#lust spell

Led Zeppelin’s ‘Black Dog’ blares through Baby’s speakers as Dean’s lead foot presses on the gas, the steady purr humming in your ears like a stable stream. Your notebook is sprawled over your thighs, legs crossed one over the other across the leather bench seat, your pen drumming against the pages as you twirl it between two fingers. Pushing your thumb under the pocket clip, worrying your lip between your teeth. 

The silence is comfortable. Or, as comfortable as it gets, these days. Dean’s fingertips tapping along to the bass on the steering wheel, Sam mumbling out directions every few moments as he shifts that stupidly-outdated map laid across his lap. 

It’s normal. Familiar. But that tension? It doesn’t waver. 

No one told you it would be easy coming back. You’re smart enough to know things would be… different. 

Before, things were perfect.

You’d known the boys your entire life. Sharing old motel rooms when your fathers would team up on a hunt, yours dumping you into the hands of a young Dean: the official babysitter of yourself and chubby-cheeked Sammy. Fixing your toddler selves bowls of knock-off cereal brands so he could watch you fight over the toy, playing silly cartoons on the rundown televisions, and stuttering his way through bedtime stories until the two of you fell asleep beneath heavy blankets. 

Dean became an older brother of sorts. And Sam, that best friend you’d dreamt of each time you’d switch schools or hop states. 

Months would pass before you’d see either Winchester, but when you did? Nothing would ever change. You’d shot a gun at seven years old for the first time under Dean’s instruction. Held Sam’s shaky hand as he patched up your first split lip at nine from sparring gone awry. At eighteen, you’d spent a full night on the phone, blubbering through tears, as Sam told you he’d gotten into the school of his dreams.

And at twenty-two, when Sam was ripped right back into the hunting life? You were the first person they’d called to help. 

Things did change after that. Not Dean. The man hadn’t changed one bit since he turned thirteen. But that dynamic between you and Sam? Yeah. That was different.

All those nights you’d spent staying up late, exchanging stories in the dark. Those times he’d patched you up with strong hands that lingered just a moment too long. When you’d always catch his eyes on you through the review mirror of the impala, or his leg would brush yours almost intentionally when he’d sit too close at diners. The silent pining that would make your heart race and your throat tight every time his warmth would invade yours. 

Until finally, after successfully taking down a vamp nest, running on that intoxicating post-hunt adrenaline, the line was crossed. He’d captured your lips with his own, cradled your face with clammy hands, slid those perfect nimble fingers into your hair. 

A year. A year he’d been yours, and you’d been his. A year he’d held you to his chest under scratchy motel sheets, whispered sweet ‘I love you’s into your ear, held your hand in his beneath bar-tables. A year of Dean fake-gagging every time you’d kiss, of finding flowers placed carefully in your duffel, of shared showers and nights of passion. 

A year that was shattered into pieces right along with your fragile heart when his guilt just… took over. When he’d stood with your hands in his, beneath the overhang of a motel balcony, in the pouring-goddamn-rain like some fucked up Hallmark movie, and told you you deserved better. That no matter what he did, he’d just keep hurting you. Putting you in unimaginable danger. Like he wasn’t the one steady thing holding you together. Like he hadn’t saved your life more times than you could count. 

So yeah. You left. 

Seven-hundred-fifty-six days. That’s how long you kept your distance. How long you’d spent hunting solo, with a brand new phone number, patching your own wounds, and driving your own beat-up shitbox from state to state. Not that you were counting, or anything.

But as it always seems to happen, like fate hates your fucking guts, the Winchester brothers had stumbled their way right back into your life. Telling you demonic stories that not only sounded straight out of your nightmares, but flipped your entire world upside down. And ever sense? You’ve been mingling in this awkward bubble of snappy arguments and tense silence, often dissipated only by poor Dean playing mediator. 

It’s not like it’s on purpose. It’s just that every time you hear Sam’s voice, or your eyes find that stupidly sweet dimple that pops when he laughs, all you can think about is the way he used to whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you fell asleep. Only makes it more obvious just how cold your bed is at night, or how much you crave the feeling of his strong arms holding you close.

But if staying silent, and shoving away the memories that claw at your heart each day, keeps the apocalypse from destroying the fucking world? Then that’s a sacrifice you’ll just have to make.

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when the pocket clip on your pen snaps under the pressure of your thumb, tumbling across your journal and onto the floor with a sharp sound that makes you flinch. You sigh. Shake your head. Sam murmurs out another right turn from the front seat.

None of you are necessarily thrilled to be in this hunt. Not because of the tension, though, that too—but because you’re almost sure it’s a witch.

And oh, you all fucking hate witches. 

You received the call after a series of strange deaths occurred in a small town in Louisiana. Like this man who choked on his damn tongue while watching TV in the comfort of his own home. Another whose eyes practically liquified in his own skull (which, ew. That wasn’t a fun coroners report to read). And, your favourite, the guy who quite literally drowned in his own blood after his throat swelled up and multiple blood vessels burst in his nasal cavity. 

The catch? 

Each man bought something from this ancient, rundown antique shop only weeks away from going out of business, just days before their deaths. One owned by an older woman, Winifred, a retired pharmacist. Real subtle.

Dean takes another turn, the shop coming into view, and it looks even worse than that photo Sam had found in the library. The once-purple paint is faded, and peeling off the siding. The sign is crooked, and only about a third of the lights work. The front window has boards nailed over it from where there was surely a rock thrown through the glass. 

You break the silence first.

“…I think I should be the first to talk to her. Alone,” you start, gaze flicking down to the papers in your lap. “Sounds to me like she’s not all that fond of men. Maybe she’ll accidentally slip something to me, if she’s comfortable enough.”

Sam stiffens slightly at the sound of your voice. Barely noticeable, but you see it. Of course you do. You can’t deny how much it hurts. But God, you have to fight off your scoff. He doesn’t look back. Wouldn’t, not if he doesn’t have to. Never does anymore. Dean seems to notice, too, shooting his brother a sideways glance. 

Sam clears his throat.

“Not a good idea,” he says, voice low, like he’s already dismissing you. “Witches don’t play fair. Especially not when they’re cornered.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh at that, one only lost beneath the sound of Zeppelin still shredding through the speakers.

Why? Because he always does this.

You voice an idea, and he shuts it down. Immediately. Like you’re not a hunter, too. Just says ‘no’ without so much as a decent explanation or a look your way. 

Your jaw ticks, once, and you set aside your journal, swinging your legs off the seat to sit up a little straighter. 

“I wasn’t exactly asking for permission, Sam,” you profess, not raising your voice. But that tone? Yeah. Sharp enough to cut.

And there it was. That bitterness. The bite to your voice that always shines through when you’re annoyed with him, which, these days, is more often than not. He winces, hands gripping that map just a fraction harder, the paper crinkling beneath his fingertips.

