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I'm sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth, but you can call me "sorry" or "H".
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Sam x reader x Dean. Childhood friends to lovers, polyamory, (eventual) pregnancy.
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Companion fic to Blackbird about Dean Winchester and the best horse in the West.
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CWs Sexual harassment. Some violence. Explicit sexual content (dry humping, fingering, finger sucking, penetrative sex).
7.4k words
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“So this is the bar you went to the other night?” you ask, leaning over the back of the front bench. Dean turns down the music, throws you a look in the rearview mirror and nods.
“It is,” he says. “Just went in for a drink, but honestly, it seems like the perfect place. Kinda rowdy, lots of people with loose cash.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him in the mirror.
“Not the only loose thing there,” you joke, and Dean makes a face. “Your lady friend gonna be there?” Sam turns in his seat, looks first at Dean then at you.
“Lady friend?” he asks, and Dean rolls his eyes. You nod, eyebrows high and eyes wide in pretend shock.
“He brought a girl back last week,” you hiss-whisper, and Sam looks at Dean again, all mock surprise.
“Is that right?” he asks, joining you on your bit, and you could kiss him.
“She slept over, too,” you add, now teasing. “Must have been a real special gal.” Dean groans, rolls his head, but you can tell part of him is loving this. All the attention on him, and how easily he can find a girl to fuck him. A pretty one, too, if your memory of her face in the Impala’s rear window can be trusted.
“Will you two stop it?” he says, taking a left. “Jesus.”
“Well, I’m excited to meet her,” Sam continues, not deterred by his brother’s complaints.
“Gotta make sure she has no ulterior motives,” you add. Dean scoffs.
“She might not even be there,” he says, throws you another look in the mirror. You catch it, but he looks out the front again quickly. You wonder if he’s annoyed that you’re joking. Maybe he was hoping you’d be more jealous.
You push the thought away. Shouldn’t enjoy it as much as you do. You tap your fingers against the leather to the rhythm of AC/DC as the town comes into view.
You drove through and got groceries in the big store just outside of the town limits when you first got here. You sit up straight as Dean navigates through its streets. It’s more dilapidated than you thought it was at first - closed and boarded up shops lining the street, trash moving in the evening breeze.
The bar has a large parking lot in front of it, and Dean pulls into a bay close to the entrance. There’s a few other cars there as well, and the front of the building is lined with motor bikes. Not cruisers, like the ones you’d sometimes see riding in groups through Sioux Falls, but modern ones, bright colors and shiny.
The three of you get out, Sam opening your door for you, and walk towards the entrance.
“So what do we know about the place?” Sam asks. Dean turns his head towards him, then looks at the bar again, shakes his head.
“Stacey’s uncle owns it, or something,” Dean says, and Sam raises his eyebrows at you, amused again.
“She has a name!” you say, and Sam snorts, wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close as you keep walking.
“How about you both eat me?” Dean says with an eyeroll, before nodding towards the front of the bar. “Look at them, fucking toy bikes. Who are they trying to impress? Like their ride’s their entire personality.” Sam scoffs, frowns at his brother’s back.
“Your ride’s kinda your entire personality,” he points out. Dean slows, just for a few steps, then keeps going.
“At least it’s a nice ride,” he mumbles, and you see Sam press his lips together to stifle a laugh.
It’s a dive bar, you see as you walk in - dark wood, neon signs that buzz. The smell of cheap beer in the air, and a huge pool table off to the back. It’s not full, exactly, but enough going on that you can blend in, probably. Loud voices and laughter from one large group in particular nearly drown out the classic rock playing.
It’s like if Dean was a bar, you think with a grin.
“Should we grab a table?” you ask, but Sam shakes his head.
“Let’s stay near the bar,” he says, still looking around before he turns to you. “Makes the whole drunk enough to bet too much money act more likely.”
The three of you move over to the bar. Dean leans over it immediately, not acting drunk, but definitely more loose than he usually is. He waves the bartender over, hand already raised to show three fingers.
“Three beers, and uh,” he says, voice just a little louder than it needs to be as he squints at the shelves behind the bar, “three tequila.”
The bartender, a guy around fifty with eyebags down to his knees, gives a solemn nod, then turns and starts working on the drinks. Dean reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, and you turn your back to the bar to raise your eyebrows at him.
“I thought we’re only supposed to pretend we’ve been drinking,” you say, voice low. Dean counts some bills out, slams them on the bar, then winks at you.
“Method acting, sweetheart,” he says. You narrow your eyes at him, see the grin he’s trying to hide. He puts his wallet away, then reaches out when the bartender brings over the beers. He nods at the man, passes the first bottle to you.
“Remember,” he says, lowering his voice so the bartender doesn’t hear it. “You’re just the distraction.” You tilt your head to the side.
“Gee, thanks, Dean,” you say, face slack, and Dean gives an exasperated sigh.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “If there’s any trouble, you get out, okay?”
“I got it,” you interrupt him. “Show my tits and make some noise. Understood you the first time around.” Dean doesn’t react for a second, then scoffs. He leans on the bar again, takes a sip from his beer, but not before his eyes flit to your chest. He shakes his head as he swallows, throat moving.
“Just don’t want Sammy pulling some stupid white knight bullshit,” he more mumbles than says. He looks at you again, briefly, and when he sees you not rising to the condescension, you see the small twitch of shame on his features.
“Right,” you say, voice level and reasonable. “Cause Sam’s the hothead out of you two.”
As if summoned by your words, you feel Sam’s hand on your back. It sends a small shiver through you, Dean’s eyes still on you, Sam crowding in behind you. You’re not sure if he heard what you and Dean talked about.
“Can you two keep it down?” he hisses out the side of his mouth. “Those guys over there are already staring at us.”
You look up - can’t help it. You’re not practiced enough at this to subdue the instinct. It’s a group of mostly girls. Two of them are turned your way, but they’re not looking at you - they’re looking at Dean. And he, like there’s an invisible line going from every piece of ass in the room right back to him, turns as well.
You see one of the girls react, and that’s when you recognize her. The girl from the car, Dean’s hookup. The fact that Dean turns seems to confirm that he is who she thinks he is, and she grins, broad, excited, detaches from her friend and starts walking over to where the three of you are.
“Fuck,” you hear Dean mutter, and he turns to you and Sam. If he’s looking for sympathy, he’s not gonna find it on your face, and you’re guessing neither on Sam’s. All of you are quickly distracted, though, when she, Stacey, widens her arms as she comes closer.
“Neal!” she calls out, and Dean’s eyes close. You throw a wide-eyed look up at Sam.
“Dude,” Sam says, barely containing himself. “No, dude, you didn’t–”
“Oh my God,” Stacey giggles as she comes closer. Dean turns, just so correcting his expression before he straightens. She widens her arms and slings them around his neck. You purse your lips, watch as Dean’s hands land on her hips, but his fingers are fluttery, unsure. She pulls back and beams up at him. She really is pretty. You’d say you’re surprised but that’s a lie.
“Uh, Stacey,” Dean says, turning, eyes searching out you and Sam as his hands drop from her, but hers remain on his shoulders. “This is my brother and his girlfriend.”
“Sam,” Sam says, extending his hand, a barely hidden grin on his face. “Our parents weren’t as creative when they named me.” You see the brief confusion on Stacey’s face, but she smiles through it, then looks at you.
“Hi,” you say, smiling at her, tell her your name. “Nice to meet you. Again.” Stacey and you both chuckle, and you catch the look Dean throws between you two. Confusion. Maybe something else.
“I had no idea you were coming by,” Stacey says, now turned to Dean again. One hand runs over his chest, and you feel the urge to look away, while also leaning against Sam at the same time. His hand on your back rubs up and down. “I was gonna introduce you to someone. If you’re still looking for work.” Dean nods his head to the side.
“We wouldn’t mind making some money,” he says. He’s not wrong - with this girl knowing Dean, hustling at pool and playing drunk won’t work, as she’s more likely to catch the lie. Stacey nods, then turns, looks over her shoulder.
“Eddie, come here a sec!” she calls out.
Three men separate from the group she was standing with. One - Eddie, you assume - is young, wiry hair on his face. He’s handsome, in a small town bad boy kind of way. Dressed in black and a leather jacket. The other two guys frame him like salt and pepper shakers - one short and broad, the other tall and thin.
“Eddie, this is Neal and his brother Sam,” Stacey says, patting Dean’s arm and for some reason, you notice, omitting your name. “They’re passing through town and looking for work. Neal, this is my cousin, Eddie.”
Eddie nods at Dean, studies him, then Sam, then you, and the way he does it is clear - Sam and Dean as potential allies, you as a piece of decoration, or meat. You straighten, lower your chin, but he’s already done with you, turns back to Dean.
“You got a car, Neal?” Eddie asks. Dean nods, and you see the way he too tenses his shoulders.
“What kind of work is it?” he asks, voice deep. Eddie sucks on his tongue for a second.
“Transport,” he says. “But I don’t work with people I haven’t gotten shit-faced with.”
A moment of silence, and then Eddie snorts, slaps Dean’s arm. Dean laughs, but you see it’s forced. You look up at Sam, see the muscles dance along his jaw. The way his hand over your shoulder tightens.
“Let’s get a fucking drink,” Eddie says, and throws you another quick look.
The pad of your middle finger is circling the mouth of your bottle as Stacey chats away and you watch the men across the room.
Eddie led Sam and Dean off to the side, and Sam let go of you and followed. He threw you a look over his shoulder you couldn’t interpret, while Eddie and Dean were already shooting the shit. And you stood there, and rather than follow them, you remained where you were. Too similar to the way the women and girls would stay in the living room after church on Sundays when you were younger, and the men and boys would go out - to walk and converse. The only sound in that living room was the clinking of spoons against cups. Someone clearing their throat, carefully, quietly. Your feet refused to move until Stacey wrapped her arm around yours and dragged you over to another table.
And now there you are, sitting with Stacey and a few other girls that have split up from the group - the men - and come to sniff out the newcomer. Some of them eye you with disdain, but you know not to take it personally. They ask you about Sam, the tall guy, they call him, and when you say he’s your boyfriend, they seem relieved. You’re not a threat after all.
Sam throws you occasional looks. Dean doesn’t. He’s switched out, but also, he’s not. Can’t keep his attention, and you’d laugh at that if it wasn’t so ridiculous. They order a round of shots, cheer. Sam doesn’t, but when someone says something to him he forces a tight-lipped smile onto his face.
“And that’s the last time I talked to him,” Stacey finishes, and you turn to her. Feel bad immediately, because whatever she was telling you is probably more interesting than what is happening across the room.
“Is it always like this?” you ask, and when Stacey blinks, seems confused, you nod over at the other group. Stacey looks that way, shrugs.
“You wanna be over there?” she says, humor in her voice, because that clearly can’t be what you mean. You chew at your bottom lip, then down the rest of your beer, warmed up by how tightly you held the bottle.
“So how long have you and Sam been together?” Stacey asks, leaning forward with a dreamy smile. You swallow, tap your finger against the bottle.
“Nearly five months,” you say, can’t help your own little smile. “Feels longer. But we’ve known each other for most of our lives.”
“That’s so sweet!” Stacey says, resting her head in her right hand. “I’ve never managed to make a guy stick around for longer than three weeks. They’re all psychos.” You huff, only because Stacey is rolling her eyes, even though you think you hear a tinge of sadness in her voice.
“I was with the guy before that for a lot longer,” you say. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” You laugh, because it feels a little bit like justice for Dean ignoring you the way he is. It rings hollow, though. You see Stacey fidget, then throw a look over at the group of men too.
“So, is Neal, like, cool?” she asks, then giggles. “I mean, obviously he’s cool. But is he, I don’t know…”
You watch her as she struggles to find the right word to describe what she wants Dean to be. Loyal, maybe. Decent. Steadfast and reliable, as well as passionate. Wants him to need her, and needs to have her. You smile down at the table.
“He’s a great guy,” you say, looking up at Stacey again. She gives you a hopeful look and it’s like looking into your own past. “He really is.” Stacey grabs one of your hands, squeezes it.
You’re distracted when you hear voices rising from the other side of the room. Both of you turn, and the guys are getting up. They’re laughing, grabbing their drinks, and then they beeline for the pool table. Sam towers over all of them, physically the most imposing one, but he seems most outside of the group. He takes a sip from his beer, looks over the bottle at you again, then follows the others, one step behind as they laugh and shout and howl.
They start a game. Not a hustle, but something to do while they keep talking. No need for Sam and Dean to hide their skills, and they don’t. The other men are thrilled and then unsure of themselves and then entertained. Both brothers play with utmost concentration, and you can tell the other girls are whispering and giggling behind you.
When you stand up, it’s almost not a conscious choice. You just do, sick of sitting there like some ornament. You didn’t travel thousands of miles and almost a decade to stop moving the moment you walk into another kind of church.
Sam watches you approach, calmly, eyes narrowed like a cat’s, and you meet his gaze, hold it. He doesn’t move, watches for what you’ll do, only moves his cue to the side so you can get in close when you press yourself against him, let your hands wander up his side, full of intention.
“I’m bored,” you say, voice not lowered because you don’t care if the others hear you. “I want you to take me in the back and fuck me.”
You feel the way Sam’s posture changes under your palms. The way he straightens and curves at the same time, the way his expression tenses, in a way that shows you how immediately tuned in he is to you.
“I don’t think our hosts would appreciate that,” he says, confirming the disdain he feels for Eddie and his crew on hosts. Also holding out, which is as good as telling you to keep going, keep convincing him, keep showing him how much you want him, which you don’t mind at all. You purse your lips.
“I don’t give a shit what they’d appreciate,” you say, your thumb drawing circles over Sam’s ribs, covered by two layers of clothes you wish weren’t there. “All I give a shit about is having your fingers in my mouth.” Sam makes a small noise, brings one hand to your hip, fingers pressing in. He opens his mouth to reply.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You turn your head, look over your shoulder. Eddie’s looking at you, tooth pick moving in the corner of his mouth in an attempt at domineering masculinity that would be hilarious if it wasn’t threatening, off-putting in its own way. He gives you a grin that has your upper lip curl.
“We’re kinda playing here,” he says, widening his arms. His gaze wanders down to your ass, then up again. “Don’t need our boy distracted.”
“She can get on the table,” the short, stout guy says, gives a dirty chuckle. “One more hole to play with.”
Some of the other men laugh, low, threatening, clear in what they mean, and in the knowledge that they’re hoping to intimidate you, make you uncomfortable, and you feel Sam tense under your palm. Which is when your eyes land on Dean.
He’s on the other side of the pool table, his knuckles white around his own cue. He’s got his chin lowered, eyebrows drawn together. His eyes are wandering from one guy to the other, like he’s deciding which one to punch first.
You kind of want it to happen. Let Sam and Dean beat the shit out of these losers, the motherfuckers that make their women sit in the corner. You’d love to ram a bottle into Eddie’s face, and your own aggression surprises you.
But it’s at least six against two - that’s assuming the barkeeper doesn’t have a shotgun hidden under the bar and decides to take a side. So you swallow, the way you’ve done before, the way you’ve done so often. It’s harder than it used to be, but the idea of Sam and Dean beaten and bloody and no one to look out for you… As much as you hate it, as much as you want it, it’s a dangerous escalation.
“Apologize to her.” You blink, your eyes going back to Dean. He’s looking at the stout guy, whose grin is slowly faltering when he realizes who has spoken.
“Huh?” he says, like he didn’t understand. Dean raises his chin, his expression relaxing a little. For some reason, it makes him look a hundred times more threatening.
“Apologize,” he repeats, voice calm.
The other men don’t move. Stout guy looks at you, then at Dean again, then at you. He looks worried.
“S-sorry,” he says. You swallow, then nod once.
Eddie has been watching the exchange with a strange sort of smirk on his face. Sizing you and the boys up, you realize. He seems satisfied with whatever happened, and nods at Dean.
“How about we fucking play?” he says.
Dean looks over at you again. Keeps your gaze. Burning with something.
Sam kisses your jaw and you laugh.
“That’s distracting,” you say, taking aim again, and you swear it’s only his big palm running down your back that makes you miss your shot. “Fuck!”
Sam chuckles, straightens, takes your cue from you and looks at the remaining balls. You shake your head, reach for your beer. Take a sip, hoping it will alleviate the burning on your cheeks, and if you’re real lucky, the one between your legs, though you don’t have high hopes for that.
“You two are so frickin’ cute,” Stacey says, not for the first time, and you huff. Nothing about this feels cute, not the wetness between your legs that has steadily built over the last half hour, nor the half-hardness you felt as Sam pressed himself against your ass when he pretended to help you adjust your shot.
Stacey’s stuck to you, something about the little show earlier having seemingly intrigued her. Dean’s talking to Eddie again across the bar, and you can’t help the way your gaze sometimes flits to him.
You don’t care about any of that - the job, the money. All you want is to be back at the trailer with Sam and Dean. Well, with Sam. You clear your throat, take another sip of your beer.
“Sammy!” Dean calls in that moment. “Get over here.” Sam looks that way, then hands his cue to Stacey with a smile.
“You two play,” he says, nods at you, then joins his brother. You lean against the pool table, watch Stacey push some of the balls around. She seems to be thinking about something.
“You okay?” you ask, stepping closer to her. She looks up at you, something sad on her face. Then she looks over at Dean.
“He keeps looking at you, you know,” she says.
