VeinsOfAsh

The motel room was cheap, the kind of place where the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbor's TV and the carpet had stains that predated your birth. But after eighteen years of living out of suitcases and backseats, you'd learned to find comfort in the familiar. The flickering neon light from the vacancy sign outside cast everything in a sickly pink glow. The sheets smelled faintly of bleach and desperation. It was home.

Or as close to home as you ever got.

You'd finally convinced them to let you have your own room. It had taken months of begging, of fighting, of pointing out that you were a grown woman now and deserved a shred of privacy. Dean had argued against it, of course. "S'too dangerous," he'd said. "What if something gets in? What if we can't get to you in time?" Sam had been quieter about his objections, but you could see it in his eyes—the way they darkened when you mentioned wanting space, the way his jaw tightened when you talked about having your own bed.

But you'd won. Barely.

The rooms were connected by a door. A flimsy, hollow-core thing with a lock that hadn't worked since the Clinton administration. It was more symbolic than anything. A gesture. A plea for privacy that your brothers had only grudgingly accepted.

You should have known it wouldn't last.

It was two in the morning when Dean came through your window.

You'd been half-asleep, drifting in that hazy space between dreaming and waking, when the soft click of the latch pulled you back to consciousness. Your eyes snapped open, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife you kept under your pillow-

"Easy, sweetheart." Dean's voice came out of the darkness, low and rough. "s'just me."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but the fear was already fading, replaced by something warmer. Something more complicated.

"Dean?" You sat up, the thin sheet pooling around your waist. "What the fuck are you-"

"Shh." He was already crossing the room, his footsteps silent on the stained carpet. He'd come through the window to avoid the connecting door, you realized. He'd climbed in through the window like some kind of serial killer. "Gotta be quiet, yeah? Don't wanna wake Sammy."

Your mouth went dry. "Dean, we shouldn't-"

"We shouldn't what?" He was at the edge of your bed now, looking down at you with those eyes that had haunted your dreams since you were eighteen years old. Green like a forest fire, burning with something that made your stomach tighten and your thighs press together. "We shouldn't do the thing we've been doing for months? The thing we both know you want?"

"Sam's right next door-"

"Sam's asleep." Dean's hand found your ankle, his fingers curling around it like a brand. His touch was hot, searing, and you couldn't help the way your breath hitched. "He's always asleep these days. He doesn't know a thing."

But even as he said it, something flickered in his eyes. Something that looked almost like pride. Like he knew exactly what they were doing, and he was clapping himself on the back for it.

Dean was on you before you could say another word, his mouth finding yours in the darkness. He kissed like he fought: aggressive, possessive, and with no intention of losing. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming your mouth, and you whimpered against him, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

He was still wearing his jeans, his shirt, his boots even. He'd come straight from his room, straight from lying in bed thinking about you, and the thought made something dark and hungry twist in your chest.

"Been thinking about you all night," he muttered against your lips, his hands already pushing your shirt up. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about you in here, all alone. Wondering if you were touching yourself."

"Dean-"

"Were you?" His hand slid down your stomach, finding the waistband of your sleep shorts. "Were you touching yourself, sweetheart? Thinking 'bout me?"

No. You'd been trying to sleep, trying to make your brain shut up for once. But you nodded anyway, because Dean needed to hear it. Dean needed to know that he was the only one you thought about, the only one you wanted. Even if it wasn't true. Even if Sam's name was always there, hovering at the edge of your consciousness like a prayer you couldn't quite say aloud.

"Good girl." His fingers found your clit, pressing down with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. "Good fucking girl. You're mine, you know that? Mine. Not Sammy's. Mine."

The sex was always like this with Dean. Rough and fast and mean, like he was trying to prove something. To you, to himself, to the brother who was sleeping—or not sleeping—on the other side of the connecting door.

He flipped you over onto your stomach before you could even catch your breath, dragging your hips up until you were on your knees, your face pressed into the pillow. You heard the rustle of his jeans, the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and then he was pushing inside you with one hard, brutal thrust that made you cry out.

"Shh." His hand clapped over your mouth, muffling the sound. "Gotta be real quiet, remember? Can't let Sammy hear. Can't let him know what a dirty little slut his sister really is."

The words should have made you feel cheap. Dirty. Wrong.

Instead, they just made you wetter.

Dean set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against yours with every thrust. There was no tenderness here, no softness. This was about possession, pure and simple. He was claiming you, marking you, making sure you knew exactly who you belonged to.

"Look at you," he growled, his mouth pressed against your ear. "Taking it so fucking well. You love this, don't you? Love being my dirty little secret."

You couldn't answer, not with his hand over your mouth, but you nodded frantically, your fingers clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Sammy's right over there," Dean continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Right through that door. He thinks he knows everything about you, but he doesn't know this. He doesn't know how fucking desperate you are for it. How you'll spread your legs for me any time, any place."

You wanted to tell him it wasn't true. That you weren't desperate, weren't hungry, weren't absolutely addicted to the way he made you feel. But it would have been a lie, and you'd never been a good liar, and besides, the only sound you could make was a muffled moan as he hit that spongy spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.

"That's it," Dean grunted. "That's it. Fuck, you feel so good. So fucking tight. You're gonna make me come, sweetheart. You're gonna make me come-"

What you didn't know, couldn't know, was that Sam was listening in to every single word.

He'd heard the window. Heard the soft thump of Dean's boots on the carpet. Heard the way your breath caught when Dean touched you, heard the wet sounds of your mouths meeting, heard the rustle of fabric and the creak of the bedsprings.

He'd heard everything.

And now he was leaning against the connecting door, his forehead pressed against the cheap wood, his hand shoved down his pajama pants, stroking himself with a desperation that bordered on pathetic. He was so hard it hurt, his cock aching in his grip, precome already leaking down his fingers.

He was such a fucking slut, and he knew it.

But he couldn't help himself. The sounds were right there. The sound of Dean fucking you, the sound of your muffled moans, the sound of Dean calling you his. Sam knew he should be angry, should be hurt, should be storming through that door and tearing Dean off you with his bare hands. He'd fantasized about it, actually. Imagined himself bursting in, tackling Dean to the ground, and taking his place, showing you that he could be so much better than Dean. That he'd be gentle with you, worship you, treat you like the goddess you were.

But instead, he was standing here, jerking himself off like a lovesick teenager, his own brother's voice filling his ears.

"Take it, sweetheart. Take every fucking inch."

Sam's hand moved faster, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip to keep from making a sound, as he heard the little desperate sounds slipping past your lips. His eyes were squeezed shut, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying quiet.

"Gonna come. Fuck. Gonna come right here in your pretty pussy."

And then the sounds shifted: Dean's grunts becoming more desperate, your whimpers rising in pitch, and Sam knew it was happening, knew you were both about to come, and his own release was building, burning low in his gut, demanding to be set free.

When Dean finally came, with a long, shuddering groan that Sam could hear even through the door, it was enough to push him over the edge.

Sam came so hard his knees buckled.

He leaned too much onto the door.

The flimsy wood gave way under him, opening without any resistance, and Sam hit the floor on all fours, gasping, his hand still wet with his own come, his pajama pants hanging loosely around his hips.

The room went dead silent.

Dean was still hovering over you, his cock still half-hard, his jeans tangled around his thighs. You were on your stomach, your back glistening with sweat, your face leaning sideways into the pillow, still berathing heavily.

All three of you stared at each other. There was no sound except Sam's ragged breathing and the distant hum of the neon sign outside.

Then Dean started laughing.

"Oh my God." His voice was full of dark, delighted amusement. "Oh my God, Sam. Were you—" He broke off, his eyes dropping to Sam's hand, still sticky with come. "Holy shit. You were jacking off. Outside the door. Like a fucking creeper."

Sam's face was on fire. He scrambled to his feet, yanking his pajama pants up, trying desperately to hide the evidence of what he'd just done. "Shut up. You're one to talk, you- you crawled in through the fucking window like some-"

"I climbed through the window to be with her." Dean gestured at you, still sprawled on the bed. "What's your excuse? You couldn't even go to bed with her? You had to stand outside like a pathetic little pervert?"