You can feel Dean’s eyes flicking between the two of you in the mirrors, a little amused, but mostly uncomfortable. There’s a part of you that feels bad, the way he’s always shoved right in the middle of your useless bickering. But Christ, you just can’t help it.

“I get that,” Sam grumbles after a moment, keeping his gaze straight forward. It’s easier than looking back. Easier than seeing irritation in your eyes. “But going in there by yourself is a bad idea. I won’t let you do it.”

“Let me—?”

You’re half way through the words, brows raising in disbelief. Probably about to say something stupid. Something that’ll haunt your thoughts like a vengeful spirit later when you’re lying awake, thinking about everything that’s gone wrong. But Dean beats you to it.

“Okay,” he sighs, like dropping his tone will keep the two of you in line. And, well, it works. For now. “She’s right, you’re right. Just relax.”

He eases on the gas, pulling up along the curb, shifting the Impala into gear firmly, like the way the car sways into park will emphasize his words. He leans forward, popping open the glovebox, pulling out three fake ID’s.

“We’re all going in. Sam and I will look around, do some digging, and you can have your little chat in the office,” there’s no real question in his voice, just all business. That note of authority that he’ll always have over the two of you, even now, in adulthood. “I’ll take the second level. Sammy… sulk around downstairs, or something. I don’t care. Just shut up, you two, please?”

“Fine.”

The two of you speak at once, both less than thrilled with the agreement. Sam lets out an irritated huff, running a hand through his hair in that sharp way he always does when he’s holding back from snapping.

Yeah. Maybe he knows he’s being stubborn. Overprotective, even. But he can’t help it. There’s just something about you being put into danger that sets alarm bells off in his head, constantly, even when you roll your eyes, or scoff at him with a glare.

“Just…” he starts, voice almost a rough whisper as he finally turns back to look at you. “Be careful. Please.”

Oh.

Somehow, that manages to soften you. Just a fraction. Maybe it’s the way he actually glanced back at you, and you got an eyeful of that puppy dog expression that wrecks your very soul. Or maybe it’s the genuine care in that tone, a softness you don’t really hear from him anymore.

And, Christ, have you ever missed it.

“…Yeah. Of course,” you breathe after a moment, voice quieter, now. Less bite. Sam’s gaze lingers for a suffocating moment, searching your face, before he turns away. 

You have to take a long breath before you open your door. 

The shop’s door opens with a teeth-grinding squeak, a bell chiming overhead as you step into the small space, the instant smell of dust and overly-potent herbs assaulting your nostrils. To say it’s jam packed would be a complete understatement. 

Rows and piles of… stuff fills the room. Stuff, because, most of it, you can’t even decipher what the hell it is. Half of it looks older than time itself, the other half like it’s partially eaten by termites or stained with God knows what. Old flower pots, bookshelves, chests, chairs, tables with missing legs, what the fuck is this, what the hell is that. 

You’re about to mumble out some probably insensitive joke when a voice breaks through the silence. 

“Welcome,” she calls, and the three of you glance up from your mortified staring. It’s a young woman, probably in her early twenties. Curled blonde hair falling over her shoulder, sun dress flowing past her knees. She does a once over, eyes lingering on the boys for an uncomfortably long moment, before her gaze finds yours. “Can I help you…?”

You step forward, flashing her your ID. “Yeah. My name’s officer Young from Covington Police Department. I was hoping to chat with a Mrs. Winifred LeBlanc?” 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just blinks at you awkwardly, her gaze finding the boys behind you again, and you can sense the discomfort there. Huh. Still, she nods, but makes no move to close the distance. “She’s my grandmother,” she utters, one hand tucking a perfectly curled lock behind her ear. “…She’s home sick today. We can, um. Chat in the office, if you’d like. I’m sure I can help… I co-own the store.”

She doesn’t say much else. Not even a ‘this way’ when she turns on her heels, nodding towards a door labelled ‘staff’ as she moves through the maze of a store. You spare a glance at the boys, trying not to linger on the way Sam’s brows are furrowed, his eyes swirling with that same sweet worry that makes your heart flip. 

Christ.

You follow her into the rickety office, taking a seat in the polished wooden chair across from the desk as she shuts the door behind you with a click. You glance around the room, hunter eyes taking in every little detail. The way the wallpaper is peeling at the corners. The lock on the top cabinet to the right, the one with worn paint around the handle. The laminated labels taped to every surface, swirly cursive describing what’s inside each drawer, every box.

You cross your legs, hands tucked politely in your lap. 

“So,” you start, voice even, professional in that practiced way, and you glance at her name tag before continuing. “Anna. Your grandmother. Winifred was a pharmacist before opening this store, yes?”

“Winnie,” She corrects, nodding slowly, fingers twitching around the edge of the desk as she takes a seat. “…That’s right. She worked at St. Mary’s for over thirty years before retiring. She opened the shop to stay busy.”

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You casually shift in your chair, opening your notebook, as you flip to an empty page in one smooth motion. Your pen hovers.

“What is this about?” Anna asks, suddenly. “Is… is my grandmother in trouble?”

“No, no. Of course not,” you assure, giving her a sweet smile.

You can tell that she’s tense. Overly tense. You could probably brush it off as anxiety, being questioned by a ‘cop’ n’ all, but the way her eyes keep flicking towards the door is all telling.

“I just had some questions for her, is all,” you begin again, and she nods slowly in response. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the series of… sudden deaths in the area. We’ve found that they were customers.”

At that, you see her stiffen. The way her back goes all ridged, her fingers stop tapping on the countertop, her eyes get a tad wider. 

“We’re just gathering some information on the deceased,” you clarify, not wanting to spook her. Because Jesus, she looks about two seconds and a strong gust of wind away from bolting. “Wondering if Winifr—Winnie, remembers any of them, or has any information on their whereabouts before their passing.”

Anna shifts uncomfortably again under your gaze, fingers now toying with a stray piece of paper on the desk as she chews anxiously on the inside of her lip.

Yeah. No question that she’s hiding something.

She hesitates for a moment, and when she speaks, her words come out faster than before. “Well, she… my grandmother is in her eighties, you understand. Her memory… isn’t quite what it used to be.”

You hum, taking note of her stammers, pen gliding along the page, and you can almost hear the way she tenses even further. That explains the labels, then.

Abruptly, she stands, rounding the desk towards the cabinets behind you, her kitten heels tapping on the hardwood.

“We, um. We keep copies of receipts from every customer, in case of returns. I’m sure she… kept some records, if you’d like to look through them…”

You nod, pivoting in your chair, analyzing her every move. And Jesus Christ, she doesn’t know how to be subtle. 

Her hands shake as she digs through the drawers. She fumbles with the papers as she flips through old records, drops receipts on the floor, paper clips rattling when she knocks an old file straight out of the cabinet.

