If The Pizza Man Truly Loves The Babysitter….

But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.

She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.

You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.

You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.

You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.

Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.

“Get you a drink?”

You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.

“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.

“One you actually like.”

You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.

He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.

When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals. 

“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.

“Just passing through.”

“Where you headed?”

“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”

He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”

“Yeah.”

He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”

He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.

“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”

“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”

You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.

“Do they know who did it?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.

“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”

He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”

You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean. 

And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.

“Buy you another?” 

You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.

“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.

Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”

You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.

You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.

“We’re going,” he says, voice flat. 

You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.

A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.

“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”

You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.

You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time. 

There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him. 

You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.

“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”

Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse. 

“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead. 

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.

You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed. 

The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.

The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.

Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams. 

You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.

The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.

You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking. 

Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.

No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.

You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.

You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.

Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.

When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.

When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight. 

You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.

You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.

You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up. 

Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.

Whatever. Not your problem anymore.

The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face. 

“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”

His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head. 

Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.

“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.

“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”

Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow.  You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower. 

“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.

“I can see that.”

“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”

You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night? 

Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things. 

What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.

The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.

You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”

Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”

“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”

You step past him before he has time to react. 

The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower. 

He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.

Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.

“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.

“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”

You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.

“What now?”

“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”

“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”

He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”

Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”

“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.

“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”

“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”

You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”

He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”

“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”

He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”

You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.

You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin. 

He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.

The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.

“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”

His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”

“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”

“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”

You frown. “You stayed up all night?”

“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”

You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.

“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.

Dean didn't sleep again last night. 

He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off. 

You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.

Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.

“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.

“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”

Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.

You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.

“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”

Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.

You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.

“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.

“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”

“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”

Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.” 

Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.

“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.

No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.

Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”

“I know,” you say.

“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”

“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”

He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat. 

Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him. 

But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you. 

You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.

You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention. 

“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.

But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.

It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality. 

You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping. 

He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know. 

He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like. 

He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’. 

He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this. 

In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.

He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.

But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.

There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.

This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses. 

Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.

He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.

Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.

But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.

He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable. 

Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like. 

So it’s best not to know.

You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.

He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.

But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.

So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.

Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.

Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.

But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.

The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.

“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.

“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”

“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.

“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.

Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.

“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”

You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.

“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.

Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.

You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”

Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.

“What does that mean?” you ask softly.

“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.

“You still there?” Dean probes gently.

“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”

You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”

There is another stretch of silence.

“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”

Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.

“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”

You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.

“The woman, Dean.”

“What woman?”

“There’s been more than one?”

You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.

“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”

Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.

“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”

Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.

“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”

You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.

“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”

“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.

“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”

You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.

“What the hell are you-” you start.

“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”

You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.

“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”

“What smile?”

You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”

Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.

“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.

“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”

“Oh.”

There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.

“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”

You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.

“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”

“Slow down, angel-”

“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”

“Sweetheart.”

You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”

You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”

He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.

He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.

Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.

SAM: Gross. SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.

You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.

You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.

For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest. 

Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.

“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”

The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.

He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.

“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.

“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.

“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.

It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.

He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.

“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.

You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.

“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.

“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”

He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.

But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.

“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”

Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump. 

“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”

You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile. 

“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.

You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.

But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.

“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”

He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.

“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”

That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”

If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.

The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”

You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.

“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”

When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.

You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.

He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?” “Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.

“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.

Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you. 

You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.

Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.

You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.

“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.

“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.

“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”

Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.

“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.

“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.

He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.

“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”

Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.

“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.

“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”

“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.

He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin. 

He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.

It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day. 

“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”

His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.

“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”

You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.

“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”

He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.

He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.

“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”

You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.

You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.

When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.

“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.

a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni

the pregnancy test is positive at 3:17am in the tiny off-campus bathroom and she just sits on the edge of the tub staring at it while Sam waits outside the door whispering “hey… you okay in there?” like he already knows but he’s terrified to say it out loud

when she finally opens the door he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, knees up, looking like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes, the second he sees her face he’s on his feet pulling her into his chest going “we’re okay. we’re gonna be okay” even though his voice cracks on the word “okay"

he tells Dean over the phone at like 4am west coast time and Dean’s first response is dead silence for a solid eight seconds followed by “……you’re shitting me” and then immediately “I’m on my way”

Sam reads approximately 47 baby books in the first month. Highlights them. Takes color-coded notes. Tries to explain the difference between swaddling techniques to her at 2am while she’s half-asleep on his lap going “sam. baby. please. just hold me”

he’s weirdly good at soothing her morning sickness?? like he just instinctively knows to keep ginger ale by the bed and cold washcloths for her forehead and he never once makes her feel gross about it

the first ultrasound. oh god. he’s sitting beside her gripping her hand so hard she has to tap his knuckles to loosen up. when the tech points out the heartbeat he just… stops breathing for a second. eyes huge. shiny. whispers “that’s—that’s ours” like he can’t believe it’s real

he starts talking to the bump when he thinks she’s asleep. low murmurs about how “your mom is the bravest person i know” and “i’m gonna make sure nothing ever hurts you” and sometimes he slips into latin protections without even realizing

nesting sam is next level. he reorganizes the entire apartment by like week 20. buys the safest crib on the market. triple-checks the smoke detectors. learns how to install a car seat with military precision (practices on a stuffed animal first)

he cries the first time the baby kicks hard enough for him to feel it. just full-on tears while his giant hand is splayed over her stomach going “hi… hi baby”

when she’s exhausted and hormonal and snaps at him, he never snaps back. just nods, kisses her temple, says “i know. i’m sorry it hurts” and goes to make her tea or run a bath

dean shows up with a tiny leather jacket “for the kid” and sam rolls his eyes but secretly keeps it folded in the top drawer like a talisman

labor hits at the worst possible time (of course). sam drives one-handed the whole way because she’s crushing his other hand into bone dust and he’s murmuring “you’re doing so good, i’m so proud of you” on repeat like a prayer

the first time he holds his kid he just… stares. doesn’t move. barely breathes. this giant man with blood and tear tracks on his face cradling this tiny squirming thing like it’s made of glass. whispers “hey little one… i’m your dad” and his voice breaks so badly he has to stop talking

he’s terrified he’ll turn out like John. spends nights researching how to break cycles while the baby sleeps on his chest. swears to himself (and to her, quietly) that this kid will never know what it’s like to feel like a burden

he still hunts occasionally but only small easy salt-and-burns. always home by morning. always kisses both of them before he leaves. always comes back

late nights when the baby won’t stop crying, sam walks endless circles around the living room singing old classic rock songs under his breath until his voice is hoarse. it’s the only thing that works sometimes

he keeps a photo of the three of them in his wallet right next to the one of him and Jess. looks at it when things get dark. reminder that he built something good. something his

Sam’s not beside you in bed like he was when you fell asleep. Your heart rate quickens, sweat pooling on your palms as you frantically search the room. He should be here, lying beside you just as he’d been when you nodded off; on his stomach, face buried in a pillow, breaths steady and deep. But he’s not, leaving only wrinkled sheets slipping half off the bed in his wake. Your mind is whirling, brain spinning a hundred miles an hour, every possibility fighting each other for dominance. Rational thoughts don’t seem to pull any weight right now; realistically, he’s fine. You’re in the bunker of all places, it’s warded six ways to Sunday, and your room itself has additional wards you’d insisted on.

