#112.13

“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.