rebloging fics!

"I get wet just by the thought of you," you replied, and that was all the invitation he needed.

He pushed two fingers inside you and hit exactly where he needed to. You couldn't help it, and a loud, sharp moan ripped out of you. It was way too loud for a house this small.

The muffled conversation in the next room stopped instantly.

"What the hell was that?" Mike’s voice came through the wall. He sounded confused and annoyed.

"Fuck," Steve whispered, and his eyes went wide. He immediately smashed his lips against yours to stifle the next sound. You felt your eyes roll back and your body arched into him as he kept moving, your moans swallowed completely by his mouth.

The room went deathly silent as you and Steve froze. You could hear the floorboards creak in the hallway, and the sound of small, hesitant footsteps stopped right outside your bedroom door. Steve didn't move his mouth from yours. He stayed perfectly still.

A soft knock came at the wood.

"Are you... okay?" El’s voice was small and cautious.

Steve pulled back just a fraction, his lips still brushing yours as he held his breath. He looked down at you, his other hand staying busy. You bit your lip, trying so hard not to make a single sound.

"Are you... hurt?" El asked after a moment.

Steve cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound normal. "Everything is fine, El," Steve called out, his voice cracking just a little bit. "We just... we dropped a heavy book. Go back to Mike. We're busy."

There was a long pause. "Not hurt?" she asked again.

"Not hurt, El. Promise," Steve said. "Go on. Go listen to your music."

You heard her feet shuffle away. "Okay," she murmured. A second later, her footsteps faded.

Steve let out a massive sigh of relief. He leaned down until his forehead touched yours. "That was too close," he whispered. "If she had used her powers to open that door, I’d be a dead man."

He moved his hand back down, his fingers finding their rhythm again. He moved closer, his weight pressing you further into the mattress to keep the springs from squeaking.

"Shh, stay quiet for me," he breathed, his voice barely a ghost of a sound against your ear.

He started moving his fingers again, but this time it was slow and deliberate. Every time you felt a gasp building in your chest, he would lock his lips over yours, drinking in every sound you tried to make so the hallway stayed silent. The tension was even worse now because you had to be silent.

You gripped the bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. You wanted to scream his name, but he kept his mouth crushed against yours, swallowing every whimpering moan.

"You're doing so good," he whispered against your lips. He was breathless too, his forehead damp with sweat. "Just like that, baby."

He picked up the pace just a little bit, his movements fluid and confident. You arched your back, your toes curling against the sheets as the feeling built up. You let out a muffled cry, but Steve reacted instantly, kissing you deeply to swallow the sound.

"your almost there baby," he murmured against your mouth, when he felt you squeeze his fingers, his own heart thudding wildly. "Don't make a sound."

“God” Steve leaned in close and a cocky, breathless smirk tugged at his mouth as he felt you peak. "No, not God, baby. It’s Steve."

Steve’s fingers were moving faster now, his lips right against your neck as he moved. You were arched back with your fingers tangled in his hair, completely lost in the heat of the moment.

That Neither of you heard the tires of the Chevy Blazer on the gravel outside. Neither of you heard the heavy boots on the porch or the front door unlock.

You were biting your lip to stay quiet while Steve moved, his mouth ready to cover yours at any second. He leaned in close to whisper sweet things to you, but then the bedroom door flew open and hit the wall with a loud bang.

"Harrington... Get off her."

The voice was quiet, so quiet that you barely heard it. Steve jumped so high he nearly fell off the bed. He scrambled to his feet and turned a shade of white you had never seen before. You sat up fast, trying to pull up a blanket to cover yourself with shaking hands. Your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your chest.

Hopper was standing in the doorway, his face a deep shade of red. His hands were curled into fists at his sides and his chest was heaving. He looked like he was about to explode.

"Dad, wait—" you started, but he held up a hand to silence you.

He turned his eyes on Steve, who was fumbling with his clothes and looking for any way out. "I told you. Five feet. Door open. I gave you one chance, Harrington."

"Chief, I can explain, we were just—" Steve stammered, his voice cracking.

"I don't want to hear it." Hopper stepped into the room, looming over him. "I want you out. Now! If I see your face in this house for the next month, I’m putting you in a cell."

Steve didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his jacket off the floor, not even stopping to put it on. He scrambled past Hopper, nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to get to the front door.

"I'm going! I'm gone!, i love you!" Steve yelled as he sprinted through the living room.

You heard the front door slam shut so hard the walls shook, followed by the sound of Steve’s car engine roaring to life and his tires screeching as he peeled out of the driveway.

Hopper stood in your room for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway before looking back at you. He pointed a finger toward the kitchen. "Kitchen. Chair. Now."

—

nancy’s words kept replaying in your head. “stay here and keep a lookout for anyone who might be in on our plan.”

two simple tasks for two fully capable adults to be able to carry out, yet only the ‘stay here’ part was being completed.

steve had pulled you into the stations booth as soon as everybody else had left to their own respective tasks. once everybody was gone saving the world, steve had his right in the palm of his hand.

he had you bent over the counter within just a few seconds, both your jeans and his pooled at your ankles just mere moments later.

his thrusts had been slow at first. slow and deep the way they usually were when he fucked you. realistically, he knew that you’d be able to take him no matter how he was moving. he just preferred to do it slow. so you could consistently tell him how big he was he could constantly make sure you were doing okay.

today was not one of those days.

today he was going rough and deep, all while still making sure you felt how big he was. to feel how small you were compared to him. he grunts quietly against your neck as he continues his movements deep inside you, holding tightly onto your hand as he does.

you can’t help but let your forehead fall against the window of the studio booth, legs occasionally buckling beneath you as steve had his way. your whines and moans echoed in the small chamber, bringing a smirk to your boyfriends face.

“that feel good?” he mumbles, gripping onto your chin when all you could do was nod. “i asked you something, princess.” he adds, biting down onto your earlobe.

“so good! so good steve feels… feels so fuckin good. love the way your cock fills me. so big a-and all for me. want you to fill me up with your cum” you whine, biting down onto your bottom lip as he moves faster with your words. he can’t help but smirk at your reply, debating on whether or not he should comply with your request.

steve knows you can’t see the way he shrugs when considering his options, but he does it anyway.

you think he’s going to give in when his motions falter just slightly, but instead you’re met with a compromise

“alright, hon, i’ll fill you up nice and good, mkay? you just gotta keep tellin me how big and good i am”

god, if you made it out of the whole mess alive, you were going to kill robin for joking about it to begin with.

Every boy on campus felt like they were out to get you. Yes, just you.

It wasn't easy majoring in law. Most people expected Law to be a men's major, however you, and a couple of other girls, had been majoring in law. A group of about ten other girls. Except they were all super rich girls who came from upper class, and daddy's money to pay their way through college. They were untouchable, popular. Except for you.

You got into Stanford all on your own. Working odd jobs, studying all hours into the night just to keep your head above water. But there was a particular group of boys who were like little water goblins, grabbing you by the ankles and trying to pull you down, even with knowing you're already struggling to breathe.

So when you find him, sitting underneath your studying tree, you just about burst a blood vessel by the way all your anger rushes through you. He sits under a tree alone, covered in notebooks, snacks, a CD player is shoved in his Carhartt jacket, wired headphones rest against his neck. He's taunting you. Samuel Winchester. Also majoring in law. And even though he's not actually one of the guys messing with you, you know he's got to be in on it somehow. Afterall, this is your designated studying time underneath your tree and here he is, jotting down notes and listening to music. You've experienced disrespect, but this was just so obvious.