Suddenly it’s getting hard to breathe, and all this nervous energy has to go somewhere. Your breaths are coming in quick bursts, like they’re playing tag without knowing who’s It. The walls are closing in, and you swear if you stick out your palms, they’ll meet the cool bricks. Pulling your knees up does nothing, and neither does stretching out. You’re trapped, smothered by your own dreams, tangled in the linen on the bed, and all you can think about is Sam. You croak his name once in hopes he’ll hear you, but it’s too quiet, too weak and scratchy to travel.

Before you can spiral any further, you abruptly stand from the bed on shaky legs, tripping twice over yourself as you attempt to be free from the sheets. They crumple to a pile on the ground, reduced to a pale blur as tears start to crowd your vision. A hole in your chest feels like it’s pulling you into its depths, raw, primal fear clawing its way through your body. Pain streaks up your arm, through your ribs, taking up residence in your lungs like it belongs there.

You make it down the hallway on unsteady legs, hand bracing yourself on the wall as you go. It’s all you can do to stay upright, and you pray Sam can hear your struggles before you inevitably collapse into a heap on the floor. You’re not even sure where you’re going anymore; somewhere, anywhere. If you get far enough away, maybe the tendrils of dreams will fall off and get lost somewhere behind you. If you did, you just wouldn’t get to come back without them clamping back on.

Your vision starts to crowd, colours and shadows merging together until you’re swimming in a sea of mostly sound and touch. The bunker’s pipes rattle loudly, only adding to your state of overwhelming panic. Your hand slips on the stones, walls tightening around you for a second time as you stumble forward, barely able to stay upright. You call for Sam again, voice only barely louder and much raspier. Your eyes fall shut, unable to stay open against the onslaught of light and noise that kicks up your heart rate.

“Woah, woah. I’m here, I’m here.”

There’s a hand pressing to your chest, another one splayed flat on your back. Opening your eyes a touch, you see Sam’s socked feet on the floor, one knee in black sweatpants pressing into the tile. It’s warm on your body where the hands are touching you, sandwiching you like they can hold you together by sheer will. Like they can take the broken pieces of your soul that got shattered in your dream and sew them back into one coherent person.

“I’m here,” the voice says again, low and warm. “It’s alright, I’m right here.”

The big hand on your chest rises and falls erratically as you breathe, pressing harder on your exhale and loosening on your inhale. You follow it, chasing the comfort, never wanting to be far from it. It keeps up a steady rhythm, one that slowly brings your breathing back in line. Little by little the fog clears from your mind, the burn in your lungs fading until nothing is left but residual nerves and exhaustion. Your legs give out and you slump forward, his hands catching you and slowly lowering you until you’re resting against Sam’s chest, head on his shoulder.

“Easy, love, easy. You’ll be alright.”

Sam’s voice is warm and soft, barely louder than a whisper but reverberating through your entire being. It wraps around you like a blanket, comforting and safe, enveloping you in promises that you’ll be alright. Sam makes everything alright. He has this way about him with his voice that banishes all your fears in just a few words. He knows exactly what to say and exactly how to say it. It’s the prettiest thing about him, how easily and naturally he can keep you calm and safe.

Sam’s arms tighten around you just a little, enough you keep you grounded and to know that he’s still there. One palm rubs up and down your back, a trail of warmth in its wake that nearly brings tears to your eyes. His voice in your ear, his hands on your back, his arms locking around you; it’s the comfort you’ve been seeking since you woke up. This is one of your favourite qualities of his, because never once has it failed you. If he’s away, just thinking of that gentle protective tinge his voice gets is usually enough to tide you over until he returns. It’s the calm worry he carries; something that shouldn’t make sense but does. He worries quietly, always reassuring you with gentle touches and soft words, and it doesn’t overwhelm.

Slowly, carefully, you start to come back into yourself. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting here, leaning on Sam, but not once has he complained. Despite the weight of your dream, you’re never too heavy for Sam to hold. The ground must be cold under his legs, and his foot has probably fallen asleep from the way he’s sitting on it as he holds you, but he doesn’t make any indication that it bothers him. You know he’d stay here forever if you let him, because you’re in his arms, and you’re alive, and that’s all he needs.

Cautiously, you pull back and raise your head up, afraid to look and see the traces of your horrors staring back. What you see is anything but. Sam’s steady gaze looks back at you, the colours in his eyes shifting in the low light until they reach something that feels like home. The hazel looks like coffee and milk, the green like the trim of your childhood sweater, the faint splashes of blue like the petals of a flower you found last week. Steady, anchoring, holding you into your body without lifting a finger. His brows are furrowed in concentration, gentle concern piercing through them as his eyes take in your frazzled state. The corner of his mouth twitches upward when he sees you start to focus on him.

“Hi, love,” he says.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice cracking on the word.

“You with me?”

You pause, taking a shaky breath in. “Maybe.”

He frowns. “What can I do?”

You reach for him again, looping your arms around his neck when he falls into you. “Dunno. Just- don’t…don’t wanna be alone.”

Sam hums, thumb rubbing circles on your hip. “Come help me with this research.”

You tilt your head, pulling away to look at him. “Why are you researching right now?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says evasively.

You know what he means. He’s not immune to nightmares either, and suddenly, you feel bad for coming to find him.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize.

“Sorry? Why?”

“For- I dunno. You couldn’t sleep, and I’m bringing you all my problems and-,”

“Shh, it’s not that. Don’t apologize for that,” he says, kissing your temple. “Just ‘cause I couldn’t sleep doesn’t mean you can’t come to me when you have bad dreams. I want to know when it happens.”

You nuzzle deeper into Sam’s neck at his words, and he huffs a soft laugh in reply. He’s warm in a way that feels like summer sunshine after a long winter; not overwhelming, not uncomfortable, but just enough to remind you how nice it is. You give him one more squeeze, untangling your limbs from around him as you slide to the floor. Sam gives you his hands and helps you to your feet, kissing your cheek when you’re upright again.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks, swiping a thumb under your eye and over the tearstains drying on your cheek.

Not trusting your voice, you just shake your head, taking a wavering breath in as you try to calm down.

“Okay. Okay.” Sam squeezes your hands, walking you into the library. “We’ll talk about it later.”

You don’t really want to talk about it, especially when you can’t remember what it was. It makes you feel silly, to be having this kind of reaction to something that doesn’t exist in your mind anymore, and you curl your shoulders inward in an attempt to make yourself smaller. If you could just fade into yourself a little, maybe Sam wouldn’t have to take care of you like this.

But Sam can’t not care. It’s not who he is. Any time someone’s hurting, he has to help them. He can’t just sit back and watch something consume you from the inside out. It’s admirable really, the way he’s so willing to stick himself out and go out of his way to comfort you, or Dean, or a stranger he saved on a hunt. It’s in his nature, to use those gentle eyes and that reassuring voice and those careful hugs that make you feel precious.

“C’mere and sit down for me.”

Sam’s voice drifts you back to reality, and you blink at the chair before you. He must have pulled it out from the table just now, because it wasn’t there before. You’re fully in the library now, and you don’t quite remember how you got here. The few steps from the hallway to the table don’t exist in your mind, just like the dream doesn’t. It should reassure you, but somehow, it only makes you spiral further. What if you start to forget everything else? What if you start to forget Sam?

“Sam, I don’t- I can’t-,” you choke out.

“Can’t what?” he asks, hands steady on your shoulders.

“Can’t forget- remember- I can’t.”

“Sit down for me love, it’s alright.”

He lightly pushes your shoulders, helping you sink down into the chair. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes, willing the fear back, hoping it’s enough against the tidal wave of panic rising in you.

“Can you look at me?”

