#matchmaker!sam

The whiskey burned a familiar path down Dean’s throat, doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of irritation pricking at him. Across the bunker’s library table, Sam leaned closer to you, laughing at something you’d said, his hand resting casually on the back of your chair. Again. It was the third time tonight Sam’s hand had found its way there, or his arm had brushed yours as he reached for the chips, or his laugh had been a little too loud, a little too focused on you.

"Seriously, though," Sam said, his voice warm and slightly slurred from the bourbon, "that move with the ghost cat? Pure genius. Quickest salt-and-burn prep I've ever seen." His fingers tapped lightly against the chair back near your shoulder.

You grinned, leaning back slightly into the touch, oblivious. "Desperate times, Sammy. That thing was about to shred Dean's favorite flannel." You took a swig of your own drink. "Besides, someone had to save his fashion sense."

Dean grunted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "My flannel was fine. And genius? More like reckless."

He aimed the comment at you, but his eyes flicked pointedly to Sam’s hand. Sam met his gaze, a flicker of something knowing – and infuriatingly smug – in his eyes before he looked back at you.

"Reckless gets the job done sometimes," Sam countered smoothly, his thumb rubbing a tiny circle on the chair fabric right by your shoulder blade. Dean’s knuckles whitened around his glass. "Unlike some people who overthink everything." He shot Dean a deliberately pointed look.

You chuckled, nudging Sam’s knee under the table with your foot. "Pot, kettle, Sammy. Remember the Djinn archives? Three days of research for a five-minute fight?"

Sam laughed, a rich, easy sound. "Okay, fair point." He shifted, leaning even closer towards you, ostensibly to grab the whiskey bottle in the center of the table. His shoulder pressed firmly against yours. "But meticulousness has its place. Unlike impulse." Another glance at Dean, loaded with meaning Dean couldn't quite decipher but hated.

The air crackled with tension Dean couldn't name, but it felt like sandpaper on his nerves. This wasn't just Sam being friendly. This felt… targeted. Calculated. And you, blissfully drunk and touch-starved yourself (because Dean was a stubborn, terrified idiot), were just soaking it up. Why wouldn't you? Sam was safe. Sam was your best friend. Unlike Dean, who froze whenever things got too real.

Later, stumbling slightly towards the kitchen for water, you passed Sam leaning against the doorway to his room. He caught your arm gently as you went by.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice low and intimate in the quiet hallway. "You okay? Seemed like Dean was being extra grumpy tonight."

You sighed, leaning against the opposite wall, facing him. The whiskey made the world pleasantly fuzzy at the edges. "Just Dean being Dean. Probably pissed I used the last of the good coffee this morning." You rubbed your temples. "Or maybe he just hates seeing anyone happy."

Sam stepped closer, invading your personal space just enough to make you look up. His expression was soft, concerned. "Maybe he hates seeing you happy with someone else." His hand came up, not touching your face, but hovering near your cheek, his thumb brushing the air near your jawline. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second too long.

You blinked, the alcohol slowing your processing. "Someone else? Sam, it's just... you." You offered a tired smile. "And neither of us is getting laid anytime soon, so..."

Sam chuckled, a low rumble. "True enough." He leaned in slightly, his head dipping. His intention wasn't clear – a hug? A kiss on the cheek? But the angle, the closeness, the way his eyes held yours… it looked like he was leaning in for a kiss. And you, drunk and confused by his sudden intensity, didn't pull away immediately.

The heavy library door slammed open.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Dean’s roar ripped through the quiet hallway. He stood framed in the doorway, face flushed with fury and whiskey, eyes blazing as they locked onto Sam, who was still leaning close to you, his hand near your face. Dean stormed forward, shoving Sam hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back a step.

"Dean!" you gasped, startled and suddenly sobering up fast. "What the hell?"

Sam held his hands up, palms out, but there was no surprise on his face. Only grim satisfaction. "Whoa, Dean! Easy! We were just talking!"

"Talking?" Dean snarled, getting right in Sam's face, ignoring you completely for a terrifying moment. "Looked like a hell of a lot more than talking, Sam! What, you think you can just swoop in whenever? After everything?"

"After what, Dean?" Sam shot back, his voice deliberately calm, stoking the fire. "After you've spent years pretending you don't feel anything? After you let her think she doesn't matter? Yeah, maybe I decided she deserves someone who actually wants her!"

"I DO WANT HER!" The words exploded from Dean, raw and ragged, echoing off the bunker walls. He froze, eyes wide, as if shocked by his own outburst. His chest heaved. He slowly, painfully, turned his head to look at you.