"I wasn't-" Sam's voice cracked. "I heard- you were so loud-"

"Heard us, huh?" Dean was pulling his jeans up, zipping them with deliberate slowness. "Heard everything? Heard me fucking our baby sister? Heard her moaning for me?"

Dean looked at you, something softening in his eyes. Then he looked at Sam, and the softness was gone, replaced by that familiar condescending smirk.

"Go ahead," Dean said, stepping past Sam on his way to the door, patting his head condescendingly. "Take your turn."

Sam's head snapped up. "What?"

"You heard me." Dean paused at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder with a smirk that made you want to throw something at him. "She's still wet. Still ready. And judging by the mess you made out there, you're not exactly done, are you?"

"Dean-"

"Don't pretend you don't want it, Sammy." Dean's voice was hard. "You've been wanting it since she was eighteen and dad brought her into this life. Y'were so fucking obvious, you think I didn't notice?"

Sam's face was a mask of humiliation and fury. "That's not-"

"That's not what?" Dean's voice was cruel now, viciously amused. "That's not fucking true? You didn't jack off thinking about her when I was dead? You didn't like taking my place?"

"Enough you two!" You were sitting up now, the sheet clutched to your chest, a frown on your face that did nothing to convey the anger that you weren't even feeling. "Just... enough. I'm not something to be passed around. I'm not- I'm not property."

Dean and Sam both turned to look at you. The room was silent.

Then Dean laughed. "No, baby. You're not property. You're family." He said the word like it was a curse. "And family takes care of each other." He looked at Sam. "You gonna take care of her? Or are you just gonna stand there with your dick in your hand like a goddamn teenager?"

And then he was gone, stepping through the door and back into his own room with a wide stretch and an open-mouthed yawn, leaving you and Sam alone in the silence.

Sam didn't move.

He stood there, frozen in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on you. You could see the conflict in them—the shame, the want, the desperate need to do the right thing warring with the part of him that had been listening outside the door, jacking off to the sound of you getting fucked by his brother.

"Sam." you said softly. "Sam, it's okay."

"It's not okay." His voice was barely above a whisper. "It's not okay. What he did- what I was doi-"

"Sam."

"You're our sister."

"Step-sister." You said it like it made a difference. Like it made any of this okay. Because it did, on some way, at least. Morally. Made it legal.

Sam's eyes met yours. And in them, you saw the moment he gave in.

He crossed the room in three steps, his hands cupping your face, his mouth crashing against yours. He kissed different than Dean. He was softer, more desperate, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his love into you. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you tasted him, tasted his shame and his want, and you couldn't help but whimper against him.

"Been wanting you so long," he breathed against your lips. "So fucking long. Every night, in my bed, I wanted to-"

"Show me." You pulled back, looking up at him with eyes that were half-challenge, half-plea. "Show me what you've been wanting to do."

Sam's control snapped.

He pushed you back onto the bed, his hands finding your hips, dragging you down the mattress until you were flat on your back. He pulled off his pajama pants, his cock springing free, already hard and leaking. There was no condom with him, no barrier between the two of you. Just skin on skin, two bodies finally giving in to what they'd both wanted for so long.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice shaking. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you." It was the easiest thing you'd ever said. "I've always wanted you."

And then he was pushing inside you, and it was everything.

Sam fucked you differently than Dean. More desperate, more needy, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and never leave. His thrusts were deep and fast, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes locked on your face. Every sound you made seemed to drive him wilder, his hips slapping against yours with increasing urgency.

"Fuck, you feel s'good," he gasped, his voice hitching. "So-oh go—ood. Been dreaming about this for years. Dreaming 'bout having y'just like this, mngh-"

"Sam—"

"Shh, I kn'w. I kn'w." He kissed you again, swallowing your moans and forcing you to swallow his own. "I've got y'sweetheart. Swear it, mph-"

His rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming more erratic. He was close, you could tell, and the knowledge made you clench around him, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips.

"Fuck, you're gonna make me come-" he whimpered. "I'm gonna- I- gonna cum—"

"Come for me," you whispered, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. "Come inside me, Sam. I want to feel it. I want to feel you."

He came with a cry that he couldn't quite muffle, his hips slamming into yours one final time as he filled you. His body shook with the force of his release, his face buried in your neck, whining against your skin like a desperate little thing.

When it was over, he didn't pull out.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comfort, his breath hot against your neck. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, the frantic rhythm slowly steadying.

"I love you," he whispered. "I've loved you since the day you came home with us."

"I know," you said softly. "I love you too."

"Really? Me? Not Dean? Just me?"

The question hung in the air. And despite everything—despite the betrayal, the secrecy, the knowledge that what you were doing was wrong on every level—you found yourself nodding, even if it was a white lie.

"Just you," you said. "Always just you."

Sam kissed you again, soft and sweet, and you let yourself pretend that it was enough. That this could ever be enough. That you could forget about Dean, forget about the way his rough hands felt on your skin, forget about the way he'd laughed as he left you to Sam like you were nothing more than a toy to be shared.

You knew it would never be just Sam. You were too far gone for that. You needed both of them, in equal measure, in ways that were completely and utterly wrong.

But for now, lying in Sam's arms, listening to his soft breathing, you let yourself pretend.

Just for a little while.

And in the other room, Dean lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Sam's pleasure through the broken door.

He could hear Sam's whimpered confessions, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, the soft cries you couldn't quite muffle. It should have made him angry. Jealous. He should have stormed back in there and dragged Sam off you, should have reminded you both exactly who you belonged to.

But instead, he found himself smiling.

Because no matter how many times Sam had you, no matter how many confessions of love he whispered in your ear, you would always come back to Dean. Always. You needed Sam's softness, his gentleness, his desperate devotion. But you needed Dean's roughness too. Needed his possession, his claim, his absolute certainty that you were his.

And Dean could share.

For now.

Because Sam was his brother, and what was Dean's was Sam's.

Sharing is caring, after all.

The motel room smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap disinfectant, the kind of smell that had become as familiar to the Winchester brothers as the backseat of the Impala. Blood dripped steadily onto the worn carpet, a slow, rhythmic plink that seemed louder than it should have been in the tense silence.

"Sam, for the last damn time, let me look at your face," Dean growled, his jaw tight with frustration. He was holding a first aid kit in one hand, his other hand reaching toward his younger brother with the clear intention of grabbing him.

Sam jerked away, nearly stumbling over the foot of the bed. "No! I told you, I'm fine. Just—just leave me alone, for fuck's sake."

"The hell I am, you're bleeding everywhere, you idiot. You're not fine."

The scratches on Sam's face were nasty, angry red lines that ran from his cheekbone down to his jaw, still oozing blood. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, revealing more scratches underneath: long, shallow gashes that had been left by something with claws. Something that had gotten far too close before Sam had managed to put it down.

"I'll take care of it myself, Dean." Sam insisted, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He knew he sounded like a child, but he didn't care. He'd rather deal with the pain alone than let Dean's rough hands anywhere near his wounds. He'd only make it worse, anyways.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "You're gonna make me do this the hard way, aren't you?"

"I'm not letting you touch me." Sam said flatly. "You're not gentle. You never are."

"Gentle? We don't have time for gentle."

"Exactly." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, wincing as the movement pulled at the scratches on his arm. "Which is why I'll do it myself."

They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills that neither was willing to lose. Dean's jaw worked, the muscle in his cheek twitching with barely contained irritation. Sam held his ground, his expression stubborn, his body tense and ready to dodge if Dean made another grab for him.

Finally, Dean threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine. You want to be a stubborn little bitch about it? Fine. I'm getting her."

Sam's heart did something strange in his chest. "Who?"

"Who do you think?" Dean was already heading for the door. "The only person in the whole world who you actually let touch you without acting like a five-year-old having a tantrum."

"I do not-"

But Dean was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a hollow thud.

Sam stood alone in the motel room, his heart pounding, his wounds still bleeding. He should have felt relieved that Dean was gone, that he wouldn't have to endure his brother's rough, impatient hands on his injuries.

Instead, he felt a different kind of tension coiling in his stomach. The kind that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with anticipation.

You found Sam exactly where Dean had left him, standing in the middle of the motel room with blood dripping down his face and his shirt torn at the shoulder. He looked younger somehow, more vulnerable, like the fourteen-year-old boy you'd first met all those years ago.

