#raspberry fics

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.”

“I know how much you like the way I look in them!” You put your hands on your hips, “And you’re the only person whose attention I care about!”

His eyes flash, the muscles of his jaw jutting out as he clenches his teeth. “I’m not the only one who was looking.”

You narrow your eyes in disbelief. “Are you really so insecure that you think I’d leave you for one of them?”

“No—”

“—For Chase and Lewis?” You gape, “One of those two fucking bozos? I mean they’re hot but—”

“—Shut up.”

Something is different about Sam’s voice then. Whatever it is you said that set him off turns him stoney and rigid. You were being nasty by bringing up insecurity but now you’re starting to wonder if that didn’t just hit home because it was mean— maybe also because it was somewhat right.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about them any more.” His voice is low and dark. “And I don’t want you hunting with them again.”

You scoff in genuine disbelief. “Seriously? Sam, do you really expect me to listen to your ‘marching orders’ like that? How about you try asking a little nicer and we’ll see what—”

You cut yourself off when you seen the muscle on his jaw jutting out again. By the look of it he’s clenching his teeth as hard as he can. He only does that when he’s holding something back. And it’s also unfairly hot.

“Careful there,” You cross your arms, “you’re gonna chip a tooth.”

His jaw relaxes and he takes a moment to roll his eyes. You watch him settle a bit then turn back to you, his eyebrows raised expectantly. This makes you scoff again.

“I’m sorry, are you asking me to promise you that?”

“Yes.” He replies immediately.

Your features narrow in incredulity. “Sam that is absolutely ridiculous!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Sam, in what universe is it reasonable to ask your girlfriend to not interface with certain other people just because you don’t like ‘em? You know how that sounds objectively! You’re too smart not to!”

“Yeah well maybe I can’t be smart about this, alright?! You almost died!” He snaps, “Sorry if I can’t be rational about the woman I love almost getting torn to shreds by a monster because some dipshit idiot can’t stick to a fucking plan! I can’t believe I’m having this argument with you!”

“Well I can’t believe you thought I’d just roll over and do as you say because you love me!” You plant your hands on your hips, “What, because you love me you’re entitled to my agency?! Grow up!”

He inhales sharply through his nose and glances away. You can see on his face that he’s trying to regain any semblance of his calm. It’s not like him to get this worked up about other people, especially hunters whom he usually gives a bit more moral-leeway to than you do.

There’s some real concern underneath this, you know it, something Sam’s holding back for some reason. Whatever it is, it’s worrisome enough to him that it’s coming out in anger, not plain concern. Unfortunately for him, your sympathy only extends to the point before a man starts telling you what to do like you’re a robot capable of being programmed.

“I don’t want you hunting with them again.” He repeats steadily, meeting your gaze again. “And you also know that objectively, they handled this hunt like morons. I don’t know how the two of them are still alive.”

You roll your eyes animatedly and finally shake his hand off of you with force. “I knew them before I knew you. I’ve worked with them on-and-off for years.”

You start walking again and you can hear him following close behind.

“They’re good hunters, they’ve saved my ass a few times, just like you—”

“—Don’t compare me to them!” Sam’s nose wrinkles with repugnance, “Don’t compare what we have to some half-assed alliance you had to make before you actually had competent people around to watch your back!”

That surprises you a bit. You spin on your heel with eyes narrowed, about to challenge that when he keeps going.

“Neither of them— neither of them! —watched your back when you told them to! They both left you open to attack while raiding a vamp’s nest!”

“That’s not—”

“—Where the hell were they, huh? I had to come running across the damn building because when that fucking idiot Chase full-body tackled a vamp on top of you, your scream—” He cuts himself off and it’s almost a little shaky.

His chest rises and falls noticeably with his next deep breath. The worry is seeping through and he can see it softening you. He doesn’t want your sympathy, though, he wants to be angry. He wants to get some kind of rise out of you that he hasn’t gotten yet.

“And they were both drunk.”

“No they weren’t.” You scoff, immediately back to defensiveness and no sympathy.

“Yes, sweetheart, they were. Their breath reeked.” He takes a firmer tone, “I’m really baffled by this being an argument! I thought we’d both come away from that hunt with the same feeling, but instead I had to sit through a whole night out with those two fucking idiots drinking and listening to you all reminisce when I know for a fact that those two stopped caring about you the moment you showed up with a boyfriend!”

Your jaw drops and your brows shoot up to your hairline. “Presumptuous, much?!”

He shifts a little in place, clearly uncomfortable, “You know I’m right.”

“No, what I know is that you are fucking paranoid.”

“You might think they’re just idiots— and you’re definitely right —but the two of them thought they had a chance with you, at least at one time, and the second they knew you weren’t going to sleep with them, they stopped caring about keeping you safe. Because the whole time, all they wanted was you to be alive and not scuffed up too bad, so then maybe you might have the energy to put out for them after the job’s done.”

You’re stunned for a moment, staring agape at your boyfriend. “That’s disgusting, Sam! Why would you say something like that?!”

“You know they want you, I refuse to believe you don’t.”

“I don’t know why it matters!” You cry, “I love you! It’s not like they’re ever gonna get anything from me!”

“Well, you should try telling them that. I don’t think they’ll believe you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“It means that they’re the kind of guys who play nice just to get what they want!”

“You barely know them!”

“So do you!”

“I don’t need to know their whole life’s story and their fucking social security number to hunt with them, Samuel!”

“Stop it!” He menaces while you keep going.

“You always act like such a know-it-all about everything! Why do you think you can assess their character better than me, huh?”

“Because I know how men work! Especially those kind of men.”

Your eyes narrow a little. “Oh, and I don’t know?”

He shrugs forcefully, “I can’t tell at this point! You’re acting so oblivious I don’t know what you do or don’t understand! All I’m asking is that the next time they say ‘we’re hunting nearby and need some backup’ you say that you’re busy!”

You stare at him for a long moment in taut silence. His chest rises and falls with his intense breathing but he tries to maintain an emotionless expression. You know him too well at this point for that face to be believable.

Your voice grows dark like tinted glass. “I know how to handle men, Sam.”

His next breath in is a little shaky. You take note. Was your statement meant to be a hint at your shared sex life? No. Will you happily take his physical response to it as proof that he seems to be having the same reaction to this fight as you are? Absolutely.

“I heard them.” He says softly. “Talking. About you. About… us.”

Your brows furrow and you shift your stance, now more curious than combative. “What d’you mean?”

He swallows, the bobbing movement of his throat catching your eye for a split second. You immediately look back up to his face but he saw you look, you know it.

“What did they say?” There’s a new wariness to your voice.

Sam runs his tongue across his lower row of teeth, trying to settle himself. “Chase… said that Lewis should’ve… ‘taken his chance when he could in Atlantic City’. When you were ‘drunk and heartbroken’ because… then you might’ve… ‘just finally put out already.’”

Your skin crawls at those words and the tone Sam imitates. It’s not the grossest thing anyone’s ever said about you, but it’s by no means flattering. You were heartbroken three years ago while drunk in a casino with Chase and Lewis (their idea). Lewis had been attentive all night, caring for you in the kind of gruff, noncommittal way hunters can sometimes be. You were indeed considering kissing Lewis at one point but when you noticed that he was treating you nicer than usual, you thought: this must be what it feels like to be the ‘civilian’. For some reason that thought was repellent so you didn’t act on any drunk impulses and went to bed alone that night.

Crossing your arms stubbornly you respond, “Well, he’s not wrong. I was drunk and heartbroken and I did almost kiss Lewis—”

You’ve barely finished your sentence when he raises his voice over yours.

“—What?!” He gapes, “And hold on, wait a second! Wasn’t the Atlantic City hunt you went on the one where you got that big scar on your ribs?! That was them not taking care of you back then, either!”

Goddamn it he’s so fucking hot.

You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Is it strange for you to be horny over how well Sam knows your body? When you first got together you were stunned by how much he wanted to look at you. After the first time you had sex you went to put clothes back on and he softly asked you to stay.

“I’ll be right back.” You giggled at him, a little bemused.

He gave you this gooey look of pleading. “But then you’ll be all covered up. And I don’t want that just yet.”

“What do you want then?”

He tugged you close under the sheets, getting as close to you as possible for a moment. “I wanna look at you laying in our bed.”

And who were you to deny him when he asked so sweetly?

During those first few weeks of lovemaking there would always be about 20 minutes afterward where Sam would just hold you and caress your skin, all of this wonder in his gaze. When he found a new mark, or cut, or scar he’d ask you about it. What he just said now proves without a doubt that he was actually listening when you answered.

“Lewis actually did like me. He asked me out the next time we saw each other, alright?” You say, “I’m not thrilled by the language Chase used either but you know better than me how guys talk to each other about vulnerable stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like, evasively! Like you’re making it kinda into a joke so you can pretend it’s not meaningful or whatever, I don’t know!”

He’s kind of pouting now. “I don’t know how telling me that one of them used to have a thing for you is supposed to make me more okay with you hunting with them again.”

“Oh, come off it, Sam!” You cry, “Just because not everyone who hunts is as good as you or Dean doesn’t mean they aren’t worth helping!”

Muttering your name like it’s a curse he says, “What does it take for you to give up on someone unworthy, huh?”

“For fuck’s—!” You raise and drop your hands, “—I’ve never really given it much thought!”

“Well maybe you should!”

“Maybe you should stop riding my ass!”

“I just don’t think you should help them anymore, that’s all I’m saying!”

“Well I guess I’ll take that opinion into consideration.”

He grits your name out through his teeth, “I don’t wanna keep going around in circles with you like this!”

“Then stop talking!”

The both of you go dead silent. You could swear the Bunker is so quiet now that even this deep into the place you’d be able to clearly hear something fall off a shelf in the library. Somewhat to your surprise, Sam actually doesn’t keep talking. You two stand at a stalemate for a long moment.

His breathing gets more intense the longer you just study him in silence. His chest rises and falls dramatically again and you finally break. Without a word you lean up, grab his cheek and yank him down for a kiss. A noise of surprise and almost dissent escapes his throat but his hands immediately drag you closer— it’s all just muscle memory at this point, reflexes triggered by your proximity that he cannot control.

“Don’t think you can— mm! —make me forget—!” He mumbles in protest against your lips.

“—Fuckin’ watch me, Lawboy.” You grumble back, shoving him into the tiled wall.

All of your plush warmth comes flush with him. Between you both and through his jeans you feel his cock already reacting to your proximity. Fuck you’ve missed this. It’s only been five days while you were assisting the guys since you’ve gotten your fix of Sam’s body and carnal affection but it’s long enough that you’re craving his closeness badly. Your hands fumble with the buttons on his flannel.

He grabs your waist with both deliciously large hands, pulling back enough to speak but not enough to push you away. “You don’t just get to shut me up with your—”

You cut him off again with a searing kiss, hand fisting into the hair on the nape of his neck. He groans against you, both hands moving to palm your butt.

“So— mm— goddamn impatient!” He fumbles with the doorknob closest to him before he crowds you into the room.

It’s one of the spare rooms that Dean’s been slowly converting into an armory. You’re clinging onto Sam like a barnacle, nipping and kissing at his throat while your fingers tangle into his hair. Trying to handle all of you makes turning the lights on a bit of a challenge but he manages to smack them on eventually. You press all of your body up against his front again, knowing from both empirical data and the current state of him that he can’t resist your body— you’re too enticing to him, just the way he is to you. His jaw clenches in frustration at his inability to overcome desire and remain mad. His foot kicks the door closed behind him with a bit more force than he might’ve used otherwise, the sound sharp and loud enough to make you flinch a little. You don’t pull away an inch, though, pushing up to kiss him more.

Both of his hands grab the sides of your head, fiercely returning the kiss as he guides you backwards. Your eyes are closed while you stand on your tiptoes and loop your arms around his neck. A low sound, almost like a growl, rumbles up out of him and into your mouth as his strong hands hoist you up by your thighs. You squeal against his lips, knowing that he’s not got a very solid hold on you. Luckily, he’s only going to the table a few feet behind you.

He deposits you onto the metal surface with a dull thunk and shoves things out of the way around you. They clang to the floor raucously and you giggle a little against his lips— he’s never this loud when it comes to sex with you. He only ever wants you and him alone in a bubble of intimacy that no one can disturb. So him being this careless about drawing attention is exciting. His need is intoxicating.

Your hands immediately go back to the buttons of his shirt. Were you kissing a different man, you might’ve just ripped the thing open but you know that isn’t so appealing to Sam. He pulls back from your lips to catch his breath. As you fumble with the bottom ones, he grins a little at your impatient fingers, his palms running up and down your thighs.

“I thought you’d have just yanked the thing open by now.” He pants.

You lean up to kiss him as you get the final two. Pulling away just slightly you smirk up at him through your lashes. “I know you like this shirt. I’m not tryin’ta break the things you care about just because I’m impatient.”

With an emphatic flurry you shove the two ends of the now open shirt aside. One of his big hands lifts off your thigh to cup your cheek tenderly. You look up into his face as he bows closer, an expression of all-consuming adoration on his beautiful face.

“I love you.” He murmurs, forehead bumping into yours so gently.

You bite down on a wicked grin. “I thought you said I couldn’t make you forget about the argument—”

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, the force of it sending you backwards a little. Both of your hands fly back to brace yourself against the table.

“You can’t.” He affirms in a brief break between your mouths. “I still don— want you to see ‘em.”

“See them?” You gape, “What, I can’t have friends that you disapprove of?”

He kisses down your throat, tugging the collar of your shirt aside to keep going along your shoulder. “They’re not your friends.”

“Yes—”

One of his arms slipped around your waist at some point and now he tugs you sharply forwards to press the ridge of his cock into the heat of your core.

“Friends don’t act like that.” He mutters, yanking your shirt over your head, “Friends don’t dislike someone who makes you happy.”

You snort as he unhooks your bra, “Oh, so that’s why you’re really mad? Because they don’t approve of you?”

He grunts in annoyance as he tears the bra off your chest, you doing the work to shrug out of the straps. “I don’t give a shit what they think of me.”

“Is that really true, Spaceman?” You continue taunting him, watching it rile him up further and further.

“Yes!” He reaches behind him to tug his hands free from the flannel sleeves. “They’re two-bit douchebags who treat you like a piece’a meat.”

You help him pull his t-shirt off over his head, biting your lip. “You’re sure you’re not mad at them for how they look at you?”

He gives you a flat, displeased look. “How do they look at me?”

You hook both index fingers into the waistband of his jeans and yank him close. His hands thump heavily down onto the table on either side of you. Your chin tips up so you can run your nose along the line of his jaw. All the sudden your touches are soft and fleeting, teasing him with all the love you have for him.

“Like they wanna obliterate you.” You nip at his earlobe, one hand raking into his hair.

“That’s supposed to be a good thing?”

Your grip tightens to a fist in his locks. “They’re jealous of you, honey. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Shut up.” He scoffs half-heartedly, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Who wouldn’t be, hm?” You pull back to look at him, your head cocking to the side, “The second you walk into a room their chances of anyone noticing them are diminished to zero.”

He rolls his eyes a bit, “I don’t care.”

“Oh, you don’t, huh?”

“No, I don’t.” He replies firmly, “Because it’s not about me, it’s about you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about you being kept safe.” He swoops down, massaging both breasts and kissing along your jaw, “You should have nothing less than the best watching your back, always.”

You whine listlessly as he ducks down to suck a nipple into his mouth. Your hands cradle his head just for something to hold onto. When he pulls off of that one he kisses across your chest to your other peak, still talking.

“You shouldn’t lose value to them because you’re not available anymore,” He growls, sinking his teeth into the meat of your breast for a fleeting moment, “I’ll kill them if they try that shit again.”

“Sam!” You gasp sharply at that, shoving him back to make him meet your gaze.

He sees your horror at that statement plain as day on your face. He digs his heels in.

“I will. I’ll do it.” He pulls you up to his lips briefly, then murmurs against them, “I don’t care what it says about me— I don’t care what it does.”

You shake your head slowly at him, “Weren’t you just saying you think they’re gonna get themselves killed anyhow?”

“Yeah. And potentially it’ll be by me. If they pull some shit like that again—”

Your nails bite into the swells of his shoulders, “—Sam! You can’t just kill people you don’t like!”

“If those two fuckers got you killed then I’d be dead too!” He raises his voice all the sudden.

When that comes out he swallows thickly, gaze dropping as shame finally slips into his expression. His hands slow on you, moving to rub cautiously up and down your thighs again, a layer of denim separating him from the skin he adores. He can’t look you in the eye then, just stares at the ground.

“It wouldn’t matter any more.” He mumbles, “What reason is there to keep my conscience if I’m already dead inside?”

Your brows knit together, and you reach up to cup his cheek. “Sam.”

Hesitantly, he lifts his eyes to yours, looking like a scolded puppy.

“Your conscience is what makes you special.” You trace some hair behind his ear, “It’s what keeps you human in a job like this. Don’t let someone take that from you— including you.”

He tilts his head into your palm. His eyes follow his hands as they glide carefully up to your waist then to your ribs. They pause there, his thumbs brushing across your flesh tenderly.

“I’m sorry I scared you just now.” He murmurs, “I didn’t… mean to get so intense.”

You smirk adoringly, a sympathetically sad look in your eyes for the man you love with all your heart. So much pain is held in that beautiful sinewy body of his. On the outside he seems like a well-oiled machine but you know the truth; Sam Winchester is a tight knot of sadness and pain, always striving to breathe goodness into the world.

“Well, that’s kinda what makes you special, too.” You say, “Well, there’s a lot of things that make you special, but that’s definitely a big one.”

His eyes flicker up to yours, a hopeful glint in them.

“The same way you said I shouldn’t only be worth something to the two of them if I’m on the market or whatever,” You take a deep breath, “you can’t tie all of your worth to me, honey.”

He nods, face tilting down again. “I know.”

You wrap your legs around his and guide him closer again. “I love you, Samuel.”

He rolls his eyes but can’t subdue all of his smile. “It’s Sam.”

“Well, Sam,” You emphasize the correct name, “promise me something?”

He nods gently, eyes lost in yours.

“Even if I do go before you—”

He makes a small noise in protest at the back of his throat, barely audible with his brows pinching together. You shush him sweetly and press one fingertip to his chest.

“Even if I go before you, promise me you won’t let that be an excuse to give up.”

He blinks a few times, honestly stunned by that.

“You’re stronger than loss, Spaceman.” You reinforce, “I know you are. I’ve seen it.”

“It’s different with you.”

“I know.” You nod, both hands smoothing down his front, his chest hair tickling your palms, “I’m not saying it would be easy. But… even if I never hunt with those two again, there’s still… the possibility of either of us dying.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes are so miserable, you wish you could make it better, but this is the reality. You need him to say it. You need to hear it.

“Promise me?” Your voice drops to a tentative whisper, “Promise me that you won’t kill Sam Winchester on the off chance I get killed first?”

His eyes flit back and forth between yours, a deep sadness in them. He doesn’t protest though, because he knows that you’re right— both of you are at risk a lot of the time. And Sam’s made promises before that have been more painful than this. He’s sworn oaths to untrustworthy people, he’s made bargains with unsavory characters, and he’s been able to keep the ones that mattered, whether they were easy or not. Nothing matters more than this, though— what you two have.

He nods, his stubble brushing the palm you’re still using to hold his cheek. “Okay. I can promise you that.”

You beam up at him, eyes just a little glassy with relief. “I love you so damn much, Sam, it’s ridiculous.”

He chuckles, “Me too. I love you so much.”

You crane up to kiss his lips. He returns the contact, one of his hands cupping the side of your face.

“Even when you’re as stubborn as a mule.” He grins against your lips.

A noise of indignation puffs out of you, your head pulling back to look him more directly in the eye. The playful spark is back between you two, his face all fondness and mischief.

“I’ll show you stubborn—”

He smushes his lips to yours and wraps both his arms around you. Kissing you until your breathless, he lays you back on the table, bracing one of his hands over your head to keep himself somewhat upright. When you settle, your breasts heave with a deep breath, the both of them sitting so pretty on your chest. He hums a groan, cupping them again and beginning a gentle massage.

“I can’t blame ‘em, honestly.” He murmurs, ghosting a kiss between your collarbones, “If I were them? I’d be kicking myself for missing my chance with you, too.”

You laugh, fingers carding through his hair as he kisses lower down your front. “You’re too sweet on me, Sam.”

That makes him smirk, his head lifting back up. His lips peck your throat and then sweetly on your chin. You can’t help a warm giggle at him, watching his features melt in adoration at the sound.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispers, falling to his elbow so that hand can trace patterns into your scalp, “I’m so damn lucky I found you.”

You bite down on a big smile, cheeks flushing under his gaze. With his eyes boring deep into yours, his hand glides down the swell of your stomach to the button of your jeans. You squirm a little in anticipation, eyes going from gooey adoration to hesitantly needy. You want him to touch you but you don’t want to have to ask too much— not this time.

He kisses under your jaw again, his warm hand slipping under your clothes right to your bare skin. You shiver from both sensations, a little whine escaping your parted lips. Both of your hands tangle up into his hair again. His fingers part your folds and find them just as wet as he hoped they would be.

“Mm…” He hums, nipping lightly a few times at the column of your throat, “…you’re soaked f’me, sweetheart.”

You release a full-throated whine, unable to stem it.

He groans as he begins slowly circling your clit with two fingers. “The noises you make… s’damn pretty…”

Your throat hiccups with another high-pitched sound that makes him shiver with want. His fingers speed up just a touch, the other hand running up and down the length of your torso, pausing intermittently to kneed your breasts.

“Honey,” You breathe, back arching, “need you.”

“You’ve got me.”

You emit a petulant noise of impatience, “I need you, Sam. Inside baby, need you to fuck me.”

He can’t help a growl as he peppers kisses all over your chest. Inside your jeans he switches his hand’s position to start teasing your entrance too. You writhe under him, back arching in a sensuous roll that presses all of you to him. He pushes back with all his weight, pressing you flat down again.

“Not yet.” He growls, “I’m not ready yet.”

You shudder, feeling one of his fingers breach your hole, then joined by a second one to sink all the way inside. A choked noise of almost disbelief at the pleasure comes out of you instantly. His skilled fingers work quick, pulling you up in a spiral of building pleasure.

“C’mon baby,” He whispers into your skin between kisses laid on your chest, “c’mon sweetheart, come for me. I know you can… you’re so good f’r me, right baby?”

You nod listlessly with a loud keen, eyes squeezed shut. The coil inside of you snaps and waves of bliss wash over your body. It’s so intense that you lurch a few times with the aftershocks, almost feeling a little dizzy off him. Your body deflates with a long exhale of ecstasy, eyes fluttering shut agains the force of it.

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn pretty, baby, you’ve got no idea.” He groans, pulling back for a moment, “S’perfect. All for me, huh?”

You nod again, eyes still closed as the world’s spinning slows down. You hear the rasp of a zipper and then the soft sound of his jeans dropping to the floor. Then his careful hands are tugging yours down with your panties, tender and reverent.

“Sam…” You mumble, a hand reaching out for him while your eyes stay shut.

“I’m comin’ baby,” His heat returns to you, making your eyes open. One of his big hands cups your cheek while he gazes down at you with so much adoration it almost makes you shiver. “Hi, sweetheart,” He brushes his knuckles across your cheek, “You ready for me?”

You nod again, movements sluggish and loopy. He beams down at you, one hand braced by your head again and the other disappearing out of your sight. The blunt crown of his cock drags up your folds, slow enough as to almost be torturous. You whine impatiently for the umpteenth time and he shushes you softly. The tip of him catches on your opening and then he presses forwards.

Your jaw drops with a deep gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he slides home. Your hands scramble up his arms, nails scratching at his skin desperately. He lets out a long, content groan, like he’s laying down in his bed after a long, hard day. The hand near your head tangles fingers into your hair and he bows down to kiss your lips. He’s so soft against your mouth even while he’s hard as steel and hilted inside of you. It’s a contradiction that almost feels unfair due to it’s power over your heart.

“So perfect,” He mumbles, grinding into you with rolls of his hips, not yet thrusting, “s’ warm… so wet… nowhere else I’d rather be…”

You can’t help a breathless giggle at that, despite knowing he’s being completely honest. He doesn’t get butthurt though, he presses a kiss to your lips with a smile. Limply, you throw your arms around his neck, kissing him back and meeting his next roll into you with a grind of your own. He grunts into your kiss as your walls pulse around him.

“More,” You pant between kisses, “more, Sam, please…”

He groans like your words make him weak. As if he can’t resist your command due to it being wrapped up in your sweetness. He pulls out a little then pushes back in. The friction is perfect— a delicious drag that sends sparks outwards into your muscles. Your hands fumble down to his hips, pulling him back in again on the next thrust, encouraging him to move faster.

“Mm…!” You release a long moan and it spurs him on further.

His rhythm picks up. Your nails dig into the meat of his ass, feeling all the muscles working under his skin with every movement. He drops lower onto his forearm beside your head, bathing that side of your face in messy kisses. You reach up to grip his hair with one hand, the other adjusting your hold on his butt. He keeps mumbling and muttering to you between kisses, like he’s delirious. He very well might be.

The pace picks up steadily over some amount of time you don’t bother even trying to count. His panting breaths tickle the sensitive skin of your throat and ear. You feel yourself beginning to get swept away by the pleasure. Your fingers fist in his hair, your other hand slipping weakly off his ass towards the place where you’re connected, searching for your nub of nerves. He grunts and bats your hand aside, using his unoccupied one instead.

You keen loudly as his fingers restart steady circles on your clit. Your arm draws his head closer to you, your face turning to blindly search for his lips since your eyes won’t stay open. He groans your name with the most pleasure anyone’s ever said it.

The thrusts reach a crescendo. You’re getting lost in the bliss, spiraling up and up to your peak with dizzying speed. Vaguely, you catch on to his voice, still rumbling low just for your ears.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he mutters under his breath like an incantation— like a seal of protection he could place over you. “My girl— my beautiful fuckin’ girl. So perfect, just for me.”

You manage a little nod before your body shatters into your orgasm. As you come, your voice calls shrilly, “Always…!”

The noise he makes at that is akin to the sound of when he gets punched really hard, except this time it’s all pleasure in his rich moan. Your walls pulse around him, milking his cock for everything he’s worth. His fingers press and pinch at your clit as you both ride out your highs. Your body twitches and lurches and writhes under his. He’s not much better, shuddering and choking on whiny noises as he pushes himself a little further into overstimulation. Your fist tightens in his hair until your knuckles pale. Very gradually, both of your movements slow to a halt. Then all that’s left is proximity and panted breaths against sweaty flesh.

“I love you.” He slurs at a mumble, kissing the first bit of you he can reach which ends up being your cheek.

You beam, cheeks burning from exertion and adoration, your arms looping around his neck to hold him close. “I love you, too.”

He hugs you back as best he can, staying inside of you for a few minutes as he softens. Eventually his back starts getting stiff and he reluctantly pulls away from your embrace. Your hands slide down his arms as he goes, not wanting to cease touching him yet. He catches one to kiss the seam of your palm, sweet and fleeting. With his hands gentle on your hips he pulls his cock out of you. He can’t help bending a little to watch the pearly white cum bead at your entrance. His fingers massage the insides of your thighs as a low, content rumble escapes him at the sight.

“Yours.” You whisper without thinking.

His gaze flickers up to meet yours.

“Only yours.” You reaffirm.

The words seem to overwhelm him. His next inhale makes him shudder a bit. Before you can say anything else, he scoops you up into his arms and carries you to the bathroom. Halfway there you tease him about someone coming home to see you both butt-naked in the hallway. He smudges a kiss to your chin and tells you he couldn’t care any less about a single other person in the whole world right now.

A few weeks pass before Chase texts you again. He and Lewis are “in the area” on a hunt and “could use the extra hands”. Sam’s sitting in bed beside you reading, completely absorbed in his book. Biting down on a self-satisfied smirk you text back a simple reply:

He did have you all to himself in the motel room. Twice actually. And then another time the next morning in the shower, and another time that night at the next motel. You had an inkling that he was being less strict about the timing of your journey back to the Bunker to give himself the most time with you alone. You weren’t complaining.

Day before yesterday, Dean and Cas called to get you guys to meet them about a day’s drive from the Bunker. Dean made some comment about you and Sam “moving slower than usual” on your way home from the last hunt. In the car, while he was on speaker, you and Sam shared a knowing look.

The two of you were actually calling Dean back because you’d missed him earlier. On that particular day, only the third one where you and Sam were sleeping together, you’d been the one holding up the drive home. Sam would never admit that he wanted you to stall the trip more— he gets so damn anxious about being places on time —however, you had not gotten the opportunity to return the favor from the other day. Sam insisted that there was no need for you to “return” anything. You told him that he’s been greedy— licked up your cunt as many times as he likes while you starve for the same opportunities.

At the next gas station stop, you slipped into the backseat while Sam hit the head. He was initially confused by this choice until you convinced him to pull off into a turnaround partially-sheltered by some forest. As it turns out, not even Sam Winchester’s will is strong enough to resist you begging to hear the sounds he would make while you licked and slurped his shaft. The touching yourself back there to provoke him didn’t hurt, either.

And fuck, the noises he made were goddamn spectacular. Like he was in disbelief of you— of the bliss and pleasure, the wetness and pressure. The two of you didn’t let Dean know about that part.

Dean and Cas met you both that day and you’d been helping them work the case which (clearly) involves witches being murdered. Today, after Sam’s unfortunate incident, everyone thought it would be best to get him home in order to figure out how to get the cuffs off. That doesn’t make the giant any less grumpy about his predicament.

“I can see you smirking.” Sam grumbles from the passenger seat, not looking directly at you and very much pouting.

You smother a smile poorly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He rolls his eyes, all drama, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He’s stuck in his fed-threads since he’d touched the damn object while on the job. Driving a day straight in a suit is making him even more grouchy.

As you turn onto the dirt road to the Bunker, you strike up new conversation. “Do you have any idea where to start?”

He shakes his head grumpily, “I think I’m just going to go down to 7B and plug away at this lock.”

You smirk as you park in front of the Bunker’s front hatch. “Just goin’ down to the dungeon, hm?”

Your tone is a little suggestive, making him frown in confusion and look up to your face. Your smirking a little to yourself as you shove the car into park. His scowl softens, that fox-like look of intrigue you love slowly taking over his features. When the car’s off you look up and meet his gaze. Whatever you see there makes you beam impishly. He’s studying you, trying to parse something in your expression.

“What?” You prompt with a shrug.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You’re… this isn’t just funny to you, is it?”