The world stopped. The fury in Dean’s eyes hadn't dimmed, but beneath it, raw and terrifyingly vulnerable, was something else. Something you’d only ever glimpsed in fleeting moments, quickly buried. Possession. Need.

Love.

Sam took a deliberate step back, his work seemingly done. "Took you long enough," he muttered, shaking his head, but there was relief beneath the exasperation. He gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning and walking purposefully towards his room, leaving you alone in the hallway with Dean.

You stared at Dean, your heart hammering against your ribs. "You... you what?" Your voice was barely a whisper.

Dean didn't answer with words. He closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands, rough and shaking, framed your face. His eyes searched yours, the anger warring with a desperate, aching hunger. "You heard me," he growled, his voice thick. "I want you. You should be mine."

Then his mouth crashed down onto yours.

It wasn't gentle. It was claiming. Possessive. A desperate, furious sealing of the confession ripped from his soul. His lips were hard, demanding, his tongue plunging into your mouth with a hunger that stole your breath. You gasped against him, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, not to push away, but to hold on as the world tilted violently. Years of pent-up longing, frustration, and jealousy ignited like gasoline.

He broke the kiss just as abruptly as he started it, breathing raggedly against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. "Tell me to stop, I’ll stop," he rasped, his voice wrecked. "Tell me no. Tell me you don’t want me. That I’m wrong."

You looked up into his stormy eyes, seeing the fear beneath the fire, the vulnerability beneath the possessiveness. The years of stolen glances, hidden smiles, and aching silence flashed before you. "You're not wrong," you breathed, your own voice trembling. "I want you. I’m yours, Dean. Always have been."

A low groan tore from his chest. He didn't hesitate. He scooped you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carried you down the hall towards his room. He kicked the door shut behind them with a force that rattled the frame.

He didn't make it to the bed. He pinned you against the cool metal door, his mouth reclaiming yours in another searing kiss. His hands were everywhere – tearing at your shirt, shoving your jeans down your hips. His own clothes followed in a frantic tangle of fabric and belts.

"Shoulda done this years ago," he growled against your neck, biting down sharply on the tender skin where it met your shoulder. The sharp sting sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. "Shoulda claimed you the second I saw you." His hand slid between your legs, finding you already slick and ready. "Fuck, you're soaked. For me?"

"Yes!" you gasped, arching into his touch as his fingers plunged deep, curling ruthlessly. "Always for you, Dean!"

"Good," he snarled. He withdrew his fingers, gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, and lifted you slightly. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside you to the hilt.

You cried out at the sudden, delicious stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it. He didn't pause. He set a punishing pace immediately, driving into you with deep, hard strokes that rocked you against the door. The friction was intense, amplified by the raw emotion pouring off him.

"Tell me," he demanded, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. His thrusts were relentless, each one pushing a gasp or moan from your lips. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours!" you cried, clawing at his back, meeting his thrusts with equal ferocity. "Dean, I'm yours!"

"Damn right," he growled, shifting his angle slightly, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "And you liked it, didn't you?"

His hand slid down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing harsh circles. "Liked seeing me lose my shit? Seeing me finally break?"

"Yes!" The admission was ripped from you, half-shame, half-triumph, as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.

"God, Dean, yes!"

"Knew it," he muttered darkly, slamming into that perfect spot again and again, his fingers relentless on your clit. "Knew you wanted me to snap. Wanted me to finally take what's mine." He kissed you again, savage and possessive. "Show me. Come for me. Scream my name so Sammy hears exactly who you belong to."

His words, filthy and perfect, combined with the brutal rhythm of his hips and the skilled torture of his fingers, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm detonated violently, shattering your vision into white light as you screamed his name, your inner muscles clamping down hard around him in pulsing waves.

The feel of you milking him triggered his own climax. He buried himself impossibly deep with a final, guttural groan that vibrated through your entire body. "Mine!" he gasped against your neck as he emptied himself inside you, his body shuddering violently against yours.

For long moments, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of their hearts pressed together. Dean stayed buried within you, slumped against you, his forehead resting on the door beside your head. His weight pinned you, but it felt like an anchor, not a burden.

Slowly, he pulled out, lowering you gently until your feet touched the floor. Your legs trembled, barely holding you up. He leaned back against the door, chest heaving, watching you with eyes that were still dark with passion, but now also filled with a dazed wonder and a hint of lingering possessiveness.

