcome here,” he said gently, keeping his voice low, calming. “Say whatever you need to say.”

A pause. Her breath caught.

“I think… I’ve been having impure thoughts,” she said. “And they won’t stop. I try to ignore them. But they keep coming back.”

His throat bobbed. He couldn’t see her face—just a hint of movement through the lattice between them—but her voice carried everything.

Vulnerability. Shame.

And a quiet thread of curiosity.

“What kind of thoughts?” Sam asked, his voice a touch deeper than before.

Her fingers curled in her lap on the other side. She leaned a little closer to the partition.

“There’s a man. I don’t know him. Not really. I’ve seen him here, once or twice. Tall. Dark hair. Big hands.”

A breath. “And I think about him when I’m alone. About his hands. His voice.”

Sam blinked slowly, pulse rising.

He wasn’t sure if it was the demon they were hunting that had drawn her in. Or if this was something else entirely. She was talking about him.

But something about her voice—soft, unsure, full of heat she didn’t know what to do with—stirred something primal in him.

“You’re not the only one who thinks that way,” he said carefully.

“I’m not?” she breathed.

He leaned forward slightly, as if the nearness of her voice was pulling him closer.

“No. There are… others who feel drawn to someone. Who want things they maybe shouldn’t. The way you say ‘hands’—you imagine what they could do?”

The silence between them thickened. She didn’t answer right away, but he could almost hear the way her lips parted. Could feel the weight of her body shifting subtly.

Her voice came again, quieter this time. “Sometimes I dream about him touching me. Roughly. Like he can’t help it.”

Sam’s hand clenched on his knee.

“What do you think that says about you?” he asked, keeping his voice low, dark. “That you want that?”

“That I’m wrong,” she said, but the way she said it… it didn’t sound like a conclusion. It sounded like a question.

He exhaled, slowly, deeply. Let the mask of priestly calm slip—just a little.

“You have a beautiful voice,” he said.

She startled—he heard it in the sharp inhale.

“W-what?”

“I said you have a beautiful voice. It’s soft. Intimate. Like a secret someone’s whispering in bed.”

The air changed. Her breath hitched audibly.

“You shouldn’t say that,” she said. But not like she meant it.

“Maybe not,” Sam replied. “But I’m not perfect either. And I like the way your voice makes me feel.”

There was a long pause.

Then:

“Can I see you?” she asked. Her voice was a trembling thread.

Sam hesitated—but not for long.

“Come to my side,” he said, voice dropping like a stone in still water.

The door creaked softly. Her footsteps were light but deliberate.

When the door to his side opened, she stepped in and looked up at him, hesitant but wide-eyed, unsure what came next.

Sam’s breath caught when he saw her—face flushed, lashes low, biting the corner of her lip.

“Close the door,” he murmured.

She obeyed. The little space suddenly felt suffocating. Or electric. Maybe both.

Sam offered his hand to her,“my name is Sam.” He gently patted his thigh,“sit here, just so we can talk.”

Her cheeks reddened. “I… I’ve never…”

“You’re safe,” Sam said, eyes locked on hers. “Just sit.”

She slowly sat, barely on his knee, like a child with Santa, hands in her lap. She didn’t look at him.

Sam gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his burning gaze. “I’d like to look at you while you confess to me.” Sam grabbed her under her knee, spinning her so she was facing him.

Slowly, she climbed onto his lap, straddling him awkwardly at first. Her legs brushed his hips. She looked away from his eyes.

His hands found her waist—light, careful. Her breath was shallow.

“You feel that?” he whispered, leaning forward, lips near her ear. “How fast your heart’s going?”

She nodded.

“That’s not sin,” he murmured, letting one hand drift slowly down her thigh. “That’s desire.”

She trembled.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot on her neck now. His hand slid higher, fingers skimming beneath her skirt, tracing just the edge of her inner thigh. Not rushing. Not yet.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

Her voice was barely audible.

“No.”

She settled on his lap, stiff at first—perched high on his thighs, like a nervous girl sitting on Santa’s knee. Sam didn’t move, just let her get used to the position.

Her knees pressed awkwardly against the wooden seat on either side of him. Her hands had nowhere to go. She tried folding them in her lap, but it only emphasized the rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath was catching with every second.

Sam’s hands rested lightly on her hips, warm and steady.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice velvet-soft against her temple.

She nodded, though she couldn’t quite look him in the eye. His presence was overwhelming—his body solid and large beneath her, his breath warm, his hands everywhere and nowhere. She couldn’t think straight.

“Tell me more about your dreams,” Sam said gently, tilting his head just enough to catch her gaze. “You said he touches you… roughly?”

Her cheeks flushed deep red. Her throat bobbed.

“Y-yes. He’s always… behind me. Pressed against me. His hands—” she paused, exhaling shakily. “They roam. Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s hungry.”

Sam’s hands tightened just slightly at her hips, then slid down, thumbs brushing the tops of her thighs. His voice dropped lower.

“Where do his hands go?”

She blinked, hesitated.

“Everywhere.”

“Show me,” he said. “Put my hands where his go.”

Her lips parted in surprise. She looked down at his hands, large and calloused, waiting. Then—slowly, shyly—she reached for one and guided it higher up her thigh, her breath stuttering when his fingers grazed skin under her skirt.

Sam let his fingertips drag there, slow and teasing. His other hand moved to her lower back, applying just enough pressure to pull her closer.

