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Dean's been at it for over an hour, head between your thighs, tongue inside your cunt.
You've cum more times than you can count- they've got it at every angle now, every sound you can imagine, moaning, gasping, begging. It's almost getting ridiculous at this point- you know they won't use all the footage.
But you're also not gonna stop him. You're not sure you've ever felt like this- it's overwhelming in the best way possible, your whole body feels like syrup, you're soaking over him, over the sheets. You'd be sobbing by now if you weren't so painfully aware of the camera only inches from your face.
He pushes his fingers into you again, deep and hard, curling in a way that makes your head spin.
Your hips lift off the mattress, he grabs hold of you quick, pushing you back down hard, "Stay still-"
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.
He takes another gulp of water, then looks back at you, "Just give me a minute to cool off, and I promise I'll fuck you so hard you can't walk tomorrow-"
hi anon! I didn’t know much about this trope so I did some digging. I’m a neurospicy girlie and I struggle with body awareness & dissociation so I think I would suck at this—I don’t even know what it’s like being in my own body sometimes 😭 I might try and explore it as I get more comfortable writing!🫶
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Everything was perfect—you were about to welcome a baby girl into the world and finally leave the life of hunting behind. Sam was supposed to have it all: the house, the family, maybe even a dog in the backyard. But before the three of you could begin your new life in an old craftsman home on the prairie, the apocalypse arrived.
All Sam had to do was lock Lucifer in the cage…
Pairing: Sam Winchester x fem!reader
WC: 3.4K
CW: 18+ MDNI, language, well-earned domestic fluffiness, ovulation (not projecting here at all), discussion of birth control, masturbation (f), unresolved sexual tension, mom-bod appreciation. This chapter is pretty tame overall
A/n: my husband forced me to watch the last couple episodes of the series that I had been boycotting and I'm dead inside now :') as much as I love being angsty, I think we all deserve some fluff.
Cruel World masterlist
“Share my body and my mind with you, that’s all over now. Did what I had to do, I found another anyhow.” - Cruel World, Lana Del Rey
Sam had taken a few days off to give you time to rest and recover. He started noticing flickers of a light he’d never seen before in your eyes. A stray ember returning to the warmth in your voice. It was subtle, but it caught his attention immediately.
There was a twinkle in your eye when you laughed—really laughed—at one of his jokes. It wasn’t funny. That was what made it funny. Usually only to him.
The house felt different, too. Not necessarily happier, but lighter somehow. As though it could finally breathe again after holding its breath for months. Like it was slowly releasing the grief and tension that had seeped into the walls.
You still tired easily. Sometimes he’d catch you staring off into space, your thoughts drifting somewhere he couldn’t follow. There were still nights when sleep abandoned you completely.
One of those sleepless nights, you rolled over and reached for Sam out of habit.
The other side of the bed was cold.
At first, you assumed he’d gotten up for water or to check on Willa. But when ten minutes stretched into twenty, you finally pushed yourself upright and padded quietly through the house.
You found him on the couch with Walker awkwardly threaded around his legs. His phone rested on his chest and, if you didn’t know him better, you might have been suspicious. But you knew he was waiting to hear from his brother. Ready to help Dean with a research question that would probably never come.
It crossed your mind to wake him and ask him to come back to bed, but he looked peaceful. His face was soft and his body relaxed. For once, he wasn’t being plagued by nightmares of the Cage.
Carefully, you lifted his phone from his chest, knowing Dean would never call this late, and draped a blanket over him.
The next night, you woke up alone. Again. That familiar emptiness was beginning to gnaw at you. You walked quietly, expecting to find Sam asleep on the couch once more.
Instead, from the top of the landing, you could make out what sounded like a one-sided conversation.
“Cas, I don’t know where you’re at—or why you’re ignoring me. I need your help.”
You froze. It was hard not to jump to conclusions. Hard not to assume this had something to do with hunting, or his time without a soul. You wondered if this was really why he’d been leaving you in the middle of the night.
The bed was still empty in the morning.
Downstairs, you could hear the muffled sounds of Sam making breakfast and the theme song of whatever cartoon Willa was currently obsessed with.
For the first time in days, you didn’t ache when you pushed yourself out of bed. You paused in front of the mirror and lifted your shirt enough to inspect the bruise on your chest. It had faded to a sickly yellow-green, but that was a sign you were healing beneath the skin.
Out of habit, your eyes drifted lower to your stomach—to the jagged silver lines earned from growing and carrying life inside you. None of the products you tried had done much more than soften their appearance. After spending an obscene amount of money on creams and lotions, you finally gave up.
Accepting them as scars earned in the hardest battle you’d ever fought. Motherhood.
The familiar harmony of a chaotic morning grew louder as you made your way downstairs.
“Willa.” You called her name when you noticed she was standing far too close to the television. She spun around immediately.
You stifled a laugh at the awkward excuse for a ponytail her father had attempted. It bounced wildly as she ran toward you.
For the first time in days, you held your child without feeling like your chest was splitting open.
Now that you were eating three meals a day and sleeping most nights, you hadn’t realized how unwell you’d truly been.
Sam’s voice from the doorway startled you. It felt like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
“You okay?”
“Y-uh, yeah. I’m fine—” You winced. You’d promised to stop hiding behind that phrase. It had been your shield for years. “I mean… I feel good.”
He eyed you suspiciously but softened when he saw the smile on Willa’s face. Being held by what he firmly believed was her favorite person.