You blush a little, not meeting his gaze directly. It’s still too new— this thing between you two —so your instinct is to just brush it off. But then again… you can’t say the idea of him tied up doesn’t arouse the fuck out of you. It’s honestly ridiculous.

“Well, I do feel bad for you, too.” You offer.

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Later, you’ve perched yourself on the stainless steel table beside Sam in the dungeon. He’s got all kinds of random lock picking tools, both mundane and magical, laid out there. He keeps asking you for different ones like you’re a nurse assisting him with surgery. He’s laser-focused on his objective but you’re using most of your brain’s bandwidth to imagine all the things you could do to him while restrained. Only if he wanted you to, of course. Your intuition is telling you (with no explicit proof to support it) that he is the kind of person who would appreciate that kind of play in the bedroom.

The man’s a tight knot of restraint, pent-up emotion and raw feeling. It’s not easy to figure out what he wants. He likes to feel like he has everything under control, you know that, the thing is… you kind of wonder how much of that is a front.

At this point he’s had you five times (the last two days have been dry because of first Cas and Dean, then this drive and the magical-cuff-situation). In those five times he showed quite explicitly that he likes a game of push-and-pull when it comes to the bedroom. One person may have more sway than the other during some encounters but there is always a back-and-forth. In those moments where you have pinned his wrists down and made him take what you have to give, you’ve seen the effect on him. His eyelids flutter so sweetly, his breath stunted, his muscles quaking, and his expression looks so… relieved. At first when he caught you seeing his relief— that vulnerability —he tried to cover it up. Convincing him not to though wasn’t hard. He doesn’t want to hide from his desires, he’s just afraid of someone rejecting them cruelly. Lucky for him, you don’t shy away easy.

Your thoughts only get more dewey as the minutes drag on into hours. He’s so goddamn pretty. Sweat beads on his brow, his nose only inches away from the lock he’s trying to pick. You smirk every time you glance away and then look back to find his face even closer to his work.

“You’re staring.” He mutters at one point, all of his features still laser-focused on the lock.

“And you,” You gently press your fingertips to his forehead to push him upright a bit, “are gonna hurt your shoulders if you keep sitting like a lump on a log.”

He grumbles something unintelligible, never looking away from his task throughout this whole exchange. You snort fondly, trading one tool from his hand for another without him even asking. It’s the correct one, too, the one he would’ve asked for next. Something about that makes him stop short. You notice immediately.

“What? Wrong one?” You turn to look at the items on the table with every intent of righting your mistake.

“No, no, it’s, uh,” He speaks so tenderly you immediately look at him. He’s smirking a little in wonder, “this is the right one. I… I didn’t even have to ask.”

You smirk to cover your blush, “Well, I do try my best to pay attention to your needs, Spaceman.”

That makes a huff of laughter escape him. Adoration sparkles in his woodsy eyes, his head shaking softly as he turns back to his work.

“What?” You ask, shoulders shrugging a little with shyness.

“Nothing.” He spares a glance at you then grits his teeth with focus.

A minute or so later, his face wrinkles up from the force he’s exerting and then there’s a satisfying pop of metal as the cuffs spring open.

“Ta-da.” He sighs.

You gasp excitedly and hop off the table, “Holy shit! Nicely done!”

He grins, rubbing his sore wrists, “I’m just glad there was only one locking mechanism. I gotta figure out how these work, they could be really useful.”

“Could be.” You agreed.

He smiles coyly at you as he stands to his full height, drawing closer. At this point, you know what that little expression means— he’s going to kiss you. He does, soft and slow like he has all the time in the world. When he pulls back, your bodies stay pressed together.

“Couldn’t have done it without your emotional support.” He jokes lightly.

“Anytime.” You beam at him, “Whatever will you do with your newfound freedom, Lawboy?”

Beaming down at you, he cups one cheek and bends down to kiss you again. You loop your arms around his neck and return the embrace, languid and comfortable. He hums blissfully into your lips, guiding you back on the table and planting himself between your spread thighs. Both of his big palms almost fully engulf your head, now free to be separate but both wanting to do the same thing.

“Thank you for not laughing too much at me.” He mumbles between kisses. “Didn’t feel the smartest doing something so… dumb in front of…” He pecks your lips, pulling back with a smirk, “a beautiful woman.”

You snort, adjusting your head to kiss him back at a new angle. “A beautiful woman, huh? You mean the witch?”

He growls halfheartedly in annoyance at your tease and kisses down to your jaw. “You know what I meant.”

You shrug, trying not to get too outwardly breathless as he sucks on a particularly sensitive tendon in your throat. One hand rakes into his thick hair, gripping hard from pleasure. Both of your bodies were rolling a little into each other.

“Missed your, mm, your skin,” He pants against you, “missed you.”

You bite down on a wicked smile, “It’s only been a few days.”

“Still. Too long.”He nips lightly at your neck, just sharp enough to make you jump a little and squeak. He grins at your noise, mumbling, “You’re so damn cute.”

A blush heats your cheeks almost unbearably, your face ducking down to catch him in a sweet kiss. As he responds, both of your legs hook around the backs of his to draw him closer. He has to straighten up again because of that. His palm cradles the crown of your head, all tangled up in your hair. He kisses you long and slow for a moment before pulling back to look at you, foreheads resting together.

“I saw you. I know…” He’s hesitating, a little nervous all the sudden, “…I can tell you like the idea of me… being tied up.”

You swallow thickly, pupils immediately pooling just from the sound of his deep, sexy voice uttering that idea aloud. You renew your hold on him, as if to reaffirm that you want him close but you don’t respond immediately. He can tell you’re not sure what to say— is he upset with that idea at all?

He leans in to gently brush and nudge his nose against yours. He does this when he just wants to get your attention. It always coaxes a smile out of you, and this time is no exception. He presses a peck to your lips then pulls back to look you in the eye.

“Have you imagined me restrained before?” He murmurs to you.

Swallowing thickly you nod. “Yeah.”

He smirks. “Me too.”

You exhale in a tumble on your next breath. “Fuck, Sam—”

“Never done it.” He says, voice a little shaky at a whisper, “Always… thought about it. Never… tried.”

You hold your breath. “And… now?”

He smirks and nods once, renewing his hold on the back of your neck. A swell of something you can’t quite name but you’re incredibly invigorated by fills your chest and throat. You surge up to kiss him. He meets you with equal vigor.

The two of you fumble upstairs somehow, kissing and grabbing and squeezing and pressing all the way there. You ask him several times whether or not he’s sure, you assure him many more times that you won’t be mad if he doesn’t really want to. Every time, he quiets you with affectionate kisses, reaffirming that this is what he wants.

Your room is closer to the stairs. He leads you in there and then you stop to discuss the logistics.

“Okay,” He pants, “for the, uh, first try, I, uh, want to be in the chair.”

Your brow furrows, “Why not the bed, baby? That’ll be more comfortable for you.”

He cuts off a groan and smushes his lips to yours happily.

“So sweet to me,” He murmurs against your mouth, “takin’ care of me. So fuckin’ sweet.”

You fist his shirt and yank him back to your body. When you begin undoing the buttons he remembers that he discarded his tie a long time ago. He doesn’t know where he put the thing— it was the only item of the suit he could really remove with the cuffs on. You seem to notice that at the same time, your lips pulling off of his with a wet sound.

“What, uh,” You’re breathless, “what d’you wanna use to, erm, tie you?”

His eyes flicker around as he thinks then he decides with a nod. “Uh, in the top left drawer of my dresser, get a tie.”

You nod vehemently and then trip a little over your feet in the rush to go. He steadies you with a hand on each arm and then beams adoringly as you scamper off. While you’re gone he decides he’ll be good and get undressed.

When you come back into the room, your head’s bowed and you don’t see him immediately. As one hand closes the door behind you, your eyes flicker up. The expression melts clean off your face at the sight of him, stripped down to his boxers and waiting in your bed with hands folded neatly in his lap. He’s watching you like a guard dog, waiting for permission to pounce.

“How am I doing?” His voice is more gravelly than he intended. He sees you shiver a little and it makes him swell with pride.

“Perfect.” You whisper, kneeling on the bed beside him.

The silk tie threads through your fingers sensually as you sidle up closer to him. He only notices he’s staring at the fabric slipping in between your knuckles with his lips parted after you’ve already caught him. You bow your head down to press a sweet, almost chaste kiss to his lips. He cups your jaw, hand spanning over some of your throat and fingertips tickling your hair. Your hands come to rest hesitantly on his shoulders and he can feel a tremor of nervousness in them.

“Baby,” He murmurs, making you pull back just enough to look him in the eye, “are you okay?”

You nod, still trying to pretend, then slump, revealing your true look of concern. “I just… I don’t want you to get scared.”

That takes him by surprise and it shows on his face. His head tilts slightly to the side. “Why would I be scared?”

“I feel scared when I’m tied up.” You shrug sheepishly, looking down now. “I don’t want… I don’t want you to be afraid when you’re with me. Like this.”

He smirks and cups your chin, making you meet his gaze again. “I’m not afraid. I know I’m safe with you.”

Your shoulders swell adorably with your next breath. You look like you could burst from joy. He traces some hair behind your ear, gently thumbing the lobe there just to admire everything that makes you, you. He’s so enamored with your body and how intimately he now knows it. It’s wonderful.

“I hate being tied up.” You mumble against him, “I hate being trapped and helpless like that. So… so I feel bad for… for liking it when it comes to you.”

He pulls back to look you in the eye.

“It doesn’t feel very fair of me as a… lover.” You finish softly.

He bites down on an adoring smirk, then pressed a quick peck to your lips. “Don’t feel bad about it, baby. I want to. I need to… relinquish control.”

You stare deep into his eyes, both hands framing his face lovingly.

“I want to relinquish it to you.” He stares up at you in reverence. “Will you take it from me, sweetheart?”

You can’t stifle a needy whine, smushing your lips to his in a messy kiss. Frantically you nod, still kissing him. You’re all strength and grace now— you’ve been given a responsibility and you intent to treat this privilege with the utmost honor. Hard to say whether or not any other directive given to you in your life has been more important than “keep Sam Winchester safe”. It’s becoming second-nature— not a mission but a need to fulfill over and over until your heart stops ticking.

He watches you with rapt attention as you loop the tie around his wrists. He’s always prided himself on his knots, ever since he was little and he took to it quicker than Dean did (which made Sam very proud of himself). That being said, you were an expert. More than that, your hands move with rope like it’s always been destined to bend and loop for your fingers. He’s loved watching you tie knots of all kinds since he met you. You’re talented at detangling and untying as well, of course that takes a bit longer and doesn’t look as effortless.

In no time you’ve secured one wrist. You go for the other hand then pause, your fingers halfway towards picking it up. His eyes meet yours and you raise your brows a little.

“You’re… sure? About tying both?”

Swallowing thickly he nods once. “Do it.”

“Okay, Sam.” You murmur, looking him in the eye to show you are taking this seriously. Then you go back to your task, looping the fabric around his other wrist and drawing the silk tight. “Same as usual, right? Stop-light system to check in?”

He affirms with a slight nod, too focused on watching you raising his hands up over his head by the purple tie. It’s like you’re holding a bundle of beets by the stems, except the stalks are a neck-tie and his loose fists are the bulbs. You secure his hands to the headboard, the muscles of your arms tensing and releasing with the work of making the knots tight. He’s mesmerized, watching all of you work over him— the crease in your brow and set jaw as you focus; your hair framing your face, edges illuminated by a golden glow from the overhead light. The slip of revealed stomach where your hoodie is riding up over your hips just keeps inching up higher, tantalizing enough that his mouth is watering a little.

When you sit back on your heels he watches the meat of your thighs spread out from the weight of you compressing your legs. You take a deep breath and there’s a tiny catch in it, like an almost-cough that makes your chest, and consequently your breasts, twitch a bit. He’s getting antsy and you haven’t even really started doing anything to him.

“Fuck, I already miss touching you.” He mumbles.

It’s the truth but he’s not sure he meant to say it aloud. There’s nothing to regret though, because your reaction is precious. You blush, your shoulders tucking in a little towards your heart. As if saying that aloud removed a weight from his chest, Sam then fully allows himself to relax into the bed, eyelids drifting closed. He’s shifting his hips around a little when your weight leaves the mattress beside him. His eyes fly open and then his whole body freezes as he watches you undress.

You changed clothes a while ago, opting for comfort while you assisted him in his lock picking mission. You might as well be dripping in diamonds with the way Sam’s watching you. Your thumbs slip into the elastic of your sweatpants and shimmy them off. When the fabric pools around your feet you start to unzip the hoodie, revealing enough to show that you’re not wearing anything under it, but not enough that he gets to see all of you.

He lets out a small pained noise. It’s so soft and he cuts it off quickly enough that he hopes you didn’t hear it. One look at your proud smirk and he knows he’s not that lucky. When there’s a moment of pause, you start getting nervous again. Thinking on your feet you mutter something about setting the mood. You go off to your desk to get some music going and Sam’s got to stifle an impatient groan. You’re bent just a bit over the back of your chair, the cheeky lace panties you’re wearing out on full display where the hoodie rides up.

“Ungh!” Sam’s fists tighten in the restraints, “C’mon, baby, come back.”

You glance over your shoulder as music starts wafting out through the speakers. A sly smile that he feels helplessly entranced by covers your face as you draw up beside him again. It’s like you’re slipping into a new persona, your voice lower and even more sultry. You bend and tuck one leg under you as you sit beside him. His chin is lifted, like a dog hoping for a pat. Gingerly, your hand inches out towards him. You curl some hair out of his face and he melts back into the pillow.

“So beautiful…” You mutter, your fingers slowly raking through the front of his hair.

He hums a little, eyes falling shut as you repeat the action.

“Relinquish control, huh?” You smile, cupping his cheek and making him look at you again. “Do you know why that’s what you want, Sammy?”

He swallows thickly. Usually, he doesn’t let you call him that without a little back-and-forth of teasing. Right now, though, he’s slipping into some kind of trance— the kind that makes the most repressed man more honest than he thinks he should be.

He exhales shakily, “Want… you to… take care of me.”

You nod, a little patronizing in your manner. That makes him shift in place from a twinge of lust. Of course you notice that, quirking a brow.

“Anything else?”

He’s hesitant to answer when you ghost your nails down his front. He shudders and exhales in a huff, like he’s giving in.

“Want you to ruin me, baby.” He says, too nervous yet to look you in the eye.

Sam is a thorough lover. He takes good care of you when he gets the chance, loving to tease and overstimulate you, loving to watch you fall apart. You had an inkling that he might like the roles reversed too. Hearing him say it aloud, confirming your suspicions, feels like someone blessed you with him.

Your hand fists into his hair. “You like bein’ used don’cha, Sammy?”

He grunts despite himself, nodding eagerly. “Yes.”

“Hm… are you my good boy?” You walk your fingers back up his chest to take ahold of his chin, “…Or are you bad?”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his. The moment is drawn taut like a bowstring. He stares up at you, understanding that this is your way of asking what he wants the tone of this encounter to be. Nerves almost choke him up. You and he have fit together so well for the last five days and he’s worried about disturbing the balance. You’ve both been on the same page in a way that’s made Sam marvel, amazed that you could be so sexually compatible with him (especially after all that time worrying about scaring you off with his affection). Now, here you are, pinning him to the bed with eyes daring him to tell you the truth.

“I… I’m... bad.” He barely breathes, still unsure. “Need you… to… break me.”

Your chest rises with a steep inhale, and he can tell immediately that he hasn’t strayed outside of what you also like in the bedroom— he may have found his perfect match.

“Fuck,” You mutter because you can’t help it, “fuck you’re so goddamn hot, it’s—”

You cut yourself off and reset your expression. He frowns a little, wondering if something’s wrong. Then you look him in the eye again. You steel yourself, returning to the persona he’s indicated he wants in bed tonight.

“What’ve you done that makes you so bad?” You throw a leg over him and straddle his waist.

Bending forwards and gently nuzzling your face to his jaw you begin grinding your core against his stomach. The lace of your panties tickles his skin at first before slowly becoming a chafing drag that almost burns a little. A shuddering breath rattles out of him. His eyes flutter closed for a moment then he forces himself to answer.

“I thought about you.”

You hum pleasantly, “That doesn’t seem so bad.”

He’s not sure if he knows where to go with that. He decides honesty is what got him this far, it’s probably what’ll take him to the finish line.

“I…” He wets his mouth, “Every time you were at the Bunker for a pit-stop I… I wanted you to stay. It was never long enough and… when you’re around me all the time I… I can’t help… touching myself to the thought of you.”

You purr happily, ducking under his jaw to lay worshipful kisses along his stubble. His eyes flutter closed, the temptation to slip into complete brainless-ness growing stronger by the second.

“Fuck, even after you’d leave,” His hips lift a little off the bed to press his abdomen more firmly to your cunt. You coo from that, still peppering his throat with kisses, “stupid shit like seeing your shampoo left behind would… make me think of you again. Think of you so much that I… couldn’t stop.”

You sit up enough to look him in the eye again. “And then what would you do?”

Something in your face, there waiting patiently for him to continue, makes him brave enough to be explicit.

“I’d… fuck,” He sighs out a curse under his breath, “I’d jerk off to you. The, uh, the thought of you.”

“And that’s why you’re bad? Because you touched yourself to the thought of me?”

He hesitates in his answer, considering this. It wasn’t what he had in mind as his wrongdoing that deserved punishment, but it’s not out of the question as a contributing factor. The moment of pause makes one of truth and tenderness slip through, because as much as you want to fulfill the man’s sexual dreams as best you can, you don’t want to add any more mortal wounds to his bruised heart.

You stroke some hair out of his face. “Thought crime ain’t real, Sammy.”

He relaxes into the sheets as you rake a hand through his hair again. “That’s not my— unh —my crime.”

You grip the roots at the crown of his head. “Then, what?”

He swallows, “My crime is how many times I’ve gotten off to the thought of you… without you.”

Your expression shifts, “Is that so?”

He nods, “I… I’ve been bad. Been coming without you.”

You suck a lip between your teeth, renewing the movement of your hips.

He’s blabbering now, “I need… I need you to use me. I’ve been bad. I’ll be bad again if you don’t…”

You swoop down so your nose is almost touching his, hand fisted tight in his hair. “What?”

“I’m… unrepentant.” His tongue swipes quickly over his lips, “I don’t feel remorse. …Yet.”

That earns him a rough kiss on the lips. You press all of your body down onto him. Instinctively, the muscles in his arms tense from the urge to wrap you up close. The inability for him to do it makes a petulant little whine rumble up his throat and into your parted lips. You grind your clothed pussy over the flat of his belly, applying more pressure for your own ends. He shifts restlessly beneath you as you gain momentum. He’s panting hard, licking desperately into your mouth like your saliva might wash his soul clean.

“Is this what you deserve, hm?” You murmur between kisses, shoving your core more firmly to him with each roll of your pelvis. “Gotta make it up to me, right? Let me catch up to you? Let me use your body to get there? That’s what you deserve?”

“Fuck, yes,” He breathes, watching you pull back with envy, already missing your lips.

You straighten fully and arch your back, eyes slipping closed as you create more friction. His hands tingle with the urge to be full of your giving flesh. There’s a soft, hesitant creak in the headboard as his muscles tense in the restraints. You pause in an instant, hands pressed to his pecs and lips parted alluringly.

“You trying t’a break free, Sammy?”

“Nuh-no—”

“—You better not be.” You say, voice sultry and commanding. “Or else maybe I gotta take a firmer hand with you.”

He groans, adjusting his position underneath you again.

“Yeah?”

He opens his eyes (which he hadn’t noticed were closed). You seemed to have taken his previous movement and noise for possible affirmation. You’re asking him to confirm, your eyes staring into his saying: is that what you want, Sam? A firmer hand?

Mouth open a bit in a dumb look of lust he nods once. “Yeah. Yeah, I… I need a firm hand.”

“Okay, baby.” You coo so softly to him, laying a lingering kiss on his lips.

You’re slithering yourself down his body so slowly he’s going to go insane over it. The hand that was in his hair caresses so sweetly over his cheek and jaw, before you begin increasing the pressure of your descent. He hisses at the first sting of your scrapes across his skin. When you reach his chest your nails leave angry, red trails that make his tree-trunk of a body tremble like a single leaf.

“Ah—” His features scrunch up with the overload of pain and gratification.

Now that you’re over his body you feel his cock throb in frustration at your touch. You grin like a conquering queen, sitting all of your plush ass and thighs on him, right below his briefs. Above his waist your hand claws another set of red marks down his chest. The most sinful, choked groan of pleasure puffs out of him.

“So pretty,” You murmur, “you’re gonna be wearing my marks tomorrow, aren’cha?”

He grunts affirmatively. “Yes.”

“Cause you deserve to be roughed up a little, huh?” You bow down and hover right below his navel, the breath from your parted lips tickling his happy trail. “So naughty. Incapable of staying responsible. That’s cause you’re not really the boy-scout you pretend to be, are you.”

It’s not really annunciated like a question. You and he already know the answer. You kiss his belly softly, brushing your lips across the planes of his abdomen to then nip sharply at his right hip. He lets out a more full-throated groan of pleasure, back arching off the bed. Perhaps he’s trying to ease the tension in his skin by getting closer to you, but maybe he’s just trying to give you more to bite.

Your jaw releases and his skin snaps right back into place. His body flops back flat onto the mattress, his lungs heaving. He can already feel the bruise blooming on his hip. When his hands are free later he’s going to press into that purpling mark and revel in the faint ache.

“Please, baby,” He breathes listlessly, “please, I need— fuck —I need somethin—”

He cuts himself off with a shout of surprise when you press your warm wet lips to the side of his clothed cock. An unbecoming whine escapes him as you nuzzle against his erection the same way you did against his cheek earlier. It’s almost sweet despite the predatory nature of your dark eyes watching him. You’ve got him trapped under you— completely at your mercy.

You lave your tongue and lips over the tip of his cock through his briefs, making him utter a filthy groan of your name.

“Pretty boy,” You smile wickedly as you hook your fingers into the elastic of his boxers, “if only they knew… if only they knew how needy you really are.”

He whines pathetically, arching his hips off the bed to perhaps encourage your removal of his last bit of restrictive clothing. You sit all your weight on his legs. His body flattens to the sheets, now fully anchored by yours. Your thighs wrapped around his to force them together. There’s now a pressure on his balls that makes him shiver and groan. He’s needy— so close to only being able to think about you and what you’re doing to him. You smile as he gets lost in the sensations again.

“So impatient.” You chide, “I guess I should’ve predicted that.”

Your firm, warm hand takes ahold of his dick through the briefs. You squeeze him a little, like you’re massaging his shaft, then you lighten your touch so just your fingertips trace the contours of it. Up and down, your trailing caresses growing slower with each pass. It’s going to drive him insane.

“Please, baby, fuck—” He groans your name as you pick up the pace a little. “Take ‘em off. Take ‘em off, sweetheart, please, I—”

“—Ah-ah!” You stop moving completely, giving him a reprimanding stare. “This isn’t for you. This is what I get to do. You’ve kept how many orgasms from me, hm? It’s my turn now. I’m taking what we both want from you and you’re gonna let me. Or else. Do I make myself clear, Sammy?”

He nods, relaxing fully. Later, Sam will consider how easy it was for him to accept that command— maybe he does carry too much responsibility on his shoulders. With that final submission relief floods through him. He’s given himself over to you, so that you can use his body for your pleasure. Goddamn that turns him on. The other thing that gets him going? How much you are clearly enjoying this. It’s like a whole new side of you in one aspect, and then in another it’s a puzzle piece he didn’t know you had but fits in perfectly with the rest.

You abruptly and roughly yank the elastic down. His cock flops enticingly out into the open air, too heavy with blood (on top of being too damn big) to stand up on its own. He looks from your hands tugging the boxers down just below his balls to your eyes. Your face is hovering close to him, so close that he can feel the soft whisper of air from your nose against the now-exposed veins of his throbbing erection. Your eyes flicker up to stare right back at him. Your ass wiggles a little further down his legs until you’re seated on his knees.

“You get to lay there,” You pause to lick a wet, sloppy stripe up his cock. He cries out, almost sounding pained, his whole face scrunching. You smirk wickedly, finishing the thought right as your tongue finishes its journey, “and take it. I’ll do all the work. I’m nice like that. Even to boys who’ve been bad.”

With that you drag the point of your tongue up the slit of his dick. That makes him shiver bodily, an uneven sigh evacuating him. You barely give him enough time to register that sensation before you renew the grip on his shaft and begin twisting around the head, spreading the generous slick from your salivating mouth onto him. His next cry is louder and more guttural. He strains, craning his neck to look down his helpless body at you. Your flushed face hovers near his cock, tantalizing him but not satiating him. He groans, sounding whiny in a way that makes shame flare up in him. He’s pulled out of the headspace for a moment. You notice immediately. Thankfully your hand stays on his shaft, but you sit up more.

“I love the sounds you make.” You’re lazily massaging his hard length, smirking, “I want all of them. I deserve that, don’t I? I deserve a reward for my hard work, don’cha think, honey?”

“Yuh—” He starts to answer then can’t speak as he watches a long droplet of spit fall from your perfect lips onto the tip of his cock. It oozes over him and then over your curled fingers as your fist draws upwards, torturously slow. “Fuck— goddamn it, sweetheart—”

“—What is it, honey?” You ask, your limbs ambulating sensuously as you talk, letting him spread his thighs to make room for you between them. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

He opens his mouth to answer when you just barely suckle at his cockhead. A wounded cry of arousal claws its way out of him. The warm wetness of your mouth lasts only for a moment, leaving him to groan and hide his face in his bicep, eyes squeezed shut momentarily. You hum thoughtfully to yourself, settling in on the mattress, your knees bent and tucked under you as you bow to tease his dick.

“The untouchable Sam Winchester,” You watch your hand move painfully slow up and down his cock. It jumps a little in your palm, making you smile like a cat, “if they only knew who you really are. How you like to be used.”

You envelop his dick in a hot, wet chokehold but only for a second before the spit left behind hits the cooler air of the room abruptly. A grunt makes his whole body lurch. He’s not sure if it’s to protest what you just said or if it’s to encourage you to keep going.

“Fuckin—” He mumbles uselessly, head tossing from side-to-side on his pillow. “Can’t— can’t tell—”

“—Oh, I can’t tell anyone?” You slurp more of his length into your mouth than before but you’re still just as quick to set it free again. “Can’t let the world know that Sammy likes bein’ bad sometimes, huh?”

Before he can answer you lower your mouth over him as far as you can, slowly beginning to suck. You come off with a noisy pop from how strong the suction was. You pepper kisses down the veiny side of his shaft, your lips brushing against him with every syllable you utter next.

“Tell me, Sam.” Your eyes are pools of dark, impossibly deep desire, pupils wide enough that in the low-light he can’t see the color of your irises any more. “Tell me how you’ve been bad. How you want to be bad.”

He groans as you take his cock back into your mouth and give another few pumps of sweet soaking suction. The noise is somehow even more wet and poignant when you pull off again, only a moment later.

“Fuck!” He barks, face flushed and sweaty from anticipation and restraint. “I— I—”

You smile and begin slowly jerking him off. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to get himself together.

“No,” He forces the words out even though you both know it’s a lie, “no, fuck, I don’t— shit! —I don’t want to buh—be bad. Nuh— ah! —it’s s’not— gah, fuck me.” He finishes at a lament for the sentence he might’ve gotten together but didn’t.

“Not until you admit it, Sammy,” You kiss the slit of his cock then rub the tip of your tongue through it again, just like before, “you wanna be bad, don’cha?”

He shakes his head, still not at his breaking point.

“Yes you do.” You nod, “You wanna be bad for me. I know it.”

Your cockteasing is driving him insane. You lick and suck and kiss sparingly at his hard shaft then leave him wanting more.

“Nuh— Mm!” He purrs and it’s shivery and uncontrolled.

“Maybe I should keep you like this.” You hum thoughtfully, “Strung up in my bed…” You pause to lap at the underside of his cock a few times, “Waiting for the release…”

“Unh…”

There’s an obscene wet sound as you take him into your mouth again. Each time you’ve re-engulfed his cock there’s been more saliva coating him. You mean business now, he can tell. Your head begins to bob methodically. Sam’s breath stutters at the sight of your perfect lips running up and down his cock. He mumbles more expletives, absolutely losing his grip on reality and his own agency.

“You’re— agh —fuck! You’re s… s’ goddamn—” A choked sob escapes him, his back arching and his chin raising, “—so beautiful. I— fuck! —you’re so… special.”

Much to his surprise this makes you pull off of him noisily. He groans somewhat from the pleasure of that and the anguish of losing the pressure your mouth was inducing. You’re staring up at him with a spark in your eye.

“What’d you just say, Spaceman?”

He forces himself to swallow and it looks like it takes a significant amount of effort.

“You… you’re so special.” He says shyly, “So special to me.”

The sweetest blush of adoration makes you tighten your shoulders a little like before. You’re glowing from that one simple praise. Gently, you set his cock down on his thigh. A little whimper of protest leaves him before he cuts himself off. You sit up all the way and go for the tab on your hoodie. The languid grind of the metal zipper grates his ears. He can’t look anywhere else but at your hands, his flushed, aching cock somewhere in his periphery.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen what’s under the hoodie before (several times, at this point) but the way you drag it out makes the moment feel ceremonial. You’re not wearing a bra, so there’s nothing else blocking his view as the fabric falls open. The shadows that define the curves and undersides of your breasts are so delicate. It’s like you’re skin reflects light differently than other people he’s been with— it makes you all the more enticing and special. He knows in the back of his mind that this is probably just his emotions for you clouding his perception and memories, making all the previous lovers seem distant and 2-D. At the forefront of his brain, though? He just wishes he could put his mouth on your tits. Something in his manner must give that away, because as your shrugging off the hoodie you smile seductively again.

“You wish you could touch ‘em, huh?”

He nods, lips parted listlessly. This makes you shimmer with pride.

The hoodie is forgotten somewhere near the foot of the bed. You shake your hair out a little just because you can. Your chin tilts up and your eyes slip closed, almost like you’ve forgotten he’s there waiting on you. His impatience manifests in his legs, twitching on the bed without him meaning them to. You feel this between your legs. Your head drops back down to look him in the eye. His Adam’s apple bobs with his next swallow, waiting with bated breath for your next move.

“It’s kinda funny, you know.” You watch your own hand trailing down over your shoulder, “That the man who wants me so close when he comes…”

One of your fingers lightly circles one of your nipples. Sam can see harden further right before his eyes.