You clutch your books to your chest, striding over across the lawn. Some people stop and stare, expecting some sort of cat fight, but no. You pause in front of the boy and stare down at him. He's a freshman too. Hair framing his face, covering parts of his eyes. It's almost split exactly down the center, but you can tell he's been messing it up a bit with his hands. The toe of your boot taps against the grass impatiently. He's staring deeply to the side, where his book sits, notepad in his lap. He's tall too. He's far too pretty to be acting like those boys, and you were severely prepared to belittle him if it got that far, you've memorized their lines of how, 'you don't deserve to be here' or 'you're not smart enough' and 'you're not gonna make it to finals'.

You don't like bullies, but maybe if you strike hard and strike fast, they'll give you a break. At least big enough to last so you can get through the impending finals. He turns his head, memorizing a line he thinks is important and then glances down at his notebook. Finally, he spots a pair of brown heeled boots standing just before his notebook. He blinks, and cranes his neck up. It's not often Sam Winchester has to look up at people.

Finally, his gaze meets yours and his features soften. He's just about to smile, when you open your mouth, "What do you think you're doing here Winchester?" Sam's half smile drops, leaving him shocked. "Wha-I-?" you raise up a hand. "Actually, I already know what you're doing, and I'll have you know it's not working."

"What's not working?" he sits up completely from his relaxed angle against the tree, and shoves his notebook to the side. "Don't play coy, I know your friends, and I honestly thought you were much better than them. Guess I thought wrong."

"Can you just tell me what's going on?" he chuckles awkwardly, running his hands through his shiny brown hair to remove his bangs from his eyes. You bend down, getting in his face, tired of him playing games when he knows exactly what he's doing. He's messing with your schedule, wasting your time arguing with him when you could be reading, working on getting a degree. "I am smart enough to be here Winchester, even if you and your friends don't think so, daddy didn't pay for me to get in here. I won a scholarship, if anything, I deserve to be here more than you."

"Hold on-" Sam waves his hand, he rolls over onto his knees and you stand to your full height again, but you rest a hand on his shoulder so he can't stand up completely. "Don't interrupt me." you argued back, keeping him in place. He's tall, and you're tired of being looked down upon.

From an outsider perspective, seeing Sam Winchester, in all his 6'4 glory, kneeling before you, staring up at you like you hung the stars and the moon, now this was going to be hot gossip for the next few weeks.

You may not have known, but almost every person Sam had ever come into contact with while at Stanford, knew he was harboring the biggest crush on you. He spotted you day one, walking into class twenty four minutes earlier than everyone else so you could pick the best spot with the most comfortable chair. He saw the way people treated you too. Like you didn't belong. Sam knew fully well what it feels like to be an outcast, to feel like you shouldn't be somewhere, that you're just taking up space.

Behind your back of course, because he didn't want to annoy you, or make himself look like a hero, he started telling them off. He swore up and down to them that you were smart, you were kind, you deserved to be at Harvard way more than any of them did. After college, you'd go on and become a successful woman, while they all sat back on their asses and had their life fall through their hands.

And then, he sat down at the tree. Proud that they were all a little shocked. Sam was pretty popular at Stanford, the girls liked him, the guys liked him, teachers knew he was smart and capable. He never let this get to his head though, because there you were, and here you are now. Glaring down at him like he's the bane of your existence, without even knowing that your bullies are gonna learn their lesson if they ever mess with you again.

"Why are you smiling?" you felt your rage crescendo. White hot tears blur your vision. You wouldn't dare hit him, but you wished you could. Wished you could take your anger out on someone who isn't yourself because honestly, crying in front of everyone is way worse than being expelled for slapping the shit out of Sam Winchester.

Sam's smile broke and he stood up quickly, wrapping his arms around you, cradling your head against his chest. "Why are you crying?" he turns you away from the crowd of staring people to save some of your pride. Your books stay clutched in between you, forming some kind of barrier, but even so, all you can feel is Carhartt jacket, and Sam, Sam who smells like honey, and woods, and boy. You know the boy scent, it's just natural and addicting. It calms your aching heart, your adrenaline, your anger subsides. "What are you doing?" you asked again, voice cracking. Sam can feel his own heart crack at the raw emotion. He's good with feelings, however yours make him feel like the earth is ending. Your tears are his, your pain is his. You pry yourself out of his grip and your back hits the tree.

"I think you deserve to be here y/n." Sam says softly, bending down to look you directly in the eye. For a brief second, you felt like you heard him wrong. "You huh?" you stuttered and Sam lets out a soft chuckle. "I'm not friends with those guys, the complete opposite really. I know they're being mean to you, and I should've helped you sooner." you wipe your tears away with the sleeve of your Stanford hoodie. "What are you talking about?" you asked in confusion, staring into his green puppy dog eyes. "If they ever talk down on you like that again, you come get me okay."

"Sam-"

"y/n. I have had the biggest crush on you, ever since school started really. I saw you racing through the hallways to first period, and I knew that you were something special. When I heard those law majors were bothering you, I just lost it I guess." you were shocked. "You're lying?" and Sam shook his head no. "I'd never lie to you. I was waiting for you-I brought apples. You like apples?" Sam kneeled again, searching around in a backpack for a second before pulling out a container of slices apples. He showed it to you like it was an offering. "I have caramel packets too, I know you like those." you take the container from him gingerly, peering into the container shyly. "How'd you know?"

Apples. You loved apples, loved dipping them in sweet caramel. You loved the scent, the flavor, even the color was so pretty. He grinned up at you nervously. "I was being serious when I said I've had a crush on you for a while." Sam's eyes dropped from you to the dirty ground. He peeled his Carhart jacket off, and put it down against the tree trunk. "I was hoping we could study. Study here, together? I know you always study here, I wanted to wait for you." Sam asks while explaining why he was there in the first place. You're at a loss for words.

The entire time at Stanford, three months to be exact, you had felt invisible. Like no one cared who you were, what you did. The only people who ever seemed to notice your existence, just persistently bullied you. Mocked you. And now the one person you least expected to have taken an interest in you, is offering you apples, and studying together.

You kneel too, right onto the jacket and nod once. His nervous grin breaks into a bigger grin and he nods too. "Okay. Okay cool." you sit down tentatively, your legs tucked sideways. Sam sits down too, so close his thigh brushes against your knees. You glance over at him, but he looks relaxed. You, your skin is on fire, you're so confused on how you even got to this point. He's already got his notebook pulled onto his lap again, pen between his teeth while he thinks. He reaches over, without even looking, and pops open the container. "Here, I'm sure you're hungry." you take the container from him. The apples look good, sweet, juicy. You pluck one from the container, and just before you take a bite, the soft scent of caramel fills your senses. You glance over at Sam, and he's holding up a small container of caramel. You take it too, swipe the apple through the sticky flavoring, and take a bite. "You know," you say after chewing, and swallowing. He doesn't need to know that was the best damn apple and caramel combination you've ever tasted. "You're kind of creepy." you laugh and Sam grins. "I mean how did you.. And just, why?" you get lost in thought, snacking on the apples while waiting for Sam to explain himself in further detail.

[your hair color] moaning on top desk sex library innocent look while begging hands pinned above head kissing moaning while he fingers them under the table

Your eyebrows climb higher with each line. It’s not just porn—it’s pointedly you. Down to the hair, the quirks, the exact way you laugh. You can practically see him typing out every detail with those long, focused fingers.