“Alright. I’ll allow it.”
He’d expected an eye roll. Or a tired sigh. Instead, you gave him a playful smirk while adjusting Willa on your hip.
“But you’ve gotta eat before we go.”
You cocked your head at him. The simple gesture melted him every time.
“Yeah, I figured it’s nice out. We should take Willa to the park.”
Willa squealed at the idea, the high-pitched noise making both of you flinch. She immediately began wiggling in your arms until you finally set her down.
“get my shoes!”
Those were the only words either of you managed to make out as she awkwardly charged toward the stairs.
You both laughed at her ostentatious exit. Knowing exactly where she’d learned it, And knowing it wasn’t from either of you.
“That sounds fun,” you said as Sam moved to follow her upstairs. “But I need to talk to you—”
A loud thud cut you off.
Both of you sighed in unison and turned toward the source of the noise. There was no crying, which probably meant she’d dropped something she wasn’t supposed to be carrying in the first place. Sam shot you an apologetic look before heading upstairs after her.
It was still cold, but the bite from winter was weakening into a softer, more invigorating sting. The first buds were starting to appear on the maple trees lining the country road into town. Still a few weeks before they would begin to sprout, but still a clear sign that spring was on its way.
“Uh, Sam? You missed it.” You’d planned for a quick drive to the small city park closest to home. Instead, he drove past it and signaled for the next town over. Willa’s lip quivered as you passed her favorite place to visit.
“That one’s so small and there aren’t any other kids for her to play with.” He was right. Willa was probably the youngest person in the dying prairie town you resided in by twenty years. The playground was easily forty years old and a tetanus shot waiting to happen. You knew it was important for her to socialize with other kids her age. But with kids her age came parents. People you didn’t trust and didn’t have anything in common with. “I’m pretty sure there’s a bigger one in Bridge Creek.”
You relented and decided to use the longer drive as an opportunity to ask him about the conversation you overheard the previous night.
“I need his help with something, that’s all.” He smiled and glanced over at you quickly to gauge your reaction.
“Does it have anything to do with why you’re not sleeping in our bed?”
You watched his face drop in your periphery. Even Willa seemed to sense the mood shift and her tiny feet stopped gently kicking in her car seat.
“It’s the nightmares.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel before he shifted in his seat, trying to work some of the tension out of his shoulders. “I don’t wanna wake you up or… worse.” His voice faded at the end.
He meant he didn’t want to risk hurting you again. Saying it out loud would make it real.
“Okay.” You nodded gently. “You think he can help?”
In reality, Sam had no idea. Castiel was the only celestial being he knew who might have a chance of helping him the way Death once had.
He’d expected resistance from you. Maybe even an argument. He knew how wary you were of Castiel. Instead, he was surprised to see your expression soften.
“So, what do we do?”
“We?”
“Yes, Sam. We.” You gave him a look. “I don’t need to remind you what happened the last time you worked with him.”
“I don’t even know if he can help yet—”
“—well, we’ll find out together. We’re retired, Sammy.” You paused, smiling when you noticed the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “We don’t do solo missions anymore. We don’t split up.”
He rested a hand on your leg and gave three gentle squeezes.
A silent I love you.
Back when you were too afraid to say the words out loud, when you were all still on the road together, you’d squeeze his leg under the table at some diner in the middle of nowhere. Or he’d sneak a hand into the back seat where you were sitting.
Three gentle pulses.
It always made him fight back a smile while Dean watched the two of you with growing suspicion. Now, you glanced over and found him smiling at the memory he’d just summoned between you.
You threaded your fingers through his, smiling at the difference in the size of your hands before giving three squeezes back.
Before long, you rolled into Bridge Creek. Willa’s face lit up at the sight of the larger park and she started wiggling impatiently in her car seat.
He was right—there were plenty of other families there. Families that probably looked nothing like yours.
Anxiety twisted in your stomach when you noticed how busy it was. Sam kept his hand planted firmly on your leg, allowing you to fidget with his fingers while you grounded yourself.
“Ready?” Sam’s voice was gentle in a way that you needed it to be. “I think Willa is about two seconds from combusting.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of her practically gnawing on the straps of her car seat.
As usual, the moment her feet hit the ground, she took off toward the large wooden playground. Both of you scanned the area out of habit while simultaneously keeping an eye on Willa.
You noticed most of the parents sitting on benches, keeping only a passive eye on their children. Some had their faces buried in their phones. Others sat reading books beside expensive strollers, seemingly oblivious to whether their kids were hurt, lost, or hanging upside down from the monkey bars.
You couldn’t take your eyes off Willa. You watched every tiny handhold and careful foot placement. Sam stayed close enough to catch her if she fell.
Not wanting to crowd either of them, you stepped back and admired your favorite version of Sam—the father of your child.
“How old is she?”
You flinched at the sound of an unfamiliar voice beside you.
The woman looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore name-brand yoga pants, an athletic jacket, and enough makeup to look effortless. Her nails were perfectly manicured. It was hard not to compare yourself.
Glancing down, you noticed a few small stains from Willa’s breakfast on your shirt. You’d thrown your hair into a messy ponytail after fixing Willa’s bedhead that morning and rushed out the door. The most effort you’d made was applying cherry lip balm in the car.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you forced a polite smile.
“Eighteen months.”