You blink. It takes a moment for her words to sink in, and then you look over at Dean as well, standing there next to Sam, both of them so handsome it takes your breath away.
The memory of that night comes back with a vengeance. Dean deep inside you, both of their sounds in your ears and lust unlike you’d ever known flowing through you. All you’d wanted was to touch Sam like you were touching Dean, and now that you’ve gotten your taste, know how perfect Sam feels and moves, the thought of both of them…
Your stomach lurches, and you feel almost sick with arousal. You want to tell Stacey not to worry, that she should go be with Dean, but you realize you don’t want to. He’s yours, in a way that you can’t explain, just like Sam is yours, and no matter how many other girls Dean fucks, that will always be true. The strangeness of your little threesome, how close you are, the lack of barriers - it all means something. It’s intimacy on a level you’re not sure many people could understand.
When you realize Stacey’s still looking at you, you clear your throat. She’s giving you an unbelieving look. The truth is, you’d love to have a friend, miss Kay even though the two of you text regularly, but Kay never wanted to fuck Dean, or Sam, for that matter.
“Anyway,” Stacey says, and your lips move, but it’s too late to remedy the situation, too late to drag back whatever your silence betrayed. You should have said, no, he likes you, or, I’m not interested, you can have him. But it would have been all lies.
“I’m gonna get another beer,” you say, fidgeting with the one you’re holding, still nearly half full. “You want one?” Stacey shakes her head, isn’t looking at you, so you push off the pool table and walk over to the bar.
She probably thinks you’re one of those girls that just wants and needs the attention of every man in the room, even if nothing will ever come of it. You lean against the bar, order, turn over the feeling in your mind. But that’s not what it is. There’s plenty of men whose attention you could not care less about. Most of them, actually. But not Sam’s and not Dean’s. You think about how hard you want to try to convince Stacey of the difference, make her understand, feel a little bad when you realize how little you care.
“Having a nice night?”
You flinch, the voice too close to your ear for comfort. When you spin around, you see it’s Eddie, leaning in, loose smile on his lips. You narrow your eyes at him. You want to look past him, see where Sam is, but force the urge down. Clench your jaw.
“It’s okay,” you say, and Eddie straightens, nods. His lids are low, and something about him reminds you of the boys you knew in church. Cousins and neighbors and some of them walked around with something sour and acidic just below the surface. Like they were just waiting for something to allow them to hurt or push or rip, to put their hands around a throat. They were hungry for it. Eddie gives you that same impression.
“So how’d you hook up with these two anyway?” he asks, one hand going out and leaning against the edge of the bar, bringing him closer to you. You hear clinking behind you, probably your beer being served, but there is no way you are turning your back on this man.
“We grew up together,” you say, unwilling to go into more detail, to reveal yourself and the boys to him at all. Eddie smirks, then leans in a little further, and you feel the hair rising on the back of your neck, the twitch in your fingers that makes you want to push him away.
“One of them your first?” he asks. And you open your mouth, not sure what will come out of it, not sure if maybe you won’t reach behind you and bring that fresh bottle down on Eddie’s head. Which is when you hear Stacey’s shrill voice.
“What the fuck!?” she screeches, and Eddie turns and you look past him. “What the hell is wrong with you, you pervert!”
She’s yelling at Dean, that much is clear. You just see her pull her hands back from where they were on his shoulders, his still on her hips, his face confused in a way that would be hilarious if the entire bar didn’t go quiet at that very moment, turn its attention that way. She pushes herself off Dean, takes a step back, his hands finally dropping to his sides. You see him swallow, and he’s aware enough of his surroundings that he looks around, confirming that he has an audience.
Eddie pushes off the bar, and when you look at the side of his face, you see the righteous fury there. Because they can say whatever shit they want, but of course he’s the picture of chivalry when it comes to his cousin.
“The fuck did you say to her, motherfucker?” Eddie barks, spittle flying out of his mouth, and Dean raises his hands, defensively.
“It’s all good,” he says, “just a misunderstanding.”
You see Sam then. He’s standing a few feet away from Dean, on his own, but you see the way he slowly edges closer, but so is one of Eddie’s friends, slowly and you can’t stop yourself when you say: “Dean!”
Eddie whips around, looks at you. Anger and then confusion on his face.
“Dean?” he says, looking back. “Who the fuck is Dean?”
Dean looks you right in the face, shrugs, and then all hell breaks loose.
Sam goes for the guy sneaking up on Dean, and Dean goes for Eddie. Or rather, the other way around, because Eddie sprints at Dean. But Dean is ready.
His forehead collides with Eddie’s face and he is propelled backwards, but you still see the blood spurting down his nose. Dean is moving towards you a second later, and then he’s grabbing your hand as he starts dragging you towards the door. You turn your head, quickly, but Sam shows up on your other side. You grab for his hand, his fingers intertwining with yours and you’re moving, all three of you, not sure who’s leading who.
You see some of the other men get up in the wake of the attack on Eddie. One of them moves quicker than the others and when you turn, he has the bottle he was drinking from raised over his head, ready to strike. You call out Sam’s name, but he already has his arm raised, the bottle shattering, splinters on Sam’s jacket, and then he pulls his shoulder back and decks the guy. Dean drags you further, and then the three of you are bursting out of the bar, running towards the Impala.
The gravel under your feet is loud, the sun down and the moon up by now. You reach the car, Dean not letting go of you but rather shoving you in on the driver’s side. You scoot over as quickly as you can, but then Sam’s opening the passenger door, climbing in beside you. He grabs you around the waist, pulls you against him, just as Dean gets in, pulls the door closed behind him and another bottle shatters somewhere on the side of the car.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice tense and you look up to see Eddie, only a stone’s throw away, lower half of his face covered in blood, three of his crew behind him. Something gleams in his hand and you see it’s a gun.
Dean must see it too, because he turns the key in the ignition, and for a second you’re sure the car won’t start, that you will all be shot and killed right here. But then the engine turns over and Dean steps on the gas so hard gravel goes flying everywhere, the car jerking forward just as a shot rings through the night. Dean maneuvers the car off the lot when the second shot sounds, but it’s far behind you now.
The car skids to the side for a moment but then you’re on the road. Dean whoops loudly, and you give him an unbelieving stare, but then you can feel and hear Sam laughing behind you.
“Jesus Christ,” he says and Dean is grinning broadly, and you feel it spread over your face as well as you shake your head. Dean turns to you, and you lean forward.
“You’re bleeding,” you say, running your hand up to his cheek, the closeness to him making the touch feel natural. Dean looks into the rearview mirror, then wipes his hand over his forehead. It’s a small cut from the impact with Eddie’s nose.
“All good,” he says, and then he reaches over and squeezes your leg.
“But, dude,” Sam is saying as he’s climbing out of the car. “Neal?”
Your head is leaned back over the bench from laughing at Sam’s teasing, but when he reaches his hand out for you to grab it, let him pull you out of the car. Dean throws his door closed, the flask he pulled from his glove box that you have all been drinking from on the drive back to the trailer raised to his lips again. He shakes his head, and you walk around the car, Sam behind you, his hands on your hips, staying close, and take the flask from Dean. You see the glimmer where his lip is still wet from the booze, look at it while you drink, Sam crowding in close.
The three of you were squished into that front seat, laughing and howling, and now you don’t want to be apart. Your hand was roaming Sam’s thigh, his crotch for a second, hidden in the darkness of the night but also, completely obvious. Dean’s hand stayed close to your naked thigh, his knuckles brushing your skin occasionally. At one point, Sam leaned over to push Dean’s shoulder when he said something especially stupid, and it pushed you against Dean, with Sam covering your other side, and you’re pretty sure you nearly went dumb.
Dean widens his arms, now that his hands are free.
“Neal Schon?” he asks, and Sam scoffs. “Lead guitarist for Journey? God, you two are so uncultured.” You pass the flask to Sam who takes a long sip, grimaces, but there’s that soft flush to his cheeks he gets. You must be looking at him intently, because he drags you back against him.
“Just not the name I’d pick for a girl to, y’know,” Sam says, and you turn your head, look up at him, and he seems shy, except the way he’s pressing against you isn’t shy at all.
“To moan?” you finish for him, and he sputters, the laughter moving his body, but he is downright grinding against you. You have one hand on the hood of the car, your head just a little fuzzy from the drink, the heat of the metal from the motor running pleasurable, the body heat of Sam and Dean so close even more so. You lean your head back against Sam’s chest, look at Dean. He’s studying you in a way that makes you dizzy.
“Can’t be worse than moaning Dean,” you say, your tongue playing along your lips, not sure if you should, not sure if it’s smart. You hear Sam chuckle behind you, and Dean raises his chin, lips parted, and your eyes go to them.
“You did pretty well, all things considered,” he says and you press your ass back against Sam, wish his hand was between your legs. Your chest is heaving and Dean’s eyes go there and Sam must see, must know, but he’s not saying anything or giving any indication that he minds this.
“Pretty well?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “That name never sounded better.” And Sam laughs and his hands wander up from your hips, finger tips brushing the underside of your tits, and Dean leans in, breathing hard too.
“Oh really?” he says, and then Sam’s lips are pressing against the shell of your ear.
“Prove it,” he whispers, breath hot on your skin.
You push yourself away from Sam and run.
You’re not totally sure why you do it, just that this already feels like a chase. A chase you want to end with you getting caught, and when you hear Sam and Dean’s thundering footsteps behind you, you know they have the same intention.
They must be going slow or giving you a head start, because you make it to the trailer, key pushed in and then throw the door open, without them catching you. You stop in front of the bed, and turn.
Sam gets to you first, hands grabbing you as he lifts you. You wrap your legs around him but he’s already dropping down on the bed, one arm going out to cushion your fall, and once your back is on the mattress, his hands go to your ribs. You squeal, laugh, head thrown back, fists pummeling Sam’s arms half-heartedly.
As if the two of them communicate without words again, Sam moves, grabs for your wrists, hold soft and you could tear yourself from him, but you don’t want to. He moves up the bed and then suddenly Dean is there, taking Sam’s place.
Your legs drop open, and Dean slots between them the way he first did when you were seventeen, in that dusty room at Bobby’s house. His fingertips are at your ribs now, Sam holding you down, and the laughter in your throat cracks. You turn your head, face pressed against your arm, stretched above you from Sam’s hold, and you moan loudly.
You’re not sure if the way Dean grabs your thighs, hard, desperately, as if he needs to steady himself, is intentional, but you know the way he presses the bulge in his jeans against your own center can’t be. He makes a strangled noise.
“Fuck,” he groans, the sound coming from deep in his throat. Your eyes have closed, but you blink them open. See Dean there, and then your eyes wander up, but Sam’s already looking at you. His pupils are wide, and it makes his eyes look almost black. You watch him inhale, let the air out slowly. He lowers himself, his breath on your face, lips brushing your cheek with the tip of his nose against your jaw.
“It’s okay,” he says, more air than sound. “I want you to.” He mouths at your skin, then pulls back again. You look at Dean, who’s been watching the exchange, focused, like you can’t feel his erection through his jeans, like it doesn’t feel like he’s one thrust away from entering you. He licks his lips, looks down at you.
Reason does not prevail.
Dean’s lips crash against yours, your head raised, his lowered, and your eyes stay open just long enough to see the way his eyebrows furrow, almost like he’s in pain. You lick into his mouth quickly, and he presses his tongue against yours, not moving, just pressure, just feeling and tasting before he detaches from you, tilts his head the other way, and kisses you again.
Your head is swimming, the almost déjà vu of kissing Dean, familiarity paired with strangeness, making you gasp. You can still feel Sam close by, feel his fingers leave your wrists. They skate the back of your neck, your shoulder, and you’re sure you’re about to wake up, because any world where you get to have both of them has to be a dream.
Dean breaks the kiss, rocks himself against you and you open your eyes, look into his. That startling green, and the way he looks at you feels new and old at the same time. He looks at you the way he did on Bobby’s couch, when you were still new to him, not a reminder of his inability to make a decision, or someone he knew he was bound to disappoint again. He swallows, hard, throws a brief look over your head at Sam. He looks down at you again, and you know whatever he saw on his brother’s face hasn’t led him to believe he should stop.
He kisses you again, his hips moving as he grinds against you, into you and you moan into his opened mouth. It makes him look at you as he grabs your thighs to keep you in place, rubbing himself over you, but there’s too many layers, too much distance. Your hands go to his arms, just holding, searching for a moment, then to your front. Open the button of your shorts.
Dean leans back, lets you move, then helps you pull them off. As he drags them down your legs, you use the opportunity to look up at Sam again. He’s watching you, the echo of a smile on his lips. When he notices you watching him, he lowers his head, presses his forehead against yours.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.” You kiss him in return. Mumble it back against his lips.
You break the kiss when you hear the clink of Dean’s belt. He’s kneeling between your legs, opening it. His fingers are quickly opening his jeans, then he pushes them down. It makes you chuckle, and when Sam kisses your temple, you feel the grin on his lips too.
“He’s in a hurry,” he says, and you laugh, but it turns into another moan when you feel Sam’s palm run over your breast, squeeze it once before he manages to find your nipple through your shirt, pinches it. “Not that I can blame him.”
“Damn charmer,” you say, your voice sounding cracked, your lids heavy and Sam grins, twists your nipple again and in the same moment, kisses you, endlessly gentle. Then he looks into your eyes, runs the tip of his nose over yours. “Speaking of sucking, you want me to…?” You nod in the direction of his crotch, but Sam shakes his head.
“I just wanna watch for a bit,” he says. “Is that okay?” You nod. God, the thought of it, of Sam watching Dean fuck you. The love of it, you think. You kiss him once more just as Dean gets between your legs again. His jeans and underwear are gone, his t-shirt tucked halfway up but then seemingly abandoned. His cock is hard, standing before him, tip just a little flushed. You push your underwear down with one hand and Dean helps you take them off.
“You don’t waste any time,” you say as you push your foot against Dean’s chest, run it up over his soft skin, making the fabric of the shirt fall over it. Dean reaches for it, squeezes your foot before he brings it up to his face, kisses the side of it and you squeal and laugh from the way it tickles, hear Sam chuckle. Dean’s gaze wanders to between your legs where you’re all spread out and open for him.
“You just seem ready, s’all,” he says, and you know he’s not wrong. Sam slowly lets his hand wander from your breast down between your legs. He needs to shuffle lower, lie more next to you to do it, but when his fingertips draw a barely-there circle over you and you shiver in response, you’re glad for it, because you can grab his shoulder, bore your fingers into it.
“Oh God,” you say, your back arching as Sam draws another circle, and another. You feel yourself flutter and when Sam’s hand moves lower and the pads of his fingers outline your entrance, you groan.
“Don’t be such a tease,” you complain, and both brothers laugh. Dean drags his fingers over your thigh, still in his hold, and you can feel the impatience under his touch.
“You heard the lady, Sam,” he says, tongue dancing behind his teeth. Sam presses his face against the side of your neck, and you hear the low chuckle that rumbles through him at his brother’s desperate demeanor. He dips two fingers into you, and it’s like you touch a live wire, that’s how much your body shudders. Sam raises his head, looks into your eyes, and a moment later his fingers are at your mouth, pressing against your lips. You part them, and then you’re sucking his middle and ring finger into your mouth up to the second knuckle. Sam curses, and Dean groans, uses the opportunity to shuffle closer. You feel him bob against you. You drop your legs open wider, Dean remaining on his knees rather than leaning over you and just as he begins pressing into you, you close your eyes to feel it all.
It’s like the world folding in on itself. Like someone snipping a finger and it all making sense. You’d chide yourself for getting so philosophical over a dick and a pair of fingers, but it’s the truth. It’s like what you attempted, were hoping for, on Sam’s birthday. Except this is it. This is what it was supposed to be. This is right, and there is no need to choose, and no need to pick, or to limit yourself. It’s right. It’s right.
Sam’s hand wanders back between your legs eventually. His touch makes you cry out and clench, and Dean throws back his head, eyes squeezed shut and moaning loudly, while his hips keep rolling. Sam keeps kissing you, his lips seemingly unable to leave you.
They work together to make you come. Dean fucking you, his hips snapping, his cock setting you on fire until your thighs are twitching. Sam rubbing you, nipping at your neck and earlobe and panting into your ear, like an anchor at high sea. You feel the frayed edge of your orgasm, feel it roar towards you, and you don’t understand the sounds you make between the squelch of where Dean is entering you and the way your and Sam’s tongues dance.
You drop your head back, your neck tensed. It feels like every single muscle in your body is stretched and your brain explodes into white light. Any other moment, you’d laugh at that description. But not right then.
Right then, one hand clawing into Dean’s lower arm, and one gripping the hair at the back of Sam’s head, a single tear dislodges from your eye, runs up over your forehead and into your hair. You’re not crying, but your spendings are all over. Baptized, maybe, but that feels like saying too much.
Light. Just light. And safety, with your two men.
Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:
You open your mouth to answer when there’s a knock on the door. It opens a second later.
“Hey,” Dean says. “Is there coffee?”
He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you and Sam. Drops his hands, chin going up.
“Bad timing?” he asks, like it’s all nothing, like this is just a normal morning, but then he grins. Looks down immediately, controls his expression, but he doesn’t quite manage. You hide your face against Sam’s chest, chuckle.
“Uhm,” you say, and Sam brings one hand up to your neck, holds you against him.
