Exhibiting Freak Behaviors
(Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader)
✧ MASTERLIST ✧
Summary: In a bid to provoke Sam, you steal his white and teal flannel. Parading around in front of him in it only ends with you more frustrated so you go out to a local bar. You don't go in there seeking other company but it finds you anyhow just in time for Dean and Cas to walk in with a grumpy Sam. Now you won't stop staring at Sam as you flirt with another man. While draped in Sam's pilfered shirt. Content/Warnings: NSFW!!!, non-penetrative sex, oral (both receiving), switch Sam, bratty/soft dom reader, no use of y/n, jealousy, possessive behavior, kind of obsessive, PRAISE & condescension, x2 M orgasms, Sam reflexively "defends your honor" using physical violence, Sam's self-worth issues. 15.81k words A/N: WARNING: There is no "Plot" here. This is almost 16k words of two people engaging with each other verbally, visually, and physically, all done sexual-style, that's it. If you think I'm fuckin joking, you will owe me $15 for the I-told-you-so tax when you're done reading this. ENJOY!!
Mechanical things soothe Sam. Guns are useful yes, but for him they also provide opportunity for meditation. He knows using a weapon of any kind to relax is pretty strange to “civilians” as he sometimes calls regular people. Still, at the first sign of internal struggle, he does something with his guns. He doesn’t have a collection like Dean, he has a few familiar, tried-and-true ones.
Cleaning them is Dean’s main mode of doing meditation which can work well for the other Winchester too occasionally. Usually though, Sam’s got actual meditations he does when he needs to center himself. That’s not what he needs right now. Instead, he needs to feel the absolute sense of control that comes from wielding a gun. The weapon is precise, fast, and effective. Nothing makes a man feel that more about himself than a handgun.
Sam came right down here from the shower, moving quickly to avoid you at all costs. His hair is still wet, the ends of it pointing with heavy droplets of water waiting to fall. They look like stalactites framing his stoney face. All but one of the fluorescent overhead lights in the bunker’s gun range flicker more rapidly than his eyes can discern. The furthest one to his right however is blinking slow enough to make his eyeballs ache a bit. The strobe in his periphery isn’t doing anything to help slow his racing thoughts and heart.
Sam’s hands are steady now. He loads the gun with practiced movements, a familiar ritual. The sounds are so steadfast too, they never change. The different clicks that the gun makes as he puts it together— the slide and click of the barrel retracting then snapping back into place; the satisfying smack-click of slamming the magazine into the grip. His aim is steady when he lifts it up to eye-level.
One. Two-three. An equilateral triangle of bullet holes— one in each shoulder and the final one in the stomach. The paper won’t be getting up from that. Sam lowers the gun and takes a deep breath. He can still shoot. It’s one of the things he had to learn young, like tying shoes. Unlike most people, he’s needed it about as much as he’s needed the knowledge of tying his shoes. He takes five deep, measured breaths. Then he picks up the handgun and raises it to eye-level.
A shuffling of footsteps in the doorway makes his mind completely glitch. He’s still poised to shoot but he’s not doing it. He’s paralyzed, waiting for you to move into his eye-line. His body silently wars between the will to continue shooting and the one to immediately drink up as much of your image as possible. So he’s stiff like a statue.
You hover in the doorway for a moment, then meander into the room. His jaw clenches and the gun droops slightly before bobbing back up when he catches himself losing focus. One of your hands drags across the passing items as you stalk closer. He adjusts his stance and lifts his chin like he means business— like he’s not distracted by you. He refuses to look away from the target.
“I’d be careful coming too close to me with a loaded firearm.” He grinds out through his teeth.
You stop two booths away from him, gliding to a halt like it was always your intension to stop there anyhow. The scent of your shampoo is strong— you must’ve just gotten out of the shower too. He can’t tell what you’re wearing without looking directly at you. He won’t do it.
“Please. Don’t let me interrupt.”
You sound so level— not in the least bit bothered or uncomfortable near him. The thought of your ambivalence makes anger flare up again in his highly-strung body. His finger squeezes the trigger three more times in quick succession, no hesitation between them. One-two-three. Each hole lands an inch to the left of one of the previous holes. Excellent execution once again. Pride blooms in his chest as he admires how accurate he got— how close to perfect symmetry he can get.
Smirking at his target he makes the mistake of putting the gun down. He almost forgets for a second that you’re there, he’s too entranced by his work. The target flutters rapidly over the wind as he reels it to his waiting hand. When he’s got it off the mechanism and in his hands, a shiver runs through him at the whisper of your breath across his bare arm. It makes him jump a little, turning his head to look around for you. You’re peering around his shoulder at the target with arms crossed. What he can see of your skin looks dewey and refreshed from the shower.
“That’s pretty exact. Very symmetrical.” What he can see of you in the corner of his eye makes his expression harden. You seem very genuine in your admiration. “Really impressive.”
He hates the way his heart lurches happily at the look on your face. Your expression reads as awe of him. It makes the hair all over his body rise up. You’re not as close as you got in the kitchen but you’re as close as you can be without crossing that boundary. His hands prickle with the urge to touch you.
Sam swallows thickly. “Thanks.”
You don’t say anything to that. He takes one last pleased look at the sheet of paper and then folds it up. He does it like his shot grouping— not exactly equal, but as close as he can get without wasting his effort. He turns to go toss it in the trash and grab another one. You’re leaning against one wall of the booth, your arms still crossed high up on your stomach.
You’ve got shorts on again. They’re sweatpants-material he thinks, with a tank top hugging your curves just right. To Sam’s utmost horny horror, you have his white and teal flannel draped around you like a shroud of sin. It’s appropriately big on your body, hanging open with one shoulder slipped down to your elbow. Desire pours out of you like you’re trying to silently hypnotize him.
He decides to ignore you. His Adam’s apple bobs with a firm swallow before he flattens himself against the opposite wall. Shuffling sideways awkwardly he gets out of the booth without touching you. With a dramatic huff he tosses out the old target. His movements are robotic as he gets a new one, all of his mind fully focused on listening for sound behind him. You don’t move. He has to repeat the awkward maneuver. When his back is to you this time though, he hears the soft shhffttt of your shoulder sliding along the wall with the step closer you take to him.
“You’re not even gonna acknowledge it?” You ask tentatively.
You don’t sound as vulnerable as he wants you to be. You’re only disappointed wearing his shirt wasn’t enough provocation. To be truthful, it is almost enough— seeing you in his clothes makes something deep and possessive curl pleasurably in his belly —but Sam’s gotten a lot more difficult things done just from the sheer force of his will. This won’t be any different. You’re playing some kind of sick game with his heart and his cock, smiling smugly at him the whole time you unravel him.
You don’t want what he does. He doesn’t want you to just want him once or in a limited capacity, he wants you to want all of him. But asking that of another person— to truly know and still love Sam Winchester? That’s too much to ask of anyone.
“Acknowledge what?” He focuses on resetting the target.
“How good I look right now.”
He freezes in the midst of his task for a moment, blinking animatedly. He expected something more pointed than that. You do look good. There’s a pull in his chest that he can feel reeling him in like a fish on a line. He forces himself to recover quickly and hopes you didn’t see how much that affected him. With a little huff through his nose he continues setting up the target.
“You’ve successfully managed to avoid me all day.” You say, “It’s the first time in weeks that neither Cas or Dean are home so I’ve been bored and lonely all day. On top of that you want to act like nothing’s different.”
“Nothing is different.”
You scoff lightly, “C’mon, Sam.”
“No. We’re roommates. Friends. Nothing more.” He says the word “friends” like it tastes acidic on his tongue.
“Roommates and friends who’ve made and watched each other come,” You wet your lips, “that’s what you mean, right?”
He doesn’t respond, just becomes a little more forceful with his movements. There’s a brief lull in conversation. You decide to switch gears.
“You don’t even wanna know how I got it?” You toy with the bottom corner of the flannel.
He shakes his head once. “We live together. I’m sure there are many ways you can steal clothes from me.”
You huff softly, like something about that amuses you. He ignores you and adds to his thought.
“It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care.”
You consider your next words for long enough that he’s all poised to pick up his gun, the target all the way across the room.
“I think I’m going to sleep in this.”
He freezes again. You… you wearing that shirt… and nothing else to bed. You wearing his shirt to bed… in his bed? You, in that shirt, coming on his fingers, on top of his sheets, all the while knowing that after he gets to wrap you up safe in them, his shirt and his arms. His dick twitches angrily in his pants at the thought of you trembling, the shirt open enough for your tits to spill through—
Gah! Goddamn it, you fucking freak, focus!
He’s so furious with his body and it’s reactions to you.
Sam’s nose twitches angrily. “Do whatever you want.”
“I can’t. Because he won’t admit he wants me, too.” You purr, voice closer because you leaned further into his space. “Or, more accurately: he won’t admit he wants to feel good so I’m getting the short end of the stick. Actually, I’m getting no stick at all if you think about it—”
“—Shut up.”
You do but he can tell you’re smothering a smug look.
He swallows thickly, in the proper stance still, gun poised to fire. He needs to steady his breathing before he shoots, otherwise it’s not a controlled exercise. His heart and mind crave the precision of the speeding bullet. His shoulders rise and fall with a huff. The shffftt sound comes again as you draw just a few inches closer. His breathing instantly becomes uneven again.