"Sammy," you said softly, closing the door behind you. "What happened?"

He flinched at the sound of your voice, his eyes meeting yours with an expression that was equal parts relief and embarrassment. "It's nothing. Just a few scratches."

"A few scratches," you repeated, eyebrow quirked, crossing the room to stand in front of him. "Sam, you're bleeding everywhere. Let me see."

You reached for his face, your fingers gentle, and Sam let you. Of course he let you. He always let you.

"Dean is too rough," he muttered, leaning into your touch like a cat seeking affection. "He doesn't know how to be careful. He just- fucking rips the bandages off and pours alcohol on everything and expects you not to flinch."

You bit back a smile. "Sounds like Dean."

"He's a menace," Sam grumbled. "He doesn't understand that people have limits. That some things need to be handled with..." He stopped, his cheeks flushing slightly. "... care."

"With care, mn?" you repeated, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. "Is that what you need, Sammy? Someone to be careful with you?"

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes."

You guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, settling yourself on the mattress beside him. "Very well then, let me see the scratches on your face first."

Sam turned toward you, his eyes half-lidded, and you saw the way his pupils dilated slightly as you leaned closer. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling with quick, nervous breaths.

"Hold still," you murmured, dabbing a cotton ball against the scratches on his cheek. "This might sting a little."

It didn't sting. Nothing you did ever hurt Sam. Even when the alcohol hit the open wounds, the pain was muted, overshadowed by the feeling of your fingers on his skin.

"There," you said, after you'd cleaned the wounds and applied a thin layer of antiseptic. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," Sam breathed. "It wasn't bad at all."

His voice was low, almost reverent, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. But you pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Now let me see your arm," you said. "You're going to need to take off your shirt."

Sam's hands moved to the hem of his shirt, but he hesitated. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, baby. I can't clean the scratches if they're covered by fabric."

He nodded slowly, his movements deliberate as he pulled the shirt over his head. The scratches on his arm were worse than you'd expected—long, angry lines that ran from his shoulder down to his elbow, still seeping blood.

"Okay," you said, your voice calm and steady. "This might take a while. Just try to relax."

You worked methodically, cleaning the wounds with gentle, precise movements. Sam sat perfectly still, his breathing even, his eyes fixed on your face. He didn't flinch, didn't complain, didn't do anything except watch you with that intense, unreadable expression.

You were almost done when Sam's voice broke the silence.

"There's something else." he blurted out apropos of nothing, his voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, looking up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I'm hurt somewhere else too." he said, and there was something strange in his voice.. something that made your stomach flip in a way you didn't quite understand.

"Where?" you asked, your voice soft. "Show me."

Sam's hand moved to his thigh, his fingers hovering over the fabric of his pants. "Here." he said, and his voice cracked on the word.

You looked down at his leg, frowning slightly. The fabric of his pants was completely intact—no tears, no blood, no signs of any kind of injury. But Sam's expression was earnest, almost pleading, and you couldn't bring yourself to question him.

"Oookay.." you said slowly, "Let me see."

You reached for his belt buckle, your fingers working with practiced efficiency. Sam's breath hitched as you unfastened his pants, his hips lifting slightly off the bed to help you slide them down.

His thighs were bare, pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle. And they were completely unmarked.

"Sam?" you said, your voice caught somewhere between confusion and concern. "I don't see any-"

You looked up.

And the words died in your throat.

Sam was staring down at you with the glassiest, most desperate, most gone expression you'd ever seen on a human face. His cheeks were flushed bright red, his lips slightly parted, his breath coming in short, hitching gasps. His pupils were blown so wide that his eyes looked almost completely black, and his lashes fluttered as he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

"Sam?" you breathed.

"sorry.." he whispered.

His hand moved, almost involuntarily, to his boxers, and you saw the unmistakable outline of his erection straining against the thin fabric.

Everything clicked into place.

"Oh, baby." you said, and your voice was sultrier now, almost syrupy. "Is that where you're hurt?"

He nodded, his chin wobbling slightly. "It hurts so bad-" he breathed out. "It's been hurting all night-"

You moved your hand from his thigh to the edge of his boxers, your fingers toying with the elastic. "You should have told me sooner, you know." you said, your voice low and teasing. "I could have helped you."

Sam made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a moan. "Please," he breathed. "Please, please-"

"Shh.." you soothed, pushing his boxers down just enough to free his cock. "I know what you need, baby. Let me take care of you."

Sam's cock was beautiful, long and slender and already leaking precum at the tip. You wrapped your fingers around the base, stroking once, twice, watching the way his breath hitched and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Look at me," you commanded softly. "Come on, baby, I want you to watch."

His eyes snapped open, meeting yours with desperate intensity. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, m'watching. M'watching."

You lowered your head, pressing a soft kiss to the skin right under his belly button. Sam gasped, his hips jerking instinctively upward, but you held him in place with a firm hand on his thigh.

"Patience, baby." you murmured against his skin. "I'm going to take care of you, but you have to be patient."

You pressed another kiss to his thigh, then another, working your way slowly, deliberately toward his groin. His skin tasted salty and clean, and you could feel the tremors running through his muscles as you moved.

"Pleaseee-" he whined. "Please, I can't- I need—"

"You need what?" you asked, your voice innocent, teasing. "You need me to kiss it better?"

"Yes-" he gasped. "Yes, please, pleasepleaseplease, kiss it better, kiss it better- nghn—"

You took pity on him, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock and sucking gently. Sam made a sound like he was dying, his hands fisting in the sheets, his hips bucking upward.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, that's- that's so good-"

You took more of him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his length. He was so responsive, so vocal, making the most beautiful sounds as you worked him with your lips and tongue.

"Please," he begged. "Please-"

You pulled off with a wet pop, grinning up at him. "Please what, baby?"

"mark me, please, m'yours, make me yours-"

You lowered your head again, but this time you focused on his thighs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. You sucked hard, leaving a dark bruise that would bloom into a proper hickey by morning.

"God-" Sam moaned, his head thrown back. "Fuck, that's-"

You moved to another spot, leaving another mark. Then another, and another, until his thighs were covered in the evidence of your possession.

"I want you to remember," you murmured against his skin. "When you're out hunting, when you're walking through the motel parking lot, I want you to feel me right here."

Sam was trembling, his breathing ragged. "Yes," he gasped. "Yes, please, I want- want that-"

You moved back to his cock, taking him into your mouth with renewed enthusiasm. You bobbed your head, taking him deeper and deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck," Sam sobbed. "Fuck, I'm going to- can't hold on-"

You pulled off just in time, stroking him with your hand as you pressed soft, sloppy kisses to his tip. "Let go, baby," you cooed. "I want to see it. I want you to paint me."

Sam came with a broken cry, his body arching off the bed as his release spilled over your face in hot, white stripes. It splattered across your cheeks, your lips, even dripped down onto your chest where your shirt had fallen open.

"Holy shit," he breathed, his chest heaving. "Holy shit-"

You giggled, using your finger to wipe a stripe of his release from your cheek and bring it to your lips. "Messy boy," you teased. "Look what you did to me."

Sam's face was the color of a tomato. "I'm so sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean to—I couldn't help it, you just-"

You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It's okay, baby. I wanted you to. Now go clean yourself up."

He nodded, stumbling toward the bathroom on unsteady legs. You watched him go, a satisfied smile playing on your lips.

"Sam?" you called after him.

He paused at the door, looking back at you with those big, glassy eyes.

"Don't think this is a one-time thing," you said, your voice teasing.

But it’s a little hard to get years of his proclamations out of your head. The ones made of I don’t form attachments. Relationships don’t work out for me, sweetheart. I ride alone. 

He doesn’t. Not anymore. You’re sitting shotgun on the way back from the bar, and his hand is resting casually on your thigh. Keeping some small contact, every second. Almost pinning you to the seat, like he wants you to leave a mark. Wants to make sure you don’t flee into the blurred tree line, where he can’t catch you.

So he loves you. But the jealousy is eating, like a parasite. Asking what if.

What if he finds someone to love more. What if his love slowly dies, and the fire of the girl at the bar reignites it, the flames no longer for you. What if he wakes up tomorrow morning, looks at you, and decides you just aren’t enough anymore. 