The woman stared as though she expected a longer answer. You shifted your gaze toward Sam, silently begging him to rescue you from the interaction. He was blissfully unaware. Completely engrossed in watching Willa conquer the playground.
“Is that your husband?”
You chortled at the question. Not because it was ridiculous—because of how confidently she’d asked it. Then you glanced down at your hand and realized you weren’t wearing your engagement ring.
“Um, no. He’s not.” You cleared your throat when you noticed her gaze lingering on him. “We’re engaged.”
Your lips twitched upward. This complete stranger was the first person you’d actually told. You hadn’t even said the words out loud before.
You tensed when you noticed Willa interacting with another toddler. A wave of anxiety hit immediately. What if being isolated from other kids had put her behind? What if she didn’t know how to play with them?
Willa looked nervous and glanced toward her dad for reassurance. With a gentle nod and an encouraging smile from Sam, she let her guard down. Soon she was happily toddling around beside the other child.
You’d completely forgotten the woman next to you as you quietly celebrated another one of Willa’s victories. This time, Sam was there to see it.
Evidently, the child belonged to Valerie. Before you left, she scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and handed it directly to Sam to arrange a playdate. He promptly handed it to you while you did your best to stifle any laughter.
On the drive home, you could feel him stealing glances in your direction while you stared out the window.
“So… Valerie?”
“Fucking Valerie,” you groaned. “I don’t think she believed me when I said we were together.”
He frowned at that.
Honestly, it didn’t bother you much. You’d never been the jealous type. If anything, you found it amusing watching him turn bright red when women flirted with him.
“Probably because I looked like a homeless person.” Your tone was playful, but there was a trace of insecurity underneath it.
“Or maybe because you weren’t wearing this.”
He awkwardly fished your engagement ring out of his pocket and handed it to you.
“Sorry…” You blushed while taking it from him. “I told you, I’m terrible with jewelry.”
“Yeah.” He smiled to himself. “You really are.”
You hugged one knee to your chest and stared out the window as guilt gnawed at you. You hated forgetting something that meant so much. Something that represented one of the happiest moments of your lives was forgotten like a set of car keys.
“But I don’t want to marry you because you remember jewelry or wear expensive clothes.” He glanced over at you. “I mean, you look amazing in anything you wear.”
You rolled your eyes as heat crept up your neck.
“Is this you trying to flirt with me?”
“Is it working?”
You shrugged playfully while admiring the pink hue in his cheeks and his nervous smile. After all these years, that effortless spark was still alive between you.
Over the next few days, the three of you continued settling into a new rhythm of normalcy. Sam went back to work now that you were healthy again. He still made sure you ate before he left for his shift and let you sleep in on his days off.
He continued trying to summon Castiel, but he knew it could be a waiting game. In his experience, the angel had a habit of appearing and disappearing entirely on his own schedule.
Most nights when Sam worked, you went to bed early enough to wake up before Willa in the morning, giving you time to eat breakfast or shower in peace.
Tonight had been different.
You’d gotten engrossed in some trashy reality show—one of the many programs Sam loved teasing you about, even if he inevitably ended up watching whenever it was on.
Before you knew it, it was one in the morning.
You hurried through your bedtime routine and crawled beneath the blankets, fully expecting exhaustion to drag you under.
Instead, you stared at the ceiling. Sleep stayed just out of reach.
All day, you’d found yourself stealing glances at Sam. Watching him carry Willa on his shoulders through the yard. Watching the way his legs stretched while he read in the armchair by the window. The way his nose creased and his dimples showed when he laughed at one of his jokes.
Everything about him seemed to catch your attention lately. Maybe it was the feeling of safety in your new ‘normal’. It had been years since you saw him so relaxed. Not in a constant state of survival.
You groaned quietly and rolled onto your side. Your body felt restless. Every nerve ending seemed to be humming beneath your skin.
A quick glance at the calendar earlier that day had offered a likely explanation. After years of birth control, you were still adjusting to paying attention to your body’s natural rhythms. You’d been on it long before you got pregnant with Willa. Now your body seemed determined to remind you exactly where you were in your cycle.
You were ovulating.
You buried your face in your pillow and laughed quietly at yourself. Sam hadn’t even done anything out of the ordinary.
He’d just smiled at you across the breakfast table that morning. Touched the small of your back while passing through the kitchen. Kissed your forehead before leaving for work. It was all painfully normal.
The clock on the nightstand ticked past two-thirty. You tossed and turned in bed trying to ignore the dull ache in your core. Eventually, your fingers started tracing delicate patterns on your low belly and teased the waistband of your panties. You could feel the growing heat between your thighs from the way you pressed them together. With one hand slipping below the soft cotton, the other massaging your breast and rolling your nipple between your fingers.
Your fingers were as skilled as Sam’s, but it wasn’t the same. He had memorized the landscape of your body and mastered it the way you had. But you couldn’t reach that sensitive, spongy spot deep inside you. Your fingers didn’t have the perfect amount of callus that increased the friction tenfold. Still, you slid two fingers inside your tight channel, gathering some wetness to tease and rub your sensitive clit. You felt that familiar coil tightening—so frustratingly close.
You were about to dig your vibrator out of the drawer when you heard the front door open and shut quietly, making your heart flutter. Both out of nervousness and excitement. Nervous about the humiliation that comes from being caught, not that he would care. And excitement because you knew he would take care of you.
“Hey—what are you still doing up?”
