#serial killer!sam

“Shut the fuck up, Winchester. Or you won’t make your visit.”

“Quiet it is.” Sam’s grin still on his face. Yeah, it was going to be a good day.

You sat anxiously at the table the guard had guided you to. You glanced around at others in the midst of their visits. A prisoner walked in, a visibly broken nose, a black eye still lingering and the woman at the table closest to you gasped as she stood. From what you heard of their conversation, he’d gotten in a fight with an inmate a week and a half ago. He didn’t want to name the person, but eventually you heard the slightest whisper of ‘Winchester’.

Suddenly you were worried about Sam. Would he come out looking just as beat up? He could hold his own, you knew exactly who he was, you didn’t delude yourself on why he was where he was. He was brutal, cold, a killer. They didn’t even know exactly how many people he killed, really. Or why. But prison was prison, it was unpredictable despite the predictability of the prisoners' days.

Someone new entered, and you glanced over to see him. He loomed over the guard who was uncuffing him, speaking to him though Sam’s eyes were locked on you. He’d just nod in response as you stood up from your seat. He didn’t have a scratch on him. His beautiful face looked completely untouched, and when you glanced over to the other table, you saw how the man glanced back and physically paled at the sight of Sam being brought closer.

You looked to Sam once more, openly staring up at him as he stopped next to the table. He was massive. He towered impossibly tall over you and you were in awe of the sheer size of him. He didn’t speak, didn’t say hi, didn’t greet you in any way, he just motioned to the table and then sat down himself.

“Right, sorry.” you chuckled awkwardly before taking your seat again.

“You seem surprised.”

Your eyes shot to meet his at his words. His voice was smooth as silk and you wanted to hear it again, wanted to hear him whispering all the filthy dirty things his twisted mind could come up with into your ear. “I guess you don’t realize just how big 6’4 really is until it’s towering over you.” you smiled shyly at him. “I’m glad I was able to find out.”

“Oh, I’ve been a very good boy this week.” Sam sat back comfortably, his eyes roaming you, from your hands clutched on the table all the way up to your eyes again.

“I’m glad.” his gaze on you made you avert your eyes again. The attraction to him was strong, you couldn’t deny that. You felt something for him in the letters but having him here, right in front of you.. You hoped he was able to get visitors more often. You wanted to keep coming, keep seeing him. But the way he looked at you, the way those deep hazel eyes bore into you like he could see past everything and into your very soul and he wanted to devour it, it had you feeling meek and submissive. Like all he had to do was think something and you’d figure it out and do it. He was dangerous, no doubt about it.

“You seemed more confident in your letters.” Panic hit at his words. Was he disappointed in you? You looked at him again, afraid that he was, but you couldn’t read him.

“I- I have a drink or two while I write..” you admitted, chewing on your lip. “You know, liquid courage.”

“Yeah?” You nodded. “That all you do?” You saw the knowing smirk hit his face as you looked away embarrassed. “Really?” He groaned, shifting in his seat again. “How about next time, you wipe those fingers of yours on my letter. Let me smell you.”

Sam was licking his lips when you looked up, and you couldn’t do more than nod to him. A silent promise to do as told. Honestly, if he asked you to, you’d put your hand in your pants right now and give him a damn taste. He was getting to you in the worst way, and you could feel your panties dampening further the longer he sat across from you.

Sam suddenly sat forward, elbows on the table as his head tilted a little to the right. “You writing to anyone else? Other than me?”

You licked your lips and swallowed before answering. “I- Yeah. I have a few penpals..” The look in his eyes changed, a flash of something. He didn’t like that answer, you could feel it. “You’re the one I write to most frequently. The only one I keep up with like I do and the only one I’ve visited. I don’t write to anyone like I write to you, I promise.” You needed his approval back. You couldn’t explain it, you just did.

Truth be told, you’d been writing to prisoners for years. There was something about them, about the power and energy they seemed to have that got you off like no one else could. But they all came and went, some not lasting more than a letter or two, others just getting forgotten over time or on release.  But Sam Winchester, he was never getting out. And everyone was afraid of him. You were afraid of him. Afraid of what he could do to you.

“Hm.” he hummed. You caught his arm shifting in your peripheral, and when you glanced towards the movement, you saw something in his hand. Your eyes shot up to meet his in fear as a sinister smile stretched his lips.

Before you could fully register what was happening, he lunged from his seat to the table next to you and the man he’d gotten into a fight with a week and a half ago. A large hand grabbed the man by the forehead and pulled it back, exposing his neck. You flinched when Sam stabbed the shiv through his throat and the woman screamed as blood began to pour when he yanked it back out.

Sam’s eyes were on you the whole time, watching every microscopic reaction you had to what he’d just done as he shoved the body aside. Your breathing had picked up, your thighs pressed tight together. The shiv fell to the floor and his blood soaked hands went up, eyes still on you as guards rushed him, slamming his body against the table making you jump back and out of your seat.