“..who wants to touch every lil’ bit of me…” You bite your lip and cup both breasts, “also craves to be denied that right.”

He grunts and shifts in place. It is kind of interesting, but he’s not really in the mood for your analysis of his behaviors right now. It comes out breathless and stunted when he speaks next.

“I got a right to touch you?” He’s still present enough that he can tease a little. “Good t’a know.”

You want to sweep Sam Winchester away into a world of pleasure and he wants to let you. He’s waiting on the edge of a ravine for you to call him down into the bliss of a rushing river far, far, down below. Any joking is drained out of him when you start toying with the elastic of those cheeky lace panties you’ve still got on. Seeing his expression, you decide against removing them, instead rising up onto your knees and clambering over him again. You move slow and purposefully, much like a panther stalking its prey.

He’s straining to kiss any part of you as soon as you get close enough— one brushed to the underside of your breast, a nip to the skin of your sternum, then messy open-mouthed ones on your collarbone and shoulder —until you’re head is over his again. His lips seek out yours instantly. You try to take your time, kissing his chin and then his cheek, before just giving in to his eager lips. He kisses you like he’s been away from you for 20 years— like he hasn’t had the chance to touch you in so long that he’s scared he’s forgotten what it feels like.

The embrace is getting hotter and heavier with each kiss. Your body is slick with some sweat which makes you slide so perfectly against all of his similarly-damp skin. A hand snakes between your two bodies to lay his cock right under you. The lacy gusset of your panties grazes up and down his over-sensitive cock. He emits a choked noise into your parted lips, diving his tongue into the abyss of your perfect mouth to try and distract from the stimulation below.

“Baby—” He grunts between kisses, moaning your name wantonly, “—baby, I can’t—”

You take a firmer hold of his face, making him look you in the eye. With devastating eye-contact you begin grinding your pantie-covered pussy over his dick repeatedly. He’s trying to tell you that he’s too close but he can’t even form words. One of your hands cups his cheek so tenderly, distracting him momentarily so when the other one scratches down his chest again it’s a surprise.

You’re so special to him. He’s not sure he’s ever meant anything he’s said to any other lover more. Special. Powerful, domineering, direct, empathetic, sweet, and reciprocal— special in all the ways he’s drawn to. For a long time his body has screamed for you, singing an ode he was sure you could not hear. If he could go back he’d tell himself not to waste any more orgasms on thoughts of you and the shower drain.

Everything he wants is right here, holding him down to the mattress like the sea weighs down the ocean floor, he and the sand made to take new shape because of it. He’s been moulded to your hands— your touch like the waves that leave wrinkles in the seafloor below —and there’s no other way he’d rather be.

The sensation of the lace on his veiny, sensitive dick is overpowering. It’s too much— he can’t hold off anymore. His body bucks up off the bed, rising fast to his peak. He tries to utter your name but catching your eye makes him freeze like roadkill, unable to escape the oncoming collision.

The force of his orgasm almost feels like getting hit by a car. All of him rolls and writhes beneath you. Choked shouts of pleasure he can’t stem flow out of him as his dick twitches between your thighs. You feel that through your panties, making you gasp pretty loud as you realize he’s just orgasmed. Spurts of milky cum begin cooling instantly on his belly. When you raise your hips up enough, he can see the stain of his white spendings on your panties. It makes him groan wantonly.

You click your tongue a few times, scolding him. He knows you’re continuing the act, which he loves, but even more than that, he can see how affected you are by what just happened. Your eyes are gobbling up every inch of the scene below you, insatiable for the view. Without tearing your eyes from his faintly-twitching cock, you thumb your panties off.

“I should’a known you couldn’t hold it,” You mutter, “greedy boy, can’t help cheating me outta more orgasms— someone ought’a teach you a lesson on remaining well behaved.”

Your words are condescending but your tone is too awestruck to fully sell your distaste. He’s panting so heavily you’re a little concerned about it, but you know Sam’s very communicative in bed— if something happens that requires a pause, he’s never upset by the interruption. He’s made it so clear how much your enjoyment matters to his sexual gratification in just these first few encounters with him.

“I’m s—sorry—” His next whine is nasally, “—I duh—didn’t mean t—t’a c—cum so f—fast!”

You shake your head chidingly and position yourself to take him into your soaked core. His length lurches almost painfully between you two, overstimulated by your wet pussy grazing him. It’s a more soothing sensation than the lace was but that doesn’t make it easy to endure. The pleasure and sensation is overwhelming. His face is patchy and sheened with sweat, his hair stuck in wavy tendrils to his temples.

You cup his cheek with one hand. Right before you press it firm to his flesh, though, he feels the gentle tremor in your fingers. He forces his eyes open through the overpowering sensations, finding you staring down at him, enraptured. You’re sweaty and flushed like him, so gone off the high of inducing such pleasure in him. It’s new for Sam to be the one in the receiving-kind of role. Better late than never, right?

“You can make it up t’a me,” You whisper, bowing down to kiss his lips, your fingers tracing the underside of his jaw up to his chin. When you pull back it’s only enough to look him in the eye and continue, “don’t come until I say.”

He nods feverishly. You lay another one of those intensely-devotional kisses to his lips, still tilting his chin up where you want it. A hand snakes between your two bodies, raising his cock up and positioning the tip right at your entrance. The pressure of your kiss renews as you swallow up the tip of his aching, leaky cock. The guttural shout of a groan that elicits from him trembles you and the bed (and maybe the support beams of the Bunker, but who knows).

You sit up on him when he’s all the way seated in your heat. The blissful look on your face fills his stomach with butterflies on top of everything else. He bites down on his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood to try and smother the noise he makes at your walls momentarily fluttering. The headboard creaks with his arms tensing against the tie. You clench tighter on purpose then, making his back arch a little off the bed and his eyes scrunch shut. Your hands splay firmly on his abdomen and over his anti-possession tattoo. He’s flattened back down by your touch and made louder by the first drag of your hips over his.

“Mmm… perfect cock.” You hum, head tilting back, “Perfect for me to get off on. Perfect to squeeze while my pussy pulses. Perfect for me t’ use.”

He nods, “Yes. Jus… jus’ f’r you, honey. Made— unh! —made for you. Made to make you come.”

You lift a little on your next grind. He feels part of his cock escape your wet heat and laments the loss for only a second before you’ve taken him back to the hilt again.

You continue like this for he doesn’t know how long. Your body rolls so beautifully above his, all of your curves and joints wobbling with each forceful impalement of his cock. He’s sure he could stay here forever, watching you be pleased by him.

A lot of Sam’s life has been spent thinking of himself as bad. As tainted, as something antithetical to goodness. He’s spent all of his existence striving to feel like he’s seen as someone good, despite what fate may have wanted his destiny to be. He wants to be good. He wants to be known as good.

On most days, you do make him feel known for his goodness. Now, though, he’s faced with overwhelming proof that you like some of the urges he thinks he ought to run away from. The sensation of losing control over his body is usually terrifying. He’s hidden this part of himself from others for all of his life, afraid of how it might alter their view of him. To Sam, that faceless mob of moral judgement upon his soul feels like it could be waiting around every corner. What would they think if they knew he… wants this? Wants to be teased, and wound up, and made to admit that he does want permission to be bad in the dark? Right now, those questions are nowhere in his mind. Later, he’ll admire how he was able to forget all about his anxiety while underneath you.

One of your hands falls behind you to roughly grip the meat of his thigh. Your body tips back because of this adjustment, the light and the shadows shifting over your skin. Your collarbones are illuminated perfectly from this view. Your eyes are closed and you’re slipping one hand between your thighs as they spread further open.

He’s trembling beneath you, biting into the round of his bicep while never taking his eyes from you. His dick throbs intensely inside of you. This surely indicates that he’s closer to his second peak than you thought. With all your weight behind it, you shove all of his length into of you. The fit is so goddamn snug it’s like you, too, are changing shape because of him. You’re moving slow, though. You’re still taking your time and he’s sure he can’t wait too much longer.

“Please,” He mumbles listlessly, “puh—please, sweet—huh—heart. B—baby—”

“What?” You’re breathless but still attentive.

He’s fumbling for words, shifting through pleas and pet names and curses. In the heat of his spiral into what feels like it’s going to be an Earth-shattering orgasm, he thinks of what to do. His knee bends suddenly, startling you where you grip his thigh.

“St—uh—stop,” He pants and you only slow, “you… you gotta catch up, right?”

Your flushed features contort into a frown, your head cocking slightly. On the next sensuous roll of your hips you lean back with both hands, digging into the flesh of his thighs like the boxers you never fully took off of him. The pace is painfully slow as you give him a moment of respite to explain.

“I… I oughta stay still, hm?” He wets his lips, “You should… rub that pretty clit since I can’t, right?”

Your eyes never stray from his but one hand immediately slips over your hip and between your legs. He nods, unable to keep himself from staring at your fingers as they part your folds. The first satisfying circle rubbed into your clit makes your walls clamp around him. He stifles most of a beastly groan, putting all his focus into holding back.

“Touch yourself f’r me, honey,” He pants, barely keeping his eyelids open, “jus’ like how… how I touched myself for you.”

A visible shiver runs through you and he can feel your movements pick up on your clit.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sam doesn’t even hear himself talking anymore. He’s mesmerized by you moving above him.

Your body quakes, hand slipping down further on his leg. Your fingers dance between your folds, bringing you higher and higher. Your hips move up and down more of their own accord. Your eyes have been fighting the urge to close under such overwhelming pleasure.

“So beautiful,” He pants before a truly vicious squeeze of your cunt makes him stifle a groan into the biceps up beside his head.

“Sam!” You’re pulsing now, clearly building to your peak.

He forces himself to look at you even though he wants to do his best not to finish on the spot. When you come it’s like a waterfall of tremors, causing shudders in a wave over you. The strangled keens of pleasure claw up out of your throat. As he lays there on his back beneath you, he’s lost in you.

You’re everything then— he wants to give you everything he has. He’ll keep the world from ending again just because he needs one for you to live safely in. In that moment, a hidden side of selfishness he does not normally sense makes it clear that from now on, saving the world is for the world second, for you first.

With the next wave of pure euphoria you call out his name. Your performance is so unbridled that he can’t help himself. His cock throbs harshly inside your slick walls and then he’s coming inside of you. His warmth spreads through you and his groans of pleasure accompany yours. He’s tingling all over, shuddery in his limbs and strung out on pleasure.

“I’m sorry!” He slurs quickly, head lolling away from where he bit into his bicep. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

You seal your lips over his to shut him up. His arms strain against the tie instinctively. You pull back to look him in the eye.

“Nothin’ to apologize for.” You smirk, “But now I gotta get one more.”

He almost shouts a groan at the first roll of your hips again. Slowly, cradling his face and cooing, you build up a steady but lazy rhythm. He pants and babbles and slurs his words. His eyes can barely open at this point, his lips swollen and ruddy while his lungs labor to breathe. Luckily he has not way of conceptualizing what he must look like right now, otherwise he might shy away in shame again. One of your hands claws five new red lines down his chest.

“FUCK!” He howls, arching under you before flopping back down dramatically. “’S too much! Can’t… can’t… SHIT!”

You whine at his stream of garbled speech, holding your clit between two fingers as you pick up speed.

“Are you a bad boy, hm?!” You call over his listless noises.

His head tosses from one side to the other, “FUCK— yes! Fuck, yes I—I am!”

“You’re gonna make it up to me though. Your big, perfect dick is gonna make… make me c-come again—!”

He forces his eyes open as far as they can be to watch you ride him, your head tipping up. The overhead light is right behind you, so when you tilt back a little, almost all of your face is swallowed by the glow. Your fingers begin a light circular movement on your clit. At this point you don’t really need much more you’re so overstimulated and buzzing.

“Sammy! Babe— honey, I’m—” You’re cut off by the most beautiful choked cry of pleasure Sam’s ever heard.

You shudder and squeal, lurching forwards only to catch yourself with a steady hand over his heart. Mere minutes after achieving your first high, you crash into another. It’s almost a surprise to him when the choking pulses of your fluttering cunt bring him to the peak with you. His hips buck up off the bed one last time, so all of his cock is deep inside you when he finishes.

As his warmth floods your walls and you collapse fully onto your forearms on either side of his head. Your bodies are both still twitching and grinding through the aftershocks, but it’s all so languid now. Your lips seek his out where he was straining up towards you.

Sam’s completely wrung dry, body a little weak and trembly. With his kiss he tries to convey all his gratitude, all his love. It’s not the time yet to say it, but he’s sure now that he’s fully falling in love with you. It’s not just idle fantasy anymore, it’s so possible it’s making him lightheaded.

The two of you continue making out on the bed, one of your hands tangling into his hair. He’s completely taken with the kiss until the tension that kept his arms up above his head is suddenly dropped. You reached up and pulled the knot undone without needing to look.

Instantly his arms go around you, wrists still tied together. He takes the opportunity of freedom to press you as firmly to him as possible, smiling through his kisses as you giggle.

“Mm— you’re not gonna— mm! —even lemme,” You have to keep pausing for him to kiss you, “untie your hands— mm! —Spaceman?”

He shakes his head, looking foggy-minded. “What happened to my right to touch you, huh?”

He smushes another kiss to your lips. You laugh, your pussy tightening a little around him. His leg twitches and he groans at the overstimulation.

He yanks his lips away from yours to breathlessly chuckle, “Don’t—” He swallows, “—I can’t handle it any more.”

You smirk, caressing his cheek with your thumb. “You’re the one who’s keeping me here.”

“Mm.” He smiles smugly at you then raises his bound hands back over your head so you can undo them.

You love the way he watches you, like there’s no where else he’d rather be than right here— no one else he’d rather look at. At first you go to pull off completely but that elicits a tiny little whimper in the back of his throat. So you stay exactly where you are and untie the first of his wrists. Before you can get the second one, his hands are moving again. They slip around your back and with agility you’re completely stunned by he turns the two of you over without fully pulling out. He returns all of his softening dick into your perfect cunt when you’re lying on your back beneath his weight.

You giggle again breathlessly, reaching up to cup his face in both hands. The tie is still on one of his wrists. He doesn’t care. You guide his head down to kiss you which he does gratefully. You stir your hips one last time and he has to pull away from you with a grunt.

“I can’t,” He chuckles lightly, “I can’t go again, sweetheart.”

You laugh, “Then why’re you still in there, huh?”

As much as he’d love to play along with some kind of bit, he actually does have a reason he’s still inside you. He sits up onto his knees, running both hands down your front and watching them. They take a brief stop at your breasts and then glide down the swell of your belly to hook behind your knees. With a wrinkle in his nose and a soft hiss he eases his cock out of your passage. You moan, shivering pleasantly while momentarily distracted. He pecks you once on the lips then lays more kisses down the rest of your body until he’s just there, between your legs, watching the cum ooze out of you.

“Fuck…” He mutters, hands adjusting their hold on your thighs to spread you open more.

You sigh with a smile and tease, “Admiring your work?”

His eyes flicker up to yours, a sparkle of amusement in them but the rest of his features are darkened by lust-born possessive desires. He gave you everything he had tonight, and this is the proof. His gaze flickers from your pussy to each of your eyes and then back again.

“Yeah.” He says after a moment, a wicked smirk overtaking his face. “But by my count—”

He gathers up your legs into the crooks of his elbows suddenly, making you yelp in surprise and slide further down the bed.

“—you’re still owed one more orgasm.” He bows to kiss your stomach.

“Fuck, Sam…” You whine his name, vocals fried from all the afternoon’s exertion. Still, you relax beneath him, clearly not going to protest.

“Perfect girl,” He mutters into your flesh as he descends further, “my beautiful girl. Mine.”

He looks up as your palm slides up his cheek, resting there. He tilts his head a little into your touch.

“Yours.” You agree softly.

He turns his face to kiss the seam of your palm. His eyes remain glued to yours as he does it. One of your hands rakes through the front of his hair, cupping the back of his head. His huge hands slide around the outsides of your thighs ceremonially, massaging the flesh for a moment before one of them slips down to your core.

You whine, arch your back and bite down hard on your lower lip as he starts gently fingering the cum back into you. He leans down to lap softly a few times on your clit. His groan is perfectly in-tune with your whimper.

Lie 3: Maybe you just don’t know Sam as well as you think you do. Truth: The way you borderline read his mind is altogether frightening. He’s terrified of the day when you realize the magnitude of your power over him. It’ll be a constant vulnerability that he cannot completely shield from danger or decomposition.

Lie 4: Sam doesn’t feel the same way about you— he doesn’t want you biblically. You are just going to be his roommate and friend, he doesn’t need anything more. Truth: Everyone knows that this is bullshit and tells him so, but he’s still insisting on it for some reason. Going so far as to insist it with full conviction into your face this morning. And the kicker? Even though you know it’s not true, his refusal to alter his outward stance wounds you. He can tell. It hurts his heart to be the cause of negative feelings in you.

Lie 5: You have no idea what you’re talking about. Truth: He’s just digging his heels in now because he doesn’t want to lose the argument. It’s stupid and petty but you’re arrogant and blunt which makes him want to prove you wrong.

Lie 6: Your proximity to Sam is doing nothing to compromise his focus. He’s hardly thought about last night. Truth: Every quiet moment in his day since the second he broke into consciousness has been spent remembering last night. And now here you are inches away from him and all he wants to do is kiss you. You won’t stop looking at him like you want to suck his cock again. Fuck he wants that so bad. The look of you seeking to please him was almost as intoxicating as when he’s seeking to please you.

The last one is one he only told himself silently.

Lie 7: Sam can resist running after you when you leave the Bunker. He doesn’t need to make things right immediately— he can live with knowing he’s hurt your feelings so badly that you packed a bag and left —and it won’t consume his every waking moment. How hard could it be? Truth: The second you slam the hatch behind you, the Bunker feels like a graveyard— the air weighted and silent in a deeply oppressive manner. Sam immediately wants to go after you. The urge comes on embarrassingly fast. He agonizes over whether to go after you or not— wondering if he could catch you before you drive off —but in the end he just wastes a lot of time thinking about it. You’re definitely gone by then. So he trudges into the library and runs circles in his mind instead of running out after you.

About a half-hour after you shouted at him with teary eyes and marched out of the Bunker, Sam cannot get himself to sit still. He’s antsy in all his limbs, itching to chase after you. He doesn’t know how he can resolve this. His desire is an unstoppable force meeting some immovable object inside him. That object in the way of his wants doesn’t feel quite discernible yet. Somewhere he knows that it’s fear stopping him. It’s pure anxiety about all the things that could go wrong.

At the 2 hour mark since your departure, the first picture arrives.

He’s sitting at a library desk with a book, successfully managing to somewhat distract himself. Every time he has to look up and use his computer to translate a word from the tome though, his mind drifts and lands back on his restless feelings about you. And then his phone buzzes on the table beside him. He can see immediately that it’s from you.

It’s a closeup of your thighs, presumably in the car. You’re wearing a little skirt that you didn’t have on when you left. He can see the edge of it high up on your leg and wrinkled elegantly between the fingers of one hand. It’s a rich lavender-colored satin. There are no words accompanying the image but the message is loud and clear: You could be here. This could be your hand. But it’s not. Coward.

Sam forces himself to swallow. It’s a quarter-past noon on a Tuesday. It shouldn’t feel so dirty to be looking at such a non-explicit part of you but he feels filthy in the most intoxicating way. He forces himself to put the phone down and refocus on his work.

It’s only 10 minutes before the next picture comes through. You’re in what looks like a rest-stop bathroom. You’re posed at a sink showing off almost all of you. Calling the lavender dress skimpy is a little harsh but it’s not very shy of deserving that adjective. It’s low-cut to reveal more of your cleavage than usual, folds of the fabric draping loosely around your tits in a beautiful frame. The flared skirt just barely reaches your mid-thigh. You’re not looking into the camera, you’re studying your own reflection to make sure the pose is just right— so he can see all the skin you have out on display right now. He’s never seen you in a dress before.

This one comes with a message. His heart sinks into his stomach.

- Hi roomie! what do you think?

Sam swallows hard, trying to come up with the best response. What’s he supposed to say? “I swear to fuck I could devour you in that little outfit” or “if I were there I wouldn’t be able to help myself” or “you’re so goddamn pretty I think I hate you for it”?

He’s torn between the parts of him trying to defend against further injury to his heart and the parts that are already injured from the miserable look on your face this morning. When he denied being involved with you to Dean, you’d been unfortunately, in earshot, just outside the kitchen in the hallway. The second he saw you (out of Dean’s sight) despair filled him to the brim. And the center of his hastily-crafted web disintegrated. You were already on the defensive, so it was easy to let the conversation escalate into a fight.

When plans falls through, when systems Sam relies on fail, he can’t help feeling angry. They are supposed to be keeping him safe. At this point he’s accepted that he can’t fully make sense of the world, but what he can do is try and out-think it. It doesn’t matter if the failure results in events his actions warrant or if the web-like plan was flawed from conception, he’s still angry at his systems for letting him down— leaving him open to damage.

At the sight of that text message, his muscles tense from a rush of fury. What the hell is he supposed to say to that text, huh? What did you think that text would make him say? He decides to be nice but neutral.

• It’s nice.

He sends that one then frowns— that’s far too passive-aggressive-sounding, he thinks before adding:

• You look good.

Your reply is instantaneous.

- Thanks bestie!

He rolls his eyes at your word choice— you’re exaggerating the “friend” endearments more than usual. This probably has something to do with him insisting on remaining platonic in this relationship. Receiving it back from you is gut-churning.

- I needed that! - wasn’t sure if I could find someone who’d wanna take it off of me

Sam types back without thinking.

• Cool. Happy to help.

- Yeah I’m def scoring some tonight don’t ya think?

Another picture accompanies this text. It’s all the same as the last one but you’re in a different position, showing off your back, upper thighs, and ass in the reflection. Your lower lip is bitten between your teeth.

Sam’s jaw tightens at that. He types out the words “screw you” in response then decides better of it. He’s sure using that phrase would just leave him open to an attack of humor. Despite this secondary consideration, he’s still impulsive and reckless in his response.

• Do whatever you want.

You reply immediately.

- I wish I could.

Sam clicks his tongue angrily and rolls his eyes— he fell right into a trap of yours. Again. He doesn’t answer you. Settling back into his book, Sam gets about 5 minutes of respite before you send him another message.

He’s just managed to get back into the flow of reading ancient Aramaic (while having to translate words as he goes) when it comes through. As soon as the vibration grates the wooden table, he’s completely pulled out of his focus. He sees the text is from you and resists picking up the phone. Instead he goes to refill his coffee. The bag’s almost empty. He instinctively thinks to ask you to get some more on your next run to the store. Then he remembers.

She’s gone and I made it that way.

When he’s back in the library he can’t help himself and he picks up the phone to unlock it before he’s even sitting again. You’re in the driver’s seat of your car. It’s a closeup of your upper-torso, the shadow of your cleavage just peeking into the bottom of the frame, the delicate curves of your throat extended above. One of your hands is delicately pulling the loose collar of the dress aside to reveal the swell of a lacy scarlet bra. Sunlight streams in through the car windshield, a few spots of your skin shadowed by tiny debris on the glass.

- don’cha think I look so cute in this color Sammy? - you think it’ll get any dumb fucks to bite?

Just as he finishes reading that message there’s a new picture. This one features your hand in your lap, your fingertips gathering up the hem of your dress in a fist. Your thighs are clenched together tight, he can tell plain as day. You must be parked again— you’d never do something so reckless as this while driving. The index finger of your fisted hand rests delicately on the curve of your thigh, teasing the sensitive skin there. No words accompany this one, it’s enough on its own.

Sam’s elbow lands with a heavy thud on the desk. He puts his head in his hand and squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment. Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he comes back to the present and opens his eyes. His phone is still sitting there, face-up on the counter, just enough of your breasts showing that Sam feels nervous about Dean or Cas catching sight of it. Like the thing’s scorching hot, Sam flips the phone over onto the desk only for it to immediately buzz again. He groans almost in agony as he’s completely unable to resist picking it back up. To his utmost dismay and thrill, he sees that you’ve sent him a short video.

When the cover image is your pretty lips tight around your finger an involuntary grunt forces its way out of Sam. He presses play. Your finger drags down over both lips, letting the bottom one flop back into place sensuously. Then with that same intensional pace you delicately take the first two fingers of your hand into the dark warm abyss of your mouth. They slide past your puckered lips to disappear like some kind of magic trick. He’s unaware of himself holding his breath. The first filthy wet slurping noise you make as you suck your fingers gets cut off by the video that only lasts about 8 seconds.

He can’t help himself— or more accurately, he doesn’t know how to stop himself —so he dials your number. His chair screeches across the hardwood floor before he marches off towards an unused room down the hall. Interrupting one of the rings, you send his call to voicemail. A recording of you chirps at him to leave a message and he hangs up to try again. The same result. Infuriatingly, you text message him.

- Need something?

He grinds his teeth.

• Pick up the phone.

- bossy. - why should I?

Sam doesn’t text his answer. With forceful taps to his phone screen he dials you again. The first ring gets interrupted and your answering machine picks up. A loud growl of frustration claws its way out of his chest and echoes down the hallway.

• It’s a fucking Tuesday afternoon! • Why are you doing this to me??

- you know why. because you’ve been bad.

He’s been bad? Him?! You’re the one who’s been stealing his clothes, taunting him over text, provoking him to act without thought of consequence, tempting him to the edge of giving up his self-control. His restraint is worn thinner than a threadbare rug— the kind grandmas keep for sentimental value even though the thing is one false-step away from disintegrating.

• That’s rich coming from you.

- you saying I’ve been bad Sammy?

• It’s SAM and YES!

- you brought this on yourself SAM - all of this could be yours if you just asked for what you want

He blatantly chooses to ignore that text since the coffee-maker signals it’s done. He takes his sweet time in the kitchen, trying to not think about you. After retrieving the new coffee he marches back to the library, determined to get some work done. Reflexively he pulls his phone out of his back pocket before he sits. Somehow he didn’t feel the vibration of several more messages from you.

- gotta rest up good. it’s gonna be a long night if I’m lucky 😜 - the local dumb fucks won’t know what hit em.

What follows that message is a series of images of you seen through the mirror on a motel dresser. You’re sprawled out on a bed with covers that look like they have gulls on them. In a sea of navy blue fabric, you’re laying on your stomach, one elbow propping up your chin while your free hand takes the photos. Your legs are bent behind you, feet up in the air. You’ve changed outfits since the last exchange.

You’re wearing a low-cut white camisole and it’s pulled down enough to reveal a frankly indecent amount of the red lace bra. On the bottom you’re either wearing no pants at all or tiny shorts. He can’t really make out any of your ass or back because rolls of teal and white flannel lay rumpled over you.

So I guess she took that shirt again before she left. Great.

Almost of their own volition his eyes drift down the photo, his fingers zooming in so less of the room shows and you take up all the frame. Your breasts are squished to the bed, the cleavage between them not nearly visible enough through your arms for his liking. The pose makes your neck stretch, your muscles drawn taut. His lips should be there, he knows it.

Shut the fuck up, Sam, shut up! Stop thinking about kissing her—

This sequence of photos doesn’t really document you doing much. One of them has your head tilted to the side almost curiously, another features one of your feet hooked sensually around the opposite calf. The last image though is you kneeling upright on the bed. You’ve still got that white camisole on top, however now the rounded peaks of your breasts poke through the fabric, announcing that you removed your bra. The shorts are criminal— tiny and barely visible in this position from riding so high up the swell of your exquisite thighs. They’re a sweet shade of apricot peach. All the while, you’re still swimming in his stupid flannel. The one he watched you unbutton last night. The one that was on the floor behind you as you took his cock into your mouth for the first time.

Don’t think about that right now. Not. Helpful.

It only takes him 20 minutes of cursory internet searching to sleuth out where you are. It’s a motel about an hour and a half away from the Bunker, nothing special. It is however sea-themed (in the middle of Kansas) so that makes it easier to find. Going after you wouldn’t be hard at all, he’s already beginning to think about the logistics. He only catches himself in the middle of planning his trip— he’s working on reflex here, as if you’re someone he’s hunting —and then stops himself.

20 more minutes later he’s pacing up and down the length of the library, mind going in furious circles, his face scrunched up into a scowl. Sam needs to consider his next few moves very carefully. He doesn’t want to surrender after all your provocations. He wants so badly to prove you wrong. There’s a good few minutes straight where Cas stands in the doorway watching. Sam’s concentration remains unbroken. Dean even comes up beside Cas, exchanging a few soft words with him but still, Sam’s too deep in thought to notice them.

What he really can’t believe is your audacity. He’s enraged by it, driven insane by it, but even more infuriatingly, the thing he’s most incensed about is the thought of you out there looking for someone else. He knows it’s what he said to do— he knows he pushed you away and these are just some of the consequences that come along with that. And still he can’t keep his cool.

Sam has the moral responsibility here to not curse you with his love (and his dick). He hasn’t been inside of you yet and for some reason he thinks this might be enough to get you out of the curse. He’s painfully aware of how most of the women before you have been victim to his fowl luck. He can’t let that happen to you. He can keep suffering— what’s a little more of that for Sam Winchester?

You’re important, not just to him but to the world. You are inarguably a positive force helping others, and what, he’s just supposed to snuff that out? Why, because he couldn’t keep it in his pants? Please. He’s overcome much more impossible circumstances than that. He can’t do anything more to risk your place on Earth, what right does he have to you over everyone else? Sam might be greedy but he’s not selfish.

He’s ravenous for you the way you were for him last night. As much as Sam wants to focus on what is keeping him here in the Bunker, thinking about what’s drawing him away is equally diverting. He can’t stop replaying the sounds you made as he kissed the insides of your thighs. The feeling of you trembling and slurping and keening against his flesh echo like phantom sensations over his skin. Everything about last night was perfect. It wasn’t just physical, of course, it was also the beginning of an emotional connection that will very quickly spiral out of his control. He’s in misery from trying to do the right thing.

The only disappointment last night was that he didn’t make you come more than once. Now he might never do it again. After only a few moments trapped under your thighs, the sight of your body trembling above him, Sam came to understand an inarguable truth: he could drown in your cunt and die a happy man. He might even thank you for it.

With that in mind, he can only imagine what it would feel like to be inside of you. The thought of it— now less abstract than all the times he’s thought about your pussy wrapped around him before —makes a fierce shiver run through his bones. He knows how you feel around his fingers and against his lips quite well now. He has actual data to use in order to make educated guesses on the level of euphoria fucking his big cock into you would cause. There’s still many unknowns though. In the end all he can do is imagine the true pleasure of your soaked core around his throbbing cock.