The door creaks, and Sam walks back in, towel slung around his shoulders, damp hair curling at the ends. He freezes when he sees where your eyes are.

“Uh—” His voice cracks. “That’s—don’t—”

You lean back in your chair, smirk spreading slow and wicked. “Wow, Sammy. I didn’t know you liked that.” You gesture toward the screen. “Or should I say… me?”

Color floods his cheeks instantly, rushing all the way up to his ears. “It’s not—it’s—”

“‘Soft thighs,’” you read aloud, sing-song. “That sound familiar to you? Because it sure sounds familiar to me.”

Sam shuts the laptop with a snap, his movements clumsy in his rush. “Okay. Enough. Stop.”

But you’re grinning, unable to resist twisting the knife. “And this one—‘moaning into his mouth’—Sam, you’re basically writing erotica about me.” You tap your chin in mock thought. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

He runs a hand down his face, groaning. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Oh, I bet I wasn’t,” you tease, standing now, circling him like a shark. “You wanted to keep it your dirty little secret. Late nights, locked doors, your hand wrapped around—”

“Y/N.” His tone is a warning, low and strained, but his blush is brighter than ever.

You step closer, close enough that his breath hitches. “Tell me, Sammy… when you’re looking all that stuff up, do you imagine me?”

His throat works around a swallow, eyes flicking down to your mouth before darting away. “I… I don’t—”

“You totally do.” Your smile softens, but your voice drops lower, warmer. “You imagine me, falling apart under you. Begging. Just like the videos.”

Sam closes his eyes, like he can will himself not to react, but the tension in his jaw betrays him.

“God, you’re adorable,” you whisper. “Blushing like a teenager, and all I did was find your porn.”

He opens his eyes again, and there’s heat there now—heat that makes your breath catch. “You should stop teasing me,” he says, voice rough.

“Why?” you ask, tilting your head. “You’ll do something about it?”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other. The air between you hums, thick with everything unsaid. Then Sam exhales sharply, stepping back before he does something reckless.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, grabbing his laptop and retreating toward his room.

You call after him, smirking, “Better add that to your search history, Winchester!”

His groan echoes down the hall, and you can’t stop laughing—though you make a mental note: next time, you might just let him catch you watching.

You’re straddling him, your arms around his broad shoulders, his face pressed into your neck. You can feel yourself starting to get sore, but if anything that makes you chase the pleasure more intensely.

And you can’t stop chasing it, even though you don’t know why. Your thoughts prod at the question but it’s almost like it’s escaping you, running away from you. You can see the question’s little bunny-tail disappearing around a corner just as Sam raises his head.

Both of you are sweating and panting, the room around you having grown impossibly hot, or maybe that is just the two of you, what you’ve been doing. Sam presses his open mouth against the underside of your jaw, tongues at the skin, as he bucks up into you and your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of him, the stretch and the immeasurable pleasure Sam is giving you.

That’s the other thing – the pleasure won’t let up. You keep coming and coming and so does Sam, and a distant part of your brain knows that there’s something weird about that, that something isn’t right about it, that you’ve skipped right past all limits the human body has. But then Sam tightens his arms around your waist, pulls you hard against him, the slick skin of your bodies sliding against each other, and you forget to wonder.

Your head drops back as another mind-numbing orgasm shakes you, the feeling of it so intense that you feel it in your fingertips, behind your eyelids. Either something very strange is going on or this is just what it’s like to fuck Sam Winchester.

Your head drops forward again and he’s there to meet you, one hand going to the back of your neck to make you focus on him, make you look into his eyes. Your hands go to his face because you can’t believe how well you can feel him, feel him pulsing inside of you.

“Sam,” you pant, and your voice comes out broken, because you have been screaming and whimpering for what feels like hours now. “C—can’t stop, need to—”

Sam kisses you in response, his lips pressing against yours so hard you’d think he wants to devour you.

“I don’t want to stop,” he pants into your mouth, and you think you could come again just from his breath on you, in you. “Don’t ever want to stop feeling you.”

You start riding Sam harder, another orgasm already building in you but what is driving you just as much is the deepening frown appearing on Sam’s face, the one that you now have learned means he’s about to come.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he presses you down on him again and again. He’s fucking up into you so hard, loud sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, that you’re sure you’ll be bruised soon but you couldn’t care less. Any mark he leaves on you you’ll be sure to caress with the same love you have for the man under you. The one you’ve been denying yourself for so long. So long. Weird, you think. Time is a strange concept.

And again, Sam’s body distracts you, because how could it not? He makes a desperate, pained sound and you swipe some hair that’s wet with sweat off his forehead.

“Sam, harder,” you barely manage to say but as if he’s reading your mind, he’s already doing it, already fucking you harder and you feel like you could probably pass out from how hard. He’s driving you so close against him that you think maybe you’ll stick together forever, and then he makes that sound again, a mix between a grunt and something else, and you can feel him spill inside you, just as he has so many times already.

Sam’s spendings are warm inside you and that alone, the feeling of that, pushes you over the edge again, makes you keen as you keep riding him, your hands going into his hair, fisting it, needing something, anything, to hold on to. Then you slump against him, holding him close, and both of you drop over to the side.

The mattress is impossibly soft. Sam doesn’t let go of you, keeps you wrapped up close to him. He’s still inside of you, somehow still hard, his hands resting on you as you both catch your breath. Your biggest instinct should be to sleep, or, more likely, to pass out. But Sam’s hand on you moves and you feel him stirring inside you again already. He leans over you. He’s still panting but it’s like he can’t stop himself, and neither can you.

“I think something’s wrong,” he says, as his big hands find your breasts, squeeze them. You moan, but you know he’s right. Something weird is going on here.

“Where were we?” you ask, but what you mean is how did we get here? For some reason you can’t see the room around you, can’t focus on it enough, also because Sam is rolling over you and there’s nowhere else you want to look.

“I can’t stop,” he huffs as he rubs his thumbs over your nipples, circles them, and you have no idea why he would want to stop. “Need to have you. Just one more time.”

Without ever having left you he pulls almost all the way out and then slams into you again and even on the first thrust, you feel your insides clench down on him, another climax announcing itself. How the hell is that possible?

Sam lets go of your breasts and grabs your hands, your fingers entangling with his as he pins them against the mattress under you, kisses you deeply.

“Sam, please, make me come,” you whine when he breaks away. And he does. Again and again.

You both do eventually pass out because your bodies cannot keep up. Sam somehow manages to sling his arm over you, almost as if trying to hide your nakedness from the outside world, and that’s the last thing you know.

Dean finds you, the witch killed, the spell broken. It’s a very awkward drive back to the motel, not least of all because you’re tacky with Sam’s sperm and your sweat as well as his. Sam’s staring straight ahead during the drive, his face deeply worried and you can’t stop looking at him.

Could be a remnant of the spell, but you know it’s not. You’ve never been able to stop looking at Sam.

After a long, long shower, a good night’s sleep and drinking about a bathtub worth of water, there’s a knock at the door of your room in the morning. You open up. It’s Sam. He looks terrified.

“We need to talk,” he says and you invite him in.

He feels guilty, because of course Sam would, but he was as much under the influence of the spell as you were.

It’s a strange situation, made infinitely stranger by the realization that you want him again. Sam seems to feel the same, because after an hour of talking, somehow you wind up in each other’s arms again.