“There’s coffee,” you hear him say. You peer past him at Dean, watch as he moves around the two of you as Sam absentmindedly plays with your hair.
Thank you for reading! ♡
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Early seasons Dean being tortured by how much he isn't like John makes me hoooorny.
And then, later, he fully becomes him, but no one ever says, "well done, dean," or, "you really turned into your old man, dean". Because they've all understood that that's not something good by then.
Instead they are all kinda put off by him.
They talk behind his back. "He's drinking again?," "I'd say something, but you know how he gets," "he hasn't slept. He hasn't showered."
They're scared of him.
And Dean's finally become John, but it's cost him everything.
What about people who use AI for fic inspo? Is that the same as using it to write the thing?
I have already answered this question many times before. here and here are my most recent answers about this question.
but no, regardless of how you feel about ai, saying “using ai for fic inspo is the same as using ai to write fics” is the same as saying “using tumblr prompts for fic inspo is the same as having the person who comes up with the prompt write your fic for you” and that makes no sense.
The thing is, there are hundreds of prompt lists everywhere on the internet. You don't NEED AI to "give you inspo". If you're looking for prompts, type "fanfic prompts" into Google and feast your eyeballs on beautifully curated lists with prompts you wouldn't have thought of in a million years. And it's probably not adding quite as much to the destruction of the planet. Weehee!
If you're asking AI "what should I make this character do", or "how should this plot continue", then that will already use other writers' fics that have been fed into it. And that's stealing.
Feel free to throw tomatoes at me and call me ableist, but I think a pretty essential part of being a writer is developing your own ideas. That doesn't mean you have to reinvent the wheel every time (literally impossible). But if you're not coming up with your own plot, character development and scenes then, sorry, what's the point?
"You meet Sam and Dean Winchester on a hot summer afternoon when you’re seven. You don’t know it yet, but they will become the most important part of your life."
WARNINGS
This story is Sam x reader x Dean, as well as Dean x reader and Sam x reader.
Specific warnings can be found on the individual chapters, but here are some general ones I found important to mention ahead of time.
Neglectful parents. Referenced sexual abuse. Polyamory. Heartbreak. Pregnancy & child birth. Explicit sexual content.
A NOTE ON CANON DIVERGENCE
I've taken some big liberties with canon (I hardly know her) that will become apparent while reading, but here is the gist of it:
Mary Campbell makes a deal for her lover's life with a cross-roads demon and is killed by it ten years later. John goes on the hunt for the demon and takes his infant and toddler sons with him. Sam isn't fed demon blood. The brothers aren't the warriors chosen by heaven and hell to fight an apocalyptic battle.
They are just boys, not loved enough or not the right way. Rough around the edges.
They spend their summers at Bobby Singer's house in Sioux Falls. This is where they meet you.
PARTS & CHAPTER OVERVIEW
New chapters on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
PROLOGUE - If only things could be like this forever
PART I masterlist
PART II masterlist
PART III masterlist
PART IV masterlist
PART V masterlist
I want to thank @kblognar for their amazing help with this fic, for getting my head straight when I went down the rabbit hole and for loving the bbys probably nearly as much as I do. I also want to thank @ambiguous-avery @aniresrene @bettystonewell @jollyreads @aseafullofstars, all of who I have yapped at about this and who have been there to support and help! This was two years in the making and I am ready for this baby to see the world.❤️
CWs Explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, handjobs, cunnilingus). Jealousy.
5.8k words
Masterlist | Previous chapter | Next chapter
The door to the trailer swings open, and you and Sam peer inside. There’s a small kitchen to the right, a little bit of counter space and a microwave. Behind that must be a bathroom, a white, opaque sliding door hiding it from view. To the left, a broad bed, stripped to the mattress. You take another look around, then press your lips together.
“So,” you start, “when you said more privacy–”
“I did,” Dean interrupts. You turn your head. He’s crowding in behind you and Sam, peering into the trailer as well, a proud look on his face. “You two can have your little love nest in here, and I’ll sleep in the car.” You frown.
“Couldn’t you have done that the whole time if you wanted?” you point out, but it’s Sam that shakes his head.
“Not in town,” he says. “You’re gonna have someone call the cops. Small towners hate vagrants.” You push out your bottom lip, nod. Dean looks down at you, must see the doubt in your expression, because he clicks his tongue.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s my favorite place to sleep.”
You huff, look up at Sam. His hands are in his pocket, and he has a distant smile on his lips. He clearly doesn’t mind the extra bit of privacy.
“How did you find this place again?” you ask as the three of you walk back towards the cars, wrapping your arms around yourself. August has turned into October, and while the days are still warm, the nights carry a chill.
“Guy I worked a case with while Sam over there was enjoying higher education and co-eds,” Dean says, and Sam throws him an annoyed look. “He comes out here to do mushrooms and howl at the moon, or something.” You look around, bring your hand up over your eyes.
Nothing but desert, as wide as you can see, even though you know there’s a highway not far from here. The isolation is both beautiful and scary.
“And he said we can stay as long as we want?” Sam asks. He walks up to the back of the Ford, takes his duffel and your bag. You hold your hand out and he demonstratively swings it over his shoulder instead. You roll your eyes in mock frustration, and Sam grins.
“So how long do you think until they seriously stop looking?” you ask. Dean’s just closing the Impala’s door. He grimaces.
“Depends on how serious the good people of Walsenburg take grave robbery,” he says, and you chuckle. Dean throws you a smirk.
“Technically it wasn’t even grave robbery,” Sam says, and you turn to him. “Desecration, yeah, maybe. But we didn’t actually take anything.”
“Okay, lawyer boy,” Dean huffs. You shake your head.
“I don’t think they care about that particular difference,” you point out, and both brothers shrug.
You walk in ahead of Sam, into the shade of the trailer. Look around. It’s not so bad. Some cleaning, maybe some decorating, and the place could look almost homey. Sam walks in, needing to duck his head. You grin at him.
“You gonna be okay in here?” you ask. He drops the bags at the foot of the bed and you walk up to him, bring your hands up and smooth them over the back of his head. “”Are we gonna need to find you a helmet?” Sam smiles, wraps his arms around you.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, then looks around too. “You like it?” You nod, run your hands over his shoulders.
“It’s good,” you say. “Let’s get settled.”
It’s later in the evening. You shower, the water pressure weak, and you have to clean the bathroom first, a layer of dust and a couple dead bugs gracing the place. Now you’re unpacking. Sam is putting clean sheets on the bed when there’s a knock.
“You decent?” you hear Dean call, and he opens the door at the same time, steps in. He gives a dirty chuckle. “Rhetorical question.” You throw the shirt you just picked out of your bag at him, and he groans like you seriously hit him before unfolding it. It’s a white, short one, and he wiggles his eyebrows at Sam.
“You let your girl walk around in this?” he asks, and Sam rolls his eyes while Dean haphazardly folds the shirt, hands it back to you as he walks over. “Come on outside, I wanna show you both something.”
“Is it a really big animal turd?” Sam asks, lips pinched. You giggle.
“Is it a cactus shaped like a penis?” you ask, and Sam snorts. Dean raises his eyebrows, looks between you and Sam.
“You two joke all you want,” he says. “You’re not gonna want to miss this.”
You grab one of your shirts before you step out, put it on against the desert evening chill you felt earlier. Dean tells Sam to turn off the light in the trailer before coming outside, and you assume it’s because of the bugs, so you don’t pay it any mind.
In front of the trailer, Dean has gathered together stones and some wood - a small makeshift campfire. Two camping chairs that were stored in the trailer are set up around it, as well as an upturned wooden box with Dean’s cooler from the Impala next to it. You smile.
“That’s sweet,” you say, and mean it. “We should have gotten stuff for s’mores.” Dean looks at you, then down at his work, then back at you. Grins.
“Taken care of,” he says, and you tilt your head to the side. “But that’s not the main act.” You look at Sam, who frowns, is also looking at his brother. When Dean doesn’t say anything, clearly enjoying the suspense, Sam widens his arms.
“What is it, dude?” he says with a chuckle. Dean doesn’t give it away for another second. Then he looks up. You follow his gaze, confused. And then you see it too.
The sun is going down, the sky already turning dark, a strip of pink and red lining the horizon. But the stars are out. Hundreds. Thousands. You take a stuttering breath.
It’s beautiful. It’s big and wide and endless, and you feel yourself dancing on the precipice between awe and sadness. Grief, because for some reason, the night sky does that.
You look down again, at Dean, give him a soft smile.
“Definitely cool,” you say. Dean returns the smile, then looks away. Motions towards the two chairs before he leans down and goes for the cooler. Sam and you throw each other a look, then sit in the chairs.
“So, what is this?” Sam asks, wiseass tone and expression, as Dean resurfaces with cans of beer. He walks over, hands one to you, one to Sam. They’re perfectly cold, and Dean opens his immediately, but doesn’t drink.
“It’s a, you know,” he says, motioning towards the trailer and the general vicinity with his drink. “A house warming party, or whatever.” Sam pulls the corners of his mouth down.
“Aren’t they supposed to be bigger?” he asks. “Or actually inside the house?” Dean shrugs.
“I don’t know,” he says as you look down to open your own can. “Never had one.” When you look up again, Sam and Dean are both looking at you. You’ve raised the can, but stop it just short of your lips.
“I’ve never had one either,” you say, eyebrows going up. “I was broke and didn’t know anybody when I left Sioux Falls.” Sam scoffs.
“So none of us know what we’re doing?” he asks, and you chuckle. Dean smacks his lips.
“Nah,” he says. “We’re just doing it our own way.” Sam throws you another look, a mischievous grin on his lips, then looks at his brother again.
“Alright, to– ah, come on!” Sam interrupts himself as he opens his can while talking, and a bunch of foam runs over his fingers. Sam quickly holds the can away from himself, but the way Dean cackles makes you wonder if he didn’t shake it a little before handing it to him.
“To the future,” you say, taking over. Sam’s still wiping at his pants, but looks at you, and so does Dean. It makes you feel a little self-conscious, but you shake your head to dislodge it. “And to, uhm, to doing things the way we want to do them. Always.”
The boys cheers you, and you chuckle, just a little embarrassed, before taking a long sip. Dean decides it’s a good idea to down the entire can, then belches, which Sam makes a face at.
It feels so much like that day in the woods when you and the brothers went shooting. Sam and you screaming at the trees, and Dean told you he wanted to kiss you that evening, but that he couldn’t take you with him on the road. How impossible it seemed then that you would ever get what you wanted.
You take another sip, quickly. Sam is complaining about how gross Dean is, and you watch them, something deep and wide and beautiful like the night sky in your heart.
“So,” Dean says, poking at the fire again with the long branch he found god knows where. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”
You lower your can, no longer your first, and not even your second, and look at Dean across the fire. He’s studying you, sitting leaned back against the cooler, legs extended.
“Is what like I thought it would be?” you ask. Dean raises his chin.
“Hunting.”
You look down into the flames to think. Take what you thought life on the road with Sam and Dean would be like when you were eleven and locked in your basement, and turn it over against the light of the fire - see where it’s peeled off and where it’s kept its shine.
“It’s scarier than I thought it would be,” you say, the words out of you before you’ve had time to decide you want to say them.
“Scarier?” Sam asks. You turn to the side, look at him. With the way his head is turned towards you, half his face is in shadow, the other in light.
“Like the fact that someone always nearly gets killed,” you continue. Sam chuckles and Dean scoffs, and you roll your eyes at them. “It’s true!”
“So Sam got a little banged up,” Dean says. “It happens. The ghosts like him. Especially the elderly ladies” Sam raises his arm, throws his empty beer can at Dean. He dodges it, Sam’s aim, you assume, purposefully off, reaches into the cooler and throws him another one underhand.
“Well, there was also the ghoul that nearly bit you,” you point out, nodding at Dean. “And the rugaru that nearly bit me.” Dean chuckles.
“Looks like there’s a theme there,” he says, winks at you. “We’re biteable. Meanwhile Sammy’s just getting old lady-ghosted.” You tut, look at Sam.
“I think he’s very biteable,” you say and Sam laughs, raises his eyebrows at his brother.
“I’ll take her word over yours,” he says, all sass. “No offense, man.” Dean scoffs. Sam looks at you again, extends his hand, palm up. You reach out and lay yours in his, smile at him.
It’s quiet for a moment, only the crackle of the fire in the air, and then you hear Dean move. You turn your head, watch him stand. He downs his can, sniffs, crushes and then tosses it.
“Fun as it is hanging out with you love birds,” he says, something about his casualness forced, “if you don’t mind, I saw a bar in town when we were driving through. And I need a real drink.” Sam watches his brother, pushes his tongue into his cheek
“You good to drive?” you ask, letting go of Sam. You get up, and Dean gives you a nod.
“Sure thing,” he says. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulls out his keys. “Don’t wait up, kids.” Then he’s walking towards the Impala, waves once over his shoulder without looking back.
You look after him, beer can still in your hand. You hear Sam move behind you, then feel his arms wrap around you.
“Is he okay?” you ask, voice quiet, pressing your head against the side of Sam’s jaw. He presses back.
“I think so,” he says, then moves so that his lips are against your temple. “Maybe he just needs a break from us.” You press your lips together, try not to wonder why Dean would need a break from you two.
“Yeah, maybe,” you reply. The Impala revs up, drives off, its lights illuminating the dirt road that leads back to the main road. Sam wraps his arms tighter around you.
“How about you?” he asks, voice low, his breath fanning over your cheek. “You alright?” You lean back against him and Sam presses himself closer, ghosts his lips over the shell of your ear.
“Mmh,” you say. “This is certainly nice.” Sam chuckles, a deep, erotic sound, and you turn your head as far as you can, press your nose against his neck.
“Yeah?” Sam breathes, his touching becoming more intentional.
“Yeah,” you reply, your nose and head filled with the closeness of Sam. “Plus, we got a house to warm.”
“Oh, fuck,” you pant, your hands still on Sam’s stomach, strong and taught under you as you roll your hips. “Oh, God, oh, baby–”
You drop back, your back against Sam’s chest. He’s sitting slightly elevated by the pillows you didn’t push off the bed, his hands on your waist to help you while you ride him, but with how close you are to coming it feels like your body is locking.
Sam’s arms go around you, big, strong hands that set you on fire everywhere they touch you. One of them wanders down to between your legs, just over where he is driving into you, now with the movement of his own hips. His other goes up, and his fingertips press gently against the underside of your jaw, his hand spanning your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, tipping your head back as he starts rubbing you hard and fast.
You keep moaning, his name and yes and fuck and don’t stop, and when you come you arch up so hard it feels like your spine will snap in two. Your mouth rips open as your vision blurs, but Sam doesn’t stop, keeps working his fingers over your swollen center as he grunts against your neck, and his bicep bulges against your arm.
A cracked cry finally breaks out of your throat, your hands flailing as you try to find purchase, and it makes Sam stop, slow his thrusts. He rests his hand over you instead, his heavy breathing loud in your ear, blood roaring in your head from the way it’s tipped back over Sam’s shoulder.
“Jesus,” you whimper as you can feel your fluttering slowly die down, your hands coming to rest on Sam’s arms. “Oh God.” Sam’s hand pets your throat as you wait for your heartbeat to quiet.
“I wish I could see your face when you come like that,” Sam whispers against your throat, giving it a gentle kiss, then another one, rolling just a little against you, enough to make your toes curl.
“Maybe we need a mirror,” you mumble, turning your head towards him, and Sam chuckles against you. He sighs as he presses his hips up slowly, slipping all the way into you, before gently retreating again. It makes you shiver.
“Or a camera,” he says and you bite your lips, lids still low.
“Sam,” you moan, “you’re gonna kill me.” Sam laughs, then wraps his arms around you and rolls you to the side with him.
He’s slow, gentle, and when you wind up on your front, his hand goes to your hip, pressing you down into the mattress. He pushes into you again and your hands fist the sheets under you, your cheek pressed against the mattress.
“If you wanna see my face, it might help to turn me around,” you mumble with a grin, but quickly your eyebrows shoot together as Sam pulls out, pushes in again. His hand finds a fistful of your ass, squeeze it.
“And miss out on this?” he asks, making you give a fucked-out giggle.
He picks up his rhythm, breathing hard, still squeezing your skin, and you can tell he is close too by the way deep sounds travel up from his throat. They always sound involuntary, like he can’t stop himself, their deepness making the air around you vibrate, and you love them.
“Fuck,” he says after a minute, then pulls out. “Let me see your face.”
He grabs for your hips, fumbling, then makes room when you turn yourself around under him, not graceful exactly but eager. You bring your legs up, then wrap them around him. Sam’s over you, big and close and unfettered the way he gets, all urgency and need. You collect some spit in your mouth, lead your fingers to your lips and then down to Sam’s cock. He’s wet with your release, and you wrap your fingers around him, tight, just that little bit south of comfortable, the way you’ve discovered he likes it.
He shudders in your grasp, and you begin stroking him, hard and maybe too quick, and it makes a beautiful expression spread on his face, needy and pained and so, so desperate.
“You wanna look at my face?” you ask, hand still moving fast. “You wanna come on my face, too?” Sam grunts, seems to almost need to concentrate to be able to talk. You see the muscles of his stomach twitch.