I could know if I beg well enough.

The thought makes Sam scoff aloud. No way is he giving in like that. He’s already located you— his mind started cataloguing things in the images that he could use as context clues to find you on reflex the second each photo came through. He knows you’re a couple counties over, lounging in The Freshwater Pearl Motel. So the inconvenience of needing to track you down isn’t what makes him bristle. The problem is that finding you means you win. That you were right all along: that Sam is a liar, most of all to you.

“You have to understand, it’s not about you.” He said to you this morning.

“I can tell myself that as much as I want— you can tell me that as much as you want! —but that doesn’t make this hurt me any less!”

“It’s just not simple—!”

“—I know it’s not!” You cried over him, “Sam what the hell d’you think I am stupid? Blind?”

“No of course not!”

“Well then d’you think I’m incapable of putting pieces of information together to come to a relatively clear understanding about the history of yours I haven’t personally witnessed?”

“Of course not—!”

“—Then explain to me why this is any different? Do you think you know better than me? Better than our bodies? Because your body wants mine just as much as mine wants yours. The only person here who’s denying it is you, Sam, and I don’t understand why!”

He swallowed thickly, unsure how to respond. It didn’t matter anyhow, you kept going.

“I don’t consider you a liar generally, Sasquatch, but I’m starting to see how much you lie to me.” You shook your head once, looking down your nose at him. “You know the truth, Sam. You know what happened last night was not some fluke or because of drinking. You know it was different. And yet for some reason you’re still insisting that this can’t happen.”

His knee-jerk response was uninspiring, “It can’t.”

You pointed firmly at him, “You are the only person who thinks anyone believes you. And I’m done waiting around. I’m leaving.”

“What?!” He spluttered, scrambling after you as you marched down the hall. “Oh come on, don’t be like this!”

“Eat me!” You barked over your shoulder— “don’t be like that/this” is what losers say when a woman calls them on their shit and they get butthurt. You expect better from Sam.

“You—” He cut himself off with a huff and spread his arms, “Where are you going to go?!”

You turned to walk backwards for a few steps and shrugged flippantly, “Not sure. I guess I’ll just keep going until something stops me.”

Or some-one.

Sam’s mind supplied, unprompted. He was speeding up again. Everything got faster— his choices, his actions, his words —and he did not do a good job of stopping it. Before he knew what was happening that unwanted thought spurred him to speak.

“Yeah? Another dumb fuck like Paul?”

You were putting up a front of smugness, he could tell plain as day, but it still made his blood boil. Unfortunately that comment made you ignite with a newfound confidence.

“Maybe. What do you care.” You turned while you kept walking, “We’re just roommates, right?”

His nostrils flared with anger. You continued speaking, taking an overly-sanctimonious tone.

“I, silly little girl, don’t know as much about the world as you do, big strong man—”

“—You are so un-believable—!” Sam scoffed and spoke over you but you never stopped your sarcastic soliloquy.

“—and only you, special, chosen, all-knowing one, can understand why it’s just simply impossible to allow us—”

He growled out your name, sounding akin to a wounded predator still trying to puff up its chest.

You whirled to face him as you finished at a shout. “—to fall in love!”

He stopped dead in his tracks, a deer in your headlights, frozen and awaiting the collision. Your chest was rising and falling heavily, your eyes crazed with anger and desire. He wanted to kiss you right then.

“You do know you already treat me like we’re dating, right?” You asked aggressively, “You and I do everything that couples do, just none of the physical stuff. Or the acknowledging-it-out-loud stuff. Well,” You snorted with a cocky smirk on your face momentarily, “I guess we didn’t until last night.”

His knee-jerk reaction was defensiveness and denial. His chin shrunk into his neck and his face wrinkled in a look of semi-forced incredulity. “No we do not!”

“You wash my sheets for me! You even strip my bed now! You can tell me ‘oh well, I was washing mine so I thought I might as well do yours too’ all you want but Dean is also my roommate, who also washes sheets— I assume at least occasionally —and he doesn’t give a shit about my bed. Plus I didn’t even ask you to do that!”

Sam rolled his eyes, “Alright well that’s just for efficiency! You weren’t washing them enough, and you always hate making beds in motels, and the machines are too big to just wash one set of bed stuff, it’s a waste of water! So—!” He gesticulated animatedly, spluttering out, “—it just makes sense!”

You took a dangerous step closer to him. “And what happened last night… that didn’t make sense to you? Cause it made perfect sense to me.”

His mouth snapped shut, the factory of his brain at a standstill on coming up with a response that towed the company line while also being convincing. You reached up to poke him forcefully in the chest, holding your finger there as you delivered your final blow.

“You and I both want this. Rejecting our feelings might be due to you thinking you don’t deserve something good.” You took a shaky breath, a rare moment of weariness showing through, “But you’re not just hurting yourself here. You’re hurting me, too.” Your face scrunched up a little, not looking him in the eye any more, “And… it does hurt me. It hurts a lot.”

Sam opened his mouth to offer some kind of apology but then decided better of it. A tear spilled out of each of your eyes, more gathering at your lash line. You still retained all your dignity though. Sam wishes he could say the same. With a small nod, looking miserable like you did last night while handing him back the shirt, you turned and left.

She shouldn’t look so good walking away. It oughta be illegal.

He watched you until you were out of sight and then all the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding came tumbling out.

So now, paused amidst pacing in the library, Sam considers what he might do next. His computer is closed and charging off to the side of the desk where he was working earlier. There’s nothing here he needs to get done anytime soon. It wouldn’t be hard at all for him to reach you right now.

Will he allow himself to chase after you?

The real question is whether or not I can stop myself.

As much as you might have indicated to Sam that you would be going out tonight, the truth is you don’t have the will. You spent all day on the road meandering around until you found somewhere you wanted to stay, leaving little energy for much else. Not to mention that last night you thoroughly tired yourself out pleasuring and being pleasured by Sam’s delectable body.

You’re trying not to think about that. You’re all ready for bed, tucked in with your laptop ready to distract you and yet… you keep drifting off in your mind when you mean to pick something to watch. Every time you remember the sounds he made last night while you took him between your lips, a wicked smile shadows your features, like you’ve got a terrible little secret that couldn’t please you more. Without fail, you then remember this morning, and your expression falls.

It’s important to keep one’s expectations in-check. Unfortunately for all parties involved here, no one has done that. Neither of you. It pains you to admit that you may have hoped for too much— maybe, after all, Sam Winchester’s will to resist is stronger than all your wiles. What a damn shame.

Sighing theatrically, you resign yourself to scrolling through the endless options of streaming videos at your disposal. There’s so many to choose from and none of them sound more diverting for your mind than simply imagining Sam here with you, touching you.

It’s not really a conscious choice when you start moving a little bit on the bed. There’s a lazy roll in your hips as you get lost in the memory of last night. Sam’s big heavy hands touching your thighs like he’s trying not to shatter glass… the noises he made against your pussy as he ate you out like you were his last meal… those fingers curling inside of your warm walls, methodically studying your body to cause the most pleasure.

You whine slightly in the back of your throat, grumpy that you’re alone. Rolling over onto your other side away from your computer and phone, you let your mind continue to wander. If Sam won’t come get the job done, you’ll finish yourself off alone. You are no stranger to your own bodily desires (and fulfilling them) but you’d be lying if you said both are exactly as good. It’s satisfying to masturbate but there’s nothing quite as electric and emotional as having a partner there. Getting caught up in the reciprocal loop of pleasure with another person is what really makes the highs more perfect. You can imagine and remember what his breath felt like tickling your most sensitive areas but there’s no simulating the true feeling of someone else’s presence with you in that euphoria.

But what’re you going to do, wait around for him? Please. If the man won’t come to water then you’ll take yourself out for a swim.

You start slow, hands slipping up and down your torso pleasurably. Your palms massage your breasts, tugging up your camisole before just getting rid of the thing altogether. You’re alone here tonight, where’s the shame in getting naked? The tepid air of the motel room is still enough to start making your nipples pebble as they’re bared. You arch out of the sheets, eyes closed. In your mind you’re recalling all the details you can— the desperation in his voice, hands, and body in that bar bathroom.

If you were a different woman perhaps you’d have taken him right there. His breath labored in your ear, his chest sweaty against your back as he whispers filth and praise to you in equal measure. The thought has crossed your mind several times. You’ve been cursing your past self for letting last night end without feeling his cock inside your core. If you’d known that was the only time you’d get to interact with Sam’s dick then you would’ve taken that second load in your cunt, not again down your throat (though this too was obviously deeply pleasing for you).

As you slip your hand into your little shorts, the fabric tickles your skin. Your knuckles tingle with the memory of him so sweetly pulling your hand from his bare pec to his lips. He’s such a softie under all those sinewy muscles and controlled facial features. And even more arousing, he’s hungry for affection. Just like you.

Your movements start slow, your eyes slipping closed peacefully as you indulge. Your fingers pet gently at your clit, your body waking up due to memories of him exploring you down there. The satisfaction is building much slower than it did at the behest of his touch, but you’ve had to learn a new form of patience dealing with this guy. The pain he carries with him makes you ache— all you want to do is what you can to pamper the man. Too bad he has to be willing to let something good happen to him.

Minutes go by and you’re still frustratingly far from your peak. You sigh angrily and turn over to change positions when suddenly there’s a sharp rap on the door— three times, brisk and impatient. You know only someone familiar would knock with such entitlement. You freeze for a moment on the bed, staring at the door in surprise before the knocks come again, louder and more insistent this time. You scramble for the camisole you’d shoved off some minutes ago, fumbling it over your head as you pad over to answer. You’re trying to keep your expectations in check. It’s not working.

The door opens, shunting to an abrupt halt at the end of the chain. It’s Sam, of course, who else would it be? His head lifts from where he was hunched forwards against the doorframe. He’s got the puppy-dog eyes on full-blast as he lowers the hand he’d been using to prop himself up on the wall. He looks so goddamn irresistible right now with that apologetic little frown and you know he’s got no clue. It’s not a manipulation, it’s a moment of true transparency— him letting you in when it matters most. And fuck does that turn you on.

“Hi.” He huffs out, the exasperation returning to him a bit now that he’s face-to-face with you.

You wet your dry mouth, hoping it’s not too obvious what you were doing beforehand. “You found me.”

“It wasn’t that hard.”

“Hm.” You can’t help the corner of your mouth tugging into a smirk— that confidence looks so goddamn good on him, it’s ridiculous. You eye him over critically. “Why’re you here.”

Sam forces himself to remain somewhat calm (at least outwardly). “We need to talk.”

“Mmm…” You narrow your eyes exaggeratedly, “…that didn’t go great last time, remember?”

“For fuck’s sake—” He cuts himself off and turns his head away for a moment before turning back to you again. “I need to talk to you.”

“If you’re only going to come in here to blow my heart straight to hell then I’d rather do this through the door.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

You shut your mouth a little like a fish. “Why are you here then—?”

“—You.” He breathes before you’ve even finished the question, “I’m here for you.”

Fucking hell that makes you shiver. Unsure how to respond, you wait a moment and he continues.

“You want me to do this out here?” He glances briefly around him before looking back to you.

You’re too scared to get your hopes up but your heartbeat doesn’t listen to reason, it’s just been racing faster with each moment looking at him through the door.

“Do… what?”

He looks at you for a long moment, as if trying to assess something. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyelids flutter a little on their next blink. You swallow your nerves and lift your chin a little. “For what?”

His shoulders slump with a huff of a sigh, but he doesn’t protest any further. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m really sorry. That’s… that’s not what I want to do. Ever.”

You swallow, looking up at him cautiously through your lashes. “I don’t wanna hurt you either.”

“I know.” He smirks lightly at your small voice. Almost like he doesn’t hear himself saying it he murmurs in addition, “You’re so good to me.”

You blink in surprise. “I certainly try to be.”

A gorgeous, crooked grin lights up his features for a moment. You return the smile to him, relaxing a little against the doorframe.

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart.” He says so soft and earnest, then turning to jest just a little, “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me? And also to let me come inside?”

You smother one of those outrageously pleased smiles poorly, glancing down at your feet like you’re weighing your options. He can’t help the adoring expression on his face as he watches you. There’s nothing else in the world to him right now— no parking lot behind him, no other people milling around the motel, not a single world-shattering problem that needs his attention. You are the only presence on Earth as far as he’s concerned right now and all he wants is to be close to you. He knows what you might like to hear.

“Let… let me make it up to you, baby?” He leans his head against the doorframe near you, putting on his best pleading face, complete with the puppy-dog eyes that you said were your weakness.

The sound of Sam pleading makes you reel with lust. Your eyes flit back and forth between his. Part of you wants to dig your heels in— to make him suffer further —while another, larger part of you wants to jump his bones right goddamn now.

The door closes softly. Sam tries to temper his racing heart as he listens to the scrape and clank of you undoing the chain. When the door opens again, he sags with relief and lurches over the threshold with muttered thanks.

You close the door behind him but hover there, like you’re preparing to run again if needed. He rakes a hand through his hair and paces in a small semi-circle before facing you. His chest rises and falls intensely enough that it draws your focus— if you hadn’t seen his car 10 feet from the door then you might’ve mistaken this as the result of him running a long distance to you. As he takes in the full state of you Sam notices a very damning detail: your shirt is on inside-out. He takes into account your mildly-frazzled hair and the heat flushing your exposed skin and he wonders how you’ve been entertaining yourself alone.

“Did I… interrupt something?” He quirks a brow.

You blush fiercely, crossing your arms high enough that your tits pop up a little. “That’s none of your business.”

He takes a step closer to you. Breathlessly he can’t help asking, “Were you thinking about me?”

You side-step the question, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“And right before I got here?”

You shrug a shoulder, feigning ambivalence, “Maybe.”

He comes to a halt in front of you. You’re standing still, chin raised to look him in the eye, arms still crossed. Sam’s knuckles graze down the outside of your upper arm— a barely-there touch that makes goosebumps rise on your skin.

“But… maybe I was thinking about Paul.” You smirk wickedly.

He spares a single breathless chuckle for that comment, shuffling a bit closer to you, all up in your space. Very delicately, he cups one of your cheeks. Without hesitation you lean into his touch. The arms still crossed in front of you brush up against his shirt. His other hand comes up to caress the other cheek, all wonder in his starry eyes as you close yours delicately. He’s enraptured by watching you slowly melt beneath his fingers. The part of him that speaks for his fear thinks he shouldn’t be letting this get so achingly personal— it’s dangerous to indulge in something like this —but the intimacy is unavoidable. And he doesn’t want to avoid it any more.

“I’ve been… I’ve been starving myself for so long.” He speaks softly, only for your ears to hear, “I didn’t even know I was doing it until… until you came along.”

You hum in response, the intonation questioning in invitation for him to continue. His fingertips skate along your hairline, examining all of your face in his reverent hands.

“Being indulgent is what led me down the path of ruin before. When I was… in my twenties. I was… I was reckless. And selfish. And stupid. I haven’t felt those things in a long time.” He cups both cheeks in his hands, making you open your eyes again. “It felt like maybe… if I didn’t give in… then maybe… that was something I could keep under control. There are a lot of things I can’t do that with but me I can control.”

You nod solemnly in understanding, not daring to interrupt and hoping desperately that he keeps holding your face like it’s the most meaningful thing in the world to him.

“You… do things to me. Things I’m… I’m not too proud of, honestly.” He swallows, “But you like it. When I feel wild and… like I’m speeding up, you don’t tell me to stop. I keep waiting for you to rip the rug out from underneath me but… you don’t.”

You shake your head softly, not daring to disturb his hold on you.

“The more I indulge… the more I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to a wormhole. I don’t know what’s beyond that event horizon and…”

You wait for him to finish and when he doesn’t you offer, “And that scares you?”

He nods a few times, looking down at his thumbs resting on your chin. One of them inches up just slightly traces the swell of your lower lip. As if catching himself getting distracted he forces his eyes back up to yours.

“I haven’t let myself want in so long. Anytime I got close to that feeling I… I ran away. But not… not with you. I couldn’t run. It was like if I ran away from you then I would be missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime: getting to be near you. I couldn’t squander that. So I got us both stuck in limbo.”

Your eyes are so full of awe as you look up at him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to receiving that expression from you.

“It’s been years since I… wanted to love someone.” He says at a mutter, “Wanting another person at all in like, a real, serious, emotional capacity felt… unrealistic. I thought I should just accept… that I missed my chances for that. I got used to being numb. I chose being numb. So I… I forgot how overwhelming it feels to…”

He can’t quite finish the thought. He’s not sure if it’s his mind thinking that speaking aloud his feelings for you explicitly will invoke a jinx, or his body just being out of practice with touching someone like this that he cares so deeply for. Those thoughts are distant, though, like they’re all the way at the other end of a football field, too far off to be heard clearly.

“I understand that.” You say after a moment, “It can be overwhelming. To want something is risky. …Is that really what it feels like to you? Like you’re deciding whether or not to jump into a wormhole? We have no way of knowing where you’ll end up.”

He nods, feeling helpless under your focused stare. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smile sadly at him, reaching up to trace some hair behind his ear. It immediately flops back to where it was but you don’t mind, you just cup the side of his face tenderly and bring him down to you. His forehead bumps gently into yours. It’s like they’re magnetic, him stuck to you— like he never wants to be apart.

“If…” He winces, eyes squeezing shut as he forces the words out, “…if something happened to you because of me, I… I’d never forgive myself. You understand that, right?”

You nod, slow and solemn to show you’re taking his worry seriously. “I do. And I want you to understand,” You pull back only enough to look him in the eye, “that I will fight tooth-and-nail for you. I will come back to you over and over if you let me. I won’t make promises that I don’t know I can keep, but… you’re home to me now. I’m home when I’m with you.”

That damn near makes his heart stop. He’s stunned only for a moment before he bows his head to capture your lips. You respond immediately, arching up into him so all of your beautiful body presses into all of his. Gratefully, his hands loop around your waist and keep you there. He kisses you so thoroughly, interspersing deep, wet ones with languid pecks.

Home. He’s your home? Who knew that’s all he’s ever wanted to hear from someone. From you. He who has never had a home at all is where you feel your most safe.

His muscles feel like they’re on fire with the urge to get closer— to become one with you. It’s like now he needs to prove that it’s true. Since you’re already warmed up, your patience is lacking. Your hands are demanding but still loving, asking him between passionate kisses,

“Do you want this, Sam?”

He nods against your lips, pulling back only far enough to look at your face, “I want you so bad I think it might be driving me insane.”

The effect those words have on you is instantaneous. Your gently parted lips tremble with your next exhale, eyes big and unblinking at him. For once, you’re stunned into silence at his admission. It’s not only the words, it’s the feeling that overcame him as he said them. And all those times when he felt an ego boost from resisting you? None of them hold a candle to the one he gets when he sees you react to that.

Here it is: the beginning of the end. It’s all going to shit after this— there’s no walking back.

One voice says in Sam’s head. After a moment he thinks in reply:

Screw that. I want this. I want love. I want it more than I fear it.

“Let me in, Sam. Tell me what you want. I’ll do everything I can,” You whisper into his parted lips, “it’s just you an’ me here, honey. This is just for you and me. No one else.”

The pet name, the intimacy callout, and everything else about that makes him unable to subdue a choked grunt. His eyes squeeze shut and his forehead presses firmly into yours. You tilt your chin up like you might slot your lips against his but you don’t.

Your voice is a little too revealing as you murmur, “Tell me you want me again, Spaceman.”

He shudders at that. “Fuck, I want you.”

“How bad?”

“More than I want air.” He says before crushing his lips to yours.

You inhale sharply through your nose, accepting his kiss with enthusiasm. You guide him backwards and he assumes it’s towards the bed. You kiss and tug and press all the way there. When the back of his legs meet the edge of the mattress he locks his knees to stay upright, continuing to kiss you for a long moment. He groans low in his throat when you grind your hips up against his semi-hard cock. Between breathless, rushed kisses you and he speak.

“Are you gonna let me— unh —have it all, tonight, Sam?” You almost whine, your impatient hands fumbling with the first few buttons of his flannel.

“Fuck!” He growls, ripping his jacket off as you work. “Yes. Anything. Need’ta— mm!” You nip a little at his throat unexpectedly, “—I need’a make it up to you, right?”

You nod almost feverishly against him, his hands fondling up under your shirt.

“You’re shirt’s on inside out. You know that, right?” He smirks, kissing you again because he just can’t get enough.

“You’re about to take it off of me, what does it matter?” You giggle a little. As if your words were his cue he yanks the camisole over your head.

It’s gone the second it’s off of you. You’re entranced with Sam’s face as he takes in your breasts. His hands reach up to cup each of them gently. A purring moan comes out of you at the warmth and sheer span of him. He bows his head, kissing the tops of them a few times each. Getting lost in the moment Sam goes to sit down on the bed which would be a more comfortable position for him to continue paying attention to your breasts. You hooked your fingers through his belt loops at some point though and now you use that hold to jerk him upright.

A surprised and almost disgruntled noise leaves him and he pulls back to look at you. The seam of his jeans dug up into his crotch, something he’s never felt before. He kind of liked the feeling, to be honest. And he wants to know why you did it— what will you ask of him next? You beam and press a quick but wet kiss to his mouth. You only pull back far enough to meet his eye, your lips still brushing his.

“You are not getting on that bed with a single piece of clothing still on, I mean it.” Your voice is domineering but your face is flushed and so happy.

A lopsided grin brightens his features and he nods, “Okay, bossy. Same for you, though.”

“Deal.”

“Do we need a condom?”

You meet his gaze with pupils blown wide, “I’ve got an implant.”

Sam curses under his breath. “Still, do you… want anything?”

You thumb your panties off over your hips and then let them fall down your legs to pool around your feet. “No. I wanna feel all of you. Bare.”

Holy fuck she’s really trying to kill me graveyard dead.

You both shed the last of your clothing. His eyes are glued to you like everything else he’s doing is through pure muscle-memory because he needs all of his brainpower to take you in. He plops down on the bed and watches you turn out one of the lights, so comfortable in your nakedness. You’re not shy in front of him and that really does something for him. That you feel safe around him. That you want him to see you fully, as you truly are.

Absently he scoots up to sit against the headboard. You turn and catch him staring.

“Like what you see, Sasquatch?” You bend over a little where you are, tentatively shaking your ass and thighs towards him. Your cellulite wobbles so perfectly it makes his cock throb harder than he thinks it’s ever done before.

“Fuck—” He cuts himself off, hand leaping to his dick instinctively. “—get over here.”

You walk closer but at a snail’s pace. “What’s the magic word?”

He sighs dejectedly at you while his eyes are still clouded with lust. “Really?”

You stop just out of his reach and nod, your hands folded behind your back. His hand squeezes his cock and releases rhythmically, not yet moving up and down.

“Please?” He grumbles.

You pout at him, lower lip jutting out in a criminally-sexy manner. “Say it like you mean it?”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a heavy swallow. Staring into your eyes with all the walls down, he tries again.

“Please, baby. Please come over here.”

You beam at that but you don’t move. He groans quietly in frustration and throws his big, long legs back over the side of the bed so he’s sitting on the edge facing you. His hand drifts back to his dick but his eyes stay on you.

“Please, sweetheart.” He pants, “Put me outta my misery.”

That does it. Your body almost floats forward the last few steps and down into his lap, laying a big kiss on him which he returns gratefully. He forgets all about his cock the second he has you to touch again. His wide palms glide up your sides and then down your back, tugging your torso closer to his as you kiss passionately.

He can feel the heat coming off of your pussy where it’s hovering over his cock. He lifts the thing up and you startle a little when his tip brushes through your folds. You pull apart and he looks up into your face with such veneration.

“You’re so goddamn wet,” He pants listlessly, “you were touchin’ yourself, huh?”

You keen a “yes” and go to kiss him again when his hold tightens a little like he wants you to pay attention to him. With all seriousness on a sweaty, needy face, Sam forces himself to speak evenly.

“You sure about this?”

The two of you are buck naked, genitals just barely touching already without a barrier and he’s still stopping to ask one last time. You beam and pull him up to kiss you with one hand. He closes his eyes and cranes his neck to kiss you back with equal enthusiasm. His lips break their seal from yours with a heady grunt— your free hand is on top of his on his shaft. He whines almost pathetically and you devour it with your next kiss.

You and he both guide his cockhead to your entrance. Looking each other right in the eye, he breeches the strong ring of outer muscle and then begins sliding into you. A choked, broken cry stutters out of you at his intrusion. He’s trembling from the exertion of keeping himself still as you adjust. When your ass rests fully on his thighs, you let out a long, blissful noise, head falling back. He groans in response to you then again with more force when your walls tighten around him for a moment.

“Fuck! You feel so perfect,” He has both arms wrapped tight around your middle, face nuzzling up your chest to your throat, “feels s’ perfect, never wanna leave.”

You clench viciously at that, twin keens filling the room. You begin rolling your hips and then falter— he’s so fucking big it feels like you might burst. And you kind of want to. You can’t help a petulant little whine when it’s too much to start moving yet.

He coos sweetly in sympathy against the underside of your jaw, “I know, sweetheart, I know. You’re doin’ so fucking good though. So fucking good.”

Your fingers grip him by the roots of his hair and pull him up to your lips. Your walls keep pulsing around him unexpectedly because you can’t stop luxuriating in the feeling of his perfect cock all the way inside of you. You’re so fucking wet that you can hear it with every minuscule movement either of you makes.

“Fuck, baby,” He groans, “fuck, you’re so goddamn tight I’m not gonna last long.”

You smile wickedly, “You better.”

At the sound of your voice now combined with your wet pussy choking his cock he lurches a little.

“Anything. Anything for you, anything.”

Your hips roll real slow and gentle to begin with. This practically drives Sam to the brink of insanity. He can sense his filter slipping away with each movement and he hopes he doesn’t say anything you dislike. He leans forward to lick a stripe up your nipple.

“So fucking perfect f’r me, baby.” He pants between your breasts, cupping and massaging them with one hand while the other slides down to grab your buttcheek. “Fuck, it’s like you were made for me.”

“Mm!” You toss your head back and emit a full-throated whine at that. Your hips lift off of his about an inch to begin with.

“You like that, hm?” He takes ahold of your waist with both hands. “You like bein’ all f’r me? Full of me?”

You force your head upright and nod. “Yes, Sammy.”

He thrusts up into you for that. You shudder and cry out in bliss. The two of you begin moving faster and with more rhythm. You’re pulling far up off him then dropping back down like you missed his dick inside you. You go to touch yourself before he rushes to beat you to it. One hand guides you by the pelvis, the other slips between your bodies to your clit. This prompts him to look down for the first time.

Sam had been so entranced by your face as you fucked him that he hadn’t taken time to appreciate the sight of his cock slipping through your soaked folds. He begins rubbing circles on you in sync with your hips’ rise and fall. You notice him watching his thickness disappear and reappear into you. You lean back a little to give him a better view, propping yourself up by gripping his knees. He looks up just in time to watch you begin working towards your climax. Your tits bounce with each movement, your eyes fluttering as they struggle to stay open.

“You’re gonna come f’ me, aren’t you?” He rasps raggedly, “So pretty baby, I need it. Need’ta feel it. Come, pretty girl, come for me.”

You tremble as your muscles strain to simultaneously coil and move. One of your hands grabs his hair desperately. His hips speed up under yours, his fingers cramping as they rub feverishly at your clit. Your body jolts with every thrust and your hand fists around the roots of his beautiful hair. Your head falls back as ecstasy overtakes you.

“Fuck!” He almost shouts, nose wrinkling carnivorously as he looses himself in you. The arm around your waist reaches up to guide your head upright. “Look a’ me, baby, c’mon.”

A long whine escapes you as you try your damndest to do as he asked. Your eyes won’t stay open for long, each cry is stuttered from his strong thrusts up into your heat.

“C’mon, you can do it, sweetheart,” He pulls your face close so it’s only inches from his, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, goddamn it— unh! agh! —need to keep you like this— unhhhh! —forever. Mine. Oh-only for me— fuck!”

You shatter completely over him, body shuddering, lungs heaving, listless cries pouring out of you. The voyeur in him is foaming at the mouth as he watches you come undone. Even as your walls are still pulsing around him and he basks in the glow of your orgasm, he wants to see this again.

He feels your perfect tightness flutter twice more before you unexpectedly straighten up onto your knees. His cock slips from you and lands in his lap with a wet plop. A pathetic-sounding whine of pure frustration claws its way out of him, his hands tightening on you so you don’t go any farther. Your chest slumps forwards into his, your face stuffed in the crook of his neck. Furiously with little coordination, you begin kissing every inch of his skin that you can.

“Fuckin— Jesus fucking christ, sweetheart,” He growls, “that’s just how I pictured it.”

“Huh?” You’re loopy and just barely hanging onto your own reins.

“In the motel, baby,” He takes your face so tenderly in both of his big hands. Breathless and cock throbbing he kisses you like you’ve given him something he didn’t think he’d ever get to have, “I imagined you doing that to me.”

You keen and kiss him back, throwing your arms around his neck. He falls backwards onto the mattress and pulls all of your bare body to straddle him, your knees on either side of his ribs. He can’t help himself. As the two of you kiss, one of his hands slips between your thighs from behind. His fingers gather up an obscene amount of your wetness and then he wraps his soaking hand around the head of his cock. You purr in pleasure into his mouth as you feel the brush of his wrist with every up and down movement.

“Impatient, are we?” You inquire, kissing him even sloppier than before. One hand cradles his chin, guiding his face to be exactly where you want it.

He nods, kissing you back, “Want to finish. Where— fuck —where d’you want me to come, pretty girl?”

In response you smush your lips to his and inch your butt back a little more until he’s bumping into you with every pull upwards.

“You know where I want it, Sammy.”

“It’s Sa—”

“—You wanna fill me up or what?” You interrupt, eyes dark. “Make me yours? Completely yours? Fuck your cum int’a me?”

“Fuck, shut up.” He’s half amused, half completely gone, “Can’t think straight when— unh —when y’ say things like that.”

“Put it in, Sam.” You say, almost stern. “Only obedient boys get what they want.”

An undignified choked noise makes him crane his neck up to kiss your lips again. Between you, he drags the head of his weeping cock over your clit then thumbs it back into your heat. Your firm hands shove him flat to the bed as you steady your stance above him. In this brief lull, he notices the pattern of the room’s cheesy wallpaper. It’s starfish, conch shells and seahorses. Despite the moment, he snorts a little in amusement.

