call me bea ;

The air in the room is frigid, but the heat trapped between your bodies is a live, fluid thing.

It clings to you like a second skin, thick with the heady scent of musk and the salty friction of sweat. It’s a suffocating, feverish warmth that makes every nerve ending fizzle and sing, and every twitch feel dialled beyond comprehension.

Sam’s bare chest is pressed flush against your damp back, the solid, heavy wall of his muscled torso rising and falling against your spine. His body is curved to cage you in, his chin dropped heavy against your shoulder. The sharp point of his nose nuzzles along the sensitive line of your cheekbone, his wild, unkept hair tickling your temple with every shift of his head. Your breath breaks into shallow, desperate pants, contrasted by the deep, shuddering puffs of Sam’s. Each hot, wet exhale fans over your neck, encasing you completely in his intoxicating heat. 

One large arm curls beneath your knee, long fingers splayed across the soft expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you’ll go. Your hips ache with the strain, but it’s nothing compared to the insistent, euphoric ripples of pleasure tugging at your core. Sam holds a vibrator over the swollen bud of your clit, its silicone head slick, his fingertips glistening in the lowlight. 

“…What is meant by degeneracy?” Sam asks, the low rumble of his voice buzzing against your skin. Your body trembles at the sound, a full body shudder, and he only cradles you tighter, his fingers dimpling into your open thigh. His wrist rolls in slow, rhythmic circles, coaxing a moan from your parted lips as the vibrations spread so deep, you swear they fizzle behind your eyelids. 

Right. Studying. Physics. Your brain scrambles for the answer, but the puzzle pieces don’t click, the wires don’t connect. 

Nothing but a cry slips out as you try to speak, the words thick as sticky syrup in your throat, your eyes rolling back as a wave of ecstasy shoots through you. A laugh rumbles from Sam, not mocking, not quite, but something akin to it—as he tilts his head to suck hot kisses to your neck, sharp teeth nibbling at the curve of your jaw. 

“C’mon, beautiful. That’s not your answer, is it?” he teases, pink tongue darting out to taste your salty throat.

Fuck. 

You swallow, shaking your head. Your heart patters against your chest so quick, you wonder if it’ll jump right out your throat, or melt entirely through the spaces between your ribs.

“…It, um. Fuck. Where… s-several quantum states sh… ah!” Your hips buck against his hand as explosive, white-hot pleasure slices your train of thought clean in two. Your cunt clenches around nothing, a hollow ache settling deep inside your core. Sam hums, encouraging? Repremending? You can’t quite be sure—but the pressure on your clit eases, and it flares through you like fire. “Share! They, um, share the same en… energy.”

“That’s a girl.”

The ruthless pressure returns and with it the liquid heat, clambering down your spine and pooling low in your belly, pulsing with a dizzying combination of tension and relief. The heavy head of the vibrator leaves your clit to lave through your folds, your arousal guiding it in a smooth slide. There’s no friction—nothing but an audible, wet, buzzing slide—and your cheeks heat up so hot you almost worry it’ll cook your brain entirely. Sam circles it around your dripping entrance once, twice, just enough to make your hips squirm and twitch, coating the silicone with a fresh sheen of sopping slick. 

“You’re jus’ so good for me, aren’t you?” Sam praises, and it washes over you like a physical blow. Trickling from head-to-toe like he’s just kissed your very soul with sweet words, and even sweeter touch. His voice is deep, rough with lust, hot with love, his hand petting your thigh with a softness that drips with reverence. Your muscles twitch like a live wire. “So responsive. So wet.”

The world narrows to nothing but the heat of Sam behind you, the heavy weight of his arm hooked beneath your thigh, the curve of his smile against your throat, and the hot pleasure curling low in your abdomen. Sam Sam Sam your mind sings, and there’s really nothing else. Quantum mechanics are a distant memory as your brain melts into a gooey, useless puddle, your muscles squeezing, spit pooling behind your teeth. 

Dazed, your fingers claw to cling to something, anything besides the ruined sheets beneath you. You can’t see him, which almost pisses you off, but oh, you can sure as hell feel him. All of him. Your hands slide up to card through his sweat-damp hair, tugging at the soft strands near his nape. A sexy groan vibrates through his chest in response, his thick, aching cock twitching against your back. Fucking-fuck. Your mouth damn-near waters.

Your climax approaches like a threat, and can feel it fucking everywhere. It’s undeniable, building and building and oh Christ, it feels as though you might implode. It’s way too much, yet not nearly enough, a whine whirling from you between ragged pants. An insistent force coils in your belly, rippling in blinding, urging waves, wrecking your thoughts as you struggle for coherence.

“…Sam,” you warn, head lolling back against his shoulder like your skull’s been filled with lead. He responds by sucking a firm mark below your jaw, your pulse fluttering beneath his lips.

“I know. I know, baby,” he coos. “Wait f’me.” 