“You said his voice was in your head,” he murmured. “What does he say to you?”

Her breath came faster now. Her thighs involuntarily squeezed around his lap.

“He tells me I’m his. That no one else gets to hear me like this. That I’m made for him.”

Sam’s hand slid further up, slipping beneath the hem of her skirt to press against the softness at the top of her thigh. His voice rasped with hunger.

“Do you think about that voice when you’re touching yourself? About how it would sound whispering in your ear?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It sounds just like yours.”

Sam’s breath caught. She heard it—felt it against her skin, hot and close.

“Say it again,” he said, moving his mouth to the shell of her ear. “Tell me whose voice you hear.”

She swallowed hard.

“Yours,” she breathed. “I hear your voice.”

Sam exhaled, shaky now. His hand drifted up her side, fingers splaying over her ribs just beneath her shirt.

“You didn’t even know my name,” he said, voice more growl than whisper.

“I didn’t need to,” she replied, still trembling. “Your voice tells me everything I need.”

That made something inside him snap just a little. He tilted his hips forward without meaning to, just enough that she gasped at the contact. Her skirt rode higher up her thighs, and she gripped his shoulders for balance.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Sam whispered, lips brushing her cheek.

“Then show me,” she whispered back, voice barely there.

He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, he let his hand slide under the back of her shirt, palm splayed against her bare spine, pulling her even closer. She was trembling now—not from fear, but anticipation. His fingers were exploring slowly, reverently, memorizing every dip and curve.

And all the while, his voice never stopped.

“Do you like the way I sound when I talk to you like this?”

“Do you touch yourself when you imagine me saying your name?”

“Do you want me to be the man in your dreams, right here, right now?”

Each question made her thighs press tighter against him. Each breath from his lips burned against her skin.

The confessional felt smaller now. The air thick. The walls closer. Like even the church itself was holding its breath.

She was fully on his lap, knees digging into the bench on either side of him, skirt bunched around her thighs. Her chest was just below his chin, the swell of it barely contained by her blouse, rising and falling with every tremble of her breath.

Sam let his hands roam slowly, one resting low on her back, the other ghosting over her thigh, tracing circles he could pretend were innocent.

But his voice?

That was where he sinned.

“You’re so close,” he murmured, nose brushing the delicate skin below her ear. “I can feel your heartbeat. Your breathing.”

A pause, then lower:

“And your chest is right in my face, like you’re trying to smother me.”

She gasped softly. His breath fanned over her neck.

“Is that what you want?” he continued, his lips brushing her skin but never kissing it. “To sit on my lap and let me bury my face right here?”

His hand slipped up her side, fingers grazing the underside of her breast without truly touching it. Her back arched instinctively into his palm. He hadn’t even kissed her, and already she felt like she was unraveling.

“God,” he rasped, “they’re perfect.”

She whimpered, her hands clinging to his shoulders now, head tilted back just enough that her throat was exposed—vulnerable.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, lifting his hips just enough to grind against her center. “That’s what you’re doing to me.”

She gasped again, the movement subtle but unmistakable—the hard press of him against her, separated by only a thin layer of fabric. His friction met damp heat.

“You’re soaked,” he groaned, barely restraining himself. “You’ve been sitting here all soft and sweet, and you’re soaked.”

She buried her face in his neck, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this was happening.

“I’m sorry—” she whispered, almost broken.

But he just chuckled, low and dark.

“Don’t be sorry. Be honest. That’s what confession is for, isn’t it?”

“Tell me what you want me to do next.”

“Do you want me to touch you here?” His hand moved slowly up her inner thigh again.

“Or here?” His nose brushed her collarbone. “Or maybe…”

He finally kissed her—slow and deliberate. Not on the mouth. Not yet. But lower.

Right on the curve of her neck.

Then her shoulder.

Then her collarbone.

Each one softer than the last, like he was tasting her reverently. Like she was sacred.

Her hands moved without thought, fingers tangling in his hair as her body began to rock against his.

“You smell like heaven,” he whispered against her skin.

Their voices were thicker now—whispered and ragged. Breathless.

“Say something,” he murmured, lips against her clavicle. “Anything. I want to hear your voice again.”

Her voice was a trembling sigh.

“I want you to keep going.”

“Yeah?” he breathed, his lips just above her heart. “Then stay right here. Don’t move. Don’t stop talking. And I’ll give you every inch of what you’ve been dreaming about.”

Her breath trembled against his neck, her hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

Sam’s fingers brushed the first button of her blouse.

“Can I?” he murmured, voice a low rumble against her skin.

She nodded, chest heaving.

“Please.”

He worked slowly, one button at a time. Each movement deliberate, dragging out the anticipation. As more skin was revealed—her collarbone, the slope of her chest—he lowered his mouth again, planting kisses further down. Soft. Open-mouthed. Worshipful.

By the time he reached the top of her bra, she was nearly shaking. Her thighs clamped around his hips, her skirt rumpled around them, her breathing shallow and erratic.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, brushing the fabric aside just enough to press a kiss between her breasts. “So fucking beautiful.”

She whimpered, her hands gripping his shoulders now, grounding herself. Her hips shifted—desperate for more contact.

That was all the invitation he needed.

One of his hands slid between them, down to the hem of her panties. He didn’t take them off—just hooked his fingers in the side and pulled them aside, baring her to the press of his body beneath her.

“God,” he groaned. “You’re soaked through.”