You don’t speak. Dean tries to talk to you—small things, how was your day and this song is one of my favorites, makes me think of you, and so, uh- this is some weather—but you just smile at him, and mumble something he probably can’t even hear.

It makes the jealousy worse, because now it’s paired with a sore, twisting guilt. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s perfect. He opens the door for you, and holds your hand on the way inside. He doesn’t ask any questions when you stay silent, even as you trail around after him like a puppy. In his shadow as he eats, and showers, and changes. Never straying, because you can’t. He might slip away. 

Dean’s patient. So patient. But you’re sulking and pouting and not saying a word—you don’t trust your mouth—and even Saints will snap for something.

That’s usually what makes them saints.

He walks you back against the dresser with a firm glare, crowding your space and grabbing your chin. Forcing you to take his attention.

“What’s wrong.” He grunts, and you avoid his gaze. “Baby, if you don’t tell me what your problem is, I can’t fix it-“

“There’s no problem, Dean.”

The lie is paper-thin. Flimsy. You can’t lie and say you’re surprised, when his jaw ticks, and he doesn’t move. 

Dean stares at you. You fix your gaze on his chest. The steady rise and fall of it, because you’re upset about something so stupid, and nothing is really wrong. Dean’s tense, but his heart isn’t racing. You’re just fucking needy and stupid and crazy-

“Blondie.” He mutters suddenly, and you can hear it dawning on him. “She got handsy, at the bar. Had the shame of a stripper in Vegas.”

You shake your head, but he’s figured it out. He won’t let it go. “You’re getting jealous, baby, that’s cute-“ “No, it’s not.” You snap, glare darting to his needlessly handsome face. He shouldn’t get to look like that. It’s not fair. 

“It is.” He drawls, thumb swiping your lower lip. “‘Cause it’s just a damn joke. You don’t need to get territorial, sweetheart, I’m yours.”

You make a sour face, and don’t respond. 

Dean stills over you.

“Look at me.”

You shake your head, and he lets out a long breath. 

Dean mutters your name, frustration building. “Look at me.”

There’s a low command in his voice. You can’t stop your eyes from moving. Dean gives you a small, satisfied smile of approval. 

“Good girl.”

You scowl, and try to look away again.

“Ah.” Dean moves to stay in your line of view. “No hiding, pretty girl. You’re all I want. All I need. Tell me you get that.”

“Dean-“

“No. There’s nobody better for me. Nobody. And,” he taps your chin with his thumb. “Say it."

You’re stubborn. You don’t. 

Dean seems to take it as a challenge. 

He moves your chin higher, eyes narrowing, and dives down. Kisses you like he’s trying to eat you alive. Open-mouthed and claiming.

Rough with his lips moving against yours and his tongue down your throat, but tender with his hands.

With how he grabs at your clothing and tosses it away, letting fingers wander and set fires in their wake.

You’re a molten, burning mess by the time he’s undoing his own belt. He drags you with him down onto the bed, landing flat on his back and caging you in his arms. Dean grabbing at your ass and wrapping his mouth over your perked nipples. Guides your thighs apart with a firm but careful hand. Runs his fingers through your pussy lips, groaning at the wetness that gathers on his fingers. 

“There you go.” He mutters against your lips. “Nothin’ better, baby. Gonna make you see that.”

You don’t get to respond, before he’s surging up and flipping you over. You end up pinned flat on your back below him, your head tipping a little off the mattress, and your legs still spread with.

You really can’t tell if that’s what makes you dizzy, or just Dean’s mouth. Peppering kisses over your neck and face, nipping and sucking all while teasing his fingers against your cunt. You whine, trying to press up and touch him back. He grabs one wrist and pins it to the mattress, rising up with a stern look. 

“Want you to watch yourself.” He mutters, and you flush. 

“Just- wanna touch you-“

“No, sweet girl.” Dean grabs your jaw carefully, pausing for a moment. Watching for any distress.

When you just blink up at him with lustful eyes, he smiles. Tips your head slowly back, and kisses a soft spot behind your ear.

“Watch yourself.” 

His breath ghosts over your ear, and you understand what he means now. 

He’s positioned you in front of the mirror. 

And his hold on your neck isn’t letting up. Dean kisses anywhere his lips can reach, and murmurs soft praise as his fingers slide inside you. Your eyes flutter, and you try to close them fully. You’d rather not look at yourself, rather not see the disparity between what Dean is, and what you are. 

But Dean doesn’t take that. 

His fingers inside of you crook and rub, and your eyes fly open. He chuckles against your skin, and meets your eyes in the mirror. 

"Watch.” He grunts. “See what you do to me.”

You flush, but nod. There’s nothing else for you to do. 

Nothing but watch you and Dean in the mirror, as he takes you. His eyes glaze over with something feral, something possessed. His full lips become searing pleasure on already sensitive skin, and your mouth falls open as they travel back down to your breasts. You gasp, hands shooting into his short hair as he starts to flick his tongue against a nipple, fingers scissoring you open. It’s a sinful sight, Dean over you. Consuming you, in all his glory. 

It’s nothing, compared to when he starts to fuck you. 

You’re already limp from his fingers, when he takes out his fat, weeping cock. Slaps it against your pussy once, before slowly driving it inside. Your mouth falls open in a plea of his name, and he captures it in a bruising kiss. Your eyes close for that. For the sensation of him splitting you into a million, glowing pieces. For how he’s hitting every nerve, as he starts to pick up pace, and all you can do is take it. 

Then Dean rises up, focusing on worshiping your marked up throat and collarbone, on the drive of his hips into spots no one else has ever been able to hit. And your eyes open. 

It puts you in a trace. How Dean’s looking at you. With such pure ardor and devotion. Like he’s stumbled into Heaven, like he’s found paradise, or a god finally worth believing in. Like he’s committing a righteous act, fucking you until you’re a moaning, soaked mess. 

A little more than a mess. You look wild. Bright, glossy eyes and swollen lips. You look made, look like something worthy of the alter Dean’s pulling you upon. 

You can see it. How perfectly you tangle together. How this isn’t something anyone would trade, for anything. Something that’s yours. Something that’s Dean’s, and he never lets harm come to the things he loves.

You can really fucking see, that he’s yours. 

You can’t look away. Not for a second. And Dean builds you up so well, before meeting your gaze again.

His lips twitch, at the sight of how utterly wrecked you are. 

He holds your gaze, as two rough fingers find your clit. And your vision goes white, as your orgasm slams through your body. 

You float back down easily, with Dean’s hips slowly rolling into you, his own body loose from satisfaction. 

“Nothin’ this good.” He mutters in your ear. 

And for once, you really, full believe him. 

usually, it was the winchester boys that did all this kind of thing, you know, fraud? you were usually just the researcher, sitting in the motel room as back up, with a laptop perched on your lap or sitting in baby, the key inside and waiting to be their getaway car.

you weren't really hands on when it came to being a hunter.

you never really had to go out into the real world for much. but this particular demon was snatching girls, twenty something year old girls about your age and appearance. the brothers thought it would be best if another girl accompanied them when investigating the missing girls' roomates and not two six-foot men dressed in suits.

dean's head turned as the creaky bathroom door opened. "I feel stupid."

his eyebrows raised to the tips of his forehead, a look of shock passing over him as he cleared his throat with a breathy laugh. "wait 'til sammy sees you." you just gave him a confused look before grabbing the pretty pink purse that sat on the bed. "aah-ah." you look up at dean confused. "kind of ruins the whole FBI vibe, don't you think?"

you eyed the purse in your hands.

it was a little bag, hardly able to hold anything other than your phone and your lipgloss, not that you ever had to worry about holding your wallet when you had the boys around but nonetheless, a card was wedged in there too.

it was pink with darker pink flowers on it and a ribbon attached to the strap. sam had gotten it for you after a case that you worked particularly hard on.

but dean was right, it didn't fit the whole 'FBI vibe' so you sighed and placed it back on the bed, passing the man an unhappy glance.

sam was outside, sitting in the passenger seat of the infamous impala named 'baby' by dean. he'd packed and started the car, waiting for the two of you when you caught his eye.

or should he say, your outfit.

you often wore pretty little sundresses or blouses and skirts paired together with a pretty cardigan drawn over you. but this? This seemed awfully different to your usual attire.

the white blouse was a little too low for comfort and he could tell by the way you were pulling it up over your cleavage that you agreed. your black pencil skirt was high, too high with a pair of long black stockings that stopped just above your knees paired with the infamous mary janes that you wore with almost everything.

sam was staring.

