The Day That Never Comes

Your knuckles leave light imprints on your skin from where they’re folded beneath your cheek, one palm splayed flat over your forearm, the other tucked safely beneath the opposite wrist. Each peaceful breath breezes a slow stream of warm air into the crook of your elbow, your hair tickling the soft ridge of your brow, every steady rise and fall of your chest descending in rhythm with the buzz of the fan blowing from the corner of the room. The gentle glow from an old lamp propped on the nightstand cascades a golden beam across your sleeping form, like a ray of sunlight shining through the window of the impala on a summer afternoon. 

The air in the bunker is quiet. Not eerily so. The type of quiet that allows you to fall into the captivating world of an old book from the endless library, or the kind that cradles you into a dreamless sleep, knowing you’ll wake up to warmth and soft hands instead of aching muscles and the promise of pain the hunting life always seems to provide. 

You’d planned to stay awake. You really had.

Just a week ago, Sam and Dean had packed up their bags for another hunt. You’d placed a sweet kiss to Sam’s jaw before he slipped into the passenger seat of the impala, leaned on the cool brick wall as Baby purred into gear, let out a soft sigh as her tires crackled over gravel. 

You’d spent the remainder of your days alone, sauntering aimlessly around the library, finger tracing the worn leather spines of books of every origin. You’d flipped through yellowed pages tanned with time, sat cross-legged at the heavy oak table, leather covers lying open over your thighs. Reread lore you could recite with your eyes closed, mapped sigils and diagrams that you could describe from memory alone. Kept your phone tucked close in your pocket, waiting for the inevitable ring when the boys find themselves in a rut, or when Sam simply needs to hear the sound of your honey-sweet voice to pull him from the horrors that keep him awake each passing night. 

It’s routine. Familiar. Staying in the heavily warded security of the bunker while the boys hunted things that go bump in the night. Kicking up your feet to wait for a call—becoming their research buff of sorts, digging the boys out of lore-shaped holes when they find themselves stumped. You’d grown up that way, raised around the supernatural. But the hunting itself? Tracking, fighting, leaving blood-splattered and with more scars than healed skin? Yeah, no, thanks. 

Besides: Sam prefers it this way. You, where he knows you’re protected. Where he doesn’t have to worry if you’re hurt, or battered, or starving. 

Where he knows you’re safe. 

Safe enough that you can pass out draped overtop of the covers on his bed, legs stretched out across his mattress, one gently bent at the knee. Soft skin covered only by a loose shirt, his old Stanford tee—one that just about reaches your lower thigh, the logo half-peeled off the chest, and the fabric long worn from too many washes; along with sweet cotton panties that surely have a crooked bow stitched on the front. Sleeping like the stress of the world isn’t pressing on your shoulders, like you’ve never seen the damage a silver bullet can cause, or how easily an angel blade can slice through flesh.

You don’t even twitch when the door creaks open. You’ve never been a light sleeper; not like Sam, anyway. A fact that makes his chest swell with protective pride when you don’t flinch at the softest of sounds, or startle at the caress of another. The hinges grate as he pushes the door shut, so careful not to wake you just yet, his duffle slumping to the floor. He’s still in his boots, steel-toes tapping against the cold floor, dirt-streaked and rain-dampened. The hunt was rough. Worse than he’d expected. More lost than saved, too much blood shed from innocent souls. But none of that matters the second he lays his eyes on you.

Sprawled across his bed like some kind of fever dream, one that’s been playing in the back of his mind the second he had to slip out of the warmth of your presence. His shirt, far too big on you, yet still barely covering what it should, hiked up to just enough to expose a plush sliver of the curve of your ass from where your leg is propped to the side. The fan doing its job, blowing your hair across the blankets like a halo.

It’s at times like this where he wishes he could pause a moment, and live in it forever.

He stands there a beat too long. Heart hammering the way it was when he’d fired that silver bullet into the shifter they were hunting’s chest, but for an entirely different reason, now. 

Quietly, real quietly, he finally toes off his boots, shrugging away his jacket that’s still heavy with rain water and radiating the subtle tang of gunpowder that lingers in your nose. He lets out a breath that he wasn’t even aware he was holding in, the kind that eases something tight beneath his ribs, before crossing the small space between the doorway and the bed. Reaching for you instantly with hands far too careful for hunter his size.

“…Hey,” he purrs, leaning down slow, pressing a kiss to your shoulder; the one peaking out from beneath worn cotton, letting himself smile for the first time in days. A real one. The kind that makes his sweet face glow, and those eyes shine in that soulful way they only do when he’s near you.

It’s only then that you stir. You don’t startle into consciousness the way he might: no, your awareness is only distinguishable by the long inhale you drag in through your nose, coupled by a content hum at the warmth of his hands finding your waist. 

“Couldn’t stay awake f’me, huh?” He teases, voice barely above a whisper, like he’s worried anything louder than a pin drop may drag you from your peace. There’s no scolding in his tone, not at all, just enough reverence to drown in.

You don’t blink your eyes open, the lids still too heavy to properly wake, but your senses rouse in small waves. Touch first. The comfort of those big hands splaying across your back through fabric, the soft puff of his breath over the exposed skin of your neck. Scent comes next, that familiar smell of Sam overwhelming you, warm and welcoming. Woodsy, masculine, with that sweet hint of coffee that makes you want nothing more than to tuck your face into his chest, and never let go. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, the sleepy rumble dropping the ‘o’ into more of a drawl than a real apology. A tired smile finds your lips, just a faint tug at the corner of your mouth from where your cheek is still pressed against your hand. “…Tired. Y’took too long.”