Her breath hitched as she felt the hot pressure of him beneath her, separated only by his slacks. He adjusted slightly beneath her, the firm line of him pressing right there, and her whole body twitched.

“Oh my god,” she gasped.

Sam gripped her hips tightly, fingers digging in—not to hurt, but to guide. He shifted her slightly, angling her pelvis, then began moving her hips against him in slow, deliberate circles.

She moaned—quiet at first, like she was trying to hold it in. But that restraint didn’t last long.

“I—I can feel all of you,” she whispered, voice broken with need. “You’re so… big. I can feel it even through your clothes.”

Sam’s head dropped back against the wood with a quiet thud, his jaw tight.

“Yeah?” he groaned. “That feel good, baby? Grinding that pretty little pussy on me like this?”

She gasped again, louder this time, her movements faltering.

“Yes. Yes—Sam—”

She hadn’t meant to say his name. But it fell from her lips like a prayer.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Say it again.”

“Sam,” she moaned, hips rolling harder now, chasing friction. “Please. I want— I need—”

His grip on her tightened, grinding her down harder.

“You’re begging so pretty,” he rasped. “You gonna come just from this? From rubbing against me like a needy little thing?”

“I think—I could—” she gasped, face buried in his neck. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice wrecked with need. “Not until you fall apart right here on my lap.”

And still, her skirt was on. Her panties too, just pushed aside. And Sam hadn’t even undone his belt.

But the way they moved together—the heat, the friction, the sheer, unbearable closeness—felt filthy. Like they’d already done everything. Like the only thing left was to break.

She was whimpering now. Barely coherent.

Every roll of her hips drew a soft, desperate moan from her throat. Her breath trembled against Sam’s skin, chest pressed to his, thighs trembling from the tension coiling tighter and tighter between them.

Sam couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Her parted lips, flushed cheeks, the frantic rhythm of her body—so shy just minutes ago, and now completely undone on his lap.

He brought one hand to her cheek, brushing her hair aside.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “Come on, baby… let me see those eyes.”

She did—barely, her gaze glassy and full of heat.

Then he kissed her.

Slow at first. A long, deliberate drag of his mouth over hers. No hurry. Just pressure. Heat. Intention. Her lips parted with a whimper, and he took full advantage—deepening the kiss until it wasn’t soft anymore, but consuming.

She moaned into his mouth, her hips never stopping, grinding against the thick ridge of him still trapped beneath his trousers. The wet slide of her panties against him only made it worse. Better.

He swallowed every sound she made, kissed her like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

“You gonna come like this?” he murmured, voice ragged. “Just from rubbing on me?”

“I—I think so,” she whispered, clinging to him like she was falling. “I can’t stop—it feels too good—”

He groaned, a deep rumble in his chest.

“Jesus. You’re gonna finish before I even get your clothes off.”

“You’re that worked up, sweetheart? All this, just from my voice?”

She nodded frantically, body trembling, her hands gripping his arms for leverage as her rhythm picked up—more frantic, less controlled. Sam could feel it—feel her. How close she was. How wet. How hot.

And still, he hadn’t even taken himself out yet.

“You wanna feel all of me?” he asked, voice hot against her ear. “No more teasing, no more layers? Just me—right up against you?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Please, Sam—please—”

That was all he needed.

With one hand still gripping her hip to keep her moving, he reached between them, unfastened his belt with one sharp pull, then undid the button and zipper in practiced, one-handed motion.

The moment he freed himself, the air changed.

She gasped—actually gasped—as she felt the hard, hot press of him, now bare, sliding against her soaked slit.

“Oh my god,” she whimpered, her whole body jolting.

Sam grunted, gripping her hips tighter to keep her moving, the contact now dizzying.

“That’s it,” he growled, dragging her against him with purpose. “Grind on me, baby. Just like that. Let me feel how bad you want it.”

“I’m gonna—” she gasped again, voice high and wrecked. “Sam, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You’re so close. Just let it happen.”

Her lips were swollen from his kiss. Her thighs shaking. And Sam, completely undone beneath her, let his forehead fall to her shoulder as he held her hips and guided her through every desperate grind—waiting for the moment she broke.

Her hips stuttered against him, the new, bare friction overwhelming—hot and slick and too much. She whimpered, breath catching as her body tried to tip over the edge, but something held her there. Sam’s hands. His voice. The deep, guttural restraint behind every word.

“Not yet,” he whispered, dragging her hips to a halt.

She let out a broken noise, somewhere between a cry and a plea, burying her face in his neck.

“Sam, please—I need—”

He kissed the side of her throat, slow and heavy, his tongue tracing the curve there before he spoke.

“I know you do, sweetheart. I can feel it. But not like this.”

“I want you naked.”

“I want me inside you when you come.”

She shivered at the words, so wrecked with want she could hardly think.

Sam shifted beneath her, his hands rougher now—no longer teasing. He gripped the waistband of her panties, still pulled to the side, and slid them down over her thighs and knees, letting them fall where they would. Her skirt stayed bunched around her waist, forgotten.

She sat up on his lap slightly, just enough for him to pull his own trousers further down—freeing himself fully, no longer content with half-pressed need.

When she settled back against him, bare now, she could feel everything—the heat, the shape, the way he twitched against her slick skin.

Her breath came out in a shocked gasp.

Sam’s eyes were dark, locked on hers.