“No, inside,” he grunts. “Inside, baby.” Your lips part, and you nod, go faster and Sam presses close, his balls rubbing against you, and then his hand flies down, grabs for himself, and you let go. Sam takes himself in his hand and strokes quickly, expertly, before lining up, just as the first spurt of come lands on your lower stomach, pushes into you again.
He drops forward, his face going into the crook of your neck, as he whines loudly and continues grinding into you. You wrap your arms around him, moaning too at his insistent movement, run your fingernails over his back and he shudders in your hold. After two or three more lazy thrusts, he stills, his body relaxing.
You close your eyes, press your cheek against Sam’s and both of you doze while he softens inside you. Your fingertips trail the patterns of his back - muscles and scars, a few scattered moles.
After a few minutes, he presses himself up on his elbows with a groan, and when his face and messy hair come into view, you throw your head back and laugh. Sam grins, dips down to kiss you. You cup his face with your hands, look at him.
“I love you so much,” you say, your thumb going to the beauty mark next to his nose, running over it. Sam’s smile softens, and he kisses you again, sweet and all lips.
“I love you,” he mutters against you. He pulls his head back, looks at you, then pecks your lips, three times in quick succession. You laugh, poke him in the sides and he flinches. You press against him, but Sam won’t budge.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, face dipping low again and this kiss is different, deeper. His lips brush over yours. “Not done with you.” His mouth moves over your cheek and to your jaw, and a small moan escapes you.
“I have to pee,” you say, then squeal as Sam nips at you. He raises his head again, groans playfully to let you know he’d rather stay right where he is. He pushes up, slips out of you, and sits at the edge of the bed, rolls his shoulders. You sit up, lean in to kiss his shoulder and neck in quick succession, then get up, hurry to the bathroom, hand cupped over your pussy so nothing of Sam’s ends up on the floor.
When you come out again, Sam’s just tossing a few paper towels into the trash. He stands in the middle of the room, naked, moonlight from the small window over the kitchen sink painting his body. His head nearly brushes the ceiling of the trailer. You’ve slid the door to the bathroom open, your hand on the frame as you look at him.
“What?” he says, a grin spreading on his face. He moves a little, turns on the faucet, cups his hand under the water and leads it to his mouth, then does it again. He turns the water off, straightens. Sniffs and runs his wet hand through his hair before he looks at you again.
He looks like a god. He looks like he's yours.
You don’t answer. Instead you walk over to him, eyes on his face the whole time. Sam’s face turns serious and when you reach out to pull him down towards you, he’s already following.
He kisses you, but quickly his hands go to your waist as he lowers himself. You do a little hop when he lifts you and places you on the narrow kitchen counter. He begins kissing his way down your body immediately, licking and sucking, and your hands tangle in his hair as your back presses against the glass of the window, the slight coolness contrasted with the heat of Sam’s touching making you moan.
Sam eats you out ferociously until he gets hard again. You don’t hear the Impala return.
The trailer gets stuffy at night.
That’s the first thing you notice when you wake up the next morning - sunshine already illuminating the room, both through the skylight as well as the window Sam fucked you against. You didn’t close the curtain after the two of you moved back to bed. Hence the sunlight.
Your cheek is against Sam’s arm, the soft skin of it, and when you move your head, your neck cracks. You fell asleep intertwined, despite the already building warmth not wanting an inch of distance between each other, but it means you’re gonna have a kink in your neck for the next few hours.
You begin moving away, slowly, carefully. You’ve rarely managed to leave Sam’s hold without him waking up. As you scoot away from him, he rolls after you, hand still on your side before it slips off. He mutters something into the pillow and you turn, suppress a grin. His eyes stay closed.
You slept naked, one of the privileges of no longer sharing a room with Dean. Sex at all hours of the day is another, although you’re pretty sure Dean has yet to learn the actual purpose of knocking. After you pull your sleepshirt over your head and grab some underwear from a small built-in shelf, you walk over to the kitchen window.
The Impala’s there, so Dean came back at some point. The black metal is dusty and the rear window facing the trailer has a black t-shirt tucked into the slit to block out the sun and allow Dean to sleep in. It must have been a late night for him.
You crack the window and begin making coffee. Quietly, so as not to wake Sam, but also something feels holy about this time of day, especially with everyone else still asleep. At your grandfather’s house, everyone woke up early, sleeping in considered a sign of tardiness, but it just meant you had to spend more time around everyone. The quiet during breakfast wasn’t comfortable, or beautiful, like this morning is. It was tense. A false look or word could get everyone to turn against you.
But not here. Not in the life you plan to build with Sam. Mornings will be slow when they can be. Chatting over breakfast, planning for the day. As the coffee starts percolating, you imagine a little mix of him and you, sitting across from you at the table. Telling you what they’re going to get up to today at school. Maybe another one on the way, or already in a high chair.
You take a deep breath to break yourself out of your thoughts. Reach for a cup and pour yourself a coffee. Sip at it.
Life on the road has been strange, but you can’t deny the thrill of it. No job to wake up to in the morning, Dean’s credit card scams paying for your lodging and food. Adventure and danger when you find a case, even though you’ve panicked more than once. Saw Sam or Dean lying dead on the floor, felt the loss only to realize a second later they were fine. Can’t be good for your heart, you joke to yourself as you take another sip.
For now, you want to enjoy this. Not like you and Sam have a concrete plan on how to start your life yet. You can probably find another job in some shop, and Sam - well, Sam is the smartest person you know. He could probably do anything.
And it’s not like you’re in a rush. One thing at a time. Nothing saying you can’t enjoy yourself a little first.
You sniff, then put your cup down, reach for a second and third. Fill one of them, then take it and walk over to the door. Slip on your boots, the leather already having become softer. You open the door, quiet as you can, and step outside.
The skin on your legs breaks out into goosebumps as you walk towards the Impala. You smile as you see a lizard dart behind a rock. You walk up to the car and knock on the window.
“Wakey wakey,” you sing song. You hear movement behind the t-shirt, take a step back so Dean can open the door if he wants to. Instead he pulls down the t-shirt. And he’s not alone.
The young woman is covering most of his naked body and she uses the t-shirt to cover her breasts. You balk for a second, unsure what to do.
“S–sorry,” you stutter. “I didn’t know, uhm–”
Dean moves, winds down the window, and you look to the side when the movement shows plenty of his body. His crotch is against the girl’s hip, and you can only guess they were sleeping on top of each other when you woke them.
“Mornin’,” he says, voice deep and rough. Definitely a long night.
“Good morning!” the girl says. Her make up is a little smeared under her eyes, but her smile is bright and genuine.
“Hi,” you say, pressing your lips together. “I, uh, I got you coffee. Just the one, though.” Dean runs his hand over his face, groans.
“I’ll just, uh,” you say, unsure what to do for a second as Dean moves a little, his hand landing on his hookup’s naked back, thick fingers flexing and you catch sight of some of the hair near the dip of his hips, “just put it up here.”
You place the cup on the roof of the Impala, then turn and walk swiftly back towards the trailer. Coming from this side, you can see a second car parked next to the Ford, just off to the side of the trailer. It’s a newer one, plush dice hanging off the mirror. You shake your head as you open the door and step inside.
Sam’s not in bed anymore, and you can hear the shower running. You walk back over to your coffee. Pick it up, and when you see movement outside, you look up.
Dean’s in the black t-shirt and jeans, the girl in a short dress. He’s walking her over to what must be her car. You take a sip of your coffee. The two are talking, but you can’t make out their words despite the opened window. You watch her twirl on her feet, then sling her arms around Dean’s neck. She kisses him, and Dean’s eyes close and his eyebrows go up. A second later his hands are on her waist.
You put down the coffee cup and walk over to the bed. Shake out the sheets, rearrange the pillows. You straighten, brush your hair out of your face. Put your hands on your hips.
You examine yourself for what you’re feeling. It’s not jealousy, or not exactly. You step from one foot to the other.
Dean’s not yours now, and sometimes it feels like he never fully was. He’s been there with you and Sam, but seeing him like this, hair ruffled from fucking, kissing, touching, the way he might taste like coffee if he’s already taken a sip, the feel of his flaccid penis against your hip, changing at the lightest touching - no, it’s not jealousy you feel heating you up. You chew on your lip.
You’re sure he hasn’t been a monk in the weeks you’ve been on the road, nor in the weeks before that after he disappeared off the face of the earth. But you’ve never seen it. You remember the way you felt when you would sit in your little apartment and wait for him, just praying that he would love you enough to show up again. But you’re not her anymore. You realize it in that moment.
And then you realize something else. There’s no good reason for Dean to bring this girl out here. Actually, it’s more work than probably necessary. You know the way women react to Dean - if he wanted to, she probably would have fucked him in the bathroom of that bar he went to. And letting her stay over? All cramped in the backseat? He didn’t even do that with you, and the old you might have thought he just didn’t love you enough, or you weren’t special enough, but that’s not it. You see it as if someone’s taken the scales off your eyes.
She’s here for you to see. Dean wanted you to see her. You bring your hand up, run your finger across your bottom lip. He wanted to make sure that you knew he fucked someone.
He wanted to make you jealous.
You walk back to your coffee. Top yourself up, take another sip. Stare off at nothing while you think, when there’s a knock.
You look at the door, but it doesn’t open. You wait another second, frown.
“Come in,” you call out. You see the handle move, and then it opens, and Dean is stepping inside.
There’s something about the look on his face that you immediately recognize. He looks the same way he did when he showed up after you and Sam invited him to dinner. Six pack in one hand, flowers in the other, unable to look you in the face. He’s the same way now. Guilty, gaze gliding off you and you narrow your eyes, tilt your head to the side. Study him.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, raising the cup he’s holding but not putting it down.
“No problem,” you reply, leaning with your hip against the counter. “Your friend didn’t want any?” Dean clears his throat.
“She, uh, I didn’t ask,” he says, briefly looking at you, then away again. “She’s kind of a hippie, so maybe she doesn’t drink it, or something.” You raise your chin.
“Right,” you say, nothing else. Let Dean sweat a little in his battle to find something to say. “So, you had a good night?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “She has a roommate, so we didn’t…” Dean clenches his jaw, looks at you fully now.
“You didn’t, what?” you ask. You lick over your bottom lip, hope it hides the look of amusement you can feel dawning on your face at his squirming.
“Well, we couldn’t go to her place,” Dean continues, “and you can’t just park anywhere and… her cousin hangs at the bar, or something, so she asked me to take her somewhere, and…” Dean’s halting sentence comes to an end. You nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say. “Makes sen–”
“I didn’t mean to rub it in, or anything,” Dean says, too quickly, and you purse your lips. He could have fucked that girl on any strip of road between the bar and the trailer. Yet he decided to take her up here, bring her to your front door, like a cat with a dead mouse it thinks makes for a great present.
Didn’t mean to rub it in. Yeah, right.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, shaking your head a little. “I’m sure it was nice to get a break from Sam and me.” Dean huffs, looks down. You hear the shower turn off. Keep standing exactly where you are. Dean clears his throat.
“Gonna take a quick shower,” he says and you nod with a smile. “When Sammy’s done with his hair care.”
You give a well-meaning chuckle, and then you hear Sam open the sliding door behind you. Dean does a weird little nod, then moves past you, puts the cup on the counter and you turn, watch the two.
Sam is in a towel that sits low on his hips, his hair wet and still dripping a little, drops of it on his torso. Dean saunters past him.
“There better be some hot water left,” he admonishes his brother, and Sam scoffs before he moves towards you. At the same time, Dean enters the bathroom. He reaches over his head, pulls his t-shirt up and over and drops it on the floor before facing the mirror, running his fingertips along his chin, maybe to determine if he needs a shave.
You’re watching all of this. Still leaned against the counter, your thumb running over the skin of your arm where you’ve crossed them, and you feel giddy heat build between your legs. You shift, bite down on your tongue because you feel like the movement nearly sends you over the edge.
Sam comes walking over to you, leans down to kiss you. Some of the water still in his hair drops onto your shoulders and you grin at the feeling.
“Good morning,” he says with a smile. You lower your chin, look up at him.
“So far,” you say, letting your voice dip low, and by the slight flare of Sam’s nostrils, you can tell that he can see how you’re feeling. He chuckles, maybe thinking it’s still last night’s glow, then moves past you, his hand running over your arm.
You take another sip of coffee. Grin into the cup. You can just so see Dean’s silhouette behind the bathroom door, and you can hear Sam dropping his towel and getting dressed behind you.
And you think of that night. Both brothers inside of you, their fingers carrying you high. The twin groans and moans, the way you felt so wanted and right.
You press your thighs together. Breathe out slowly.
Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:
“Just don’t want Sammy pulling some stupid white knight bullshit,” he more mumbles than says. He looks at you again, briefly, and when he sees you not rising to the condescension, you see the small twitch of shame on his features.
“Right,” you say, voice level and reasonable. “Cause Sam’s the hot head out of you two.”
As if summoned by your words, you feel Sam’s hand on your back. It sends a small shiver through you, Dean’s eyes still on you, Sam crowding in behind you. You’re not sure if he heard what you and Dean talked about.
“Can you two keep it down?” he hisses out the side of his mouth. “Those guys over there are already staring at us.”
Thank you for reading! ♡
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Don’t mind me , just sliding in here to see if it’s Tuesday yet .
Nope ? Not yet ?
Well okay then.
Well since im already cozy in here , wanted to ask :
What is your favorite trope or genre to write and what’s your least favorite?
Besitos!!
Aww, my love! 🥰
WELL it's Tuesday where I am, just two hours until the new chapter of Sun Bleached Flies, so you made under my bed to my blog just in time!
As for your question: I'm more a scenario gal than a trope gal, but a few will always be fun to me:
Magical shenanigans - amnesia, curses, time travel, alternative universes - anything that puts the story on its head and asks "what if?"
AUs - whether just canon-divergent or a fully different world/genre, it's just so interesting to see how characters would be different if they existed in completely different circumstances
Gender swap - WELL. Do I need to say anything about this? 😄 I guess this could technically count as an AU (or even be part of magical shenanigans if it happens as a result of that), but it's special enough to me to deserve its own mention.
I don't know if there is anything I don't like at all. I think I can see the appeal in pretty much anything, so long as the circumstances are right. Is that cheating? 😄
How about you, @aniresrene? And would also love to hear the answers from some other people (and anyone else who wants to share!): @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @kblognar @aseafullofstars @mellowyellowdaydream @theedaythatnevercomes @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @myceliumsunshine
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Summary Sam Winchester might just be the finest man you’ve ever met. Tall, handsome, with a heart of gold and a boyish smile that makes your heart melt, right along with other parts of you. After a long hunt, you decide to take him with you to your motel room. It’s supposed to be just a hook up, a night of fun.
It turns into so much more.
CWs Sam gets cuffed and edged and turned into a stuttering mess, the way God intended. Hook up turned sexual revelation? Plus a touch of fluff at the end.
18+. 10.9k words.
My Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ My SPN masterlist
Sam and you more stumble and fall than walk into your motel room, your jacket already hanging off one of your shoulders, his hair ruffled by your hands going through it. His lips are pecking at you, kissing you in a way you had not expected Sam Winchester to kiss you - hungry, searching. He was all coy softness and sweetness at first, but something inside him has popped and it’s like he’s been let off the leash.
“Did I already say that I don’t usually do stuff like this?” he says against your lips just as you throw the door shut behind him, and you laugh, which only makes him drag you closer.
You stop kissing him for a moment, press your chin against his as you look up into his eyes, his breath fanning over you and yours over him, as you run your hands along his sides, excited to get to what’s underneath.
“And what’s this, Sam?” you ask, mesmerized by his dark eyes that seem to be a different color depending on how the light hits them. That’s one of the first things you noticed about him, days ago, when this whole prolonged salt-and-burn, hunters-united thing started. They just look dark at the beginning, then green, then brown, sometimes even blue. Now that you finally - finally - have the chance to see them up close, you’re still not sure.
Sam’s hands wander down your body as he keeps eye contact, squeezes your ass.
“Hook up with strange women I’ve only known for a few days,” he says, some of that slight cockiness coming out of him making you bite your lips.
“We can wait if you want to,” you say, tone teasing. “I don’t want you to abandon your–”
Sam shuts you up with a rough kiss, one you moan at. You drag at him, to get him further into the room. His hands go to your shoulders and you briefly let go of him so your jacket can drop off you, then bring your hands back to his neck, his nice, slender, strong neck before pulling back again.
“So,” you say, surveying his face, “what do you like?”
Sam studies you as well, seems to think, which is nice to see. Lots of guys you’ve been with have been mortified at talking about the deed before doing it, which is a good litmus test to weed out anyone you probably won’t have a great time with. But then Sam leans forward, kisses your cheek, then your jaw.
“I’m good with anything,” he mumbles against you, and while you don’t doubt your own skills, you know that’s not true. It might give you reason to pause, but Sam is just too delicious of a catch to give up on him.
“Do you like it sweet?” you say, moving and kissing his cheek in turn. “Or rough?” You move to his other cheek, nipping at it which makes Sam flinch, then grin. You take his big hands where they’re roaming your body, interlace your fingers with his.
“Do you like to be the boss?” you say, then move his hands away from you and behind his body, hugging him, which isn’t that easy with his absolute tree trunk of a torso, and makes you both giggle. “Or do you want me to take the lead?”
It’s minor, but you see the slight twitch in Sam’s gorgeous face and you squeeze his hands behind his back.