You try to make it sound reprimanding, but that lazy twitch of your lips betrays you entirely. 

“Oh, baby,” he coos, huffing a laugh, his breath warm where it fans over your neck. His hands, calloused yet still so careful, slip beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming up your waist like a trail he’s traced a thousand times before. He settles more fully against you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, his chest pressed against your back, nose buried in your hair. “…‘M sorry to keep you waiting.”

You can almost feel the day of hunting and fighting and worrying melting away from him, just like that. Bleeding through every pore the moment he drew in a heavy inhale at the back of your neck, body covering yours like he’s trying to morph the two of you into one. Like the hunt never happened. Like all that’s left is this, you, warm in his arms.

He retreats just enough to pepper kisses along your spine, starting right at the nape of your neck, the tickle of the stubble he hasn’t yet shaved away leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Missed you.”

You let out a soft, content sound at that, one you can tell he relishes in, because you can feel the smile that tugs at those sweet lips. The pads of his thumbs press into the small of your back as he continues his path, massaging deep circles like he’s just been waiting all day to get those greedy hands on your skin. “Missed you too,” you murmur, half lost in a sigh.

He’s heavy over you when you finally let your eyes flutter open, freeing your bottom arm to reach for him, gentle hand finding his forearm with a soft squeeze. You shift, a weak attempt to flip onto your back beneath him, but you don’t get far.

“Sammy…” you huff, wiggling your hips like a protest. But that quiet laugh you receive in response tells you he’s about five seconds away from trying to crawl inside your skin. You tilt your head just that fraction more to catch a glimpse of him behind you, so focused on his clingy task, kneading muscles that are easily far less sore than his own. “Hey. Talk to me. Y’okay? Tired… hungry… hurt…”

“Mmm,” he hums low in his chest, a steady vibration against your neck, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he shifts just enough to let you roll (finally) onto your back beneath him. His eyes find yours in that dim, golden light: tired, yeah, but so damn soft they could melt your resolve in an instant. Warm like honeyed tea, earthy flecks of green shining through hazel when the light hits just right. 

You can’t help but stare into those captivating depths when one hand splays under your shirt, tracing leisurely circles on your hip. The other reaches up to brush a rogue strand of hair from your face that’s fallen over your eyes, slow like you’re something fragile. Precious. Your own traces his jaw, thumb lingering over that pretty mole next to the corner of his mouth that you love to kiss. 

“I’m okay,” he assures, voice gentle, but not without that edge that sharpens after each rough hunt. “Nothin’ a hot shower and… well.” He leans down, pressing a slow, almost chaste kiss to your lips. They shine when he pulls away from that sweet berry chapstick that still clung to yours from hours ago. “You couldn’t fix.”

He doesn’t talk about the hunt. Not yet, and maybe not tonight. But you don’t miss that look as he props himself up a little more on his elbows, staring down at you with that crooked half smile that gives him away in an instant. The one he can only pull off when he’s had a rough few days. When he’s running on nothing but fumes, and that pure craving for connection. To feel. To get so close, that it’s impossible to distinguish where he ends and you begin.

Ah.

You know all his tells. Always have. 

“Me, huh?” You whisper, and those pretty eyes of his are entirely trained on your lips as you form the words, like he’s memorizing the way they move. The way they part after that ‘m’, the way they curl into a half-smile as you tilt your head in question. He hums a quiet ‘mhm’ again, almost absently, his neck craning down so his nose grazes your jaw, up just below your ear. All but nuzzling you like a cat begging to be pet, just as that hand on your hip slides beneath the soft arch of your spine so he can cradle you impossibly closer. 

“…What d’you need, Sammy?” You prompt, that hand slipping from his jaw, fingers tangling in the still slightly-damp hair at the nape of his neck, your smile only growing when he lets out a shuddering breath against your skin. 

He doesn’t respond to you right away. Not in words, anyway. His body language, though? Easy to read. He melts against you, preens into your touch. Draws patterns with his fingertips that are all too gentle for just how needy you know he feels. He doesn’t say it outright. Never does. Like speaking it out loud would make it real, too real. “Jus’ you,” he finally murmurs after a moment, a deep rumble against your skin.

“Me… how?”

You’ve always had a way of pulling the truth out of him without even really trying. That simple prompt has him exhaling another long breath, pulling back just enough until he can press his forehead against yours. So close that your noses brush. So close you could count each eyelash, or pick out every colour in those breathtaking irises. His free hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, firm but oh so gentle. Almost possessive in the way his thumb swipes your jaw.

“Need to feel you,” he admits, voice thick with lingering exhaustion from that post-hunt adrenaline crash, and something deeper, almost raw. He says it like it pains him, his eyes squeezing shut for a single moment, tongue swiping out to wet his lips in a quick flash of pink. His fingers flex on your flesh, a subconscious squeeze. “Missed you so much. Need t’feel you. Makes me feel real, honey. Please.”