Someone grabbed your upper arm, forcing you to take a step back as more guards rushed in to round up prisoners and rush out the families.

“You write to just me now.” Sam growled as he was hoisted up. “You’re mine. You understand me?” They started leading him off, tugging you away. “You’re fucking mine.” As you watched him be led out, one thing was unmistakable. His prison uniform did nothing to hide just how hard that show of power over you had made him.

Once you were out of the visitors area, the guard who’d ushered you out made sure you were okay. “Yeah.. I’m fine thank you. Just need a cold shower.” you gave the guard a small thankful smile before slowly making your way out on weak knees.

The guard shook his head. “Fucking prison groupies..”

You didn’t write to him, you weren’t sure if he would get the letters after what he’d done. You figured you’d wait for him to write to you and go from there. You dreamed of him though, often. Dreamed of him naked and covered in blood, that look in his eyes when he watched you. Dreamed of him killing people, sometimes even of how he’d kill you, how easily he could do it.

Two weeks later, your phone rang. You were shocked when the automated voice informed you of where the call was coming from. You didn’t even hesitate to say “Accept.”

It was quiet for a moment, but then you heard that silky smooth voice. “Who you writing to, sweetheart?”

“Just you. It’s only you.”

“Good girl.”

“I can’t believe you called me, Sam.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk to my favorite girl?”

You melted at that, but also felt a mild pang of jealousy. “Your favorite? Are there others?”

“That depends on your answer. What are you wearing?”

“I can be in nothing in a heartbeat.”

Sam chuckled at that and your eyes fluttered shut at the sound. “My good little girl. I can’t wait to see you again.”

*If you like this, please consider supporting my work*

Tagging :  Sam -  @evyiione​

SPN -  @sandlee44  @just-another-busy-fangirl  @mrswhozeewhatsis   @deanandsamsbitch  @deans-baby-momma  @thebescht @67-chevy-baby @supraveng   @musiclovinchic93 @holyfuckloueh  @ksgeekgirl   @hobby27 @maddiepants  @roxyspearing @onethirstyunicorn    @fandom-princess-forevermore​     @kalesrebellion​   @deanwanddamons​

He thanked the bartender on his way out, and then he went out into the cold with J. Sam put his hood up.

“So, strip club?” J asked.

“Nah,” Sam told him, as he walked them over to his car. “The girls there are violent. I don’t blame ‘em.”

“I think it’s hot.”

“I think men should leave them alone,” Sam told him, unlocking the car, and climbing into the driver’s seat.

J got in on the other side. “What, and you do?” he asked.

Sam tilted his head. “Mostly.”

“Fine, then what were you thinking?”

“Another bar?”

J shrugged. “You know the way?”

“My family used to live here. We moved when I was still just a baby, but I come out here a lot to visit my Uncle Bobby. Oh, and I hope it’s okay if we stop at the motel first. I have to grab a few things.”

“Yeah. Cool.”

Sam parked out front, and then paused to put his hair up. It would be much too annoying if it started getting in his face now. Then, making sure no one was around, Sam held a gloved hand to J’s nose, wrapped a hand around his neck, and covered his mouth. He hugged J to him, keeping him from struggling much, and then he passed out. Sam let him slump on him because that was better than having him land against part of the car and cause a ruckus.

After repositioning him (poor J, he’d had too much to drink), Sam changed into latex gloves, and tied plastic shopping bags he’d had in the glove compartment over his feet, needing to carefully use two for each foot, and then keeping them closed with tape.

Thankfully Sam had set everything up earlier. It was getting late. He’d cleared the space, laid out the plastic… everything was good to go. The motel was even fully packed, and another patron would be leaving early in the morning, just like him (what a coincidence), so everything checked out.

It was too late for anyone to notice that he was out, and this was what he did every year, so he didn’t feel any anxiety as he got out of the car, went around to the other side, and eased J over one of his shoulders.

Sam’s knees buckled slightly. God, the man was heavy. He did fit Sam’s type though—at least six feet tall, muscular. Of course he was heavy.

He took J into his motel room and then set to work. He checked again that his hair was tied tightly and kept up under his hood, and then he got out the duct tape. It was hard working with duct tape with the gloves on, but Sam was practiced at this after years of doing it. He taped J’s ankles together, and then taped his wrists behind his back. Lastly, he put the silvery-gray duct tape over his mouth.

Sam kicked J awake.

Immediately the man started struggling, panicked green eyes swiveling, taking in all he could see before landing on Sam, who was now crouched before him.

“Hey.”

J’s eyes widened, and he started screaming. Luckily the sound could barely be heard.

Sam reached behind himself and grabbed his special serrated knife with the wooden handle from the waistband of his jeans. He rubbed his thumb over the pentagram carved right at the edge of the hilt.

“I like you, J,” Sam said, “which is actually why you’re here.”

J didn’t seem to be taking this in, too panicked.