"what are you wearing?" was the first thing he asked when you and dean got into the car. "what is she wearing?" he turned back to dean.

you owned the stockings and the mary janes before hand but the rest of the outfit? it'd been dean's job to pick it out (which was no wonder you looked like... that.) "dude, she has to play the part."

"yeah of an FBI agent not some sexy stripper cop." sam spoke, exasperated.

"thank you!" you beamed from the back seat before your eyes furrowed. perhaps your boyfriend hadn't been complimenting you at all.

sam passed you a glance through the mirror but was more focused on blaming his brother. how could he let you go out looking like that for everyone to see? how could he make sam watch you while his pants tightened and his bulge was on show?

you thought the interviews went smoothly. you sat down with most of the women. the college women who's roomates had gone missing. dean was too busy fraternizing with the college girls to care about the case anymore and sam... well sam had seemed a little distracted from the beginning.

he couldn't rip his eyes away from you. you sat so perfectly, pieces of hair falling into your face as you nodded and sympathised with the women, asking them questions and jotting down notes onto a little notepad you had found in the backseat of baby.

sam was staring at you, at the way he could see the outline of your boobs down your shirt or the way your plush thighs protruded from the fabric of your stockings.

he was in awe.

it was hard to focus on anything other than you, which is why he had to excuse himself to talk to the headmaster instead of being stuck in a room with you, too close.

he was your boyfriend, it wasn't as if you hadn't done things with him before. on the contrary, you did... many things with sam before. but this was borderline unprofessional, the way he let his thoughts run.

he could imagine sliding his hands beneath your skirt or listening to your little gasps when he touched your skin, barely grazing it. you were so easily led like that, so audible and obedient. he could imagine unbuttoning your shirt slowly, with you sat on his lap while whines fell from your lips, whimpers following shortly after.

he needed to stop thinking.

or better yet, he needed to fuck you until the thoughts stopped.

dean decided he was going to check out the last spot that the college girl had been taken, assuring you both that he wouldn't be back before dinner. but the wink he shot his younger brother told him that he was merely giving you both alone time because he was no stranger to the look in sam's eyes.

and this was when sam got selfish.

honestly, the motel wasn't that far from the college so you and sam opted to walk back. the air turned brisk and for a split second, sam was about to offer you his jacket, the way he always would.

he thought it was rather adorable, watching the way you nuzzled into the jacket that was far too big for your frame. he was six foot five after all, you drowned in anything he let you wear.

but he found himself feeling selfish. he selfishly liked the way your perky breasts looked in that pretty blouse and the way your plush thighs could be seen peeking out from between the skirt and the stockings. he couldn't stop looking, couldn't tear his eyes away and stop his imagination from roaming.

so he let you walk back to the hotel, keeping a slight distance behind you so he could watch your body as he pleased, the only sound between you two being the click-clop of your mary jane heels as you walked home.

when you finally got inside, you felt yourself sigh in thought.

sam had been acting awfully quiet since you'd left and you'd begun to worry that you'd done something to upset him.

perhaps the outfit was too revealing, perhaps he wasn't okay with it.

you turned, an apology already on the tip of your lips. "sam―"

before you could utter the words, sam had grabbed you. his lips pushed into your own, a kiss filled with no passion or love, you could taste nothing aside from thick hunger, half a growl from inside his throat.

you whimpered into the kiss, taken by surprise. you felt him grab at you, one hand slid up your back, the other grabbing the back of your head and a fistful of hair along with it. again, a noise escaped you while sam was mindlessly kicking off his shoes, guiding you towards the bed.

to say you were surprised was saying the least, you hadn't expected this.

when he sat you gently against the bed, he finally broke the kiss. you looked up at him with glassy eyes and swollen lips while he tugged his suit jacket off, not bothering to take off his tie completely but only loosen it so it didn't hang so close to his neck. perhaps now he could finally breathe.

your eyes followed him curiously as he bent down, eyes never leaving yours while you stayed sitting on the mattress. you felt his hands pawing at your legs, slipping your mary janes from your feet. his hands gently rubbed at your sock-covered feet, a little reminder of his gentleness, despite the roughness he was suddenly using on you.

his fingers trailed upwards, following the little sewing thread between the fabric of your stockings. when his hands reached the top, he snapped the fabric back, leaving it snap against your thighs. "you're keeping these on." he uttered, he didn't sound like he normally did. he sounded as if he were pent up, desperate for relief. and he was.

you just couldn't seem to understand why.

"sam, why are you―"

you were cut off. "you're jus' so pretty all dressed up, honey." sam was towering over you as he stood, his large hand falling on your face, practically taking up a whole cheek as he cupped it. "'n i was hard all day thinkin' about this. you do wanna make me feel good, don't you, sweetheart?"

he watched as your eyes seemingly got rounder. "i wanna make you feel good, sammy." you caught your bottom lip between your top teeth and he could tell you were being honest, so honest.

willing to do anything to make him feel good, his sweet sweet girl. he would have cooed at you had he not been busy using his thumb to pull your bottom lip from beneath your top teeth. "don't do that, baby." he watched as you nodded silently. "good girl, i'll give you something to wrap those pretty lips around, don't worry."

he could see your face slowly building a flush, that kind of blush that had him reeling. he liked when he got you like this, all flustered and squirming. which you were, squirming in your seat with your thighs pushing together.

sam was well aware that if he were to reach up your skirt now, he would find a little wet circle sitting on your satin panties.

but instead, he used his hands to pull his own trousers from him. they were sitting tightly on his hips and when he finally pulled them down, you could see his bulge sticking out from his black boxers.

you gulped, hands playing together in your lap. you wanted to look back up at sam but you couldn't seem to tear your eyes away from him, too engrossed by his dick to think of anything else.

"'s how i felt all day, sweetheart." his voice was a whisper now. "you were teasin' me 'n i couldn't do anything about it. do you know how mean that is?"

your eyes snapped up to his, filling with this red glassiness. "w-what?" you didn't want to be mean to sam. he was so good to you, always making you feel good, you wanted nothing more than to be good to him. "'m sorry sammy, 'm really sorry."

"awh, i know, baby." his thumb swiped against your cheek, playing around with your face as if you were dough, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "you just wanna be my good girl, yeah?"

you nodded quickly. "mmhm, wanna be your good girl, sammy, 'm sorry. 'm really sorry."

"i don't know, you were very bad today." his constant teasing as only making your panties wetter, that tone he was using on you, the one that he knew got you all flustered. "if i give you a second chance, are you gonna be good?"

"uh-huh, 'be so good, sammy, i promise. please, ill be good." you were begging now, eyes as big as saucers and lips wet.

he didn't bother pretending to think about it, he just leaned down, so far that his face was in line with yours, lips against your ear as he softly whispered the words, "then get onto your knee's 'n show me."

when sam winchester told you to do something, you did it, no questions asked.

you'd touched him like this many times before, you on your hands and knees on the mattress while he stood on the ground. he thought it was the most comfortable spot for the both of you, seeing as he was so big.

you did as you were told, moving so you were on your hands and knees against the mattress. your hands moved up to his waist, eyes snapping to his. he watched you intently as you brought your lips to his clothed cock, pressing a pretty kiss against it before using your fingers to pull down his underwear.

you did it without fail every single time.

every time he had you on your knees with his cock in your mouth, you started off with that pretty kiss to his boxers. there was something sickly sweet about it that had his eyes already rolling backwards. it was almost an innocent and naive act of love towards him, laced with lust.

you were on just your knees now, pushing his boxers down with no help from him. his dick sprung free and you could see an idle line of precum dripping down his shaft. instinctively, your hand moved up, thumb swiping the precum and smoothing it over the head of his dick. the act alone caused a grunt to leave his lips.

as pretty as you looked, all curious and ready to take your time, sam simply wasn't having it tonight.

he was too pent up from your silly outfit and his own mindless thoughts that he couldn't help it.

his hand fell to the side of your head, cupping it as he guided it forward. you knew what he was asking and you wasted no time in sticking out your tongue and licking a kitten lick up his shaft.