He kisses you then, not rough like it is when he’s drunk on the thrill of a hunt, but not quite gentle, either. It’s deep. Consuming. Open-mouthed and hot, his nose smushing against your cheek, bangs tickling your forehead, that big hand pawing your waist, scooping handfuls of soft flesh. He lingers as your lips part, like it hurts to let go—but then he whispers again, softer:

“Is that okay?”

You don’t waste a breath. 

“More than okay, Sam.”

You counter that kiss with one just as deep as his. It’s slow at first, then hungry in a way that feels completely inevitable. He raises one big hand to slide into your hair, cradling your skull, thumb swiping sweet circles along your jaw in a way that’s so careful, rivaling the heat radiating off of him completely. There’s no effort in the way he pins you to the plush mattress beneath you. Pushing like he can’t get enough, and it’s seconds away from driving him insane. 

A low groan rumbles from his chest, and you can’t help the way you arch into him, goosebumps rising on your skin that has nothing to do with the soft blow of the fan. Sam feels it, of course he does, that tiny shift, a subtle invitation; and it just about wrecks him. 

His free hand tugs at the hem of your shirt (or, more accurately, his shirt), dragging it up just enough to expose the soft skin beneath. Reverent fingers brush the warmth of your stomach, but he doesn’t pull the worn cotton all the way off. Not yet. Not when the contrast of the pilled fabric that’s far too big for your form feels like a goddamn claim.  

“Look so pretty in my clothes, baby,” he breathes, grip tightening on your skin like he’s trying to hold himself together. He leans back just far enough to watch you. The way you look beneath him, all sleepy-eyed and wanting—his throat bobs, a muscle in his jaw jumping like he’s fighting every urge to just consume you whole. That weighty gaze drinking you in like salvation. 

“Smells like you,” you shrug, cheeks burning now, but not with embarrassment. With that undeniable need for closeness that’s becoming more desperate by the second. His hand slides up your bare stomach, so light it almost tickles, over your ribs and that steady rise and fall of your chest, cupping the underside of your breast with a gentle squeeze.

Your swollen lips find his neck, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses everywhere you can reach. Smearing wet marks along heated skin, tongue darting out to taste the salty tang of his throat. He shudders like a man falling apart at the seams, a broken sound slipping through gritted teeth. His hips grind down against yours without a thought.

He’s hard—has been since the second he walked in and laid eyes on you sleeping so goddamn peacefully in his space—but it’s not just about that. Not with you. 

You kiss and suck at his pulse point beneath his jaw like you’re trying to unravel him, relishing in the way it hammers like a war drum against your lips. You respond to every desperate sound that escapes his chest with one of your own, low hums and whines that have him twitching beneath denim. It’s hot, so fucking hot, the way he responds to your every touch, and God, you just can’t get enough.

He shifts again, nudging your thighs further apart with his knee until he’s settled oh so perfectly between them. He bites back a moan when you nip at his neck, smoothing it over with your tongue, a sound that goes straight to your core like a lightning strike, before he rolls his hips in one slow, maddening grind against you.

And holy shit.

There’s still fabric between you, which sort of pisses you off; but Christ, the way the length of him through denim presses so goddamn perfectly against your clit through cotton is just heavenly. Like a shot of molten heat is injected straight into your veins, pulsing and hot and oh he swipes his thumb over your nipple just in time with another firm roll, your mouth disconnecting from his throat in a stupidly high-pitched whine. He doesn’t miss the opportunity to capture your mouth with his all over again, pushing his tongue past parted lips with a groan that has your hips bucking to meet his. 

Sam Winchester never does anything half-assed, and that absolutely extends to how he kisses (or: fucking eats you alive). Pressing his mouth onto yours with so much sweet force that his nose scrunches adorably against your cheek, his tongue swiping against yours, winning that soft battle for dominance with ease. It’s wet, messy, open-mouthed from each mewl and whimper that slides between the two of you, but neither of you correct it. No, you drink each other up like you’re drunk on the taste, like even a whisper of distance is far too much. 

Just moments ago, you were dead to the world. Now? 

Yeah. Completely awake. 

You barely part long enough to tug his shirt over his head, those messy bangs falling over his forehead, your own following close behind (after Sam gets one last good look at it bunched over your breasts, of course), tossed into a pile in the corner of the room that’s forgotten the moment you lay your eyes on him. You don’t have time to ogle, not when he’s right back on you, but even just a flash of perfect tanned skin is enough to make you all-but drool. Planes of muscle that are impossibly taut but with skin that’s so fucking soft, white scars that shine all pretty under golden light, that gorgeous ‘V’ that disappears beneath his belt that you just want to kiss, suck, lick…

He presses down again, firm and hot, and you can’t contain your moan. 

“You feel… God, s’fucking good,” you breathe, half caught in a whine, muffled by his tongue, and oh, you feel that smile. One big hand still paws at your jaw, the other trailing down your side, over your hip, your thigh, then hooks under your knee and lifts: opening you up just that much more for him. You answer with a squeak, and he doesn’t hesitate to set a grinding rhythm. The thick ridge of his clothed cock catching on your sensitive nerves, panties far ruined, your fingers finding his bicep just to hold on for dear life. 

His lips leave yours only to latch onto your collarbone, nipping at one side first then the other, sucking a pretty mark, before whispering against damp skin:

“Gotta feel you, baby. Going—‘m goin’ insane,” he rasps, raw, but it’s not demanding. It’s pleading. “Can I taste you? Please? Wanna… wanna lick your pussy, baby, y’just taste so fucking good. Need it so bad.”