Sam takes your hands in his again, gently lowering them from your face and kissing your knuckles as he does. His fingers are warm as the close around your fists, and he kneels down until he’s looking slightly up at you, hands in your lap, thumbs rubbing circles on the backs of them. Slowly, you open your eyes, and Sam’s heart breaks at the raw panic in your features.

“What can’t you do?” he says again.

“Can’t remember. Don’t wanna forget you,” is your reply.

Sam’s face crumples, mouth turned down in a frown and eyed wide and sad. “Aw, love, you won’t forget me.”

Your voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “How do you know?”

One of Sam’s hands comes up to caress your cheek, leaving trails of heat in their wake. “Because I won’t let it happen, I promise.”

“What if I already am?”

Sam’s hand only tightens on yours. “Let’s work through it, okay? I’m gonna ask you some questions and I want you to answer them for me, sound good?”

You nod, barely noticeable. Sam notices, because of course he does; he notices everything about you.

“Okay. Let’s start off easy, alright? Let’s start with my birthday, d’you remember that?”

You clear your throat in a weak attempt to get rid of the thorns poking you. “May 2nd.”

“What year?”

“’83.”

Sam kisses your fingertips. “Good job. That’s right. Next question, where did I go to school?”

“Stanford.”

“And what was I doing?”

“Pre-law, but that’s not actually a major, so…”

Sam chuckles, kissing another fingertip. “Still counts.”

“Does it?”

“’Course it does.”

You raise an eyebrow, and Sam grins. “Uh huh.”

“Last question; what’s my deepest, darkest secret?”

A slow smile appears on your lips, the edges twitching upward as you think. “Which one?”

“Oh no.”

You giggle. “Sam Winchester secretly likes the trashy reality TV I watch when I’m bored, even though he pretends not to.”

Sam’s mouth drops open in an amused gape. “You did not.”

You blink at him innocently. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes, yes you are.”

“I saw you watching Jersey Shore reruns last week, Sam.”

His cheeks go pink, the tips of his ears dusted bright red. “C’mon now, really?”

“Mhm.”

He surges up, tickling your sides as he peppers kisses all over your face. The surprise of it shocks the last bit of anxiety from your system as you squirm away from his attacks. His fingers dance over your skin, finding all the right places to make you squirm away, laughter starting to bubble from you. Sam’s grin only grows wider, pressing kisses to your forehead, cheeks, the sides of your mouth, even the shell of your ear.

“Sammy, stop it,” you whine through your laughter.

“Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“Distraction. Did it work? You feel any better?”

His hands leave you for a minute as you assess the situation. The lingering heavy weight of panic that was on your shoulders is mostly gone, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that comes after too much adrenaline. Your throat doesn’t feel thorny anymore, and you can finally look at your hands without seeing them tremble.

“You’re magic, Sam,” you say, launching forward and wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Nah. Just good at listening to you, that’s all.” He pulls back to kiss the spot between your brows. “Wanna try going to sleep again?”

You shake your head rapidly. “No. Please no. Not yet.”

“Okay, we can do not yet.” Sam stands, shrugging off his flannel and fitting it snug around your shoulders. “Wanna help me out a little?”

“Depends on what you’re researching. If I have a research-induced nightmare, you’re making me tea for the next month.”

“I do that anyways.”

“Semantics.”

Sam snorts a laugh, already retreating back to the shelves and leafing through the books there. “Okay, let’s see. I was doing some work on Latin American legends; specifically, their version of women in white.”

You nod along. “Got anything less morbid?”

“Hmm.” He pulls out several books, dusting off the covers and turning them over before putting them back. “I got, uh, Taiwanese folklore? I don’t think the Men of Letters were fond of relaxing bedtime stories.”

“It’s alright Sammy, I can just sit around you.”

“No, no, no, I’m gonna find you something.”

A few more minutes of searching leads to the discovery of an old novel Sam had bought years ago and forgotten about. He brushes dust off the cover, coughing when some of it goes into his lungs.

“Okay, here we go. Something to read that doesn’t spark nightmares of demons.”

“Thanks, Sam,” you whisper when he hands you the book.

“All good?”

You nod slowly, opening the pages and running your hand over the paper. It feels nice to have something under your hands that’s solid, something that won’t vanish if you look away. It’s grounding, real and true. Sam gives you a small smile as he settles into his own chair, bringing it around the table so he can sit shoulder to shoulder with you. Your knees are bent up, curling as closely around yourself as you can. Sam nudges you with his shoulder, and you let your head fall onto it.

“Comfortable? You want a blanket or something?” Sam asks.

“’M good. Just need you. Don’t go anywhere.”

Sam melts at your words, eyes softening around the corners and widening until he’s sporting the puppy eyes Dean teases him for. It makes him look younger, more innocent, like he’s been spared a lifetime of pain. It hurts a little, to think that he could look like this all the time if it weren’t for the hunting life wearing him down. It makes him look pretty, when his eyes look like they hold the universe in their depths.

Time passes in silence as you read, the only interruptions being Sam’s occasional clearing of his throat, or the turning of pages from someone’s book. It’s exactly the kind of calm you need right now; silence that doesn’t consume but heals. You peek up from your book when you see Sam’s hands moving, enamoured by the way he gestures as he reads or speaks. Right now, he’s counting something on his fingers in that specific way of his; each time he puts a finger up, it taps against the fingers on his other hand. It’s specific to Sam in the same way that his flannels are specific to him, or his fringe was when he was younger.

Slowly, you start to feel exhaustion creeping up your spine and settling behind your eyes. It’s getting harder to keep them open, and the words aren’t sticking in your brain nearly as well. You realize you haven’t retained a word from the last five pages you’ve been reading, and you blink slowly in an attempt to will your focus back into existence. Sam shifts beside you, stretching his arms over his head and sighing softly when he gets comfortable again. Your head falls back to his shoulder, and his arm curls behind your back instinctually.

“Sam?” you ask around a yawn.

“Hm? Tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Think you can come back to bed?”

You nod, yawning a second time. Sam brushes a bit of hair back from your face, expression fond. He looks tired too, like he’s finally worn himself out from whatever dreams were keeping him awake. Maybe if he comes back to bed with you, you’ll both be able to sleep through the rest of the night uninterrupted.

“Wanna tell you something first,” you say.

“Go for it.”

“Have I ever told you you’re pretty?”

Sam freezes, taken aback. His cheeks turn a faint pink, and he nervously rubs the back of his neck.

“Wh- I- Yeah, you have. Where’s this coming from?”

“Just- felt like you should know. You help me out all the time when I can’t sleep and you make everything better, and it makes you pretty. You feel safe, Sam. You feel like home, to me.”

Sam’s eyes are suspiciously bright when he studies your face, and he swallows heavily to clear it. He wraps you into a tight hug, pressing his face into the side of your neck out of shyness.

“I’m glad. ‘S all I ever want to be.”

“Thank you, Sammy.”

When he finally pulls back, it’s with a soft, tender kiss to your lips that feels like slow mornings and peaceful nights.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he says, standing.

You follow him down the hall, his hand in yours the whole way, never once letting you drift from him. When he turns on the lamp in your room, you realize how much a mess your sleep made. The sheets are a pile on the floor from your frantic escape, the bottom fitted one bunched up on one side.

“Some dream you must’ve had,” Sam hums.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, love, it’s alright. Don’t pretend like I don’t get them too.”

It’s true, he does. Sometimes he’ll wake up in the middle of the night shouting, arm swinging as he throws a punch at something that’s not really there. The sheets get all bunched up too, tossed to the ground as he tries to calm down, pillow half thrown to the floor in his haste.