“Do we have a winner?” you ask, voice curious and low. Could you be so lucky and have run into this absolute specimen of a man, and then on top of that he likes for you to be in charge? Sam swallows.
“Is that…” he starts, “would that be something you’re into?” Instead of answering, you move your lips back to his mouth, kiss him deeply, arousal pounding away between your legs at the softness of his voice and eyes. Sam’s breathing becomes heavier at the kiss as he searches your lips out, chases them when you pull back.
“I’ve got those silver cuffs I usually use on werewolves,” you whisper against him and a stuttering breath leaves him, before the corners of his mouth twitch. He moves your hands back to your front, laying there for a second before he pushes them up with his, up to your breasts, covering them with his humongous paws and squeezing, dragging another moan from you.
“I can easily get out of those, you know,” he says and you giggle, making Sam grin before you shake your head.
“I don’t think you’re gonna want to, baby,” you answer and something in Sam’s face changes, something you’re not sure is good or bad at first, but then he dives in, kisses you hard, almost desperately. Your hands go back into that delicious mop of hair, pulling a little at the roots, which elicits something like a mixture of a groan and growl in Sam that goes straight to your pussy. He’s pawing at you, squeezing your skin and flesh all over before finally pulling back again.
“But,” he says, voice a little shaky, “but can I, can I eat you out first?” You huff, which comes out as one long, drawn out exhale, because, yeah, the boyishly handsome, tall, bulky man who has made you drip from wetness since the first moment your eyes met over an upturned grave four days ago can eat you out if he wants to, sure.
“Get your clothes off,” you pant at him, and like a good boy Sam listens, his hands shooting to his own jacket, tearing it off his shoulders as he begins undressing himself.
Meanwhile, you step back, walk over to the round table in the room where your bag is sitting after you tossed it there when the hunt was done, and all you wanted was to grab a shower before meeting up with the other hunters in a nearby bar to cheers to a job well done. You thought about Sam, there, under the hot spray of water, your hands running along your slippery skin. Hoping that exactly what is happening now would happen later.
You rummage through the bag as you hear Sam continue his undressing behind you, fabric ruffling and as much as you would prefer to watch, you really wanna find those cuffs. You do, along with the key and then you turn around, your breath catching in your throat for a moment.
Sam is just pulling off the white v-neck he’s been wearing under his shirt - a striped number that would look butt ugly on anyone else, but on Sam somehow highlights his strong, gorgeous features even more. The pulling off of the t-shirt reveals his torso, which is, to be totally honest, ridiculous. You could kind of guess at his build (and have been for the past few days), but you didn’t know it would be quite so delicious.
Immediately you want to dip your tongue into every single divot you can reach - especially those intense v-lines leading down to his crotch. You make a mental note to spend some time on them once you have him trussed up.
“Take off the rest,” you say, making sure he knows it’s an order and not a suggestion, and the corners of his mouth twitch at it. You walk over to the bed, put the cuffs and key on the side table, briefly raising the key so Sam can see where it is. He nods. Then you begin undressing yourself.
Sam’s just unbuckling his belt but slows considerably in the process as you begin pulling up your shirt. It’s the black one that has a little row of buttons at the top, the one that makes your tits look absolutely phenomenal, and the effect hasn’t been lost on Sam as you noticed at the bar. He’s been subtle in his staring, but you caught him, once or twice. He always looked away. Maybe he really doesn’t do this a lot.
You drop the shirt on the ground, then go for your own pants, but not before raising one eyebrow and nodding at where Sam’s hands are resting on his belt.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you say. There’s no point in raising your voice - it’s low and clear. You’ve known for a long time that being in charge doesn’t lie in being aggressive, at least not the way you like it. You want the other person to be willing to submit. Oh, and Sam is willing.
He starts undoing his belt, which just on its own is gonna be an image you’ll keep in your backpocket for a rainy day. You pull down your own jeans, wiggle your ass to get out of them and it makes Sam grin. Goddamn it, he’s cute. How does he oscillate between that and scorching hot so seamlessly?
You kick your shoes off at the same time as Sam does, and by the time you reach him again, you’re both only in your underwear. You sling your arms around his neck, kiss him again while his hands land on your side and squeeze your flesh there. You feel the tension of it but no pain - he must be holding back.
You separate your lips from him, look into his eyes and Sam looks back. Without looking away, you bring your hands up to his chest, lay them flat on the warm and soft skin there, then slowly begin running them down, making sure to touch as much of him as possible on the way. Sam keeps watching you, only briefly blinking, twitching, when you reach the waistline of his briefs.
You halt, watch him, his lips slightly moving, the anticipation making it feel like there’s electricity in the air between you two. When you push your hands in his lips part slightly, and then you find him, needing to close your eyes.
“I’m gonna be honest with you,” you say when you open them again, gently running your fingers along soft skin, hardness budding underneath, “I’ve been thinking about this since I first saw you shoulder that shovel.” Sam gives a broken grin, his Adam’s apple bobbing and just because it’s right there, you move forward, press your mouth against his neck. Sam’s hands wander to the back of your head in response, holding you close.
Eventually, Sam’s hands got your shoulders, tugging at the straps of your bra. You let go of him, drag your hands out of his underwear to bring them to your back, undo the clasp and Sam drags it off you, drops it immediately to bring his hands to your breasts. He cups them, gently, runs the pads of his thumbs over your nipples. You sigh.
He leans his head down, kisses the top of your shoulder and you begin gently pushing him backwards, towards the bed. Sam hums against your skin and it makes you smile.
The backs of his legs meet the bed and his hands leave you, disappointingly, but it’s so he can drag your panties down. He needs to lean way, way down so you push down on his shoulders, getting him to sit at the edge of the bed.
Your panties fall to the ground and Sam's eyes wander down your body. It could be your imagination, and you're not sure how much you can trust your senses anymore, but you're pretty sure his breathing picks up when they land on your pussy. He licks his lips, like a man dying from thirst seeing a glass of cool water. This boy is a miracle, you think.
You step close to him, your nakedness feeling so right, as he looks up at you from where he’s been looking. His hands go to your waist, pulling you in and then you’re standing over him, very aware of his hardening cock somewhere below your pussy, still hidden in his underwear. But Sam doesn’t even pay attention to that, instead stroking and exploring you with his calloused but gentle hands.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says and you can’t help the smile that breaks out over your face. Goddamn this man. He is hitting all the right buttons. You’ve never hooked up with anyone as earnest and sweet. He just seems to be so completely free of pretense. It could be scary. But it’s not.
You bring your hands to his face, cup it, take a second to just look at him, then nod slowly.
“Show me what you got, Sam,” you say and you just have time to see the glimmer in his eyes before Sam grabs you, presses you against him and then flips both of you around. You’re too aroused for your hunter instincts to kick in, so your back is meeting the bed with Sam over you before you know what is happening. Instead, you moan, grab his face, kiss him hard. His hands are running along your sides, almost frantic, before focusing on a single spot, like he’s trying to control himself.
His lips go to your neck, his broad chest and back heaving with his heavy breathing, and then he continues moving down, and you remember his previous request. Can I eat you out first? It nearly makes you gush, especially when Sam’s lips land on your collarbone, tongue running over the rise of it before he moves further down. Look at that, you think. A man of his word.
He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, the pressure intense, then lets go and licks over it, making you press your chest up against him. He moves to the other one, mouths at it, and you press your thighs together, roll your hips, not wanting him to stop but looking for some kind of release.
Sam must notice, lets your nipple drop out of his mouth, then looks down your body. He turns, looks back up at your face. You must look like you’re about ready to blow, even though he’s barely done anything. He grins, the goddamn cockiest grin you’ve ever seen and one of his hands goes to your knee, travels down to the inside of your thigh and then, meanly, horribly, stops there.
“Keep your legs open,” he says, and you chuckle, both at him and how hard it is to open them up, escape the little bit of friction you were getting.
“Fucking tease,” you mutter and Sam’s grin widens. “I’m gonna get you back for that.” Sam presses his lips against the spot between your breasts, then looks up at you again.
“I’m coutin’ on it,” he says and you need to bite your lip while you file that to-do away for later. Tease him. Yeah, you can do that. You’ll do more than that. He doesn’t know what you have in store for him.
With a self-satisfied smile, you push yourself deeper into the mattress, and Sam begins kissing you again, a sensual, slow trail down your front. One kiss he lands next to your belly button and it makes you giggle. You feel his lips smile against you. Goddamn.
He shuffles around, gets into position before moving lower. You have no idea how he can be comfortably arranging his long body on the bed in this way, and then he lowers his head, his breath fanning over your pussy and you don't care anymore.
He kisses you high on your thigh, slow, lingering, where he presses his entire face against you, like he can't bear not to be as close as possible. Another one, closer to the inside, and then another one, closer yet.
You would love for him to just dive right in, but the way his slow approach makes you feel like you'll drown the poor guy down there isn't bad either. You're panting and almost shaky when his lips finally graze your own lower ones.
A small gasp leaves you as Sam explores you, kissing you there, then the tip of his tongue presses against you, softly first, then harder. Your legs are as wide open as they can be and when Sam gently sucks that little bud of nerves into his mouth, it's a good thing he slung his arms around your thighs when he made himself comfortable, because you might break his nose otherwise with how hard you press yourself up against him.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan, hands shooting to his hair. It's pure instinct, to press him closer against you, look for any part of him - the strong chin, the broad nose, anything - to find more stimulation. You stop a second later. Or you would, if Sam didn't give the most exquisite low moan when you press him down.
You let up, just barely giving Sam room to talk. He uses the chance to say only one thing.
“Do it again,” he gasps, breathless. Good Lord up in heaven. Of course you'll do it again.
You press him down again, and while he presses his tongue flat against your clit, a deep, lustful groan travels up his throat, making you feel like you're vibrating right along with him. He moves his face, creating stimulation, and you can't - or almost can't - help the ways your lower body moves along to find more - more friction, more tongue, more lips, more Sam.
So you keep going. With Amazonian strength you push your head up, look down your body and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. His eyes are closed, eyelids fluttering like he's in fucking heaven. The image spurns you on so much that you begin rolling your hips more, now essentially face fucking Sam. He doesn't seem to mind.
“Oh God, so fucking good, Sam,” you pant, carding your fingers into his hair, pulling near the roots. “You're gonna make me come so fucking hard.”
Sam can't answer, for obvious reasons, but he groans again, long and loud and deep. It's all building inside of you, all coming to its inevitable conclusion, and when you see Sam's strong back heaving in lust and exhalation, reacting like this to making you come on his face, it's the last straw.
A crescendo of yes yes yes fuck yes Sam leaves you as you come, riding his face from below, hands gripping his hair so tightly you'd be surprised if they didn't come away with tufts of it. You throw your head back, moaning so loudly it almost counts as a scream, all reason and self control lost as waves and waves of delicious pleasure carrying Sam's signature wash over you.
You drop down, both from your high as well as your body against the mattress below you. You’re breathing hard, shaky and shuddery. Distantly you feel Sam has returned to kissing your thighs, but blindly you reach for his arms, try to pull him up towards you.
He understands, pushes himself up and crawls over you. He lands a few fleeting kisses on his way up, and then he’s over you, and you chuckle at seeing him. His hair is messy, which is mostly your fault, your wetness making his chin and mouth glisten. You bring a hand up, wipe it over his face and then pull him in, kiss him deeply.
Sam lays himself over you, held up by his elbows, and his weight on you is perfect. You wrap your legs around him on instinct, bring him close to you and grind yourself up against him. You’re still sensitive, but it’s worth it for the feeling of his bulge pressing against you.
In response, Sam stops kissing, pressing his forehead against your temple while he presses himself against you, moans.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he pants and you could return the compliment, but instead you bring your hand up, grabbing his jaw and making him look at you.
“Lie down on your back, right now,” you say and something comes over Sam’s face, something so vulnerable and excited and intense. You haven’t seen this expression on him yet.
He kisses you again, then pushes himself up as you unsling your legs from around him, rolls off you and lands on his back. You push yourself up and when he’s positioned himself and is looking at you, you crawl over to him, crossing the distance. It’s not a long way but you see the way it makes Sam’s breath catch in his throat.
You kneel, take a second to look at him. He’s long, you think, just everything about him, his legs, his torso and the bulge in his briefs isn’t promising anything different either. You stay like that, let your eyes roam over him until you see him shift. Then you look for another moment. Make sure he knows who’s calling the shots here.
When you see him starting to squirm you move, your own self control starting to wear thin. Without ceremony or giving Sam time to prepare, you raise your leg and swing it over him, straddling him around the waist. You’re very aware of your pussy pressing against the soft skin wrapped over the hard muscle of his abdomen. You lean forward, reach for the cuffs then settle back down.
Sam looks up at you as if you’re some kind of deity. His lips are slightly parted, beautiful, pinkish lips, roughened from kissing and licking at you. He’s breathing hard, his body raising and falling, changing the intensity of contact between your most intimate parts and his stomach. You wonder if some of your wetness has transferred to his skin. It must have.
You’re just about to ask him whether he wants his hands only tied together or cuffed to the bed, when Sam raises his arms, muscles there rippling, brings his hands up to the headboard. The thing’s perfect for tying a big, strong man to it and you lean forward. One of his wrists goes into one cuff, and you’re about to wrap the other one around the metal bar of the headboard when Sam speaks up.
“Both,” he says and you look down at him. His eyes are large and pleading and for a second, it almost throws you off. It’s not sexual, the need in his face, not exactly. It’s different. It’s all encompassing.
“Are you sure?” you ask. You’re all about exploring, but you don’t want Sam to put himself into a position where he might freak himself out. But he nods, slowly, looking into your eyes. He swallows.
“I trust you,” he says, voice calm.
It shoots straight to your heart. He trusts you. He just had his face buried in your pussy and you’re about to ride him, but somehow that is the most intimate thing he could have said.
“Okay, Sam,” you say, no flirtiness in your tone, just clearness. You want him to understand that you get it. That you grasp the kind of vulnerability he is allowing himself.
The click of the second cuff sounds incredibly loud in the room. Sam pulls against them, just a little, just to test. Then he sighs. He sound fucking relieved.
You look down at him as you settle again and when he looks away from the cuffs and at you, you lean in to kiss him. It’s a gentle kiss, soft and caring, nothing like the frenzy energy you both had earlier. You’ll return to that and you plan to bring Sam even further, a plan now clearly forming in your head. But for now, this kiss is a pact. I’ll take care of you, it says.
While you’re still interlocked, you move a little. Just a tad, just a slight back and forth motion. It makes you press your still sensitive pussy against Sam and you make an involuntary sound in the back of your throat. Without another word, you sit up, hands resting on Sam’s sculpted chest as you begin rubbing yourself against him with purpose.
Sam looks down, watches, then looks up at your face again, his breath coming faster. He likes this, you realize, and you could scream from joy. That you are so on the same wavelength. You’re almost not touching him, not getting him off in any way, but with how his breath stutters you’d think he’s tickling the back of your throat. Later, maybe. If he’s good.
“Maybe I won’t fuck you after all,” you say, and there’s just a second of panic in Sam’s eyes, before your gazes meat again and he understands. Understands that you’re doing this for his benefit. He presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose.
“Maybe I’ll just do this,” you say, completing another delicious drag along him that does absolutely nothing for him but still makes his eyelids flutter. “Maybe I’ll just use your body and keep making myself come over and over.”
“Yes,” Sam breathes, closing his eyes. He’s squirming, just a little, shifting, but you’re not allowing him any satisfaction.
“Would you like that, Sam?” you ask, and you’re not sure he can hear you from how absolutely blissed out he looks. “Me riding you but you never getting off. Your big cock just hard and painful and so full, but never feeling me?”
Sam’s throat contracts, that damn Adam’s apple bobbing like crazy. He’s so beautiful. You move your hands a little, skin rubbing on skin, then gently run your fingernails over his shapely pecs. Sam groans again. Officially your new favorite sound.
“Would be a shame,” you say and Sam blinks his eyes open, watches you with rapt attention for whatever decadent punishment you have next for him. “Shame to not feel you that way.”
Without another word, you lean forward again, but this time you don’t kiss Sam, despite the way he tilts up his face towards you being immensely tempting. Instead you press your lips against his collarbone, sucking against the skin there, hard, until you know it must hurt a little and then stop. The next one goes high on his chest, with the same pressure.
To go further, you must climb lower on him, but you sure don’t mind when you move, ass bumping into the hardness in his briefs. You smile to yourself, but don’t let that steer you from your path.
You go lower, lips grazing one of his nipple before you gently nip at it, making Sam’s breathing stutter. You chuckle to yourself, then move your face to look up at him. He’s raised his head to watch you and you make eye contact with him before pushing out your tongue and running it over it once, making Sam’s mouth drop open. Then you keep going lower.
You reach his stomach, his abs, kiss them all over, run your fingertips over them gently. He really is quite the catch. You didn’t know men like this existed outside of the covers of glossy magazines.
Just above his naval, you get a sudden urge, open your mouth and graze your teeth against him. The skin is too taut to manage to actually bite him, but it makes Sam’s cock, still in its fabric prison just underneath your chest, twitch so hard you feel it. It makes you nearly dizzy.
Then those damn v-lines. Just as you promised yourself, you run your tongue through that valley, the taste of salty skin and Sam-ness unmistakeable. God, you would just love to eat him up, you think, as the tip of your tongue tickles along the intense outline.