He ought to repel you somehow— or maybe repel himself from you? He’s not sure. Your presence beside him feels like chaos pressing up against the outside of his personal bubble. When Sam lets himself follow the pull of his desire he feels out of control. His body acts on instinct after enough pressure— this morning only proved that further —and he’s afraid of how fast it moves with you now. You’re right near him and consequently his mind runs through his every desire for you. He wants everything from you.
The thing is, wanting like this makes him reliant on someone else. Other people can leave before him. Other people can die. Or they can decide he’s not worth the trouble. Or they might call his desires perverse, validating his fears with a second opinion. He doesn’t think he could live knowing you think of him as a freak, too.
The whisper of a breath from your parted lips grazes the bare skin of Sam’s arm. He wants to put the gun down and grab you for a kiss. Maybe he could lift you onto the counter and smother himself between your legs. His mind recalls images of this morning— your blissed-out face beneath him, egging him on constantly like you can’t help it —and then the euphoria of his own shameful bust in his joggers. He can’t stop thinking about how this is still a game to you. For him this is a whirlwind of anxiety, fear and unknown territory taking up every bit of space it can in Sam’s head.
“It’s like I told you this morning. Nothing like that’s gonna happen again.” He says with what he hopes sounds like finality. Thinking you’d let that lie, though is wishful at best.
“Sam, if all I gotta do is wiggle my ass at you in some little shorts for that to happen…” You click your tongue, “…then I don’t know where this confidence in your ability to resist is coming from. You’re delusional if you think that’s the most enticing I can be.”
He’s getting angry now. He slams the gun down but still doesn’t face you. His elbows lock as he leans onto the counter, glowering at the air in front of him just for something to do that isn’t showing you how much lust and anticipation that filled him with. This is untenable.
“I’m not a fucking bull you need’a provoke all the time, you know that, right?” He grits out, “You might be able to do this stuff easily—”
“—Ex-cuse me?” You don’t hide your repugnance.
Finally, an in! This is an angle I can use to piss you off and redirect this conversation.
He rounds on you with a newfound confidence. “I said: you might be able to do this stuff easily—”
You scoff venomously, scowling up at him as he keeps going.
“—but I’m not some dumb fuck you met at a bar. We’re roommates and friends and that’s it. I don’t do ‘no-strings’ alright?” He knows the resentment in his voice is loud and clear but he can’t help it. “I’m not going to be the backup choice whenever the other fish in the pond aren’t biting.”
Your mouth is agape at him, offense written all over your face. There’s hurt there, too. That makes him wilt a little, and he can tell you notice it— the slight slouch in his body as he feels sorry for hurting your feelings. You straighten away from the wall and the confidence in your body sets his teeth on edge.
“I know you want me, Sam, don’t try and pretend like you don’t.”
He swallows thickly, his nose wrinkling briefly. “I’m telling you it ain’t gonna happen. End of story.”
You shrug a shoulder. “Like I said. We’ll see.”
That finally makes him whirl to fully face you. “Enough! Quit acting like you know everything! Like— like you know any better than me!”
“Not in several cases, no, but in this one?” You narrow your eyes at him and point lightly at his chest. “I’m pretty confident that I’m spot-on.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I dunno, I certainly have more of an idea after this morning! Remember? When you rutted your cock up against me so good that you came in your—”
“—Yeah, and so what?!” Sam spreads his arms, “You could get anyone you want, why’re you looking to ruin a good thing?!”
“I’m looking to make a great thing even better!”
“Well, I’m not here to be your fuck-buddy.” Sam spits.
The vulgarity of that catches you off-guard. Your mouth snaps shut as your expression solidifies into a stoney expression of fury, disgust, and something else he can’t identify but feels equally threatening. In that couple moments of silence where you study his features like a raptor, you seem to come to a decision.
“Okay.” You nod once stoutly and then you turn and march off.
It’s what he wanted to happen but the abruptness of it makes the conversation feel still unresolved. There’s something foreboding about it.
I guess now I know how it feels. Shit.
His body moves reflexively, turning back to the target, picking up the gun. He raises it and fires, three more shots in a triangular grouping and then one more in the middle. The barrel stays retracted with a click he hasn’t heard yet today, signaling that the gun is empty. He swallows and sets it down slowly. Taking a deep breath he glances to his right, looking for you. You’ve already gone out the door.
“Come out for a drink, Sammy,” they said. “It’ll be fun” they said. “It will totally get your mind off things,” they said. They were of course, Dean, and he was unfortunately so goddamn wrong.
No, actually going to a bar does not get Sam’s mind off of you. Instead, he walks in and immediately spots the pattern of a familiar shirt. You sit with your back to the door at the bar with the flannel on, the bottom half of you obscured from view. You look good. Something deep in the pit of Sam’s stomach churns pleasurably at the sight of you in public wearing his shirt. You’re out in the world wearing his clothing as both a protective membrane and a sign of warning— Sam Winchester will go to war for this woman, so think twice before bothering her. Of course you can handle your own in a fight but he wishes it didn’t have to come to that so often. Ideally, there would be no reason for either you or he to ever break a knuckle again, but that’s a pipe dream, especially at this point in his life. He knows that.
Under the warm hazy lights, you’re spinning your half-empty cocktail glass by the stem, wearing a small smile for the stranger sitting next to you. It’s a man, perhaps a bit younger than Sam. He’s passably-handsome (Sam barely gives him that) and he’s telling you a story that you seem to find very entertaining. He gesticulates as he grins and monologues. You smile appropriately and even laugh, seeming genuine. The guy leans onto the bar beside you, close enough to count as within your personal space. While you’re wearing Sam’s shirt.
Sam doesn’t notice he’s stopped walking until he senses the presence of Dean and Cas behind him. They pause too, immediately following Sam’s eye-line to you. Dean blinks in confusion.
“What the…?” Dean clicks his tongue. “Dammit. Well. You wanna go somewhere else, Sammy?”
Before Sam can figure out his answer to that question Cas pipes up.
“Sam, is that your shirt she’s wearing?”
Dean straightens a little. “Oh yeah it is—”
Dean cuts himself off when the guy reaches out to you. He hesitates a little but you stay still in invitation so he keeps going. He gently tugs the open collar of the shirt like it needs an adjustment. It’s unnecessary, Sam can be sure of that, but he has to watch as you let the guy get away with it, a smile curling your lip. Dean really does not know what to make of that. His chin shrinks back incredulously into his neck while on Sam’s other side, Cas cocks his head slightly, frowning in confusion as well.
Sam clears his throat and forces himself to get as close to a regular tone of voice as he can. “Whatever. Just ignore her. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets with a small resting glower. In his wake, Dean and Cas share a look of apprehension before following. The two of them aren’t facing your direction in the booth Sam chooses. He makes his choice of table and side to sit on covertly enough that he’s hoping they don’t pick up on his ulterior motives. It’s not a perfect angle but he can see you pretty easily from this spot.
There’s no table service here. Dean volunteers to get the first round from the bar. Cas watches him go across the booth from Sam. The angel’s eyes drift from Dean to you just as the man says something funny enough to make you toss your head back.
“Does… does she know we’re here?” Cas asks very cautiously.
Sam’s jaw tightens. He’s toying with the salt and pepper shakers left on the table even though the kitchen closed an hour ago. They’re shaped like chess pieces— a black queen and a salty king.
Sam shakes his head with a small pout on his lips. “Don’t know.”
“You didn’t plan this beforehand?”
Sam straightens in his seat from discomfort, still not really looking Cas in the eye. “Why would we.”
Cas might not be the most capable of parsing human emotion but it’s clear to him from Sam’s flat intonation that this must be part of “the situation” Dean referred to earlier in private. The older Winchester made it out like you and Sam argued, so Cas frowns as he tries to reason out why you would wear Sam’s shirt if you’re mad at him? Let alone if you’re both so mad at each other that you’re ignoring one another in the same bar. Dean comes back with three beer bottles and redirects Cas’s thoughts.
Sam’s trying to listen, to participate in conversation. He’s not being very helpful in keeping the dialogue going. The ancient cowboy clock above the bar is broken, the hands permanently frozen at 10:22. Dean and Cas carry the conversation. Well, mostly Dean. Sam told them to ignore you and the tension between you and he so they’re trying to. Sam’s not really listening to his own rule, though.
He’s watching you any chance he gets, all of what he can see. He’s replying to Dean when he needs to but when he’s not the focus of the conversation, his eyes flicker over to you. Your back’s mostly to him so he only really catches glimpses of your face. When he does though, it’s clear you’re enjoying the conversation quite genuinely.
Does she know I’m here?
He feels crazed seeing you among the public, being looked at by all other people in his shirt. No one else in the world has any real clue of what kind of a turn-on this is for Sam. It’s like you’ve chosen willingly to go out into the world wearing a straightjacket embroidered with the words: Do not touch, not for you. Punishable by death. -Sam Winchester. That’s what looking at you right now feels like for him. All he wants to do is orbit closer to you, but instead he’s got to sit and watch you with another man. You let him lay fleeting touches from that guy. Little ones on the arm and the hand of course, typical flirty-touch locations.
After twenty minutes though, the guy tucks some hair behind your ear. Sam did that to you this morning. Right after he straightened your shirt. After his fingers made you come, your walls pulsing around them so beautifully, your cunt soaking his hand and your panties. Your breaths were still labored, a warm affectionate look on your face for him. In that moment he thought to himself that his imagination had been correct the other day— your breasts do heave and shudder beautifully after you orgasm.