“That better?” he asked, voice deep and rough. “No more barriers. Just you and me now.”

She nodded, dazed, lips parted.

“I’ve never felt anything like this,” she whispered.

Sam kissed her again—slow and consuming—before dragging his mouth to her neck, then her shoulder, then lower. He took his time, lips brushing her collarbone, her chest, his hands splayed across her back, holding her so close their heartbeats felt like one.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured against her skin. “You sitting here on my lap, begging for it like this… You’re gonna be the death of me.”

She rocked her hips gently, the head of him sliding along her slickness, just almost where she needed him. The sound they made together—wet, aching—only fed the fire.

“Sam,” she whispered, desperate now, voice shaking. “Please. I need you. I need you in me.”

He exhaled sharply, one hand threading through her hair to guide her forehead against his.

“You sure?” he rasped, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“Yes,” she breathed. “No more waiting. No more teasing.”

Sam held her gaze for a moment longer—then reached down, grabbed himself, and aligned them.

“Then come here,” he growled. “Let me make you fall apart.”

She hovered just above him, thighs trembling, the thick head of him nudging at her entrance—hot, hard, unrelenting. Sam gripped her hips, steadying her.

“Go slow,” he murmured, voice low and breathless. “I want to feel all of it.”

She nodded, lips parted, and began to lower herself—inch by aching inch.

The first slide of him into her was enough to make them both moan—deep, needy sounds that filled the tiny confessional like prayers. She was tight, slick, and warm, her body pulling him in like she’d been waiting for him—only him.

Sam’s head dropped back against the wooden panel, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck—” he breathed. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

She paused when he was halfway in, panting, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“You’re so big,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I—I just need a second.”

“Take all the time you need, baby,” he rasped, brushing her hair back with one hand. “You’re doing perfect.”

She took a breath, then pressed down further, gasping as he filled her completely. Her walls clenched around him, and Sam nearly lost it then and there.

“There you go,” he groaned. “You’ve got all of me now. Every inch.”

She stayed still for a beat, adjusting to the stretch, her forehead pressed to his. Then—slowly at first—she began to move.

Sam gripped her hips tight, guiding her rhythm, helping her ride him just right. The friction, the heat, the wet sound of their bodies meeting—it was all consuming. He couldn’t look away.

Her breasts bounced in front of him with every motion, barely held in by her undone blouse, flushed and perfect. He watched them with hungry eyes, entranced by the way her whole body moved above him. She looked wild. Glowing.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re beautiful. You don’t even know, do you?”

She didn’t hear him—maybe couldn’t. Her head was tilted back, lips parted in a breathless moan, eyes closed in bliss. She was chasing the high, riding him hard now, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the tiny booth.

Sam couldn’t stop touching her. One hand gripped her hip, the other slid up her back, down to her ass, pulling her tighter against him. He thrust up into her to meet her movements, the sharp press of his hips punching soft cries from her throat.

“You close?” he panted, watching her fall apart above him. “You gonna come for me?”

“Yes—yes—Sam, I’m so close—” she moaned, legs trembling.

He leaned forward, lips at her ear.

“Then do it. Come all over me. Let go.”

Her whole body seized. She gasped, loud and raw, as her climax hit—tightening around him, pulsing with desperate intensity. She buried her face in his neck, crying out as she rode it through, hips jerking uncontrollably.

Sam gritted his teeth, thrusting harder now, his own release tearing through him with a low, guttural moan.

“Fuck—fuck—” he growled, holding her tight to him as he spilled inside her, buried deep. His hands trembled where they gripped her. His whole body shook with it.

They stayed tangled like that for a long moment, breath mingling, skin slick, hearts racing in tandem.

He stroked her back gently, pressing kisses to her shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded against his neck, voice small and satisfied.

“More than okay.”

The silence that followed was warm and heavy, like a blanket. Her body was still tangled with his, her forehead resting against his shoulder as their breathing slowly evened out.

Sam ran a hand gently up and down her spine, his other arm wrapped snugly around her waist, keeping her close even as the heat faded into a kind of quiet glow.

“Well,” he said after a moment, voice rough with the ghost of laughter. “You just fucked a priest.”

She let out a soft, breathless laugh against his collarbone, still flushed and slightly dazed.

“You’re not really a priest,” she murmured.

He grinned.

“Tell that to the guy whose confessional we just defiled.”

She groaned, burying her face deeper in his neck.

He chuckled, the sound warm and low in his chest. Then he gave her ass a quick, playful smack.

“Come on, sinner,” he said. “Let’s get cleaned up before you end up riding me again and we burn this whole church to the ground.”

She giggled as he helped her off his lap. Her legs wobbled and she grabbed his arm for support. He steadied her with a smirk, then bent to retrieve her panties and handed them to her like a gentleman—which was hilarious, given the context.

They dressed quietly, stealing glances and soft smiles between the tug of zippers and buttons. She buttoned up her blouse, cheeks still pink, smoothing her hair in the dim light.

Sam, straightening his jacket and adjusting the stiff collar at his neck, gave her a once-over and shook his head in amusement.

“You’re dangerous,” he said. “You know that?”

“I didn’t even do anything,” she said, blushing.

“Exactly,” he said, stepping closer, catching her chin in his fingers. “You sat down and I forgot how to breathe.”

She leaned into him, and he kissed her again—soft this time. Unhurried. One hand slid around her waist, holding her close, the other brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“We probably need to hurry before my brother gets back,” he whispered against her lips.