It’s nothing but needy babble, really, but yeah. There’s really no denying how stupid-wet the words make you, damp patch between your thighs soaking now, and you have to choke back the embarrassing moan that threatens to escape through parted lips. 

You can’t think when his face dips between the valley of your breasts, already suckling more wet kisses to the plush mounds, shifting so he can cradle your waist with both hands, warm and desperate. All you can manage is a “fuck, yes,” before he’s wrapping those perfect pink lips around your nipple, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud just long enough for your back to bow, then releasing it with a slick pop.

That response? Breathless, lost in a plea?

Yeah. That’s all Sam needed.

The groan he lets out is nothing less than feral, smudging feverish kisses down your ribs, across your belly, so messy that he’s leaving wet splotches behind that make you shiver when the cool bunker air hits them. He smushes his lips just below your naval, hard and lingering, each kiss burning hotter than the last, before his breath is ghosting over that thin fabric.

Then he stops.

Stares.

You’re practically clenching around nothing beneath those soaked cotton panties, your fingers twitching against the mattress with the primal urge to just fist his hair and drag him where you want him (not that he’d complain); but you force yourself still. Because that look in his eyes? Holy hell.

“Look at you. Fuck,” he murmurs, dragging one burning hand over your inner thigh. You’re so goddamn worked up, that the muscles twitch in his response, and oh, Sam notices. Always does. All hazel in his eyes is nearly gone when he takes a deep inhale, dragging his nose along your clothed core, letting out a deep laugh when you try to buck against him. “So wet, baby. You were thinkin’ about me when you were sleeping, weren’t you? Just aching for me…”

His free arm drapes over your abdomen, pinning you with no effort at all, the pressure damn-near agonizing. And when he leans just a little closer, pressing a kiss to that cute little bow first, then right over your clit through fabric, your head drops back against the mattress. “Sam, please,” you plead, and he does it again, firmer this time—a tease and a brand wrapped in one. 

“Shh, I know, honey… ‘m gonna make it all better, okay?” He croons, hooking his thumbs into the sides of your panties, finally dragging them down slow (and Christ, you’re so fucking wet that he’s gotta peel them from your core), eyes trained on your dripping cunt like he’s burning the sight into his memory. “So fucking pretty. ‘N you smell so good...”

Those eyes? Wild.

“But you taste even better, don’t you, baby?”

You don’t get to respond, can’t, not when Sam won’t survive another second without his tongue on your sopping pussy. His mouth finds you hot and slick, a broad lick from entrance to clit first, so blindingly perfect that your moan comes out broken, before he devours like a man starved.

Slow, firm licks to start, two thick fingers spreading your lips open just right so he can get deeper, taste more. He hums against your clit when you gasp his name, the white-hot vibration sending shocks through every nerve ending, before his lips seal around the sensitive nub. And oh, fuck, he sucks, no mercy, possessive, like the only thing that pushed him through the damn hunt was the thought of burying his face between your thighs the moment he returned. 

“Fuck, I love you. You’re so—” he cuts himself off by hauling your thighs over his shoulders with one quick tug, a breathless ‘oh!’ slipping from your lips in response, but doesn’t he just double down. 

He dives back in with a needy sound that would have you gushing if you weren’t already, tongue slipping into your greedy hole just as he presses his perfect nose to your clit with a little back-and-forth shake of his head that has your eyes rolling right back. You choke on a cry before he retreats only to breathe and to gasp, “—amazing, honey. Just… just perfect, holy fuck, all for me.”

“Oh, God—Sam, fuck, I—” you try, but he moans again, of course he does, right into your cunt, and the feeling damn near sends you over the edge. The mewls that follow barely even sound human, Sam buzzing high off every one. “Sammy, you’re perfect, I l-love you, I—”

“Mmm… yeah?” He rumbles, voice vibrating straight through your core, licking a long stripe through your pussy when you buck up against him. He looks gone. So fucking gone. Chin glistening, hair wild, pupils so blown, it’s a wonder you can distinguish any hazel at all. “Perfect, huh?”

He doesn’t let you answer.

He drops right back home with a hunger that’s nothing less than feverish. He uses those strong arms, and gorgeously broad shoulders to drive himself even more on top of you, manhandling you with ease: the fronts of your thighs hitting your chest in a way that would probably be painful if it wasn’t for the intense pleasure exploding in your core. 

His tongue pushes in deep, before dragging slow up your slit and swirling your swollen clit with just the sharp tip. Tight little flicks that have stars exploding behind your eyelids, searing ecstasy firing through every nerve. 

You’re close. So fucking close that you can taste it, and clearly, Sam can, too. Because the babble between your thighs is barely coherent though his groans and the obscene wet laps, broken, pussy-drunk gasps of ‘my girl’ and slurred ‘I love you’s. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard on the silky strands as you writhe and cry out like you’re just about losing it. As for Sam? He’s right where he wants to be, and he proves it. 

There’s a brief moment where you wonder just how sound proof the bunker really is, and worry about how much it’ll cost to get Dean some noise cancelling headphones (or therapy)—but all of it is thrown out the window the moment Sam wraps his lips around your clit again, and you practically scream. He suckles, flicks, swirls, laps, all loud and passionate and holy fuck you think he’s might just come untouched with how flushed he is, moaning against your pussy like it’s him being worshipped. 