“Why do you think—” He stops when you smudge a kiss to his lips. You begin grinding against him, making his breath catch and hitch as he finishes his question, “—this place is called ‘freshwater’ pearl, when all the— shit! —decor is— uhh..! —sea-creatures?”

You can’t help a genuine giggle at him, getting distracted from his cock by his adorableness. Beaming, you cup his cheek and bend down closer to him.

“That’s what’s on your mind right now?”

Poorly, he smothers a grin, “Some guys think about baseball, some guys say the alphabet backwards—”

“—and Sam Winchester comments on interior design to keep himself from coming too quick?” You bite your lip but can’t subdue a girlish noise of amusement.

“Maybe.” He smirks back at you and thrusts upwards, fully engulfing himself into your tight, wet heat once more.

His hands smack against your ass as he grips both cheeks. You startle a little, blushing fiercely. One of his palms glides up the curve of your spine to press in between your shoulder blades. You get the message and bend down to go back to kissing him.

“Need’ta see it again, baby,” He whispers into your mouth, his legs bending to plant his feet firmly on the bed, “I need you to come again.”

You whine at his first firm thrust into you with the new strength. Sam can’t help getting entranced by the way your body wobbles and bounces with each of his movements. You are totally taken with him right now, not a single other thing on your mind.

“You love this, don’cha?” He groans, “You love bein’ all f’r me, right baby?”

You keen high up in your throat and nod vehemently, your eyes squeezed shut.

“Nobody else,” He’s babbling at this point, not even listening to himself, “all for me. Only me. My perfect— fuck! —perfect fucking girl.”

Your body wiggles closer, your hands tangling into his hair, forearms resting on either side of his head. He can see over you now. He’s mesmerized by the sight of his hands on you— the way they span your flesh, covering every bit they can like he wants to keep all of it for himself. Your thighs, ass, and stomach all bounce with each of his thrusts. The only reason your breasts don’t too is because you’ve got them smushed to his chest.

“Thought about you…” He moans, “thought about you for so longgg…” The word gets dragged out when you clamp tighter around his cock momentarily. “Wanted you, wanted this—”

He cuts himself off with a grunt of effort, wrapping both arms tight around you. His thrusts speed up. The most beautiful, cracked wail of pleasure escapes you, muffled only when you hide your face under his chin. But Sam won’t have any of that.

Without warning he flips the two of you over. Your body bounces a little on the bed, immediately flattened by him blanketing you with all his beautiful tanned skin. Your fingers card through his hair, your lips kissing his forehead as he looks down between you two. He’s almost frantic to return his cock into you. When he does you both groan in tandem, each of you biting your lower lip in satisfaction at the other’s sound.

“I could listen t’you moan all night,” You whisper up at him, breath hitching audibly when he shoves all of his hard length into you. Your brows knit together, lips parting with your sounds, “all I wanna… all I wanna do… I just wanna make you happy.”

That makes him release a guttural shout of a moan. Eagerly, he kisses your lips for a brief moment before pulling back to rest his forehead on yours. Your bodies dance together, meeting in the middle in perfect counterpoint.

“Fuck, I love you.” He almost sobs between thrusts, “I’m such a fuckin’ idiot—”

You shake your head firmly at that, fingers fisting his hair. You don’t like it when he’s mean to himself— you can be a little mean to him, but lord help anyone else that even tries. Your neck muscles strain as you crane up to kiss him messily.

“I’m never letting you go,” You pant, “you’re mine now, Sammy,”

He nods and kisses you with more tongue. You shudder and he slips a hand between your writhing bodies to pet your oversensitive clit. You cry out in agonizing pleasure, trembling under his ministrations. It’s almost like he’s dreaming, like he can’t quite control all of himself. And you know what? He doesn’t want to control himself right now.

“I’m yours.” He admits, “Shit, sweetheart, I’ve been yours.”

You absolutely tremble with that.

“Come f’r me?” You force your eyes open as much as you can, trying to look pleading enough, “C’mon, honey, come. Show me— uh! —show me who I f-fuckin’ b-belong to—!”

Sam’s legs draw in to kneel under you a little, your hips raising up so he hits a new angle and it’s easier to spoil your clit. He catches sight of his cock drawing in an out of you and he forces himself to just focus on the moment— all the sensations he’s feeling right now. So he can savor every one.

His veiny, throbbing cock slips in and out of you, covered in your slick. The two of you reek of sex and fluids, your skin smacking together and echoing off the ugly wallpaper. Your eyes can’t stay open but you’re trying real hard for him. You’re so far gone down the rabbit hole of euphoria that you don’t even hear yourself begging— later, you’ll staunchly deny that you would ever do such a thing (only, of course, to encourage him to prove you wrong). His hands dig into your flesh, pulling the skin and causing shadowy depressions around each fingertip.

“Come, Sammy, please,” You tremble, “come for me.”

It’s too much, he can’t hold off anymore.

With a knee-jerking howl of a moan, Sam starts coming. His movements are erratic and sloppy, his strategy and method totally gone. You force your uncooperative eyelids up out of the way to watch the bliss wash over him. His body shudders, his hair framing his drawn features, his lips parted by the uncontrollable noises of him riding out his orgasm. He’s still got fingers pressing down into your clit but he’s not moving them too much. You wouldn’t expect that to be enough but it combined with the vision of him coming apart above you is too erotic not to come one last, less intense time.

The look of wonder on his face when he notices your walls pulsing again makes your heart swell.

“Fuck, did you come again f’ me, pretty girl?” His voice is shot, ragged and gravelly.

You nod, hair scratching softly on the bedsheets. He emits a long, pleased hum, letting more of his weight rest on you. He keeps his cock inside you, not letting anything come out yet. His mouth begins peppering your neck, collarbones and chest with sweet, barely-there kisses as you both settle. You shift a tiny bit beneath him, and there’s an obscene squelching noise from the combination of slick and cum between the two of you. Still kissing you, one of his hands tenderly draws one of your legs up against him. You and he both moan as he relax into this position.

He’s wondering if you want him to pull out when your other leg comes up to wrap around his waist and trap him there. Not like he’s complaining. Hair ruffled, face patchy with blush and sweat, Sam lifts his head to look you in the eye. A blissful, listless grin lights up your features and he can’t keep himself from bowing down to lay a loving kiss on your lips.

“That…” You murmur against his lips between lazy pecks, “…was spectacular.”

He hummed a laugh, “I aim to please.”

You beam, biting your lower lip. “I know. Just didn’t know how much you… uh… do that.”

The sentence doesn’t make a lot of sense but it’s enough to make you both share a soft chuckle. He brushes his nose back and forth over yours. He stops to study your face for a long moment. One of his hands grazes his knuckles down the plane of your cheek, then the same hand extends a fingertip to brush some hair aside.

“Did you mean it?” He asks later, once you’re all cleaned up and snuggled together under the covers.

You lift your head off his shoulder, the arm around his middle drawing up to smooth down his chest hair. He’s almost a little embarrassed that he needs to ask this but… he can’t stop thinking about it.

“I meant all of it.” You murmur to him, voice warm like cooling embers. A hint of shyness comes across your features, “Did… did you mean it? When…” Your eyes flicker away for a moment then look back to him, “…when you said you love me?”

His heart skips. The fear he’d been able to ignore for some time has been creeping back slowly into him. He wants to tell the truth though, so he nods.

“Yeah.”

You blush immediately, a coy look on your face. He reaches up to cup your cheek again, feeling the heat there like he’s always wanted. You turn your head a little to kiss the seam of his palm. Almost in a trance, he finds his mouth moving for him.

“Who do you love?” He’s a little unsure of this being okay for him to ask so directly.

You lean up and kiss his lips, languid and loving. When you pull back to look at him, there’s a mischievous spark in your eye.

“So there’s this guy I just met named P—”

Sam grabs your head and smashes his lips back to yours. He pours everything into this kiss: his laughter, his love, his desire, his need— everything. He kisses you with everything he has because he’s starting to realize you are the most important thing he has. Still kissing him sweetly, you lay all of your weight on top of him, the two of you nose-to-nose. You drag your cheek affectionately against his stubble, smiling at the ticklish feeling. Finally, you pull back to look him in the eye.

“Just kidding.”

He snorts, “I would hope so.”

You beam, pecking his lips one last time. Spreading one hand over his cheek you study his features like you’re a preserver looking at the next piece of art you have to care for. One thumb runs over his brow, the muscles immediately going slack under your touch.

“I love you, Spaceman.” You whisper, “I love you.”

He can’t hide the way that makes him swell with joy. He tries to stifle it, turning to humor.

“So, Paul’s a thing of the past?”

You frown and cock your head to the side. “Who?”

He grins and kisses you, your giggles melting into his skin, your warmth blanketing him.

The point is that he’s been white-knuckling his way through the discomfort of this position in his seat since the last time Dean stopped to take a leak. That was at least two hours ago at this point.

Sam’s pretending he’s reading. Well, he actually is doing some reading in the front seat but mostly he’s sneaking glances at you. This is the most of your legs he’s ever seen. It’s making him struggle to focus. He’s consumed by the idea that this opportunity is limited. So he forces himself to ignore his own discomfort in exchange for the chance to drink up every bit of you he can— he’s not sure if it’s his last opportunity.

A loud voice in the back of Sam’s mind is just repeating:

This is pathetic. If anyone else knew what you were doing they’d think it’s pathetic too.

Unfortunately for that constituent of his brain, most of him is consumed with the need to devour your image. He’d kind of be stupid not to take this opportunity— you’re sitting in one spot for hours, perfectly within arm’s reach and all of you visible to him. He can’t help it. He takes the opportunity. Again and again, greedy for you.

He’s also motivated by the notion that this might be all he gets. Who knows if you’ll ever wear these shorts again. And what does this lore in his lap matter right now? It’s not like he needs it, he’s just reading to take up time in the car. Observing you makes the car ride go by much faster. He swears he’s losing his sense of time, like the boring hours stuck stiff in the car pass by effortlessly, sore back be damned.

You have his attention. You always have some of his attention but the amount has gone up exponentially over the last few weeks. After the events of the last 48 hours though it’s starting to get crippling. He’s not going to be able to hide this. He begs silently that Dean doesn’t break his promise and bring up Sam’s feelings for you again.

You talked to him this morning. He had to fully wake up, get ready, and drink at least one cup of coffee before he could face you though, so Dean went to wake you up. He doesn’t know what happened last night exactly but he knows enough to go easy on Sam about it. When he came back in he heaved a dramatic sigh, shaking his head woefully about something as he closed the adjoining door. Sam looked up from where he was packing his bag and frowned.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” Dean shrugged as he tucked his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “It just felt pretty clear that she was disappointed in which Winchester woke her up. It’s tough to face rejection this early in the morning.”

Sam flattened his expression into a furious bitch face, not amused. Dean smirked at his own joke, unfazed by Sam’s attitude.

“I’m just sayin’, that’s all.” Dean said as he wandered off to finish getting ready.

Sam ground his teeth and didn’t answer that. His movements were much more angry as he finished packing.

When you finally found him alone, he was sitting on the passenger side of the Impala with the door open, his long legs stretching out while they still could. Trying to get a little more use out of the motel’s free wifi, he squinted at his laptop screen, fully locked in to his task. You stopped in front of him with your bag. He lifted his head instinctively and his eyes stuttered at the sight of your legs— so… so much of your legs.

Fuck my life, she must be trying to kill me.

“Morning.” He said reflexively.

‘Morning’? That’s what you’ve got, Sam? He kicked himself silently.

“Hey.” You looked a little nervous, glancing bashfully down at your shoes with hunched shoulders. “I’m, uh, I’m really sorry about last night.”

Sam’s skin crawled at the mention of the incident. “It’s fine—”

You pushed back on that with way more force than he was expecting.

“—No, c’mon, Sam. I should’ve waited before opening the door, it was a dick move.” You spoke with such genuine passion and then your eyes sprang wide as you registered what you said. “Shit— uh, I didn’t mean— uh, I just meant that—” You closed your eyes because you were getting overwhelmed and needed to focus only on talking.

“—It’s really fine—” He tried to interject but you kept going, eyes still closed so you got the words exactly right.

“—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear.” You swallowed and cautiously opened your eyes.

Sam had not been expecting such genuine care on behalf of him in this situation. He was sure his inability to control himself was what led to the events of last night but you clearly came to a very different conclusion. It was kind of stunning— he couldn’t really figure out how you were the one saying sorry.

“Well, uh, thanks, but…” He narrowed his eyes a little, “…shouldn’t I be apologizing to you?”

You frowned at him, like that idea was absolutely preposterous. “I’m the one who barged in on you.”

“Yeah, no, I know, it’s just that, uh,” He scratched the back of his neck, his other hand slowly closing his laptop. “I dunno I kind of feel like I exposed myself to you. Like, without your consent.”

Your expression flattened. “Sam, you know you don’t have to moralize every situation to make yourself out as the bad guy, right?”

He huffed out a laugh.

You smirked, “Besides, I didn’t see anything but those thunder thighs. And I’ve seen those before.”

He snorted then, hoping he did well to hide the stupid fluttery feeling that kicked up in his chest.

You smiled kindly at him then, “For real though, I’m sorry about invading your privacy. I promise I will wait for an answer when I knock in the future. Are we good?”

He felt the stupid, shy grin on his face as he nodded and told you he accepted your apology. You beamed at him and then kind of did the thing where you popped up on your toes. It was just a little— he would’ve never noticed you doing it if he didn’t already pay such close attention to you.

She’s so cute. She has to know it, right?

You can’t be so fierce and sweet by accident. You must be using it on purpose to manipulate him. That was one thought he had. Another one was:

How unfair is it that she knows my thighs well enough to be unbothered by the sight of them, meanwhile I’ve never gotten to see hers? Circumstances really can be so cruel.

Dean came out from a final check of the motel room and moved to unlock the trunk. You smiled brightly at Sam one more time, stooping a bit to smack one of his knees as you walked off to stow your duffle. He felt the residual smile on his face before he noticed he was staring at your ass. He shouldn’t be looking at you that way— he’s no better than any of the sleaze-bags he catches leering at you in public. Sam’s supposed to be better than that. He wants to be. He pretends to be. He has to be. Otherwise what right does he have to be mad about others not doing the same. Swallowing thickly he looked back to his computer.

The Impala lurches over a sizable crack in the road. Sam’s right leg muscles engage to plant his foot more firmly to the floor, bracing to hold his body in position. The bouncing caused by these shoddy backroads make your thighs jiggle so decadently. He’s gotta stay exactly where he is to see the most of that he can. Whatever evolutionary step led to cellulite on thighs has Sam’s eternal gratitude.

“Alright, that’s it! What shithole state are we in, huh?! They can’t pave roads here or what?!” Dean grouses behind the wheel.

“We crossed the border into Kansas an hour ago.” Cas says without looking away from the window.

Dean rolls his eyes, “Alright, then what shithole county are we in where they can’t pave the roads?”

“Dean, I’m not a GPS.” Cas replies flatly.

You snort in amusement beside him. Sam glances up as you shoot an adoring smirk at the angel. Cas is oblivious but your appreciation for him is so sweet it’s giving Sam a toothache. He smiles a little despite himself. Then his heart skips a beat in his chest when your eyes unexpectedly flicker over to meet his. The smile you give him is different than the one you wore for Cas. Your eyes aren’t so joyful. They’re staring into him with an alluring glint he doesn’t understand. Your smile is still genuine and fond but it’s deeper somehow. The corner of his mouth ticks up at your attention on him.

Something in his face makes you smother a big smile by folding your lips inward and looking down again. He’s watching still, wishing he was allowed to touch your cheeks to feel the heat of them when you blush. He wouldn’t do it right now of course, that would be a moment for just you and him. Sam doesn’t want to share what you two have with anyone else; only he and you have the right to experience it.

What is he, some kind of animal? He doesn’t know when he got so possessive. Maybe he’s just pent up about something else. Maybe he just needs to go get laid. But maybe not. Maybe it’s just because he’s starving for you and still has to spend almost every waking moment with you just out of reach. He’s going around in circles, wondering who in their right mind has such consuming thoughts about other people at all, let alone one of their best friends.

It occurs to him that he might not have a “right mind”, after all. As in: perhaps his mind is one of the ones that’s always broken and wrong, no matter how much it tries to grow. If Sam’s learned anything about people it’s that they’re often limited. Choices they make keep them limited. Fear of the unknown keeps them cowering away from the truth, leaving them trapped. More than anything Sam doesn’t want to be like that.

The car goes over another series of potholes and Dean curses with even more vehemence. Sam grimaces in sympathy to try and hide his amusement. Meanwhile in the back, you and Cas share a look at Dean’s expense. His brows are slightly raised as if to say: “here we go again” in regards to Dean. You snicker at his expression as Cas shakes his head softly and turns away, trying not to smile too much.

Everybody is exhausted when you get home to the Bunker. The decision to all go right to bed is unanimous. You and Sam’s rooms are in the same block of corridor so you walk together the longest. It’s the first time you two have been alone together since this morning. Your shoulders are slumped and you give him a pat as you bid him goodnight. You don’t stop shuffling on towards your room, just trudge over there like you’re already half asleep.

Sam opens his door but doesn’t go in yet. He’s got a soft adoring smile for you as you go. He knows he’s got limited time to get away with this before you’d turn and notice so he can’t hesitate long. Despite that, he’s drinking up the last dregs of you in those shorts that he can. He gets away with it, ducking inside his room with you none the wiser.

He manages not to jerk off to the thought of you tonight. It’s kind of dumb but he’s proud of himself for that. After spending the whole day giving in and indulging his perverse little mind he’s emboldened by his restraint the first time he’s left alone.

The next morning he wakes up early as per usual. He sees a note from Cas on the counter that says he and Dean went fishing. How that angel managed to wake up Dean Winchester that early and still lives to tell the tale let alone go fishing, Sam will never know. He smirks at the thought of that, thinking about how that will get you to laugh. He’s going to save that one. It takes all of that before his mind puts two-and-two together: Cas and Dean are gone which means Sam’s here alone with you.

Fuck. Me. He heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and tilting his face towards the sky.

The sinking feeling in his chest surprises him a little. He opens his eyes, now frowning. It wasn’t the typical sinking feeling of despair— at least not despair as he usually knows it. Somewhere, he just hears a voice in his head is saying: oh here we go again with this guy. Like it thinks he’s guaranteed to give in to his wants. Like it’s pulling up a chair and some popcorn while it taunts him, looking forward to being proven right.

This state of existence Sam’s currently in is simply unsustainable. He knows this. He goes for an extra long run today, doing his usual loop through the woods and down part of the main road twice instead of once. He needs the time alone to think and get rid of some of this energy.

He doesn’t listen to music when he runs. Partially because when as many people want to kill you on a daily basis as Sam Winchester, it’s just not smart to smother any of your senses in public. However he finds the noises soothing. In fact, a lot of his preferred route is dictated by the areas around his home with nice sounds. His typical route passes by the nearest bodies of water and along trails he’s flattened by himself in the woods over the years, where he never encounters anyone else. Some of the run is along a quiet stretch of road by necessity but it’s where he’s sees the most animals so that makes up for the occasional car. His theory is that since his shoes are much quieter against asphalt the animals might not hear him until he’s close. In the woods the animals would hear him cracking sticks and crunching leaves and run off long before he could know they were there. He doesn’t see any this morning.

By the end of his second run he’s feeling very calm. He’s ready to face you while home alone, now. It’s a gray, foggy day out, where the air is humid but there’s a chill to the breeze. He gulps in his last few breaths of outside air before he ducks inside the Bunker’s front hatch.

He hears you in the kitchen as soon as he reaches the top of the staircase. You’re moving dishes around but he doesn’t know whether you’re cooking or cleaning up after. His urge is to go right to the bathroom but he knows that would be suspicious to you— before last night he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking the opportunity to speak and look at you alone. Now he’s caught between his heart desiring you closer and his skin cringing away from you in shame. He can’t help it, he feels so embarrassed that you witnessed him in such a depraved state. Of course, you have no idea exactly how deep the depravity goes, which is a blessing (since no one will find out) and a curse (because he’s now got another stick to beat himself with).

Sam’s life is some never-ending joke in a cosmic prank show. It must be. That has to be why when he rounds the corner to find you with your back to him you’re wearing even smaller shorts. They’re black and there are lacy edges where spots of your skin peek through. He immediately ducks back into the hall and presses his spine to the tile with a stricken look on his face. This is preposterous. Those can’t be regular shorts, can they? Were you just wearing lingerie around the Bunker casually now? That has to be in violation of some part of the unspoken roommate contract, right? You walking around in sexy clothes casually is not something Sam could handle.

Hey, cut it out, alright? Get it together. You’ve been tortured by the Devil himself. This is nothing!

Some stupid, annoying, mutinous part of him reminds the rest that everything is relative. He’s in a different situation now, and suffering has a new day-to-day meaning. Once it was defined by endless pain, over and over, never ceasing. Now suffering is having to watch you act comfortable in your home while knowing you’re not sharing the domestic space with him in all the ways he desires. He still thinks he’s pathetic for feeling so undone and overwhelmed over this. This is mundane, sitcom shit, right?

He interrupts himself then, taking a deep breath. He has a statement he says to himself that feels logical enough to provide some comfort. He repeats it in moments like these.

Belittling the pain of my present will not undo the pain of my past.

It doesn’t honor what he went through in Hell, it just keeps the pain present. He’s grown and changed since then. He’s not going to stay limited. What he has become since the Pit has been informed by everything before it, yes, but not defined by it. Sam and Dean don’t believe in destiny. Needing to prove the odds of fate wrong is a familiar feeling for him.

Sam takes another long deep breath and then nods once to himself and attempts his entrance again.

You hear the shuffle of his shoes and glance over your shoulder. Your eyes are still a little bleary with sleep but you’re washing dishes so you must’ve been up for a little while.

“Hey.”

“Good morning.” He smiles, coming to the kitchen island. Trying to look casual he stays on the opposite side of it from you. “How’d you sleep?”

You shrug, “Fine. You?”

He smirks fondly, “Same. You, uh, saw their note?”

You nod, “Fishing, huh?”

Sam smiles softly, “I don’t know how Cas managed to survive waking Dean up that early.”

He was right earlier, it does make you laugh. You shoot a grin over your shoulder at him and put the last utensils you just washed into the drying rack and then turn off the faucet.

“You got plans today?” You ask, wiping your hands off on a towel.

“Nope. Not really. You?”

You shake your head before bending down to look under the sink for some reason. Circumstance and chance are currently dragging him around by his dick— what do you need to look under there for? He can’t tell because you don’t mention it or take anything out from under there but he does see that the shorts are cotton, not satin or— guh —all lace. He can’t help it, something stop him—

“Still haven’t done laundry, huh?” He finds himself speaking.

…goddamn it.

You let out an amused sigh, “No. No, I am instead reduced to wasting my dress shorts on a day in the underground bunker where me and my friends live.”

He chuckles lightly, “Dress shorts?”

“Yeah, you know. Dress pants, dress shoes,” You point to the shorts, “dress shorts.”

“You think those shorts are black-tie formal appropriate?”

You giggle at that, “What’re you the fashion police?”

“Psh! Definitely not.” He grins at you, “I’m just their eyes and ears on the street.”

You fake a big gasp, “You’re a snitch!”

He rolls his eyes a little, still grinning, “You are dodging the question, miss.”

“Hm?” You raise your brows like you need him to repeat himself when you both know you heard him the first time.

His tongue runs over his bottom teeth and he tries poorly to subdue a smile. “You think you could wear those shorts to a wedding and they’d let you in?”

You shrug animatedly, “Well I’m surely at the wedding of someone I know so yeah, none of those are gonna be formal evening-wear events.”

“Alright fine, you have to go to an opera or something.” Sam points to the shorts, “You think they’re letting you walk in there with those on?”

“Sam, I never claimed that these shorts were black tie formal, I just said they’re dressy!”

“Meaning what? Because I do not think any shorts are ‘fancy’ shorts.” He grins, eyes narrowed like a fox.

“They’re cute and I don’t get to wear them a lot because I actually care if they get dirty or damaged!” You narrow your eyes at him, “You have clothes like that, right? Ones for nicer occasions than hunting disgusting monsters?”

Sam opens his mouth, brows furrowed. He’s sure he’s got an answer to that somewhere, but then finds nothing.

You slip around the island and plant yourself right in front of him. “Sam. Do you own a single thing that’s just nice? Something that’s not just practical, but…” You shrug, glancing away as you think of how to word your question.

He swallows thickly. You’re not wearing a bra. He’s too aware of that, especially now that you’re so close. You tilt your head at him and study his features.

“…something you just have because it makes you feel good?”

Sam’s stunned by your question. Reflexively, he gets defensive.

A short huff deflates him a little. “Maybe practical things make me feel good. I like when things are useful…”

He drifts off when you take a single very slow, very purposeful step towards him. You’re staring into his face so intently, like you’re trying to parse something there. He doesn’t know what you see that needs parsing but he’s desperately hoping you can’t detangle it. You step even closer. He doesn’t stop you but his whole body goes tense as you reach up and pick a piece of forest debris out of his hair.

You hold it up to show him. He thinks you might be about to say something when you catch sight of his face. His eyes are fixed on you so close. His jaw is tense and his features are at first blush impassive but beneath that he’s wound up like a coil aching for permission to spring. You get lost in his eyes, forgetting about the twig or whatever and dropping it on the floor.

He should move. He should move away from you now. His body isn’t listening to his consciousness. You’re hovering in front of him. Your eyes can’t help flickering down briefly to his lips. An unsteady breath gets forced out of his nose. The edges of that puff of air tickle the top of your lips.

“Why don’t you think you deserve things that make you feel good?” You ask and your voice is very soft.

He swallows thickly and wants to pull away. Instead he shakes his head a little, looking at his shoes. “You know why. I’ve done things. Hurt people. In the past I’ve… I’ve been bad.”

You nod solemnly. There’s a long moment of silence. He staring at a new smudge of dirt on his shoe that he’s just noticed and really wants to wipe off. He senses you leaning closer but doesn’t look up. You’re too close— he doesn’t know if this is just intimate or if it’s romantic.

“What if that doesn’t matter to me?”

This makes him look up with a frown. Holy fuck, you’re right there, a few measly inches from his face. His breath catches and he resists the urge to back away.

“Wha-what’re you…?” His voice drifts off, eyes flickering to your lips. He clears his throat and tries again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t think those things matter to whether or not you deserve to feel good as you are now— as you have been since your mistakes.”

He shakes his head slightly, “You didn’t know me back then, you didn’t see—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Your voice is velvety-soft but it shuts him up instantly like you shouted over him.

You’re staring at him and it feels like a dare. A dare to do what, he doesn’t know.

He swallows. “What are you doing.”

It’s not really said like a question and barely louder than a mumble.

“Seeing how much you can take before you finally break.”

His stomach drops and then anger swells up inside of him. His fists clench at his sides. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

His nostrils flare. “What the hell d’you think—?”

“—I think the man in front of me is suffering from his own self-imposed starvation of pleasure.”

“Oh, really?” His eyes narrow.

“Yeah.” You’re speeding up as you speak, “The whole time I’ve known you getting you to let yourself feel good is like trying to force-feed a baby that’s not having it!”

He scoffs incredulously but you don’t let him get a word in.

“So if you’re gonna insist that you’re stronger than wanting something that makes you feel good, then I’m going to have to prove you wrong.”

He’s stunned in disbelief for a long couple moments, his mouth open. You cross your arms and furrow your brow as if to show him you’re stubbornness incarnate.

“What do you mean, prove me wrong.” He asks slowly, voice level like his heart isn’t racing in his chest.

You stare right into his eyes and then take a step back. You hold his gaze and move a few more steps back to the island. Not breaking eye-contact until the last possible moment, you turn your back to him. You left your phone across the counter. Now Sam has to watch you bend and reach over the stainless steel for it. Your shorts tug up higher, revealing even more of your legs. On top of that your muscles are moving and stretching so enticingly.

The phone’s just out of your reach. You’re not moving to get closer, just stretching further. A little noise of effort escapes you and you raise up onto your tiptoes. His cock twitches in his track pants. He needs to stop this. Now.

“Go around.” He growls.

“I’ve almost got it,” You say with the strain of stretching in your voice. All your efforts only seem to amount to your ass wiggling in front of him which he’s sure isn’t coincidental.

There wasn’t anything under the sink earlier, he realizes.

He swallows thickly and clenches his jaw. He has to talk through gritted teeth. “You can’t reach it from there. You have to go around.”

“I can get it.”

You’re putting less than half of your abilities towards succeeding at this task, as shown by the useless little hop you do to try and get more on the counter. It does nothing to help your cause, just makes all your body bounce enticingly and raises the shorts even higher.

He rolls his eyes outwardly but that does nothing to stop his imagination. He’s bigger than you of course, and how perfect would you feel bent over under him? How amazing would the view of your hands and his pressing into the stainless steel beside one another be? Would you take his hand in yours? He would hope so— hope that you’d hold him so tenderly while he fucks you good. The expanse of your skin free for him to touch and memorize.

You plant both palms down on the counter and push up so your hips are barely on the surface but your toes are momentarily off the floor. It’s a pathetic less than half-hearted attempt but it does draw his gaze to the places you want it to go. Your perfect thighs jiggle so nicely, like they’re just begging to be grabbed and held. How the shorts were up high enough that he could see where your legs start rounding into your ass. His greedy palms ache to cover that skin. The second time you attempt this stupid maneuver you touch back down onto the floor and feel heat up against your back.

You’re about to turn and face him when he reaches over your shoulder. You’ve never seen him move with such confidence outside of a fight. He’s slow and retrained as he goes for the phone. You bend under him, waiting to see how close he’ll get. He’s managing not to touch you at all but it’s a final flimsy barrier he’s putting up to try and prevent what you both want.

His arm retracts and he straightens a little but not fully. His other hand remains pressed into the edge of the counter at your side. So he’s still somewhat bent over you but it’s a noncommittal angle— plenty of room for either of you to back out of this with dignities still in-tact. Your head is turned to look at where he’s holding the phone out beside you. You’re calculating, he can see the gears turning as you eye his hand.

He should step back. This should be the end of it. He can just set the phone down, he doesn’t have to wait for you to take it. He stays exactly where he is, awaiting your next move.

You turn to face him without warning. He straightens up like your proximity might sting him, still holding out the phone.