The guy caresses your cheek very lightly. You cock your head a little like you’re leaning into his touch. It’s a fleeting stroke— there and gone in a second —but it makes Sam’s hand clench around his beer bottle. Things are going to devolve rather quickly now, Sam can tell. It becomes impossible not to stare at you. Dean clears his throat to get Sam to refocus on the conversation and face forward. He does, but his eyes are flickering around like they do when he’s scheming.
It takes five more minute for the guy to get up. Sam assumes he’s going to the bathroom. You sigh and face towards the bar. You prop your cheek up on your far fist, unknowingly cheating your body a little more towards Sam. You’re watching your pinched fingers spin your glass by the stem. You look despondent. His sympathy softens his feelings towards you a little because of how glum you look. He finishes his beer on the next gulp.
“I need another one.” Sam states, already starting to move.
Dean’s brows rise, clearly somewhat surprised. Beside him, Cas is frowning. Sam doesn’t wait for permission or take in either of their expressions to slide out of the booth.
As he walks towards the bar, he reflexively tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. His stride is long and slow because he’s going for confident but neutral, hoping against hope he can get through this conversation with any dignity left. You see him as soon as he comes into your periphery. Your head pops up and there’s a new spark of excitement in your eyes. You didn’t have that for that guy. Sam’s heart stutters when he notices how you’re already responding more to him than to the stranger.
It’s clear to Sam the first second your eyes meet his that you had not seen him in the bar, nor Dean going up to order the first round earlier. Your body turns towards him a little as he approaches, drawing his gaze to your styling of his flannel. Three buttons are undone, revealing just a peek of your cleavage, the bottom of the shirt tucked in to your pants. You’ve got jeans on again finally, thank fuck, but of course they’re his favorite pair you own. They hug your thighs and ass just right from all angles.
You don’t address him as he approaches. Stubbornly, he chooses to do the same. With a quiet look of resentment he draws up beside you. You just sit there and watch him. He leans on the bar beside you with his forearms and orders without acknowledging you verbally. He’s trying to project his anger only, not all the other chaotic feelings swirling around in the pit of his stomach.
“Having a good night?” He asks coldly.
You shrug, “Could be better.”
He nods and folds his hands on top of the bar.
“How long have you been here?” You take a delicate sip of your drink.
The way your lips pucker makes sparks of pleasure shoot down his ribs. He remembers the feeling of those lips on him— perfect and plush —the taste of you, the particular texture. When you set the glass back down there’s a faint imprint left behind from those lips. The bartender sets Sam’s beer down. You tell him to put it on your tab. Sam refuses to be the kind of person who makes a scene in public so he doesn’t protest, letting the bartender leave in peace. Slowly, almost menacingly, Sam turns his head to look at you.
“I can pay for my own drink, you know.” Sam narrows his eyes.
“But why would you if someone else offers?” You blink up at him too adorably.
He doesn’t want to ask the question that his whole body burns to know the answer to.
She has to know what she’s doing. There’s no other explanation, she’s doing it on purpose. To you.
The guy might come back from the bathroom soon. Sam doesn’t know what is taking him this long already but he’s got to take advantage. When he speaks next he doesn’t look at you. His chin is tilted down to look at his folded hands on the bar and his voice is soft, vulnerable, and raw. Always underlying those is the harsh bite of a man being eaten alive by envy.
“Does he know?”
You feign innocence. “Know what?”
He shoots you a glare.
You shrug, “I really don’t know what you could possibly be talkin—”
“—About the shirt, goddamn it!” He snaps before quickly lowering his voice again. Without thinking he leans in close to menace softly at you, “Does he know he’s gonna be taking another man’s shirt off you tonight?”
You study him for a long moment, like you’re taking notes on something new you’re observing about him.
“What does it matter to you?” You ask, voice velvety-soft and enticing, “You said you didn’t care that I took it. You insisted that you don’t want me. So… doesn’t that mean you shouldn’t care about whether or not Paul takes me home or even thinks to ask whose shirt this is?”
Sam’s nostrils flare. “You—… I—!” He splutters, at a loss for words. Finally, he puts all the anger he has into the lame reply: “You’re unbelievable.”
Your brows shoot up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He narrows his eyes at you like a fox.
“Why’s that?”
Sam shakes his head a little, “I can’t believe you’re so ready to just—”
“—You essentially told me to get back in the pond, Sam! This is what that looks like.”
“I didn’t mean do it in my goddamn shirt.”
“You really didn’t seem to care about me wearing it before.”
He’s speaking before thinking, acting on petulant little-brother reflexes, “Well I care now, give it back.”
Your tongue slips out to wet your lips. Something about the smug look you’re smothering makes him feel nervous— like he’s somehow fallen into a trap of your making without knowing it.
“So… you want me to take this off? Right now?”
He nods insistently, as if to say, “yeah, duh!”
You lean closer to him, making him recoil a bit before standing his ground. You smile and it feels equal parts enchanting and devious. “You’d rather Paul just look right at my bra all night? As well as everyone else in here?”
Sam’s mouth goes dry, his face flushing beet red at the thought. You asked as if you’d genuinely do it, you just needed to make sure he knew what he was asking for. He knows that you want to rile him up— he knows it’s a test of his endurance —and he’s furious that you’re succeeding. The corner of your mouth ticks up victoriously.
“You know I don’t want that.” He grits out.
“So you admit that I know what you want.”
“No! That’s not what I—”
“—Well, I know at least some of what you want, that can be confirmed with empirical data.” You talk over him and he forgets what he’s saying.
Furiously he turns away from you to take the beer left in front of him some minutes ago and marches off back to the booth. Cas and Dean go quiet as Sam slides back in across from them with a heavy thud.
Dean glances from his settling brother to you at the bar. You’re watching Sam like a hawk. Swallowing, Dean cautiously begins, “Hey, man, you’re sure you don’t wanna go somewhere else—?”
“—It’s fine.” Sam’s words are clipped as he settles with a scowl.
“Are you sure, Sam?” Cas asks.
“Yes. Can we please just forget about it?”
Dean and Cas eye Sam for a moment then both nod and resume talking about fishing. Sam tries to pay attention but the next time he raises his head to sip from his bottle, his eyes catch on you and he notices you’ve changed seats. It’s only three stools away from your original spot but it’s around a corner in the bar. So you’re facing Sam’s direction now when your beau Paul (derogatory) returns. He takes the seat next to you and then Sam’s night starts to deteriorate very quickly.
Dean tries a couple more times to get Sam to join in on the conversation. His first attempt is a discussion about Game of Thrones, which Dean has started showing to Cas. Sam is initially engaged but that only lasts about ten minutes. In a slightly more relaxed state of mind, Sam hazards a glance across the bar without thinking. You’re laughing at something Paul said. He’s perched on the edge of his stool to get as close to you as possible. Sam sees your smiling face all caught up on Paul and vis-versa, then he re-registers his shirt on you and his mood totally tanks.
Sam knows this is his fault. This afternoon in the gun range he should have ripped it off of you. He should have tied you up in it and bundled you away into the coziness of a bed, holding you close like he needs your body weight or he’ll float away. Instead, he’s stuck third-wheeling with Dean and Cas while he watches Paul get more and more comfortable with you from several yards away. And on top of all that, you’re wearing Sam’s fucking flannel. White and teal, the only spot of those colors in this room full of woodsy-warm tones. Sam’s never envied both a piece of clothing or another man as much as Sam envies that goddamn plaid shirt and that dumb fucking idiot, Paul.
He’s leaning in towards you like he just simply cannot help inching closer. Sam’s shirt is the last thin barrier between the man’s hands and the miles of your supple skin. Paul touches the necklace you’re wearing, gingerly picking it up off your collarbone to better examine it. Sam watches helplessly from across the room when your eyes snap right over to meet his. You hold his gaze for too long for it to be accidental, Paul’s head bowed to look at your throat. When the man raises his gaze back up, you’re already awaiting him, Sam left to stare.
Dean’s given up on the idea of Sam contributing to the conversation. The younger man has been knocking back beers like he doesn’t even notice himself finishing them. He’s drunk two bottles meant for Cas without noticing. Cas hasn’t said anything— he’s got an inkling Sam needs the booze more than him. Sam isn’t counting the beers but Dean knows he’s on his fifth in a little over an hour. Even for a guy as big as a Sasquatch, that rate is unsustainable.
Completely dead to the world of his brother and the angel, Sam stares covetously across the bar. He’s never had such vicious thoughts about another man’s hands before— thoughts about maiming them, removing them, burning them so bad all the nerves die—
You deranged fucking freak, Sam thinks bitterly of himself, Not everything’s gotta end in blood.
Sam’s skin crawls as he notices blood reappearing in his inner monologue. Behind his next blink he sees the droplet on your chin, your thumb swiping it away, pulling at your skin sensually, creating little temporary folds and puckers in your flesh that enchant him even now, just in memories.
He wants Paul gone. Not dead, of course, he would never wish that on someone (wink). What’s so great about Paul anyhow? He’s a bit younger than Sam and he’s clearly got actual money from a normal job judging by the moderately nice watch on his wrist. Other than that though, what’s this shithead got to offer that Sam doesn’t? Well, he’s probably got a home that is above ground with windows and natural light. The first downside you noted about the Bunker was the lack of windows— Sam’s pretty sure you might’ve even said it on your first walk down the staircase into the war room.