You go slowly this time, no desperation and also because you are both still exhausted, both a little used up. It’s different, and neither of you manages to wring more than one round from your tired bodies. But it’s incredible.

“So?” you asked, your voice annoyed. “Is there an upper limit on how much sighing I’m allowed to do when I’m in mortal danger?”

“No,” Sam said with a placating tone. “Just an observation.”

If you had to guess, you would have said that right then Sam had his eyebrows raised, his lips in a thin line. The reason you had to guess was because you were back to back with Sam as he was tied up in another chair behind you.

You leaned your head back, already feeling bad for your bitchy tone and it bumped into Sam’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” you said.

“It’s okay,” he replied immediately.

“No,” you said, “I’m sorry about being an asshole. I don’t… This whole being tied up thing, not being able to move, it’s just getting to me.”

“I understand,” Sam said, his voice soft. “It really is okay.” You chewed your lip, thinking.

“Why haven’t they drained us yet?” you asked. Now it was Sam’s turn to sigh. “My guess is they’re hoping they can exchange us for their freedom if more hunters show up,” he replied. “Or, the more horrible option, they like to play with their food.” You nodded.

“They’ll get thirsty sooner or later,” you said.

“Probably,” Sam agreed. The angle of his voice changed a little and you assumed he had turned his head. “You still got the knife in your boot?”

“Yeah,” you said, “but I can’t reach it. They tied my ankles to the chair when I kicked that one skinny, cracked-out looking guy.” Sam chuckled.

“Left boot, right?” he asked. You raised your eyebrows.

“You remember,” you noted. Sam scoffed.

“Yes, cause I nearly opened my wrists on it when I took your boot off that one time, remember?” A grin passed over your face.

“That’s only cause you were in such a rush to get me naked,” you said, making Sam chuckle again.

“I might have been,” he replied, and then he was moving a little. You heard the pull of his ropes and the creak of his chair and then a low grunt when he gave up.

“Ropes are too tight,” he concluded, breathing hard. “I can’t reach down.”

“I could have told you that,” you said. “No shit the ropes are too tight. You might have beefed the hell up in the last months, but I could have told you that.”

“I was just testing, okay?” Sam replied.

“You always do this, you know?” you answered, tone a little reproachful. “You always think you’re gonna figure something out I haven’t figured out.”

“No, I don’t,” Sam replied, sounding offended.

“Yes, you absolutely do,” you returned.

“Okay. When do I do that?” Sam asked, and you would have bet a hundred bucks that he had that smartass look on his face, the one that was all lawyer boy, and I’m smarted than you and look at me, so tall and pretty and with the hair.

“The rugaru last month,” you replied. “You knew damn well that I always wanted to kill a rugaru and still you had to do it.” Sam was quiet for a second but you knew he was only gearing up.

“You were unconscious and it was about to take a bite out of you!” he responded, sounding indignant. “What was I supposed to do, stand there and watch?” You realized the break in your logic, but you weren’t one to back down.

“Not the point,” you hissed.

“Enlighten me then,” Sam said, scoffing, “what is the point?”

“Will you two just shut the hell up already?”

Your head snapped to the side and you assumed Sam’s did as well as the leader of the little vampire gang that were the reason for all this hoopla came striding through the open doors of the basement room you were in. He squared up a few feet away from you just as two of his lackeys, who reminded you of Ren and Stimpy, came in after him.

“You just keep… yapping,” the leader grunted.

“Oh,” you said, “were we being too loud? I’m so sorry.” The vamp narrowed his eyes at you.

“Keep. It. Down,” he growled.

“Absolutely we will,” you said, not keeping it down at all, “but I do have one quick question. Is there a requirement to dress like Hell’s Angels rejects when you become a vampire or is that just you guys’ thing?”

The skinny guy behind the boss – Ren – made a grimace.

“Can we eat them, just a little bit?” he said, his voice low and nasal.

“Not yet,” the leader replied. “But don’t worry,” he continued, a lecherous grinning spreading on his face, “we’ll be sucking them good and dry soon.” You made a grimace.

“Ew,” you said, “you realize how that sounds, right?”

“You wanna reign it in a little?” Sam hissed at you but you ignored him.

“It doesn’t sound like anything,” the vampire leader replied, knotting his brow.

“It does sound a little strange,” the Stimpy-looking guy who had been quiet so far said.  The boss whipped around to face him.

“It doesn’t sound like anything!” he grunted. Ren, maybe to prove his loyalty or maybe because he was just a little simple, got involved then.

“I think it sounds fine, boss,” he said. The leader looked away from the intimidated looking Stimpy and turned back to you and Sam.

“I’m just saying, man,” you said, shrugging, “sometimes people don’t know what they sound like and I wanna make sure that’s not what’s happening here.”

He stepped a little closer then, looking down at you but addressed Sam when he spoke: “You wanna tell your pretty, little girlfriend to keep it down now, before I have to hurt her.” You scoffed before Sam could answer.

“I am not his girlfriend,” you replied. Finally Sam spoke up.

“Oh, so now you wanna talk about this?” he asked. You did your best to throw him an unbelieving look, which was difficult considering you couldn’t see him.

“Hey!” you replied, you voice defensive. “I never said I wasn’t open to talking about it.” Sam scoffed.

“No, you only said that you didn’t want to ruin it by giving it a name,” he replied.

“That is not what I said,” you answered, then had to correct yourself: “Okay, it is what I said but it’s not what I meant.”

“You guys can’t be serious,” the boss vamp muttered.

“Well, that makes it a little difficult,” Sam returned, “seeing as I can’t read your mind.”

“I…” you started and then went quiet. Sam had a point. You hated that he did.

It was quiet in the room for a moment. The leader spread his arms. “You two love birds done?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, wondering if Sam was doing the same, or if he was doing the thing where he looked off to the side, all pout and big frown.

“You have half an hour,” the vamp said. “Then we’re moving. If none of your friends have showed up until then, you won’t have to worry about whether you’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He chuckled lowly, and when neither you nor Sam reacted he added: “Because you’ll be dead.”

When you still didn’t react, he continued: “Cause we will have drunk your blood.”

“Yeah, we got that,” you said at the same time as Sam said: “Alright.”

The vamp boss cleared his throat, then walked towards the exit. He turned to Stimpy at the last second.

“You stay here,” he said, pointing at his lackey. “Keep an eye on them.” Then he and the other vamp left.

It was quiet for a while. You tried to move your hands, twisting them in their bindings to allow the blood to flow more freely through your veins. You heard Sam shift behind you. You threw Stimpy a cautious look, but he was looking around.

“Look,” you finally said, “I’m sorry, okay?” Sam had been shifting again, but he stopped.

“I just…” you thought for a second. “This relationship stuff, it just freaks me out, okay?” You heard Sam sigh a little.

“It’s fine,” he responded, and his voice was calm, sweet. “I don’t wanna put any pressure on you, that’s not… That’s the last thing I want.”

“You’re not,” you replied, your own voice soft. “It should be so easy. I mean, we do everything a couple does. I don’t know why I’m…”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Suddenly you heard someone clear their throat. It was Stimpy and when you turned to him, he was watching you and Sam.

“It sounds like,” he said, very carefully, “maybe you have some issues with commitment?”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. When neither of you spoke, he continued. “Sometimes when we give something a name, it can be scary.”

Sam seemed to be just as shell-shocked as you. You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Stimpy shrugged.

“It seems like maybe you guys just need to be open about your fears,” he finished, with something that was almost a sweet smile.