“Sure. That would be… helpful,” you say, glancing back at your lap, folding your journal closed, tucking the pen inside the pages—because oh yeah, you broke the damn pocket clip—but by the time you look back up, she’s moved.

Three clicks of her heels against the floor before your head is yanked back by her fingers fisting in your hair, her other hand shoving a soaked cloth towards your face, the fabric covering the entirety of your mouth and nose. Your eyes widen immediately, notebook clattering to the floor as your hands instinctively reach for hers to peel those grimy hands off.

But fuck. The cloth is drenched in… something. You’re not sure what. The scent is sickeningly-sweet, flooding your senses so rapidly that you damn near choke on it, blood rushing straight to your head. 

You can pinpoint the exact moment something changes. Your vision goes all blurry for a split second, and you’re almost sure you’re going to black out. Somehow, you manage to move, kicking the desk in front of you hard enough to topple over some old vase with a loud enough crash that it echoes through the room.

That sound is enough.

Sam was brooding outside the office, pretending like he wasn’t counting your breaths through that door. One second, he’s staring at some strange piece of pottery that looks ancient, that’s probably cursed. and the next? He’s kicking down the door before the crash fully registers.

“Hey!” he barks, the door flying open with enough force that the handle slams the wall behind it. His eyes lock on you, face half covered by that cloth, her knuckles nearly white in your hair, and you can see something in him snap.

He crosses the room in two strides, long legs eating up that short distance, and he doesn’t hesitate. A sharp grab of her wrist, and a brutal twist until she screams, letting go of your hair instantly. The rag drops from your face as Sam yanks her back, ramming her against the wall with a crack that tells you he put all of his weight behind it.

You breathe rapidly, trying to fight that godawful faint feeling long enough to steady yourself. Panicked, Anna tries to struggle out of his grasp to no avail, but she does manage to squirm just enough. And just like that? The cloth is over his mouth now.

His brows pinch as that undeniably sweet scent floods his nose, his hold faltering as a wave of lightheadedness crashes over him. And before either of you can react, she’s slipped away, snatching a key from the desk, sliding out the door like a wisp of smoke. 

You attempt to stagger after her on shaky legs, but God, whatever the hell was on that cloth is dangerously dizzying. You end up half-doubled over with your clammy palm firm on the desk top, the other covering your eyes like blocking out the light will do anything to quell the haze.

Sam doesn’t seem to be doing much better. He’s leaned with his back against the wall now, breathing rapidly, face completely flushed. Worry claws at your chest like a rabid animal at the sight, but in the moment, you shove it down. You’re working.

And fuck, has it gotten hotter in here?

You shake your head a few times, clearing away some of the fog that’s clouded your mind, and your scrambled brain has just enough sense to start digging around in the now opened drawers of the desk. 

In the corner of your vision, Sam pushes off the wall, swaying just slightly as he fights through the fog, your heart squeezing at the disoriented look on his face. Your pulse is hammering in your ears, vision swimming at the edges, but you narrow your eyes on the drawer.

“Hey—hey,” Sam rasps, voice low, rough with concern. Something in your gut twists at the sound. “You okay? You hurt? How much of that did you breathe in?”

He stumbles a step closer, one hand braced on the desk to steady himself. He’s close enough to touch, now, and Jesus, the room really is getting hotter.

You don’t respond to him, can’t, not right away, like your brain is only clear enough to focus on one thing at a time. You spare a glance at him, just a quick flick of your eyes, and you have to look away almost immediately. There’s absolutely no denying the way electricity buzzes through your veins like a faulty wire.

“Hey, hone—” he starts, cutting himself off with a shake of his head. Your heart stutters all the same. “Talk to me. You gotta… just relax, what’re you—”

“Just… just a second,” You snap, not angry this time, just urgent.

You shift some old log book and you see it. A row of key holders, laminated labels above each one. The curly letters spell out ‘home’ on the third row, that single key missing.

“They have everything labelled. Winnie had some kind of memory loss,” you begin, Sam raising a brow, mouthing out ‘Winnie?’ with some confused look on his face, which only earns him a glare. “Anna’s going to Winifred’s house. She took the key.”

Sam’s gaze drops to the drawer, then flicks back to your face. His lips part to respond, but his words seem to catch in his throat, thick and muscled, like every other damn part of him, adam’s apple bobbing, which is… um. Yeah. 

Those puppy eyes of his are… darker. Deeper. Almost intense.

Jesus, what’s wrong with you?

“We’re going,” you breathe, slamming that cabinet shut with a smooth shove.

That snaps Sam out of it.

He takes another step closer, less unbalanced this time, until he’s right in front of you. Close enough that you can really see the flush on his cheeks. Close enough that you can feel each puff of his breath on your face, still unsteady. Close enough that the heat of him is almost unbearable. 

“No,” he finally says, voice sharp. “We just got witch-roofied by God knows what. We’re not going anywhere but the motel.”

You’re about to argue, to tell him that he’s being ridiculous, that you can handle this, but then you look at him. Really look at him. And just like that, the words die on your tongue. Or, more accurately, they sizzle into nothing with the intense wave of heat that floods through your system.

You swallow. Hard.

You’re barely opening your mouth again when Dean barges into the room, revealing his equally disheveled state, though for an entirely different reason. He scans the room, eyes narrowed hands white knuckled at his sides. You can’t blame him. Sam looks wrecked, and as terrible as you feel, you know you must look the same.

“What the—what the hell happened?” he demands, eyes flickering quickly between the two of you.

Sam straightens, running a hand through his hair, sweat already beading at his temple. “Anna,” he grits out. “She’s our witch. Got us with some kind of potion. Dizzy, fever-like symptoms.”

Dean’s eyes widen in concern, gaze narrowed on the way the two of you are doubled over. “Christ. Can you two walk?”

“Yes,” you cut in, pushing yourself off the side of the desk, taking a step towards him. “She took a key. Thinkin’ it’s to Winifred’s house. We… we’ve gotta go—”

Dean stops you before Sam can even think about speaking, a hand on your shoulder. “Yeah, no. The only place you’re going is to the goddamn motel, and horizontal. And you’re calling Bobby. Both of you.”

And with that? Protests shut down. Because Deans got that tone. And if there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s not to test Dean Winchester when he sounds more like a scolding father than a brooding hunter. 

The drive back to the motel was more than just tense. Dean drove double the speed limit, all windows down, AC flowing at full blast, and holy shit, you’re still only getting hotter. 

And worse? Every time you catch even a whiff of Sam’s scent, that masculine mix between something woodsy and warm like fresh coffee… and, fuck, is that vanilla? You feel like you might just die.

Dean drops the two of you off like an angry parent in a custody exchange, immediately jumping back into the impala with a quick order of ‘call Bobby, and don’t go anywhere’, barely sticking around long enough for Sam’s trembling hands to pull the door open.

The motel room feels like a sauna. Curtains drawn, bed rumpled from last night’s case research, the air suffocating, heavy with heat and tension thick enough to drown in. 