Sam works efficiently, never once making a big deal out of it.  He quietly fixes the bedding, tucking the sheets back in and helping you onto the mattress when he’s finished. He pulls the sheets up around you too, making sure they settle where you want them. Only after you’re comfortable and reaching for him does he slide into bed beside you, pulling you to his chest and surrounding you in a hug. It’s safe, this little cocoon of Sam; nothing can reach you here.

The prettiest thing about Sam, you decide, is the way he loves you.

To say the air between you was thick would be an understatement.

Inside the impala was quiet. Too quiet. It makes every sound all that much more wince-inducing. The engine purring beneath you as the wheels cut up the old country highway, rocks clinking off the bumper when the tires dip through concrete divots, the subtle humming of the heat flowing from vents that definitely need replacing. The road ahead’s only illuminated by blaring high beams, and the soft moonlight, dimmed by heavy fog. Endless rows of tall pine trees line the pavement on both sides, a constant reminder of just how impossibly long the night is going to be. 

Sam’s driving, much to your dismay. Which means silence. Tense hands gripping the steering wheel like it owes him more than a couple bands. No fingertips tapping on the wheel along to some classic rock music, or cracking jokes between guitar riffs. 

It’s times like this that you miss Dean. Really miss Dean. 

Usually, when you work with the Winchesters, it means both Winchesters. It means kicking your feet up along the spacious bench in the backseat of Baby, a blanket sprawled over your legs, as Sam and Dean bicker up front. Means stopping at the occasional gas station, the older Winchester chucking you a bag of your favourite chips, even after muttering about how he wasn’t going to get you anything. Pushing your favourite albums into the cassette player, because you just have such great taste, he says. 

Sam? Yeah. Sam’s never quite been so welcoming.

You can’t quite be sure why, not really. Because right from the moment you stepped foot into their motel room after a call from Bobby, when he told you he knew some boys who needed help—Sam had given you the cold shoulder. 

It surprised you. Bobby had warned you about exactly this, but from Dean. Insisted that Sam was intimidating, sure, but a sweetheart. 

So much for that. Because the only thing he’s done since the day you met him was scoff every time you tried to add to the conversation, or bristle if, God forbid, you so much as breathe a little too close.

It’s annoying. Very annoying.

Sure, maybe it doesn’t help that you picked up on his indifference right away, and decided that you wouldn’t just sit back and take it. But hey. He started it. 

Though, unfortunately for you, Dean managed to bust his ankle on their last hunt. So when Ellen handed over a file at the roadhouse, some group of werewolves terrorizing Iowa, you only got the pleasure of joining one Winchester on the hunt, while Dean heals up on Bobby’s couch. Lucky you. 

Sam was very instant that you immediately started your trek back to Bobby’s before the last silver bullet was even lodged in that final werewolves chest. Sure, maybe he’d had excuses—‘Bobby shouldn’t have to babysit’, or ‘we should skip town before the bodies get cold’. But you’re smart enough to know the real reason. 

You both know just how hard it is to breathe when you’re close. 

So now, you sit in the passenger’s seat of the Impala, legs crossed tight, one over the other. Adrenaline’s still pumping through your veins like a powerful drug, sweat still drying on your skin. Dean’s box of cassette tapes lies open on your lap as you shine a little flashlight over it, the one you keep in your pocket for nights just like these. You rummage through just about every mullet-rock hit in history; needing something, anything, just to break that God-awful silence.

Sam’s jaw tightens even further with an almost audible tick, his knuckles near white around the steering wheel. He spares a glance over at you: taking in the way your knee bounces in your seat, the tremor in your fingers shuffling through tapes, the way you worry your lip between your teeth, that familiar mixture of annoyance and irritation visible in his eyes. You almost comment on it. Almost. Say something snarky like ‘you’re not as subtle as you think you are’. Instead? You bite your tongue.

You can tell he’s trying to focus on the road ahead. He really is. His expression is still mostly cool, or maybe a shitty attempt at aloof, but it’s clear he’s struggling to put up with your presence. It’s scoff worthy, really. The way his eyes linger on your fingers like that shake pisses him off, or he doesn’t believe you deserve to touch anything remotely his.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a tense huff. 

“What’re you looking for?”

You raise a brow at his tone, tilting your head towards him, his lips pursed into a tight line. The question itself? Innocent. It’s all in the way he says it. Sharp, gruff, like it was ripped from his chest. It would be comical if it wasn’t so… annoying. Your eyes practically roll themselves. Because of course, even after a hunt, the man is still going for the jugular with that bitter scoff.

“Something decent,” you shrug, trying to keep your own voice even. Uninterested. You don’t even spare him another glance, not when you know he’s grinding his teeth. “Metallica. Maybe some Skynyrd. Better than that Celine Dion crap.”

A dig? Maybe. You’ve seen the kind of music he listens to. And you can’t deny the way that low rumble of irritation he lets out isn’t incredibly satisfying. No matter how much it gets on your nerves, sometimes—only sometimes—you love how easy it is to push his buttons, to rile him up. Especially when it’s his childish scoff that started everything.

“Maybe I like Celine Dion,” he retorts, the words bitten out between clenched teeth. You swear if the man tensed his jaw any further, he’d chip a damn tooth.

He keeps his eyes on the road, practically refusing to look at you, as you pluck out a tape between two fingers, ‘Ride the Lightning’, before shoving it in the cassette player. 

“Mhm. ‘Course you do,” You tease, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice, just as the familiar strains of Metallica echo through the impala. Sam’s thumb presses into the steering wheel, just for one vexing second, a muscle in his forearm jumping (not that you’re looking, or anything), and you have to forcefully ignore the way your pulse skips. Christ.

He doesn’t say anything else. Something you both despise, and are immensely grateful for. 

Spending the last couple days with him? Absolute torture.

Not even because of the bickering, or his constant questioning of your skill (though, that definitely irks the hell out of you), but also? The goddamn proximity. 

For nearly a week, it’s been driving you up the wall. Sitting in the passenger seat while he drives. Researching lore across the library table. Bumping into him when you’re picking a lock, or feeling his breath on the back of your neck while you’re caught in a tight space. Sleeping less than five goddamn feet away from him, because of course, the motel you were staying in only had one room available. You’re just lucky it was a double. 

So yeah. Maybe you’re going a little stir-crazy. You shift in your seat for what has to be the hundredth time since you climbed into the impala, drumming your fingertips on your denim covered thighs. Antsy doesn’t even begin to cover how you’re feeling, especially when your body won’t stop buzzing like you’re still mid-hunt. And that silence between you? Yeah. It certainly doesn’t help. Not even when there’s a guitar solo shredding through the speakers. 

“…How far out are we?” You ask after a moment, cracking your knuckles, lips pursed in a tight line.

“Almost two hundred miles,” Sam mutters simply, eyes flicking to you for half a second. Just long enough to catch the way your fingers tap, the restless shift of your hips. He notices. He always does.

He clears his throat quick, adjusting his grip on the wheel. Grounding himself. Or, maybe just regaining circulation, ‘cause that fist he had curled around it looked damn-near painful.

“Should hit Bobby’s by midnight. Assuming you don’t ask for another piss break,” he rasps, voice still tight as ever, like he has the world’s longest stick up his ass. You scoff. “…And stop moving so much. You’re making me antsy.”

You almost let out a very overdramatic sound at that, but you manage to shove it down. Sam responds only by leaning forward, turning up the volume like Metallica will drown out everything else. And Christ, at this rate? You can only hope it does.