"fuck," fell from his lips. "good girl." mumbling as your tongue swirled over his head and your mouth wrapped around his dick. sam was a huge man and his dick was no exception to that. he was huge, too big to fit in your mouth but you pushed him in anyway, only covering a little more than half.

sam knew he was big too, he couldn't help the quirk of his lips as he looked down at you, struggling to fit his size into your mouth. his hand slowly guided your head further onto his cock, letting your lips wrap around him completely, your saliva coating him. it wasn't until you gagged that he knew this was as far as you could go.

so he pushed you a little further, anyway.

you brought your head back out then in again, bobbing it as you tongue swirled against him. you were no stranger to sucking sam off but every time you did it, you found yourself getting nervous. you wanted to be good for him and you were doing your upmost best.

his pretty thing.

"fuck, baby, you're doin' so good f'me." and sam knew exactly what effect his words would have on you. "mmph, look so pretty with your lips around my dick, sweetheart."

you couldn't help but moan on his dick.

and his lips quirked into that sickly sweet smile.

he knew how easily you got wet, how all it took was just a few words and you were a moaning, whining mess. sam thought you deserved a little more for all you were giving him than just a little praise.

and like said before, sam was huge so he reached over, his torso towering a little above your head and his arm reached out, soothing down your lower back.

this wasn't the first time sam had pulled something like this. you knew what to do, stomach sinking onto the bed as you rolled your ass into nothingness, wanting to create some kind of friction while your mouth continued to slowly melt around him, licking and sucking, eyes closed as one hand pumped the part of his dick that your mouth couldn't reach.

you felt his fingers tracing the outline of your satin underwear, pulling up your skirt so he could gain access.

you made a noise of complaint, knowing that if he touched you, you wouldn't be able to focus properly on touching him. sam only used his free hand to push your head onto his dick and make you gag again.

he liked watching you fall apart, especially with his dick stuffed in your mouth.

he loved watching the way your body had to bend for him to be able to stick his fingers into your gaping whole, watching as you desperately rolled your hips, wanting him him him. you wanted to feel him. taste him. smell him. he was all consuming, you wanted him to take over your every sense.

and he always did, without complaint.

you were wet, undeniably so, he could feel it through the satin material that he pulled back, getting access to your aching pussy. "there you go, sweetheart, tha's it." while easing two fingers into your hole.

you felt like a slut.

he had you completely and utterly full.

"'s that nice, baby? y'feel so warm." both with your mouth against his dick and your soaking wet hole. "you're so pretty for me, you know that, angel?"

he knew you couldn't respond, only whining and whimpering against his throbbing cock. "you're my good girl, aren't you?" he felt you whine, vibrations spreading through him and he also felt your pussy squeeze against his fingers. he grinned at that. "you like that, honey? like thinkin' about how you're my good girl, yeah? all mine, baby, you're all mine."

and you really were. before sam, you wouldn't look at a boy sideways let alone be like this.

you groaned into him, ass rolling against his fingers while your own free hand moved down. you continued sucking his dick while using your nimble fingers to play with your clit.

and that was enough for sam to let out a moan. "oh, baby, you look so pretty playing with yourself while―shit―sucking my cock."

your eyes rolled back, feeling of pleasure coating you while your soft lips bobbed up and down, fingers tracing him and yourself.

"'m gonna cum, sweetheart." a warning, though he knew you wouldn't move anyway. "you gonna be a good girl 'n cum on my fingers while you suck my cock, huh, baby?"

he felt you absentmindedly nod, too fucked out to think straight while feeling a familiar knot deep in your stomach.

your whines got louder and he felt himself nearing the edge. the sight of you, blissed out while sucking his cock, his fingers stuffed into your hole making you feel all full... he couldn't help but let go.

at the same time, he felt your gummy walls clenching around his fingers, wet juices sliding down his hand while spurts of squirt left your pussy every time his fingers pumped in and out of you, riding out your high.

"good girl, good girl. that's it, baby. oh fuck. yeah, my good girl. there you go." he was in awe, watching you squirt around his fingers, the wet feeling as it spurted out from your pussy, decorating the bedsheets in your juices while your pretty socks got ruined in the mess.

when he finally finished, he pulled his fingers out of you, letting you lean back as you parted your lips to show him his cum all over your tongue, spread messily in your mouth.

his hand was on your face, eyes strained on your mouth as he watched you close your lips and swallow like the good girl you were, swiping his thumb against your bottom lip.

he pushed his two fingers into your mouth, letting you taste yourself. while your eyes rolled back, all fucked out and dumb.

"think we have some time before dean gets back, yeah?" eyes already scanning your body and letting his imagination get the better of him.

he just watched your blissed out face nod, cheeks flushed. "mmhm hmph."

he wasn't done with you just yet.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he drawls, and then he does the thing. The thing. He reaches out and plucks the bag from your shoulder before you can stop him.

“Dean—”

“Nope.” He slings it easily over his own shoulder, like it weighs nothing. “Not letting you haul this around. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

Your jaw actually drops. “It’s not even heavy.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugs, utterly casual, like he isn’t currently detonating you from the inside out. “You should save your energy for…other things.”

Your knees wobble. It’s eight in the goddamn morning, and you’re already seconds from collapse.

The walk to class is torture, because he doesn’t just carry your bag—no. He does everything. Adjusts his stride to match yours. Keeps his hand brushing yours like it’s an accident (it’s not). And then, when you reach the building, he beats you to the door, pulling it open with a little smirk.

“After you,” he says, mock-formal.

You glare at him because you’re supposed to glare at him. But your face is hot, your stomach’s flipping, and when he bends down just slightly—just enough—to press a soft, ridiculously tender kiss to your forehead before sending you off? Yeah. You almost combust right there in the doorway.

“Have a good class, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips lingering just a second too long against your skin.

And then he’s gone.

You sit through the an entire morning of lectures hearing nothing, seeing nothing, brain melted into soup. Your professors might as well be teaching in ancient Sumerian because all you can think about is Dean’s mouth. On your forehead. Over coffee breath and fluorescent lights, he still managed to make it feel like the most intimate kiss of your life.

By the time class ends, you’re a wreck. And then—because the universe has a sick sense of humor—Dean is there again.

Leaning against the wall like he hasn’t moved since you walked inside. When he sees you, he straightens, pushes off the wall, and grins like you’re the only person on this planet worth waiting for.

“Hey, there she is.”

“You—” You stop, spluttering, pointing at him like he’s committed a crime. “Did you even go to your class?”

He smirks. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Dean!”

“What? Couldn’t let my girl walk out without me.”

The words my girl shred what little composure you had left. You should protest. You should argue. Instead you hand him your bag without thinking, like your body is on autopilot. He doesn’t even give you the chance to reconsider before he’s slinging it over his shoulder again.

As if that isn’t enough, he adds, “Hope you’re hungry. Found this new Korean place. Thought of you.”

You blink at him. “You…thought of me?”

“Yeah.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like he doesn’t realize that your chest is currently caving in on itself. “Place looked good. Figured you’d like it. Don’t worry about money—it’s on me.”

Your mouth falls open. “Dean, you don’t have to—”

“Not negotiable.” He cuts you off smoothly, steering you down the sidewalk with a gentle hand at the small of your back. “You’re with me, I’ve got you.”

You’re with me.

I've fucking got you.

Jesus Christ. He might as well have thrown you onto a mattress right there on the pavement.

The restaurant is a blur. Dean is everywhere—pulling your chair out before you can sit, ordering for you because he knows how awkward you get talking to waiters, pouring your soju first. Every single action is small, ordinary, unflashy. But each one sets fire to your veins.

By the time the food arrives, you’re barely holding it together. He picks up his chopsticks with a grin, nudges your bowl toward you, and says, “Told you you’d like this spot.”

And you do like it. You love it. But you can’t taste a damn thing because Dean Winchester is sitting across from you, being decent, being considerate, and your entire body is begging to climb over the table and ruin him.

He catches you staring somewhere between your third and fourth bite. Green eyes flick up, amused, soft but knowing.

“What?” he asks, lips quirking.

You shake your head too fast. “Nothing.”