You’re pacing, phone pressed firmly to your ear, godawful dial tone ringing as you wait for Bobby to pick up, while Sam leans against the wall near the door. He’s trying to look composed. Failing. His shirts sticking to his back, his jaw is clenched so hard he could break a tooth.

And every time you shift, step closer, before turning around again, he flinches like your presence is burning him.

Finally, like a miracle disguised in that gruff hunter tone, Bobby’s voice rings out through the phone. “This better be good.”

You’re speaking before he even fully has the words out, pulling the phone away from your ear just far enough to put it on speaker.

“Hey, God, I was getting worried you wouldn’t answer,” you ramble, voice tight, practically panting from the heat. “We’re on a hunt. Sam and I, uh. Got hexed or something. By a witch.”

You can hear Bobby’s breath hitch at the other end of the line, and the sound he lets out is nothing short of protective irritation. You stiffen, sparing a glance at Sam, his mouth pulled into a thin line. Yeah. That sound brings the two of you right back to childhood.

“Hexed?” Bobby barks, voice sharp through the speaker. “What kind of hex? Don’t tell me you two touched some damn cursed trinket again—”

Sam cuts in before you can even answer, pushing off the wall with a groan that goes straight to your gut. Jesus Christ. “We didn’t touch anything. The girl smothered us in it. Sweet smell. Like, intense, make-you-want-to-gag sweet, knocked us dizzy, and now it’s like… like we’re burning up. Really fuckin’ bad.”

There’s a long pause at the other end.

Then Bobby sighs, the deep, weary kind that says ‘here we go’ without words.

“…You two alone right now?” he asks, slowly, and your brows pinch together. What? 

“Dean just dropped us off,” Sam mutters, voice rough. “He’s goin’ after her.”

There’s another beat of silence, and you hear Bobby standing up. Something that sounds like a heavy book being dropped in front of him. The rustling of pages. Then, low, careful, and deadly serious:

“You listen to me real close,” he says. “That, was concupiscentia letalis.”

Sam’s eyes snap so wide, it would almost be comical if you weren’t so fucking confused. And, well, hot. Holy shit it’s hot.

Neither man speaks right away, and that just about makes you lose it. You shoot Sam a look. “What?” you hiss with a glare, because damn him, and his stupid college brain (which is unfairly hot), and those stupid latin courses—

“Someone’s gotta tell me what the hell is going on, ‘cause right now, I’m feelin’ about ten seconds away from burning to ash—”

“—It means ‘lethal desire,’” Sam says quickly, voice tight, cutting off your rambling like a hot knife. 

He won’t look at you. Wouldn’t dare.

Bobby cuts in before you can even react. “Concupiscentia letalis… it’s a witch’s love curse gone feral. It’s not just attraction or lust, it’s like… an aphrodisiac on steroids. Makes your body crave another person’s like oxygen. And if that craving isn’t… resolved…”

He trails off, but you don’t need him to finish. Because suddenly, it’s like all the dots connect in your brain with a click. The heat. The dizziness. The way your skin prickles every time Sam so much as breathes in your direction.

And most of all: why, even now, with death on the line, all you can think about is how much you want to close the distance and kiss him until neither of you can remember your own names. Why you can’t seem to shake the thought of tearing his clothes off, unzipping his jeans with your teeth, and fucking him so stupid that your legs give out beneath you.

But still. The whole thing is just so… insane. 

“You’re kidding, right?”

Sam lets out a groan at your words, which he should not be allowed to do right now. Not when you’re physically fighting with every primal thought your brain conjures up. Yeah. It’s feeling pretty goddamn real to you right now.

“Oh, I’m serious. And it’s incredibly deadly, too. Your temperature’ll just keep risin’ until your blood boils inside your damn body,” Bobby deadpans, and you can hear the way his hand smooths over his scratchy beard. 

“You’re telling me that I’m fatally horny?” you butt in, disbelief lacing your tone, your face going even more red than before. Sam, from his place against the wall, has gone uncharacteristically quiet. “That it has to, what, be sated, or we die?”

“…More or less, sweetheart, yeah,” Bobby sounds almost apologetic as he speaks, which is so out of character that it only fuels the rising panic.

Sam closes his eyes for a second like he’s praying for patience, a clammy hand running over his face, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. The gesture only serves to emphasize the flush on his skin, the tension in his neck, the way his jaw is clenched impossibly tight. The way his jeans are very clearly getting quite restricting…

You can almost feel your panties being ruined. 

“Listen,” Bobby breathes, snapping you out of your eye-fucking trance. “I’m gonna do some diggin’, see if there’s any other way to… put an end to this. Just… don’t do anything stupid, please, I’ve already heard more than I wish I had.”

And with that, the line goes dead. 

You screw your eyes shut, practically slamming your phone down on the table, because Christ, this whole thing is so messed up. You spare another glance at Sam, breathing against the wall like he’s just ran a marathon, and that intense ache in your core pulses, pulls like a string tugged too tight. 

You wince at the feeling. The need cruising through your veins. The way standing is becoming more and more uncomfortable. “…Sam—” you start, but he’s faster.

“Don’t.”

His voice comes out a gravelly rasp, words tight in his throat, like the sound of your voice is making his muscles scream with tension. But that single word? It already has your thighs squeezing together. Your cunt pulses around nothing beneath layers of fabric.

He finally looks up at you again, and the sight of him hits you like a delicious gut punch: skin flushed and sweaty, chest rising and falling with each rough-heaved breath, hazel eyes so dark they’re practically black. Fucking hell.

“We just need to… ride this out,” he mutters between ragged pants. “Just… need to keep some distance. Wait for it to wear off. It will. It has to.”

You stop short at those words, blinking at him almost dumbly, because Jesus Christ, your thoughts are cloudy. But if there’s one thing you do know: it’s that you need him. Now. And by the looks of it? He needs you, too.

“Sam…” you try again after a moment. “You… you heard Bobby. This isn’t something we can just ride out…”

“I know what he said,” Sam growls, voice low and strained, like each word is being ripped from his chest.

He pushes off the wall abruptly, pacing like a caged animal. One hand rakes through his hair again, the other clenched tightly at his side. And all your lust-fueled brain wants to do is close the distance, climb him like a fucking tree, and lick that sweat off his neck.

“But there’s gotta be another way,” His voice cracks slightly, throat bobbing. “There’s always another way.”

He stops mid pace, back to you now, shoulders rigid, and it only makes him look impossibly bigger. 

“Because if we… if we do this, if we give in, it’s not just physical. It’ll mean something. And I can’t…” his breath hitches. “…I can’t do that to you. I won’t.”

Those words get trapped in your head like an echo in a silent room. Because yeah. It will mean something. It’ll mean everything. Crossing that line the two of you have been tiptoeing around through heated arguments, tense silence, and hateful glares.