Unfortunately for you, the request is void of any real mercy, his white-knuckled hand dragging the toy through your velvety folds, catching on your abused clit with each upward slide. You try to breathe but it comes out as a choked sob, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping them open. Your abdomen clenches as your muscles squeeze, lock, a desperate attempt to halt your quickly approaching orgasm. 

“S-Sammy, please. I can’t,” you plead, trying hopelessly to wriggle your way out of his grasp, to close your legs around his hand—but his bicep flexes as he spreads you wide open. The bastard hums with all the mocking-sweetness of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and loves every fucking second. 

“Yes you can,” he soothes, nose nuzzling your cheek. Yes, you preen into the touch, aching for his comfort, and oh, he provides. The kisses he peppers to your neck then are sweet, sugary-sweet, such a contrast to the harsh vibrations bullying your sensitive pussy. “One more, okay? One more, then I’ll let you come. I promise.”

Oh, if he promises, then it must be true, your body wiggling in his tight grasp, and he engulfs you completely with his massive frame. You can feel his smile, lips curving against your cheek, a steady puff of breath fanning over your clammy skin. The vibrator dips again, swirling around your weeping hole, and you jolt so hard that he damn-near loses his rhythm. 

“Easy,” he chuckles, but you feel it more than you hear it, your head filled with air, soaring with nothing but please please please, let me come. “One more. Which order do we fill up the available quantum states?”

With his question, to your dismay (or delight), comes nothing but stupid, mind-numbing ripples of pleasure, radiating from deep in your core out to your fingertips. Sam curls over your shoulder, eyes locked on your cunt; eye-fucking the way your arousal seeps and soaks the dark silicone vibrating between your puffy folds. His breath stutters, and so does your fucked-out brain.

“…C’mon, baby. Don’t keep me waitin’.”

“I…” He twists his wrist, applying just a bit more of that delicious, aching pressure, a whimper tumbling from your lips. “S-Sam, I can’t—fuck, please, ‘m so close,” you beg through broken gasps. “Lemme come. Please, I—”

The vibrator clicks, and the buzzing seizes entirely.

“—F-fuck!” The loss is almost, no, is painful. Sam leans back just enough to watch the way your face falls at the emptiness, your thighs trembling as they try to squeeze against his grip. A soft, gentle coo hums from his lips. It’s mean, so damn mean, and yet—you can’t help but crave more. A dull, throbbing ache settles just above your cunt, deep in your pelvis, throbbing as you squirm for relief. 

“Shhh…” he hushes, craning his neck to press his lips to yours in a slow, consuming, punishing kiss; deep enough to steal your breath straight from your lungs, firm enough to remind you who’s in control. His tongue swipes through the seam of your lips, the intoxicating taste of Sam invading your senses. “What did I say, huh? One more, baby. One more. You can do it, can’t you?” The vibrator hums to life, “you can be good for me, yeah?”

Your head jerks a nod so quick, it’s a wonder you don’t get whiplash. 

“Uh-huh,” you manage, just as the toy passes over your throbbing clit, a shock of pleasure striking up your spine. Fuck. “Um, the, uh, q-quantum states fill from… high—” His hand shifts, pressure lifting, and your eyes shoot open with a sob. “—Lowest! Lowest to, fuck, highest.”

“See? That’s my girl. So fucking smart, yeah? So perfect.” He tilts his head, hair tickling your cheek, just as he whispers hot in your ear, “come for me, beautiful.”

Fuck.

A desperate, wailing yes slides out of you as he shifts, pressing those sob-worthy vibrations right to your clit with mind-numbing pressure. He whorls it in tight, perfect circles, winding you higher and higher and fuck, you feel pure, white-hot pleasure in places you weren’t even aware you could feel it. Your body squeezes like a spring that was coiled and coiled and wound far too tight, electric blackouts of euphoria rolling through you in waves.

“Yes, yes, yes, Thank you, I, d-don’t stop—” you sob, your thighs shaking violently in his hold. Your voice cracks into something unrecognizable, a raw, broken cry that tears from your throat as the coil finally snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave in blinding, deafening ripples. It obliterates every chance of a thought, every fragment of physics or pride or anything that isn’t Sam. Your back bows against his chest, your fingers white-knuckling in his hair, pulling hard enough to coax a groan from his lips as your body seizes and shatters.

“Sam, fuck, Sam,” you chant, or maybe it’s just one long, keening wail, your hips bucking desperately against the assault of the toy still pressed firm against your pulsing clit, riding out every spasm, every aftershock. 

He works you through it, soft coos of that’s it, I’ve got you, let go, whispered into your neck, sucking kisses into your sensitive flesh until the corners of your vision go white, and your cunt clenches rhythmically. Your thighs shake so violently you couldn’t close them if you tried, the vibrator buzzing mercilessly, drawing out every last quiver until you’re sobbing, overstimulated, pawing weakly at Sam’s wrist. 