Sam is nearly vibrating at this point. He’s doing a good job at staying in place, but the way he’s sucking in breath, the way his muscles all over tense and then relax. It’s like watching dark clouds move quickly along the sky. He’s a natural spectacle, this guy.
You look up at him, stop touching him, when your face is above his crotch. Wait for him to catch himself enough so that he looks at you. You make sure you make eye contact before you continue.
“You’re being really good, Sam,” you say, “so let me reward you.”
With that, you press your mouth against his clothed cock. The reaction is instantaneous, Sam pressing his head back into the pillow under him, moaning so loudly and deeply the neighboring rooms can probably hear you. Yeah, you did that. That’s your work.
You do it again and the reaction is just as intense. With deep satisfaction you see Sam wrap his hands around the metal bars of the headboard, squeezing them so hard his knuckles go white. With those damn arm muscles bulking under his skin, he could probably make true on his earlier words and break himself out of the cuffs. You’re not sure that he actually could, but you’re very satisfied that he doesn’t even try.
You bring your hand up, tired of waiting, and pull the waistband of his briefs down. His cock springs free, comes to rest against his stomach. Velvety and meaty, just like the rest of him. Like you thought earlier: specimen.
You pull the waistline a little further, let it slip under his balls, which look soft and pillowy, leave it there. You look up again, open your mouth, push out your tongue and run it once along the length of him.
A long sound leaves Sam, something like an aaah fuuu but he seems incapable of finishing the thought. You sure don’t mind. Not with how perfect he feels under your tongue. There’s one vein that you’re especially infatuated with, and you flick your tongue over it, gaining more incoherent rambling from Sam.
Next, you push your opened mouth against his balls, suckle gently. When you look back up at Sam’s face, you see a slight sheen of sweat collecting on his deeply rippled forehead. Oh, he hasn’t seen anything yet.
“Please–” Sam stutters and you keep watching him, try to see if he’s gonna be able to vocalize what he wants. He swallows, then simply repeats himself: “P-please.”
“What, Sam?” you ask, ceasing your touching on him. “What do you want?” Sam opens his eyes, swallows again, looks at you, trying to gather himself.
“Can you…” he stutters, “with-with your mouth?” You smile a small, devilish smile.
“Inside, you mean?” you ask and Sam quickly nods. You could make him say it, not do it until he gets all the words out, but the truth is, you’re basically salivating. So this is as much for his benefit as for yours.
With gentle fingers, you take his cock in your hand, bringing it up. Lick your lips, for show as much as for smoothness. You lick a stripe along the underside and when you reach his head, wrap your lips around him.
The sound Sam makes this time is different. It sounds like he’s getting into a hot bath. It’s relief. Satisfaction.
You’d never admit to it in court, but your eyes fall shut on their own accord at the taste of him, the heft, and you moan around him. Slowly you begin bobbing your head up and down as Sam perfectly fills your mouth, like he was made for exactly this.
If Sam was responsive before, he now becomes unfettered. He keeps moaning, deep, rich sounds, voice cracking while he mutters confused words and half-phrases. Yes and fuck fuck and oh G-god and more please more. He’s a full on mess at this point, pulsing and twitching between your lips.
You pop off him, continue stroking him while you catch your breath, using the chance to look at him. He looks beautiful, undone. You feel a not insignificant rush of pride at how quickly you unraveled him.
Just then, Sam’s eyebrows go up, his hips slightly bucking as his gaze falls on you. You slowly shake your head.
“Don’t come,” you say, voice low. Sam’s breath hiccups and then he nods.
“I won’t,” he says, seemingly getting himself under control, at least somewhat. “I promise I won’t.”
“Tell me when you get too close so I can stop,” you say and Sam nods again.
“Yes,” is all he manages because the next second you are taking him into your mouth again. Sam grunts, back to that deep, full bodied moaning while you begin taking him deeper. It’s only a minute before he speaks up again.
“O-okay, okay,” he says and you raise your head, let him drop out of your mouth. “I-I think I need a break.”
Part of you is disappointed. You were really enjoying what you were doing. But another part of you lights up with the idea that hits you.
So you make your way back up his body, stopping at some of the previous sights, nuzzling them again. When you come up to Sam’s face, he has a soft, dreamy smile on his lips. You kiss him, deeply, then catch his lower lip between your teeth, pull a little. It makes his grin break through everything else that’s going on.
“Ready for me to keep going?” you ask, voice low. “Or are we gonna have a problem?” The corners of Sam’s mouth twitch. He seems to be a little bit back to himself and you can’t deny that the slight cockiness in his expression makes you all the more excited to drive it out of him again.
He raises his head, tries to reach your lips with his but you pull your head back, gaining a frustrated grunt from him before you finally give in, let him kiss you. You pull back just a little, stay close to him.
“You wanna fuck me, Sam?” you ask, even though it’s very clear that if anyone will be doing any fucking, it’ll be you. Details, details.
“Yes,” Sam replies, voice low, his lips ghosting over yours in an attempt to kiss you again. “Wanna feel you.”
You push yourself up again, to a sitting position, pressing your pussy against Sam’s cock in the process. You run it along him, slowly. Sam closes his eyes again, rolling his neck, before he looks up at you again.
“Feel how wet you make me?” you ask and Sam nods.
“That feels so good,” he answers, “but I want to be inside you.” You raise your eyebrows.
“Making demands, are we?” you ask and Sam grins, boyish, wide, unguarded. He gives you what in his current state passes for a challenging look.
“Like you haven’t been imagining what my cock would feel like deep inside you?” he asks and your mouth drops open, but it turns into an excited grin, only mirrored on Sam’s face. You shake your head, press yourself against him, which makes Sam go back to groaning.
“Cheeky boy,” you say, pressing your face against the side of his, making sure he hears you. “Sounds like I’m gonna need to teach you a lesson.” You pull back again.
“Please,” Sam says, turning serious. “Please, I… I need to learn.”
It nearly knocks the air from you. His words, the way he looks at you. Maybe it’s just your horniness making you nearly obtuse, but is there something more here? This doesn’t feel like any hook-up you’ve ever had. This feels different. More concrete. More fulfilling than… well, pretty much everything else ever.
All you know is that you need Sam inside of you. That you need to know what his face looks like when he is, what he feels like. Because if your bodies fit together half as well as your brains seem to, this might be the night of your life.
“Okay, Sam,” you say. “Let me take care of you.”
His expression goes soft then, something deep and vulnerable in his eyes. He gives a final, slow nod.
You press yourself up on your knees, reach between your legs, finding Sam’s warm thickness. You lead his head to your pussy, all while he keeps looking into your eyes, barely blinking, and you can see moisture collecting over the intense palette of colors in his irises, but still he doesn’t look away. Then you lower yourself, letting him slowly slide into you.
There’s the stretch, your mouth dropping open at it, but you are wide open and ready for him. The thick head slips into you and you rock your hips gently to keep working yourself down on him. Sam takes a stuttering breath at the sensation as he stares down at where the two of you are meeting.
“Fuck,” he grunts, “fuck, your pussy feels perfect, that’s so–” He stops there, drops his head back again and you couldn’t agree more. But now that you don’t need to hold his cock anymore since he’s far enough inside of you, you use your hand to reach up, grab Sam’s jaw, turn it to you.
“Look at me,” you gasp, and you feel him nod in your hold when he does. You have a hard time keeping your own eyes open, but then you’re not the one who’s being taught a lesson.
With a deep sigh, you sink all the way down, taking all of him into you. You are so filled, like you’ve been closed off to the outside world. Just filled with Sam Sam Sam.
He is, just as you’re thinking that, tugging at the cuffs again. You focus on him, watch him panting there below you.
“Fuck, I wanna touch you so bad,” he groans. It’s tempting, to have those big, strong hands exploring you, squeezing your flesh the way you could squeeze him inside you. Have his fingers find your clit. But that’s not what the two of you are doing.
You roll your hips, making Sam moan and you suck your lip between your teeth as you feel him move inside you, kissing your walls like you kissed his mouth.
“But you are touching me,” you say as you keep moving. “Can’t you feel it, Sam? Right there, do you feel that?”
Sam’s gaze drops back to your pussy, watching as you let part of him slip out of you only to gather him up again immediately.
“I feel it,” he says, voice cracked. “Feel… feel how warm you are. Fuck, you’re so soft.” You nod along to his words.
“And you’re–” you start, then interrupt yourself when Sam bumps into a special part of you. “Oh, right there, Sam, fuck, that’s so good.”
It’s not like Sam has any control over how he’s fucking you, but you don’t care. Especially not when he groans at your words.
“Keep going,” he begs. “Please, please, say it again.” You roll your hips harder.
“You’re going so deep, Sam,” you moan and he shudders at that. “So nice and deep and good, you know exactly what my pussy needs, don’t you?”
You keep going and a moment later, Sam presses his head back, eyes squeezing shut, lip pulling up.
“Fuck, I’m gonna–” he says, and you can feel it, the pulsing, his orgasm announcing itself. So you stop riding him.
For a moment you think you waited too long. Sam sort of trembles and for a moment you wonder if he did come, but it’s brief, and then he’s blinking his eyes open. You shake your head slowly.
“Did I say you were allowed to come?” you ask.
It takes a second for anything to register on Sam’s face. His lips move, like he’s trying to say something. His chest is still rising and falling and you just watch him, this beautiful, perfect man you’ve bagged. You’d think his brains were leaking out his ears with how dumbfounded he seems. Then he understands.
“I-” he says, then clears his throat. “No, you didn’t.”
“Exactly,” you say. You let your hands slip off Sam’s chest, bring them to your breasts, gently massaging, keep watching him, the hungry, no, starving look in his eyes, before you let one hand slowly wander down your front.
“So you better don’t,” you say and then your fingertips are grazing your clit.
You see Sam swallow, as if he’s steeling himself, and then he nods, almost imperceptible.
Gently, you begin petting yourself. Sam’s making you so nice and full, the pressure within you making even the soft touch feel like a hundred volt snapping though you. You keep going, a little harder, a little faster, the feeling of it so good, running from the roots of your hair to your toes.
“Yes, Sam,” you sigh. “Just like that. Just like– oh yes, oh God, fuck, baby. That’s it.” Your eyes have fallen shut but you open them again, look down at Sam. He looks concentrated, focused. You might have stopped moving, but you’re sure he can feel what your own touching is doing to you.
You continue, your other hand twisting your nipple while slowly the pleasure in you builds and builds, becoming thicker, more graspable. Your hand leaves your breast, goes behind you, resting on Sam’s leg as you lean back.
With the change in angle, Sam presses against you so perfectly that an involuntary whimper leaves you. Without meaning to, you roll your hips, Sam groaning loudly again. But you’re close. So close, it’s almost within your reach.
So you keep going, fingers quickly rubbing you as you grind down against Sam. You moan loudly, then again, as your orgasm comes barreling towards you, hits you like a brick to the head. Sam’s thickness intensifies the feeling and you can feel yourself twitching and shaking while soft, warm pleasure envelops your body.
You moan as the long release washes over you, still grinding to prolong it, so it’s lucky you hear Sam at all when he speaks.
“Shit, I’m gonna, wait, wait, wait–” he pants and you barely register it. You lean forward, plant your hands on his chest and press yourself up, letting him slip all the way out of you. That’s how you remain, pleasure still coursing through you, slight shivers making you smile softly.
At last, you blink your eyes open, look down at Sam. His face is pressed against the side of his arm, eyes screwed shut while he’s inhaling and exhaling through his nose. You look down, quickly, at his cock lying there below you. There’s your own wetness but it doesn’t look like he came.
Still panting, you lower yourself, lay your chest on his.
“Good boy,” you press out between heavy breaths. Sam makes a sound in his throat before he turns his face, eyes slowly opening. He looks completely destroyed. He’s trembling like a leaf in the wind, you notice next.
You lean forward, kiss him, but he’s barely able to return it. The intense climb without reaching the peak must be taking it out of him. For just a moment, so close post-orgasm, you want to relieve him from the tension, let him come. But something about his face gives you pause. Something in his kiss.
“Do you want to keep going?” you ask and he nods, immediately, clear on what he wants. Well, you’re not gonna talk him out of it. You push yourself up a little, both your upper and lower body, reach between you again, press Sam back into you.
He slips in so easily this time and the stimulation is just on the other side of uncomfortable. But then you move and it’s perfect, immediately intense and deep.
“Oh yes,” you sigh while Sam goddamn whimpers. The sounds coming from him are so perfect that you keep going, almost uncaring if you’re gonna carry him too far. You just need to keep hearing those noises.
You run your hands over Sam’s chest as you keep riding him and when you see his eyebrows drawing together, you slow again, nearly come to a full stop. The breath Sam takes is so deep and desperate that it shakes your body along with his. You wait for a few seconds, allow his stimulation to die down, then begin again. Sam actually grits his teeth, broad chest rising and falling so hard you’d think he just ran a marathon.
“Fuck, I can’t– I don’t– oh, please,” he starts moaning, but then you stop again, having learned what the tell tale signs of Sam about to come are: brows pulled together, upper lip pulled up, shoulders tensing.
“Fuck!” he curses, and it comes from deep inside him. You clench down, squeeze him inside you, this delicious man-giant you’ve brought to his knees.
“You’re all mine,” you whisper, squeeze him again, making him groan. “That nice big cock inside me belongs to me now. Isn’t that right, Sam? You’re all mine?” He looks so torn up so you begin rolling your hips again, slowly, slowly.
That's when Sam’s self control snaps. If he had his hands to himself, he’d probably spin you around, pound you into the mattress until you forget your own name, until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. But he doesn’t, so he does the only thing he can.
He widens his legs, angles them up far enough to push you forward. You catch yourself with your hands on the mattress below, a surprised yelp leaving you. Sam plants his legs wide and starts thrusting up, hard and fast, fucking into you, shaking your entire body.
The stimulation is sudden and intense, and makes you moan loudly immediately. His thrusts are uncontrolled and you are caught by the way his legs are spread, keeping yours wide apart and you in place. Your eyes nearly roll up as you steady your body to meet his thrusts, and when you finally focus on him again, you look down.
Sam is still gritting his teeth, the look on his face desperate. He’s looking at you, maybe to see if you are alright with what he is doing, and your expression must give him a clear indicator.
“F-fuck, Sam,” you moan between thrusts, the loud slapping noise of skin on skin filling the room as Sam fucks you good and deep, and then you close your eyes, another orgasm crashing into you. You whine loudly and Sam braces his legs, keeps himself pressed deep into you, and apart from the occasional muscle twitch, contains his movement as you come around his dick, moaning loudly and wantonly.
You slump forward, cheek landing on his shoulder as you keep grinding yourself against him, making Sam hiss. You press yourself against him, looking for closeness and since he can’t hold you, hug you, he presses his chin down against the top of your head. You stay like that while you try to catch your breath.
“What the fuck was that?” you ask and a broken chuckle leaves Sam.
“Just wanted you to come again,” he answers. You scoff, bring your hand up and stroke his chest.
“I could have done that,” you say, making your voice slightly petulant and you hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.
“Yeah, but I…” he starts, stops briefly. “I wanted it to be me doing it, you know?”
With all the strength you have, you push yourself up, look at Sam’s face. He looks so serious. You bring your hand to his face, pet his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes at that, making your heart flutter.
“Sam,” you say and he opens his eyes again, blinks at you. You look deep into his eyes, the rings of blue and spatters of what almost looks like gold. “Are you gonna let me take care of you now? Really this time?”
Sam presses his lips together, then nods. With that, you are moving again, rocking back and forth slowly.
You run your fingers across Sam’s skin again, look over his face, trying to take in every detail. The light stubble. He must have shaved this morning, not before going to the bar. Three moles - one next to his nose, and you can’t help but lean forward and press a gentle kiss against it.
When you pull back, Sam’s eyebrows are pulled together, his eyes glistening, so you push yourself harder down against him, then stop. In response, he lets out a long breath.
You wait a few seconds, then begin moving again. Sam’s eyes fall shut again and you kiss his jaw, then his neck. He is moving in and out of you now as if you were made for each other, so you pick up your speed.
When you look at Sam’s face again, there’s a tear at the corner of his eye. When he opens it, it dislodges, rolls down first his cheek and then off the side of his face from the angle he’s holding himself.
You see the small panic in his face immediately at you having seen. The worry that you’re somehow gonna be put off. You’re not entirely sure what brought it on, whether it’s the orgasm you keep just out of his reach or something else.
You lean forward. The tear is gone from your reach, has landed somewhere in the pillow below him, but you press your lips against the wet trail of it, pick the wetness up with your tongue. Sam’s breathing stutters, so much so that you almost get worried, but instead of looking at him, you kiss his cheek again. Only then you pull back.
The way he looks at you is difficult to interpret. A mix of unsure and something else, something like deep, helpless lust. You push yourself up higher and begin riding Sam again.
You go faster this time, rolling your hips, letting him slip out of you then pushing him back in, your movement smooth and quick, filled to the brim over and over. Sam keeps watching you while you do, picking up your speed even further.
“You feel so amazing, Sam,” you breathe, and it’s the truth, but you’re not just talking about what’s happening between your legs, but in your chest as well. “You feel so beautiful.”
Sam whimpers, his lips trembling, but you don’t let up. He feels as comfortable and right inside of you as anyone ever has. You go faster yet again.