“That’s… you wouldn’t be doing anything to me, Sam, I—”

“No,” he cuts in, voice raw.

He turns to face you then, really face you, and there’s something in those sweet puppy eyes that tells you he’s seconds away from breaking.

You almost wish he just would.

“I’ve been gone from your life for two years,” he says, stepping forward without meaning to, hands twitching at his sides like his body is just aching to touch you. “I pushed you away. I hurt you. And now? I’m supposed to believe it’s okay for me to…”

His breath hitches as another wave of heat rolls through him, and you can see it in the way he tenses, doubling over slightly at the waist. 

“God, baby, I can’t…” his voice drops to a whisper. “I really fucked up. You hate me for it—and you should.”

That right there? Those words? That goddamn pet name? They cut through your heart like a knife. A sharp stab of pain right in your chest, that almost hurts more than that intense heat, the constant ache.

“I don’t… I don’t hate you,” you murmur, voice shaking with the effort to hold back. To keep yourself in place.

“You do,” Sam chokes out, eyes blazing with pain and want and something almost dangerous. “I… I pulled away because I thought you deserved better than this. Than me. A real future. Not some… some hunters half-life.”

His voice cracks, and so does your heart.

“And I regret it every fucking day. And now you’re standing here—looking at me like that—and God help me, all I can think about is how soft your hair felt when I’d run my fingers through it at night,” he swallows hard at that, jaw clenching. “So don’t tell me you don’t hate me. Not when I ruined us. Not when you can’t look at me without looking like I broke your goddamn heart.”

Your thoughts are still muddled. The need vibrating through your veins still burns. The pulsing cramps are damn-near blinding. But above it? That constant ache for what you once had.

For what you still need. 

“…I don’t hate you,” you repeat, slower this time. Your voice trembles like the words physically hurt to voice aloud. “I’m at your throat all the goddamn time ‘cause every time I hear your voice, all I can think about is how you used to tell me how much you loved me.”

Sam tenses like you’ve burned him.

“And—pretending to hate you? Is a whole lot easier than admitting I still fucking love you.”

He freezes. Not just his body, but his breath, his pulse, that shake in his hands. Everything just stills like the world stopped spinning.

His throat works. His fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

“…Then don’t,” he whispers, voice so rough, it’s almost broken. “Don’t make it easier. Don’t lie anymore.”

Finally, the dam breaks, and he moves. Not fast, but sure, until he’s so close, that you can feel that electric heat mixing with yours. It’s so intoxicating that for a mind numbing second, you feel like you’re on fire.

“I love you,” he says, softly, finally, his voice cracking under the years of guilt. “I never stopped.”

And just like that, you’re both done pretending.

You’re not sure who moves first. But before either of you can take another shuttering breath, the distance is closed, and his lips are on yours.

 It’s not slow. It’s not soft or sweet or reverent. Because with the spell pumping through both your blood streams like a drug? You can’t be slow.

It’s desperate. Hungry. Electricity flows beneath feverish skin with intensity that consumes your senses, like nothing is left but him. The heat between you spikes almost violently, the room feeling like an oven now, but neither of you care. Neither of you can care. Not when every nerve is lit up like a wildfire. 

A low, guttural, pussy-soaking sound is ripped from Sam’s chest as his hands fly to your waist, tight and bruising, like holding you is the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control. His lips crush yours open, tongue pushing past the seam of your mouth to slide hot against yours, swallowing up the moans that you’re too far gone to contain. 

You’d almost forgotten just how good of a kisser Sam is. 

Almost. 

One big hand slides up your back, trembling and clammy, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other stays hard at your hip, fingertips making indents in your flesh. He tilts your head just so, giving him that much more access to absolutely devour you, and you’re almost sure you could combust right then and there.

The spell? Fucking relentless. Your legs feel so weak, that if it wasn’t for Sam’s tight hold, you’d probably topple right over. Your core pulses almost painfully, your panties no doubt absolutely destroyed. 

You can’t take it any longer. Not when he feels so goddamn good.

“Need you now. Please,” you pant, barely able to pry your lips off his long enough for the sound to be audible.

“God—yes.”

One arm locks tight around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as the other cradles the back of your head. The heat is unbearable. Electric, firing like a faulty system, but so is that ache, deeper and sharper with every passing second. Your mouth only leaves his to lick his sweaty throat that way you’ve been wanting to since the damn office.

Sam stumbles forward, guiding you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed. There’s barely any hazel left in his eyes as he lowers you down gently, too gently for how desperate you both feel, but when his knee nudges between your thighs?

Instinct takes over.

Clothes come off in frantic tugs and whispered curses. A ‘fuck’ when his shirt gets caught on his head, a ‘shit’ when his shaky hands fumble with the clasp of your bra. You’d expected… something. Maybe some sweet relief from the missing layers, but when have things ever been that easy? 

Instead, you only feel impossibly hotter. Like you’ve been reduced to nothing but a stupid-horny mess. Even more frantic now that you feel his bare skin on yours. Hot and muscled and holy-fucking-shit has he gotten more jacked? 

Every second that he’s not touching you? Physically painful. 

His mouth finds your neck, barely kissing, just desperate bites and licks to sweat-slick skin, as one hand trails down your stomach. He claws at your waist like he’s trying to scoop handfuls of your flesh, or crawl inside you the way you both need. Your back bows into him with a cry that sounds half-pain, half-relief, because it hurts, but it’s so good. 

He practically tears your jeans off, you’re almost sure you heard the button snap and clatter to the floor—but you can’t find it in you to care, not when the air meets your bare thighs, drenched with slick, and there’s a heavenly second where you’re not burning up… only for a pleasure-pain cramp to seize through your abdomen with enough force that your hips buck against his.

“S-Sam, it hurts, please—need you, need something—” you plead, and for God’s sake, you can feel your eyes burning. 

“I know,” he breathes, ragged, his words vibrating against your neck, sending a shock of pure need through your system. No one should be allowed to sound that fucking hot. “I know, me too, I’ve got you, just—God, hang on, baby.”

Both of you groan when he dips one hand beneath your panties, two fingers sliding against your soaked cunt. You’re so wet it’s almost embarrassing, the spell practically working fucking overtime, coating your inner thighs with sweet arousal. You can smell it, senses heightened like the spells turned you superhuman levels of horny (it has), and you can tell Sam’s in the same damn boat.

“Baby, you’re…” Sam breaks off voice low and hoarse like he just can’t string his thoughts together long enough to speak. And honestly? You feel the same goddamn way. He presses a long, hard kiss against your throat: “You’re so beautiful. So beautiful. So wet f’me…”

Those perfect, thick fingers slide through your core, so drenched you can hear it, and holy-fucking-shit, one circle over your swollen clit and you’re already crying out.

“Fuck—Sam—!” you sob, and oh, he just keeps moving.