Still expecting you to be asleep, he had planned on holding you for a while before falling asleep downstairs. He knew by the look on your face and the way you were still breathing heavily that he interrupted something.
He sat next to you on the edge of the bed and you rolled to face him. He assessed your desperate condition with a soft expression.
“Couldn’t sleep. I missed you.”
He leaned over and kissed you softly, smiling at your responsiveness. You moaned at the intoxicating taste of him while his hand slid down your body underneath the covers. Your back arched into his touch to chase more of the delicious drag rippling across your skin. His rough pads excited every nerve ending and added to the excruciating need.
“Dirty girl.” He teased and watched your cheeks blush a rosy pink.
You hadn’t moved your hand from between your legs and were still rubbing gentle circles. Just enough to stave off the growing ache. His fingers replaced your own and he watched as your jaw went slack and you knit your eyebrows together.
Before he could slide a finger past your tight entrance, Walker’s sharp bark caused you to jolt upright. Sam strained to listen for whatever had caught the dog’s attention. Your heart was pounding and your breathing turned shallow as you remembered the last time Walker had alerted you in the middle of the night.
This bark was different. It was surprised—like the time Willa had tripped over him while he was asleep on the floor and her tiny foot caught his tail.
You leaned toward the nightstand to grab the handgun stashed there, but Sam quickly caught your wrist.
“Wait.”
He adjusted himself awkwardly before moving toward the landing. You watched his shoulders sag the moment he looked downstairs.
Curiosity finally overpowered your anxiety. Pulling your sleep shirt down to cover yourself, you followed him to the top of the stairs.
Your eyes fluttered shut in frustration.
Castiel.
Walker was sitting at his feet, panting happily while the angel absently scratched behind his ears. Like he was greeting an old friend instead of a celestial being who routinely appeared in people’s homes in the middle of the night.
“Cas,” Sam sighed.
“Hello, Sam.”
Castiel’s gaze shifted to you. “Y/N.”
“Do angels not have phones?”
You folded your arms across your chest. Castiel frowned.
“The voice told me I was out of minutes.”
a/n: thanks for being patient! it feels good to get this out finally. Also, y/n is totally her own OC at this point 😭
A never-ending week-long hunt and a shared motel room with the Winchester brothers makes you test poor Sam's self-control, but you might not be in as much control as you think...
✎ you should see the things we do in my dreams part one - 5.1k words
Sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.
part two - coming 11-Jul!!
How will Sam deal with the fallout from last night? Unfortunately, not very well.
part three - coming soon!!
You and Sam ‘work’ things out.
✎ what lovers do (request!) (coming soon!!)
✎ feel you in my bones (coming soon!!)
✎ the last day of you - miniseries (coming soon!!)
✎ animal attraction (coming soon!!)
✎ gold-skinned, blue shirt, and eager (coming soon!!)
MEMORIAE NOCTEM
“Tell me what you think about, when you do this by yourself.”
WINCHESTER, Sam (soulless); READER, Fem. Romantic (established, casual)
Sam pays you a late night visit, and wants to know what you remembered about him.
c. S06.e06-08 (missing scene) wc. 4.1k
cw. fingering. piv. sexualized grief/yearning.
It’s late, sometime after midnight. Through the window, a thin sliver of moon watches you. Chilly, not quite cold, you pad your way to the bathroom, make your way with the lights off. No need to wake up, all the way, for this.
There's a long shadow in the corner, watching you, waiting. It can’t be a simple nightmare, you’re sure that you’re awake. You stumble backwards, shaking, terrified. Someone is in your home that shouldn’t be.
As your eyes adjust, you realize it’s him, spilling out of the armchair he’s reclined in. The sprawl of his limbs is unmistakable. He greets you, tells you to calm down, but his sotto voice is flat, too even. It doesn’t calm you in the slightest.
“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.
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I have not forgotten about Cruel World y’all 🥲 Chapter 19 is super close to being done—I spent a whole day working on my new theme (it was worth it IMO), which set me back even more. I write chapters as I go instead of writing a bunch and scheduling it to post. Probably should do that on future works..
Anyway, most of the time I’m writing on my phone with a sleeping baby in one arm. I get a few paragraphs done at a time that sound really good at 2am—they are NOT—so I have to polish it up and make it sound like it was written by a sane human being.
I suppose I could push out a bunch of AI slop to speed the process along, but I’ll hold off on that to protect my remaining dignity.
So hopefully that makes my work more appreciable! 😂
(me writing what I believe to be an absolute banger in the middle of the night)
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☁︎ Summary: You love the sound of Rowena's voice, and she loves telling you the story of a brave girl.
☁︎ Warnings: mentioned past trauma (Rowena and reader), fluff, comedy, just sweetly soft, Rowena's a lil dark and we love that about her
☁︎ Word Count: 400
☁︎ Requested by: @iwantmyobitwrittenbyapoet
☁︎ A/n: Title is from ALICE by PEGGY - I low-key love this, especially with Rowena, I may explore it again later...
꧁ Read my rules and send a request! ꧂
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Rowena would never, as in never, admit to it, but she adored the soft evenings she'd spend with you. Only ever late at night when she was sure no one would be around, she'd let you rest your head in her lap, her always freshly manicured nails scratching at your scalp gently as you melted into her touch.
Sometimes she'd hum soft little melodies under her breath, old Scottish lullabys and folk songs she didn't even know she still remembered.