“Agreed,” she said, smiling.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Sam stepped out of the confessional just in time to see Dean walking into the sanctuary, paper bag in hand, mid-sentence.

“Alright, I got salt, holy water, and—”

Dean stopped.

Took one look at Sam’s disheveled hair, slightly askew collar…

Then looked at her—flushed, glowing, and trying way too hard to act casual.

There was a beat of silence.

Dean blinked.

“You’re kidding.”

Sam didn’t even flinch.

“I’m not.”

Dean looked at them both. Then at the confessional. Then back again.

“Seriously?”

Sam just smirked, reaching for the girl’s hand as they started walking past him.

“Forgive me, Father,” he said dryly. “For I have definitely sinned.”

Dean groaned.

“Unbelievable.”

And behind them, the confessional door creaked shut—quietly, innocently, as if nothing at all had happened.

She tugged her skirt down and smoothed her blouse for the hundredth time, cheeks burning as she stepped fully into view under Dean’s very obvious stare.

“I—I should go,” she muttered quickly, brushing past Sam, avoiding Dean’s eyes entirely.

Sam reached out, grabbed her wrist gently, and pulled her back just long enough to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

“Thanks for coming to confession,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

Her blush deepened tenfold.

“You’re terrible,” she whispered, unable to stop smiling. Then she fled—heels clicking hurriedly down the aisle, pushing open the church doors like the building might explode if she stayed one second longer.

The silence that followed was thick with judgment.

Dean crossed his arms, mouth twisted somewhere between exasperation and admiration.

“You banged a girl. In a confessional.”

Sam shrugged, unbothered, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“It was a very spiritual experience.”

“You were wearing a collar, Sam!”

“I didn’t hear her complain.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked toward the confessional again like he expected it to start smoking.

“You’re lucky the walls didn’t bleed,” he muttered. Then, grudgingly: “Still… not gonna lie. Kinda proud of you.”

Sam burst out laughing.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Dean rolled his eyes, walking past him toward the altar.

“Next time you wanna defile holy ground, maybe wait ‘til we’ve finished the hunt, Casanova.”

“I’ll add it to my calendar,” Sam called, grinning.

Dean tossed the salt and holy water onto a pew and sighed.

“Alright, loverboy. Let’s go salt and burn whatever’s been screwing with people before we both get struck by lightning.”

Sam gave the confessional one last glance—smile lingering, collar still crooked—then followed his brother down the aisle, muttering:

“Best stakeout I’ve ever had.”

And behind them, the sanctuary lights flickered once—just once—as the door creaked shut.

*********************************************************

After a failed hunt leaves them wounded and furious, Sam and Vivian retreat to a remote cabin to recover. Tensions run high, old walls crack, and emotions simmer just beneath the surface. As anger gives way to tenderness and restraint slips into longing, they’re forced to confront the truth neither of them wants to say out loud: they’re not just partners anymore.

*********************************************************

The Impala’s tires screeched as they tore down the rain-slicked back road, headlights cutting through the trees like knives. Sam’s knuckles were white on the wheel. Vivian sat stiff beside him, one leg bouncing, jaw tight. The silence between them was louder than the wind outside.

Blood smeared the inside of her forearm. Her hair stuck to her forehead. She hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten out of that hellhouse of a barn.

Finally—

“You should’ve waited,” Sam said, voice low and hard.

Vivian didn’t look at him. “If I had, we’d both be dead.”

“That’s not the point—”

“Then what is the point, Sam?” Her voice cracked as she turned toward him, eyes flashing in the dark. “That I didn’t follow your lead? That I wasn’t a good little soldier?”

He slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “The point is you nearly got yourself killed!”

“I handled it.”

“No, you barely handled it.”

She scoffed and leaned back against the seat, crossing her arms. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he snapped. “You keep pulling these stunts like you’ve got a damn death wish.”

Vivian’s head whipped toward him again. “You think I wanted to get trapped under that thing? You think I wanted to be alone in that room with a Wendigo on my ass? I didn’t have a choice!”

Sam’s jaw clenched. His breath came through his nose in short bursts. “You always have a choice. But you don’t let anyone help you—not even me.”

That one hit.

Vivian looked away.

Outside, the rain started again. Gentle at first. Then harder.

She muttered, quieter now, “You don’t get it.”

“No, I do. I know what it’s like to carry everything alone. I know what it’s like to believe you have to… but dammit, Vivian, you don’t. Not with me.”

She didn’t answer.

The road curved, the trees thickening around them as they pulled off onto a dirt path. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The cabin came into view—dark, crooked, surrounded by nothing but trees and wet silence. Remote. Quiet. Isolated.

Too intimate.

Sam threw the Impala into park and killed the engine.

Neither of them moved.

Rain pattered on the roof like a ticking clock.

Vivian finally spoke, voice raw. “You keep doing this thing where you act like you care—”

“I do care.”

“Then why does it always sound like an accusation?”

He looked at her sharply. “Because I’m scared. Every damn time you throw yourself in front of something that should’ve killed you, I feel like I’m watching someone I—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Someone I care about get ripped away. Again.”

Vivian froze.

The rain was still coming down in steady sheets outside the car, but it suddenly felt very quiet inside. The kind of quiet that rang in your ears.

She turned her head slowly, looking at him.

And something behind her eyes—whatever wall she’d been holding up—wavered.