Feverish bites everywhere he can reach. Lingering just below your breast, that’ll be a mark tomorrow, then to your stomach, your hip, over a new scar just over your navel. Each one desperate but so sweet, like he’s apologizing without words.

It isn’t until his bangs are teasing your trembling thighs that your brain catches up enough to realize that hey, he’s not fucking you yet, and you just can’t have that. 

“Sam? W-what’re you—?”

“Gotta taste you,” he murmurs, muffled by him squishing his face against your plush flesh. And before you can protest, he’s licking a jaw-dropping stripe along your soaked inner thigh, groaning at the taste. “Been… been dreaming ‘bout how much I missed this for two years, baby. Don’t make me wait.”

Oh.

Well, who are you to say no to that?

It’s not like you could, anyway, not with how quickly he’s hooking two now glistening fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down in one rough motion. And the second they’re gone, he pushes between your thighs, those gorgeous broad shoulders spreading them wider, and presses a hot, open mouthed kiss right above your clit.

You gasp. Arch. Damn-near tremble.

He growls low in his throat, the vibrations flooding through your sensitive nerves like a shot of pure ecstasy, and then his mouth is on you for real. His tongue drags through your folds eagerly, dipping in your dripping hole before his lips seal over your swollen bud with a suck that has stars exploding beneath your eyelids.

He alternates between deep licks and firm suckles, kissing your pussy like he can’t get enough of the taste. And holy fuck, pleasure shoots through you like goddamn lightning. It eases that ache, even just for a moment, replacing it with something so blindingly perfect that the coil deep in your core is already winding tight.

“Sam, fuck—! So—so good, I need… I need you—” you sob, and God, Sam could listen to that sound for hours.

His tongue sweeps through you just right, legs squeezing around his head. And by the looks of it… there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. He flattens that thick muscle, shaking his head back and forth like he’s trying to eat you fucking alive, and the sound that slips out of you is barely even human. 

“Just—jus’ a little longer, baby. Lil’ longer, a-alright?” he pants between wet laps, his nose smushed against your pelvis because Christ he just can’t get close enough. 

You’re close. So fucking close. Your cunt clenches around nothing, just aching to be filled, and oh God, you can barely take being empty any damn longer. 

Sam eats like he’s starving. Groans and whines slipping from his swollen lips with every wet slurp, and you’ve truly never seen a man so pussy-drunk. But even through each desperate lick, you can tell he needs more.

His hips thrust against the sheets like he just can’t help it, and watching him rut against nothing while your pussy’s practically begging to be filled? That’s your breaking point. Your fingers lace in his hair just as his lips seal around your clit again for one heavenly second, before you drag him away with one firm pull. 

“Sam,” you whine, pushing yourself up onto your elbows on trembling arms. “If you’re not inside of me fucking immediately, ‘m going to go insane.”

Slick drips down his chin like something straight out of a wet dream, and you almost come on the spot. 

“Lie down.”

He doesn’t waste a second.

“Fuck—yes,” he breathes, eyes blown wide and wild with need.

One second he’s between your thighs, next he’s falling back on the bed, shirt long gone, sweat-slick chest heaving, already working his jeans open just as you crawl over him like you own him.

And in this moment? You do.

His hands grip your hips hard as you settle over him, straddling his waist, and holy shit, he looks so perfect. Flushed and needy, his thick cock (fuck he’s huge) pressed tight against his stomach, leaking and begging for attention, but he doesn’t move. Just stares up at you like he’s seconds away from breaking and you’re the only thing holding him together. 

You grind against him once, cunt sliding against his throbbing dick in a smooth movement, because holy shit you’ve never been so goddamn wet. Sam’s head falls back, hitting the headboard with a thud, just as he gasps out: “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

“You’re perfect,” you whisper, voice slurred with agonizing need. “Missed you s’much.”

You don’t take your time. You line yourself up, his thick tip parting your slick folds, as you sink down in one sharp movement. Your lips part in a silent gasp because fuck—the stretch—you’d forgotten just how goddamn massive he was. It’s so much and yet not enough, and it hurts so good. 

His whole body jerks beneath you, his fingers digging into your hips, so much rougher than he lets himself be, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when you’ve been imagining him white-knuckling your needy flesh for two agonizing years.

“F-fuck—!” he gasps, head falling back again, pretty throat exposed as his eyes roll shut. You almost lick it all over again. “God—you’re—so tight, baby, I can’t… I can’t even—”

They flutter back open just to look at you, puppy eyes so wide and full of lust and love and concern because of fucking course they are, and he lifts up slightly, kissing your collarbone, then your jaw. One hand moves to cradle the back of your neck to bring you impossibly closer, like he wants to mold your bodies into one. You wish he could.

“Are you…” he whispers against your skin, jaw working with the effort to keep still. “A-are you okay, honey?”

“Shut up,” you breathe, but this time, there’s no bitterness in your tone. Not at all. Just need. Just love. And, well, a fucking insane amount of arousal that has no goddamn time for sweet, sappy, worried-Sam-crap. 

You’re pretty sure every single one of your senses have gone completely dumb the moment his thick cock splits you open. because fucking Christ he’s buried to the hilt inside of you, so perfect, so big, and it takes a solid couple of seconds for your vision to clear. 

You almost want to just stay just like this, full of him, so deep you can feel every delicious inch fucking everywhere, but you’re not sure your body can handle another second without desperate friction. The heat pulsing through your veins screams move, move, move—and in the moment, you’re not strong enough to deny.

You brace your hands on his shoulders (God you love those broad shoulders), nails undoubtedly leaving red halfmoons on his flesh as you lift your hips until just that fat cockhead remains inside, before you drop all your weight back down with a guttural moan that tears from your chest. You have to suck in the saliva that pools behind your teeth, because goddamn, you almost drool.

Sam lets you take control, let’s you ride him like he’s all yours (and God, he is), his hips only lifting to meet yours on every downward stroke, your sopping cunt sucking up every thick inch he provides. 

He mouths at your neck and it’s nothing near gentle, it’s all claiming—nipping wherever he can reach, leaving splotches of spit and red-purple marks that’ll just be so pretty later. It’s teeth and tongue and suction, marking you deep, branding you as his again in ways word never could.

“I… I was so stupid, baby,” he gasps against your skin, words broken. “Fuck, I love you. I love you so much—”

Each word is punctuated by the intoxicating slap of skin on skin, your whimpers and cries and pleas, the creak of the motel bed beneath you.

Sweat beads at his forehead, cute little bangs sticking to his skin, his swollen lips parted, puppy eyes so far gone: and you’re pretty goddamn sure it’s the most mouthwatering sight you’ve ever seen. You can’t hold back from licking a stripe along his glistening jaw as your body grinds feverishly over his, and he responds with the hottest damn groan you’ve ever had the privilege of hearing.