“Sam, please—too much—” He clicks it off immediately. The sudden silence ringing in your ears, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s just toy-fucked you deaf.

You’re not entirely sure if you’d complain if he had.

“Shhh, ‘ts okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and then he’s moving. His thick arm unhooks from beneath your knee, the vibrator tossed somewhere into the sheets with a dull thud. 

His big, furnace-hot hands find your hips, your waist, stealing needy handfuls of your oversensitive flesh that belies the roughness of moments before. You go pliant, boneless, as he guides you around with ease. Your legs become useless, trembling limbs, but you don’t need to stand. Not when he’s gathering you up, cradling you tight, pulling you back against his chest as his back hits the mattress beneath. 

A warm, exhausted huff of air fans over your hair as his head hits the pillow, sticky-sweet kisses following. His arms bend around you, stroking slow, soothing lines along your side, tracing your sweat-slick skin that hasn’t lost its shake. “Y’did so good for me,” he breathes. “So perfect.”

Another soft kiss. Your heart leaps. 

“…An’ you’re gonna ace that midterm, baby.”

AN: I forgot to post this yesterday, lol, probably because I… hate it… but hey. Needed to get the idea out of my system, even if it’s short and shitty 🤣

Also also, if the Physics here is wrong… oops. Sorry! I was never the best at Physics…

the two of you had run into each other by accident, or something close to it, outside a liquor store with flickering fluorescent lights. he’d said your name before he could stop himself, and you’d turned around with a bottle tucked under one arm, eyes widening in a way that made the years between you feel suddenly thin. too thin.

one drink had become two. catching up had turned into your knee brushing his beneath the booth, your laugh warming over the rim of your glass, sam trying very hard not to stare at the curve of your mouth when you asked if he was still getting into trouble.

“less than before,” he had lied.

“you’ve never been good at lying to me.”

and god, that had been the problem. you still knew him. not all of him, not the parts that had been carved out and rebuilt wrong by hell and blood and angels and grief, but enough. you looked at him and saw through the careful distance he tried to keep, through the polite smile and the lowered voice and the way he held himself as if wanting anything too much might turn it rotten.

then he drove you home.

then you invited him up.

and sam, because he’s determined to be noble at the worst possible time, said no.

you had gone quiet for half a second, not hurt exactly, but close enough that he almost took it back. then you stepped closer, one hand resting against the edge of the open passenger door, your face soft under the streetlight.

“still careful, huh?”

“trying to be.”

“with me?”

he should have said yes. should have said always. instead, he just looked at you, and you seemed to understand because your expression shifted into something that made his pulse drag low in his stomach.

you kissed his cheek. slow. warm. far too close to the corner of his mouth. “goodnight, sam.”

now, he’s sitting in the car with his jaw clenched, watching your building from the curb like an idiot. like a man with no decency. the air inside the car is cool enough to fog faintly against the glass, but his skin feels too warm beneath his jacket. he tells himself he’s only making sure you get inside safely. that’s reasonable. that’s sam. that is the version of himself he can defend.

then your bedroom light flicks on. he looks up before he can stop himself.

you’re framed by the window on the second floor, your back turned as you tug your shirt over your head, and sam’s entire body locks. he should look away. he does look away, for one harsh, panicked second, staring at the dashboard while his heart slams against his ribs.

“no,” he mutters under his breath. “no, don’t—”

his phone buzzes.

the sound makes him flinch.

your name glows on the screen.

𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜?

sam stares at the message, throat dry. his thumb hovers over the keyboard, then types and deletes three different answers before he manages one.

𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢.

your reply comes almost immediately.

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝. 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎.

sam closes his eyes.

another buzz.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝚜𝚊𝚖. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜.

the breath leaves him all at once.

when he looks up again and now you’re facing the window. not fully exposed. not careless. you stand in your bra and jeans, the dark lace cupping your breasts, hair falling a little messily from where your shirt had dragged it loose. your arms are crossed at first, almost shy, which does something worse to him than if you’d been bold from the beginning. then your gaze drops toward the street, toward the car, toward him.

you cannot really see him through the windshield. still, sam feels seen.

his phone buzzes again.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙.

his fingers feel clumsy.

𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚒 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚗𝚘.

the pause before your answer is short enough to hurt.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚎.

sam’s head falls back against the seat. “fuck…” it comes out low and strained, dragged from the deepest part of him.

he looks around the quiet street once, twice, making sure no one’s close, no headlights rolling slowly past, no neighbor walking a dog at the wrong time. then his hand drops to his lap, palm pressing hard over the thick, aching line of his cock already straining painfully against his jeans.

he should still leave. he doesn’t.

the sound of his zipper is obscenely loud in the silent car. he shoves his jeans and boxer-briefs down just enough, hissing through his teeth as his cock springs free. the first rough stroke of his fist makes his hips jerk and a broken groan tear from his throat. he keeps his eyes fixed on your window, shameful and raw, filthy want twisting together so tightly he can barely breathe.

you reach behind yourself.

your bra loosens.

sam’s grip tightens, stroking himself harder now, the wet sound of his hand sliding over precum-slick skin filling the car. your straps slip down your arms, and the lace falls away, revealing the soft, weight of your breasts, nipples already tight in the cool air of your room. the sight punches the air out of his lungs. his cock throbs violently in his fist as he twists his wrist on the upstroke, thumb pressing firmly over the sensitive head, spreading the slickness.