But then she blinked, and it came back. Harder.

“You don’t get to say that,” she said, her voice flat. “Not when you’ve spent the last three weeks treating me like some damn project you’re trying to fix.”

Sam’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I’ve been trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“Yeah?” he snapped. “Tell that to the claw marks on your back.”

Vivian sucked in a breath and shoved the door open without another word. The rain hit her like a slap—cold and clean. She stalked toward the cabin, boots kicking up mud, shoulders hunched and tense.

Sam was right behind her.

She threw open the creaky wooden door and stepped inside, the smell of pine and damp wood hitting her instantly. The place was small—one room, a fireplace, a table, a narrow kitchenette, and a bed shoved up against the far wall. One bed. Of course.

She didn’t stop moving. She shrugged off her jacket, wincing when it stuck to a wound on her arm.

Sam stepped inside after her and slammed the door shut behind him. The air felt charged—like the lightning hadn’t stopped when the storm ended, just moved inside with them.

“Vivian,” he said, quieter now. “You can be pissed at me. That’s fine. But stop pretending like this isn’t about something else.”

“Oh, so now you know what I’m feeling?” she said, tossing her bag onto the table. “God, Sam. I made a judgment call. It went sideways. That’s the job.”

He crossed the room toward her. “It’s not just about this hunt. You’ve been shutting me out for weeks. You barely talk to me unless we’re hunting or bleeding or both.”

“And what, you want me to open up to you? Cry on your shoulder?” She laughed bitterly. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to fall apart.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her. Rainwater dripped from his hair, tracked down the curve of his neck.

“I’m asking you,” he said finally, “to stop pretending like you don’t mean anything to me.”

Her breath caught—but her face stayed hard.

“This isn’t about feelings,” she muttered, stepping away from him. “This is about survival. That’s it. The second you start depending on someone, the second you lose them.”

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

“Vivian—”

“Don’t.” She turned sharply, eyes glassy now, but still angry. Always angry. “I can’t afford to need you.”

His voice dropped, rough. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t afford to lose you.”

That landed like a hammer between them. For a second, neither moved. The only sound was the rain ticking on the roof.

Vivian’s shoulders sagged, just a little. She turned away from him, jaw clenched, arms folded tight across her chest like she could keep everything from spilling out if she just held on hard enough.

Sam stared at her back, chest rising and falling fast.

One bed.

One storm.

One more reason not to touch her.

But god, it was getting harder to remember why.

Vivian didn’t look at him as she crossed to the stone fireplace. Her hands were steady, but just barely, as she grabbed a few logs and kindling from the box beside it. The silence between them stretched thin, the air tight with everything unsaid.

Sam knelt beside her without a word, helping arrange the wood, then striking a match. The orange glow sparked, flickered, then grew—casting their shadows long across the walls. The warmth crept in slowly, a stark contrast to the cold rain still clinging to their skin.

Vivian sat back on her heels, watching the flames catch.

She didn’t flinch when Sam finally said, “You should change.”

She nodded, wordless.

She stood and reached into her duffel, pulling out an old, oversized black t-shirt and a pair of leggings. Sam turned his back respectfully, jaw tense, but his ears were keen—he could hear the soft rustle of wet clothes peeling away, the sharp inhale when fabric tugged against skin. A faint hiss.

“Viv?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped too quickly.

He turned before she could finish changing.

Her back was turned, arms halfway through the sleeves of the shirt, baring the curve of her spine and—

“Jesus,” Sam breathed.

The claw marks down her back were deep and angry-looking, red and raw, the skin around them already starting to bruise.

Vivian stiffened. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Sam said, stepping closer. “Sit.”

She didn’t move.

He moved around in front of her, eyes locked on hers. His voice dropped, lower now. Not a demand—a plea.

“Please.”

That broke through her defenses just enough. She sat on the edge of the bed, back turned to him, shirt tugged up just enough to bare the wound. Her muscles twitched beneath his gaze.

Sam grabbed the first aid kit from the wall shelf and knelt behind her. He didn’t touch her right away.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.

Vivian let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It already does.”

His hand ghosted over her spine, just above the wound, and her breath caught.

He cleaned it gently, methodically—but his fingers were warm, steady, lingering just a little longer than necessary at the edge of each scratch. Vivian’s shoulders were tight, rigid—but she was trembling slightly now.

“Still fine?” he asked softly.

“Peachy,” she whispered, voice strained.

He dipped a cloth in antiseptic. “This part might sting.”

“You mean it hasn’t yet?” she said through clenched teeth.

But when he pressed the cloth to her skin, her breath shuddered—and her hands fisted the blanket beneath her.

Sam didn’t miss it.

He leaned in, just slightly. His breath brushed her neck.

“You always do this,” he said quietly.

Vivian’s eyes flicked open.

“Do what?” she muttered.

“Act like you don’t feel anything,” he said, voice low and steady as his fingers trailed lightly down the edge of the wound. “Like none of it touches you. Like this doesn’t matter.”

Her throat tightened.

“It doesn’t,” she said, but her voice faltered.

Sam’s fingers stilled on her skin. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”

Vivian clenched her jaw.

She could feel him—so close—his heat against her back, his breath behind her ear, his hand still resting lightly on her side. Her skin burned where he touched her, and her body was betraying her at every turn.

She wanted to lean back into him. Wanted him to pull her in, crush her mouth with his, strip away the last of her defenses like her soaked clothes on the floor.