You'd nuzzle further into her lap, cheek pressed against her thigh, content and comfortable in her hold.
You'd only pipe up once she goes quiet, you can't have that.
"Ro?"
"Yes, my dear?"
"Would you- say something"
"I'm saying something now"
"I know, I just mean- I like the sound of your voice, please, keep talking"
She grinned, giving your cheek a little pinch, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your temple.
"Alright then, love, how about a story?"
"That sounds perfect"
She let out a sweet little hum, sitting back against the plush couch, settling in with you.
"There was once a beautiful girl, shunned by the people who claimed to love her. It would have been easy for the girl to wreak havoc and seek revenge, being a powerful, fiery woman, but she chose to let them sit and rot in their own pathetic state. Instead moving on to do great things, saving the world, meeting someone wonderful and falling stupidly, hopelessly in love"
"You have a rich backstory, my love"
"Not me, pet. You"
"What?"
"You're one of the strongest, best women I've ever encountered. Second to none but me of course"
"Of course" You laughed, turning to look up at her "Was that story really how you see me?"
"Absolutely! I'd never call myself stupid, and I would've slaughtered the lot of them"
You smiled, pulling her into a tender kiss, keeping her close.
"And that's why it's good we found each other. A lot less murder now, huh?"
"Unfortunately, yes"
"Ro!"
"Fine, fine. It's very good I have you, for myself and the general public"
"Much better"
You kept looking up at her, almost expectantly, and she took the hint.
"Another story, my darling girl?"
"Yes please"
"Well, have I told you the one about the moose boy? A fantastic story by far. He and his brother, a strange little squirrel…."
Taglist for all of my Supernatural writing - 49 + more in reblogs!
Being friends since childhood, their fates felt interwoven.
From stolen sunrises and first kisses to whispered promises beneath the Texas sky, there wasn't a version of the future where they weren't together. But after tragedy changes the world overnight, one impossible decision tears them apart.
As years pass and life takes them down different roads, old wounds refuse to stay buried. Some loves fade with time.
Theirs never did. ⸝⸝
Pairing: Cordell Walker x fem!reader
WC: 2.6K
CW: heavy angst, descriptions of spousal abuse (verbal, mental, emotional), toxic relationship (verbal arguments, separation, codependency) language, incarceration, repressed emotions, alcohol abuse/drunkenness, character death (canon), pining, slow-burn. I will create content warnings for each part.
A/n: based on this request. This wasn't supposed to be so angsty! I've been on a big Zach Bryan kick lately. I promise there's a happy ending. 𖹭
The interaction at the farmers market left Cordell deeply unsettled. There was something in your eyes. Something in the way your body reacted to his presence. He’d seen you afraid before. The time you stumbled across a rattlesnake curled up in your path, its tail vibrating an aggressive warning. Or when you were late getting home and knew you’d face the brunt of your father’s wrath.
He combed through databases trying to find out who Luke was and whether he had a record. Maybe an active warrant. Aside from a speeding ticket, the guy was clean on paper.
“Unless he’s got a warrant, there’s nothing we can do, Walker.” James trusted his partner’s gut, but knew there were limits to their authority. “Even if he is roughin’ her up, they’re married. That complicates things if she isn’t asking for help.”
Cordell sighed in frustration and scrubbed his face with his hands.
“You don’t get it.” He said, shaking his head. “She was terrified.”
“Maybe it was seeing you—it’s been what? Five years?” He knew his partner wouldn’t let it go. One of the things that made him a great Ranger was his tenacity. “Just tread carefully, Cordell.”
He set up a notification that would alert him to any complaints involving you or Luke. Silently hoping it wouldn’t be too late.
Weeks passed, then months. He had to take his partner’s advice and let it go. Without proof or any way to contact you, there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t risk making things worse.
Months quickly turned into years. He arrived at work one day to find a report on his desk about a domestic disturbance that had ended in Luke’s arrest. His blood ran cold until he saw that you were alive and had refused transportation to the hospital.
He went down to the jail, not entirely sure what he planned to accomplish. To his relief—and horror—he ran into you in the waiting room attempting to arrange for Luke’s release. Your hair was twisted into a loose bun and you looked exhausted—worn thin, with a blank expression on your face. Like you were operating on autopilot.
“Y/N? What are you doing?”
You turned toward the familiar voice with a look of shock and embarrassment on your face.
“Cordell…what are you doing here?”
You flinched nervously when the female officer returned to the plexiglass window in front of you.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but as the victim you can’t bail him out,” she drawled with a sympathetic expression.
“What? I’m not a victim,” you spat. “It was just an argument that got out of hand—“
“—I’m sorry, but that’s the law. It’s for your own good.”
“Cordell, can you do something? Please?” Your voice was tight with desperation as you glanced between him and the officer. All these years later, he could still see flashes of the girl he grew up with beneath the panic.
“Ma’am, there’s some pamphlets here and directions to a women’s shelter—“ she slid them through the tiny opening in the plexiglass, and you nearly saw red.
“Keep your fucking pamphlets.” You muttered as you turned to storm out.
The officer shrugged at Cordell, mumbling something about outdated, shitty pamphlets.
He called after you as you hurried toward your car in the parking lot. You pulled out your phone to call your mom—or anyone—who’d be willing to bail your husband out. It was just a misunderstanding and the neighbors were being nosy. That’s what Luke always said.