“Look at that,” you said, finally finding your voice. “A self-help-ire.” Sam snorted, then laughed, and the sound warmed your heart.

“Guys, come on,” Stimpy said, but he didn’t look mad. What a sweet little weirdo, you thought, then added, who wants to drink our blood.

“Okay,” Sam said, still chuckling a little. “You know what my fear is?”

“Aside from the imminent death thing?” you asked.

“Yeah, aside from the imminent death thing,” Sam confirmed. “It’s that you find someone else.”

You frowned, but continued listening.

“It’s that you find someone else," Sam continued, "and because you and I aren’t… official, or whatever, that you might be interested.”

You felt him shrug, his shoulder bumping into yours. “And that’s stupid, because a relationship shouldn’t be about that, about trying to force someone to commit to you, but yeah, that’s my fear.” You shook your head a little.

“Sam,” you said, your voice soft. “There isn’t a single man in the world who can hold a candle to you. I mean—” You interrupted yourself, took a breath.

“I don’t want anyone else, is what I’m saying,” you continued. “I just don’t know if I make such a good girlfriend. I don’t know if I’m nice enough or sweet enough or docile enough.” Sam’s voice projected differently, and you thought he turned his head to the side.

“I don’t want any of those things,” he said, voice low. “I want you. I like that you’re kind of mean.” You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You have problems, Winchester,” you said. You could hear the smile in Sam’s voice.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he replied.

“See that, guys?” Stimpy said, and when you turned to him he actually looked happy. “That wasn’t so—”

He was interrupted by someone cutting off his head. His separated parts fell to the floor, revealing Bobby standing behind him.

“You kids done talking about your feelings?” he said in his best, grumpy old man voice. Just then, you heard the sounds of fighting break out behind him. Bobby rushed forwards, kneeled down and started cutting at the ropes restraining you.

“Come in here to rescue you idjits,” he mumbled while he was doing it, “to hear you doing couple’s therapy with some blood sucker.”

Your hands came free then, and as you held your wrist, rubbing it to get the circulation flowing again, you felt the objection to the word couple on your lips, muscle memory kicking in.

But then you turned, now that you were able to, as Bobby started cutting at the ropes on your legs, and you were able to see Sam. He was looking at you, his head turned as much as he could turn it, and he caught your eye.

“We were just being open about our fears,” you replied, and Sam grinned.

Dean had taken care of the other two vampires by the time you reached him. They were sprawled on the floor, one head just rolling away.

Bobby kept quiet about what he had witnessed when he found you and Sam. You were grateful. You really didn’t need Dean’s mockery.

The Impala was parked outside as well as Bobby’s truck. You got into the Chevy’s backseat, Sam throwing you one look over his shoulder and then looking forward.

It didn’t take long for you to reach the scrapyard. Both cars were parked, and as you and the three men started moving towards Bobby’s house, you spoke up.

“Sam, can I talk to you for a second?” you said.

All three of them stopped. Sam looked surprised, but nodded. Bobby rolled his eyes, turned and walked towards his house, while Dean raised his eyebrows, interest building on his face.

He finally followed Bobby, but not without first leaning close to Sam, whispering something into his ear, and then winking at you. When Sam walked back towards you, you raised your eyebrows.

“What did he say?” you asked, crossing your arms in front of you. Sam leaned against a nearby car, hands in his pockets.

“He told me you’re out of my league,” he said.

You frowned. “What?”

“He said,” Sam continued, a small grin building on his face, “that it’s a miracle you even acknowledge my existence, that you are a top tier woman and I am a little nerd boy, and—”

“Okay,” you said, laughing, “I got the gist. Jesus.”

“He wants to make sure that I don’t screw this up,” Sam said, the grin slowly disappearing from his face. You bit the inside of your lip, thinking, gearing yourself up to what you wanted to say. Finally, you cleared your throat.

“I’d be willing to try it,” you said, Sam giving you a questioning look. “The whole girlfriend thing, I mean.” You looked at your feet, digging the toe of your boot into the ground below you.

“It’s fine,” Sam said, and you looked at him. “We don’t need to call it anything. I just, I just want to be with you, and that’s enough.”

You thought for another second, then walked slowly towards him, dropping your arms. When you were right in front of Sam, you reached for the collar of his jacket, tugging at it, as if you were fixing his clothes. You looked at the button of his shirt for a second.

“Let me be your girlfriend, Sam,” you said and then looked up at him, suddenly feeling shy. “Don’t make me beg for it.”

Sam grinned, then took his hands out of his pockets, tugging you close by our elbows. You looked into each other’s eyes and then both moved at the same time, you pushing yourself up on your toes while Sam leaned down.

Your lips met, Sam’s lips so delicious that you brought your shoulders in, pressed yourself close to him. One of his arms went around your back and he pulled you close, inhaling through his nose, when you pushed your tongue against his lips. He let you in and the taste of him made you dizzy.

Soon, your hand went up to his face and you cupped his cheek, moving away from him as little as possible to where you could still speak.

“Do you want to go inside?” you asked, voice low and suggestive. Sam shook his head, making his nose brush against yours.

“No,” he said, then kissed you again. “I want to stay out here and keep kissing you.” You grinned against him.

“We can do… other things inside,” you whispered, barely able to keep your mouth off him for long enough to say it. You felt Sam grin too.

Then he moved his arm from your back, only to hold your hand when he dropped it.

Your caramel scented perfume wafted throughout the bunker. As soon as Dean woke up, he was surrounded by you. Silk sheets, piles of books, mugs with half drank coffee. Posters lining the walls, some were framed photos. It clashed so well with his wall of guns, beer bottles, and cassettes tossed around haphazardly. Dean immediately groaned, reaching out for your side of the bed where you're usually curled up against the headboard with a mug in one hand, computer on your lap, and a book in the other hand. You like to multi task.

Once upon finding the space empty, he rolls over, shoves the silk sheets off his body. He's learned to stop grumbling about how they're pretty and pink. And that the spread is all lace, and the fuzzy white carpet on the floor. Neither of you have ever had something to own. Not a house that you could call home, and definitely not furniture or blankets or posters on walls. You've never drank out of a coffee mug more than twice. You've never had sheets to change or dishes to wash. If you got your jollies decorating the place as girly as you liked, then he appreciated it too.

He roamed the halls, instantly searching for you. He knew Sam and Eileen were gone. Spending a weekend away together, doing whatever Sam and Eileen do when there's no job.

They've stopped. For now. It's uncomfortable most days. Reading articles of people missing. Dean just makes sure to call it in to other hunters who aren't busy. Someone else will take care of a it. He has a few other jobs he's interested in. He's been working on Baby, he could always be a mechanic. And yet, the fireman application sits on his desk. Your writing scribbled across the paper when you forced the answers out of him and wrote them down two weeks ago. He then used his charm to lure you into bed, promising a much safer career choice. Even though firemen aren't exactly sitting at desks and sharpening pencils all day.

The first place Dean decides on is the kitchen. If it's early enough, you're probably still making coffee, or sipping on your first mug while you brew another. You always smelled like caramel, cinnamon, and coffee. The three C's all you nicknamed it. You two always talked about your most random dreams.

For you, it was owning a quiet coffee shop in a downtown area to a large city. People bustling in and out. Huge corporations around the corner, a flower shop down the street. Those hippie clothing stores with crystals next door. There are pretty lights strung up in the trees, and the sun sets so perfectly into the shop. Maybe a book store across the street. You had always loved fun colorful drinks, making up names for thing's. The scent of coffee alone was enough to give you that idea in the first place.