Okay, other than those things, what is so attractive about the guy? Your body language towards Paul is inviting but it’s a little hesitant. He’s more forward than you are, but you’re not shying away from his advances. Every chance you get, your eyes flicker over to meet Sam’s. You never stop listening to Paul, nodding along to what he’s saying or laughing at his last joke. But you stare right into Sam’s eyes. He’s lost count of how many times you’ve done it, but it’s making him grind his teeth so much he’s sure they’ll be filed flat before the night’s over.
Slowly Sam notices that your expression for him is different from the one you use on Paul. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up or overthink until he comes to some naïve conclusion but… you look more intensely at him than you do at Paul. Your gaze darkens and your lips part, creating an enticing ravine of darkness he knows is capable of amazing, sinful things. Most of the humor evaporates from your expression, leaving only something Sam hesitates to call needy, until you look back at Paul. You don’t take Paul very seriously, Sam can tell. No matter how loaded your stare is for Sam though, you always turn your attention back to Paul.
Sam had all of your attention today. He did a few times, actually. Paul lifts his hand up to compare the size of it to yours. You giggle and blush, allowing him to press your palm to his.
Mine are bigger.
Sam stares, unblinking at the two of you. He wonders if you’re thinking about how Paul’s hands aren’t the most massive ones you’ve been touched by today. Your eyes flit purposefully over to Sam’s and slip your fingers between Paul’s. Still staring at Sam you wrap your other hand around Paul’s head to pull him in close. You whisper something in his ear, eyes gliding across the room to look at Sam again before pulling back.
Time officially ceases to matter after that. Sam’s forgotten it’s even something he’s got to pay attention to. Those touches were the worst so far. He’s wound up tight on the edge of his seat like he’s going to intervene if things get too mushy again between you and Paul. What kind of intervention would that be? He has no clue.
Finally you stand up, giving Paul’s hand a squeeze on top of the bar before breezing off towards the bathrooms. Dean and Cas are somehow still bickering about Game of Thrones across the booth. Sam doesn’t even consider another course of action before getting up and mumbling something about “hittin’ the head” and leaving without waiting for a reply.
There’s a little hallway outside the bathrooms, tucked in the back of the bar. The walls are decorated with posters for Clint Eastwood movies. Two bare-bulb lights hang overhead, casting the mulberry-colored corridor in faded gold. He just sees the back of you disappear into one of the single-room toilets. His steps speed up, long legs traversing the distance faster than normal humans could. His hand catches the door before it closes.
“What the—?” You jump when the door meets resistance, spinning to face your intruder. Seeing Sam your expression changes— softens a little, maybe. “Huh. Hey, Sam.”
Your tone is kind of nonchalant. He doesn’t like it. His nose wrinkles with his furious brow. He crams himself into the room with you and shuts the door behind him. He won’t be in here long, though, so he doesn’t lock it, just puts his back flat against it, using his giant body as a brace.
“Something on your mind?” You lean back against the counter, making him bristle.
“You know why I’m here.”
You shake your head a little absently, feigning innocence.
“You keep looking at me.” He grinds out through his teeth.
“You keep looking back.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No!”
You grin almost triumphantly, “You are jealous, aren’t you?”
Sam scoffs again, this one more angry and less convincing. “No.”
You draw your lower lip into your mouth to cover a smirk. “Liar.”
“Bite me.” Comes his knee-jerk reply.
Your lip glides free sinfully from your teeth, “Come over here and I will.”
His blood is reaching a boiling point. “Enough! Quit it out there, alright, I mean it.”
“Quit what? Looking at you?”
“Yes!”
“Is that really what you want?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, fine. Then I’ll go home with Paul.” You turn to face the mirror, adjusting your hair and checking your face.
Sam rolls his eyes, unable to help himself, “Yeah, to his minimalist man cave.”
“He’s actually got a little farm nearby. Goats and fields and a little puppy.”
“Ha!” Sam scoffs bitterly, “That guy doesn’t make his money farming. Not with that watch on his wrist.”
You shrug a shoulder, “You’re right. He’s sold multiple apps he’s made.”
“Cool.”
“Mm. He says that the city got too noisy. He moved out here for the quiet, the ‘peace and satisfaction of a day well-spent working directly for my own survival.’”
You’re lightly mocking of Paul but it doesn’t seem to be dissuading you from sleeping with the man. Sam doesn’t get that. How can you settle so easily for someone who is so clearly (to Sam) going to disappoint.
What does it matter to you if he’s a bad lay? She’s an adult. You told her to bark up other trees. So she’s found a tree to take her home and fuck her.
Sam swallows with much effort, blood boiling at the thought of you going home with Paul. Fucking Paul. Stupid name. Stupid face. Stupid tech-money hipster farmboy. Stupid goddamn goats—
“What the hell about any of that is even appealing to you?”
You shrug a shoulder, studying your own visage, “Different parts of him are more appealing than others but a girl can’t always afford to be picky.”
“You really—” Sam cuts himself off and then can’t help finishing the thought, “—you really think that guy’s going to be worth your time?”
“Why do you care, Sasquatch?” You meet his gaze in the mirror.
“I care about my shirt!”
“If you’re really so worried about your damn shirt, I’ll pinkie-promise you I won’t feed it to the goats!”
“That’s not—!” He cuts himself off again and bites back whatever else he was going to say. Taking a moment to glance away and gather himself he moves on to another one of his concerns, “How do you even know he’s telling you the truth?”
“About what?”
“Anything! How do you know he isn’t going to take you somewhere to, to, I dunno! Hurt you?!”
You heave a sigh, “I’m a big girl, Sam, I can handle a little scrap. Besides, who’s the one between us that almost got themself killed by a witch the other day? ‘Cause it wasn’t me.”
Sam scoffs and crosses his arms, shifting awkwardly in place as you continue.
“I can’t believe you really think that guy’s gonna be worth your time.” Sam shakes his head a little. “You really think he’s gonna—”
He cuts himself off before he utters something overtly graphic. Instead he snaps his mouth shut and swallows his lustful words with some effort. You, of course, have prepared a flippant reply.
“Hard to say whether it’ll be the best sex of my life, but at least Paul’s not caught up on some stupid, self-destructive streak—”
“—Oh, gimme a break—”
“—where he thinks he has to do penance to the universe for mistakes he’s made by not letting himself experience pleasure.” You finish smugly, “So, yeah, Sam, I’m going home with the guy who’s actually gonna do something about it.”
His eyes and yours flicker back and forth between each other for a long moment through the mirror. When your gaze leaves his to continue adjusting yourself he speaks.
“So are you gonna tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
Sam’s patience is wearing very thin, his words grind out of his mouth like he’s crunching on glass. “Tell him whose shirt that is.”
“Well, it’s just my roommate’s shirt. I don’t think he needs to know that.” You feign ambivalence, “What does it matter?”
“You know what—”
“—You said we’re just friends.” You defiantly avoid looking at him in the mirror, reaching inside the open collar of his flannel to move your bra strap. He now knows your bra is purple, light and saturated. You give it a tug, making your tits jiggle lazily before the elastic snaps softly back into place on your skin. “Friends who’ve seen each other come, but nothing more. Right?”
He opens his mouth to speak when you cup both of your breasts through his shirt. You move them around like you’re putting them in some “correct” position under there. Of course, you’re really just trying to push his buttons.
“You told me to do whatever I want.” You say to Sam as you unbutton a fourth button. Now he can see the cups of your heliotrope-purple bra, “And maybe what I want is to do Paul and then after to put this very comfy shirt back on to sleep, just like I told you I would this afternoon.”
A growl forces its way out of Sam. He lurches a step forwards before shunting to a halt. You’re frozen in place, staring at him in the mirror. You’re waiting with bated breath, hoping he’ll finish closing the distance. He knows that’s what you want. His hands ball into fists at his sides. It’s like he’s restraining himself against magnetism— a force that should be impossible to resist drawing him closer to you. However, his ability to catch himself before fully giving in emboldens him. His chin raises a little, trying to put on an air of superiority when he feels anything but that currently. You wet your lips a little, that cautious look on your face again that says your next words would ruin him.
“Who knows, maybe Paul likes half-clothed sex.” Your eyes stare at Sam’s in the mirror as you give your tits one last boost in the shirt, more of them exposed now from the fourth button being open. “Maybe I’ll fuck him while I’m still wearing it.”
Sam’s feet move without his permission. He draws up close behind you, caging your body into the sink with his. The warm, intoxicating scent of you fills his sinuses with a faint burn. The shirt is going to smell like you when you take it off. That makes his body buzz with desire. He doesn’t go all the way though, doesn’t press all of himself up against yours even if his body really wants to.
He can resist. He’s stronger than this. He’s not helpless. He’s not an animal— he’s better than being weak to his desires. This position the two of you are in is only temporary. He plans to only use this proximity as much as he needs to menace softly down at you. Is it an attempt at intimidation? Maybe in part, but only because he feels like the single power he has in this situation is his body’s size over yours. Every other factor is being mixed up and confused by you and your words and your tempting glances and your body hidden in the folds of his plaid shirt.
Your head turns, your profile cocking sideways over your shoulder. He leans a bit to the side to look you in the eye.
“What d’you want from me?” He asks brokenly.
Your voice is too soft and sultry, gaze flitting briefly down to his lips. “I feel like I’ve made it pretty clear what I want, Sam.”