“fuck… look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

you move closer to the window and lift your phone. a second later, his screen lights up.

𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏?

sam looks at the message, then back up at your bare tits, at the way your thumb brushes slowly over one nipple like you’re putting on a show just for him.

he answers with one hand, the other still furiously working his cock.

𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍.

the single word burns through him like gasoline. sam groans louder, fist pumping faster, the steering wheel digging into his forearm as he fucks up into his hand with short, desperate thrusts. his balls draw up tight, aching. he imagines pinning you against that window, mouth on your tits, sucking hard while he grinds his cock against your thigh. imagines dropping to his knees and burying his face between your legs until you’re shaking. imagines finally sinking into the tight, wet heat of you and fucking you until neither of you can think.

his rhythm turns sloppy, frantic. precum drips steadily over his knuckles, easing the glide. every stroke pulls filthy, wet sounds from his fist. his thighs tremble. sweat beads at his hairline.

you press your hand to the glass, head tilted, watching the dark shape of him in the driver’s seat like you can feel every desperate stroke.

sam comes brutally. his whole body seizes, hips snapping up hard as thick ropes of cum spill over his fist, splattering across his shirt and the steering wheel. a wrecked, guttural moan rips out of him—too loud for the quiet street—but he can’t stop it. he keeps stroking through it, milking every last pulse, eyes locked on you the entire time, vision whiting out at the edges from the intensity.

when it’s over, he slumps back against the seat, chest heaving, cum cooling on his fingers and stomach, shame already licking at the edges of the afterglow.

his phone buzzes.

𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢?

sam exhales shakily and types back with trembling fingers.

𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

he looks up. you’re still standing there, bra dangling from one hand, arm loosely across your chest—not hiding, just waiting. soft. patient. wanting.

sam’s thumb hovers.

𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘.

then, after a moment—

𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘.

your posture shifts. even from the street he can see the way your breath catches.

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎.

sam sits there with his heart still hammering and his spent cock twitching against his thigh, staring up at your window while the night presses close around the car.

he doesn’t start the engine.

You know they'll keep that. They'll make sure to keep anything he says. Those are always the parts that get the most replays- hell they're the parts you replay. When you're up late, watching his videos, hand between your thighs.

"-I didn't tell you to fucking move."

You don't know how it still works for you. You know it's not him, he even ran through ideas of lines he was gonna use before you started. He was very sweet about it, almost shy when you were alone- he's anything but shy now.

His grip on you tightens as he moves back to your clit, his tongue working against you rapidly. You're gripping the sheets, trying to keep yourself steady, your whole body convulsing as another orgasm starts to rise quickly.

"Fuck- please-"

He's already told you to beg, a couple times actually. You know he will again. It gets you hot just thinking about it, the stern tone in his voice. You bite your lip hard, trying to stop your hips from rising again. Your gaze falls to the camera, a reminder that you're supposed to be performing, you batter your eyelashes, let out another loud moan.

He pulls back suddenly, his sticky hand wrapping around your thigh, his other hand moving up to wipe his mouth. He looks like a mess, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, chin glistening with your arousal. He glances around to the set, speaking louder, "Sorry guys- I've gotta- I've gotta take a break."

The room picks up in a flash, people moving around, cameras resetting. People come running over with robes, one gets draped over your shoulders, a plastic cup of water pushes into your hands. You take a big swig of it, suddenly realizing how dry your mouth is.

People move around you, you see a few people checking the monitors, gearing up for the next shot. You glance at Dean, he's pulling in a shaky breath, pushing his hair out of his face with his long fingers.

You try to go over everything that just happened- why he wanted to stop. Maybe it's the way your bare heel had dug into his back the last time you came, maybe it's the way you tugged his hair a few minutes ago. Maybe he's just getting sick of being the only one actually doing any work.

He moves closer to you on the mattress, settling close enough that he could reach out if he wanted to. He looks up, gaze falling over you, then turns away fast, back to his own cup.

You speak quickly, nervously, "I'm sorry- did I-"

He cuts you off, leaning his head down slightly so he can speak in a hushed voice, "I'm gonna cum, sweetheart."

It catches you off guard, "What?"

He takes a swig of water, then speaks slowly, "If we keep going, I'm gonna cum."