Sam's trying to go back to school, and Eileen doesn't know what's in the cards for her. Which is all fine. You're adjusting to normal life the same way a fresh eighteen year old would. Slow, cautious even.

And it is there, sitting at the kitchen island, he finds you. Computer open, books open, coffee mug, and the sound of the machine brewing a secondary mug. For him, for you, he's unsure. Deans silent as he steps into the kitchen, taking the last few steps to you to appreciate the simplicity, the domesticity of the moment. He was unsure of letting himself to submit to such a life, fearful that if he lets himself enjoy the simple, it'll turn against him. He can't let this, can't let you go.

His arms wrap around your waist, and you squeal, stomach forced into the counter as he bends over, letting most of his weight relax onto you. You clasp your hands over his arms against your stomach. "You scared me!" you shrieked. He hardly cared much, just used his strength to guide you down from the stool. "Good morning." you try and play cordial. But Dean's already got his mind elsewhere. He left his head back in bed, where you belong.

You're dressed in only a t shirt. it's crumpled, smells like Dean, and large. He smirks down at you. Your hair is a mess. You lack any makeup. This is his favorite version of you. Of course the badass sexy monster hunter was high on his list. This sleepy girl, relaxed, almost quiet and sometimes even shy was a nice change of pace. This was you. The badass sexy hunter chick was a facade, something you wore to cover how scared you really were. He'd trade this over that every day. "Morning sweetheart." his voice is deep with sleep.

You wonder who's going to break first. You'd be lying if you said you were wearing panties. The air between you is charged, and you have half a brain to ask about the coffee. To which you know he'd only reply with, 'To hell with the coffee.' and take you right there. Deans eyes roam all over you. You stretch a bit, pretending to ignore him, and you shut your lap top. Bare thighs exposed. Dean pounces on you then, flipping you around to face him, and then just tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Oh!" you shouted in shock, you world turning upside down when you're met with Dean's back. Broad back, light scars fading. He had fallen asleep last night shirtless after a couple activities. Faint red lines paint his back and you worry if they burn. You can feel the world shift as he starts walking. The floor changes the more you walk. From cement to wood. You flail around a bit, trying to free yourself. Not that you want to, you want a reaction. And a reaction you get. After your foot almost collides with his cheek, he swats your ass playfully and you let out an 'oomf-'.

"Stop it." Dean warns and you settle. For a moment. Because you both pass through the bedroom doorway, and you shut the door. He bends over, letting you drop onto the bed. You bounce a bit on impact. He uses his finger under your chin to pull your head up to look at him. "Are you gonna behave?"

"Do I ever?" you laughed softly.

Within five minutes, you're both naked, and you're face down in the bed. One of his hands press against the middle of your back to hold you there, and the other is between your legs. "Please Dean, please please please." you whined, clenching your eyes shut. You grip the sheets tightly between your manicured hands. It was weird when Eileen suggested you girls get pampered together. You had grown accustomed to the dirt under your fingernails. But then they were painted a glittery white color, and you're hooked. His fingers dance between your folds, barely brushing over your clit before they're back at your entrance. "So wet.. Earlier you were acting like you didn't want it, huh? What happened honey?" Dean asked, amused at the outcome of the morning. Finally two fingers entered you, and you let out a soft gasp of delight. "Feels good huh?" he continued talking. Dean was always a huge talker. He couldn't ever get himself to shut up. You nodded, not really listening, already too lost in the pleasure only he could give you. His hand slid up from your back to your hair, brushing the strands out of the way. "So pretty." he complimented, leaning down to kiss your cheek. He retracted his fingers momentarily, licking off all your juices before he lined himself up behind you. He didn't waste too much time, just slid inside like he belonged there. You both knew it to be true too. Dean leans over, resting his forehead against your back with ever shallow thrust. You're both tired still, a little desperate.

"Dean." you whined, circling your hips back. He gets the memo, placing his hands on either side of your head, right over your hands. He intertwines your fingers first, then sets a brutal pace. Your moans are forced out with every quick thrust, repetitive little 'ah, ah, ah's, the pleasure builds low in your stomach. You're sensitive from last night, which really ended at around 5 in the morning. Dean rests his forehead against your cheek then your back, he lets out deep groans right in your ear. He suddenly pulls back, hands resting on your shoulders to pull you up. Your head rolls back to rest against his chest as your both kneel. You bring one hand to his shoulder, and the other gets tangled in his hair. Deans right hand wraps around your neck, a finger tilting your head sideways so he can kiss you. Sloppy and uncoordinated in the way he loves to kiss you. He drinks in all your moans and whimpers and sighs. Your chest rises and falls with every quick breath. "De-Dean." you gasped and nods into the kiss. He tongue delves into your mouth. He tastes the coffee. You already feel it building low in your stomach. You try and pry yourself away, wanting to relish in this moment for longer, but Dean tightens his grip on you. "Stop trying to run from me." he whispers in your ear. "Take it baby."

You moan, either at the way he says it. He's never been ashamed at speaking up, whispering all his filthy thoughts and ideas into your ear. Sometimes, he doesn't whisper them. He'll say them out loud. When you're in the middle of a diner, surrounded by strangers or family or friends. He doesn't care. Or, it's when his hand across your stomach to hold you up drops a little lower, rubbing over your clit delicately. You had always preferred softer touches. He liked that in the world they used to live in, where everything was so rough, you taught him how to touch softly, be slow.

"Dean m'gonna cum." you whined breathlessly. He nodded against the side of your head. "Do it baby. Show me how good I make you feel."

Sam’s at the front of the room, tall and commanding, a tailored suit jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. His hair is pulled back, sleeves rolled just enough to expose strong forearms, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows as he speaks to the “witness” in the mock trial.

You’ve seen Sam in a lot of states—bedhead Sam, sweaty-from-a-run Sam, post-hunt adrenaline Sam—but this? Sam in formal attire, voice smooth and steady, eyes locked like a laser beam on the person across from him? You swear your heart just slipped into some sort of cardiac arrest.

A couple of heads turn when you come in, but no one says anything. You ease into a seat at the very back, setting your bag down quietly, eyes glued to the way his long fingers tap the edge of his notepad. He’s good—confident, calm, that slow burn intensity that makes you understand exactly why professors love him.

You don’t even notice you’re smiling until he glances up.

Mid-question, Sam’s gaze flicks over the rows and catches on you. His mouth stills for half a second, like his brain just… skipped.

You give him a slow, deliberate wink.

And just like that, he stumbles. Not much—just enough to trip over a word and clear his throat—but you see the faint pink creeping into his cheeks. He recovers fast, eyes darting back to the “witness” with an extra bit of determination, but you catch it.

God, you catch everything.

The rest of the mock trial passes in a blur of you pretending to watch objectively when, really, you’re just memorizing how his jaw sets when he’s making a point. When it’s finally over, the room empties quickly, classmates chattering about arguments and evidence. Sam packs his notes methodically, but his eyes keep flicking toward you.

You don’t move from your seat until he strides up the stairs to meet you.

“Were you—” he starts, then laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You lean back in your chair, grinning up at him. “Oh, I definitely was. I think I just witnessed the most attractive cross-examination in the history of… ever.”

His blush deepens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously smitten, yeah,” you counter, standing to meet him. You smooth your hands over his lapels like you’re checking the quality of the suit. “Seriously, Sam—this look? You’re gonna kill me one day.”