“Mm.” His grin widens. He leans back in his chair, arms folded, studying you like he’s figured out a puzzle and is just waiting for you to admit defeat. “You sure?”

Your throat is dry. “Yeah.”

But you’re not sure. You’re not anything but undone.

Because Dean Winchester has finally realized the truth: he doesn’t need grand gestures or dirty lines to get you trembling. All he has to do is carry your bag, open a door, buy you lunch. All he has to do is be responsible, and you’re his.

And he knows it.

The bastard knows it.

"I-I can't-" your voice came out in short little breaths, your lungs barely keeping up with your rapid heartbeat.

"Yes, you can. Keep going, you're doing good." Sam's voice was hushed, husky, as he reassured you, his hands resting on your hips.

You swallowed before willing your hips to move again, your cunt dragging back and forth across his abs with the short snap of your hips. It was almost embarrassing how desperately you were chasing your climax on friction and pressure alone, even more so with how exhausted just moving your hips had made you.

Sam almost wanted to help you finish in a quicker way, like with his tongue, or his fingers, or, God, his dick, but he was enjoying this too much. The way his abs were completely slick with you, the way you breathed and whimpered so shakily in his ear, your head bent into his neck because it was too much effort to sit upright.

You pressed your heat firmer on his torso, his hands responding to the pressure by kneading deeper into your hips.

"Sam.. please..." you breathed into his neck, your hips slowing down again. You had to stop every now and again to catch your breath, which made it very hard to build up your climax.

"Please what?" His thumbs moved in small circles over your hips.

"I can't.. not- not on my own.." Your chest pressed against his, rising and falling dramatically, and your hips made a last pathetic roll before giving up. Sam chuckled.

"If I'm going to help you, you'll have to let me see your pretty face while I do."

You lifted your head and he lifted his just so your lips would meet, kissing you deeply as he started to move your hips for you. His palms rested on your hip bone and his fingers dug into the top of your ass as he dragged you across him, breaking the kiss just so he could see how your eyebrows drew together and how your mouth hung open, all your sweet noises pouring out.

Knowing that he was doing this to you now was better than seeing you do it yourself.

“Wha’ d she mean, scared f’ sex?” johnny’s words hint at his drunkenness

Simon sighs “Y’ daft moron, watch y’r tongue once in a while aye?”

Johnny snorted, leaning back in his chair with a lazy grin.

“Aye, relax, mate. I was only askin’. Didn’t think she’d take it that way.”

Price gave him a hard look. “That’s the problem, Sergeant. You don’t think.”

Johnny’s grin faltered, eyes dropping to his glass. “Just havin’ a wee bit o’ a laugh, sir.”

Gaz leaned forward, voice low. “A laugh’s one thing, Johnny. Makin’ her uncomfortable’s another. You saw her face?”

Johnny muttered, “Aye, I did. Felt bad after, right? Didn’t mean it like that.”

Price exhaled, shaking his head.

Johnny nodded, reading the room and rubbing his jaw. “Got it, Captain. I’ll keep it zipped.”

Simon leaned back again, eyeing him. “See that you do.”

There was a beat of silence before Johnny gave a crooked smile. “Still, she’s somethin’, eh?”

Price groaned. “Johnny.”

Johnny raised his hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll shut it.”

You’re half-asleep when the knock comes, dull, steady, not frantic but enough to pull you out of the haze. You look up at the digital clock on your nightstand.

Two in the morning.

For a second you think you imagined it, but then it comes again.

You drag yourself up, pad to the door in your oversized shirt, rubbing at your eyes. When you open it, Simon’s there. Hoodie up, eyes tired but steady. He smells faintly of rain and smoke.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks, voice low.

You know he’s lying, you look painfully sleepy.

“You know you did,” you mumble, leaning on the frame. “S’ Johnny okay? He was really drunk.”

He gives a small nod, glancing around like he’s checking the hallway before speaking again. “Johnny was out of line.”

You shrug, still groggy. “It’s fine. Wasn’t personal.”

His brow furrows at that. “Doesn’t make it fine.” He hesitates, then adds quietly, “Didn’t sit right with me, the way he said it. Thought I’d check in.”

You move aside, wordlessly inviting him in. He steps over the threshold, careful not to track dirt on the floor. The air shifts, heavier now, quieter.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing for him,” you say, closing the door.

“Not apologizin’,” he replies, turning to face you. “Just… makin’ sure you know not everyone’s like that.”

He studies you for a moment, his tone softening. “You look knackered. Go on, back to bed.”

You give a faint smile. “You came all this way to tell me that?”

Simon shrugs, eyes crinkling just slightly. “Couldn’t sleep. Guess I needed to know you could.”

He lingers by the door for a moment, the kind of stillness that makes the air hum. You can tell he’s not sure whether to stay or leave. His hand comes up, rubbing at the back of his neck under the hood.

“You want tea or something? My sleep’s ruined too now.” you ask, just to break the quiet.

He huffs out a faint laugh. “Tea. At two in the bloody morning.”

“You’re the one who knocked.”

That earns you a proper look, tired eyes but warmer now, a small trace of a smile behind the mask. “Fair point.”

You move to the small kitchen, fill the kettle. The room feels softer with him in it, even though he barely moves, just stands there watching. When the water starts to boil, he finally speaks again.

“Johnny’s got no filter when he’s had a few. Doesn’t mean he meant any harm.”

You nod, eyes on the mug in your hands. “I know.”

A beat. Then i continue, filling in the silence.

“It’s not that i’m prudish or anything…m just…”

He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “Just..?”

You hand him a mug, and his gloved fingers brush yours as he takes it. His shoulders relax a little.

After a moment or two of not saying anything, you sigh.

“I’m the complete opposite of whatever johnny was describing” you scoff and get some honey, before stopping and turning to simon.

“want some?” you ask him. showing the honey.

He shakes his head for no.

“Guessed so” you smile and put some in your own cup.

“wha? i don’t seem like the honey type?” he smirks, while looking down at the tea.

You snort “I think we both know the answer to that”

i look up at him, sleepy and confused.

He swallows, inhales a sharp breath then looks away

weird.

“Y’ can talk to me, ‘f you want” he says it casually, but i can tell he’s not used to this small talk.

The honey pot clinked against ceramic, a sound too loud in the quiet. Simon watched you stir, his gaze tracking the lazy spiral of steam rising from your mug. He hadn't touched his tea yet, too hot probably. Too early to drink. Like this whole damn conversation.

"You didn't answer," he repeated, voice low, scraping gravel. Not pushing. Just... stating a fact. Like noting an enemy position.

You blinked, the sleep-fog still thick. "Answer what?"

His jaw tightened beneath the mask. A flicker of something…impatience? Frustration?…gone before you could pin it down. "Back at the pub. You said you were..." He paused, searching your face. "Scared."

"Oh." The memory sharpened: Johnny's drunken leer, the crude jokes, the way your stomach had dropped. You wrapped your hands tighter around the warm mug. "It was just..."

Simon shifted his weight, a subtle movement that brought him half a step closer. The kitchen felt suddenly smaller.

You shrugged, staring into the amber swirl of honey in your tea. "Always been scared…of intimacy." The words felt clumsy. Vulnerable. You hated it.

Simon made a sound deep in his throat—a low, displeased rumble. "Why’s that love?" He took a deliberate sip of his tea, grimaced slightly at the bitterness, then pinned you with those tired, unnervingly steady eyes.

Silence stretched. Thick. Awkward. You fiddled with the spoon. He watched you do it.

"You know y'r beautiful right?" The question landed like a dropped brick. Blunt. Unadorned. Utterly Simon.

Heat flooded your cheeks. Not embarrassment, exactly. More like shock. "Simon—"

"Not fishing," he cut in, gruff. "Not bein' nice. Stating another fact." He looked away, suddenly fascinated by the chipped laminate countertop. "Saw it the first time you patched up Gaz after that close call. Saw it when you told Price his strategy was bollocks. Saw it..." He hesitated, the pause charged. "...when you opened this door tonight, lookin' like you'd wrestled a badger for the sheets."

A startled laugh escaped you. "A badger?"

