Sam’s Lilith

Sam’s left cheek is split open, blood already crusting at the edges; his knuckles are raw, shirt torn at the shoulder. You’ve got a long, shallow gash across your forearm from a claw swipe, dirt ground into the wound, and a bruise blooming purple along your ribs.

Neither of you says much. You just look at each other—exhausted, alive, here.

“C’mon,” Sam says quietly, voice rough from shouting earlier. He takes your uninjured hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s checking they’re still whole. “Bathroom. We’ll clean up.”

The ensuite off his room is small—tiled floor cold under your boots, mirror already fogging from the hot water he turns on.

You both strip down without ceremony: shirts peeled off, jeans kicked aside, blood-stiff fabric hitting the floor in wet thuds.

Under the harsh light, your injuries look worse—red lines, purple bloooms, dirt in every crease.

Sam grabs the first-aid kit from under the sink. You reach for it too.

He shakes his head. “Let me first.”

You sit on the closed toilet lid. He kneels between your legs, so tall even on his knees that his face is level with yours. He starts with your arm—warm washcloth soaked in antiseptic, pressing carefully along the gash.

You hiss; he pauses, eyes flicking up. “Sorry.”

“S’okay. Keep going.”

He does.

Slow strokes. Wiping away blood and grime until the skin underneath is pimk and raw but clean.

His fingers are careful—always careful with you—like you might break if he presses too hard. When he’s done, he wraps gauze around your forearm, taping it neatly, then leans in and kisses the bandage.

Your turn.

You make him sit on the edge of the tub. Dip a fresh cloth in warm water, wring it out. Start at his face—dabbing at the split on his cheek. He winces but doesn’t pull away. You clean the blood from his lip, his jaw, the hollow of his throat.

His hands rest on your hips—light, steadying—thumbs tracing absent circles over your bare skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“Adrenaline crash.” You rinse the cloth, move to his shoulder.

The tear in his skin isn’t deep but it’s angry-looking. You clean it anyway, gentle as you can. He exhales slow when your fingers brush the uninjured skin beside it.

“Feels good,” he says. Voice lower now. “Your hands on me.”

You smile—small, tired. “Yours too.”

When the worst of the blood is gone you both stand under the shower spray together.

Hot water pounds your shoulders, turning pink as it swirls down the drain. Sam turns you so your back is to his chest, arms coming around you from behind. One hand flat over your stomach, the other sliding up between your breasts—just holding. You tip your head back against his shoulder; he kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

The shift happens slowly.

His palm drifts lower—over your hip, along the curve of your thigh. You turn in his arms, water streaming down your faces.

You kiss him slow and deep, tasting copper and salt and him.

His hands map your back, careful of the fresh bruises, then settle on your waist.

You feel him harden against your stomach. He groans softly into your mouth when you rock forward once.

“Want you,” he whispers. “Need to feel you. Need to know we’re okay.”

You nod—already aching for him. “Here. Now.”

He lifts you easily—your legs wrap around his waist, back pressed to cool tile. The water keeps falling, warm and steady. He reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance—slides in slow, careful, inch by careful inch.

You both moan at the stretch—low, broken sounds swallowed by the spray.

“Fuck—baby—” His forehead drops to yours. “So warm. So perfect.”

He doesn’t thrust hard. Just rocks—gentle, deep rolls of his hips that press him right where you need.

Your arms loop around his neck; fingers thread through wet hair. Every movement careful, mindful of bruises and cuts, but no less intense for it.

“Love you,” he breathes against your lips. “Love you so much.”

“Love you.” You clench around him; he whimpers—soft, helpless. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Keeps that slow, steady rhythm—grinding deep, brushing your clit with every roll.

The pleasure builds quiet but relentless, coiling tight in your belly. His breathing turns ragged; small, needy sounds slip out every time you tighten around him.

“Gonna come,” he gasp. “Fuck—come with me. Please.”

You do—soft cry muffled against his shoulder as you pulse around him, trembling.

He follows right after—deep groan tearing from his throat, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, warm and endless.

For a long minute you just hold each other under the water—foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in tandem.

He kisses you again—slow, lingering—then carefully lowers you to your feet. Shuts off the spray. Grabs towels, wraps one around you, dries you with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

Later, in his bed—clean bandages, clean sheets, bodies still warm—he pulls you close. Your head on his chest, his arm around your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns over the uninjured parts of your back.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod against his skin. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

He kisses the top of your head.

“Always will be.”

The bunker is quiet around you—Dean probably already passed out somewhere down the hall.

The hunt is over.

The blood is gone.

And right here, tangled together in the dark, everything feels okay again.