Sitting on the cool leather seat of the impala is already uncomfortable enough, especially when there’s someone who very clearly hates you is sitting a foot away, body heat radiating off of him like a furnace. Adding that to the tense proximity, your buzzing veins, and that remaining post-hunt energy that you can’t quite squash? You’re surprised you haven’t already lost your fuckin’ mind. 

You need a comfortable bed. A drink (or five). Someone to show you a good goddamn time. Maybe all three.

You tap your foot on the floor mat once, twice, earning you another pissed off glance. The dam breaks.

“Can’t we just… I don’t know. Find a motel for the night?” You snap, cracking another knuckle, and you shift uncomfortably. “Or a dive. Something.”

The look he gives you then is far more scrutinizing than the previous, which is impressive, honestly, and you can’t decide if that just makes you bristle, or fuels your restlessness. His jaw clenches, again, just as he takes a breath like he just can’t believe how well you’re getting under his skin. Like in his mind, every little move you make is just designed to push his buttons. 

“Bobby is expecting us. And so’s Dean,” he says gruffly, in that stupidly-deep voice that makes something in your chest tighten. Your hand instinctively moves to your face, pinching the bridge of your nose. He doesn’t even let you reply before he’s speaking again, raising two fingers on the wheel like he’s prematurely willing you to just shut up. “We’re not stopping.”

Great. Just great. 

You can’t decide if you should groan or punch him at that, so you land on simply shooting daggers at him with your eyes: then sighing when he remains unaffected. 

“It’s ten o’clock, Sam,” you deadpan, tilting your head towards him, and you have to try very hard not to focus on the way his adam’s apple bobs. You tell yourself it’s the proximity. Or, God, it’s just ‘cause you’re antsy. It has to be, because you hate him. Obviously.

“…One’s old, the others hurt. They’re probably asleep, or four beers deep.”

Sam grits his teeth hard enough to make his temples ache, but still, he doesn’t respond to you right away. Why? Because you’re right, and you both know it. Your argument is logical, and logical just makes him mad when it comes out of your smart mouth. That tension on his face makes the corner of your lips twitch.

“You’re impossible,” he retorts after a moment, clearly the most reasonable response he could muster—words laced with far more venom than necessary.

“Oh, I’m impossible?” You laugh, half caught in a scoff, and he finally turns his head towards you for a single moment, just to glare. His voice dips low, sharp as a knife’s edge. 

“Yeah. You.”

Oh God.

He should not be allowed to look at you like that. Not now. Not when you’re already flushed and restless, with hips that can’t quite stop shifting, and a stomach that flips every time his voice comes out as a growl. Because Christ, this is Sam. The man who hates you. The man you hate. So why the hell does that look set your entire nervous system on fire?

His eyes flick back to the road as quickly as he turned, and he swallows down that irritation, visibly, that muscle in his throat leaping again, which certainly doesn’t help your situation. His expression is still tight. Eyes narrowed. Neck shiny with drying sweat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a quick flash of pink, probably unintentional. So fast you could’ve missed it, but, um. 

Yeah. You don’t. 

Maybe you’re staring. Just a little. You tell yourself you’re just trying to mentally blow his head off or something, but c’mon now. The truth is only becoming more and more obvious (and overwhelming) with each subtle shift of your hips, every time you squeeze that pulse between your thighs. Sam, to his credit, doesn’t say anything: but he sure as hell notices that look. Those movements. You know he does, because his next breath comes more… shaky. Deeper than before. He continues avoiding your gaze like the plague, but now? The air in the impala feels impossibly heavier.

You half expect him to argue further. Maybe throw out another smart remark about getting back on schedule, or Dean needing him. Part of you almost hopes he will, just to listen to the way he snarls out the words with all that Sam-Winchester-bite. But all words seem to die in his throat the moment you shift again, your now-clammy hands sliding over your thighs like that’s supposed to be subtle.

He clears his throat.

“You can’t stop squirming for five damn minutes, can you?” He remarks, sudden, voice gruff. And oh, doesn’t he just shift in his own seat as he says it. 

Interesting.

“And you can’t shut that big fuckin’ mouth,” you bark, that tenstion between the two of you pulled tight enough to snap, and Sam nearly chokes on air.

 He doesn’t look at you. Can’t.

Because if he does, he might just say something stupid. Something like this is all your fault: which sounds like a twelve year old, and that won’t fix the way his pulse is hammering in his throat so fast you can almost see it. 

His fingers flex against the leather of the steering wheel, knuckles going white, and you hate the way the veins in his hands make your mouth water. The music still pounds through the speakers, Metallica screaming about fire. But all either of you can hear is the way your hips shuffle against the seat as you try to force yourself comfortable, or that shaky cough that escapes his throat as he attempts to stifle every less than innocent thought swirling through his head. But God, you can see it. You’re both losing.

Badly.

Sam doesn’t even speak when his hand jerks on the wheel, right hand shifting the impala fast enough to make you surge forward a fraction. Tires hum against asphalt as he pulls onto the shoulder of the highway, slamming the car into park. 

Oh. 

“Hey,” you fume, brows pinching tight, your eyes flickering back to him, but still: he doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “What’re you—”

“Shut up,” Sam growls, but for once? It’s not sharp. It’s just low. Rough. That thrill it sends up your spine is completely involuntary. 

He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he kills the engine, plunging the car into sudden silence, besides the ticking of cooling metal, and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in those dark trees. The impala idles off, headlights cutting a narrow path into the night. Shadows pool around his face in a way that sends a shock through your system; sharp jaw, heavy brows pulled in concentration… or something else. Something deeper.

Finally, he turns his head. Slowly. Those eyes catch yours, hazel tint almost lost in just how dark his gaze holds. Like they’re just burning with something he’s been trying to shove down for damn days.

“Get in the back.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command.

For being a strong, independent hunter, it’s stupid how quickly those words kill any coherent thought you could’ve conjured up. Your brain stutters for a beat, a beat far too long for your liking, your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. And… yeah. He definitely saw that.

“…What?”

“You heard me,” he says, voice dropping even lower, quieter now, like he’s fighting himself with every word. His eyes never leave yours. But now, the fire in them isn’t anger. It’s hunger. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

And fuck, if it doesn’t just look like part of him is already regretting this. And yet? He doesn’t take it back. It’s too late. That dam is cracking.

“I can’t even think when you’re sitting there. Moving like that. Like you’re tryin’ to drive me crazy.” His thumb flexes on the wheel again, just once, before he releases it entirely. “So pick a side. Either sit there and behave, or get in the back and let me take care of it.”

Just like that? Your brain short circuits entirely.

Now that he’s looking at you, really looking at you, you can take him in. That slight flush on his skin. Those dilated pupils. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips (so it wasn’t your imagination), or the way his gaze flicks to your mouth, before he has to force himself back to your eyes. Like looking anywhere else is physically painful. 

You want to argue. To tell him he can’t order you around like he owns you. But… that tone. The way he’s looking at you. The fact that you’re wound so tight, you feel like one good vibration from the impalas purr could send you over the edge. 

So yeah. Your self control? Worn thin. So thin, in fact, that your trembling hand is pulling open the door handle before either of you can get another word in.

The second your thighs hit the cool leather of the long bench in the back, that door clicking shut, Sam’s following.

He moves fast, long legs barely hitting the pavement below before his fingers curl around the door handle. Shadows cling to his broad form as he yanks open the other back door and slides in after you, shutting it with a firm thud that rocks the entire car, sealing both of you into darkness.