You barely even register that he’s circling two thick fingers around your entrance before he’s plunging them inside, sinking into your greedy cunt without so much as a hitch. Stretching just right with those long digits, pumping slow at first, little scissoring motions in time with sweet sucks to your clit, then faster when you arch off the bed with a cry. 

He hums again, not mercy, Christ not mercy at all: fingers thrusting deep, curling over your sweet spot like he knows your body better than his own (yeah, maybe he does), while his tongue works magic over that sensitive nub until your thighs start to shake around his head. 

“C’mon, honey. Know you’re right there,” he whispers, barely pulling back enough to speak, so close you can feel every vibration down to the bone. “Come. Let me taste it. Fucking need it.”

It doesn’t take much more than one firm suck for you to shatter.

The orgasm hits like a lightning strike. A deafening crack splitting sky to earth, hot and blinding and holy-fucking-shit his name spills from your lips on repeat like a broken record. Broken sobs of ‘Sam!’ and ‘fuck!’ and every string of too-far-gone cries your brain can conjure up in the moment of pure euphoria. 

Sam doesn’t stop. Can’t. Not even when you tug at his hair hard enough to hurt, and your thighs tremble so hard around his head that he thinks for a moment that you might just collapse. Your cunt sucks in his fingers in hot pulses, his lips releasing your clit, but he doesn’t back off. Lapping at your slit gently through each wave, soft licks until every last ripple fades, and your moans turn to whiny-pleads. 

“S-Sam…” you choke, squeezing your legs around him in one breathless protest, and it’s then that he lifts his head. Slides his fingers out with an obscene string of slick connecting your cunt and those perfect fingers, Sam’s eyes trained on the sight like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He sneaks one last kiss to your center (because God he’s addicted), before easing your thighs off his shoulders, and crawling up your body with gentle hands.

“Oh, honey,” he coos, that rasp thick now, and your core clenches around nothing from the sound alone. “Could taste you forever. So fucking good for me, aren’t you?”

He smirks down at you, all sweaty hair and satisfied eyes, slick arousal glistening on his chin, his tongue darting out to lick it off his lips like the true pussy-addict he is. 

“…You okay, beautiful?” He asks, soft now, like he didn’t just tongue-fuck you into oblivion. He has that stupidly sweet, overly concerned look on his face as he says it, lowering himself back down over your form with gentle care, so all his Sam-Winchester-heat can cover you completely. Guide you down from that high.

All you can do is hum a honeyed ‘mm’, maybe a little dumbly, ears still ringing, thighs still trembling where they bracket his. You surge up to capture his mouth before he can say another word, before he can worry any harder; fingers tangling right back in his hair, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that surprises even him. And holy shit, you taste yourself on his tongue—the revelation just as erotic as it is sweet. 

Sam lets out a pussy-soaking groan into the kiss, one massive hand cupping your cheek, the other squeezing your hip. His lips move against yours like he’s claiming you all over again: deep, slow, and very thorough. Impatient. Like if he pushes his tongue against yours any harder, you might just morph into one. 

“Y’taste even sweeter after you come,” he murmurs, a deep rumble against your mouth, and you can’t even decipher if he’s talking to you or himself. Not that it matters, though, because he nips at your bottom lip a moment later, rutting down against your oversensitive core with explosive pressure. It’s a needy shift, instinctive, that hard length of him beneath restricting denim grinding right where you’re still pulsing through aftershocks. He shudders at the contact, truly a fucking beautiful sight, your eager brain just screaming more, more, more—

If you thought your kisses were messy before, it’s nothing compared to now. Hot, wet laps of tongue and teeth, devouring your mouth the same way he did your cunt. It’s then and there that you decide that you’ve had enough of waiting, especially when he lets out a broken noise that is far too close to a whimper. Your shaking hand slides between you (which takes effort, because holy fuck, he’s so goddamn close), palming at his belt with a needy lick over his teeth. The deep breath he takes at that? Oh boy.

He breaks the kiss with an exhale so choked, it almost sounds like he’s being torn apart at the seams. His forehead drops to yours, pretty bangs tickling your skin, eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting with himself. Bargaining for control. Even then, his hand covers yours not a second later. Still gentle, oh so gentle, but vibrating like he’s close to losing it. You don’t even get to huff before he speaks, and there’s no hiding that ragged edge.

“You should… take a minute, love,” he drawls, sneaking a kiss to the corner of your mouth, like he didn’t just reset your entire being. Soft fingers brush sweat damp hair from your face, thumb dipping to trace your bottom lip, still swollen from kissing, and those eyes find yours. All puppy-sweet and soulful now, because for God’s sake, the man just loves to ruin you, his chest heaving against yours. “You’re shaking.”

Yeah. You are.

But honesty… you don’t care one goddamn bit.

“Sam…” you use those same trembling fingers to shift, slow, so slow, a woman on a mission. His hand still covers yours, but he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t push you away. You’re not sure he could. Your thumb moves, swirling one soft, sweet circle just above his belt, teasing that dark trail that disappears beneath denim. It’s so small, that tease, but it’s so fucking dangerous. “Been missin’ you all week. I think we’ve waited long enough.”