“I want you to come inside me,” you moan. “God, I want you, Sam.”
Sam makes a noise you can’t quite read, then his nostrils flare.
“Please,” he says again, his voice thick. “Please, just please.”
You don’t know what he’s begging for exactly, but there’s only one thing you can still give him. You ride him harder, faster, Sam clenching his jaw at what at this point must be overstimulation. You can see he’s approaching that edge again and then it’s like something inside him breaks, a sob leaves him, and another one, another tear dislodges.
He probably expects you to stop again, but you don’t. Instead you whine through your own intense feelings as you keep riding him.
His own orgasm surprises him, because Sam widens his eyes and then presses them shut, sounds unlike anything you’ve ever heard leaving him, his noises traveling through you. He’s gasping for air, muscles twitching and he presses his hips up, searching more of you out just as you feel him spill inside of you.
Sam’s chest is heaving and you watch him, run your hands over him to try and help him find his way back to himself. But it doesn’t stop, it’s not dying down and just as you begin wondering if something is seriously wrong, his eyes fly open, focusing on you.
“Get me out of this,” he says, wrists rattling in the cuffs.
You do it immediately, hand going to the table, grabbing the small key. You open the first one and Sam slips his hand out, the skin red where he pulled against it, and you just have time to curse at yourself for not putting in any padding as you unlock the second one, and then Sam suddenly has his arms around you and is moving you.
You think for a second he’s trying to get you off of him, but instead he turns the both of you, your back landing on the mattress, Sam still over you, never having slipped out of you.
In the next second, he's kissing you. Harder and needier and lovelier than you’ve ever been kissed before. His palms are fluttering all over you, like butterflies unsure where to land, he can’t pick a part of you to hold first. You taste the salt of his tears on his lips and bring your legs up, wrap them around him.
Sam pulls his face back, looks into your eyes and then, to your utter shock, begins fucking you again. He just came, but you can still feel him hard inside you, and on top of that, his hand shoots into the small space between your bodies and he finds your clit, begins rubbing it quickly.
Your head drops back at the sudden and exquisite pleasure, and Sam presses his face against your neck. His kisses against your skin aren’t gentle, he’s sucking the skin so hard it’s painful, but it’s perfect. You manage to moan his name and feel his lips move when he speaks against you.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants. “What the fuck did you just do?” You card your hands into his hair again, drag his face away from your neck so you can bring your head back up again. You want to look into his face when you come.
It doesn’t take long. In what feels like seconds, hot pleasure is building inside you again and you just have time to say his name again before Sam fucks you into a deep and violent orgasm.
He’s not far behind you. You don’t know how he’s able to do it again, but you know that he presses his mouth against yours while you both moan for and because of each other, as you explode as two but become one.
When you come back from the bathroom, wearing your sleep shirt, Sam’s head shoots up. To your disappointment, you see that he has put on his briefs and t-shirt. You stop a few feet from him, hands going behind your back.
“Are you leaving?” you ask. Sam shifts where he’s sitting at the end of the bed, elbows on knees, arms crossed in front of his body like he’s trying to protect himself.
“I didn’t know if maybe you wanted to be alone,” he says, avoiding your gaze again. He’s been doing that since he pushed himself out of you. You have no idea what happened, but if you had to guess, you probably saw something he didn’t want you to see. Maybe the tears, maybe the desperation with which he fucked you. You’re not sure. Whatever it is, you didn’t mind it.
You step closer to him, careful not to breach his personal space but wanting to make it clear that you want to be close to him. You press one sock-clad foot forwards, into Sam’s periphery.
“What do you want, Sam?” you ask, voice gentle. He continues staring down at the floor, where your foot is.
“It’s just that one person typically leaves,” he mumbles. You can’t help the smile that comes into your voice.
“I thought you didn’t do this kind of thing a lot,” you reply. This time, Sam looks up. His face looks open, like he’s just torn his heart out of his chest and asked you what you think of it.
“I don’t,” he says, voice cracking a little.
“Well, this is just what I personally think,” you say, slowly kneeling. Sam blinks in surprise but then you are there before him. This way you can fully see him and he you. “But this wasn’t exactly my usual kind of hook-up.”
Sam swallows, maybe unsure what you mean.
“It was,” you continue, deciding to simply take the plunge, “much, much more than that.” Sam’s features soften.
“For me too,” he says, voice low. You nod.
“Good that we’re on the same page,” you continue and you think you see the slightest twitch of a smile on his lips. You move your hand up, cup his face. He doesn’t flinch away, instead presses his face against your palm, closes his eyes, as if the touch is both pain and balm at the same time.
“Come to bed with me, Sam;” you whisper. “Stay.” Sam nods against your hand.
You stand, your hand going away from Sam’s face and instead going to his hand, holding it. When you tug on it, he follows you, stands as well. You walk him to the side of the bed, let him climb in first. He elects to lie on his back, one hand resting on his chest as he looks up at the ceiling. You lie on your side, watch him. It seems like he’s waiting for something but doesn’t have it in him to ask.
“I always sleep much better,” you say and Sam turns his head to you, listening intently, “when I get some cuddles after I’ve been fucked stupid.” Sam blinks again in that absolutely adorable way he does, then a wide smile breaks out over his face. You tilt down your face, look up at him playfully. “Think you could stand to have me stick to you like a barnacle sticks to a rock for a little bit?”
Wild joy and warmth spreads through your chest when Sam actually chuckles. He rolls on his side too and you scoot closer to him. His arm goes around you, pulling you in and against his chest, so all you have to worry about is getting your arms around him too. You don’t manage to wrap him all the way up, but you’re nicely intertwined by the time both of you are done shuffling around.
You can hear Sam’s heartbeat where you are pressed against his chest. Good, strong. You close your eyes, sure you’ll drift off any second.
“I feel like I should explain what happened back there,” Sam says and you open your eyes, look up, seeing mostly heroic chin and jaw before he looks down at you, dark eyes worried.
“There’s nothing to explain,” you reply. “Just looks like maybe we tapped into something intense?” Sam nods slowly, sniffs.
“Yeah,” he says, looking into the room again.
“Is there something you want to explain to me?” you ask and Sam looks at you again. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He seems to be thinking for a moment.
“I felt really safe with you,” he answers finally, voice low like he’s afraid someone will hear him. “I don’t… that’s not always the case.”
Your heart breaks for him, but you try not to let it show. Instead you bring your hand up, brush a strand of hair out of his face.
“I’m glad you felt safe,” you say. “I did too. And I also felt really, really good.” Sam gives you a soft, lopsided smile.
“Good,” he says. He looks at you for a moment, then his arms tighten around you again and you press your face against his chest.
Sleep comes quickly.
You’re woken by the horrible sound of a phone ringing. You sigh, wonder for exactly a second at the mop of soft hair pressed against you before you realize it’s Sam. He moves, disentangles himself from you which you only comment on with a complaining groan, sits up.
The good news is that the ringing stops. It must be Sam answering because he grunts something into the phone, and then says: “Yeah, I’m up, I’m up.”
You turn, look at him. He’s sitting at the side of the bed, one hand laid over his eyes, rubbing, in what you can only guess is an attempt to get the sleep out of them.
“Yeah,” he says again, “yeah, no, I got it. Yeah, I’m… I’m in her room.” With that, he turns around, looks at you. He smiles when he sees you’re awake and you smile back at him, trying not to worry what your hair looks like. Sam turns back around and then, and your heart drops a little at that, stands up, begins rushing through the room, collecting his clothes.
“No, I–” he says, then presses his lips together. “Shut up, Dean.” Despite the disappointment that Sam is clearly getting ready to leave, you can’t help but giggle a little at what you guess is Sam’s brother teasing him.
Sam closes the phone with a snap, turns to you, his jeans in one hand.
“Hey,” he says as you sit up, arms going around your knees.
“Hey yourself,” you reply. Sam grins, then looks apologetic.
“That was my brother, he… we got a case, he’s outside, apparently,” he explains and you nod.
“No rest for the wicked,” you say and Sam nods, chuckles a little. He steps into his jeans, pulls them up. Shoving his phone into one of the pockets before going for his socks and shoes, needing to hop a little to get into them. You watch him with a smile on your face.
Sam is pulling his shirt over his shoulders, shrugging it on and then buttoning it, almost seeming shy, when he speaks again.
“I had a great time,” he says, looking up at you through his bangs, like he doesn’t absolutely deserve to be locked up for looking at you that way when he’s about to head out the door. “A really great time.” You purse your lips.
“So did I,” you say and then Sam reaches for his jacket, shrugs that on as well, before his hands awkwardly go to his side.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” he says and you nod, let your eyes graze over him again. He turns, walks towards the door and opens it just a bit before he stops, turns around again.
“Hey,” he says, and you think he’s trying to act casual, “do you think I could, you know, get your number? Just in case…” He shrugs and your heart beats a little faster at his awkwardness.
Without answering, you get up, still only wearing your sleep shirt that barely goes over your ass, as well as your socks. You look at Sam’s face as you walk towards him, keep your gaze there and his smile slowly disappears as you come closer, his expression becoming more intense. You reach one hand into your bag on the table, then drag out the sharpie you keep stored next to your notebook.
With that, you cross the rest of the distance to Sam, stand close to him. You can just see past Sam out the door, his brother’s car idling right outside, but you don’t really care if Dean sees you.
You take Sam’s hand, uncap the sharpie with your teeth and quickly write your number on the back of his hand. He watches you and then you close the pen, look up at him, into those gorgeous eyes.
“Don’t lose it,” you say. “I’m expecting you to call.” Sam’s eyes go over your face and then without saying another word he wraps his arms around you, pulls you in and kisses you deeply. You return the kiss, one arm going up to get a final feel of Sam’s thick hair between your fingers.
At last, he lets go of you, his face staying close while he looks deep into your eyes, then grins awkwardly.
“I gotta go,” he says and you nod. He tears himself away, just so, his hands seeming almost reluctant to leave you and it makes you smile. He clears his throat, hands running over his sides, before he nods, then chuckles. You can’t help but grin along.
“Alright,” he says, throwing one more look at your face, then turns, moves out of the door. You take a step forward, lean against the doorframe, look after him.
You watch as Sam walks over to the car, gets in, needing to almost fold himself in half to fit, big boy that he is. He shifts in place for a second after closing the door. Dean is looking past him right at you, so you raise one hand in greeting. Dean raises his eyebrows, then turns to Sam, says something. Sam just rolls his eyes, but then, just as Dean starts the engine, Sam turns back to you. Watches you, your eyes meeting over the distance, and then, way too soon, the car is moving away.
You keep standing there until it’s off the parking lot, waiting for a moment for a break in the cars passing and when it does, you finally turn and walk back inside, let the door shut behind you. You grab your phone off the ground where it fell out of your jeans when you discarded them last night, let yourself drop down on the bed.
There’s a message from an old lead, telling you about a potential case two states from here. A friend checking in. Then the phone buzzes and you open the new message from an unknown number.
Took me everything not to walk back in with you standing there like that. Let me know when you’re available. I don’t mind the ride :) S.
You actually laugh before rolling on your side, getting comfortable. You read the message a few more times, eyes going over every single letter, especially the S. at the end. You notice you’re grinning like a fool.
With a sweet giddiness in your chest, you hit Reply and start typing.
Summary Dean catches you and Sam in the act, but he just can’t look away.
CWs You and Sam go at it. And Dean watches. (Guest starring: Dean's internal dialogue.)
Rated 18+. 2k words.
Sam x reader x Dean masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
The first time it happens, it’s an accident.
Bobby’s off somewhere with Rufus. Dean went out for food, and he’s pretty sure you and Sam just thought you had the house to yourself for a little longer. He walks up the stairs while checking the messages on his phone, and he’s not trying to be quiet, but it’s just something he does naturally, at least until he’s purposefully trying to be loud. Really, it’s on the two of you that you didn’t even bother to close the door all the way. It’s not his fault at all.
He rounds the upstairs hallway, just as he’s shoving his phone in his back pocket, when he looks straight ahead into the room the two of you’ve been staying in together, ever since things with you and Sam became official.
Dean’s happy for his little brother, happy that he gets someone who loves him this fiercely, but he can’t deny that the first time he saw you, he had his eye on you as well. Noticed the soft curve of your tits under your shirt, maybe imagined what your ass cheeks would feel like in his hands. Wondered if you were a screamer or if you would be quiet. He’s seen that face you make when you’re doing something strenuous. He’s seen you lick your lips. He’s wondered what they would look like elsewhere. Wondered at your taste.
So, it’s a bit of a shame that things between you and Sammy developed so quickly, because, well, sometimes Dean still catches himself looking at you that way, the way he most definitely should not be looking at his brother’s girlfriend. But he can’t help it. He’s a man, and you’re a sexy little thing. What is he supposed to do?
Anyway. He rounds the corner, and it gives him a straight view into the bedroom. Not a straight view, but the door is open just wide enough that he immediately understands something is happening behind it that he should not walk in on.
So he freezes instead. Yes, even Dean sometimes gets flustered, but it’s not the fact that he walked in on in his brother fucking. It’s the noises that you’re making. He can just identify Sam’s stupid long hair between your legs and then Dean moves quickly so that he is hidden by the door frame.
Why doesn’t he just walk away? Well, that is the one-million-dollar question, the one he is not gonna ask himself. Especially not when he leans forward and takes another peek into the room.
He can’t really see Sam, which he’s pretty happy about, but he can see a lot of you. The oversized shirt you were wearing earlier is pushed up to you neck almost, breasts still hidden by your bra but below the waist you are naked.
(Your bra is black and lacy, Dean notices, and it surprises him. He expected you, has been imagining you, in something pink and frilly. Something girly. He’s not sure he likes the black. He wants you to look more virginal, maybe.)
Dean sees you from the side, since Sam is kneeling at the foot of the bed, his hands clasped around your thighs to hold you close, and one of your legs is slung over his shoulder while the other is angled up, so Dean doesn’t have a view of his brother eating you out. But from what the rest of you is doing, Sam seems to be doing a fine job.
You have soft, desperate sounds leaving you as you grind down against Sam, one hand fisted into his hair, the other clutching a pillow that’s under your head so hard that Dean can see your knuckles going white. Your bottom lip is between your teeth, your back is arched, your eyes are squeezed shut and you look like you’re in pain, that’s how good what Sam is doing seems to be.
Dean feels himself get hard almost immediately. Your skin is perfect, and there’s so much of it, and then you start moaning, even though you’re obviously trying to be quiet, judging by the lip between your teeth. But you don’t quite manage, because Dean can hear you.
Damn, Dean didn’t know you had that kind of mouth on you. He suddenly realizes he’s massaging the growing bulge in his pants, and for a second, he’s a little shocked at himself. That he would want to touch himself to this like some goddamn weirdo. It’s not like him, not really, and he’s never really been into that kind of shit, watching others, but right then, right now, his erection grows so quickly from seeing you like this that he’s worried he’s gonna get dizzy.
So while Dean has a very specific idea of himself that he needs to uphold, he also is as bad at delaying gratification as an untrained dog seeing a raw steak. That’s why he doesn’t question it too much when his fingers pop open the button of his jeans and his hand goes in. He finds himself and starts stroking absentmindedly, still watching you.
“Yes, yes, yes,” you moan then as your stomach muscles contract and he’s pretty sure Sam’s gonna feel your fist pulling his hair for a good long while. You come, head thrown back, mouth in a sinful o-shape, neck stretched, but Dean’s not there yet, hopes the two of you aren’t done.
(Personally, Dean can’t imagine sex as something where he doesn’t get his dick wet, but leave it to Sam, he thinks, to probably get off on eating you out alone. He can be such a damn softy.)
He’s relieved when, just as you’re catching your breath, Sam detaches from you. You say his name and something else Dean doesn’t hear, and then Sam is standing up, chin glistening from where he made you come. A quick hand wipes over his lower face and then he starts unbuttoning his jeans.
Dean looks away, looks towards you instead, and you’re pushing yourself up, look up at Sam with a hungry expression but then you’re turning around, getting on all fours, and Dean can feel his cock in his hand twitch, because holy shit that is dirtier than he ever expected you would be, that you would want it like this.
Dean can hear the tear of some foil and he’s pretty sure Sam’s putting on a condom, but he’s only guessing because he is mesmerized by the way you are looking back at the man that is about to fuck you, the way you are shoving your ass towards him like you’re in heat or something, looking over your shoulder, your eyes watching him while he does whatever he does. Sam’s done a second later and he’s still half-dressed but you two seem to be in a hurry.
(Distantly Dean remembers that that’s because you think he will be back any minute.)
Sam leans over you, one hand steadying him on your hip, the other between your two bodies and Dean can’t quite see what is going on there, but he can see the moment Sam enters you, because your eyes flutter closed and you gasp another yes.
The two of you don’t lose much time, Sam starting to thrust and Dean just wonders if he shouldn’t go slower, shouldn’t wait a little longer, but then you moan again, as if you’re disagreeing. Maybe you like it rough, Dean thinks, and that visual is going straight into the spank bank.
(Other things in Dean’s spank bank: blonde twins wearing tiny pink dresses making out, a girl who wants to take it up the ass after he only has to talk her into it a little bit, you wanting to fuck him despite being with his brother, you saying he’s the best lay you ever had, you telling him he’s big and that it hurts a little but liking it too much to stop.)