“Will you just wait—“ Cordell finally caught up to you and placed a gentle hand on your elbow, causing you to yank your arm away.
“What!? Unless you’re able to get him out, I don’t have time—he’s gotta get to work and he’ll be pissed if I don’t fix this.” You weren’t looking at him anymore, just desperately scrolling through your contacts.
He rubbed the back of his head nervously and shoved his other hand into his pocket. Anything to help keep himself restrained.
“If I get him out,” he sighed painfully at his own words. “Will you please talk to me? I need to know that you’re safe. I can’t send him home if he’s just gonna hurt you or your kid again.”
Your eyes narrowed on him.
“‘Again’? Whatever you think you know about our family, you’re wrong. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Cordell stared at his feet, realizing you were right. There weren’t any obvious signs of physical abuse. He was making assumptions based on instinct and a feeling he couldn’t shake.
“Now can you help me or not?”
His heart felt like it was being ripped in two by the need to protect you and the desire to make you happy. Both were still there after all those years.
“On one condition.” He pulled a card from his old leather wallet. “You call me when you need me. Keep it somewhere safe.”
You were confused by the word when, but gingerly took the card from between his fingers. Inspecting it closely and tracing your thumb over the Texas Ranger emblem above his name. You stuffed it into your jacket pocket and nodded.
After twenty minutes, Cordell was escorting Luke out of the jail. He’d barely said five words to him throughout the entire process. Ignoring him completely when Luke asked how he knew his wife. Before stepping out of the jail as a free man, Cordell stopped him in an empty hallway. Crowding his space while keeping his voice low.
“If I find out that you lay a finger on her, I’ll be the only person showing up on that call—do you understand me?”
Luke scoffed and pulled his lips into a menacing grin. “You threatening me, Ranger?”
Cordell huffed a quiet laugh. “No. I’m making you a promise.”
You tried hugging Luke when he approached you in the parking lot. Wrapping your arms around his neck, he barely reciprocated beyond a hand pressed to your back.
“We’ll talk about this when we get home.” Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t let it show.
Luke didn’t ever hit you. He didn’t have to. His words cut like knives. A small slice at a time—a death by a thousand cuts. He’d yell when you weren’t listening, or if he’d had a bad day at work. But it was the silence that hurt the worst. Letting the tension build until you were wound so tightly that a slamming door or cabinet sent you spiraling.
Things were the worst after Maeve was born. When sleep deprivation and hormones fueled your resistance, only to backfire and leave you in a puddle of tears almost every night.
Luke was great with her. She was the apple of his eye, but he took every opportunity to cut you down in front of her. He’d laugh as your cheeks flushed and your shoulders slumped while Maeve looked around nervously.
You knew better than to cry in front of him. He saw that as a manipulation tactic. You’d simply retreat to the bathroom and run the faucet to muffle the sound of broken sobbing. Always making sure the redness had faded from your eyes before coming out.
The night the police were called to your house was a misunderstanding. You’d been arguing about something small that turned into a screaming match. Maeve retreated to her room and shut the door. The sound of the latch clicking into place made your heart clench.
“I’m going to my mom’s for the night,” you said as you started gathering a few overnight essentials. It was the only way to diffuse the situation and keep Maeve safe. He followed you, trying to bait you back into the argument to no avail.
When you got to the front porch, your foot caught on the banister, sending you tumbling onto the sidewalk below. All your neighbors saw was Luke standing on the porch behind you. Combined with the shouting match that had spilled through doors and windows, they assumed he had pushed you.
Seeing Cordell at the jail was just another painful reminder of the truth. That while you were worried about war turning Cordell into your father, you’d ended up marrying an asshole who was exactly like him anyway.
You had dialed his number a handful of times but hung up when you heard his voice. Fear convinced you it was safer to stay. Besides, Cordell had enough on his plate without having to help you out of your mess. Spending more and more time at your mother’s house was the best you could do to escape.
Once Luke started drinking every night, you had reached your breaking point. Maeve was fourteen and starting to take an interest in boys. You didn’t want her thinking the way he treated you was normal. Summoning the last of your dignity, you finally mustered the courage to leave.
That night, he had gotten in your face and bullied you into giving him your car keys in a drunken attempt to stop you from leaving. The smell of alcohol on his breath made your stomach twist. You held your ground and did your best to placate him.
You waited until he passed out before gathering your daughter in the bathroom.
Too embarrassed to call anyone else, you pulled out the folded business card you’d kept stashed away.
“Cordell? Can you please come get us?” You spoke quietly, simultaneously listening for any noise on the other side of the door.
“I’ll be there soon. Just hang tight.”
He dropped everything he was doing and floored it across town. With his headlights off and his truck idling, he watched you and Maeve climb out of the small bathroom window and run across the moonlit lawn.
He wanted to stay and deal with Luke, but the tears staining Maeve’s face and the desperate look in your eyes forced his hand. That, and he didn’t want him to know where to look for you.
“Just take us to my mom’s house. We might get out of town for a while until things settle down.” You were gently stroking Maeve’s hair while she rested her head in your lap in the backseat.
“You guys should stay at the ranch. I’ll keep you both safe.” He finally locked eyes with you in the rearview mirror. “Please.”
“You have your own family to worry about now, Cordell.” You said quietly with a warm Southern drawl that was sounding more and more like your mother’s. “Let me worry about mine.”