You're still not sure you've understood him, "What do you-"

"I'm not kidding here, I feel like I'm gonna fuckin' explode- if they catch that on film my whole tough guy act is fucked-"

"We haven't even- I haven't touched you-" you manage to get out.

"I'll never live it down if I blow my load just from tongue fuckin' you- jesus-" he shifts awkwardly, you realize he's trying to hide his boner- it's not easy when his cock is larger than any you've seen before.

"You're gonna cum just from going down on me?"

"You're moaning like you've never had a guy touch you before- it's not exactly helping."

You raise an eyebrow, "I can stop?"

He grins at you, "Don't you dare."

Your heart skips a beat, thighs clench together. Forget any video- this is what you're gonna be thinking about tonight.

“Sam?” 

The look he’s wearing is intense, predatory. It’s meant a lot of different things in the past. Most frequently, it’s made good on incredible dicking downs, but right now it’s creeping you out.  

What’s between you is easy. Casual. Predictable. At least it had been, before you found out he’d died. His brother had called you, spent too long with your silence, until you’d found something to say. 

Thanks, I guess? and Sorry, for your loss. 

His brother called again, not long ago. Said the dead thing didn’t take. Told you to be careful, that whatever happened to him changed him, that he’d been through hell. 

“Through Hell.” Sam laughs, looks to the ceiling, and rolls his eyes. “Fuck, Dean. That’s almost clever.” He tells you his brother wasn’t wrong. He is different, things have changed, but not everything. Not what he wants to do to you.  

He assures you he’ll go, if you want, but that he doesn’t think you do, lets his legs stretch long as he leans all the way back, and the audacity of it is both enraging and arousing. When his fingers curl towards the expanse of his lap, you’re reminded of all the things they’ve done to you, will do to you, if you’ll cooperate. You refuse him, at least for now, stand firm, demanding an apology before you’ll consider fucking him. 

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” He looms over you, arms crossed, mocking you in a mirrored stance. At his full height, Sam Winchester is big. Imposing, when he wants to be.

Your stature doesn’t compare, not by a long shot, but you jut your chin up defiantly anyway. He looks down at you as you look up at him. He brings his mouth to meet yours, but you lean back just enough that he knows not to kiss you. Yet. A rough, callused thumb presses into the dip below your lip, pulling down to expose your teeth.

“I’m sorry.” His mouth ghosts over yours, and you feel the shape of his contrition, passing like a secret between your lungs. It is factual. Functional. Your want deems it sufficient.

Almost.

“What if I was gone?” You tease, a sultry challenge, not quite ready to forgive. His grip on you tightens, big hand palming your face. “Somewhere you couldn’t find me.” 

“Not possible.” You’re in his arms faster than you can think and he is arching your back, making an offering of your thinly covered tits. He presses his face against you, dragging his teeth along the angle of your jaw, an uncoordinated assault on your neck, your ear, your cheek. “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t find you.” 

He grabs your ass, making you whine with the strength of it. He wraps you around him, rocking your mound against his hip, and you’re too desperate now to refute his claim.  

“Not when you want to be found.” You catch his lip with your teeth in response, nipping it lightly before letting it go. He growls, staring at you, mouth hovering just over yours, his pupils blown so wide they blot out the thin ribbon of gold that usually surrounds them. 

He looks unravelled. Unrestrained. Unsafe. 

You know that Sam's a dangerous guy, but you’ve never really felt it, until now. Now there is a dark and wild part of him, prowling just below the surface, a thing he's never let you see before. It gives you a thrill in the hollow of your throat. 

He kisses you. Fiercely. You can’t catch your breath, can’t stop the way your head swims. You feel his thumb pressing into your jaw, hinging it open so he can lick into your mouth. You let him suck and bite at your lips, leave them raw, puffy and slick from how he’s marked you with his spit, his eyes following the string of it that drops down to your heaving chest with a look that makes you whimper with need.

“You gonna sit in my lap now?” He stands you in front of him, drops back into the chair. He’s pulling his shirt off over his head, chest taut, forearms flexing. He spreads himself out, the bulge in his jeans shifting on its own when you lick your lips. You feel ravenous.

Your panties are being pulled down, his knuckles brushing against your slit to see how wet you are. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, expression dark, and you sweep it up over your head for him. It looks like he’s thinking of something filthy. You want to know if it’s a memory or a fantasy, maybe a mix of both.

“What’s that look?” He shakes his head, doesn’t answer, watching you stand there, naked, rubbing your thighs together, spreading your slick around. He takes his time and soon you start to shiver. “Sam. I’m getting cold.” 

His eyes flick up to your face, pausing on the way to note how hard your nipples have become, and he opens his arms for you. “C’mere then.” 

You climb into his lap side-saddle, burrow into the warmth of him, your ass wiggling against him, needy, and he lets you stay there as long as you want. He wraps his arm around you, asks if that’s better. You don’t bother pretending that it isn’t, the tenderness of his embrace is so familiar. It reminds you of a memory of him, one where he’s a little warmer, more playful. 