Sam’s thrusts are quick and shallow at first, but it seems to be exactly what you like as you start encouraging him, and again, Dean is surprised by how vocal you are, moaning and gasping, mouth dropped open. It’s better than he imagined.
Dean’s stroking has slowed while he was waiting to see what happened next, but now he’s picking it back up again, fast and rough this time. Sam is pulling you harshly against him on every thrust and you seem to be enjoying it as your hand wanders between your legs, rubbing there quickly.
One of Sam’s hands leaves your hips and wanders to the back of your head instead, grabs some of the hair there close by the root, pulling it. You raise your head in response and your low moans become high-pitched.
“Harder, Sam, fuck, harder,” you whine and Sam doesn’t need to be told twice, because he lets go of your hair, leans over you. One arm holds him off the bed and the other goes to your front, pushes up your bra so that Sam can twist one of your nipples between his fingers.
(Dean sees your breasts for the first time and goddamn it if he won’t compare every single pair he sees from now on to them.)
Then, with the angle of attack changed, Sam begins snapping his hips against you fast and hard, almost brutally. Dean times the movement of his hand with Sam’s hips, imagines it’s him you’re reacting to. Imagines he’s making you this desperate, fucking you this good.
(He would slap your ass now, if he knew you were into that. He thinks that you would be.)
Dean is minimally impressed by the fact that Sam actually fucks, doesn’t just make love, but he can’t pay the thought much attention, because the combination of the sound of skin slapping on skin, your keening, apparently tired of caring if anyone hears, the wet (wet!) sound of your pussy as well as the visual of you looking like you are getting your soul fucked out of you is enough to make Dean feel his balls tighten, feel the pull in his cock as he prepares to shoot his load into his underwear.
He presses his own lips together when he comes, because he is really worried about someone finding out about what he’s doing. His orgasm is intense and almost painful, and he can’t remember the last time he came this hard. It’s harder than he usually comes, even when he has sex. Another thing he’s not going to think about too closely.
His head is leaned against the doorframe, out of sight, and he needs to blink his eyes open. Sam and you are still going at it judging by the sounds, but Dean is done, sated. He silently walks away, to the nearest bathroom. He cleans up, then sneaks downstairs.
He gives it a few more minutes, because he’s not a total asshole, then pretends he just got in. Calls up that he’s back with dinner. Sam and you come downstairs, and even if Dean hadn’t been witness to it, he would probably guess what you were doing. You’re flushed, the shirt pulled down and pants put back on, and the two of you are acting just a little too casual.
(Dean wonders if there’s still some of Sam’s come in you when he remembers that he used a condom. Dean wouldn’t. If he ever got the chance, he would want you to feel all of him. Would want to see it drip out of you. That and a reddened ass cheek would sure make a pretty picture.)
Sam takes the burger he ordered, unwraps it, takes a bite, then frowns.
“This is cold,” he says around a mouthful of bread and meat. Dean shrugs and quickly tears his eyes away from you.
“Take it up with the restaurant,” he says, and shoves some fries in his mouth.
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Summary The story of a boy and his horse.
CWs Mentions of grief, kidnapping, death of a loved one and prostitution. Animal death. Minor character death. Prequel to Blackbird, but can be read on its own (if you just want some silly horse fun).
3.2k words
AN Thanks to @aseafullofstars for sharing your horse knowledge with me and catching a bunch of stuff that didn't make sense. 😄 Thank you @kblognar for convincing me that a fic from the POV of a horse could be fun. ❤️
On April 21, 1855, 35 thoroughbreds of the finest stock were led off a ship at the Port of New York.
There was a big ceremony, speeches. The governor even showed up. Three days later, another horse arrived at that same port. No one gave two craps about her. But they should have, because this mare would produce the most important horse – no, the most important animal – in pretty much the whole universe.
She was first owned by Sal Moriarty, an alcoholic with two ex-wives and three blocked arteries. On weekends, he'd ride around giving Bibles to the poor, "gettin' folks right for Judgment Day." That's what he said. Sam and Dean don't know any of this, but if they did, I bet they'd smile.
After Sal died, she ended up at Rainbow Farm in Lawrence, where a former soldier bought her on impulse. He paid extra to have the mare covered by a stud on the same farm, then took her back to his sons. I guess that's where this story begins.
And this is where it ends.
She crawls into life, shaking and bloody.
The night is cold, and breath, human and horse alike, makes the air puff white. There’s noise and voices, voices of men, and she’s never heard such a thing before. Her mother lies on her side, exhausted and skin foaming with sweat. She licks her little one’s nose, and she skitters, flinches, before recognizing the smell of her, the one who made her. Her father is snorting in some far away cage.
“She looks good, Dean,” she hears a deep voice she will become familiar with. “Leave her in there a bit. Don’t touch her tonight.” She moves her head, tries to whinny but falls short. She turns her head, sees them standing there by the gate. Four of them, one big one and three smaller ones, although two of them are coming up on the big one’s size.
“She’s a beaut, Dean,” she hears one say, a big boy who smells like heat and swamp.
“What’s her name, Dean?” the other, smaller one says. “Can I name her? We could name her Mallory, or Francine, or Isabella–”
“She’s gonna be the most well-trained horse in the entire world,” she hears him, and his voice is young and cracked and given to whistling right now, but it won’t be for long. She doesn’t know who he’ll be just yet, what they’ll go through together.
For now, she pushes her face between her mother’s legs, and drinks and drinks and drinks.
The foal, of course, can do all the things other horses can... and a few things they don't. But none of that stuff's important. This is the stuff that's important: The half piece of carrot that little Sammy once accidentally crammed into her nose. The bullet that grazed her ear and hit Dean in the chest – to this day, that ear flutters when there’s wind, and she’s sure she can hear rattling. These are the things that make the horse theirs – really theirs. Even when she was shot and hurt and limping, and folks were telling Dean to put her out of her misery, he made sure to nurse her back to health. It's the blemishes, he thinks, that make her beautiful.
“C’mere!”
She throws her head up, her nose held high, and trots off. If she could grin, she would. The boy, Dean, sighs, leans forward with his hands on his knees. He’s had another growth spurt, but so has she. His hair is turning darker. He slaps the outside of his leg, and she does a little dance. He shakes his head.
“You are the most damn fool horse I’ve ever met,” he mutters. “C’mere, girl. C’mere, Baby.”
That’s the name he gave her. Or rather, he forgot to give her one, and when his brother and the other boy, who is also a kind of brother, teased him about it, he came up with it on the spot, just to prove them wrong. He scratched her ear after, whispered to her that he’d come up with a better one. He hasn’t so far.
“Can you just - jeez!”
He stomps his foot, takes his hat off his head and throws it on the dusty ground, pushes his fists into his hips. He tries to look mad, domineering, but he ends up just looking silly. She throws her head back, runs another circle around him.
“Dean!”
It’s the big one, the one who was there on the night she was born too. His voice is deep and carries easily, even out here. She whinnies, steps in place, like she wasn’t just running circles around his foal. The boy turns, and she sees his ears going red.
“How’s it going?” the older one asks, and Dean bends, picks up his hat, puts it on, wrong way around, takes it off again and puts in on the right way, some dust flying off it in the breeze.
“Going well, sir,” he says. The man leans against the fence, watches, eyes squinting in the sun and against the sand on the wind, and it makes his eyes look black. She snorts a little, and then Dean approaches her, one hand stretched out, and she can’t help but run another circle around him. It’s just in her nature.
Dean hisses at her, his cheeks now flaming red too, and he clicks his tongue, and says, “c’mere,” a few more times, but she feels like she’s got lightning in her, and she needs to keep running. He throws the older one a desperate look, becoming hectic now, nervous.
His father jumps the fence then. Smooth, like a big cat. He walks over, slowly, to his son, does a low whistle that leads from his lips right to Baby’s heart. She stops where she is, looks at him. Her ear twitches.
“You gon’ behave, girl?” he asks, tilting his head to the side a little. She whinnies and he raises his eyebrows. “Do I need to get my whip?”
She stops. The man steps closer, extends his hand, thumb and index finger rubbing together in a little sound that is too tempting. She steps forward. He scratches at her neck, over at her head, then down to her chin. He’s very good at it.
She feels more inclined to follow their training after. John, the older one, stays for a bit, then leaves, and when he’s gone, Dean acts more like him - calmer, clearer, he even pitches his voice to be deeper.
She listens to him, does what he says. She stands close to him, her tail swishing to get away the flies while he runs his hand over her side. He drags the back of his other hand over his face, sniffles.
Baby doesn’t know it, but this is the moment he understands his father has more patience for his animals than he does for his sons.
In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day – sometimes a week, if they were lucky. They'd pass the time lining their pockets. Sam used to insist on honest work, but now he hustles cards, like his brother. They could go anywhere and do anything. They rode 200 miles to see Wild Bill Hickock, two days for a Cincinnati Red Stockings game. And when it was clear, they'd take her out in the middle of nowhere, start a fire, and watch the stars... for hours... without saying a word.
It never occurred to them that, sure, maybe they never really had a roof and four walls... but they were never, in fact, homeless.
That's a good line.
The front door of the little house flies shut, and Dean stalks towards her in long strides. He’s furious, she can tell, but she’s also learned his fury often covers for something else.
“Goddamn son of a bitch,” he’s muttering under his breath, while inside the house, the shouting continues.
He walks just past her, and then he gives a violent kick to the bucket that holds her water. Baby snorts, takes a step back, and the other two horses, John’s American Quarter and Sam’s Morgan, snort and complain as well. Dean grabs the side of the little stable, the walls of which are rotting away, and Baby can see, even in the dim light of evening, that his knuckles are turning white.
She exhales, exasperated with the young man, but then she steps closer, presses her head against his shoulder. She feels the tension in him, feels it race through him like a storm, but then his shoulders drop and he heaves a big sigh.
“He’s leavin’,” he whispers, like he’s afraid to hear the words spoken out loud. “He’s leavin’, and I can’t– I can’t–”
He turns then, wraps her head up in his arms. She smells as familiar to him as he does to her, and his palm runs over her nose, that point where her skin is so soft, as soft as he thinks he remembers his mother’s being when he pressed his nose against her chest when she told him a bedtime story, and he’s ashamed to be thinking of that, ashamed to be finding his mother’s tit in a horse, but he strokes that part anyway because he thinks that’s the last time he ever had anything soft in his life.
He sniffs and swallows and pulls his head back, looks into her big, black eyes. The right side of his mouth quirks up.
“Fucked up your water bucket, didn’t I?” he says, his voice softer, and she gives no answer because she has already forgiven. She knows he will right it, fill it with fresh water, will labor at the little well behind the house for her. He’ll sneak her some carrots too, sugar cubes if he has them, and he’ll pet her and scratch her exactly the way she likes.
He hugs her again, turns his head. She knows what he’s looking at. Dean reacts one way to his father giving him grief, but another way when he gets mad at his little brother. The two grow hot like coals thrown into a fire, but cool off as quickly as if thrown into water right after. She doesn’t have siblings, or none that she knows, but she thinks she understands the specific type of love that takes.
She knows that Dean is looking at her saddle now, hung over the side of the little makeshift stable. At the caramel leather, worn down. There’s a patch of it, and when this saddle starts being too used to keep it, he’ll cut that part out and sew it into the next one. And the next one. And the next one.
He reaches his hand out, still holding her with the other, and his fingers trace the letters etched into the leather. He breathes slowly.
“He’s leavin’,” he says again. “How can he do that? How can he just leave us, leave the mission, leave–”
Me.
Baby can’t answer him, and she can’t take his pain from him. What she can do is press her head harder against him, show him he’s not alone, make him warm, in that little tiny moment.
Watch him, as his fingertips run over the etchings of SW and DW. At least on leather, they won’t ever be apart.
Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a pen can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can. The readers are always gonna complain. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass.
It’s many years later, and Dean is nearly killing her.
There she was, spending a lazy night in a stable that had fresh hay and a bright moon, a stallion that smelled like grass and freedom in the box across from her, and she knew Dean was enjoying himself inside, the air even out here tinged with perfumes and liquor, and she stood in the cooling dark, content and calm. She watched as Sam and one of the others, the one who used to shoot at Dean, walked over to the stable, saddled their own horses. Sam ran one hand down her side in greeting, because she wasn’t his horse, but he’d known her all her life, and she knew him nearly as long. He and the man spoke in quiet, calm voices. Rode off, and Baby went back to dozing.
The next day broke, and when Dean came striding out of the house, she knew something was wrong. Some of the others were with him.
“What do you mean, they ain’t checked in?” Dean asked, voice tense. He comes close, doesn’t greet her, is too focused on what the others are saying. His breath smells of whiskey from last night and there’s also a sweeter odor she has heard him call pussy. She’s not quite sure what it is, but the gang seems to enjoy it often.
Dean mounts her, and the others saddle up as well, ride out. Not unusual, but there is a tension there that makes her throw her head back and forth. In his hurry, Dean hasn’t fastened the saddle tight enough, and it chafes her. The SW and the DW bouncing up and down.
They find the man Sam left with earlier dead on the road. He’s staring up at the sky, his horse, a proud Arabian, lying dead over his legs, shot in the side of the head. Baby snorts, grieves.
A stone’s throw away, Sam’s horse lies. Dying, but not dead. Baby and the other horses whinny, step back and forth, ravished by pain and anger and sorrow, while the gang looks on. Baby can hear the leather of her reins scratch against the leather of Dean’s gloves. He is shaking with terror as they listen to the crying horse, its thrashing.
It’s him who dismounts, eventually. Goes and shoots Sam’s dying horse in the head. Baby watches him walk back, his head lowered so the rim of his hat hides his eyes. The others take off their hats, hold them to their chests, and she knows it’s for the dead man but it’s also for the dead horses. The man with the blue eyes mumbles a prayer, asks God to welcome them all in his garden. She loves them fiercely, these humans, right then.
There’s a trail, so they follow. Heat, beating down. Fast, so fast. After a day, the short one who hasn’t been with them long dares to suggest they turn back, regroup. Dean throws him a look so murderous, Baby feels it vibrating off herself.
They keep going. We follow the trail, we find Sammy. It’s an easy task. Then rain, late on the second day. The trail is gone.
They beg him to turn back. Dean refuses. A few of them agree to split up, go back and try a different way. The almost-brother and the man with the blue eyes stay. Sometimes, they shout Sam’s name. He doesn’t answer.
They beg Dean to turn around. He finally agrees, or that’s what he says to them. They sit, drink the last of their water. Dean stares off into the distance, the looks on his friends’ faces worried but relieved, and she knows, in that moment, that she knows him better than all of them combined.
Here’s what he does: the man with the blue eyes walks up to him, hand on his shoulder as if to sooth him. Dean nods along, then rears his head back and whips it forward, and there is a crunch as he breaks the other man’s nose. He flies back, blood spurting from it, making the air metallic. The almost-brother puts up a fight, gets a hold on Dean and shouts at him that it’s madness if they keep going, that he’s no good to Sam dead, and Dean can’t free himself from the man’s grip except to get his hand on his revolver. He shoots at the other two horses, so close between their legs that even they, with all their practice and experience, go running. Baby would take offense, but she knows if he wanted to hit them, he would have. With no way for the other men to follow him, Dean rushes over, climbs back onto her, yeehaws and rides off.
They ride for a day and a night. Any trail that might have been there is lost. It’s a wild, insane chase that won’t lead anywhere. But Baby understands. She foams at the mouth and she doesn’t get mad when Dean gives her the spurs again and she rides like she has never ridden before.
It’s on the second day alone that Dean finally collapses. No water, sun beating down. He tries to hold himself up. He leans down, his forehead pressed against her, and he cries bitter tears. She stops walking, stands perfectly still. His hands claw into her mane. He begs and threatens and cries. When he is done, she turns around, and she carries him to safety.
So, what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But me, I'd say this was a test... for Sam and Dean. And I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and God himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. And, well... isn't that kinda the whole point?
She’ll live a few years yet, but there is one more big adventure. And it’s not being ridden by Dean. It’s being ridden by his little brother.
It’s a compliment, really. She’s the best, fastest horse they have, and they have some good horses. Well trained and strong and fast and beautiful. But none of them are like her.
While the gang is drinking and having pussy again one night, Sam comes outside, and sits to write a letter. She likes the little one’s presence, how calm he is, how he searches out the horses and enjoys their company. She swats her tail, just as Sam looks up. She follows his gaze, but there is nothing her horse eyes can see.
He drops to the ground, and seizes. Twitches, grunts, a horrible display of humanity. Baby whinnies, snorts. He’s soon found. A naked Dean joins them, and they argue. Dean walks back inside, having forbidden Sam to do what he wants - to have the gang ride out, follow whatever he saw on the inside of his skull.
He doesn’t, though, and if Baby could smile at that, she would. He stays, and then, when no one is watching him anymore, he looks around, and his eyes fall on her. That’s how she knows she has an important job to do.
He saddles her, talking to her quietly. She’s the fastest. The strongest. And she will make sure Dean’s brother stays safe. Sam pats her side.
Don’t worry, Baby thinks, as the dark road opens up before her. Sam is heavier on her back than Dean is, but he is a calmer rider, and she finds she enjoys carrying him. She snorts once, and he pats her neck again, and then they are off.
I will take good care of him, she thinks, as they make for Blackbird.
No doubt – endings are hard. But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?
Thank you for reading! ♡
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