There’s a moment you wonder if he’s heard you, because he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t do much of anything, really. But the taut muscles in his abdomen? Yeah. Those jump against your touch, betraying any semblance of control he was holding onto. But then you see it: something primal flickering in his eyes. Hunger, yes, but also awe. Awe at the way you look at him. Not exhausted. Not overwhelmed. But needy.

Just as damn needy as he is.

His hand tightens around yours, a firm squeeze, but he doesn’t guide you away. No, he presses it closer. An invitation. As if to say ‘please.’

“…Yeah,” he swallows, the thick muscle of his throat bobbing, and you have to resist the urge to drag your tongue along it. “Definitely long enough.”

And just like that, all resolve shatters.

He tugs his belt open single handed in one firm sweep (which shouldn’t be as hot as it is), muscles flexing under sweat slick skin as he sits back just enough to tug down the zipper of his jeans. He does it slowly, lets it catch, like he’s teasing you—making damn sure you hear it, that you’re just aching for it. And when denim and cotton boxers clear his hips, freeing himself in a single clean stroke?

Fuck. Do you ever ogle.

He’s hard as fucking steel. Standing tall against his abdomen, heavy and flushed and aching. Saliva pools in your mouth as you stare, pre-come pearling at the tip, already dripping down that silky shaft and holy hell you can almost taste it. He leans over you again, caging you in, the hard length of him against you: vein throbbing along the ridge as it bobs against your thigh with every pulse.

“Christ, Sam. You’re so…” you trail off when he reaches back between your parted thighs, one finger slowly circling your dripping entrance, before spreading your swollen lips with an audibly-slick slide. He watches your face close as you gasp, that gorgeous dimple popping, your heart pattering against your ribs like a caged bird. “…Fucking pretty.”

“Mmm?” He hums, amused by your stammers, maybe, but there’s no hiding the way his cheeks tinge a beautiful red (his glistening cock-head, too. God help you). “Says you, baby.” He drags his finger from your core, shining with arousal now, before pumping it along his cock like that’s not the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. “Drippin’, too, aren’t you? Still so ready…”

“Only for you.”

Your response comes instantaneously, automatic, and oh, that was definitely the move, because Sam nearly loses it. It ripples through him like a bullet, sharp and deep, straight to his core, and you see it in the way his cock twitches so damn beautifully against your thigh. 

“Yeah?” He drawls, tone loose like he’s drunk on the feeling, on you. One big hand wraps lazily around his length, giving himself one slick pump, before he drags that angry head through your weeping cunt. Hot and perfect, bumping your clit with a heavy slap, your breath catching on a whiny ‘ah!’ that makes him huff a panty-dropping laugh.

“Just…” he lines himself up, gaze flicking to yours, a silent check in—and when he sees your expression, blissed out and wanting? Doesn’t he just smile all pretty. He pushes in slow, so fucking good, heat exploding in your soaking pussy like a wildfire. He stops halfway, already splitting you open (because fuck it’s always a stretch), before dragging back, and pushing right to the hilt with a grunt that sends a shock through your system. “…For me.”

He’s everywhere.

Forehead to forehead, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis. Every one of your breaths shared, your hearts beating as one. Not a lick of space left, yet Sam still tries to claw his way closer. Never enough. His nose nuzzles your cheek, lips ghosting over yours, palm cupping your face, his thumb smoothing gentle circles over your temple. It’s clingy. So affectionate your heart just aches. 

It’s so Sam. 

His hips don’t move for a moment, just breathing you in, like simply being so goddamn close to you is keeping him alive. Every inch of you squeezes his cock so perfectly, tight and hot, his whole body tensing with the effort to be still. To not lose himself. You’re almost sure he could come just like this, simply feeling you fluttering so perfectly to accommodate him (and honestly? You probably could, too). It’s not until you squeeze his shoulders, wrapping your arms around his neck, craving closeness just as much as he is; that he moves.

He pulls back just enough to watch himself slide halfway out, glistening and slick and holy fuck he can’t hold in his groan, before pushing back in real slow. His free hand claws your stomach like he’s trying to feel the way he fills you whole. 

He captures your lips again, tongue clearing the seam of your lips with a muffled groan. He slides his hand from your cheek to brace on the mattress, digging white-knuckled fingers into the covers to give him more leverage. He shifts only to snap back forward, harder this time, chasing the way your cunt clenches around his dick when he grinds just right. Then he does it again. And again. Every thrust is relentless, deep, borderline possessive, as if he’s trying to crawl inside your soul and stay forever.

“You feel that?” He pants, gritted out through feverish kisses, fingers digging into the plush flesh of your stomach with every ruthless pound. And oh, fuck, do you ever, eyes rolling back each time his thick tip drags along that spongy part deep inside you with perfect accuracy. “Y’were made for me, baby. Fuck.”

All you can do is nod dumbly, nails scraping along his muscled back as a moan tears from your chest—because holy shit, he pulls back, hooking your trembling thighs over his forearms, so goddamn fast, just to drop back over you with a firm slam that presses you right into the bed. 

“Oh, Sam, fuck—!” You gasp, eyes squeezing shut, face contorting in blinding pleasure. The new angle has that mean upward-curve of his cock driving right back against your sweet spot, over and over and God the pace is bruising. Skin slapping soft in the quiet bunker, only drowned out by the string of whines and whimpers that you’re too far gone to contain.