He finally convinced you to stay at the ranch for the night. He stayed in the living room by the front door while you and Maeve slept in a guest room upstairs. You didn’t sleep. Your eyes stayed glued to the window, watching for any signs of trouble.
As soon as the sun began to rise, you were gently nudging your teenager awake and helping her gather her things.
Cordell had fallen asleep on the couch facing the front door. You looked at him for a moment and recalled the last time you’d been together in the foreman’s cabin nearly twenty years ago. The way you’d stormed out of his life before he was deployed. Now he had given up a night with his wife and children to get you out of a situation that you’d gotten yourself into. Guilt kept you from lingering.
He woke up as soon as the door clicked shut behind you. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but he ultimately decided against running after you. Seeing you again had stirred up feelings he needed to let go of. He was a married man and he was happy with his life.
He still chose not to tell Emily the full story about why he’d stayed at the ranch that night.
You had served Luke divorce papers, agreeing to shared custody. He wasn’t a bad father, just a terrible husband. Using money you’d been secretly saving for years, you made a down payment on a small farmhouse near your mother’s place. She was getting older and, as a widow, needed all the help she could get. You hadn’t talked to Cordell since that night and didn’t plan to. There was no way to properly thank him for what he’d done for you.
A few months later, you found out about Emily’s murder on the six o’clock news. The wife of a Texas Ranger murdered near the Mexican border. More than once, your finger hovered over his contact in your phone before you decided against calling.
You went to the funeral. Naturally, it was packed with friends and family. Her radiant light and warmth had touched everyone she met. Cordell was just a shell of himself without her. He was surrounded by people guiding him through the motions, but the day was little more than a blur of black clothes and floral arrangements.
You were surprised to see Liam on your porch a few weeks later, asking if you’d seen Cordell. You had finally called him, leaving an awkward voicemail offering your condolences. Telling him to call you if he needed anything. But you hadn’t heard from him.
Dread settled heavily in your gut when he told you they hadn’t seen him in days. It didn’t sound like him to abandon his kids with his parents and run off.
“What makes you think I’d know where he is?”
He said it was because you were close friends. You knew it was really because Liam had run out of people to ask.
“Sorry Liam. If I see him I’ll tell him to call home.” You turned to head inside when he stopped you.
“I was supposed to give you this. A long time ago.” He handed you a faded piece of paper folded into a small square. The edges were worn and creased from nervous handling. You gave him a confused look.
“Cordi wanted me to give you this when he was deployed. I tried to find you—“
You grabbed it with a shaky hand and stared at it intently. Trying to read it without opening it. You finally looked at Liam and nodded before heading inside.
Tossing the letter onto the counter, you stared at it for a long moment. Deciding you weren’t in the right place to read whatever it contained, you grabbed your keys and left.
It took you a few hours, but you finally found him. Parked at a remote overlook above the Colorado River. It was almost dark by the time you pulled in behind his truck. Your headlights illuminated him sitting on the tailgate, facing the water.
He didn’t seem to notice you until you were standing in front of him, watching him nurse a bottle of whiskey. When his eyes finally settled on you, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Y/N?” His voice trembled around your name like it was a life preserver.
With your arms crossed tightly over your chest, you swallowed the painful knot forming in your throat. “Let’s get you home, Cordell.”
You didn’t need to ask what he was doing. Or where he’d been. He’d clearly been trying to outrun his grief by throwing himself into his work, chasing Emily’s killers. Living out of his truck, judging by his beard and the clothes he’d apparently been wearing for days.
“Cordell—“
“You’re not real…” he slurred, not moving from his place on the tailgate. He’d been seeing Emily everywhere. The less he slept, the more he saw her.
He drank more to see her less.
Now you were just another vision sent to drive him mad.
so i really got to do the thing i don’t want to do
angst no comfort x
The boundaries between you and Sam had been blurred for months, a messy slate of unsaid feelings and late-night conversations in the quiet of the kitchen. Everyone else could see it. The way his eyes constantly tracked you when you walked into a room, the way his voice dropped an octave whenever he spoke directly to you, and the sheer tenderness in how he looked after you after a rough case. He was entirely, completely yours for the taking. All you had to do was reach out and claim him.
But instead, you panicked. Every single time things got too close to becoming real, you pulled back.
One night, you would be curled up next to him on the couch, your head resting against his broad shoulder, letting him wrap his large hand around yours under the guise of staying warm. You would look up at him with an intensity that made his breath catch, letting your fingers linger on his jawline, giving him every possible green light.
You made him feel like he was the only person in your world, letting him believe that the next step was finally within reach.
But by the next morning, the walls would slam right back up. You would pull your hand away if his fingers brushed yours over coffee. You would treat him with a cold, professional distance that left him completely reeling, cutting off his attempts at conversation with short, clipped answers.
You told yourself you were just protecting yourself, that the hunting life was too chaotic for a real relationship. But in reality, you were just keeping him on a leash giving him just enough hope to stay hooked, only to yank it away the moment he tried to step closer.
Sam wasn't stupid. He felt every single shift in your temperature. At first, his green eyes would just fill with a quiet, confused hurt, his shoulders dropping slightly as he accepted the sudden distance. He would try harder, thinking he had done something wrong, only for you to lean back into him a few days later when you felt lonely. It was a exhausting cycle of hot and cold, a constant emotional whiplash that began to slowly wear him down to the bone.