“Thanks, Sam.” You smile, using one of your sweet voices unexpectedly as you pluck the phone from his hold. “Ugh. You know, yesterday in the car I think I slept funny.”

He frowns in confusion as you set the phone down and it ceases to exist to either of you.

“I’ve got this kink in my back I just gotta work out.”

“You wha—?”

You line the back of your hips up with the edge of the counter and stretch your arms up before bending as far back as you can. The sight of you makes him forget that he was speaking.

The maneuver does indeed get some pops out of your spine and it feels good, but that’s not the real goal of this demonstration. The strain of this position makes your muscles shudder. Your back is so beautifully arched, breasts poking out through your shirt and trembling with your muscles. He thinks about how he should step back then, too.

You start to lose your footing and slip. His hands fly to your waist to steady you and finds himself between your spread legs. You roll up as close to one vertebra at a time as humanly possible like you’re the embodiment of sensuality. When you get to the top you smile fondly up at him, but there’s a hint of mischief in your gaze.

“I knew you’d catch me.” You murmur.

That’s it. His hands slide around your back to gather you up against him and he kisses you. His lips are hungry, crazed, searching. His hands move in opposite directions, one sliding up under your shirt and the other grabbing a handful of your ass over the shorts.

You roll your body against his, making him growl in his throat. One of his thighs moves to remind you that he’s got you spread open beneath him, vulnerable to stimulation. He presses up and your legs clamp around him like they never want him to leave. And when you start grinding yourself on his thigh, he has to pull back from your mouth to watch your hips move.

A little cut off whine comes out of you. He groans listlessly, pressing his forehead more firmly against yours. His eyes squeeze shut as soft warm pressure from your body keeps brushing against his clothed cock.

“What are you doing to me?” He breathes, “D’you realize what you do to me? Every goddamn day.”

You shake your head, pressing against him and searching out his lips. He keeps them from you but it wasn’t a big priority for you anyhow. Both of his hands have met again at the small of your back. They both smooth up your sides at once almost ceremonially. He ought to pull his face further away from you, not make it so inviting. You brush and rub lazily what parts of it you can with your own features.

“You think this is easy for me? Already I gotta see you all the time. Now you’re just showing off openly?” His voice is at a low, gravelly whisper that he thinks might be too transparent— you can’t know how much this is affecting him. “Why the hell can’t you just make my life easier instead of harder for once?!”

You make a low purring noise. “What if I don’t wanna make it easy for you?”

His nose prods a little at your cheek and you lift your head to try and kiss him. He raises his chin to deny you again. You’re perfectly happy to kiss under his jaw. A soft noise somewhere between wounded and aroused claws up his throat as you put more effort into rubbing up against him.

“Then you’re an overachiever.” He grunts.

A pleased little hum leaves you then and he does let you pull his lips back to yours. Your fingers thread through his hair with such appreciation. He thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to do anything else any more except kiss you. That desire feels threatening. He pulls back from your lips but doesn’t go far— he’s gone too far already to turn back now.

Sam’s not an animal, despite all the signs that might, to him, suggest otherwise. Due to his ability to please being a large fueler of his ego, he can’t just let you come on his leg like this. If he can’t prove that he can withstand you tempting him at all, the least he can do is prove that he’s got the manners to do it well enough that this one time with you will be one you remember. He hoists you up using his arms and his thigh pushing up between your legs to lay you on your back across the island.

“You think it’s right to toy with someone like this?” He asks, one forearm braced on the counter near your head, the fingers of that hand toying with your hair. The other presses into your waist to flatten you where you were still squirming. “Is this some kind of game to you?”

You shrug cutely while biting down on your lower lip, one hand fisting the front of his shirt. He scoffs a little but you can see the appreciation in his gaze and feel the stiffness of it pressed to your pelvis.

“I’m not here for you to yank around.” He growls, his hand inching further towards the apex of your thighs. “What does it matter to you if I feel good, huh? If I have things that make me feel nice? Why d’you care?”

You lift your chin with a smug look. “Be a little indulgent, Mr. self-control. I promise it won’t kill you.”

He cups your pussy over your shorts. You flinch and coo, clearly pleased. It makes a faint snarl curl his upper lip. You’re grinding and writhing so perfectly under him, all of you pressing up on all of him. One of your feet briefly drags up the inside of his calf. It’s unexpected, sending sparks of pleasure up his inner leg to make his cock twitch.

He stretches over you, drawing all your focus to his lips as he bows to kiss you. A pathetic little whine out of you gets cut off by his mouth. His hand rushes past the band of your shorts and into the warm darkness of your panties. He pulls away from you with a heady groan when he feels just how wet you are. For him.

As his fingers explore you spread your legs open further. When he finds your clit he knows immediately— you let out the most beautiful, languid whine, like his touch is relieving. That makes him lurch with want. He’s not weak, though, he is still in control. No matter what words you say to him he’s only doing what he allows himself to do. Nothing more. It ought to be less, though.

He straightens momentarily to shove your leg between his before arching back over you. A sob of pleasure makes your body shudder under him as he rubs your clit. You’re exquisite. Here you are, all for him. But only for now. That thought wounds him a bit. He doesn’t want to think about the end of this yet. He can’t consider the aftermath.

His breath fans over your face as he bows down to you again. His hips begin slowly grinding his cock to your lower leg. It’s not the most efficient way to get satisfaction but Sam’s sure at this point that he can keep himself from coming, he just needs a little attention to soothe the ache. You lean up to plant a passionate but messy kiss on his lips. He opens his mouth to let your tongue in. You groan gratefully and deepen the kiss. He changes fingers, pressing his thumb to your clit so the others could seek out your entrance.

“This is where you want me, huh? This is what you wanted to see?” He pants into your open mouth, “Me strung out like some idiot with a dick for a brain just from looking at you?”

You kiss him for a moment before replying with a pleased smile. “I like my current view. You like yours?”

He growls affirmatively, “Too much.”

You pout a little too adorably at him. “You think anything good for you is too much.”

“Oh and is this good for me?” He snarls, “Pleasuring you that’s supposed to make me feel good?”

You’re barely hanging on to this conversation, but you’re managing it somehow. You give the tiniest shrug, wearing an expression like you know what you’re about to say will get you in trouble.

“Being helpful always makes you feel good, doesn’t it, Sammy?”

He scoffs angrily. “Shut up.”

“Too real for you, honey?”

Your grin is too smug for his liking. You’re absolutely right but he’s kind of angry you know that about him. Gritting his teeth, his hips press against your leg with more force— still messy with no strategy —and plunges two fingers into your cunt. Instantly your back arches and you let out a beautiful wail of pleasure.

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’tcha?” He pants, not noticing the speed of his hips thrusting against you increasing as he picks up the pace with his fingers. “You fucking know-it-all, just gotta push my goddamn buttons—”

“—I think you like it when I push your buttons.”

He growls and renews his weight and pressure on you. “You’re wrong.”

Your leg presses against his cock. “I don’t think so…”

Shit— you felt him doing that? Now you’re bringing rhythm to the movement of his grinding hips and it’s getting hard to withstand. He curls his fingers more inside you. He’s determined not to come from over-the-pants action in his thirties. You’re going to reach orgasm on his fingers before anything else.

“This is— uh! —this is not what I— fuck! —this is not how I look when I like something.” He glares at you like he isn’t subduing moans caused by you.

“You could’a fooled me—!” You devolve into a heady cry of pleasure.

“No, I think this— uh —this is what you like. Tell me baby— uh —is this what you want?”

You nod vehemently, “Fuck, yes, Sam.”

“Fuck!” He barks, feeling your walls pulsing uncontrollably, “You’re close aren’t you? You’re gonna come on my fingers, sweetheart, I can tell. Is this what you wanted?”

You’re beyond words now. He’s panting like he doesn’t remember how to take a satisfying breath. Your eyes struggle to stay open and he’s not even trying to stop his grunts and groans any more.

“When you picked out these tiny fucking shorts to wear, did you want me to be the one who saw them?”

You nod messily, spiraling up to your peak. “Yes, you. Wanted you. Sam, fuck—”

A wave of bliss ripples through your body, cutting off your words with a beautiful keen. Your walls pulse tighter around his fingers causing a pained whine unbefitting a man his size. You’re trembling like a leaf now, muscles preparing for the oncoming crash. His dick is so sensitive in his pants. He won’t— he’s not going to finish. He can prove you wrong— he can be stronger than uncontrollable desires.

“Again. Say my name again.” He groans as his own body begins trembling helplessly. “N-need it—”

“Sam…!” You draw out the single syllable, then repeat it, “Sam, fuck, feels s’ good, Sam—!”

He groans your name in return, completely losing himself in the moment. There are no more words but everything gets louder. Your hand thunking on the metal counter as you reach up for something to hold onto. Sam’s repeated grunts and groans against your throat which vibrates so beautifully with each noise you cry out. You’re so perfectly noisy. He can hear the muffled sound of his hand in between your legs, all the wet, slick squelching that’s so intense it really feels like a compliment. Your walls keep fluttering uncontrollably around him and he renews the pressure of his thumb on your clit, circling just the right amount to get you there.

“SAM!” You almost shout as you come.

He’s never felt a single rush of lust so powerful as the one that causes. He shudders over you and euphoria fills his body just moments after it starts buzzing through yours. A choked groan comes up out of him and he drops his head to rest on your collarbone as he rolls against you a few more times, riding out his high.

All of his body buzzes with pleasure. He’s suspended somewhere in the atmosphere, panting heavily against your chest and coming down from an orgasm as the cum starts making his boxers sticky and wet. Your hands are gentle on him, petting his hair and exposed skin with such tenderness. In the end, that care and gratitude in you is what makes him pull back.

He moves haltingly, looking down your body to watch his hand slip out of your shorts. Your stomach is rising and falling at an almost worrying speed. Your shirt’s halfway up your chest now. He’s never seen your stomach like this outside of the few times a nearby area has needed medical care. He presses his palm gently against you, observing the glistening of your wetness transferring onto your belly. He swallows thickly at that sight. His fingers are pruny. Imagine how pruny they’d be if he was fingering his cum back into you. Never mind, he shouldn’t imagine that.

He lifts you upright with him. You still haven’t said a word and neither has he. He’s not looking you in the eye. His own ruffled hair and crooked shirt are no concern to him as he takes the time to straighten you out while you’re sitting on the counter. You’re wearing a dopey look of pleasure, watching his face and waiting for him to meet your gaze. He’s following his hands smooth out your clothes. They slide down your ribs over your shirt one last time.

He’s staring between your legs at the shorts. He knows how wet they are inside. Fuck.

He can’t help lightly palming down your thighs again. You sense something in his movements— like he’s saying goodbye to your legs forever. When he finally meets your gaze, your brow is knotted in concern. He swallows and nods once, looking awkward.

“Okay.” He mutters.

You blink in confusion and then he turns and stalks towards the door. Incredulous, you hop off the counter and call out to him.

“Hey, wait— oh shit!” Your legs buckle when you try hopping off the island and you have to lean back to catch yourself. This doesn’t stop you from snapping, “Sam!”

He freezes with his back to you.

“Where. d’you think. you’re going.” You ask, voice measured but only barely.

He swallows. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You heave an exasperated sigh. “I wanted that. I want m—”

He rounds on you, raising his voice a little. “—Well it isn’t just about what you want, okay?”

He wants to be firm and end this discussion, then swallows a bitter taste on his tongue when he realizes he sounds like John. His way or the highway. Sam’s never wanted to be like that— that’s being a limited person if he’s ever seen it —but it’s safer than whatever unknown territory you both just entered into.

“I can’t do this.” He says, looking at you in the eye to hammer his point home.

That stern stoney look is back on your features. You stare challengingly into his eyes.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

“Sure.” You take a deep breath and lean back into the island. “We’ll see.”

Shame like a hot knife sliced through his thoughts and he snapped himself out of his trance. His eyes flickered back up to your face quick enough that he’s hoping you didn’t see him get distracted by your cleavage. A victorious grin was curving your lip, eyes glinting with mischief as you started teasing him for getting himself disarmed by a witch that barely reached his hip. He forced a look of annoyance on his face as you helped him up, hoping his flat expression would distract you from the heat burning his cheeks pink.

So yeah, since that moment about four hours ago, he’s been restless as hell. Dean’s gone to a bar with Cas so Sam’s all alone. No one needs him for the foreseeable future. He oughta relax. Instead, he’s pacing up and down the length of his hotel room in his socks, rubbing his chin and frowning the hardest he’s ever frowned (which is really saying something for this guy). He’s exasperated by the baseness of his carnal desire for you. It’s like such desires ought to be beneath him— like he thinks he’s better than being weak to his wants. 

What kind of freak is he, huh? The kind of guy who can’t help himself from turning into a horndog at the drop of a hat around a pretty girl? He’s supposed to be better than that, especially now. He’s been through so much, he shouldn’t still be this weak around you. He doesn’t feel like he’s in control of himself around you sometimes and those “some” times are becoming “most” of the times. Every few minutes he’s reminded of you wiping blood off your lip earlier this evening. He tries scoffing aloud preposterously at himself to shame his mind out of unraveling over the memory of you doing that. It’s not working. It only makes him replay the moment again and again.

He’s been cursing himself for telling you about it ever since the drive back to the motel, when he was left to stew in his own thoughts for the first time tonight. It hasn’t gotten any better in the hours since. 

He’s got no clue why he couldn’t resist pointing out remaining spots of blood on your chin. He tried to rationalize it to himself in the moment— you’re the kind of person who wants to be told when there’s something in your teeth, so you’d want him to tell you about the blood, right? —but he knows he’s hiding behind that rationale. Beneath that, he’s a big fat liar who couldn’t help feeding his imagination. He wanted to see how you’d perform that action. His sick little mind wanted to watch you do it, like it might give him an idea of you in far more intimate settings. He literally felt a twinge of weakness in his right knee when your perfect tongue slipped out from between your lips to wet your thumb before wiping it off.

“Did I get it?” You asked.

Goddamn it, he curses himself now.

He cleared his throat a little, shifting awkwardly in place. “Uh, almost, there’s a bit more…”

You did it again— you sweet, trusting woman, only believing in the best of intentions when it comes to Sam —more of your tongue wetting more of the pad of your finger. He almost shuddered with his next exhale, barely keeping it together enough so you wouldn’t notice. You pressed onto the spot more firmly this time and it made your lower lip jut out a bit. To make matters worse you moved slower this time, trying to make sure to get everything. To Sam, that couple of moments stretched out for an eternity and also not long enough.

“How ‘bout now?” You blinked up at him so innocently, completely unaware of his depravity.

He forced himself to nod stiffly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You hadn’t expected that reserved expression, he could tell, because you cocked your head a bit to the side, frowning at him for a second. He knew that look— you saw something in his face and you weren’t going to let it lie. You opened your mouth and he knew you were going to ask a question he wasn’t prepared to answer when luckily, Dean appeared to raucously congratulate you all on a job well done. Upstairs, he and Cas had taken out the last of the coven, making it time for cleanup, your least favorite part of hunting. Sam took that opportunity to get “distracted” from the tension he was inadvertently creating between the two of you. You didn’t mention anything the rest of the night as you all worked together to discard the bodies.

When you all got back to the motel, you immediately excused yourself to your room and your shower. Dean stayed around only long enough to change out of his nasty clothes and “hose off” before he was cajoling Cas into going to the bar on the corner with him. Dean extended the invitation to his brother but he kind of knew something was off with Sam all night. He didn’t seem surprised when Sam turned him down.

It had only been Sam’s intention to just go to sleep. He’s been trying to get the gentle but persistent buzz in his limbs to calm down. He tried showering which helped but didn’t solve the problem. In the middle of it he spotted water dripping down the frosted glass of the shower door and his mind remembered the blood oozing down into the valley of your breasts. Part of him wishes so deeply that he could know your breasts as well as that witch’s blood did.

Fuck, you’re such a freak. He shakes his head and turns away to focus back on the shower.

Now he’s clean and in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, teeth brushed and everything, all ready for bed. But he’s too wound up, too wracked with shame over himself. His desire is so perverse. You have no idea that he was taking pleasure in the sight of you at all, let alone what exactly was feeding his perverse imagination, no idea that he’s sexualizing you at all, even if he doesn’t do it on purpose. Except he had done it on purpose this time, because there was no need to wipe your chin a second time. You got all the blood on the first swipe. He just needed to see you do it again.

You’ve been quiet in your room since the shower turned off, probably cozied up under the blankets with your computer watching some TV. Dean always jokes that you and Sam don’t get laid because you’re both too in love with your laptops. Sam always rolls his eyes and pokes back at his brother in those moments, pretending that he’s annoyed. If it were up to Sam, though, he’d be the only one in competition with your computer for your attention. 

It’s not even that late but Sam’s annoyed that he’s still awake— still so restless. If he could get to sleep then he could stop thinking about your mouth and how it might’ve tasted if he used his own lips and tongue to get the spot of blood for you. 

Fucking freak, he curses himself silently.

However, it’s not his fault that blood spatter started oozing down sluggishly on your exposed cleavage. He’s only got so much strength, alright? He’s mastered self-control in many aspects of his life but he can’t blame himself for accidental circumstances. Temptation exists everywhere, and he will not be weak to it again. He won’t slip down any slopes, even if they’re the perfect slopes of your body. He won’t. He’s more sure-footed now than when he was younger. You can casually brush against him, touch his hand, tap his shoulder, and he’s proud of his ability to tamp down his desire. He’s still in control of himself, even if he doesn’t have the strength to put more space between the two of you.

Recently though, you’ve started doing something new. It began at a bar a few weeks ago. Someone had been celebrating a bachelorette party in the booth next to you guys. Dean was annoyed by the volume of the party but you’d been endeared. You don’t get annoyed with other people’s happiness most of the time, even if you’re not the happiest. You like seeing people in moments of joy, even just from the sidelines. Sam really admires that about you.

Eventually they set off some little confetti cannons and got kicked out of the bar. Dean had his arm up over the bench across from you and Sam, his neck craned to watch all the drunk bridesmaids stumble out. Sam was smiling at the chaos when something moved in his periphery. He turned quickly to his left as you plucked a piece of circular confetti out of his hair. You held out the little piece of pink tissue paper on your index finger with a syrupy-sweet smile on your face.

“Make a wish?” You joked half-heartedly.

He chuckled nervously, hoping the dim light of the bar was covering the pink in his cheeks. “Doesn’t that only work with eyelashes?”

You gave him a flat look, “Sam, does it even work then?”

A more genuine snort left him. “Fair enough.”

Dean hollered something marginally supportive to the bachelorette party— now that they were the underdogs he’d become supportive —which made them all whoop drunkenly as they departed. You were still holding out the confetti and staring at him. He forced himself to shrug.

“I don’t, uh, I don’t have anything to wish for right now.”

Your face brightens then, as if surprised by that answer. “Is that so? So you’re perfectly content right now, huh? Nothing you’d want to make the night better?”

That’s a dangerous question, he thought.

Outwardly he could only manage a tight shake of his head, “I guess not.”

Your expression warmed at that, like this pleased you very deeply. “I’m glad.”

He hadn’t expected that so he’d reached for humor. “I mean, the company’s a little, er… lacking—”

You shoved him with your forearm, laughing as you told him to shut up. He shut his mouth right away but he couldn’t help the smug smile on his dimpled face at making you laugh. You narrowed your eyes playfully at him.

“Okay, just for that, I’m stealing your wish.”

Without thinking much about it, you blew the confetti off your finger and it went into the collar of his flannel. You giggled in that way you do when you’re just starting to get tipsy and you reached out to flick the little piece of paper off of him. It happened so fast he didn’t even have time to tense up his body. For a second your warmth was close enough to feel on the exposed skin at the base of his neck, making him freeze, and then you were gone. Beaming up at him, you apologized for getting in his personal space. He shook his head to tell you it was no problem.

“What did you wish for?” He found himself asking, voice low.

You’d smiled coyly at him, “Wouldn’t you like to know, lawboy?”

Which made him laugh fully, cheeks rosy and his body relaxing again.

You keep cleaning stuff off of him now, like it’s the most normal thing ever. You pluck lint and dust off of his clothes and hair and even his eyebrow once while he talks to you in the Bunker, like you can’t help it. He doesn’t stop you and part of him thinks he ought to. He can’t, though.

He can’t help thinking about your strong hands on him— keeping him safe, keeping him clean, taking care of his body like it matters. You always treat his body like it matters, whether it’s making room for him where they haven’t planned for a Sasquatch to show up or shoving other people away when they get too close for his comfort. So long as you’re there he’s far less worried about other people getting into his space without his consent. You look at him like he’s behind glass in a museum— like you see him as a specimen to be respected. You touch him like he’s deserving of tenderness and he can’t help but wonder if you would feel differently had you known him when he was younger. 

Had you watched him be taken down by the demon blood, had you watched him free Lucifer, would you still look at him and touch him now like he is good? If you had known him when he was young, would you still think of him as careful and calculated or would you see right through the facade grown in his thirties to cover his recklessness in his previous disregard for himself and sometimes others? Would you look at him with such kindness and understanding if you had watched him be possessed by Lucifer? Everybody else associates Lucifer’s image with Nick’s face, but Sam can’t help but feel like Lucifer’s true visage is the one that he sees in the mirror every day. If you saw him when he was being piloted around by Lucifer, would you still be able to look at him like he’s done nothing wrong? Like he’s not something to be feared?

Would you still look at him like he’s done nothing wrong if he told you how often he imagines pressing you against the nearest wall? Would you pin him down beneath your beautiful body and force him to indulge even when he’s sure he doesn’t deserve it? Would you let him touch you and worship you like no one else? He wants that. He wants to hold you. At night in bed he’d rather you than a pillow hugged in his arms, your body warm and plush grounding him to the world. Maybe that’s why he can’t lay down to sleep right now because he’s too distracted by imagining what it would be like if he lay down in that bed and saw your lips mere inches from his. If it was normal for them to be so close and for him to be allowed to kiss them.

Thoughts of you in his bed always stir the part of him that gets aroused by domesticity. You bring it out a lot more than he’s used to. He wants to feel you snuggle up against him. He wants to wake up and feel your sleepy-soft breaths against his skin. Fuck, the thought alone makes him shiver.

He paces for a long while, carefully considering his options. He knows one thing in particular that always works to get tension out. He doesn’t deserve it though, he knows that. Not after asking you to repeat an act that felt sensual to him without you knowing what you were doing for him. And the blood element of it only makes Sam trust himself and his desire less. He’s still a blood freak, isn’t he? One misstep away from falling off the wagon all because a pretty girl got splashed in red while saving his life. What kind of sick fuck is he?

None of that mental berating however is working to get his semi-hard cock to soften again. The longer he perseverates on this, the more agitatedly he paces, the more his body winds tighter and the more his cock swells with blood.

You’re so quiet next door. Maybe you’re asleep. It’s past 11pm, so you very well could be. Normal people are asleep around this time, right? Sam hasn’t been normal in a long time and when he has been it’s never lasted long. He wishes you weren’t asleep. Maybe in some insane twist of fate you want him too. Maybe you’re doing the same thing over there, pacing around and wanting him. No, that would be too good to be true.

Fucking stop it, Sam. Stop it. Stop entertaining the thoughts. You’re stronger than this. 

He’s telling himself repeatedly to stop following this line of thought but it’s becoming very clear that he’s got no control over this. You make him wild and unpredictable to himself. And it’s not even like you’re doing it on purpose. He’s the one making things weird between you two, he knows it. And still, he can’t stop imagining. 

His mind conjures up the image of you above him, taking your pleasure from his body like you own it. His dick throbs angrily in his sweats, making him press a palm to it. He tries to take a deep breath to calm himself. Then he sees you crawling under the library’s table in the Bunker to gently pull his cock into your mouth. In his imagination you’re so enticed by him that you don’t care about someone interrupting, you just want his pleasure. Seeing you want his pleasure makes him feel like it’s okay to have pleasure at all, like your second opinion validates the basic human need for physical kindness and attention. 

Finally it’s too much— he’s gotta sit down. He grinds his teeth angrily but his hand is still massaging his cock. He knows where this is going. It’s pathetic— he’s furious with himself over it.

Touching himself to the thought of you only started recently. About two months ago you’d taken care of him while he was sick like a dog with the flu. Dean and Cas went off on a hunt while you kept Sam company. That was the best part, just you being there with him. You weren’t overly doting on him of course, you still poked fun at him, but he realized then that you always did it with the goal of making him smile or laugh. And then you fell asleep in the Cave on the couch next to him. He hadn’t seen you sleep so up close before.

He knows he shouldn’t shit where he eats. Even in that moment he was already telling himself to be thankful for what he already had— for the relationship you and he already formed. He has been failing to listen to that voice of reason continuously ever since because the next night, when he’d gone to sleep alone in his own bed, he couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to turn over and find you easily within arm’s reach. What a dream that would be. And then his cock announced its presence when his mind imagined how you might spend your time alone in your room. It’s been downhill from there.

Right now, Sam’s facing the door to the adjoining motel room. It’s like he’s trying to remind himself of your proximity— of why giving in is not a good idea —and it’s not really working to stem his thoughts any more. His furious brow is getting sore from how hard he’s been furrowing it. He can’t stop massaging up and down his shaft with the base of his palm. In the split-second of his next blink the image of you on your knees parting his thighs right now flashed into his mind’s eye. A shuddering breath tumbles out of him and his eyes flutter closed as he begins to cup the outline of his cock more firmly, surrounding as much of the shaft as he can through his sweats. He’s resisting the urge to shove the pants down. It’s getting harder.

Pun intended a voice that sounds suspiciously like yours jokes automatically in his head.

You take up so much space in his thoughts now. He’s kind of frightened by it. His nose wrinkles a bit as he winces from how endeared he’s become to you, body and soul. Sometimes when you’re really excited you pop up onto your tiptoes, your eyes wide as you try to hide how giddy you’re getting. You do it when you learn something interesting or when something you love comes up unexpectedly in conversation and you have to hold yourself back from immediately spewing everything you know about the topic. He loves seeing you like that. It makes him smile every time, usually shyly down at his feet, but only for a second because he doesn’t want to miss any of you.

He’s going to lose what’s left of his mind. He can’t stop himself, he needs this, he needs release. He shoves down his pants and imagines it’s your hands instead— thrilled to be getting him undressed. He’s embarrassed by the slutty amount of saliva in his mouth already when he spits into his hand. It’s just what you do to him.

His hand wraps around the head of his cock and starts slowly moving. He imagines you watching your hand move up and down his length with rapt attention. The thought of you looking at him with such desire makes a shiver run down his spine.

Sam’s kind of amazed he’s gotten away with hiding this crush for this long. He doesn’t like labeling it a “crush” but that’s always what Dean used to call it and Sam’s not sure of another word better suited. He’ll never admit that aloud, but that’s mostly because he doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction. Luckily for him something happened on a hunt a month ago that was so embarrassing and traumatizing for Dean that he requested they never speak of it again to any other living soul. In exchange for this, Sam demanded Dean quit teasing him about having a crush on you. (Sam’s a man of his word so he won’t get into what Dean did, but it wasn’t pretty).

So Sam’s been alone with his feelings now. It’s strange. He thought he’d like it better than feeling on edge about Dean giving something away, but he really just feels kind of isolated now.

His hand begins to twist as it speeds up on his dick. He grunts softly, unable to restrain it. Your lips would look so pretty wrapped around his cock, he just knows it. You’d be so sweet to him sometimes and then you’d make him work for it, just like you always do. He’s getting tired of trying to argue himself out of finding the need to prove himself to you so hot. Mainly because none of his arguments are working.

The thing that makes you a bad idea, the thing that makes you dangerous, is that you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger and as far as he can tell you’ve got no idea. He can’t tell you, he’s afraid to be the one who points it out. It’s legitimately killing him. And if you didn’t want him for more than one night? Sam’s pretty certain he’d rather be struck down by lightning than face that kind of rejection. He’s afraid of how much he wants you. He can’t help thinking that desire this strong and uncontrollable is a long walk off a short pier.

His spit-slick fist makes a soft squelching noise on his next pull upwards. His eyes roll back involuntarily as he imagines the sounds you’d make licking up his shaft. The sloppy noise of you trying to take as much of him as you could. How your eyes would look up at him, wanting to take all the pleasure out of him. He lets out a pathetic little whine when he imagines that— you longing to witness his pleasure the way he longs to witness yours.

He imagines you pulling off of him with a sinful pop and then sliding into his lap. He’d welcome you instantly, no resistance left in him. He would touch you then, trace down your perfect ribs to the soft swell of your belly and then lower. He wonders if sucking his cock would make you wet. He’d go dumb on the spot if you were wet without him even touching you.

Anything you want— he’d give you anything in that moment. He’d be putty in your hands, awaiting your next move. He’d never let you take his cock without warming you up first, though. He wants you to be aching for him inside you but he hates the idea of leaving any of your sexual desires un-sated.

In his imagination you don’t like being far from him. If at all possible you press up against him like you want to meld into one. You hold him close as he explores the warmth between your thighs, working to figure out just what you like so he can make you feel good.

Fuck, he’s pathetic for you. A listless, needy mess jerking himself off while facing you through a wall. He trembles with a wave of intense pleasure as he imagines you getting off on just his fingers in his lap. He imagines you taking his face a bit roughly in your hands as you kiss him “thank you”, like you’re determined to make him yours. As if he isn’t already. He moans lightly when he pictures you trembling in his arms because he made you feel so good.

At first he imagines you slipping onto his cock and riding him slow. Your hips move with purpose over him, your head thrown back as you please both of you. He’d be anchored to the spot by your power over him, and it almost makes him stupid with lust. He imagines you moaning how good he feels— you just can’t help it, he fills you so perfectly, the best you’ve ever had, the only one you ever want again. Of course in his imagination he’s everything you want in a lover/man and more, but he knows he’s got very little to offer practically.

The hand propping him up on the bed falters with the next intense wave of his oncoming orgasm. Before he knows what he’s doing he’s flopping onto his back, eyes fluttering closed. In his mind he imagines you pulling off of his cock without letting him come. He’s whiny from you ruining his orgasm but you make it up to him. You crawl up his body and sit your perfect pussy on his mouth. He wouldn’t even hesitate for a second before filling both hands with your asscheeks and getting to work.

His cock would be aching for attention as you pulled at his hair and let out all the noises of pleasure you have— he wants to know every one intimately. As you build to your orgasm in his mind (and as he builds to his in real life) you bless him by bending back to wrap a fist around his cock. As you come on his face you try to make him feel good too. He’s making you feel too much, though— you’re too weak to focus on that. He likes the idea of that. You’re kind and reciprocal as a person but he often thinks you deserve a break. Let you be a little hedonistic, unable to keep up with him because he’s brought you so high.