The air is suffocating now. Charged. The only light comes from a sliver of the moon breaking over tall pine trees, catching in his eyes as he faces you, his breathing just a touch too uneven. Still, he doesn’t move to touch you. Not yet. Not even when you push your legs up onto the seat, knees bent, your back pressed tight to the door behind you. Instead, he braces one back on the cool leather next to your shoulder, caging you in without quite crossing that invisible line. You’re half surprised he can fit with the way he’s knelt over.

“…You want me to take care of it? Make you feel better?” He taunts, lip curling up in a smirk that’s all too smug for your liking. “Shut you up?”

The glare you send his way does absolutely nothing to stifle that expression, and it’s just as infuriating as it is fucking hot. You almost feel like you can’t breathe. Not when he’s so close. Not when the small space makes him feel bigger somehow, and all the primal part of your brain wants is for him to absolutely ruin you. Fortunately, you still have some fight left. Enough to not answer him right away, until he continues. “Say it.”

Well, fuck.

“…Yes,” you huff, tone almost defiant, and all you earn in response is an eyebrow raise. 

“Yes… what?”

“Sam. Fuck off,” you warn, reaching for him, like you’re going to grab his collar, and just shake some sense into him—but he bats your hand away. Bastard. You almost fucking whine. “…Goddammit. Just… touch me, Sam. Take—take care of me. I need it.”

And oh God, the second your voice drops into that raw, almost breathless whisper? Every last ounce of Sam’s control snaps.

He surges forward in one fluid motion, one hand slipping from the seat to cup your jaw, the other sliding back to tangle in your hair. His touch is firm and urgent, bordering on rough, the force of his mouth tilting your neck back until the crown of your head thumps against the window. His lips move quick, hot, demanding against yours, and fucking Christ, it’s electric. 

The kiss isn’t gentle. Not at all. It’s all hunger and pent up tension finally breaking free after months of glares and snark and stolen glances in the rearview mirror. His tongue sweeps against yours in wet laps like he’s trying to swallow you whole, claim you, make you his. He breaks apart just long enough to drag air into his lungs, being sure to nip your lip on the pull back.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He murmurs, voice absolutely wrecked, and you barely get to hum before he’s back on you. 

Sam kisses like he argues. Intense, sharp, and pushy, like he just has to win. A deep groan rumbles in his chest as he leans into you harder, leather creaking beneath your shifted weight. You can feel it, that sound, right down to your goddamn bones, sending shockwaves of need so heavy that you have to wiggle your hips to sate some of that agonizing pressure between your thighs. 

Of course, Sam sees it. Feels it, maybe, you can’t be sure. But either way, one big man paw slips away from your jaw just to press down on your hip, effectively pinning you to the seat below. Your little protesting whine only fuels him further, the deep laugh vibrating against your lips telling you everything you need to know. 

His thumb presses into the curve of your body like he’s trying to leave a bruise, anchoring you against him as he rolls his hips forward, just once, giving you exactly what you’re silently begging for for a single heavenly second. That little bit of contact is fire. Quick, rough, and definitely deliberate. Your head falls back in a silent plea, and he breaks the kiss with a broken gasp, lips trailing hot and hungry down your throat.

And oh, is it ever good. His teeth scrape over sensitive skin, surely leaving a mark, before smoothing it over with a wet drag of that broad tongue. Your back bows, your body’s cry for more, but you’re stopped by a sharp bite.

“Stop squirming,” he breathes, voice dark, damn-near trembling. “You wanted relief? You’re gonna earn it.”

…Right. If you weren’t fucking soaking already, it’s that comment that would make you drip. You laugh, choked, a little lost in a sound far too blissful for how little he’s given you. “Don’t be mean,”  you complain, like it’s some stupid joke.

But then his grip on your hip tightens. His fingers in your hair fist, hard, a warning tug, just as he starts to suck just below your pulse point.

Oh.

Not a joke. 

“Sam…” you whisper, cheeks burning now, but God, he only presses closer. So close that you can feel every hard plane of his body over yours, close enough to feel the way his muscles are pulled taut. He’s teasing you, you know he is, one hand drifting from your hip to your lower belly, fingers splaying over soft skin, pressing just hard enough to leave indents in your flesh.

You don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Rough. caging you into the seat like he owns you. He’s supposed to be the sweet Winchester, the gentle one. But hey, those rules never quite applied to you, did they? 

But it doesn’t quite make you want to submit. No, it makes you want to test. 

Your hips buck against him then, just as he’s smushing messy kisses over your jaw, and the groan you receive in response tells you he’s feeling this just as much as you are. 

His lips are damn near bruising. Sucking, biting, licking, grazing every sensitive part of your neck like he just knew they were there. Apparently, though, he’s running a damn strict program, because he does not let that little grind slide. 

“You’ve got no damn patience, do you?” He provokes, teeth grazing your collarbone, and he finally pops the button of your jeans open with nimble fingers.

“I’m not particularly known for it, no,” you tease, but your smirk dies into parted lips when his thick fingers drag your zipper down, slow, like he’s relishing in that sound it makes in the quiet car. He lifts his head just to watch your face, and fuck, you know you must be a… sight.

Pupils blown, lips swollen from his harsh kisses, breath coming in short, desperate pulls. The moonlight shining on the sweat that’s certainly beading at your temples, burning flush creeping down your chest, disappearing beneath your shirt.

His hand slips inside your jeans, palm pressing flat against your fabric-covered mound first, warm like a brand. You can’t help it. You twitch, just once, and the sound that escapes with your sigh is almost a whimper.

“Shh…” he croons, fingers moving in a smooth circle just above where you really want him. And when your back bows, pressing into his touch? He stops. Completely. “Stay still.”

You blink once, twice, your brows pulling together in a pathetic attempt at a scowl. He only laughs.

“You move again, and I stop,” he adds, and you get that sudden urge to strangle him again—but you’re far too afraid that he’s telling the truth. 

You force yourself still, his hand moving again, cupping the heat radiating from your core through soaked panties, letting out nothing but a breathless: “bossy.”

Sam lets out a low, dark chuckle at that, more of a vibration than a sound, and he dips his face low again. Not quite close enough to kiss, but close enough that every breath brushes your lips.

“Bossy?” He mocks, fingers finally sliding beneath the waistband of your panties, and holy fuck, you damn-near shudder. “You have no idea how bossy I can be.”

One long finger slips through your slick folds, slow and teasing, spreading that wetness, before applying a whisper of pressure over your clit for one blinding second. He watches your face like he’s cataloging every expression, every twitch, before adding another finger just to stare at the way your arousal coats the digits. 

“You hate me, but I get you pretty fuckin’ wet, don’t I?” He teases, and you don’t even get through the first syllable of the string of insults your brain conjures up before he’s stuffing two fingers right to the hilt. No resistance, just a slick stretch, your head smacking against the window all over again.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, the heel of his palm teasing your clit, before he pulls back. Maddeningly slow, stretching you with deliberate control, all while staring at the way your cunt sucks in his fingers like you’re made for him. You know he’s doing it on purpose, those slow movements. All manufactured to rile you up. Make you push against him, so he can scold you.

And God, you hate that it’s working.

He starts to move, pumping those thick fingers so beautifully, your pussy fluttering to accommodate him. The sounds are obscene, wet, gushing, and you can tell he’s getting off on every one, licking his lips like he’s just dying to taste it. His thumb finds your clit as his fingers plunge deep, circling with sharp, relentless precision while his knuckles curl just right, the pads of his fingers brushing that spot that makes your vision go white. 

Apparently, Sam Winchester knows what the hell he’s doing. Because even moving at a fucking snails pace (Jesus, you could just about punch him), he’s still making your eyes roll back. Curling those perfect fingers deep in your core, circling your clit with just enough pressure, stealing wet kisses across your neck every time a whimper slides through your lips. 