"Point is," he continued, ignoring the laugh, voice dropping lower, "it's got nothin' to do with Johnny's drunken shite. Or curves. Or... whatever nonsense y’r brain was spoutin'. It's you. Sharp. Kind. Annoyingly persistent." He finally met your eyes again. "Beautiful. Fact."

The air crackled. Not with tension, but with something else. Something raw and strangely hopeful. You couldn't look away. His gaze held yours, stripped of the usual Ghost mask of indifference. Just... Simon. Tired. Honest. Standing in your kitchen at 2 AM telling you things Johnny or anyone else could never articulate sober.

"I…it’s not only what you see with the clothes on…that makes me scared.” you whispered, the word barely there, shaky, even.

Simon’s eyes dart everywhere in your face, eyes, lips, trying to put the pieces together. Then he remembers.

He curses silently and looks down, before looking back at me as if in pain “Christ s’ tha’ why you’ve never done anythin’?”

you can only look away, and then to your mortification, you feel your eyes sting.

Simon swears he can feel one of his heart’s tendons stretching a bit too hard, he sighs, then curses no louder than a whisper, before putting his cup down, next thing you know, your head is nuzzled to his chest, and he’s holding you as if he’s holding you together, and maybe, he is.

“How much d’you bet y’r worrying for nothin’ hm?” his thumb soothes your back.

You shrug, not trusting yourself to talk, but simon understands, he just knows, he guides your chin up and wipes your tears “look a’ me love, anyone eva’ kissed y’ before?”

You shake your head no, and he scoffs as if it’s a blasphemy, maybe to him it is. “Wha’ a fucking shame” and swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, before coming closer.

You’re 100% sure you’ve stopped breathing, knees would’ve buckled if he wasn’t holding you up, as he takes off his mask, and comes closer. The intensity of seeing his beautiful face up close for the first time making you light headed.

When he’s no more than a hairbreadth away, he soothes his hand over your waist, and you let out a whine of disapproval.

“Shh, s’ alright, can i?” he says softly, if you weren’t as close as you are, you would've never heard him.

You can only nod, a small sound of desperation escaping past your lips

He moves slow, deliberate, you expected nothing else from Simon Riley.

When his lips make the first contact, your body burns in waves, starting from the place where the contact was made, up to the top of your head, tips of your toes, your heartbeat so loud you’re sure he can actually hear it.

After the first contact, he kisses you like he wants to eat you, slowly, tasting your mouth like he’s eating the pulp out of a ripe fruit.

You yelp as he picks you up with minimal effort, your eyes widening, holding on to his biceps for support, but when you realise what has happened, you’re sure your cunt just turned to Niagara falls.

He makes room for himself between your thighs, his hands find their way back to your spine, one fisting your hair ever so gently in the back of your neck, he’s pushing you away and holding you close at the same time, all while you’re panting and kissing him sloppily back, it’s obvious you don’t know what you’re doing, simon grins against your lips.

“Relax dove, i’ll do all the work yeah?”

You blush in embarrassment, he doesn’t let you like that for long before he’s back to kissing you, his hand finds its way under your shirt, touching the side of your stomach rolls, immediately as if on auto pilot, you whine and suck in your stomach, pushing his hand away

At first, he thinks you panicked, so he backs away slightly, but after he realises what actually happened, he scoffs, and he uses an amount of force to pull you close again that tells you one thing : he wasn’t even trying earlier.

His lips find your neck, while his hands are under your shirt, one of them is kneading your midsection flesh, the other slowly makes its way to your bra strap

He stops for a second to look at you in the eyes “Y’ good so far? Wan’ me to stop?”

I hesitate a bit, and that has him gentling his touch

“No- wait…i just…” you swallow “i don’t want you to be disappointed.” your voice is small.

For someone who has felt big all their life even at 5’2, you’re feeling incredibly small at this moment.

He scoffs “M’ right where i wanna be love, trust me.”

He picks you up and walks to your bed “Last chance t’ tell me to stop”

But you know he’d stop in a heartbeat.

After some silence on your side, he carefully lays you down, leaves the lights off, however much he wants to keep them on, he thinks this will help you if anything.

He takes off your pants first, your legs clamped shut, he soothes his hands down your thigh “Y’r okay babygirl.”

The nickname has your chest warming up. Like a furnace that hasn’t been lit up in years.

He can’t help but feel up your thighs, groaning quietly “Fuck..”

He takes off his shirt then plays with the hem of yours, as if giving you a chance to back off.

Drunk on faux confidence, you help him take it off.

You look at simon for any hint of disgust so far, you find none as he looks at the pudgy stomach, the meaty thighs, he’s eyeing you up like he wants to eat you, no, devour you.

He kisses you again, slow, gentle, almost distracting you as he deftly unhooks your bra, in a last minute panic, you hold the cups against your chest, shaking a bit.

He pets your arm gently, waiting for you to be okay to continue.

“S’ jus’ me an’ you doll, can stop whenever y’ want yeah?” he says quietly.

You shake your head for no and slowly take off the cups, now unsupported by the bra, your heavy tits hang lower than before, nipples down instead of high and proud on your chest, areola big instead of neat and tiny, like the girl johnny was bragging about.

Simon groans louder than before “G’na kill whoever made y’ feel bad about these.”

He kisses you again, as he cups them, spilling from his hands.

“So fuckin’ warm, smell so good” he mutters, as if he’s talking to himself, before he moves down your neck, then your collarbone, then looks at your reaction as he blows air on your nipple, making it stand on the attention.

He swipes his thumb against the left one as he licks the right one without holding back on the eye contact, you swear you make a noise that you’ve never made before. Whole body on fire, every single nerve wakes up after 23 years of no attention.

“Christ” he says before he keeps giving them attention, he bites licks and sucks, until my thighs are rubbing together, he takes it as a sign to kiss lower, down your sternum, slow deliberate kisses down your belly button, biting the flesh of your stomach slightly, with a grin on his face, before kissing your hipbone. And that’s when the warmth goes away.

Suddenly anxiety overtakes you, you forgot about this part, your insecurity since you were a pre teen, your breathing quickens as you realise what’s happening.

His hands are on your cheeks before you can even process anything else “No baby, no, eyes on me, y’r doin so good” he peppers kisses all over your face.

It takes a while and a lot of gentle coaxing before he actually slides down the hem of your underwear, your forearm is over your eyes, his thumb going back and forth on your hip bone.

With your underwear off, your heart clenches in anxiety as you feel the cold air of the room to the one place you can’t stand.

“Bleedin’ jesus dove…”

He carefully takes off your arm and kisses your forehead

“Tha’ what you were worried of?” he says with a smirk, as if he didn’t just wipe away 10+ years of insecurities.

He actually moans as he spreads you open, you turn red, and try to shut your legs, to no avail, his strength not letting you, your fleshy asymmetry now seeming like nothing infront of his eyes as he makes eye contact before licking a long stripe from perineum to clit.

Your body shudders hard, you swear your gasps can be heard all the way to price’s office

“Sweeter tha’ fuckin’ honey baby” he mutters between wet open mouthed kisses all over your cunt.

He sucks and hollows his cheeks, moaning at your clit, his ring finger teasing your entrance. You tighten up on reflex, before another hand rests on your lower stomach “Shh, let me in, y’r okay”

You try to relax, whatever you do it ends up working, because you can feel something entering and thrusting in and out, going deeper each time. At the second finger, you hiss. “Simon…”

“I know baby, i know.” he coos.

After some moments of lavishing your cunt, the tip of the second one fits inside, and he starts thrusting while scissoring slowly, starting up a rhythm with tongue and hand.

The noises you’re making are obscene. Simon keeps saying something in the lines of “Singin’ jus’ like a bird” and “That’s it, show me you like it.”

But you can’t even think or hear, blood rushing, ears ringing, fisting the sheets below.

“Listen to ‘er” your juices and his spit mixing together as he sucks your clit, the hand on your lower stomach making you feel every move of his fingers, his moans working like a vibrator.

It only takes a few thrusts to the spongy little spot before you’re gasping and whimpering as if you’re about to cry, simon just shushes you and keeps telling you to be good and make a mess.

You clench his fingers so hard you swear they might break, he still works you out until the final drop.

You’re both panting by the end, he licks his fingers clean before gathering you into his arms, whispering sweet words, as you tear up in relief, the emotional release making you cry yourself to sleep.