He pictures you coming apart above him with such longing that his eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling like he might actually see you there above him. His muscles draw tighter than a bowstring and he has just enough wherewithal to ruck up his t-shirt before perfect, warm pleasure floods through his body.

The first spurt of cum lands on his stomach and then the unthinkable happens: someone knocks on the door and doesn’t wait for an answer to open it. He shoots upright in record time, pulling his shirt over his exposed cock as fast as he can so everything is hidden, all the while knowing it wouldn’t keep the onlooker from knowing how he’s been entertaining himself. His heart sinks into the pit of his stomach when he sees you freezing in the adjoining doorway. And even still with you there in front of him witnessing his depravity, his body finishes the orgasm, making him jerk a few times. 

Sam’s never seen you look so shocked and flushed. It’s less than a second of eye-contact but he feels like he could burst into flames on the spot. You quickly slam the door shut, squeaking a shrill apology. He’s lightheaded as he comes down, body still buzzing pleasurably in the aftershocks of his orgasm. With a pained groan Sam hunches forwards to cover his face with his free hand in humiliation and embarrassment.

“Sam!” Dean barks, elbowing his brother.

“Huh— what?” Sam turns back to the detective. “S-sorry, I, uh, zoned out. I, uh, I think I need’a get some air.”

He doesn’t wait for permission, just nods stoutly. Dean eyes him in concern as he storms off towards the front door of the apartment. It’s not a conscious choice to follow Sam, your feet move for you, rushing to chase after him. He ducks under the caution tape and doesn’t hold it up for you. With a short huff of annoyance you duck down low like you’re playing limbo and stumble upright into the hallway. Sam’s still moving fast, turning a corner ahead of you.

“Hey! Wait!” You call after him in frustration. You skid across the recently-polished floor and into a wall in your rush. He’s going towards the elevator. Panic rises up in you and you shout, “HEY!”

You see his shoulders twitch up when you raise your voice. He marches up to the elevator door, pressing the down-button impatiently. You clumsily come to a halt beside him.

“Sam, right?” Out of old habits you extend your hand and introduce yourself.

There’s a horrible moment of tense silence. He’s waiting for the lift to show up and it’s not coming fast enough. His gaze flickers down to your hand and then over his shoulder at the uniforms at the end of the corridor. They’re talking about coffee. No one’s paying attention.

He opens his mouth to finally address you when Dean interrupts, coming around the corner briskly.

“Sammy.” He comes up to stand in front of Sam, where you were.

When Dean takes your place you’re shoved aside. You trip a little and glower, grumbling in annoyance. Sam can instantly see that Dean doesn’t feel the person he just pushed. Sam’s brows furrow a little in confusion. You’re seemingly used to this, rolling your eyes with a scowl and leaning back on the wall with arms crossed.

“Y’alright?” Dean asks, brow furrowed intensely, “What happened back there?”

Sam’s eyes flicker to you briefly before he clears his throat. “Nothing. Nothing, I, uh, I got a little dizzy, that’s all.”

“Have you been drinking enough water? Have you eaten enough today?”

Sam grits his teeth, “Yes, Dean. You don’t have to worry about that stuff, I’m not a kid.”

“I know you’re not,” Dean pacifies, “but you’re not your, uh, strongest self right now, right?”

Sam’s eyes flicker over to you for a brief moment then back down. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

“I’m fine, Dean, really.” He offers his brother a flat, lifeless smile and the elevator dings behind him. “I just need some air.”

Dean rolls his eyes tiredly at Sam’s back as he enters the lift. You trail after Sam, arms crossed. He forces another look of “I’m okay” onto his face for Dean. The doors slide shut and then the silence becomes suffocating. Sam hasn’t hit a button yet. You lean against the back of the lift, watching him with an unimpressed look on your face. Cautiously, he lifts his gaze to the mirrored wall beside him. Your reflection is there, showing your profile as you stare at his back. Sam swallows and hits button to roof access.

“You can see me.” You state after a moment.

“Yeah.” Sam lets out a sharp huff, “But no one else can. Which means you’re most likely not real.”

Your brows shot up, “Most likely?”

He nods as the elevator begins to move. “It’s the safer bet.”

“Well, I got some news for you, bud, I am very much real. And you’re the first person to see me in almost three years.”

This gives him pause. He frowns and turns to look at you. “What?”

“What are you, huh? Some kinda psychic? A medium?”

“No—” He cuts himself off and then huffs, deflating a little. His mind finishes the thought in silence for him.

▫ …not anymore.

He doesn’t continue the sentence so you’re not sure what to say. The elevator lands with a pleasant ding.

Shifting a little in place you ask, “Why’d you go to the roof?”

“Because I know from experience that talking to figments of your imagination around other people doesn’t go over too well.” He walks out to the exterior door and shoves the push bar.

You’re surprised when he holds it open for you. He’s not facing you, and probably still scowling suspiciously about this predicament but that’s the most consideration another human has given you in years. You have to remind yourself to be polite.

“Er, thanks.” You step out into the wind, tugging your coat closer to you. “What makes you think I’m not real? Or a, uh, figment of your imagination?”

You pace a few steps forwards then turn to find him frowning studiously at you. You have the urge to shrink in on yourself and the feeling is almost foreign— you forgot what being scrutinized felt like.

“You could call it prior experience.” He says evasively.

His gaze flickers over you from head-to-toe, prompting a shiver up your spine. Three years ago you would’ve sworn that being looked at wasn’t important to you— in fact, maybe things would be better if you didn’t always worry whether someone was watching you. Right now, you don’t think you’ve ever felt such joy about being solid enough that someone doesn’t see right through you.

“Why’re you here?” He asks, eyes narrowed, his pointed features making him look like a coyote.

You shrug, “When no one can see you no one gets mad about you invading their privacy. And I was curious so I followed the cops upstairs and just started looking around.”

Sam cocks his head, face wrinkling in confusion. “You… you’re invisible? That’s the story you’re going with?”

You shrink back repugnantly. “The story?”

“Yeah, alright, listen,” Sam shifts his weight, “I don’t have the time for this. Good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

He waves you off lazily and turns to march back towards the door.

“What the hell?” You blink in confusion, “You’re not even gonna hear me out?”

“No.” He scoffs and your teeth grind at the condescension in his tone. “I have bigger things to foc—”

“—Oh, well I’m so sorry for keeping you!” You cry sanctimoniously, raising and dropping your hands in exasperation. “Of course you’re what I’m stuck with. Typical!”

That makes Sam turn on his heel suddenly to face you. “What’s that supposed to mean!”

He’s gotten very intense all the sudden, like your last jab hit a tender spot in his heart. Unexpected but it doesn’t throw you off your game at all, you’re still annoyed as all hell. His expression tightens with anger, and for the first time in years you remember what it feels like to be even just the slightest bit afraid of a man. You close your mouth and force yourself to swallow. Never let it be said that you were one to shy away from a someone way up their own ass.

“I’ve been completely invisible to everyone I’ve come across for the last three years. And finally— fucking finally! —when I get someone to talk to,” You gesticulate towards him, “I get some uppity douche who thinks he knows every damn thing on the planet!”

“I never said—”

“—No, you know what!” You shrug with feigned equivocality, “If this is some kinda karmic punishment I don’t understand then, yeah, this would seal the deal on my particular Hell-on-Earth scenario! Some know-it-all jerk who can’t make time for even one conversation ‘cause he’s sooo busy! You know what? Forget it!”

Sam’s nose wrinkles and his chin shrinks back in offense. You don’t notice his reaction, only waving a dismissive hand at him as you turn your back. A gust of wind blows your clothes and hair. Shaking your head softly, you lean on the wall encircling the roof’s edge. Heaving a great sigh you wait to hear the sound of the door signaling his departure. Your head falls into your hands like it’s heavy as stone, and you force yourself to take some measured breaths. It’s not like meditation or mindfulness were your strong-suits before the invisibility but you’ve had to learn. No one can help soothe you when they don’t even know you’re there. You’ve had to take care of you completely in all ways for almost three years now. It’s exhausting.

You grumble to no one, “As if I didn’t feel ignored enough in real life.”

A crunch of grit on the ground close beside you makes your head jerk up. Sam’s drawn closer, frowning at some metering device in his palm that has a long antenna pointed towards your chest. He’s frowning at the thing like he’s confused by its readings. To you, the thing looks and sounds like it’s reading nothing.

“Huh.” He mumbles, lifting his gaze back up to yours.

He’s still frowning (you’re beginning to tell that’s his baseline expression) but now it’s different. There’s less suspicion, more… intrigue, maybe? He’s cocking his head and eyeing you like he’s seeing you in a new light. You don’t know what the device is but you don’t enjoy feeling like people see you as a fool so you put up a front of assuredness.

“What. You’re radiation-meter didn’t detect anything?” Your tone is dry because at this point you don’t expect him to answer truthfully.

“No, it didn’t.” He’s tucking the thing back into his pocket but his eyes stay on you. That does actually seem like the truth.

You quirk a brow, “Is that a bad thing?”

“No. Actually, you know, it’s probably a good thing.” His voice is a little distant, like he’s getting distracted by his thoughts. “But that does mean you’re nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

You sigh tiredly, “Yeah, you and everyone else on this godforsaken planet.”

He huffs a little in amusement. That kind of surprises you. Who was the last person you made laugh? Must have been you roommate a few weeks before you disappeared. He was leaving for a Masters program in Ireland. What’s the tingling in your ribs? Is this always how it felt to cause someone’s amusement? One of your hands goes to touch your collarbone absently. Your eyes flicker over to look at him as he leans his forearms on the wall, settling in beside you.

“I thought you had places to be.” You try to make it seem lighthearted but it comes out far more wary than you intended.

He’s staring at you intently, a small crease between his brows. “Not any more.”

• Guh.

“Oh. Okay.” Is all you can think to say.

“So, you’re not a ghost.” He begins thoughtfully, his expression shifting and the corners of his lips dipping dramatically downwards for a moment as if reconsidering, “If you are, you’re a kind I’ve never seen before. No EMF off you, though, which makes that kind of unlikely.”

You frown, “A ghost?”

“Yeah, ghosts. Specters. Poltergeists.” He shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly. “Whatever you want to call ‘em.”

You blink, clearly having trouble swallowing that. “You believe in ghosts? C’mon now.”

Surprising you again, he chortles a little at that. “I wouldn’t go throwin’ stones in glass houses, invisible-crime-scene-tamper-er.” He shoots a boyish grin at you and something flutters faintly in your belly. “If what you’re telling me is true then you’ve lived multiple years invisible to everyone else. At this point, I think you might need to, uh, redefine what you think is possible.”

You swallow and face the view of the neighborhood again. After a long moment of thought you look up at him. “If I were dead, I’d remember dying, right?”

“Well, uh, not necessarily. But… is there some unfinished business that might be keeping you here?”

You frown and shake your head, “I mean, how serious does the unfinished business need to be?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’d know immediately what I meant. Ghosts are usually pretty one-track-minded.” He thinks for a moment then follows up. “You’re not tethered to anything, are you? Like, a, uh, special object that your soul attached to?”

“I don’t think so. How would I know if I was?”

“Huh. I’ve never really thought about that.” Sam shifts, face pensive, “Ghosts usually get angry the closer you get to the object— or whatever remains they’re bonded to —so they must feel some kind of like, perceptible bond to it. I guess it would be instinctive.” His gaze flickers up and down your figure, altering his line of questions. “Are you from around here?”

“Psh, no.” You shake your head, “I’m from the East Coast. I’ve never been this far in-land before. I figured I might as well wander if I’m stuck like this. The one upside to my curse is I don’t have to worry about money. That doesn’t really make up for the rest of it, though.”

He nods slowly a few times. His face is turned towards you but his eyes are unfocused on a spot somewhere past your shoulder. You watch him from your periphery, studying him. Is he zoning out or processing? Hard to tell.

“So…” You narrow your eyes a little, “…you’re a paranormal investigator and FBI?”

Sam snorts, “No. Actually, I’m neither.”

“What?”

“My, uh, brother and I, we… hunt monsters.”

“While… you pretend to be FBI?”

“Uh, yeah.”

You shake your head a little to clear it. “What kinds of monsters?”

“All kinds. Supernatural kinds, that is. Normal, human monsters aren’t the priority. Typically.”

You mull this over for a moment as he watches you. You seem to be taking this new information as well as you can, considering everything. His stare on your profile is constant. You’re so out of the habit of being perceived that you’re painfully aware of his gaze. Part of you remembers why you’d used to silently wish to be unseen.

“Do you still sleep?”

You quirk a brow at him, “Yeah, of course. Why?”

He shrugs, “Curious. I’ve never encountered anything like this before. I’m curious. I want to figure it out.”

“Well, I’m glad I can be of fascination.” You reply dryly, “I still have to do everything humans do, I just have to do it alone. And invisible. And god forbid I need to get some food— I gotta wait ’til absolutely no one is looking at the damn thing then I can scavenge.”

He cocks his head, “That’s terrible.”

You’re not sure why but that response surprises you. Your eyes flicker to their corners to needle him with a slight scowl. Everything you’ve adapted to over the last couple years is telling you to maintain the walls you’ve built around you. The whole world can knock you down and never even notice bumping into you. No one else cares, and they haven’t for a long time, so why would he? He’s a stranger to you, what makes this worth his while?

“And you have no idea how this happened?” He prompts further.

You shake your head, “Nope. I wish I did.”

There’s a long beat of silence, you staring out at the view while he studies your profile. Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket, making him startle a little. Pulling it out he sees a text from Dean asking “where the hell are you” followed by “we’re on the move”. Swallowing Sam raises his gaze once more to find you already watching him.

“I, uh, gotta go.” He says sheepishly.

You nod slowly a few times in grim acceptance. There’s a long moment of awkward silence, both of you rooted to your spots. Your eyes flit up to his face cautiously, seeing his gaze flicker around as he considers his next move.

“You’re hesitating.” You comment, trying to quell that ember of hope that’s begun to glow with growing heat.

The man doesn’t owe you anything, he doesn’t need to help you. And yet… you’re hoping against all the odds that you’ve met a stranger who’s got kindness to spare. He shifts a little in place, brow furrowing.

“Come with me?” He looks back into your eyes, unflinching and earnest.

You scoff a bit, “You… you’ve just met me.”

“I know,” He nods stoutly, “but I can help you.”

The ember is spitting sparks now, the hope fueling itself inside your heart. That’s a dangerous thing to follow blindly— plenty of people have gotten themselves killed over less. The wind picks up again, blowing all the loose ends of your form around as your body stays still, trying to make a decision. He stares so resolutely into your eyes that you have to glance away for a second.

“No one should have to live like this.” He says gingerly, “And if someone else you like better can see you later, I won’t make a big deal about you leaving.”

You can’t help snorting at that, genuinely a little amused. When you look up at him again, he’s got this puppy-like look of hope on his face.

“At least let me try to help you?” He asks, shrugging one shoulder a little.

Hope is dangerous, you know this— it’s not a permanent fixture, it’s something one has to maintain for themselves. You never really learned how to do that— people always seem to let you down one way or another. Even still, despite those reservations, you reply with full confidence.

“Okay.”

* * *

Getting downstairs, Dean’s right on the curb in the Impala. Sam holds the door and glances back at you again. You’re watching Dean who’s scowling impatiently at his brother. He addresses Sam when you both reach the sidewalk.

“‘The hell ‘re you doing, man, c’mon we don’t got all day long.” Dean complains.

Sam rolls his eyes a little, shooting you a brief glance that’s subtle enough Dean won’t notice. “I told you I needed some air. Went to the roof, that’s all.”

Without thinking Sam goes right for the passenger seat, opening that door before freezing. Cautiously he looks up at you. You’re peering through the window with your arms crossed. When you notice him looking you raise your eyebrows expectantly.

“You gonna help me out here?” You nod to the doorhandle.

“Sam!” Dean barks, calling Sam’s gaze to him. The older brother spreads his hands, “Are you waiting for permission?”

Sam clears his throat and shifts awkwardly in place, “Nuh—no, of course not.”

Ever quick on his feet, Sam notices his messenger bag in the footwell under the glove compartment. He snatches it up then opens the back door to the Impala to stow it back there. Dean frowns acutely at his brother who has slid into the passenger side of this car at least a million times (and in the exact same manner for most of it). You pick up on the grift quick and slip into the backseat. Out of curiosity, Sam glances back at the fender, noting that the car doesn’t even seem to register your weight being added. Frowning he puts his bag on the bench beside you and closes the door. When he’s settled up front he notices Dean staring expectantly at him.

“What?” Sam shrugs.

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?” Dean rolls his eyes and puts the car in gear.

As they begin the drive there’s a long minute of uncomfortable silence. Sam’s sitting stiff as a board in his seat, trying to think of the next steps to his plan. He’s pretty sure you’re not a ghost and are just a person but he’s not sure about Dean’s ability to ask questions before shooting first right now. Or Dean’s ability to believe that Sam’s not hallucinating you.

“So it doesn’t look like one of ours.” Dean spins the wheel to take a left, “No sulfur, no hex bags, no EMF, no claw marks or missing organs.” He clicks his tongue angrily, “Sucks. Made a whole stop for nothin’.”

You frown at the man. “Shouldn’t that be considered a good thing?”

Sam’s eyes flicker back to you for an instant then re-focus on Dean. “Sorry, D.”

“It’s whatever.” Dean scowls at the windshield, pursing his lips. “I knew it was a long-shot anyhow, I mean, when do we ever get cases in major cities?”

Sam snorts, “I’d hardly call this a major city, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “More major than the goddamn cul-de-sacs we’re usually gankin’ things in.”

You sit in the backseat with your arms crossed on your lap, observing the two brothers with only one of them knowing. Dean’s unhappy about something they’re not talking about aloud. There’s something else going on here, you can tell. What is it that’s on the older man’s mind, though, is a complete mystery to you.

There’s a long moment of silence where Sam watches his older brother. “Dean, do you want to talk about it—?”

“—Sammy, how many times do I gotta tell you I’m fine?!” Dean snaps, “Talk about deez nuts, how ‘bout that.”

You choke a little on nothing in surprise, stifling a laugh.

Sam sighs dramatically, “Man I really wish Kevin hadn’t gotten you back into saying that.”

“It’s still funny.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Shaddup.”

There’s another beat of quiet. Sam sort of forgets about you in the back and tries one last time.

“Dean, I know you’re upset about—”

“—I’m not upset about shit!” Dean insists, sparing a pointed glance at his brother, “And even if I was then maybe I’m trying not to think about it! So maybe stop bringing it up!”

Sam’s sigh is long and labored, his hand going up to gently rub his brow. “Dean, it’s not healthy to keep everything in like this. And it’s dangerous.”

“What is?”

“You! Being so,” Sam scrambles momentarily for a word, “touchy!”

“Touchy—?!”

Sam speaks over him, “—We can’t work like this safely, Dean, we need to talk about everything that’s happened in the last couple days.”

Dean lets out an exasperated huff, shoulders slumping on the exhale. “Sammy, there is no point in talking about it, what’s there to discuss? Kevin’s gone, Cas is who-the-fuck-knows where with the goddamn tablet and you and me talking isn’t gonna solve any of those problems so why don’t we just buckle up and find those two idiots.”

Sam sighs, “So you can rip them a new one, right?”

“Damn straight.”

Dean smacks the volume knob on the radio as the car begins cruising down the highway. Without looking away from the road he informs Sam (and unknowingly also you) that the drive back home will be about 2 hours.

“Who’s Cas?” You ask, sliding across the backseat to get closer to Sam. He glances at you in his periphery but doesn’t answer. You scowl a little bit, “You’re really not gonna tell him about me?”

Sam clears his throat and adjusts his seat.

“Wow.” You scoff, “That’s great. You can still hear and see me, though, can’t you?”

Sam’s gaze flickers to his brother to make sure he’s not watching and then ever so slightly nods ‘yes’ in answer to your question.

“Alright so I gotta play 20 questions with you, but the only answers you can give are ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

Sam shrugs slightly, a little sheepish. Fleetingly, your mind mourns the fact that he’s facing forwards— you miss him looking at you. Your nose scrunches up in confusion at that thought. Teenage-you would’ve been appalled by you yearning to be seen by anyone, let alone this hunk of marble you stumbled across. Back then, you wouldn’t have even had the courage to look him in the eye he’s so handsome. Now you’re so solidly out of practice with all this stuff his handsomeness didn’t really start to occur to you as something that might be a problem until about 10 minutes into meeting him.

“Are you going to tell him about me or am I going to be a secret forever?”

Sam nods with more gusto. He shoots you a quick look in the eye that looks like he’s saying of course! in his mind loud enough that he hopes you can hear it too. He’s so reassuring. Trusting that feels like a trap opening up under you. And at the same time, it feels nice. You can’t help the instincts in you that say once you get reliant on this— on Sam —then the rug will get pulled and you’ll be in free-fall again.

“Okay, so when?” You wait for him to answer and then remember he can only do yes or no. Rolling your eyes you rephrase your question, “Are you going to tell him within the next couple months or am I going to wait years?”

Sam glances over at Dean then shifts to face the passenger window more. He’s pretending like he’s settling in to sleep when really he just doesn’t want Dean to see his mouth moving. You lean all the way forwards to get up close so you can understand him mumbling just loud enough to be heard.

“In the next couple days, I’ll tell him.” Sam clears his throat a little, then adds, “I don’t think he’ll believe me yet.”

You’re frowning very hard, unable to understand this. “I mean, you guys hunt monsters right? What’s so hard to understand about this?”

Sam swallows and doesn’t look towards the sound of your voice how he has before. You scowl harder. “Sam—?”

“Were there really no other obits that looked like cases nearby?” Dean asks, interrupting you.

Sam startles a bit away from the window and clears his throat slightly. Smooth you think with a little hint of fondness. With a yawn he shakes his head. Dean lets out an annoyed huff and moves into the left lane on the highway, speeding up exponentially.

“Man, it’s almost like he’s angry to be going home. Ha.” You laugh flatly, “Who remembers having a home, amiright? S’not like the landlord can accept money from someone they can’t see. And then all your stuff gets sold off to randos who never knew you could see them manhandling all your personal items and then buying them for less than their worth. Classic.”

You finish dryly, looking out the window at the passing trees and cars. Sam turned slowly around in his seat to look at you during that soliloquy. You don’t notice for a moment, an almost ambivalent look on your face. He’s appalled by what you just said.

“That’s horrible.” He says genuinely, staring at you with knit brows.

You’re surprised by a response— you kind of didn’t notice yourself talking out loud. He looks so genuinely distraught on your behalf it kind of makes you re-examine what you just said. Is it normal for someone to be so apathetic about their own life crumbling to bits in front of them without the ability to stop it?

“What is?” Dean interjects without knowing he’s doing so. He cranes his neck to see if there’s something out Sam’s window that made him say that— a car crash perhaps or some large roadkill.

“Huh?” Sam rushes to face his brother.

Dean frowns harder, “You just said something was horrible, what do you mean?”

“Oh, uh…” Sam scrambles for an excuse, “…I was just, uh, I, was uh, thinking about the podcast I’ve been listening to. I just, uh, predicted something that might be the ending and it’s, uh, horrible. Didn’t mean to speak aloud.”

“Oh. Huh.” Dean doesn’t push back on this but he doesn’t look convinced.

“You are a terrible liar, you know that?” You state bluntly to Sam.

Slowly he turns to shoot a scowl over his shoulder.

“Sam, are you worried about your laptop disappearing or something?” Dean demands, “What the hell d’you keep looking back there for? And also since when do you put it in the back?”

Sam heaves a deep genuinely aggravated sigh. “I’m trying something new. And I’m tired, man. I’m going to, uh, try and get some sleep.”

As Sam adjusts in his seat he takes the chance to give you a meaningful look— get some rest, too, his eyes say. You have the urge to be contrary but then a softer feeling blankets over you. It’s been a long time since anyone has worried about how much sleep you were getting. You shuck off your hoodie and ball it up under your cheek against the door. The rhythmic rock of the Impala sways you to a peaceful sleep, even if your future remains uncertain.

* * *

It takes Sam a little while to understand that you don’t expect answers most of the time when you speak aloud. He can’t answer you in front of Dean yet, so a lot of your questions go unanswered on your first walk through the Bunker. When Dean shuffles off to his room, Sam beckons you into his and sits you down at his desk to explain what they know about the Bunker. You’re staring at him in complete bewilderment after he finishes the tale of how they (re)discovered this place.

Sam shifts, the only sound amongst the awkward silence, tapping his thighs a few times. Chuckling nervously he says, “Gotta be tough to swallow ‘time-travel is real’ and ‘ghosts are real’ in the same day.”

This breaks you out of your shock with a tired snort. “Understatement.”

Sam smiles, glad the tension is dissipated. “So. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How did you… end up this way?”

“Don’t you think I would’a told you that already if I knew?” You snort humorlessly, “God’s honest truth— y’know metaphorically, of course —I have no fucking clue how this happened.”

Sam decides not to tell you about God being real today. That can wait until the next time it comes up.

“When it kicked in I was living alone. So the morning went perfectly fine until I tried to walk out the front door. Got showered, ate some food, got dressed— I was ready to go to work and then I couldn’t touch the doorknob or the lock or any part of the damn door.”

Sam cocks his head, brows furrowed in intrigue. “What do you mean?”

You sigh, “Closest I can get to describing it is like when you put the same poles of magnets towards each other.”

“Oh, uh, repulsion I think is the, uh, term for that.”

You nod, smirking at him and there’s no denying now that it’s out of fondness. What can you say, he’s charming you. He’s a collector of information— it’s becoming more and more clear that this is a man who values a substantial dataset and you’re finding it… cute. When you register that thought you grow more solemn immediately and push forwards.

“Well, yeah. It’s like that. But I’m the only one who’s affected. The objects don’t seem to have that same force on them. The rule, as far as I can tell, is that I can’t touch anything or move anything if there’s a single other person looking at the object.” You shrug a shoulder, “That first morning I couldn’t open my apartment door because a guy was delivering a package outside. He was having some kind of tech malfunction, I think, because he stood there in front of the door for like 5 minutes straight trying to figure it out. I couldn’t do a thing and no matter how hard I yelled he didn’t hear.”

“But he was looking at a device, not the door.” Sam lowers himself to sit on the edge of his mattress, “Why do you still think that counts?”

“Well, peripheral vision is still a thing, genius.”

“Oh. Right.”

He slumps a little in his shoulders, not looking at you as he considers that. You wonder idly if your reply was a bit too rude. He doesn’t seem to be dwelling on that, though.

“Huh.” His furrowed expression of focus makes you smirk despite yourself.

• Well isn’t he just adorable when he’s working that pretty brain so hard.

You catch that thought again and frown at yourself. Caution! Caution! The alarms in your head warn, not yet at full blast. Harboring feelings for the gorgeous stranger who’s promised to help you like a knight in shining armor is exactly how fools get themselves hurt. Let-downs are to be more expected than victories, so you always brace yourself for the former.

He stands without a word, drawing closer to you. You straighten where you were leaning on your knees, still sitting in his desk chair. He stops right beside you and extends a hand, pausing some inches from you with a questioning brow. Can I get closer? His eyes ask silently.

You nod and shrug equivocally, “Do your worst.”

He hesitates for another moment then reaches behind you to the back of the chair. With no warning he picks the seat up, lifting it a foot or so from the floor. You emit a disgruntled squawk as you tumble to the floor in a heap.

“Oh, wow,” He looks at the chair suspended in his hand, “yeah, that felt like the chair was empty! Didn’t even feel a, like, change in weight or anything! That’s wild—”

He cuts himself off when he catches sight of you on the floor glowering up at him with arms crossed. He forgot to consider the social ramifications of his previous action before doing it. However the benefit comes in the form of how cute you look when you pout. At that thought he shakes his head a little to clear it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, here,” He puts the chair down and reflexively offers you a hand to help you up.

You flatten your expression at him. “Dude, we just went over this.”

“Oh. Right.” His eyes flicker around in their sockets as he considers his next experiment. Then he offers you a hand again, “Try it for me?”

You glare with impatience and he shoots you with those pleading eyes that are dangerously good at disarming you. Grumbling under your breath you reach out towards him. Your hand comes within an inch of each his and then you can’t get any closer. He watches closely as you put more effort into touching him, which is visible in the scrunching of your facial features and the way your fingers quiver against the magical force restricting you.

“Woah,” Sam says, shaking his head slowly, “I don’t feel a thing.”

You drop your hand with a heavy exhale.

“Was that a real exertion for you?” He asks.

“Sort of. It feels kinda like a dull pulsing ache that gets worse the longer I try and force it.” You roll your wrist and begin massaging the one hand with the other, “Can’t quite pinpoint where the pain starts, it’s just kind of all the same intensity in the area closest to what I’m trying to touch and then it just… spreads. Gets bigger, harder to bear.”

Your eyes flicker casually up to Sam. He’s frowning so sympathetically at you, like he’s hurt by your suffering. His earnestness makes you shrink, turning to comic relief.

“Big and hard to bear? Sounds like my ex-boyfriend. Hey-o!” You spout sarcastically.

That makes him let out a tired snort, shaking his head a little.

“C’mon.” He goes towards the door, “I should give you a tour, so you, uh, know where to get food and shower and stuff.”

You shove yourself to your feet and begin straightening your clothes out. He pauses, hand hovering over the doorknob. He glances over his shoulder at you.

“You… you do still need to shower and, uh, y’know, use the bathroom n’ stuff, right?”

You sigh and nod.

“Huh.” He comments thoughtfully, pulling open the door.

He’s frowning in thought and hovering there, staring at some indistinct spot you can’t see. You hesitate for a second before realizing he expects you to go first. Clearing your throat a little you pretend that doesn’t make something foreign stir in the pit of your stomach. Avoiding his face at all costs you stalk out into the hall. He follows.

“How have you been taking care of those kinds of basic needs?” Sam asks as you walk through the underground Bunker.

“I usually found some wealthy people and kinda mooch off them for a little while before moving on.”

“How so?”

You shrug a shoulder, “Like if I’m walking around on the street and then come across someone with room in the backseat of their car and there’s an easy way in— like they left a door open, or the trunk —and I just slip in. I ride along with them until they stop again. I got nowhere to be so it doesn’t matter where they take me. Houses are the same— I just wait for the opportunity to slip through an open door or window. Sometimes I get lucky enough that they’re just not people who lock their doors. Or they have a spare key— I’ve gotten really good at finding those.”