His jaw clenches, eyes flickering back and forth between yours.
Me. You want me, but why the fuck would you want that? What are you, crazy?
Besides, if you really want Sam then why do you keep going back to Paul? Why do you keep letting him flirt and touch, all while taking every chance you can to look Sam directly in the eye. Sam forces out a scoff like he’s only infuriated with you— not also pained, crazed, and aroused.
“You can’t want me that bad with Paul all over you.”
You let out a disbelieving huff and it’s clearly a provocation— almost everything you’ve done in the last 24 hours has been. He’s really starting to get exhausted from all of this volleying between you and him. His resistance is getting weaker, his desire only growing stronger.
You’re arching back into his front. He grabs your waist in both hands to restrain you from using your whole force. You melt a little at the contact, like you’ve been waiting all day just to feel him hold you again. It makes him bite back a groan that sounds somewhat like your name.
“I can’t take this.”
Your hooded eyes stare at his in the reflection. Cautiously, you ask, “…Can’t take what?”
His jaw clenches and his nose twitches angrily. You reach up with one hand, both of you watching in the mirror as you very gently lay it over the side of his face. It’s soothing, tender, and far too enticing to him for such a small gesture of kindness.
“Unburden yourself, Sam. What is it? What can’t you take?” You coax, your eyes pleading and it all seems too genuine for him to resist.
He has to answer— he needs you to know. Maybe then you’ll put him out of his misery.
Whether that means you sit on my face or put a bullet in my head… I guess either is fine with me.
“I swear to fuck, if you look at me one more goddamn time while you laugh at one of Paul’s jokes,” Sam suppresses a groan of anger, forcing his voice to be as even as possible as he finishes the thought, “I’m gonna lose it.”
You purse your lips cutely. It shouldn’t be so sexy. “Why?”
He groans your name and it’s so annoyed it almost covers the pain in his voice. Almost. “You fucking know why!”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Don’t play dumb with me—”
“—Or what?” You cut him off, that challenging glint back in your eye.
Or I’ll rip those jeans off of you and make you come so many times you beg for me to fuck you.
“This isn’t fair.” Sam mutters, pressing his forehead to the crown of your skull. He inhales sharply, turning away when the smell of you feels smothering. “This isn’t simple for me, you know.”
You cross your arms, actually looking somewhat upset now but still facing the mirror.
“You think this is simple for me?” You demand.
He’s distracted momentarily by the way your breasts rest on top of your forearms. When he notices himself staring at them in the reflection he squeezes his eyes shut and bows his head again.
“You might be able to dole out affection like it’s no big deal but not all of us have the luxury of feeling so casual about it—”
“—What the hell makes you think I want casual?” Your head jerks around to look him directly in the eye.
Sam straightens like he’s been shocked with a cattle prod. You raise your eyebrows pointedly as if to impatiently demand: well?!
“Uh— I—” He blinks in confusion, “—what the hell are you asking me?”
You turn to face him fully, squaring your shoulders and planting your feet firmly. “I want you, Sam. Not casually. Biblically.”
His expression goes slack and he’s sure his face looks dumb right now. “But… I’ve seen you… you’re… you don’t wanna be tied down.”
You scoff, “How would you know?”
“You’ve never once saved someone else’s phone number! You never see the same person more than once! What else am I supposed to assume?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I just might not want to be tied down to those people?” You scowl, “Either way, you could’a just asked me!”
That prompts him to remember why he hadn’t done that. You don’t know any better than your desire for him. He does. He knows the whole scope of things, and just like all the times before this where he’s held himself back, he comes to the same conclusion:
I don’t deserve it.
You lean in closer. He lets you. He ought to push you away. He doesn’t. His eyes drift down to look at his hands loosely still hanging onto the counter on either side of you. Your fingers curl, pinching his chin between them and your thumb very gently. You guide his head back up, making him look directly at you.
“I’m only settling for the next best fish in the pond because you won’t bite, Sam.”
His hands fist on the sink counter, inadvertently drawing him closer to you. “Don’t say that.”
“Say what?” Your hand trails down his throat, brushing something off his shoulder daintily, “That you’d always be my first choice?”
“Stop.”
He’s supposed to be pushing you away. Instead he instinctively grips one of your sides with that single-word plea. Your hands smooth up his forearms through his jacket that he never took off. Your eyes study his features with the attentiveness of someone watching the aurora borealis, head cocked just slightly to the side and eyes filled with wonder.
“Do you really want me to stop, or do you just think you should want me to stop?”
He opens his mouth to answer then can’t decide on how and shuts it again. Clenching his jaw makes the muscle pop out again. A small smirk curls your lip, almost adoring of his furious expression.
“You can come get what you want, Sam.” You murmur, arms looping around his neck. “I want you, too.”
“Fuck,” He laments softly, his other hand giving in and taking ahold of you too. Shaking his head a little, he struggles to string together his response, “Not… not the way I…”
You furrow your brow, “Not the way you want? I don’t think that’s true, Sammy.”
“Don’t.” He winces, bowing his head closer to yours. A hand glides up into his hair, causing him to bare his teeth a little.
“If that was true then why do those puppy-dog eyes of yours work so well on me?” You graze your lips across the plane of his lower cheek, “Every single day it’s: ’Can you help me research this?’ ‘Can you keep me company?’ ‘Can you get me some coffee?’ ‘Could you make me more coffee?’ ‘Oh no! We’re out of coffee, can you run to the—’”
“—Alright, alright, enough.” He grumbles, “I get it. You enable my coffee addiction.”
“Because I’m useless against those pleading eyes.” You whisper, sounding awed, “Absolutely useless.”
He looks back and forth between your eyes. He’s losing his internal battle with temptation. His face inches closer to yours instinctively and just as your eyes begin to flutter closed, the door bursts open.
You squawk and Sam’s head snaps around to look over his shoulder. Paul stands frozen in the doorway with a very confused look on his face. In Sam’s arms, your eyes have gone wide with panic.
“What the f…?” Paul scowls as you and Sam step quickly apart.
You clear your throat, “Paul—”
“—Just what in the hell is going on here?”
“Uh…” Sam points at you and himself, “…we’re, uh, we’re roommates.”
Paul scoffs, “Yeah, right, man, what the hell? Tch!” He clicks his tongue, adding tiredly as an afterthought, “Thanks for wasting my time, bitch.”
Your expression morphs instantly into one of fury. Sam doesn’t see that. He’s too busy crossing the distance between you and Paul in one ridiculously long stride to shove the man with all his might.
“Sam!” You yelp.
Sam slams Paul face-first into the opposite wall of the corridor, his forearm braced between the more spindly guy’s shoulders. Paul thrashes around with indignant cries.
“Apologize!” Sam snarls.
“Get— the fuck— OFF of me—!” Paul cries out between flails.
“Apologize!” Sam roars.
Paul smacks at Sam’s iron grip, “What the fuck!? You fuck—! get off of me, you deranged giant!”
“Sam! Stop!” You grab his other arm and yank him back.
Sam could very easily withstand your pull, at least for some time, but he relinquishes Paul immediately. He shakes your hand off his arm which you move to press flat to his sternum instead, more firmly putting him a step behind you. Your hand doesn’t leave Sam’s chest, anchoring him in place despite his heavy panting and wild eyes. Catching your breath, you calmly turn your head towards Paul.
“Beat it, farmboy.” You rasp at him, “Before we all find out who the real bitch is.”
Paul’s eyes flicker back and forth between you and Sam. He opens his mouth again. Sam lurches a step forward with a warning glare. Paul mumbles something about you and Sam being “weirdos” as he trudges off.
In the heavy silence left behind, your hand slips off Sam’s front. He has the urge to catch your wrist and keep you were you were. You’re looking after Paul with an unreadable expression until Sam murmurs your name. Your head turns attentively to the sound of his voice.
“Let’s go home.” He mumbles, almost defeated-sounding.
Your voice is more tender than he deserves. “Okay, Sasquatch.”
The car’s headlights cut a swath of visibility into the shadows of the unlit backroad. Trees pass in and out of the light, disappearing from Sam’s memory as soon as a new one replaces them. In the passenger seat he’s sitting sullenly and watching the woods go by. You had less to drink than him knowing you’d have to drive your car after. He’s not too tipsy, just a little slower than normal. Your throat hums absently along with what’s playing softly through the car’s speakers. It makes him think of feeling the vibration of your voice through his lips on your neck. Sam watches trees come into the light and then slip out while forcing a blank expression onto his face.
You deranged giant. That’s what Paul called Sam. He winces now as it repeats silently in his head.
Sam has to wonder if the man’s right. What kind of well-adjusted person does that to a stranger? Least of all over a simple verbal insult. It’s not like you and Sam didn’t deserve worse names for essentially cucking a stranger out of his one-night stand— at the very least you’d led the man on for multiple hours. Sam knew that conceptually. And yet in the moment, he wasn’t in control. He moved impulsively, not considering consequences or strategy. You make things feel messy, strung out, and erratic.
Why does he feel like he wants more?
When the tires eventually slosh through the muddy driveway up to the Bunker, you two have spent almost the whole car trip in silence. The quiet holds as you both walk down the stairs into the war room but you break the spell as the two of you walk past the kitchen.
“Can I ask you a question? Just one. I swear. Then… then we can go to sleep.”
Sam knows he won’t be able to stop you anyhow. “Fine.”
You look up at him. “What were you… thinking about the other night in the motel?”