Instead, she said, “You’re wasting the peroxide.”

Sam smiled faintly—sad and sweet and aching. “You’re allowed to let someone take care of you.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Because if I do, I might want it again. And that’s dangerous.”

He moved to sit beside her on the bed, careful not to touch her.

“I’m right here, Viv.”

She finally turned her head toward him.

And for the first time, her eyes weren’t just angry. They were tired. Raw. Vulnerable.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “And that’s the problem.”

The fire crackled softly across the room, throwing flickering light onto the walls. The cabin had fallen quiet again—only the rain tapping against the windows, the occasional creak of the old wood beneath them. Sam sat beside Vivian on the edge of the bed, still and warm, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body—but not touching her. Not pushing.

Vivian stared straight ahead, arms folded tight across her chest, her breathing shallow. The shirt he’d helped her into hung off her shoulder, loose and oversized, exposing the line of her collarbone and the edge of a bruise just starting to bloom.

Sam didn’t speak. He just sat with her. Waiting.

And that—that was worse than yelling. Worse than him trying to fix it. Because the silence let everything she’d been holding back crawl up her throat.

Her jaw clenched once.

Then again.

Her hands, gripping her own elbows, went tight.

And then, without turning to face him, without a word—

She reached out and gripped Sam’s arm.

Not hard. Not demanding.

Just—there.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket like she didn’t realize she was doing it. Like if she didn’t hold onto something, she might fall apart completely.

Sam looked down at her hand, his breath catching—but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just slowly turned his palm upward and let her slip her fingers into his, their hands settling together in the space between them.

She still wouldn’t look at him.

But a single tear slipped down her cheek.

She didn’t wipe it away.

Sam squeezed her hand gently. No words. No questions.

Vivian finally exhaled, long and shaky.

“I’m tired, Sam,” she whispered. Her voice sounded foreign—thin and frayed, like something worn down over too many nights without sleep. “I’m so fucking tired.”

Sam let his head tilt toward hers, just enough that their shoulders touched.

“You don’t have to keep doing it alone,” he murmured. “Not with me.”

Vivian didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away, either.

Instead, slowly, she leaned sideways until her head rested lightly on his shoulder. She still didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. But her grip on his hand tightened.

And Sam—he didn’t say another word.

He just turned his hand so their fingers laced together, warm and solid in the dim firelight, and held on.

The fire burned lower now, casting gold and amber shadows across the cabin walls. The warmth had finally chased off the chill, but Vivian hadn’t moved—not since she’d leaned into him.

Her head still rested on Sam’s shoulder. Her grip on his hand remained tight, like she was afraid that letting go would mean unraveling completely.

He shifted gently, just enough to tilt toward her, and let their joined hands rest in his lap. His thumb traced slow, absentminded circles along the back of hers.

“Come on,” he said softly after a long stretch of quiet. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

Vivian didn’t answer. She just let him guide her, her body sluggish, like her bones were heavier than they should’ve been.

Sam stood first, gently pulling her up with him. She followed—half-floating, half-collapsing—letting herself be led to the bed. The blankets were worn but warm, the firelight flickering across them in soft waves.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, eyes distant, mouth parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Sam crouched in front of her, hands resting lightly on her knees.

“You don’t have to be okay tonight,” he said.

She blinked hard, jaw working silently for a moment, but then she nodded.

One wordless nod.

He rose and pulled the blanket back, helping her lie down gently, like she was something breakable. Vivian stretched out on her side, and for a moment Sam thought she might close off again—curl into herself and shut him out like she always did.

But instead, she reached out—hesitant, uncertain—and touched the edge of his jacket.

An invitation.

Sam pulled back the blanket and slid in behind her slowly, carefully—too carefully. He kept his movements deliberate, respectful. His body tense.

Vivian lay on her side, facing the wall, her breath steady but shallow. Sam settled in close enough to offer comfort, but he kept a few careful inches of space between them—his arm draped lightly around her middle, his chest not quite brushing her back.

It took everything in him not to close the distance.

She was so warm. So close. And he could still feel the tremble in her fingers from earlier.

He let out a slow breath, trying to center himself.

But then—

Vivian shifted.

Just a little.

Then more.

She scooted back, inch by inch, until her back was flush against his chest. Her body curled into his, soft and trusting. His breath hitched.

“Viv…” he murmured, voice low and strained.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, her hand slipped back under the blanket, searching—until her fingers found his, resting against her stomach. She laced them together again, grounding herself with him like she had earlier on the bed.

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose. His body betrayed him instantly—responding to her, to her warmth, the feel of her hips pressed into him, her scent surrounding him in the dark. His jaw tightened. He didn’t move.

But she did.

She pressed back just a little more.

His breath caught.

“Vivian,” he said again, quieter now, rougher. “You’re not… making this easy.”

Still, she didn’t speak.

But her thumb rubbed over his, a slow stroke. Gentle. Deliberate.

Sam buried his face into the crook of her neck, just barely letting his lips graze her skin. His voice was ragged.

“Tell me to stop.”

Vivian’s hand squeezed his.

And when she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“I don’t want you to.”

That broke him.

He shifted behind her, pressing his body to hers now, no more restraint—his chest flush to her back, his hand sliding slowly from her stomach to her waist, then lower, curling around her hip like he needed to memorize every inch. His mouth moved against the back of her shoulder, slow kisses melting into her skin, trailing up to the side of her neck.