It’s torturous, and he knows it. You want to move. To fuck yourself on his hand, so goddamn bad, but you’re smart enough to know how that will go. And oh, is he ever mean about it. Keeping up the slow pumps. Holding you there, but not further. Lips brushing yours, but not really kissing.

“…You want it faster? You wanna come, baby?” he coos, combined with a slow thrust, and holy-fucking-hell, your entire body damn near explodes. You’ve never nodded so fast in your life. “Then earn it. You’re gonna stay still, ‘n take what I give you. Got it?”

Your eyes pinch shut for one humiliating second, because you want absolutely nothing more than to push harder. To give him a piece of your mind. But that’s kinda hard when he’s fucking you dumb with those big hands that haunt your fantasies. “Mm… uh-huh. Fuck, yes.”

“Good,” he murmurs against your ear, and the way his voice breaks exposes how his control is slipping. “So goddamn good. Just for me.”

And just like that, finally, he starts to thrust those fingers faster. A real rhythm builds: deep thrusts paired with firm swirls over your sensitive bud, each motion just designed to take you apart. He watches in near silence besides those quick pants, puffing over your cheek, taking in every little sound you provide, relishing in the way your cunt sucks him in.

He curls his fingers perfectly, a warning, or maybe a promise, letting out one breathy groan as he leans down to bite over your pulse point. He keeps those digits stuffed deep inside, moving just his knuckles now, swirling circles right over that spongy spot and holy fuck you see stars—

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, head tilting back again, hands trembling at your sides, because goddamn the pressure in your lower belly is building, and it’s building fast. “Sam, ‘m—oh, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.”

His free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you still just as you try to buck up towards him, his fingers curling deep. His thumb presses hard in one sudden, firm circle that damn near pushes you over the edge, then… he stops.

Entirely.

“W-what?”

He pulls back just enough to watch your face, your breath caught, body trembling, and smirks. Dark. Dangerous.

You want to slap it right off his face.

“You come when I say,” he rasps, before starting again. Back to slow. Torturous. Long digits dragging through slick heat, teasing every sensitive inch, but avoiding those spots that make your vision go white. Deliberately. “Be good.”

“You’re… you’re mean,” you complain, tone bitter, but you break off into a whimper when he pinches your clit with a stupid little laugh. “F-fuck you, Winchester.”

“Mm.” Sam’s fingers still, again, buried to the last knuckle inside your sweet pussy, thumb just barely grazing your clit like it’s an afterthought. His lips ghost over yours, like he’s going to kiss you: but of course, he fucking doesn’t. 

“Getting to that.”

Another slow drag. Out… then back in. Barely even thrusting now, just toying with your sopping cunt like it’s his to play with. But then he lifts his head. Eyes lock on yours, and there’s barely any hazel left at all.

“You want to come so bad?” He growls, jaw twitching when your walls pulse around him. “Beg for it.”

There’s a moment there where you genuinely don’t know if you’re going to try to kill him, or kiss him, but the moment his lips brush yours again, all your instincts scream at you to chase them. Like your body has become your own goddamn worst enemy. And just to make things worse? You can feel your vision starting to blur. 

“Beg?” You repeat, like it’s just about the most insane thing you’ve ever heard. You’re about to laugh when he presses on your clit, giving you a look. One that says don’t test me.

So what do you do?

Fucking test him.

“Make me.”

Something in his eyes flickers. Dark. Hungry. Almost possessive. Not something you’ve ever seen from him, and damn if it isn’t just exhilarating. Like you’ve flipped a switch you didn’t even know was there. “Fine.”

He pulls back slowly, too slowly, just to pump back in with two rough thrusts that make your back arch off the seat. They curl deep and drag across that sweet spot like it’s some punishment, thumb slamming down on your clit at the same time, firm, no mercy now. He brings you right to the brink, of course he does, before pulling out his fingers completely with a slick pop.

The sound you let out is half a growl, half a whine, and it’s fucking loud. If your eyes weren’t glassy before, they sure as hell are now, your body just buzzing with frustration, with need. But then his free hand is on his belt, tugging it open, and your eyes blow wide.

Oh. 

Okay, then.

His eyes never leave yours as he shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing himself, cock thick and heavy against his stomach.

Listen. You knew Sam was a big guy. You’re not blind. And yeah, you felt it when he ground his hips down against your thigh. But—what the fuck?

He strokes himself once, slow like he’s teasing himself, using your arousal to coat his length, and you’ve just got to stare. No one should be allowed to have a pretty cock, and yet? Here he is. You start to shimmy down your jeans until they’re slid onto the floor, all shame gone now, because holy hell. You’re only human. His thumb swipes over his thick, pink tip to glisten it with pre-come, and your breath hitches like you just can’t help it.

“Wanted to test me, baby?” He murmurs, barely even to you, like he’s already losing himself. “Gonna make sure you’re feelin’ me for fucking days.”

He grabs your hips again, hard, yanking you towards him with those massive (and very talented) hands until you’re mostly-reclined on the bench seat, head just barely propped up by the door. His fingers dig into your ass as one hand hooks behind your knee, lifting it high over his thigh, opening you up like it’s a goddamn command.

There’s no teasing now, no hesitation. He just parts your folds with that bulbous tip, then slides in one deep, relentless thrust that bottoms out in one smooth motion. His fat cock stretches you so perfectly around him as he groans low in his throat, that blinding combination of pleasure-pain exploding in your core. His forehead drops against your shoulder, bangs tickling your sensitive skin, just as your nails dig into the muscle of his back.

He waits, just for a beat, until your pussy stops fluttering around him like you just can’t take it, and he pulls back to lock eyes with you. Checking without words. And when all he sees is your completely lust-clouded expression? He grins. Actually grins, like he’s not stuffing you to the brim. Cocky asshole.

Then he pulls back. Just to snap in again. Harder. 

You’re so tight around him. So hot. He grits his teeth as he sinks into your cunt, hitting impossibly deeper this time, hips rolling forward with that same relentless force. And when you whine, blissed out, stupidly high-pitched? Yeah. It just about undoes him.

Because God, he doesn’t hold back. He pulls almost all the way out, just that thick cock-head working you open, just to slam back in again with a groan that sounds like it was torn from his chest, a sharp ‘ah!’ ripped from your own. He pushes your shirt up over your breasts, exposing soft skin, staring down at you like he can’t get enough. 

“You—” he chokes on the word between thrusts, pelvis slapping hard against your thighs, the car no doubt rocking beneath you. His hair falls over his forehead, messy and skewed, and you want nothing more than to tangle your fingers in it. “—Fucking knew what you were getting yourself into.”

And, well. To his credit? Yeah. You did. Doesn’t stop you from turning into a fucked-dumb puddle anyways, moans and mewls slipping from your lips with every brutal thrust. Those tears that didn’t spill earlier still don’t fall, but they pool in the corners of your vision like a damn threat. It’s like he’s consuming you whole, like you can’t tell where you end and he begins, and it’s fucking glorious.

“This is what you wanted, huh? Shifting—fuck—shifting around in your seat,” he grits, and fuck, his cock is just as mean as he is, slamming against your sweet spot with that delicious curve that damn-near has you drooling. “Shoulda’ bent you over the goddamn hood. Fucked you where anyone could see. You’d like that, yeah? Wouldn’t you? Bet you’d really beg for it.”

“S-Sam—ah,” you choke, nails digging into his flesh, barely able to form a coherent thought with just how quick he’s fucking you into the leather. 