You coming like a goddess on my face.
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s aware of you taking every chance to glance at him but you’re managing to restrain yourself from breaking the silence. You want him to reply to that before anything else. The purposeful pause makes the hair rise on his body. He can’t speak, he can’t get the words out. As you both approach his bedroom door, your feet slow.
He turns to face you but his eyes are downcast. He’s still trying to come up with something to say when your movement in his periphery catches his attention. His eyes flicker to your chest. Your hands are tiredly unbuttoning his shirt. He swallows hard, hands balling into fists. He’s not drunk but he’s the true definition of buzzed, all of his limbs tingling pleasantly.
“What’re you doing.” He speaks before he thinks.
You’re down to only two buttons as you mumble, “Giving you back y’damn shirt.”
He can see most of your bra now— it has satin on the cups. It looks supportive but comfortable, simple and cute but… regular. The normalcy of it makes a shiver run down Sam’s spine.
Under another set of conditions, in another life with another past, he might’ve been watching you undress after a long day in your shared bedroom. He imagines you wearing that bra with those little shorts from this morning but in the kitchen of some other place where only you and he live. But no, instead he’s here, in a big bunker watching you take off his shirt like it’s not achingly intimate.
The soft swell of your belly pokes out a little over your jeans as you yank the ends of the shirt out. Your shoulders roll so tantalizingly as you pull the flannel off. The pillowy rises of your breasts fill out the cups of the bra just right, your collarbone catching his eye under the hallway light. You’re looking a little defeated as you fold the shirt once vertically and then hold it out to him. You’re not looking into his face. It seems almost like you’re embarrassed— like you’re holding off an emotional crash from rejection. He hates seeing you disappointed— hates even more that he’s the cause of it.
Sam’s sure it isn’t this hard for regular people to tell someone that their feelings are reciprocated. There’s so much to be concerned about with this, though. Sam lives a peculiar life (to say the least) and therefore he’s got several very unusual concerns. Many others in the same position would have nothing stopping them in this situation, where a beautiful woman is doing everything she can to tempt him in closer. He has to consider her safety first and foremost. Everyone, including you, knows his miserable history with women. And still, like a selfish idiot, Sam wants you.
The look on your face says that you’ve become unsure of his desire. You’re so downcast about it. Is this really what will break him after all? The sight of you sad and hurt by his own self-destructive streak? He wouldn’t have expected that but it seems like that might be the case. Sam Winchester can resist the lustful temptations of the woman he loves more easily than he can the sight of her sad because of him. He needs to make it right. He can’t let you go to sleep like this, feeling so rejected.
“I was thinking about you.” Sam barely breathes.
He watches your downturned expression shift immediately to something darker. After a moment your eyes flicker up, staring at him through your lashes.
“I…” He clears his throat a little and speaks with a bit more confidence. “…I came in my hand just from… thinking about you.”
A shuddery breath rattles out of you, parting your pretty lips into a perfectly alluring ravine. He reaches up, his hand closing around yours and the shirt very purposefully. You let him gently tug you a step closer to him.
“What about me?”
He walks backwards towards his bedroom door slowly. You trail along with him. His grip on you is quite loose, giving you plenty of room to pull back if you want. You decide that there’s actually too much room and press the back of your hand into the palm of his, seeking out more contact. He gives a sharper tug than before, encouraged.
“How much d’you wanna know?” He husks out, breath tickling the tip of your nose.
You inch up onto your tiptoes, pressing your tits against as much of his chest as you can through your bra and his shirt.
“Everything. I wanna know everything you wanna tell me. Every dirty detail that made your cock throb.”
He chokes on a groan, his spine bumping into the door with a thunk!
“Fuck— you’re gonna be the death of me.” He breathes.
You lean up to brush your nose against his as he bows his head. Shaking your head with a goofy smile and eyes closed, you reply.
“Tell me, Sam. Tell me what you fantasize about to make yourself feel good.”
He grits his teeth and tilts his face away from yours. He meant to pull back completely but his forehead stays anchored to yours. His upper lip curls with a shuddering breath out as he relents.
“It started in the witch’s house.”
“Mm…”
“You…” He winces and pulls back to look you in the eye, “Are you sure you want this?”
You nod insistently. “Yes.”
“You—” He swallows, “—you’re going to think I’m a freak.”
An amused hum vibrates through your chest against his. He looks back into your face to see you smiling up at him with such fondness he forgets about blinking and breathing for a second.
“What if I like freaks? Hm?” You pop up onto your toes, “What if I’m a freak, too?”
He shakes his head, “You’re not a—” He cuts himself off with a little calculating frown, “Well, actually, I was going to say you’re not a freak but you clearly are.”
You nod, “Yeah. You and me. Getting off on each other without even taking our clothes off. In the kitchen where either of our roommates could walk in and find us.” You bite down on a very smug smile, as if savoring the memory. “That’s two people exhibiting freak behaviors if I’ve ever seen it.”
Warmth blooms at the top of his chest, right between his collarbones and then spreading out in waves through his ribs. He cups your cheek and bends down to press a tender kiss to your lips. You match his mood, the tips of your fingers brushing under his jaw as you share a languid embrace. He parts his lips, yours following his lead. His big hands cover large swaths of your bare back and sides, taking their time to feel every bit of you he can while he licks into your mouth.
A whimpering moan comes out of you when he reaches down to palm your butt with both hands, pulling you against his cock. His throat reflexively responds with a gravelly groan. One of his hands fumbles behind him to the handle of the door, turning it so the two of you can stumble inside. Sam tugs you impatiently to his chest so he can get the door past your ass as soon as possible. His hand flattens into the panel of wood and all of his weight shoves it closed with a loud slam! that echoes down the empty corridors of the Bunker.
Sam smacks the overhead light on, barely spending a moment without kissing you. Unexpectedly, your firm hands press against the front of his shoulders. He immediately pulls back from you, chest heaving but quick to stop at the first sign of you asking. You have to take a moment to catch your breath, your perfect palm-able breasts rising and falling rapidly like in that witch’s house. He gets distracted, not thinking about how you’re watching him. His hands both frame your ribs, gliding slowly up and down while he stares reverently at your tits, remembering the—
“—Are you thinking about the blood, Sammy?” You whisper.
His whole body goes rigid. There’s a split-second of hesitation before his eyes flit up to meet yours. Your swollen lips are parted with your heavy breathing. You and he are both thinking of the exact same thing, he can tell.
“You saw that?” His tongue darts out to wet his pretty pink lips, “Fuck, I thought I looked away fast enough—”
“—I liked you looking.”
His heart skips a beat. “Yeah?”
“Mm…” You nod with a smile, “I would’a wiped that blood off if I didn’t want you distracted by it dripping down my tits.”
“Fuck.” He chokes a little, “It did distract me.”
“I know, honey.”
He groans in frustration, “Fuck, I have— I have to ask— I need to know. Did… did you come into the motel room on purpose? Could you hear me through the wall?”
You let out a genuine chuckle, tired but adoring. “No. I got frustrated trying to get onto the damn Men of Letters archive server again. The stupid thing wouldn’t accept my password even though I know it was the right one. I got myself really worked up about it and didn’t think before barging in.” You shrug a shoulder, “And then after I closed the door… I got really worked up thinking about you.”
A sharp breath bursts out of him, his hands tightening ever so slightly on your waist.
“You… rocking with the last waves of your climax.” You make a pleased noise as you inhale. He can tell that means the image of him coming on the end of that motel bed is a permanent addition to your spank-bank. “Fuck, Sam.”
He groans listlessly, pressing his lips under your jaw. A higher noise bubbles up your throat as he begins kissing every bit of the area he can. Your body arches perfectly into him, letting his arms tighten around your middle, your chests flush against one another. He nips and licks but he’s sparing with any sucking that might leave marks. You’re so welcoming to him, brightening with every beautiful bit of contact or attention from him. Both of your hands card into his hair, encouraging his kisses on your neck.
“Never… fuck, never thought I’d get so wet from just seeing a man come.” You pant, “And I didn’t even get to see any of the action, just— shit, ugh —the fucked-out way it made you look—”
You devolve into a heady whine. Both of your hands cup his cheeks and yank his mouth up to yours. It’s messy and wet but Sam doesn’t take a second of it for granted. Your hands fist his shirt on his shoulders.
“Please, Sam.” You groan, “We don’t need’a do anything intense, okay? But, please, please, can I look at you?”
His breath catches audibly in his throat. He clears it and straightens a little, kind of surprised by your needy request. That’s not what he was expecting you to ask for. He’s getting a little caught up in building anxieties about intimacy and his body. Your palms smoothing down over his front interrupt his thoughts, your fingernails teasing him through the fabric of his clothes.
“I’m fine with however far you wanna go tonight,” You wet your dry mouth, “but lemme see? Lemme see you, Sam?”
He huffs sardonically, “I can’t imagine what you—”
You surge up to kiss him roughly. He’s swept away by your passion. His hands cup your cheeks with such appreciation, kissing you back with all the worship he knows you deserve.
“You don’t gotta imagine,” You murmur between kisses, “all you need t’a do is tell me if I do something you don’t like or want, okay? And always tell me if I do something you like.”
A choked grunt escapes him, a little higher-pitched than he’d like. He nods against your lips, wordlessly giving you permission. Your eager hands fumble up to the collar of his shirt, yanking him close with more force, kissing him silly before working to unbutton the damn thing. Your hands are sure but they still tremble from anticipation and excitement. He hadn’t expected such enthusiasm on your part. He shucks it off as soon as possible, breaking away from your lips to assist your hands in ripping his t-shirt off over his head next.