Vivian let out a quiet, breathless sound—half gasp, half sigh. Her body arched back into him instinctively, her hips rolling ever so slightly, seeking more.

Sam groaned low into her skin, his restraint thinning by the second.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice wrecked, lips brushing her ear. “Because if I keep going…”

Vivian turned her face just enough for her lips to graze his jaw.

“I’m sure.”

He pulled her closer.

And the space between them disappeared completely.

Sam turned her gently in his arms, guiding Vivian to face him in the small, warm space between them. Their legs tangled beneath the blanket, bodies inches apart, breathing the same air.

In the soft glow of the firelight, her eyes searched his—guarded, unsure—but vulnerable in a way he’d never seen before. Something fragile and flickering, caught between fear and longing.

He cupped her cheek.

His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, and she leaned into it without thinking, her lips parting just slightly as she exhaled.

Sam leaned in, slow as a prayer, giving her every second to pull away.

She didn’t.

Their mouths met gently at first—tentative, careful.

But then she kissed him back.

Harder.

Sam’s hand slid into her hair as their mouths moved together, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that burned beneath the skin. Vivian’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, pressing her body flush to his as the kiss grew heavier, more urgent.

She gasped into his mouth when his hand skimmed down her side, tracing the curve of her waist, over the swell of her hip, anchoring her to him.

Her leg slipped between his, and Sam let out a soft, aching groan against her lips.

“Viv,” he breathed between kisses. “God—I’ve wanted this—”

She silenced him with another kiss—hotter now, hungrier. Her hands found his chest beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, palms splayed over muscle and heat and tension. She felt the way his breath caught when her fingers brushed lower, the way his hand at her hip tightened as she shifted against him.

Their kisses turned messy—needy. Teeth grazing lips. Breath mixing in the quiet cabin air.

Vivian’s hand found the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into her, like she was trying to climb into his skin. She broke the kiss only to breathe, to rest her forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut as his hand traced soft, reverent lines down her back, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of her shirt.

“You okay?” he whispered, breathless, lips brushing her jaw.

She nodded, barely.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Her hand curled around his wrist where it rested on her waist.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please… don’t stop.”

And Sam—he didn’t.

He kissed her again, slower this time. His hand slid under her shirt, splaying across her bare back, warm and grounding, while her fingers threaded through his hair and tugged, gently but desperately, pulling him even closer.

Clothes still on. Blankets around them. But it felt like everything between them was gone.

Stripped bare.

And finally, finally… she let him hold her without fighting it.

Vivian’s back arched into Sam’s touch as their kisses deepened, her breathing uneven now, raw with want. His hand skimmed beneath her shirt again, warmer, bolder this time, spreading across the soft skin at her lower back.

She moaned softly into his mouth, and the sound made Sam’s resolve fracture.

He kissed her harder, pulling her flush to him, tangled beneath the blanket now, hips shifting together in a slow, building rhythm that sent sparks down her spine. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and pushed it upward, eager, desperate to feel more of him.

But then—

Sam froze.

His hand stilled on her back.

And he pulled his mouth from hers.

Vivian blinked up at him, lips swollen, breathing fast. Her brow furrowed as she reached for him again.

But Sam shook his head.

“Wait.”

His voice was soft, but strained.

She paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s wrong?”

He held her gaze, chest still heaving, trying to speak through the heat in his blood and the ache in his chest.

“You’re exhausted,” he said, brushing her hair back from her face. “You’re injured, still bleeding. And… I don’t want this to be some moment we fall into because it’s been a long night.”

Vivian’s expression faltered.

She started to pull away. “Right. Okay. You don’t want it to be—cheap.”

“No,” he said quickly, catching her hand. “That’s not what I meant.”

But she was already folding in on herself, retreating behind those walls again, embarrassment creeping into her voice.

“Look, it’s fine,” she muttered, trying to shift back toward the edge of the bed. “Forget it.”

Sam sat up just enough to follow her, curling his hand around the side of her face again, gently turning her toward him.

“Vivian,” he said, voice low and steady. “Hey—look at me.”

She did, reluctantly. Her eyes shimmered in the low firelight.

“I want you,” he said, plain and sure. “God, I want you. But not like this. Not when you’re hurting. Not when you’re this tired. You deserve more than a half-conscious night between bloodstained sheets.”

She didn’t speak, but something behind her eyes cracked.

“Okay?” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And finally, she nodded.

Her shoulders sagged as she let herself fall forward into his arms, burying her face in his neck, her breath trembling against his skin. His arms closed around her instantly, protectively, one hand stroking slow, reassuring lines up and down her back.

They shifted again, curling into each other beneath the blanket. Sam settled on his back, and Vivian pressed in close, head on his chest, her hand resting over his heart. His fingers traced circles over her hip, slow and grounding.

He kissed her temple. Then her hair. Then her shoulder.

Not rushed. Not needy.

Just soft.

Present.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” she whispered after a while, her voice small.

“You didn’t,” Sam said. “I just want it to be right.”

Vivian nodded against his chest, and he felt her body start to melt again—her breath slowing, tension unwinding with every stroke of his hand.

Another kiss—just beneath her jaw this time. Then one more against her hairline.

And with their legs tangled and his arms wrapped around her, they finally drifted.

Not into lust.

Not into battle.

But into sleep.

Together.

*********************************************************