You can’t even try rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, because he’s moving so damn fast, not to mention the way he’s holding you down. Not even just with his hands, now, but his body, heavy and solid, pressing you into the seat with every harsh drag. All you can do is take it, everything he’ll give you. And oh boy, aren’t you just fucking greedy for it. 

One of his hands slides up your body, threading right back into your hair, gripping tight. He tilts your head back with quiet force, exposing the curve of your throat, licking and sucking over marks that are already starting to purple.

“C’mon, baby… gonna give me what I want?” He murmurs, sharp, nipping your jaw, but you’re too far gone to even whimper. 

His hips don’t stop, can’t stop, each thrust deeper than the last. Slamming into you so hard that you’re almost sure his tip has kissed your cervix more than once. Your arousal is coating your thighs, no doubt dripping into the seat (Dean might just kill you later), leaving a hot pool beneath you. The impala creaks, rocks, windows fogged to all hell now, leather moaning just like you do.

But when you simply cry out instead of answering him? Instead of obeying?

He slows. Just slightly.

Just enough so you really feel him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every thick inch sliding through your slick walls, maddeningly perfect, before picking it back up right at the edge of cruelty. 

“Beg,” He snarls, louder this time, coupled by a pinch to your sensitive inner thigh that makes you gasp. “Or I’ll fuck you just like this, all night—and won’t let you come.”

It’s growled out like a threat and a promise wrapped in one, and apparently, your body doesn’t know the difference between being chased by a werewolf, and Sam threatening to ruin another orgasm; because holy hell, does your pulse ever pick up. You’re shaking. Your body rocks against the seat with every brutal thrust. Your vision is glassy, your throat growing tight.

So as humiliating as it is?

You give in.

“Sam, please.”

He stills completely for a single moment, buried deep, his pelvis pressed tight against your mound. Like he didn’t quite expect you to comply, but goddamn, does it ever destroy him.

A low, rough sound rumbles from his chest, not quite a groan, not far off from a growl. He pulls back slowly again, which only makes you even more frustrated, the heavy drag making your toes curl, before he slams right back to the hilt without warning, a broken cry tumbling from your throat.

“Please?” He mocks, voice dark, thick as honey but still so goddamn harsh. He does it again, one ruthless thrust after another, each one teetering you closer and closer to the edge of pure bliss. “That’s—fuck. That’s all I get? Please?”

His hand in your hair tightens, another warning tug that goes straight to your core.

“That’s not begging, sweetheart. That’s whining. You want me to make you come?” His breath ghosts over your lips, hot and perfect. “Say it like you mean it.”

You can’t even tell if you’re really damn mad at him or not, because all of your senses have been fucked into oblivion. All that remains is your body entirely pliant beneath his, pussy practically gushing around his cock with just how soaked you are. 

The next moan that escapes your lips is broken. Why? 

Because those glassy eyes? Yeah. Not just glassy anymore. You squeeze them shut, completely consumed by overwhelming pleasure, lust, frustration, white-hot need, so much that your body just doesn’t know what to do with it all.

So: you break.

“Sam please. Please, I need it,” you beg, finally, and your cheeks heat up because Jesus your voice sounds so goddamn wrecked. “I—fuck, need to come. Need it s’fucking bad, please please please—”

A tear falls before you can catch it. Just one, sliding down your temple as your pleads break off into a sob. And oh God, Sam lets out a broken sound of his own, something between a groan and your name—and he gives in, too.

His mouth crashes onto yours, swallowing down every whimper, every plea, just as he gives you fucking everything. No more teasing, no more restraint. His hand returns to your hip with deep, desperate, perfectly timed thrusts that drive you higher and higher with each stroke. His thumb returns to your clit, firm, urgent. But now? He’s not just pushing. He’s giving. 

“That’s it,” he breathes against your lips. “Come f’me.”

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly your body gives in to the command.

The first pulse hits, white-hot and fucking perfect, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Like all that frustration, all that tension, all that adrenaline explodes at once through blinding shocks of pure ecstasy. Your cunt squeezes him tight, sopping-wet arousal no-doubt dripping onto the leather below. Your thighs shake, tears fall, sobs spilling into his mouth as wave after wave tears through you. 

But for crying out fucking loud, Sam doesn’t stop. Can’t.

He barely even eases up, his own breathing ragged, like seeing you fall apart chips away at whatever bit of restraint he was holding onto (if any was left). “One more,” he whispers, voice barely even audible against your lips. “Gimme one more.”

“Oh, holy—mmph, I can’t—”

“You can,” he encourages, voice dipping low again. But instead of being bitter like before? It’s full of something almost sweet. Something like awe.

Your body is still recovering from the shockwaves of pure pleasure when he drives you right back there with that perfect cock and those talented fingers. More waves. Double the intensity. Every single nerve in your body is set alight, every sound slipping from your lips entirely incoherent.

“So—so pretty when you beg, baby. When you come,” he drawls, completely drunk on the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him.

Sam feels it, all of it. The way your pussy squeezes him like you’re trying to milk him dry, how you sob into his mouth between euphoric gasps, the way your thighs tremble so hard he has to hold them open just to keep fucking you through it.

“That’s a girl… fuck—!” He chokes, broken off in a sound that holy fuck you’ll never get out of your head, one that’ll be the center of all your goddamn fantasies from here on out. It’s feral, almost animalistic, burying himself to the hilt just one more time before pulling out. Hot ropes of come paint your stomach, your thighs, his forehead dripping to your shoulder, riding out those aftershocks through sloppy kisses to your collarbone, his fingers digging into your flesh.

There’s a few long moments where neither of you move. Neither of you want to move. He’s still half-hard against your thigh, both of you breathing ragged like you just ran a goddamn marathon.

But then he pulls back. Slow, so slow, like he’s worried he’ll startle you. His hand slides from your hip up your side, slow but sure, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until he reaches your cheek. He brushes those tear tracks with a sweet tenderness that sends a whole new kind of shock through your system.

Because this is Sam. Sam isn’t supposed to be like this. He’s not supposed to be soft. 

And yet, when he speaks again? You’re not sure you’ve ever felt more soothed. 

“Hey,” he whispers, honey-sweet, still thick with lingering arousal. Not once, in all the time that you’ve known him, have you experienced the infamous Sam-Winchester-puppy-dog-eyes. But right then? Holy shit. Makes you understand everything you’ve been warned about. 

He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek, and the way your eyes flutter closed is entirely involuntary. He peppers kisses everywhere he can reach. Your temples, your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, until finally—your lips. But it’s not heated, or hungry like before. No, it’s fucking gentle. 

Huh. 

And when he pulls back to look at you again, there’s no ounce of that familiar irritation in his eyes. No anger, or doubt, or control. Just care.

“You okay? Not… too much? Not hurtin’?” He questions, thumbs pressing into your thighs, though it’s not possessive anymore. Almost like a massage, or a caress, an involuntary sigh escaping your lips as you nod. He hums. “Okay.”

You never would’ve expected so much goddamn reverence as he cleans you up slow. Dragging a clean cloth over your stomach, your thighs, your oversensitive skin. Whispering sweet praises when you wince, pressing soft kisses when you hiss. And when he’s done, he holds you close, breathing you in, dropping one last kiss to your neck, before:

“…I, uh. I think we should book a motel.”

AN: Hello! I feel like my posting schedule is all messed up, oops. I wanted to do one a week, but that doesn’t seem to be working…

I can’t decide if I like this or not, so I’m gonna leave that decision up to you guys, lol! Also also… another Metallica reference in the title. Can you guys guess what kind of music I like? (PS: No shade to Celine Dion. Sorry.)