Your previous orgasm has you sensitive, so sensitive, and Sam knows it. Loves it. He mouths at your throat like a man possessed, sucking darkening marks and smoothing them over with kitten licks like an apology. He’s handsy, too, scooping handfuls of you everywhere he can reach, almost obsessively. He coos every time you cry out, growls at each tight squeeze. And oh, God forbid you keep your eyes clenched shut: because he knows what that means, too.

“Eyes open,” he pants, low and raw, right before his hand snakes between you, circling your abused clit with that perfect pressure that makes you sob. “C’mon. Look at me, baby.”

Christ.

You pry them open, glassy, blissfully glazed over, the sight only making Sam burn hotter. Every trust is measured, firm, the headboard knocking against brick with a tap-tap-tap that’ll surely get you in trouble with Dean later—and Sam lets out a groan so deep it vibrates through both of you.

“That’s it… can’t—can’t get enough o’you, honey. Ah—” he murmurs, choked, a sloppy kiss dropped to your cheek; and you’re not sure it’s humanly possible to love him any harder. 

His body is slick with sweat where it crushes yours, legs hiked so far over his forearms that he has you practically folded in half. Completely pliant under his touch, so fucking big you wonder if he could snap you if he tried. His muscles flex under warm skin as he owns that rhythm, deep and mindblowing and fast and Jesus Christ, you could just fly away, high on those slippery ripples of pleasure he pulls from deep in your core. Your thighs are shaking, of course they are, still from earlier but even more now; a combination of the tight position and the fireworks exploding from your cunt in white-hot bursts. 

“Sam! Sam, Sammy—” you rattle out, subconscious now, babbled through gasps and twisted moans. He drinks up every sound like fine wine, responding only in choked grunts and steady rolls of his hips. Every thrust is audible (correction: loud), your pussy gushing from ecstasy thick enough to get drunk on. 

Sam relishes in every slap of skin, every slick squelch, every breathless whine slipping from sex-swollen lips. You’re so wet that you’re dripping onto the mattress below, arousal coating your thighs and his alike, shining in golden light. 

Yeah. A week without this? Without him?

Far too long.

“Mm, I know. Feels good, huh, baby?” He purrs, low and just a little mean, but so fucking loving that you just nod vigorously with a sweet whimper. Your hip is starting to cramp, fronts of your thighs shoved tight to your chest, but none of that matters with how perfectly his cock piston’s you. So thick that you can feel every vein, every pulse or twitch when pleasure shoots down his spine. “You gonna come? Gonna—mmh—gonna scream so loud, everyone’ll know you’re mine?” 

Your cunt squeezes him at that for one sinful second, your lips parting in what’s meant to be a “yes!” but you’re floating so damn high that a moan slips out instead, breathy and sweet. His thumb works hard over your swollen clit with each purposeful thrust, fingers soaked with your arousal, and oh God, the coil is tightening so fast—spiraling before you can even think about catching it. 

“Ah, Sam, ‘m gonna—oh, fuck,” you manage, breath faltering, because the orgasm doesn’t hit you like a wave, but like a goddamn tsunami. It crashes over you in hot, pulsing ripples, radiating from your core to every limb, right down to your fingertips. Your vision blurs then spots white, stars exploding in your peripheral, every nerve on fire; and it feels like it lasts a fucking lifetime. Your pussy tightens around him, you writhe, plead, sob, crying out his name like it’s the only coherent thought your brain can process.

And oh, Sam doesn’t look away. He stares like a man obsessed, not just watching: but consuming every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes, every quiver of your silky walls squeezing the damn life out of his throbbing cock. A guttural groan is torn from his chest, like watching your release tears him to pieces, and he’ll just die a happy man.

“Love watchin’ you come, baby. Love you,” he breathes, bending down to suck a hard mark below your jaw, deep and claiming, just like every snap of his hips. “You’re… Jesus, squeezin’ me, honey, f-fuckk…”

You can tell he’s close. Can feel it in the way he moves, thick cock pulsing so hard inside of you, and you can feel every damn twitch, so fucking sensitive now. 

“Sammy please, wanna—need t’feel you come, please,” you beg, oversensitive nerves tingling all over like a match lit aflame, your thighs trembling hard enough to crush his rhythm if it wasn’t for that stupidly-inhuman stamina of his.

For all his strength, Sam’s next thrust stutters at your words, your breathless plea, as the sensation builds: the tight heat of you milking him climbing up his spine. Still, he fights off that edge just for a moment longer, because God help him, he just can’t let go. 

“Yeah? That’s what y’want? Me to fill you up so good?” He pants, thrusts erratic now, chasing his own release, yet fighting it like hell. You nod so fast you could get whiplash, receiving a deep, needy growl in response. His face contorts in pleasure as he groans, hot and perfect, his jaw tensing in that gorgeous way it does when he’s just so close to losing his mind. “Oh, ‘m gonna come so fuckin’ deep, fill this perfect cunt. Gonna—gonna knock you up, baby. Really make you mine—”

Oh. 

When he’s close, his control frays. The rambling starts. Praises and whimpers and grunts and everything under the sun. But that? That gets you. It shoots through you like a firecracker, your muscles locking up in a shudder. Sam feels it. You know he does, because he lets out a sound that’s so primal, you almost fucking come again. 