The slow and deliberate way you’re kissing is trying his patience, has him crushing you against his chest. Your closed-mouth kiss is subtle, pressure and suction sweetly tugging at his lips. It’s not long before you take your turn gnawing at him, fingers clawing at his back, tugging at his hair. 

Gripping you firmly, turning you so your leg falls open, you’re already whimpering from how he spreads you wide. “Touch yourself for me.” He coos, kissing your temple so softly you could mistake him for that other Sam, again. “Tell me what you think about, when you do this by yourself.” 

“You?” You slip your hand down, over your belly to the damp patch of curls, the ones barely hiding your arousal from him. You breathe deep the scent of his sweat and your cunt and the lingering traces of aftershave he wears. It’s cheap but that doesn’t matter. On him, it smells good. “You wanna know if I think about you.”   

“And?” He studies you, like you are data he is collecting. The focus of it furrows his brow. His eyes flick between the apex of your legs and your mouth, both wet and open, the latter smirking as he stifles a groan. Not so empirical, now. You are wetter than you expect, when you part your lips to slide your fingers through your slick. Rocking so your ass rubs along his length, you start to pet yourself in earnest. 

You press the place between your shoulderblades into his chest, arching your back, his fingers brush the underside of your tit and you gasp again, your head lolling along the top of his shoulder. He chuckles, or maybe growls, and it vibrates low in his throat. You’re awash in a sea of memories, where all at once you are settling in next to him, asleep, on your couch, and his hands are under your thighs making you spill cereal all over the floor, and he is waking you from behind, entering you so, so, slowly.

“Not all the time, but.” Your mouth feels like a desert no matter how you work your tongue around it, so when you speak it’s in a croak you barely recognize as your own. You lick your lips and find he’s close enough that you taste his skin by accident. “Sometimes, yeah. I think about you.”

“Did you, when Dean told you I was dead?” He bites your cheek, not enough to mark, but enough to send a shock of pleasure through you, making you cry out. It mingles with the sadness that drives between your ribs, traps your breath in your lungs.

A wave of  sorrow washes over you, tightens your chest to think of it again. You defy him, focus on the ache you’re feeling, the rock of your hips in the direction of pleasure. It’s true what they say: grief makes you horny. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I want to know.” He’s grinding up into your ass, the rub of the fly on his jeans rough against your skin. He covers the hand between your legs with his, guiding your fingers with gentle insistence against your clit. “Were you sad?”  

You buck into his touch, ignoring his questions. The want between your legs blooms deeper within you, making you twist in his hold, spreading your legs wider while he urges you to answer. 

“A little, at first.” You swallow, struggle to hold his gaze, feel ashamed. You didn’t rend clothing or wear black or throw yourself on the proverbial casket. If there was a real one, you didn’t know about it. “I didn’t really think about it, you, much after a while.” 

“But you did.” You whine his name, protest compounded by pleasure, bring yourself to look up at him and he nods at you, studying your face. “You cried for me.”

“Jesus Christ, Sam.” You’re writhing against him, your hand left to continue its work at your clit as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your slit. It feels so deeply fucked up to be getting off on this, telling him you didn’t really mourn even though it felt like you did, at the time. “Is this what you came for?” 

But then, he’s getting off on it, too. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but.” He slides his fingers between your lips, stuffing you full with one smooth stroke of his wrist. He uses your cunt to hold you in place, against his cock, harder. He works into you, a gentle wave, the curl of his fingertips making you quiver until his pressure inside meets yours outside and you can’t keep your eyes open for the feeling of it. “Nobody's come yet.”

You bark out a laugh that gets caught in your throat. It hitches from the force of it, tangling with your pleasure, stumbling over the joke that isn’t funny, but it is. Your whole body shakes against him, and he works you harder as your cunt clenches around his fingers with your laughter and your lust until you’re gasping for breath, and soaking his hand.

“God damn, that’s tight.” His mouth curls into a shape that feels like the inside of a smile. “Always said I liked your laugh; I like it even better now.” Affection, perhaps, familiar yet distorted, and a curiosity that borders on surprise. That he’s remembering another version of you through time, the way you’re comparing him to the memory of the man he was before, stirs in you a sense of quiet mourning. You can feel it competing with the rising tide of your climax on his fingers and yours moving faster, deeper. You’re holding, clinging, on to his forearm but when you try to help him start fucking his fingers into you faster he drags them from you, stifling your protests by shoving them into your mouth. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I wanna feel you first.”  

“Then take your clothes off and fuck me, Sam.” You pull his fingers free, thick strings of drool keeping them connected to your tongue, and twist awkwardly to climb towards his mouth. He manhandles you into his arms, telling you he’s going to ruin you. Wanna see you cry for me. He kneads your ass as he crosses the room, jerky, almost awkward, shedding his pants along the way. Legs cinched tightly around his waist, you lean in to kiss him, softly. Once. Twice. “Whatever you want. Fuck. I haven’t felt you since you died.”