His laugh is soft, warm. “Glad you got lost, then.”

“no candles and cake?” dean jokes, nudging your shoulder in the booth of an old diner you were getting breakfast at, “or special birthday pancakes?” you see him point to the birthday special written in cursive letters on the sticky menu. 

“no,” you solidify, taking a warm sip of coffee, “being alive and with you idiots is enough.” 

your boyfriend, sam, who's sitting across from you forking his eggs, shakes his head but stays quiet, like he’s planning a surprise attack behind your back. 

you don’t notice him catch dean’s eye as you read over the check, or see them scouting potential places to buy party decorations while you drive to the motel—yes, you insisted to drive baby—and you certainly don’t hear them whispering to each other as you lose yourself in a book on the weirdly comfortable mattress that is probably twice your age. 

when dean comes back from an outing later that night—“just talking to potential witnesses,”—he said, totally suspiciously, you’re eyes run down his arm to him carrying inside the large duffle bag he keeps in the trunk, full of salt guns and holy water. 

you sit up straighter in your seat against the bed frame, suddenly alert, but sam makes no moves, “what’s wrong, why are you—” 

“just would rather have these closer to us,” he rushes quickly, a lopsided smile on his face, dropping the duffle like it doesn’t weigh a ton on the gross motel carpet, giving sam a ‘am i doing okay?’ look that has your brows furrowing. 

“dean, can i see you in private?” sam says through gritted teeth, nodding to the bathroom. 

dean sends him an awkward grin, nodding before they both disappear behind the off white door. in an instant, you’re pressed up against it, ear turned on the highest setting you can, trying to hear through the loud AC unit and buzz of cars outside the open window. 

although, you don’t have to listen too hard. the two of them are so loud, you wonder whether you could’ve stayed sat on the bed. 

“alright, here’s the plan, you stay here and set up—i’ll distract her.” sam’s voice. 

“why do i have to decorate? the cake’s probably smushed in the damn duffle—”

“just let me handle it, okay?” 

“i’m gonna need twenty minutes.” 

“it takes you that long to frost a cake and put up a sign—” 

“thin ice, sammy.” 

you imagine sam’s face and try to swallow a laugh, but the revelation that they’re planning a surprise for you is enough to knock your world off its axis. even though you told them not to fuss, there’s something pure about them doing this for you. something the three of you could use in the midst of the chaos of your lives. 

“how are you distracting her? gonna take her into town or something?” dean’s voice. 

“i don’t know, maybe, i—” 

“no,” 

“dean—”

“you’re not having sex in my car.” 

your face burns. 

“dean, i didn’t—” 

“i saw that look!” 

your palm comes to cover your mouth, stifling another burst of amusement. 

“let me take care of it alright? you just focus on hanging the sign up the right way.” 

you hear shoes shuffling against the bathroom tile, and you spring up quick to settle yourself back comfortably on the bed. 

the door opens and sam meets your eye, “dean thinks he left something in the car,” he says, as if you’re stupid. the inside of your cheek is shredded so you don’t smile. 

“alright,” you throw the book down onto the floral duvet beneath you, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, “shall we?” 

both boys’ faces crease in confusion at your compliance. but nonetheless, you follow sam outside as he sweeps the impala’s keys off the table. 

once outside, you find it hard to keep your hands off him, rubbing your palms up his arms as he walks you to the parking lot, anxious to surprise him. 

when sam shuts the car door, you’re on him in a second, pouncing like a cat onto his lips. he melts instantly into your taste, like every plan and course of action he thought to distract you vanishes from his mind. his large hand comes to cup your cheek, soft under his calloused touch, and you’re moaning at the sensation of his fingers tangling in your hair. 

sam pulls from you just slightly to murmur, “you beat me to it.” 

his voice, husky with desire, has you squirming in the rough leather seats, aching for his touch to cover you everywhere, and you feel giddy knowing it will, “how else am i supposed to celebrate my birthday?” 

a warm chuckle breathes past his lips, swollen and pink, “i thought you didn’t wanna celebrate it?” 

you smirk, moving to place chaste kisses along his jaw and down the veins of his neck, eliciting a sultry laugh from him that makes you never want to stop, “i think i can allow this.”

“think or know?” he teases, savoring the pleasure building in his body, fueling a fire only you know how to control, how to burn hotter. 

sam’s hands grip your waist at the sensation of your mouth trailing across his skin. with your nose buried in the crook between his shoulder, you smell the fresh soap, old lore books, and something spicy like aftershave as it fills your brain like fog. he rests his cheek on the crown of your head, reveling in your lips for another moment before he’s gently laying you down in the backseat, your legs spreading like muscle memory as he nestles between them. 

his fingers slowly hike the white sundress you’re wearing up your legs, making sure to just barely graze your thighs. wetness starts to pool in your center as he recaptures your mouth on his, heavy breaths and gasping moans as his hands trail higher up your body beginning to fill the impala. 

“will dean be mad?” you mumble against him, eyes closed in bliss as he palms one of your breasts, “—that we’re doing it in his baby?”

sam laughs mischievously, knowing damn right what the answer is but at this point, you’re both too far gone to stop, and the bulge pressed against your inner thigh, just missing where it needs to be, confirms that for you.

“he won’t mind,” he says, sighing as you start to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, revealing his taut abs and broad chest, adorned with the anti possession tattoo that has your mouth watering. 

“oh, he won’t, will he?” you help him shrug the rest of his shirt off while he un-patiently starts to tug your panties down, “pretty, right?” 

“so pretty,” he smiles, but tosses them to the side like they’re nothing but a useless barrier between him and the paradise between your legs that’s his, catching them on the steering wheel,“and no, he won’t mind.” 

before you can protest again, he’s delving into your pussy, slick and warm with your primal need for him. his tongue moves in agonizing circles up and down your folds, making you writhe and grip his soft locks in your hands to keep you grounded to earth. 

but when he sucks your clit past his lips, you’re sure you see heaven. 

“sam!” you shriek, bucking your hips into his face as his chin dampens. you feel his smirk against you, he can taste the way you fall apart, but the pressure doesn’t let up.

“mmm, taste’s so good,” he mumbles drunkenly, fingers pressing imprints into your thighs as he holds them down beside his head. 

you throw your head back against the back window, trying to ignore the little voice in your head yelling, “you’re in a motel parking lot and anyone can see you if they just—” but the white hot pleasure that explodes from your body as he flicks his tongue right there removes any thoughts other than your need to have him inside you, to give you something to clench around as you jolt and ache. 

his name falls from you like a prayer, one he answers faster than god as his pants are off and boxers pulled down before you can even open your eyes. 

you manage to get a glimpse of him as he pumps himself a few times, the length you’ve taken oh so many times now a gift that seems too perfect for such a meaningless birthday. but when he pushes into you, hot, sweaty, skin against yours, it’s hard to see how you can’t celebrate the day after this. 

“god, yes,” you moan into his ear when he leans down, chest against yours to be as low under the window as possible. 

his eyes clench shut in pleasure, “fuck, you f-feel so good,” he sputters, because all he can focus on is the way you’re squeezing him.

sam moves like he was made to fit in you, hitting that spot inside you everytime that has you see stars. even now, as he struggles against the urge to drive into you so hard your legs will need days to recover, he’s gentle, soft, as he stretches and kisses and worships. 

the impala shakes and rocks underneath you, and you’re sure if it wasn’t 9:00pm on a tuesday, you’d probably be caught by now; windows fogging and the occasional pop up of sam’s hair through the glass when he lifts up to watch himself disappear in you because he just can’t help it. he throbs at the sight and you feel it deep in your core, pressing your climax faster.