There’s a beat of silence and then the soft sound of music begins wafting down the hall. You perk up at the sound. Sam notices immediately, looking from your face to the direction of Dean’s room.

“This is a great song.” You comment softly, frowning, “I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

Sam frowns at the music, thinking it’s not a song he’s heard Dean playing before. He leads you down the block of corridor to the doorway of his brother’s room and gently raps on the door. You hover behind Sam, hesitant to butt in even though subconsciously you know Dean can’t see you.

“Yeah?” Dean’s gruff voice comes through the crack and a door hinge creaks like a shrill mouse’s cry.

Sam ignores the noise and pokes his head inside. Dean’s up in the middle of his room, frowning at a record player that’s appeared sometime recently.

“You got a turntable?” Sam’s brows rise.

“Yeah, uh, some people in the next town over were having a garage sale. The thing works fine, I just don’t have any of my own records to play.” Dean shrugs, “I bought some of the ones they had that I thought looked cool.”

“Huh.” Sam shrugs with his mouth. “This song is nice. What is it?”

“Uh…” Dean goes to rummage for the sleeve.

In his periphery Sam sees you slip into the room as well.

“I remember it.” Your voice is a soft murmur over his shoulder. “My dad had this vinyl, too. The cover’s got a guy with these sunglasses on—”

“Here.” Dean’s hand stretches out to show Sam the album.

It’s called Visions by Grant Green. The cover’s an old picture, for sure, but it’s also kind of a timeless one. The musician is alone on it, wearing a very fine three-piece suit with elegant vertical pinstripes. The background is an uneven wash of chartreuse, kind of leaving the man out of place as well as time. On the bridge of his nose he’s got these shiny silver sunglasses that are too reflective to even get a peek at his eyes. Sam turns over the album to look at the tracklist.

Your hand reaches over his arm to delicately point at the second song.

“Maybe Tomorrow,” You read aloud, “that’s what’s playing.”

“This is only the second song.” Dean pipes up, flopping down onto his bed, “I just picked it out because the guy on the cover looks cool but I’m impressed! This isn’t half bad at all. Kinda surprised that I’m into it. No words ain’t usually my style.”

Sam smirks and goes to set the vinyl down beside the record player. “I’m not. It’s blues guitar, you like blues.”

“It’s kinda jazz-y too.” Dean shrugs a little as he tucks his hands behind his head, “Whatever. It’s nice.”

Sam glances over at you. You’re swaying a little, hands tucked up close to your heart absently. With longing eyes you stare at the vinyls. Without asking either you or Dean, Sam goes over to the stack. He stops in front of it then covertly looks at you. Dean’s closed his eyes just to listen to the music. Very discreetly, Sam tilts his head at you in a “c’mere” motion.

Heat flares up quick in your face. It’s been so long since you’ve felt so invited in by humanity. The intimacy that comes from a single person remembering to include you when they’re experiencing life in front of you is completely unfamiliar at this point.

Sam flips through the covers slowly for you to examine, giving you as much time as you need to look over each one. He handles your soft instructions to turn the items or hold them still for a moment longer without pushback. You don’t even have to say “please” or “thanks” to him, and you wonder if he’s being patient with you or if he just doesn’t expect to receive any niceties.

After you’re done looking through the vinyls you catch Sam watching your profile. He’s close to you, waiting on your queue while his eyes and expression ask the question: are you ready to move on? That’s when you realize you haven’t said “thank you” to him. It doesn’t seem like the thought had occurred to him.

’Bed?’ He mouths at you, head facing away from his brother.

You nod, stifling a yawn. Sam returns the gesture, more restrained so as to not raise Dean’s suspicions. He bids his brother goodnight and you move towards the door to leave when Dean sits up.

“Sammy, wait.” He sets his feet on the floor again and you frown a bit as you notice he’s still got boots on.

“Shoes on the bed, really?” You comment aloud.

Sam’s head turns towards you at the unexpected words for a split second then back to Dean.

“Be honest with me. How are you doing, man?”

Sam shifts in place. “I’m fine.”

Dean eyes his brother with scrutiny for a moment. “You been getting sleep?”

Sam shrugs a shoulder. “A bit.”

Dean’s face morphs into one of more disapproval. “Sammy, it’s not too late for us to go back—”

“—Dean.”

“—I can take your place, alright?” Dean continues, “We can find another stupid Hellhound and—”

“—Dean!” Sam interrupts more firmly, “Enough, alright? You said you’d leave it alone.”

Dean eyes Sam for a tense moment then deflates on his next exhale. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried.”

“I know.” Sam nods once, “But it also comes off like you don’t believe in me, you get that right?”

Dean stares at his hands between his spread knees for a moment. “I got a hard time sitting on the sidelines, Sam, you know that.”

Sam nods, “I do. And I also know that you’re upset about Cas.”

Dean’s expression hardens at that name, his spine straightening.

“Just… don’t pretend your feelings aren’t real, Dean. It’s okay to be upset.” Sam shuffles over to where you’re waiting in the doorway, “Goodnight, man.”

“Night.” Dean replies softly.

Sam closes the door behind him. You hover in the hallway, gauging his every move. He’s going slower now, almost like he’s taking his time to not have to meet your eye. He’s avoiding your gaze on purpose because he knows that exchange you just witnessed could only leave you with more burning questions.

“Lemme show you where to sleep.” Sam plasters on a toothless smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “C’mon, I’ll put you next to me.”

He starts walking and you jog a few steps to catch up. “Sam, what was all that about?”

He heaves a sigh and you suddenly see the slump in his shoulders, the exhaustion slowing his gait and making his feet lead, barely able to lift up for each step across the concrete floor.

“Can I explain it all tomorrow?” Sam asks, subduing a yawn.

You nod once, deciding that after everything the man’s done for you in just this one day he’s earned a rest. He’ll tell you tomorrow, you trust that he will.

Someone barks his name gruffly in concern. His limbs draw up closer to him, stiff and trembling slightly like he’s lifting very heavy weights and straining his muscles while he gets more fetal. A large hand smacks onto the round of his shoulder and guides him onto his back a bit. The crunching of glass beneath boots is louder than the muffled noise of it crunching under Sam’s giant form. He doesn’t react to these either really, just acknowledges the pain and accepts it as a part of life. Existence has always involved mass amounts of pain, in Sam’s experience. This is just the same soup, reheated.

Dean calls to him a few more times, coming in clearer with each one. Sam tries opening his eyes a few times but chinks of sunrise coming through the gaping holes torn into the walls around him burn to look at right now. Skeletons of iron remain in those gaps where stained glass used to temper the morning light into something akin to being holy. He’s always kind of understood that aspect of Christianity— the reverence for light. Something in Sam wilts at the sight of that beauty having been destroyed. He didn’t mean to do that. Just another casualty of something elegant existing near Sam.

Dean curses under his breath repeatedly, picking off the shards of glass he can see. He keeps prompting Sam to speak but he can only respond in grunts and groans. When he’s finally able to pry his eyelids open longer than a split-second he sees you hovering over Dean’s shoulder where he’s crouched close to the ground. Sam can’t help smiling dopily as his eyes fall shut again. It’s funny to see you there, just like how it was secretly funny the first time he saw you in that crime scene. You look as out of place as could be in your pajamas and one of his old jackets. Your arms are crossed tight under your breasts, deep concern etched into your beautiful features. But you’re still beautiful. It’s like the sun rises fully in an instant. Stained glass be damned, you translate light more divinely than the windows he accidentally destroyed ever could.

“Mm… Beautiful…” He mumbles, barely audible and with eyes closed, head lolling to the side.

“Damn it you stupid dope.” Dean grumbles before shouting over his shoulder, “KEVIN!”

The prophet comes scrambling into the church, purposefully doing everything he can to not look at the dead body laying over the alter, completely blasted open in the chest. The priest’s bloody, splintered ribs stick out of a gaping cavity where his innards used to live, all of them now displaced. His heart was ejected with such force that it went all the way down the church and into the organ on the back balcony. Kevin scurries over to Dean’s side, brows knit together in fear and concern.

“I thought he was going to ‘cut off the head of the snake’ not…” Kevin struggles for words, “…blow him up.”

“Well, plans change.” Dean nods to a sliver of Sam’s forearm visible through a cut on his shirt. “Look.”

Dean rips the fabric open more to show Kevin that Sam’s veins are glowing with etherial light. Golden, purple, ice-blue, and silvery-white illuminate the capillaries below the skin. You swallow thickly at the sight, horrified by what that might mean. And what it might be doing to Sam.

The ordeal of getting Sam into the Impala is one that takes about 30 minutes (if you’re being generous about Dean and Kevin’s efficiency). They’re concerned about him, sure, but you observe a resignation in them that you don’t understand. Dean’s stony and quick to snap directions at Kevin— no “please” or “thank you” ever uttered. Kevin, whom you’ve been studying for a few hours now, is gaunt with dark circles running deep under his eye sockets. Dean gives him the front seat. Sam’s laying across the back so you squeeze into the very uncomfortable space regularly reserved for feet behind the front bench.

You stop listening to Dean and Kevin as the Impala purrs to life beneath you. Tugging your knees up close to your chest, you lean back into the door. You’re right beside Sam’s head. He’s unconscious again, little cuts from the glass Dean already picked out dotting his golden skin. There’s a white noise in your ears, like your brain can’t accept new information through sound right now, it’s too busy working overtime to soothe your fears and to try detangling what you just witnessed.

Dean and Kevin speak about “Trials”. They keep bringing them up but you don’t know what they’re for. Are they like the Labors of Hercules? You hope not. In the end of that myth Hercules dies. It’s heroic, sure, but it’s not very narratively satisfying from your point of view.

You crane your neck to see out the car’s side windows as it pulls away from the church. It’s a massive structure sitting on a small rise. The alter and apse face a rushing river below— you think it might be a tributary to the Mississippi —and there’s no buildings close-by so you can understand how the battle might’ve gone unheard. But the resulting debris was so clearly drawn from intense violence that you’re still sort of amazed that no one came running to see who was killing the head priest.

What kind of trial has a man killing a priest? That doesn’t seem very righteous at all. Did you read this whole situation wrong? What kind of man have you gotten entangled with? You let him sleep in your bed for fuck’s sake, what were you thinking?

It’s not like you have any deep undying love for priests— not at all, actually —but the symbolism of Sam seemingly having caused the chest cavity of a holy man to explode outwards with such force is hard to ignore. Have you read him wrong? Is he really evil? That doesn’t feel right.

You want to follow your gut and give him grace but you haven’t survived this long out of a willingness to easily give people the benefit of the doubt— it’s quite the opposite, actually. You’ve lived a life of wariness, bound by caution and fear. You’re not proud of everything you’ve done but you know that assuming the worst of people is always a safer bet than assuming the best.

He stirs beside you on the Impala’s backseat. Your head snaps to the side to look at him. His features scrunch together the same way they do when he’s waking up in the morning. You wait with bated breath, hoping he’ll open his eyes. He does for a moment but then they slip back closed. He seems to have seen you though, if the soft smile on his woozy face is any indication. One of his hands limply scoots a little closer to you but you’re not sure if it’s an offer or a request for touch or simply nothing at all.

When all four of you are back in the motel, Dean and Kevin continue prattling back-and-forth to each other. They dropped Sam into one of the beds with less care than you would’ve used. You sit on the edge of the other mattress, one knee bouncing frantically but your face stoney. Internally you’re not sure what’s happening to you. Your mind is filled with static, no feelings or thoughts quite solid enough to grasp onto. The audio of Dean and Kevin comes and goes while your eyes bore into Sam’s sleeping face. He looks pale. Gaunt, even.

You watch Dean meticulously pick out every piece of glass in his brother’s body. He takes off Sam’s tattered flannel to do it but leaves the t-shirt on because the holes in it actually helps him locate all the shards. While he works, you tune briefly into he and Kevin’s conversation.

“So. Trial one was hellhounds.” Dean begins.

Kevin nods, pacing the length of the room, “Yeah. ‘Bathe in the filth of what Sin hath wrought, under the disemboweled belly of a beast from below.’ Pretty self-explanatory.”

“And Trial two was the lesbians.” Dean’s features scrunch as he pulls a particularly tricky piece of glass out of Sam.

“‘Save a lover who hath coveted what is beautiful, endeavoring to keep it alive at great cost. Free them of their binding contract by thine hand slaughtering their entrapper.’”

“And this one was, what?”

Kevin pauses his movements and releases a sigh, “‘Cleanse a House of the Lord that has sunken deep into the fen of false idols. Sever the head of the beast that sullies what ought be pure.’”

Dean spares the boy a fleeting glance then continues picking glass out of his brother. “And you don’t know the next one, yet.”

Kevin shakes his head, “Buh— but I’m close, though. A few more days I think.”

Dean sighs wearily, wiping some sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “He needs time to recover, kid. Don’t rush.”

Kevin nods. There’s not much conversation after that. All you can see and process is Sam’s limp body being plucked and poked at like a game of Operation.

Throughout the whole hour and a half it takes, Dean’s hands never waver once. Sam doesn’t stir at all. This does seem to concern Dean— every time he finds a larger piece he gives a warning aloud to his brother. It’s clear to you that he’s hoping Sam will answer. He doesn’t, just keeps sleeping, the glowing in his veins dimming significantly as time passes. Eventually Dean leaves to go get he and Kevin some food. You hope there’s leftovers you can steal.

When left alone with Kevin, you notice how in a daze he seems. He looks almost as ill and pale as Sam did in the church, clearly sleep-deprived. He doesn’t stay still for very long, often going to check the warding or peek out through the curtains into the parking lot. Eventually he pulls a chair over to the window, off to the side a bit so he can keep watch. Valiantly, he tries to stay alert, but eventually his eyelids are drooping and his head keeps drifting towards his collarbones before snapping back upright. It’s a losing battle but you watch him fight it for hours, wondering where Dean went.

When Dean returns with barbecue, Kevin reminds him that he doesn’t eat meat. You wonder if Kevin will ask what took the older man so long to come back but he doesn’t. Kevin’s clearly used to being left behind like this. That realization makes you sad. Since Kevin only picks at the fries and coleslaw, you get to steal his pulled-pork sandwich when no one’s looking. You scarf it down quick, ever unsure of whether the curse will fling it from your hands eventually.

Sam sleeps all day. The sun has gone back down, Dean’s showered and then dozed off soundly by the time Sam wakes up. The younger man stirs on the bed with a pained groan, face scrunching up as he fights for consciousness. The first thing his eyes see when they open is you, half-lit by the TV which is playing some rerun of Dr. Sexy, MD. You’ve moved down onto the floor now, leaning back against the mattress where you were sitting before. Above your head, Dean burps while he dozes, arms and ankles crossed on top of the covers. The pattering of shower water indicates where Kevin is. Sam knows from the last couple days that the boy takes very long showers.

You’re sitting with your knees up, an elbow rested on top of one, that hand holding your forehead. The skin of your face is pulled taut in a somewhat odd manner, making one of your brows curve unnaturally as you watch your other hand pick lint balls off the carpet. You don’t look up at him. Your expression is… sour. Somehow Sam knows just from looking at you that you’re not very pleased with him. He can’t blame you.

He murmurs your name in the hopes he can be quiet enough not to wake Dean. Your eyes flicker up at the sound, and there’s redness around them, a glassiness to their surface that shows you’ve been steadily leaking tears for some time now. Sam’s heart clenches at the sight of it— the thought of how long you must have been sitting there waiting, miserable and alone while in a room of people who can’t see you makes him sad.

Something about the way Sam says your name makes you angry. He sounds pitying, like he’s going to give you a few comforting pats and then tell you everything’s going to be just fine. But it’s not fine. You can see that clearly now. He’s been keeping something from you and now you’ve spent enough time eavesdropping on Dean and Kevin to know the broad strokes of what it is.

1. Sam is undergoing very difficult magical trials for something important enough that neither Kevin nor Dean seem all that phased by his current state. 2. Dean is resentful of Sam for taking on this burden. 3. Neither Dean nor Kevin seem all that sure that Sam will survive this.

And so is it completely within your rights to get furious? Hard to say. Sam never lied to you, he only omitted what is clearly something hugely consequential to him and his helping your situation. Right now, though, it does feel like he lied to you— like he got your hopes up for nothing. And the only reason you’re still here is because you need to give him a piece of your mind.

His hand inches towards you on the bed like it did in the Impala. He can’t commit to fully offering or asking for your hand to meet his. Your lower lip wobbles so you clench your teeth. You might be on the verge of tears but you want him to know your rage. Keeping calm was somewhat manageable while he was sleeping but now? You’re out for blood.

“What. The hell.” You breathe shakily.

His hand closes on top of the sheets, clearly seeing that you would not be taking ahold of it. There’s sorrow written all over his face and it makes you more angry. What right does he have to be feeling sorry for himself?

“You lied to me.”

His eyes shoot up to meet yours. He shakes his head, a look on his features that begs for you to believe him.

“You did!” You hiss, “You said you could help me but you can’t! You can’t even help yourself!” Why did I fucking believe you?

“I didn’t—” Sam props himself up onto his elbows then winces from dizziness and has to go back down. “—I didn’t lie.”

“Well you sure as hell didn’t tell me the truth!” You snap, “What’ve you done to help my situation, huh? Anything?!”

“Hey, that’s not fai—”

You shoot up to your feet, scowling viciously. “All I am is a little imaginary friend you keep around for what?! Company?! ’Cause your domineering older brother is furious all the time for some reason and you’re stuck with him and you feel lonely about it?! Well I’m not your pet!” You spin away from him to hide your miserable features. I knew there was some ulterior motive! What could you possibly care about me for?!

The tears are brimming at your lower lash line. Sam sits up, brows knit in genuine concern and contrition. You glance over your shoulder at Sam expectantly. When he doesn’t say anything but looks like he desperately wants to, your fists clench at either side of you. It’s clear why he won’t talk.

“And you still haven’t told him about me!” You jab a finger in Dean’s direction. “So I had to fucking scramble to make sure I could come and see if you were okay! You have successfully made me completely reliant on you and your attention and your help and for what?! So you can live out some stupid fantasy before you fucking leave?!”

“No, that’s not true—”

“—Just stop!” You snap through gritted teeth. The tears finally start falling and humiliation joins the overwhelming salad bowl of your current emotions.

A commercial comes on the TV that is loud enough to startle you. You turn to grab the remote and then you can’t. Your fingers strain and tremble with the effort of trying to get it but it’s no use. With an angry huff you give up trying to maintain self control.

There’s not much thought put into what happens next. You’re not proud of what you’re doing— of how you’re acting —but allowing yourself to get swept away by your impulses feels almost cathartic right now. It’s like you’re aware of the shame coming after this outburst but you’re soaking up all the spotlight while you can.

“MotherFUCKER!” You shout, kicking one of Sam’s boots on the floor, just out of his sight, with impressive force.

The heavy leather shoe flies into the TV’s console with a loud thud that makes the flatscreen wobble. The sudden sound makes Sam sit up and wakes Dean from his light slumber.

“What the…?” Dean mumbles blearily as he shoots upright.

He looks to Sam who immediately turned to meet his gaze. You spin to face Sam too, eyes ablaze.

“Tell him!” You shout, “Tell him I’m here!”

Sam falters, mouth open and unsure of what to say.

“Sam?” Dean begins shifting towards his brother across his bed.

“Goddamn it, Sam, tell him I’m here!” Silvery tears streak down the planes of your face, glistening in the TV’s glow. “The one fucker in the world who can see me and all he does is make me feel more invisible—!”

“Sammy? Y’alright?” Dean begins, voice scratchy from sleep.

“—FUCK!” You scream in frustration, both hands gripping your hair roughly as you turn away. In the corner of your eye you see Sam flinch a little at the volume. This is useless. All of this is useless. I’m going to fucking die like this. It’s all I’m going to get.

Dean’s trying to talk to Sam. He goes to put a hand on Sam’s forehead for a temperature check but gets shoved aside. Sam shoots to his feet and starts marching around the bed towards you, uttering your name as a request for patience. A strong hand on the shoulder yanks him back to face his brother.

“Dude?!” Dean shouts indignantly, “What the hell is up with you?!”

“Dean, I can’t deal with this right now, okay? I need you to—”

“—No, no, no! The only thing either of us needs to do is stand fuckin’ still and talk about what’s going on!”

“Dean! I don’t have the time—!”

“—Well then fuckin’ make some!” Dean snaps over him, “Sam, you’ve been acting like a schizo for weeks now! You think I don’t hear you talkin’ to nobody?! I hear you!”

You’re standing in the corner near the door now, still tugging at the roots of your hair.

Nobody. You let out a humorless laugh, almost a little deranged. Yeah. That’s right. Nobody. He’s talking to nobody. Just like everyone else. Just like how it’ll always be.

“Is it the trials? Are you going crazy? Again!?” Dean demands.

Sam rubs both hands down his face, unable to keep his impatience out of his tone. “No I’m not going crazy!”

“Then what?!”

“THERE’S A PERSON HERE!” Sam shouts suddenly, both hands smacking down onto his thighs in exasperation. “There’s another person here but you can’t see her. Alright?”

Dean’s frozen for a moment, shock written all over his face. With an exhausted eye-roll and a long sigh Sam says with no real malice,

“Are you both happy?” He asks, glancing over his shoulder towards you, “Now does everyone wanna stop yelling at me? I’ve had a pretty tough 24 hours and on top of it you’re both giving me a migraine.”

You blink in surprise, stunned and still facing the wall. Well, you hadn’t exactly expected that to happen. Honestly, you were about to run off at the first opportunity because all of this has just gotten too complicated for your brain to handle but now… you’re not sure what’s going to happen.

“Sam—” Dean begins, sounding like someone trying to pacify someone who’s mentally unwell.

“—She’s real, Dean.” Sam snaps, glowering at his brother, “She’s real. And she’s been living in the Bunker with us for a few weeks.”

Dean blinks several times and shakes his head a little. You’re peeking over your shoulder at them now and you can tell he’s not going to swallow this pill easily.

“That’s who I was calling on the last hunt. That’s who I’ve been talking to.”

Dean’s features wrinkle incredulously. After a long pause he goes, “What?!”

Sam swallows, “I think she’s cursed, or something.”

“Sam, what the hell ‘re you talking about? This is nuts! What the hell kind of curse—”

“—I don’t know I haven’t figured it out yet!” Sam raises his voice, “All we know is no one can see her except me apparently, and she can’t touch things unless no one’s looking at ‘em!”

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment. “Dude, you do know that if no one else can see someone that usually means you’re hallucinating them, righ—?”

“—Don’t you think I’ve thought of that already?!” Sam snaps, “Of course I did! I thought of it the second I saw her!”

“Well excuse me for thinking of it too! It wouldn’t be the first time you imagined some invisible psycho bitch following you around!”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you because I knew— I knew! —you’d react this way! And you know what? I’m getting pretty sick of you making me doubt myself!” Sam shouts back, “Do you know how it feels? To know that your own brother— the only family you have left —wouldn’t trust you to tell him what color the sky is, let alone that there’s a person who’s trapped and needs our help?! Well, I’ll tell you! It sucks!”

Dean’s too stunned to speak.

“Why would you believe me, though, huh? I’m only your brother who’s saved your life hundreds of times!” Sam’s nose wrinkles as he adds sanctimoniously, “Yeah. I’m a completely unreliable narrator of my own perception. You’re right, Dean, you know better than me about what I see with my own eyes.”

Dean clenches his jaw, now looking angry. “Ya done?”

Sam’s chest rises and falls with his angry inhale. Scowling at his brother without replying, Sam snatches up his jacket and marches towards the door.

“C’mon.” Sam says and you think he’s addressing you.

With forceful movements he undoes the lock and chain before opening the door.

“Where the hell are you going?” Dean demands, “Sam!”

“Stuff it, Dean!” Sam snaps over his shoulder.

He uses too much strength to open the door. It slams into the wall beside you, making you flinch. Sam freezes for a split-second when he sees that. He can’t decipher everything in your expression but the hand absently resting over your heart tells him that he scared you. He wilts at the thought and averts his eyes. Ignoring Dean’s attempts to goad him into continuing the conversation, Sam marches off into the evening, canvas coat gripped tight in one fist.

“Dude—” Dean sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes. “He’s always gotta be a fuckin’ drama queen.”

Your eyes narrow incredulously at him. He turns to go bang on the bathroom door. That’s when you notice the notepad and pen on the kitchenette table.

“Kevin! Hurry up man!”

Dean begins trying to exchange words with Kevin over the roar of the shower and through the muffle of the locked door. He’s getting frustrated and is about to give up when the motel room door slams behind his back. He flinches violently, spinning to see an empty room. Everything is still outside of the door’s chain swinging back and forth, not put back in place. He blinks a few times and then sees the notepad on the end of the table. It’s got writing on it now, in one of Sam’s blue ballpoint pens.

The expression melts clean off Dean’s face. He looks up and all around the room, pale as a sheet. As the door to the bathroom opens he tears the note off the pad and crumples it into a ball. Clearing his throat he turns to see Kevin, freshly changed into his pajamas with wet hair.

“Where’s Sam?” He asks immediately.

Dean raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Did you not hear any of that?”

Kevin’s eyes dart around under his flattened brows. “Uh… any of what exactly?”

Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Nothin. Go to sleep, alright. Sam ‘ll be back uh… when he’s back.”

He breezes past Kevin and into the bathroom without another word. The boy frowns deeply in his wake.

Outside, the gentle wind blows Sam’s hair around. He stops his quick march all the way at the other end of the parking lot, facing the woods. As the breeze dies down he closes his eyes and takes deep, measured breaths. He hears your footsteps first. The shuffling noise of the oversized boots he leant you makes the faintest hint of a smile touch the corners of his lips. When you stop a few feet behind him, he exhales and a mass of tension releases from his shoulders. Tiredly he lets his head loll forwards onto his collarbone, like his neck just can’t keep it up anymore.

You don’t say anything. He’s not sure if he wants you to. If Amelia had seen that all go down, what would she think of him? What does that mean you think of him?

“I’m sorry.” You speak up.

When you don’t elaborate he turns to glance at you. His heart sinks into his stomach when he sees you. Standing in the cold, still in your pajamas (comprised of an old pair of his boxers and your own tank top under his jacket) and aglow from the parking lot lights behind you, he can’t help a pang of longing. You look beautiful. The thought feels a little threatening to him. More devastating though is the knowledge that even if he could have you close in his clothes, he wouldn’t be able to look at you. It’s strange that the exchange of sight for touch or vis-versa causes such discomfort to him. Sam doesn’t want one or the other. As he looks at you now, the breeze disturbing the loose bits of your hair and your arms tight around your middle from chill, he realizes that he wants it all.

“I was being pushy.” You lower your gaze to the asphalt. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I let my emotions get the better of me. I’m sorry.”

Sam blinks a few times in surprise. A small humorless snort escapes him. “I think you might be the most forthcoming person when it comes to apologies that I’ve ever met.”

That makes you smile bashfully, no teeth showing but a hopefulness in the eyes that warms him. You sigh, Well the bar isn’t very high.

He turns to face you fully.

“Thank you.” He nods, “But I owe you an apology too.”

“It doesn’t have to be a ‘but’.”

“Huh?”

You shrug a shoulder, “You can say ‘and I owe you one too.’ You’re… you’re not always the one in the wrong. You know that right? You don’t have to… concede in order to get an apology for something that hurt you. That’s all I mean.”

His lips part to reply but he finds nothing. You take a step closer to him.

“I’m sorry I took it so personally.” You take a breath, “I’m… I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me. I know… you have other priorities. Things that began before I threw a wrench in your plans. I don’t want to be greedy…”

You hesitate to continue and he offers, “…And?”

You smirk a little at him. “And… I don’t want you to… go.”

His brows knit together slightly. “I’m not,” He lets out a short huff, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t look sure. Still, you don’t say anything aloud.

“I, uh, I don’t think I’ve been clear enough.” He takes a step closer to you, “I really am happy to help.”

You make a small breathless noise of disbelief, but your eyes peer up at him with the desperation of someone who needs to hear that. You can’t admit that you need it because maybe then the validation will be withheld.

“I, um,” He clears his throat, “I’ve done a lot of… well I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I’ve dealt with a lot of demons— literally and figuratively. To be honest, there’s a part of me that likes that… you don’t know much about my mistakes. And that you… don’t really push too much for me to reveal them, either.” He shakes his head a bit in wonder, “Because I know all of ‘em, though, I’m… kind of amazed by your trust in me.”

You smirk lightly, “Well, I don’t have a ton of options for life lines here.”

He laughs, soft and warm, just barely audible over the next gentle swell of wind.

“Sam?”

He looks up at you, brows raised in invitation for you to continue.

“I think you’re just as hard on you as you feel like Dean is.” You say hesitantly, “And you’re right I… I don’t know a lot about what you consider your mistakes. But I’ve seen you. I’ve watched you. And I’ve listened to you. That’s all I… I think I need. I think… I think you’ve charmed me like you used to charm those old ladies.”

He laughs, a beautiful blush creeping onto his cheeks. Shyly, he ducks his head a little and you don’t blink at all, just stare on in wonder. It isn’t a conscious decision, you just can’t miss any of him right now. You need to drink up as much of his visage as possible. It’s a need that defies logic or definition. You’re speaking before you know what you’re doing.

“I’m glad it’s you.” You murmur, “I’m glad you’re the one who found me. I’m glad you can see me, Sam.”

His eyes flicker up to you. His head’s still bowed so his pretty dark lashes frame his gaze perfectly.

Almost like you’re scared, you add: “I think… I think I can see you, too.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up a little but it’s hollow. “Of course you can.”

You shake your head dreamily, “No. Not just the outside you. The inside you. The one… the one that wants to be seen. I… I don’t know that inside-you very well yet but… I like what I see so far.”

Sam’s heart melts and his head feels light. He reaches out towards you, immediately closing his eyes to not interrupt the connection. With those big, firm hands, he ever so gently pulls you to his chest. Wrapping you up in his arms tight, you feel like you could be absorbed into him. That thought isn’t so unpleasant.

“Thank you.” He whispers into your scalp. “I see you, too.”

That makes tears spring to your eyes. You’re not sure why— it’s not like this is news to you —but the appreciation you feel for him expands in your chest. Your hands slide up from the small of his back to the tops of his shoulders, pulling him into you, too. In his head, he wonders if he could just melt into you, too. It kind of feels like things might feel better that way— more manageable, at least. When you pull apart he’s not meeting your eye a lot.