“You like that? Of—ah—of course you do. Cause you’re mine,” he chokes, flattening his palm over your lower belly, only amplifying the drag of his cock over your sweet spot, and so goddamn possessive. “My girl. ‘N everyone’ll know it. I’m… oh, baby, ‘m so close. Fuck—”

His own release crashes over him, hips slamming forward in one last brutal drive. He buries himself deep inside your leaking pussy, spilling hot ropes of release, filling you to the goddamn brim. He collapses not a moment later, catching himself on his elbows, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. 

You can’t keep up. Not when you’re both so fucked-out that you can barely even breathe. It’s messy, so messy, but you don’t care: not when saliva drips down your chin, not when his teeth graze your lip with a sharp nip. 

The high starts to fade, his body relaxing above yours, going a little slack, muscles uncoiling one by one like a spring releasing tension. Your lips break apart just to suck a long breath into your abused lungs, his face dropping to your neck, nuzzling your pulse hammering beneath skin. His lips find that sensitive spot beneath your jaw, pressing a lingering kiss there, just breathing. Letting you both come down.

With the adrenaline dwindling away, overstimulating buzzing from every nerve ending, your hips cramp just slightly—and of course, Sam notices your twitch. Always does. 

He eases off of you with maddening amounts of care, not pulling out, not yet, but creating enough space to guide your legs back down against the mattress, alleviating that tension. Nimble thumbs, still vibrating from pleasure, find the dip of your hips, kneading sore muscles with gentle pressure. Not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt; just enough to make you let out a blissful sigh, melting into a puddle beneath his palms. 

He doesn’t say anything yet, his softening length still buried inside your pulsing cunt. He leans back forward slowly, careful not to jostle your sensitive core, pressing sweet kisses all over your face.

Your cheeks. The tip of your nose. Your temples, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. Everywhere he can reach, soothing every line of tension he can find like his life depends on it. Like caring for you is second nature. And for him? It is. 

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Hey…” his voice is still rough, but so gentle now. Such a contrast to the needy babble just moments ago. Trembling fingers brush sweat-damp hair from your forehead, his breath mingling with yours. “You okay? ‘M not hurting you, am I?”

You shake your head, a small movement through muscles that haven’t quite regained their strength. “No. I’m good. Really good,” you drawl, lifting one lazy hand to his jaw, running your thumb over stubble, a tired smile pulling at the corner of your lips. 

He studies your face for a long moment, searching for any hint of deception, soft and searching. But when he finds none, he exhales through his nose in something so close to relief. His thumbs keep moving in sweet circles where it counts. Not teasing now, not even trying to work you up, get you going again—just… affectionate. 

He pulls out slow after a long moment (and a hushed warning), mumbling sweet praises through the uncomfortable drag, both of you twitching at the contact. He steals another kiss, barely even a peck to your lips, before his gaze drops back down to your sopping cunt. And oh, those eyes?

You see his pupils dilate in real time. Because when he stares down at your pussy, watching the sweet drip of his come flood from your weeping hole onto the sheets below? His cock twitches like he’s this close to getting hard all over again. 

He doesn’t look away, shameless now, even when you raise a brow at him. His hand finds your inner thigh again, smiling when you tremble—but then two fingers slide through your slit, your lips parting in a gasp, because fuck you’re so sensitive, just for him to push two fingers into your pussy without breaking his gaze. 

Bastard. 

“Shh…” he coos, low and sweet, just as you let out a wordless whine. “I know… I know, baby. Just…” he stuffs them right to the hilt, stays for a moment, then pulls them back out, so goddamn careful. “Wanna keep you full.”

Right.

Like that’s not supposed to make you ready to go again.

Still, he doesn’t say anything else. Simply slips away, for real this time, swinging his long legs off the bed with lazy effort, standing on unsteady limbs for half a second before slipping away to the bathroom.

You listen close as he pads away. Sated. Comfortable (mostly). One itch scratched, but still aching for that closeness you’ve been missing all week. 

The distinct sound of water running meets your ears. Not just the sink, no, the bathtub, you realize. Because of course, he’s running you a goddamn bath. 

And when he returns, placing some more soft kisses all over your skin (because c’mon, now, he can’t help himself), whispering sweet ‘I love you’s into your ears: you realize it is possible to love him even more.

And you do, every damn day. 

AN: GUYS, I figured out colour HTML codes… YAY! Also, finally posting this one (AKA, I stopped focusing on the Olympics long enough to finish it, lol…)

Currently in the depths of writers block, sort of, where I can’t decide if my writing is terrible, or if I’m being hard on myself, lol. So might take a little longer to get things out… but I haven’t forgotten about you requesters, I promise, and I love your ideas!

Anyways, here’s some clingy, horny Sam to fuel the beast.

> prologue > i: chicago > ii: hey, stranger > iii: breaking lily’s rule > iv: hold it together > v: in vain > vi: two birds, one death > vii: indianapolis > viii: following lily’s rule > ix: dread > x: say goodbye > *xi: midnight riverbank > **xii: ten minutes > xiii: just the first word > xiv: fresh fruit > xv: only your father > xvi: slowly coming to > xvii: clearing the air > xviii: lights out > xix: gardening therapy > xx: force of nature > xxi: dallas > xxii: room 8 > xxiii: snowfall > **xxiv: crossing the line > xxv: smudged mirrors > xxvi: just a little space > epilogue

> to get added to this series taglist, send an ask or leave a comment <3

>>check out my other works here