“I love you so fucking much,” you moan, broken off only by a sob when his cock hits so perfectly deep inside your pussy, walls fluttering around him just as a fire is ignited in your core. “Oh, God—I can’t—”

“Let go, baby,” Sam chokes out, voice trembling as his hand snakes between your bodies, because fuck you forgot just how perfect this man knows you, his thumb rubbing firm circles over your slippery clit. “…‘M right here, honey, gonna—gonna make it so good—fuck I love you.”

You can’t think. Not when you’re fucking yourself on his perfect cock like this, him meeting you thrust for thrust, fireworks exploding deep in your core every time he drags right there. Your moans are stupidly broken, gasps of ‘right there’ and ‘oh my God!’ like your brain can’t form anything remotely coherent. 

And when that first wave crashes over you, it’s more intense than anything you’ve ever felt.

It’s like every single one of your senses are dialled to a thousand all at once, but at the same time—each is smothered to nothing by the blinding sensation exploding deep in your core. You can’t see. Your ears ring. But oh, do you ever feel. Your cunt clamps down around his dick, squeezing him so hard his eyes roll back, your back arching, mouth falling open in a silent scream as your orgasm rips through you.

“Yes,” Sam groans like he’s being torn apart in the best damn way. “God, yes, you’re so fucking beautiful—takin’ me so perfect, honey, I-I can’t—”

You sob out his name once, barely even coherent, but that’s enough for him. Because oh fuck, he shatters. 

His hips rut against yours with a firm slap that’s definitely going to get the two of you reported later, a shuddering groan pulled from his gut as hot ropes of his release floods your tight walls. His hips twitch so goddamn deliciously through every pulse of his release, but his cock is still thick and unrelenting inside of you.

Because for crying out fucking loud, he’s still hard as steel.

You weren’t aware that anything could make this man’s stamina higher—even a goddamn lust spell from hell—and yet, here you are. Throbbing cock buried to the hilt inside your fucked-out pussy that’s still spasming from intense release.

“You… God, you’re still—”

His fingers rub sweet circles over your hips as he pants, which he should not be allowed to do right now, not when your heart already feels about ready to explode. “Yeah,” he gasps against your lips. “Still… fuck, still need you, baby—”

He rolls his hips up slowly, deliberately, testing how your cunt will squeeze him, and yeah. You do. Because without the friction, that stupid ache is back, tight in your abdomen and pulsing in your core.

“Yeah, yes, fuck,” you curse, thighs absolutely about to give out, and fuck, your eyes are definitely getting glassy. “S-switch. Please.”

It doesn’t take any convincing.

With one strong, smooth motion, he flips you beneath him, bicep flexing and oh shit you almost come again. Pathetic? Maybe. But you’ve never been so hot for someone in your damn life. 

He pillows your head with his hand, so fucking sweet, even now, lowering you gentle onto the mattress. His body covers yours like a shield, heavy and perfect. You whine at the sight alone.

“Easy, honey…” he coos, because of course he does, the bastard, before kissing you slow and deep before pulling back just enough to watch your face.

He pulls out like you’re made of goddamn glass, both of you gasping at the oversensitive drag, and then shifts between your parted thighs again. He guides himself back inside in one steady stroke that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch, because fuck you’re pretty sure his tip just kissed your cervix.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick and fever-hot, a broken sound stuttering from his lips. Your breaths mingle as his hand moves, finding yours that was fisting the mattress, as he moves it to be stationed next to your head, fingers locked in his. 

Not pinning. Not forcing. No—for crying out loud, he squeezes your hand once, sweetly, like he’s pouring love and reassurance into the action, before he sneaks a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

If your eyes weren’t glassy before? They sure as hell are now. 

Then, finally, perfectly, he starts to move.

Slow at first, less urgent now, even when heat is still buzzing beneath your skin like static. Deep rolls of his hips that make every nerve scream in intoxicating pleasure-pain because you’re so sensitive, but you just can’t stop. Every thought your brain may be trying to form? Gone. Disappeared. All evaporated the second his thick cock filled you up just so. 

“Ah—I… Jesus Christ, Sam, you feel so fucking good—” you pant, pussy squeezing him so tight, it’s a wonder he can move at all. 

He smiles at that, dimples n’ all, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen anything prettier. But you don’t have time to ogle, not when he shifts slightly, hips tilting, and drives deeper with a groan that vibrates through both of you.

Your eyes roll right fucking back. Because the second that angle changes? You see heaven. It’s like you can feel everything. Everything. every ridge, every curve, every fucking vein for God’s sake. And oh, Sam knows. 

“Right there?” he breathes, doing it again, and again, harder this time, just that little bit higher. You whimper, clawing at his hand, and he squeezes yours right back. “Yeah. I remember.”

Each thrust is practically torture. Deep, relentless pressure building in your core all over again. His fat cock stretching you to the brim, and you just know you’ll be feeling him for days. But the way his thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles? That says something softer beneath the fire. Something like I’m here. I’m not leaving. I love you more than breathing. 

“You… you’re mine, aren’t you, honey?” he chokes out, and your heart does an immediate flip, because fuck you missed hearing that. “My girl. My, perfect girl, who takes me s’fucking well, yeah?”

Yup. You could die right here. Spell could boil your fucking blood for all you care, because that is all you’ve ever needed. 

“Y-yes, I love you, fuck, ‘m all yours,” you cry, and just like that? Your body is done. 

Done holding back. The pleasure is completely blinding, deafening, exploding like a fire cracker and holy hell you feel it fucking everywhere. Your thighs shake around his hips, cunt clamping around him so fucking tight, soaking him with your arousal—God you can hear it—your inner walls fluttering violently as each wave crashes over you.

“All fuckin’ mine, huh? I love you,” he growls, voice barely his own, hips snapping forward once, twice, deeper each time, chasing his own high. 

The drag of you clenching around him is just too much, white-hot and perfect, and his rhythm starts to break apart with uneven snaps of his hips. They sputter hard against yours as he spills inside you all over again, his whole body shaking with a groan that shoots through you like liquid fire. 

“Just… just one more,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Let me—let me feel you again.”

Whines, moans, mewls, whimpers, every damn sound your body can muster is yanked from your chest. Because after those first waves hit, Sam doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Hips rolling with fever, cock pumping in and out of your weeping pussy with perfect precision. You can’t tell when one climax ends and another starts: or maybe it’s just one, long, absolutely earth-shattering orgasm because holy fuck the pleasure goes on forever. 

“S-Sammy—” you mumble after a moment, because oh. Your mind goes a little hazy, more than before. And fuck, black pinches at the corners of your vision with each thrust because oh God it feels so fucking good, but it’s so fucking much. “Sam, I…”

“I know, honey,” he soothes, but, uh, he doesn’t, because fuck, those perfect thrusts just keep coming. 

Your vision swims, going all blurry then with black dots and holy fuck you’re really about to pass out—and when it hits, your body just goes… slack. Completely blissed-the-hell-out, nerves buzzing with pure unbridled ecstasy. And for a few moments? All you hear are distant echoes.