He bullies you onto the bed: pries your limbs open, lays you out roughly beneath him, kneels over you, naked and erect. You have to swallow because the sense memory of his cock in your mouth is so vivid it makes your mouth water. You’re about to bow to it, take him deep and see if the rich, salty musk of him is the same as you remember, when he knocks your knees open, forcing your legs wider, making room for him to settle between them. 

You reach down to touch him, that same velvet softness you remember wrapped around steel you could never forget. It’s light, your fingertips revelling in the feel of his skin. You sigh and it sounds like a secret. He groans and it feels like one, too.

His hips shift, the tip of him brushing against you, and you take both hands to part your lips and use him to spread your wetness all over yourself, and him. You grip his shaft and coax him to your entrance, and the stretch of him is less familiar than you remember, though you’re sure it’s not a matter of anatomy. Time has just passed, and your bodies have forgotten. You moan, your guiding hand keeping its grip, drawing out your reacquaintance. 

“Slow.” You manage to get out, thick, almost drunk. “Please, go slow, Sam.” You squeeze him, suck him deeper in fractional inches. “I missed you. I.” You thought you’d never have this again. “I wanna remember.” 

He goes slower, his cock flexing inside you, body going rigid when you clench around him in response. The agony of it is wonderful, consuming, a dizzying hiatus of time. You’re certain that this must be Sam, as you remember him. Patient. Deliberate. Worshipful. You moan for him, long and ragged. 

You guide him home, but when you look at him, his face does not match the one in your memory. Where you should see ecstasy, euphoria, you find a carnal snarl, lip curled and teeth bared. You chase more, try to fill the space where his reverence for you should be with the length and girth of his cock. 

“Shit.” He grabs you, pins you, keeping you in place so you can no longer move. “You’re really crying.” Wetness stains your cheeks, too late to hide it, and when you try to wipe it away he stops you. He has not finished cataloguing your tears.

“I.” You have nothing to say for yourself, you blink and a few more tears slip free. “I guess so. Yeah.” 

He withdraws, just his tip lingers, barely inside you. A string of slick trickles from his shaft down your slit, and then south to pool between your ass cheeks. Everything feels thick and fuzzy, Sam becomes a contradiction. 

“You wanted something else.” He kisses you, slow, tender, the way his words aren’t. “Something soft?” He dampens his lips on your cheek, gentle, while he fucks into you hard enough to steal your breath. “You need me to be sweet, while I take you apart?” His touch is featherlight; his body weights yours like an anchor, sinking deep. “Tell you you’re beautiful, that I need you.” It is a promise; it is a threat. 

“Sam.” He grinds against you, face a jarring omission of feeling. The incongruity of him betrays an existential un-knowing, the source of a slow beating pulse of madness, growing in his mind. You wonder if he notices, if he feels the void you see. 

“I could.” It hits you, like the snap of his hips, that of course he does. He must. He is here to reconcile himself. “I remember what to say.”

He is an exacting calculus where earnestness should be, and yet beneath it all, despite it all, you just see Sam. The same, but different. Dead, then not so much. Sometimes absence is just absence, and somehow that stings a little less. 

“You could.” Split open on his cock, you remind yourself how empty you will feel, when he leaves. “But you don’t need to.” He is thick and hard and throbbing, buried to the hilt in you, and you decide there’s no need to hurry along your parting. “I’ll remember either way.” 

Immobilized by his weight, grunting, whining from the strain, you clip the corner of his mouth trying to bite him, pull his lip taut and bloody when you finally catch hold. Your limbs scrabble at him, back arching your tits into his chest, elbows knocking his wrists, trying to wriggle free. A bruising grip takes hold of the back of your thigh, presses it down into the mattress. It’s enough, you break free. 

His hair tangles in your fists, both of them, fingers knotting around long strands and pulling until you feel resistance. His head jerks, jaw slack, he shows you the whites of his eyes, the white of his teeth. The sound you tug from him through the roots of his hair is throttled by the tension coiled in the muscles of his neck, long and guttering, it bleeds through the confines of his ribs and into yours. “You feel so fucking good.” 

Locked together, his limbs around yours and vice versa, the sheen of exertion building between you lets your bodies start to glide against each other. The smell of his sweat is tantalizing, intoxicating, and you turn your face toward his armpit, breathe deep. Low thunder rolls over as he laughs, a single raindrop of him hits your shoulder from the stormcloud of hair above you.

“This what you want?” Twisting, stretching, he brings his body close and you bury your needy mewling against the hot, damp funk of him and the moistness of it clings to your nose and cheeks even after you pull away. You gnaw at the delicate skin there, worry at the ropes of muscle that cling to his ribs. “Little freak.” His tone is a steady, unmodulated assessment, and you mumble that it takes one to know one around his flesh. “Sure.” His teeth click together and it makes you shiver. “That’s why this works.” He isn’t wrong. 