The breaking point arrived without a loud argument. It happened quietly, on a standard spirit case in Ohio. A local hunter named Elena had joined the fray to help track down the lore. She was sharp, grounded, and entirely uncomplicated. And unlike you, she didn't play games.
At first, you didn't think anything of it. You were in one of your "cold" phases, actively ignoring Sam at the diner table, keeping your eyes glued to your phone while he tried to share a lead with you. When you dismissively shrugged him off, Elena simply slid into the empty seat next to him, picking up the conversation exactly where you had dropped it. She listened to him. She actually looked at him when he spoke, validating his theories without making him guess where he stood.
Over the next two weeks, the dynamic shifted entirely.
You noticed it first in the way Sam stopped looking to you for approval. When you entered the room, his eyes stayed fixed on his book or on Elena, who was usually sitting nearby sharing a thermos of coffee with him. The heavy, lingering stares he used to give you were gone, replaced by a polite, distant nod. He stopped text-checking to see if you were okay after hunts. He stopped saving the seat next to him.
One evening, you walked into the local library to find them tucked away in a back corner. Elena was laughing softly at something he said, her hand resting casually on his forearm. Sam didn't pull away. He didn't tense up the way he used to when you touched him in public. Instead, he offered her a genuine, relaxed smile the kind of smile that used to be reserved entirely for you.
A cold spike of dread struck right through your chest. For months, you had taken his devotion for granted, entirely secure in the belief that he would always be waiting in the wings whenever you finally decided you were ready. You had assumed his patience was infinite. Watching him lean in closer to listen to Elena speak, you realized with terrifying clarity that you had pushed him right into someone else's arms.
The ride back to your temporary lodgings was completely agonizing. You sat in the backseat, watching the back of Sam's head through the rearview mirror. For the past year, he would have been constantly glancing back at you, checking in through the mirror, silently communicating with just a look.
Tonight, he was completely checked out, turning his torso toward the passenger seat to talk quietly with Elena about the next day's travel plans.
The realization hit you like a physical blow: you had lost him. You had run your fingers through his hair, whispered promises of what could be, and then discarded him over and over again until he finally believed you didn't want him.
The weight of your own actions began to suffocate you. The mixed signals hadn't protected you they had just ruined the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You spent the entire night staring at the ceiling of your motel room, listening to the muffled sound of Sam's low laugh coming from the adjacent room where he and Elena were finishing up the paperwork. Every chuckle felt like a twist of a knife in your heart. You couldn't let it end like this. You had to fix it.
The next afternoon, Elena left early to scout out a nearby courthouse, leaving Sam alone in the main room of the motel to pack up his duffel bag. This was your chance. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as you stepped out of your room, your hands trembling as you closed the distance between you and the tall hunter.
"Sam?" your voice was uncharacteristically small, breaking slightly in the quiet room.
Sam paused, his large hands resting on the edge of his duffel bag. He didn't turn around immediately. When he finally did, his expression was completely unreadable devoid of the warmth, the longing, and the desperation that used to define every interaction he had with you.
"Yeah? Something wrong with the truck?" he asked, his tone entirely polite, like he was speaking to a passing acquaintance not someone he once loved.
"No, the truck is fine," you said, taking a step closer, your chest heaving as the words you had bottled up for days began to spill out. "It's about us, Sam. I... I've been seeing you with Elena. And it made me realize how horribly I’ve been treating you. I know I’ve been pushing you away, and I know I’ve been giving you mixed signals, but I was just scared. I really want this, Sam. I want us. Please."
You reached out, your fingers trembling as you tried to grasp his hand, desperate for the familiar warmth that had always been your safety net.
But Sam smoothly stepped back, letting your hand fall empty into the cold air between you. Your heart dropped but you weren’t gonna let that stop you.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his bangs. There was no anger in his face just a profound, crushing exhaustion that made you feel completely microscopic.
"I can't do this anymore," Sam whispered, his voice cracking with a dull, heavy ache. "For months, I stayed up late wondering what I did wrong. One day you’re holding my hand, telling me you need me, and the next day you won't even look at me in front of Dean. You kept me on a string, and it completely broke me."
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, the tears finally spilling over your cheeks as you tried to close the gap between you again. "I'll change, Sam. I swear. Just give me another chance. Don't look at her the way you used to look at me."
Sam looked down at you, his green eyes swimming with a faint trace of old sorrow, but his stance remained completely rigid. He didn't reach out to wipe your tears. He didn't pull you into his chest like he you used he stared like he looking at someone he once knew.
"Elena doesn't make me guess if she cares about me," Sam said softly, the brutal honesty of his words cutting right through you. "She doesn't treat me like a secret or an inconvenience when things get real. I spent so long wishing you would just choose me. But you didn't. You only want me now because someone else finally does. You don’t get to come back after months treating me like i’m a dog on a leash."
He zipped up his duffel bag with a sharp, definitive click and swung the strap over his broad shoulder. He looked at you one last time, his expression completely guarded, leaving absolutely no room for the comfort you were begging for.
"I need space," he muttered quietly, turning his back on you as he walked toward the door. "We're partners on the job. That's it."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you entirely alone in the sudden, suffocating silence of the room, completely crushed under the weight of the mess you had made.
“ no i don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t”
a/n: first angst open to feedback but this is a reference from my past relationship and ariana grande song “don’t wanna break up again” give it a listen while reading, this is gonna be a small mini series also💗!
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