He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing gently over the bite mark he'd left on your shoulder. "Sorry," he murmured, though he didn't sound particularly sorry.

You touched the mark, then reached up to trace the line of his jaw. "Don't be." You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest. "Sam planned that, you know. The hallway."

Dean stiffened, then let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "That little son of a bitch." He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight against him. "Gonna kill him tomorrow."

You smiled against his skin, the warmth of him, the solid reality of him holding you, finally chasing away the last ghosts of doubt. "Maybe thank him first?"

Dean grunted, nuzzling into your hair. "Maybe." He was quiet for a moment, his hand stroking slow circles on your bare back. "...Meant it, you know. What I said. You're mine."

You tilted your head up to look at him. "And you're mine."

A slow, genuine smile, rare and breathtaking, spread across Dean Winchester's face. "Yeah," he breathed, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss that was infinitely softer, sweeter, but no less possessive than the first. "Yeah, I am."

He wears his AC/DC t-shirt to the show, and he feels kind of like the oldest guy in the room. But he’s having trouble caring, especially when Cas comes into view wearing tight black pants and a t-shirt with angel wings on the back. He starts shaking hands, coming down the line toward Dean.

Dean thought all night about what he was going to say, but when Cas gets to him, when those blue eyes land on him and stay there, watching - studying - Dean loses what little nerve he had and manages only a weak, “Hey.”

“Hello,” Cas says. He takes Dean’s hand and holds it longer than he held the rest. He’s still staring, and Dean could get lost in those eyes. Or maybe he already is. Time stills. The moment stretches. Dean wishes he could live right here, holding Cas’s hand, with Cas looking at him like he’s the most important guy in the room. Like he’s the only one.

But too soon, Cas’s handler steps forward and ushers Cas onward. Though Cas looks back once, twice, three times, then four, they never get another chance to talk.

Cas goes on stage, gives a great show, then gets on his tour bus and leaves.

Dean drives home in the dark. As the concert high fades, a sinking feeling takes root in his gut. Dean knows he’s never going to get a chance like that again. And all he could say was, Hey.

Three months later, Cas releases a new single titled, Green Eyes and Freckles. The lyric, Our moment ended too soon, makes Dean hopeful, and yeah, there’s also a line about an AC/DC shirt. But no. How many hundreds of thousands of people did Cas sing to every night? There wasn’t much chance this one song was meant for Dean.

“What the hell, Dean,” Sam says, after hearing the song. “What happened that night?”

“Nothing,” Dean says. It’s not a lie. Sam thinks its something but its not.

But then Sam starts making secret phone calls that mysteriously end whenever Dean enters the room. And Sam, somehow, comes up with backstage passes again for the show three towns over.

“I can’t,” Dean says, though his heart’s racing a mile a minute. What if they meet again and its nothing like it was? Cas probably doesn’t remember Dean. Dean would just make a fool of himself. He laughs, plays it off. “I don’t even like pop music.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Just say thank you.”

Dean hesitates a moment, then reaches forward and snaps the tickets from Sam’s outstretched hand. Softly, he grumbles, “Thank you.”

“Was that so hard?” Sam says, smiling sharp.

“Don’t push it, Sammy.”

So there Dean is again backstage. Cas appears, in tight jeans and a black AC/DC shirt this time. He’s three people down when he looks at Dean and freezes.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Put them in his pockets? At his sides? Cross his chest? No. Nothing is right and Cas is looking at him like he knows him but that can’t be right.

Pockets. Definitely, pockets.

Cas shakes hands. He puts in some time with each person, but he keeps glancing at Dean. When he gets to Dean in line, he doesn’t hold up his hand. Doesn’t move at all, except to stand in front of him. He stares, and time slows and no. Not again. He’s not going to blow this a second time.

“Do you -“ Dean starts.

“I thought I might have dreamed you,” Cas says, and whatever Dean was about to say is long gone.

“I know I dreamed you,” Dean says instead, and its cheesy and terrible. He’s mortified but also kind of not because Cas smiles, all teeth and gums. Dean did that. He made that smile.

“Your name,” Cas asks, and when Dean tells him, he says it back, “Dean.”

This is happening, Dean has to remind himself. His name in that voice has him melting and no one has ever made his heart race so fast. He didn’t think it was possible.

The handler comes. Their time is up. Cas has to leave again, and Dean doubts there will be a third time. A third chance. But what can he do?

So he watches Cas go. A lump rises in his throat. He starts to feel cold.

The handler comes back. “Castiel asked to give you this.” He hands Dean a crumpled piece of paper and walks away.