A frenzy builds in you as he fucks you harder, faster, a litany of want and need and filth cascading from your mouth. Your ankles hook over his shoulders, his knees bracket your hips. He leans back, stares down the length of your legs, watches, as his cock glides in and out of you. He describes it in detail: the sheen of your cunt juices coating his dick, your thighs and ass; the sound of you, thick wet squelching he says is because of how you’re trying to milk him, but he’s not ready to come yet; the hidden secret he excavates, dipping his thumb between your puffy folds to circle your clit. You writhe for him, absolutely undone. 

“You’re close.” You are, but you bite your lips and shake your head in dissent. “Don’t lie. I can feel it.” You can too, the way his thumb slips and slides over your pleasure with the wetness that precedes your release. “You wanna come for me?” 

“You wanna make me?” His eyes darken and this, you recognize. Sam Winchester, consumed by lust, considering your challenge, and preparing to rise to it. 

He drags your ass up onto his thighs, still petting you as he starts to fold you in half. Delirium takes over, the air evacuates your lungs as he stretches over you, the full length of his torso melting into yours. He fills you, impossibly deep, needs only the new angle and the weight of his hips to drive him deeper. 

“Hi.” You stare up at him, mouth agape, so close to him. His breath fans over your face, hot and even, makes you shudder. 

“Hi.” He waits until you nod, let him know you’re ready. When he starts to move, a thorough analysis of flesh, you see stars. 

He takes his time, telling you how tight you are, how good it feels, how you’re taking all of him. His pelvis rocks down into yours, grinds your clit against his pubic bone, until you become his pleading supplicant, pressing your face against his wherever you can. Cheek to cheek, nose to chin, mouth to mouth, your tongue sliding over his in a petition that defies words, begging from a place beyond the confines of language. 

You are breathing in tandem, your hearts beating in one syncopated rhythm, your fucked out, glazed over eyes hold his until they cross from being too close, revert to staring at the mole on his left cheek. Drunkenly, you kiss it. Awkward, haphazard, you miss your target and your nose slips into the corner of his eye. You snort, he grunts, and the absurdity of all of it tips your chin up, sends effervescent mirth spilling from your lips. You twitch and convulse with laughter, and it pulls him deeper, inside you. 

“God damn.” He curses into your shoulder, constricting around you as his climax hits. “That’s tight. You’re.” You can’t hear him, though his lips move against you like he’s still saying something. His breathing quickens, stalls, whistles out of him in high pitched, desperate pants.

Pain blossoms at your shoulder, he bites you, as hard and deep as the rut of his hips into you as he comes, and it drops you, from the height he’s taken you, into the dizzying descent of your orgasm. Your eyes roll back, your hands claw at his back, ass, and legs to hold him closer, sweat drips from the backs of your knees, and your muscles shake, pull tight, go rigid. Every nerve ending in your body reports an incoherent ecstasy, white heat coursing through you, the blurry sight of God, and Sam, everywhere, holding you together as you come apart.  

The gentle, rhythmic laving of his tongue over your shoulder guides you back to reality. Sam is still everywhere, heavy and molded to you, crushing the air out of you with the weight of him. You turn into him, nudge at his cheek with your nose. “Sam, I can’t breathe.” 

He grunts, pushing up and off you. The dim light from the street paints him in shades of blue-grey and yellow, a sinful nocturne of rippling muscle. He catches you staring as he walks to the bathroom, smirking at you over his shoulder. He disappears into the sound of running water.

You assess yourself, aching and tender with the promise of bruises on your thighs where he held you down. The place where your shoulder meets your neck aches whenever you move it, and it’s tender when you touch it, makes you hiss. You keep trying to look at where he bit you but can’t, your anatomy doesn’t allow it. “I think you broke skin.” 

You don’t realize he’s come back until his hand cups the base of your skull, guides you so he can examine the mark, and then confirms it. He sounds proud of himself. “Looks that way.” 

The sheets pool around your hips as you sit up, hold your hand out for the glass he’s drinking deeply from. He pauses, mid-sip, and hands it over. You mumble between gulps that you should make him stay and do your laundry, at least, before he leaves.

“What makes you think I’m leaving?” The glass stalls at your lips. Two fingers on the bottom, he tilts it until you’ve drained what’s left, a small rivulet escaping the corner of your mouth. He catches it on his knuckle, wipes your chin and relieves you of the glass, setting it beside the coaster on your bedside, crowding you against the headboard as he climbs back into bed. “I’m not finished yet.” 

a/n : thanks are owed to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for their tireless support, and to @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery and @velvourne for the lengthy soulless Sam study sessions. i know they happened months ago, but i remember.