You come back to it a moment later, and those mind numbing thrusts have stopped, but Sam’s cock is still nestled so fucking perfectly inside of you, thick and pulsing. “…Hey, hey, baby, fuck—are you—? ‘M so fucking sorry, holy shit.”

There’s a long moment where you can’t respond to him, because what the fuck, Sam just made you come so hard you passed out. Cold. It’s not funny at all but Jesus you laugh anyway, because it’s so ridiculous, and you just love him so goddamn much—

He softens at the sound, and you can see it, the way some tension leaves his face. It’s adorable. And Christ, his cock is still half-hard, and all your greedy mind wants is for him to do it again. He blinks at you, sweet puppy eyes searching, before a worried smile of his own breaks out on his pretty face. “You’re okay, honey…”

Kiss.

“…‘M right here. I’ve got you…”

Kiss.

Sam presses kisses all over your face, sickeningly sweet, over your cheeks, your eyelids, your temple, your lips, all while murmuring sweet coos of reassurances that it’s okay, you’re okay, that he’s here, and not goin’ anywhere…

“There you are,” he whispers, placing another kiss to your lips, more firm this time. “Back with me?”

“…Yeah,” you breathe after a moment, head falling back against the pillows, your eyes fluttering closed. Because fuck, for the first time in hours? You don’t feel a second away from exploding. “I think it worked.”

Sam lets out a low breath, shaky, dazed, dropping his forehead against yours again. “Jesus Christ. Never do that to me again,” he huffs, hand squeezing yours again, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “…Yeah. Think it did, baby.”

He doesn’t pull out. Not right away. Just lowers himself gently, careful of his weight, until he’s able to roll on his side, pulling you close instinctively. Like holding you is automatic. Sweat-slick and trembling, buzzing with aftershocks, but still pressing kisses to your temple like he never wants to let go. 

You could’ve stayed like that forever, if it wasn’t for the wince-inducing sound of Sam’s phone ringing, just as your eyes have just fluttered shut. 

You scramble for his jeans, tossed haphazardly next to your side of the bed, snaking out the stupid moment-interrupting device—seeing Dean’s name flashing on the screen. 

“…Hello?” you breathe, not bothering to hide the absolutely exhausted, no doubt fucked-out tone in your voice. You even see Sam grimace at the sound, which only makes your grin widen. 

“Where’s Sam?” he asks, automatic, gruff voice coupled only by the familiar purr of the impala, and some old AC/DC track ringing out in the background. 

You roll over in Sam’s arms, shifting so his face is just inches from yours, his breath warm on your temple. And if you weren’t so fucking tired? You’d be just about ready to go again.

“Right next to me,” you say, softly, but your voice is still hoarse. “Anna’s gone? You killed her?”

There’s a chuckle on the other end of the line, and your brows furrow, confused—but Sam goes beat red, and it only makes it clear that you’re definitely missing something.

“Uh, yeah. Like, an hour ago,” Dean laughs, and you hear the distinct sound of that Dean Winchester snort that tells you he’s so ready to tease. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You’re sounding a little… out of breath—”

Sam swiped the phone out of your hand before you can even think about scoffing.

“Shut up,” he warns, voice tight, and you can’t help but let out a laugh of your own.

“Just sayin’,” Dean continues, Sam stiffens—it’s hilarious, really. “Y’know, Bobby was telling me some pretty interesting stuff, earlier—”

Click.

AN: Wow! FINALLY! I am so sorry this took longer than I’d hoped… but thanks for sticking around anyway!

This entire fic is a result of me really enjoying writing backstory, and then getting caught up in it. I hope the 5k words of smut will make up for my rambling, lol…

Anyway. Last note is just another THANK YOU to everyone, because holy shit, the love and engagement on here is just incredible. I adore all of you!

PS: Title is an Alice In Chains song, so… reference to my profile photo (yeah, different album, I know…)

First, consecrate a bowl of water. Then make two poppets, etching the names of the persons on it and putting their photos into the poppets’ hearts. Give breath to the dolls to awaken it.

“You are NN. Your body is not clay, but flesh. Your arms are the arms of NN, your legs are the legs of NN, your heart is the heart of NN, your genitalia the genitalia of NN.”

Baptize both poppets with consecrated water.

“With this water, I baptize you. I name you NN. I consecrate you by the oil and the equal armed cross, and name you NN. You are now NN.”

Anoint the dolls with appropriate oil(s). Soak red strings and ivy in the oil and bind the two dolls with it.

“I anoint you with the oil of compulsion on your genitals and sex organs. May they be ever excited and lusting. By the ivy and the red string, soaked in the compulsion oil, I bind you both together, NN and NN. May you be compelled to lust after one another. Until NN and NN are one, they will have no peace to walk, nor to eat, nor to sleep.”

Draw and awaken the Cross-Seal of Swaying and the Cross-Seal of Allure from the Viridarium Umbris (using the given herbs of orchids and apocynon/dogbane) on a sheet of paper and place the two dolls there. Anoint a red candle with the compulsion oil, specifically targeted to cause lust. Drip the red wax onto the dolls and dress the dolls with herbs of orchid flowers, dogbane leaves/flowers, fennel and rose. If the plants has phallic or vaginal shapes then feel free to position the plants in a position that symbolizes sex.

“May NN and NN be bound to one another, by orchid, by dogbane, by rose, by fennel, by wax the color of the red waters of the womb.”

“If NN is sitting, let them not keep sitting; if he is chatting with someone, let him not keep chatting; if he is gazing at someone, let him not keep gazing; if he is going to someone, let him not keep going; if he is strolling about, let him not keep strolling; if his drinking, let him not keep drinking; if he is eating, let him not keep eating; if he is kissing someone, let him not keep kissing them; if he is enjoying some pleasure, let them not keep enjoying it; if he is sleeping, let them not keep sleeping. So long as he has not been one with NN, then may he be unable to eat, or to drink, neither with their friends or family or guests or partners. Make him cease from his arrogance, calculation, and his shamefulness, and attract him to NN, beneath her feet, melting with passionate desire at every hour of the day and night, always remembering her while they are eating, drinking, working, conversing, sleeping, dreaming, ejaculating in his dreams or otherwise.”

Repeat it with the other party, changing the pronouns if necessary.

“Attract to NN, him, NN, aflame, on fire, flying through the air, hungry, thirsty, not finding sleep, until he comes and joins his phallus with her opening, immediately, immediately, quickly, quickly.”

Repeat it with the other party, changing the pronouns if necessary.

Continue to drip red wax from the candle over the bound dolls and then once the candle has burned halfway, fold the paper below the dolls (the one with the cross-seals on them), encasing the dolls with the paper and tie it with red strings. Drip the red wax to seal it. You can also let the candle burn down on it.