When his hair flops back down around him, he’s distracted by watching your face. Your gaze consumes everything about the new skin, your hands tentatively brushing over his pecs. He can’t stop looking back and forth between your hands exploring him and your face taking him in. You swear under your breath, pressing your palms flat to his chest then dragging them softly down to his ribs.
“Goddamn,” You murmur, “can’t believe I get to have you so close.”
That surprises him. He blinks, taken aback by the pure admiration and wonder in your tone. Your eyes are fully-focused on watching your hands soothe his skin. His body hair prickles as you brush through the different parts of him you find interesting enough to touch. Your fingers study every inch you want to examine, your eyes gobbling it all up hungrily. Greedily. It makes him think about when he’s looked at you the same way— and the way your thighs jiggled so sweetly on the car ride home yesterday.
Gently, he catches one of your hands, pulling it from his chest to his lips. He stares right at you as he kisses the valley of your palm, then two more haphazard ones lower on your wrist. You see something you don’t recognize in his expression. You have to identify it.
“What?”
He shakes his head a little, “I just… I just wonder what you see that makes you… look at me like that.”
You let out a huff, taking him by both of his hands and leading him to the bed. He doesn’t protest, allowing you to guide him into sitting on the edge of the mattress with a gentle shove of your shoulder into his front. He stares up at you in anticipation, biting his pretty pink lower lip. Your fingers trace the hair away from his face, curling the locks around his ears as you slip into his lap. His arms encircle you immediately, eyes glued to your face, his next breath waiting on your cue.
“What do I see…” You hum thoughtfully, ghosting your nails slowly across his scalp. “Well, lately all I see when I look at you is the face you make when you come.”
He winces a little, turning his head away. You purr pleasantly, cupping his face in both hands more firmly than before to make him face you again. His lips pout out a little further than normal. Full of fondness, you smush a kiss onto his adorable mouth. His hands tighten their grip on you when your hips make their first grind against his semi-hard cock. A shared grunt breaks the kiss, both of you looking into each other’s eyes.
“What do I see. Silly question. I see you, dummy.” You smile down at him, “I see Sam.”
“And that’s… good?”
You beam, cheeks flushed and eyes twinkling, “The best.”
His hands grab your ass, guiding your grinding hips. “Shut up.”
You shake your head, one hand fisting the back of his hair. “Why?”
He wants to smother his smile but he can’t do it fully. “Because.”
“Yuh don’t even have a good reason—”
“—I don’t like being lied to.” He’s sort of joking but behind that there’s a real thought he’s afraid to fully voice aloud.
You cannot be as committed to this as I would be. There’s no way. I don’t believe you.
Your hand tightens suddenly into a fist of his hair. He cuts off a noise that he feels like is too transparent, his chin jerking up as he’s made to look you in the eye again. You stare unblinkingly into his eyes.
“Call me a liar one more time.”
The soft rumble of your voice sounds like thunder rolling in over the sea. You’re daring him— commanding he test your patience like you’ve been testing his. This could result in a lot of different outcomes. Unlike usual, he doesn’t care that he’s unsure of which one it will be. Your hips grind down with more force, causing a shaky breath to spill out of him.
“Your dick doesn’t seem to mind if I am one, anyhow.” You say smugly.
He leans up a little closer to you, defiance woven through every fibre of him. You think he’s going to kiss you but he doesn’t so you slam your lips to his. It’s kind of jarring and not very pleasant but Sam instantly straightens more to engage further. One of your hands trails down his throat, over his chest and lower as you kiss. He finally yanks his lips back from yours when your fingers pop open the button of his jeans.
Panting, his head bows to rest on your shoulder, angling his face so he can watch your hands. You reach into his boxers once the jeans are open. The first warm squeeze of your hand makes a low moan leave him, his eyes closing and his head nuzzling further into your body. One of your hands curls into his hair, encouraging him to stay close. His body is blocking your view but you manage to pull his cock out blindly. Your hand caresses up the shaft with the smallest amount of pressure. He brushes a kiss across the top of your left breast as he turns his head. One hand encircles your wrist, pulling your hand away only long enough for Sam to spit into your open palm.
You shudder and make a needy noise. He looks up into your face— silently asking: was that okay? —and what he sees is more than he could’ve ever dreamed of. You were so aroused by what he just did that you trembled with lust. His lips part in awe as he looks up at you and your wet fist gathers up his dick once again.
You build a rhythm steadily, rolling against his legs absently. His breath is coming more labored by the pull and drop of your hand on his cock. Both of his big palms tug and press at your back. He can’t keep his face from you, pressing close to whatever skin of yours he can, smudging kisses when he can between powerful waves of pleasure.
“Please, Sam,” You coo raggedly above him, arching your back towards him.
He gets the message, fumbling to tug the cups of your bra down, clumsily yanking the straps off to loosely hang around your upper arms. The first nipple free is immediately covered by the hot wet pressure of his tongue.
“Sam!” You twist your hand on his cock.
He gathers up your breasts, pressing them together to kiss from one nipple to the other. You make a pained almost angry sound, yanking his hair back to look at you.
“You like ‘em? Hm? I can tell. Your pretty cock pulsed when you got ‘em out.” You slot your mouth to his, kissing him filthy and slow.
He whines your name listlessly. Your fist slowed on his dick but didn’t stop stroking. His high is building rapidly.
“Fuck, if you— if y’ don’t stop ‘m gunna— fuck—” He can’t string a sentence together.
“Mm, perfect.” You purr and his dick twitches ever so slightly. “So fucking hot, Sam. Fuck, I can’t believe you’re real. Oughta be a sculpture in some museum.”
A pathetic-sounding whine claws its way out of him. He stares up at you with lips parted and swollen like you’re the moon herself.
“Fuck, I’m gonna— fuck, I’m—” There are no words after that, only incoherent groaning.
His noises make you shudder even though he’s the only one about to really climax. Your hand twists more dramatically for a few more strokes. He hugs your chest close to his, pressing up to kiss your mouth. He manages a quick messy peck before his lips part helplessly with the sounds of his orgasm. You whine so pretty above him, watching with rapt attention. His cum lands in wet stripes over his lap, your bare belly and your slowing fist. He reaches between you, covering your hand with his to show you exactly how he likes to be pulled through the aftershocks.
When he finally manages to open his eyes, your biting your lip above him, gleeful and the most flushed he’s ever seen you. Your pride looks so cute but he knows you’d look even better wearing bliss. He presses his forehead to yours as he catches his breath.
“Fuck, baby.” He mutters.
“Not yet.” You joke cheekily, “I’m hoping soon, though.”
He rolls his eyes. You begin slithering out of his lap. His hands instinctively grip tighter to keep you still. You push against that and he lets you go. He takes a deep grounding breath, head hanging back. He doesn’t even notice that his eyes are closed until a warm wet pressure brushes tentatively up the length of his sensitive cock. With a strangled grunt he looks down. You’re on your knees now, gently holding his cock in front of your face. He’s not fully hard but he could go again, you can tell.
“Baby,” He forces himself to swallow, “sweetheart, I don’t know if…”
You just barely cover the dome of his tip with your lips, eyes staring up into his. The noise he makes is so loud he’s glad Dean and Cas aren’t home. Despite the feeling of overstimulation, he can feel blood flowing southward again already.
“Beautiful cock,” You murmur, your lips brushing his tip with each syllable, one hand gently massaging his balls and the other keeping the shaft in position, “you wanna be good for me, Sammy?”
He grunts, scowling a little, “It’s Sam.”
“Mm… I think it’s whatever I want it to be,” You tease, taking him into your mouth again before he can respond.
This time you mean business. You start at the top, softly slurping his tip into your warm mouth. He groans, reaching up to touch your head before hesitating at a hover a few inches away. You nod between his thighs, pressing your tongue more against the veiny underside of his shaft as you take him further. A breathless, stuttered noise that might’ve been your name tumbles out of him. His fingers thread through your hair. You hollow your cheeks.
“Fuck, this… this is what I was thinking about. Part of it. In… in the motel room— fuck!”
He cuts himself with a loud grunt. Apparently pleased by his admission, you’d taken him as far as you could unexpectedly. You didn’t get down to the halfway mark, but that’s what your hands were for.
“Goddamn so pretty, baby,” He whines lowly, “knew it— shit! —knew you’d look so g’damn pretty sucking my cock. Fuck, sweetheart.”
Your mouth makes a lewd slurping noise. The hollow, rounded sound of your mouth sucking makes his leg muscles begin to tremble. He sucks in air like he’s afraid it’s a limited resource.
“Fuck! Sweetheart, fuucck… the noises— shit, baby,” He pants, hips thrusting up just a little to meet the warm, wet suction of your mouth.
Your hand leaves his balls to begin tracing patterns with your nails on the sensitive parts of his inner thigh. Tickling through his leg hair so tenderly, you moan around his cock before choking a little. He makes a noise of pleasure and concern but you just keep going with what’s comfortable for your mouth.
Sam’s going to come down your throat. He’s sure he can’t hold on any longer. And he’s had too much to drink tonight for him to stay awake after coming again. That simply won’t do.