Why did they never want to let him talk these days? Sam wasn’t trying to be rude. He did need a friend, just not permanently. Besides, they couldn’t stick around, not when they had short brown hair that could have been blond in early childhood, apple green eyes, and chiseled features. He saw Dean in all of them, and well, Dean he’d had to take care of. He’d wanted to leave him. Hadn’t wanted to go with Sam to college.

Yes, college had been Sam’s choice, but Dean had raised him. Why hadn’t the selfish bastard realized Sam would need him?

So he made sure Dean couldn’t leave him, and then when their father, John, started getting suspicious, Sam had no problem taking a knife to him too. That work wasn’t fun like it was with Dean. Just a necessity. But the son of a bitch had had it coming. He’d abused him since he could walk.

So here Sam was, finding comfort in J’s terrified presence. He liked seeing these men beneath him, liked looking into their green eyes and seeing their imperfections. 

They weren’t Dean. None of them could be, and sometimes, Sam thought that’s what he was searching for.

J wasn’t giving him much fun, had just started hyperventilating as much as his body could with his mouth forced shut, snot was leaking out onto the duct tape. Bored, Sam killed him. Usually, he didn’t like to kill them right away. He liked to cut out their eyes first, but god, he just wasn’t feeling it tonight. What was wrong with him? Had he not worked hard enough on finding his friend?

Feeling a strange darkness inside at his newfound lack of feeling, Sam just set straight to work, cutting out J’s eyes; he kept the blood off his clothes. He’d mail the eyes to the police station, and with what was basically a non-address, it couldn’t lead back to him. Sam would even write with his non-dominant hand. That’s what he’d done to check in, and under the fake name of Sylvester Campbell. He’d gotten good at writing with his left hand, good enough that it looked natural, but different from his actual handwriting.

Finding himself upset at his boredom with this project (where was the thrill? The high? Any of it?), he finished up quickly. He let the eyes sit on the floor, weird, bloody lumps, as he wrote out the correct address on a manilla folder. It just so happened to be one of those ones with bubble wrap on the inside, so the eyes would be somewhat protected.

He put them in, then wrapped J up in the plastic, taping up the seams after folding them over and over on themselves. He picked up the body, placed it in the trunk, took care of the rest of his things, and then got in the car. He didn’t take the bags off his feet yet, but he had changed back into his winter gloves earlier, leaving the latex ones with J’s body.

He stopped at a mailbox, deposited the envelope, and then drove around a bit. The roads were looking better, so he stopped over by the bar again, and took the treads off the tires. Besides, the treads had done their job of confusing the tire tracks. Now no one would be looking for the type of car Sam had.

He was off, and he didn’t stop driving till morning. On the way back north, he’d left the body in the dumpster outside a diner, and for now, his trip was complete. 

Sam sat in the car outside his cabin in Montana a few days later, wondering if he should go on another trip. Maybe then he’d feel that high he so desperately craved.

Sam just sighed, shook his head, and turned off Dean’s Led Zeppelin tape, not letting “Ramble On” even finish. Maybe another trip wouldn’t even fix this. Still, it was time to start planning his next one. Sam wasn’t ready to give up the moniker Green Eyes just yet.

Everyone on the team knows this is a long shot, but the rookie’s the only one who dares to say it. “Do you really think they’ll be here? They have to know we’re watching.”

“If they’re not here, they’re somewhere. We’ll know by Wednesday, one way or another,” Henriksen says, not looking up from his file of past Mardi Gras murders, trying to find a pattern. There isn’t one, except for the obvious - the Winchesters find someone and kill them. Sometimes more than one.

It’s well after sunset when they find the first body behind a dumpster. A woman, strung up by her wrists, naked except for the string of beads hanging over her chest. Her breasts have been removed, the cuts neat and precise.

“Sam,” says Henriksen, stepping back from the body and motioning for the forensics guys to take over.

He hears the rookie ask “How does he know?” and shakes his head.

“Dean’s messier, and he… appreciates the female form. The mutilation... well. That’s all Sam.”

And the rookie looks like he has another question, but a call comes over the radio - another body found, another woman with her breasts removed. And that’s how the night goes, trailing the Winchesters up and down Bourbon street, always a step too slow to catch them, always too late to save their victims.

The last, found just before dawn, is the worst. One of their undercover cops, this time with a fake badge pinned to her flesh.

Henriksen looks at her - young, not long out of the academy, eager to prove herself, excited to be a part of the task force - and slams his fist into a brick wall. Well away from the scene, he’s not about to contaminate it. “Goddamn Dean brotherfucking Winchester!”

“I thought he said Sam was the killer this time?” the rookie asks another agent.

The agent laughs bitterly. “Yeah. Sam killed her. All of them. But you know why?”

“Why?”

Henriksen looks over. “I guaran-fucking-tee Dean was handing out the beads. Because Dean Winchester appreciates the ladies, but he really appreciates Sam getting riled up and jealous.”

-