“‘mmm, best b-birthday ever—” you mumble, your words harshly cut with a whiny moan when sam’s idle fingers come to toy with your clit, “jesus christ!”

“not quite,” he gasps a laugh, “oh, fuck,” 

your vision blanks. the coil snaps. pussy squeezes so tight sam can barely move. 

and the impala seats? soaked. 

sam follows close behind, hips stuttering, soft lips parted all the way as your name slips off his tongue, dripping with the taste of you. you swallow his moan, his whine, as he fills you, still pumping through both your highs. 

your pussy leaks his warmth. you catch him staring. 

“make sure it doesn’t get on the seat!” you worry, starting to sober up. 

you can tell he isn’t all the way back to earth, so he drunkenly smiles, “i think we’re past that point, baby.” 

as you fix the straps of your dress, sam reaches behind the seat for a rag to wipe the leather, probably the cloth dean keeps in the car in case of oil spills or, well, this. 

your legs shake as you step out of the impala, suddenly feeling overexposed and like everyone in the motel was watching somehow. sam’s throws his clothes on, his princess hair barely fixed with puffed lips that match yours. 

you try to catch your breath as the wind whispers against your sticky skin, “think dean’s done decorating the room?” 

sam’s eyebrows furrow for a moment before lifting them in realization, mind blanking, “u-um, how did you—” 

“kinda hard to keep a secret when you both talk so loud,” you nudge his shoulder playfully, unusual butterflies spreading through your stomach as you anticipate the surprise waiting for you inside, “it was a good effort, though.” 

“and that’s why you—” jumped my bones, he wants to say, but he knows you know already, “i’m gonna get you,” he promises, grinning crooked at the way you outplayed them, “your next birthday, the surprise is mine.” 

“sure, sammy,” you wink, fishing the key out of his back pocket before unlocking the door. 

as if on cue, dean, who is by the bedside lamp, flicks it on to expel the darkness and reveal an unevenly hung HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign in holographic letters strung up on the wall above the beds, stuck messily with duct tape. there’s a mixtape on the duvet with birthday girl’s birthday mix written on the top, paired with a dollar store bow dean’s slapped on, and a few books stacked together that you can only assume is sam’s gift. 

the cake on the end table, with messy chocolate icing that’s also all over dean’s fingers, is what sends tears teasing your waterline.  

“surprise!” he shouts, waving his hands in the air. 

sam shakes his hand against his throat, mouthing, ‘she knows’ behind you. 

dean narrows his eyes at his brother, rolling them and throwing his arms up, “really, sam? you couldn’t even keep the surprise?” 

that forces a watery laugh out of you, cheeks flushed and heart warm, “it’s fine, it’s fine, dean, this is—” 

“awesome, right?” he finishes, that shit eating grin right back where it belongs on his scruffy face. 

“yeah,” you agree, instinctively leaning against sam’s chest, “it’s awesome.” 

sam’s hands come tight on your forearms, rubbing gently to soothe the emotions he knows you’re trying to bite back. your lip wobbles between your teeth as dean reaches for the cake. 

“maybe i could get behind none of that gross birthday special pancake crap,” he hands you the cake, which is resting on a flimsy paper plate while he fishes for the lighter in his pocket, “but no candles and cake? sweetheart, that’s just unacceptable.” 

dean reaches to switch the lamp back off, the room consumed in pitch black again, save for the moonlight emitting little light through the dingy curtains. the small, orange flame stemming from his lighter illuminates all three of your faces as he burns the tip of the pink candle, mumbling a ‘there we go’ as he flicks the lighter back off. 

“make a wish,” sam says softly as he stands behind you. 

you shut your eyes, make your wish, and blow. 

dean starts to clap. sam’s touch is grounding. 

“happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, just for you. 

when the lights come back on, and dean uses a machete to cut the cake, he notices sam trying to fix the lopsided buttons on his shirt, that was very hastily thrown back on. 

what you didn’t realize he’s also looking at, is the medium sized hickey on sam’s neck.

“soooo,” dean starts, trying not to make his starting obvious, “i thought she was the only one supposed to get presents today.” 

sam’s forehead creases. you look up from the cake you're actively stuffing in your face. 

“what do you—” sam follows dean’s finger to the mirror, where the purple bruise you gifted him rests tenderly on his soft skin, “oh.” 

dean chuckles, shaking his head in contempt, “what kinda distraction did you give her?” 

sam’s too flustered to speak, so you swallow the smooth chocolatey goodness down your throat and answer for him. 

“a big distraction.” 

let’s just say you and sam weren’t allowed near the impala by yourselves for a long time.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tags ↬ @h8aaz , @sacr1ficialang3l <33

You’re across the room before your brain can even catch up with your body. You grab his arm, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you lean in and bite his bicep.

Just a little. Just a nibble. A love-chomp.

Sam yelps.

“What the hell?!”

You pull back instantly, blinking. “Sorry! Sorry—I just—” You gesture at his arm helplessly. “They’re just so… there. And I blacked out a little.”

He stares at you. “You bit me.”

“You make it sound like I drew blood,” you mutter. “It was more of a nibble.”

His eyes narrow, but his ears are turning red, so you know he’s not really mad. “Why would you nibble my arm?”

You point at it. “Because look at it! Look at this situation! That shirt is a war crime, Sam.”

He blinks down at himself, confused. “It’s just a shirt.”

“No. No, Samuel.” You reach out and grab his bicep again—your fingers barely touch around the bulk of it. “This is not just a shirt. This is criminal. These arms are ridiculous. Your biceps are literally the size of my entire face.”

Sam chokes out a laugh, flustered. “You’re exaggerating.”

You drag your hand down his arm slowly. “Am I?”

His jaw flexes. “You think they look… good?”

You scoff. “Sam. I want to bite them. That’s not a normal level of appreciation.”

He scratches the back of his neck, clearly fighting a smile, and God help you, the veins in his forearm pop when he does it. “Well. Uh. I work out.”

You snort. “Gee, you think?”

“I—” He pauses, blushing now, voice softer. “I like when you grab my arm.”

You blink. “You what?”

He gestures vaguely, almost sheepish. “You always do that thing when we’re walking through crowds. Just—grab it. Hold on to me.”

You go very still. “Do you not like it?”

“No, I—” He clears his throat. “I really like it.”

You laugh, a little breathless now. “Wow. This whole time I thought you were just tolerating my casual manhandling.”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Definitely not.”

You squeeze his bicep again, testing. He tenses it under your hand, just a little—showing off now.

“Are you flexing for me, Winchester?”

He raises a brow. “Is it working?”

You nod solemnly. “Deeply.”

His smile turns lopsided, dimple showing. “You know your hands are like… tiny, right?”

You stare at your palm on his bicep. It does look small. Ridiculously so.

You look up. “You like that?”

He blushes harder. “Maybe.”

You grin. “Do I get to kiss you now, or do we keep complimenting each other until someone faints?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He just dips his head and kisses you.

It’s soft. And a little shy. And perfect.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours. “Been wanting to do that for a while.”

You smile. “Me too.”

“Can I flex again now?”

You laugh. “Sam, I will always let you flex for me.”