His huge hands take both sides of your face kindly but firmly, pulling you off. You don’t let him leave your mouth without one last powerful suck and then a sinful, slutty pop. He grunts at the sexiness of that sound, tugging you up again. Standing between his spread thighs, he pulls your head down and cranes his neck up to kiss you.
“Thank you,” He whispers between kisses, fully hard and aching between his legs, “thank you, baby.”
You whine a bit petulantly while still kissing him back, “Why’d you stop me?”
A wicked grin flickers across his lips before he kisses your belly.
“I wanna show you what I was imagining when I came the other night.” He nips gently at the flesh over your hipbone, “Would you like that, baby?”
You nod vehemently with a shuddering keen, your movements a little dopey. It makes him smile with pride. He takes a moment to get rid of your jeans. Your hands pet gently at his hair as his glide up your back to undo your bra, letting it fall away completely. His own crumpled mass of clothing streaked with cum is forgotten in his lap. He bends forwards to kiss the top of your plain cotton panties. You sigh, soft and pretty just for him.
Without warning he wraps his arms around your waist and falls back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You let out a squeal, making his stomach lurch with desire.
Both his hands smooth up the outsides of your thighs. He urges you up higher on his body. You figure out quickly what he’s asking for, your brows rising.
“This is what you th-thought about—?”
“—Yep.”
He tugs you forcefully by both butt cheeks, putting you much closer to where he wants you. Your hands drop to the mattress, weighing down spots on either side of his head. His lips kiss messily up your inner thighs, switching back and forth between them like he wants to taste every square inch of you.
“Fuck, Sam—” You’re cut off when his tongue slips tentatively between your folds. Twin groans of pure filth fill the room as he discovers how wet you are.
“Shit, baby,” His hands knead then part your butt cheeks, “you’re so goddamn wet. Dreamed ‘bout you bein’ this wet from sucking m-my cock— fuck, I need t—”
He stuffs his face between your thighs with all the devotion of a priest performing ritual sacrifice. His tongue is determined to try everything its used in the past with previous partners to find every little movement you like. His hands never stop squeezing and appreciating your ass and thighs. Your cries and moans above him reach a peak, your voice cracking. He’s found a movement with the flat of his tongue that stimulates your puffy clit just perfectly. The next time your hips rock into his face and his hands pull apart your butt you make a decision.
Fisting his hair to keep his head pinned to the bed, you lift your hips. A whine of protest escapes him, his hands immediately trying to pull you back. You renew your hold on his hair, shoving it down. He forces his bleary eyes open, lips and chin shiny with your wetness. He has to blink a few times before he’s back on Earth. You wait for him to meet your gaze then you slowly rotate your limbs around so you’re facing his cock again.
A breathy laugh makes him tremble, “Sixty-nine, huh?”
You take his cock in your hand, angling your body so he can see it, then turn to look over your shoulder at him. There’s a very wicked smirk on your kiss- and cock-swollen lips. The little rush of anticipation that look causes makes his dick twitch visibly in your fist.
“It’s a race now, Lawboy.” You press the side of his cock to your lips, “You think you can keep up?”
He doesn’t bother answering. His big hands grab your waist and yank your body back so he can lick at your clit. You tremble and whine, his hands spreading your butt apart to look at your pussy. He curses softly in wonder, then begins teasing your entrance with a finger.
You’re licking up his shaft, about to engulf him again when his finger slips into your pussy. Your body shunts involuntarily, your plush lips smushing messily against his dick, your hand keeping it in contact with some part of you at all times.
Sam swears he can sense the Earth’s rotation under him right now. His body feels suspended in a sensation not unlike one of those rides at a county fair that just spin really fast so your body is trapped against the wall behind you. Dean would always figure out how to sneak in and how to steal tickets (or maybe he’d saved some money) and no matter what, Sam would go on those rides at least once. That’s as close as he can get to what he imagines it’s like to be in a centrifuge. The smooth tang of your juices coating his tongue, the tremors rocking through your perfect body, and the soundtrack of your uncontrollable noises are apparently as powerful to Sam as the feeling of centripetal force. His fingers curl and seek out your cunt’s most sensitive parts as his tongue stimulates your clit.
You try valiantly to continue sucking his cock, but at this point you’re slumped flat on your front over him, head somewhere on his inner thigh. Your hand still strokes faithfully at his shaft. Every time he makes your body lurch with particularly acute pleasure, you reward him with a sloppy kiss on the cock to add more saliva.
“S-Sam, Sam,” You pant his name as your body quivers, “fuck, Sammy, I’m gunna—”
He grunts affirmatively against your cunt. Your hand tightens around his dick.
When you come on his face, Sam’s pretty sure the world completely stops spinning. Nothing else exists or matters in these few moments of perfect bliss. A gush of wetness around his fingers drips into his parted mouth. You stuff your lips sloppily over his shaft as your hand twists and strokes him to the peak right as you ride out yours on his fingers. The stuttering gasps and groans that escape Sam during orgasm only feel more perfect and electrifying against the sensitive skin of your core. You work his dick through the aftershocks with slow, uneven pulls, just how he taught you earlier. That attention to detail makes a needy but tired groan leave him. Both of you melt into a limp, sweaty heap.
His hands palm both of your butt cheeks again, parting them to take a look at your swollen pussy. The first two fingers of his right hand shine from your wetness. Without thinking, he smudges it across your skin, like he’s making a secret mark on you, invisible and only fleeting. He shivers when you press one last tender kiss to his dick.
“Fuck, alright,” He shudders good-naturedly, chuckling breathlessly, “leave it alone now, shit.”
You snort softly, dragging yourself up on all fours. You’re covered in a layer of sweat, all of you ruffled and flushed and out of sorts. He caresses your cheek as you settle over him properly again. You bow down to press a kiss to his lips.
You’re so soft with him. He’s not sure what he expected but for some reason the tenderness of your kiss and the kindness in your touches makes him feel almost uncomfortable. He almost gives in to that discomfort before realizing that would probably hurt your feelings. That’s initially the thought that lets him push through the urge to retreat. You lay the full weight of your body on top of him, propping yourself up on your forearms while still kissing him languidly. When he lets himself settle into the moment and really luxuriate in that lazy pleasure, he finds himself accepting the affection. You’ve more than proven yourself to be a safe place to seek that. He continues not to really understand why you want him, but he’s pretty confident now that you do, whatever the reason.
After a while, you’re both cleaned up and laying in bed in the correct orientation. You’re snuggled up against him, head on his shoulder and his arm around you. There’s a soft shfft of skin on skin as you tilt your head up to look at him. You’re still high on oxytocin but your expression is more solemn now.
“Sam?”
“Mm-hm?” He nods, one hand casually behind his skull.
Your eyes flicker back and forth between his. “Will we talk about it in the morning?”
He pulls his hand out from under his head, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Until we’re blue in the face.”
You smile, “Well I dunno if we need to talk about it that much.”
“Then we’ll talk about it however long we need to.”
You bite your lip, staring at him for a long moment before breaking out into a radiant smile. “I, uh… this was a lotta fun…”
You devolve into chuckles with him. He nods emphatically.
“I agree.”
You grin, “Well, not to start the conversation tonight, but… would you… wanna do… something like this again sometime?”
He lets out a shaky breath. “I… I want to.”
He doesn’t continue and you only nod. “So… the reviews are positive?”
“Psh! Like you don’t know.”
You raise your brows expectantly. When he still doesn’t answer he gets to watch you prop yourself up over him. You smirk down at him.
“Tell me, Sam.” You trail two fingertips down the slopes of his bare chest. “Was my mouth as good as you imagined?”
He cups the base of your head, looking right into your eyes. “So much better.”
You shiver and kiss him. You continue the short, lazy pecks on his lips as you speak.
“You’re so sweet to me.” You whisper, one hand splaying over his cheek, the bulb of your nose brushing over his. “Wanted this for so long.”
He nods in agreement, your faces still brushing against each other.
“It’s never gonna be enough.” He mutters without thinking.
You swallow a whiny noise, kissing his lips briefly, softly.
“Fuck, sweetheart, no matter what I’m gonna die un-satiated.” He pulls the blankets up higher over you both. “I’m never going to get to have you as much as I want. Not enough time in the world for that.”
You shake your head, “Why d’you always set such unrealistic expectations for yourself?”
He frowns at that. He’d never considered that his pessimism might affect how he sets his standards. It just always seems like despite his desire to be optimistic, pessimism is usually the safer bet in terms of “realism”. You take him by the chin and make him look you in the eye.
“Sam Winchester, you can have as much of my affection as you can earn in a lifetime, and that’s all you have the ability to do. You don’t have control over time or the movement of the universe, dummy. All you can control is you.”
He lets out a huff of self-deprecation, “Not always.”
You smirk, “Giving up your control temporarily is still what you can control.”
“You make being someone’s bitch sound so appealing.” He jokes with a smirk.
You roll your eyes but can’t fully subdue your smile. “You can take away that power at any moment. I gotta earn that trust from you as much as you do with me.”
He studies your face for a long moment in warm silence. You can’t keep your head up anymore so you lay it back on his shoulder. Something about the feeling or the look of you in this moment is precious. You’re cozied up against him, naked between the sheets of his bed. You’re safe and he’s sure of it. He’s never shared this bed in the Bunker with anyone else. Something about you here feels like he’s starting to expose his innards to you willingly, of his own idea. He couldn’t explain why but that thought makes him hold you closer.












