A/N: Anonymous prompt for "Sam/Chuck, chuck loves how much bigger sam is." I had absolutely no idea this pairing was a thing, but there you go. You learn something new every day…
Whenever they do this, there's always some part of Chuck that feels vaguely narcissistic about it all. He's not sure why - maybe because, even though he knows now that he's a prophet, not an author, Sam Winchester still feels like his character. Still feels like his creation, a part of him, almost like his child.
When he puts it like that, it sounds creepy. He doesn't mean it to be creepy, he just… knows Sam, down to the bone and blood and soul, the way no other human could possibly know another - he's lived Sam's life with him, intimately.
Which is one of the things he loves about this; how familiar it is, how he knows exactly what to say and do to get just the reaction he wants. If an author ever says they've never imagined sex with one of their characters, he thinks, they're probably lying. And if they really haven't… well. They don't know what they're missing.
The other reason he loves this – a slightly less gushy and, if he's brutally honest, more important reason – is Sam's size.
He's not entirely sure exactly what it was that first made him aware of how much he loved how big Sam is. Maybe the way the hunter's hands felt, palms rough against the bony contours if his hips as they pressed him down against the sofa for that first time, each other's breath hot and heavy between them, movements cautious and hesitant despite the vodka. How much bigger Sam's mouth had been, warm and welcoming and covering Chuck's lips easily and tasting of orange juice and honey.
If it hadn't been then, then it was definitely the third time they did this, Chuck sprawled out and panting on his front, both of their gazes bright and heavy-lidded with strong alcohol as Sam pushed two clumsy, slicked-up fingers into Chuck. He'd watched them disappear with hungry eyes, heedless of Chuck's groan at the stretch of it, the thick, blunt weight of Sam's fingers deep within him.
And well, if Sam's massive fingers hadn't been enough, his cock was – more than enough, even after what felt like hours of preparation, hastily-grabbed Vaseline smeared in and around his hole. When the hunter had first pushed in, Chuck's breath had caught in his throat at the sheer size of it, the impossibly wide length of it punching all the air out of his lungs with surprise.
And Chuck's been in love with that dick ever since. Which is why he's hear now, Sam's breath thick with whiskey-scented by his ear, one huge hand wrapped around his aching cock to line it up and press in with one slick slide. "Fuck, y'tight," slurs Sam, wasting no time in setting up a steady rhythm, regardless of Chuck's whimpers below him.
It's impossibly, gloriously too much, how well Sam stretches him and fills him up, leaves him unable to do anything other than rock helplessly up into the thrusts of that fat cock and moan against the sheets. And when, less than a minute later, Sam wraps his fingers around Chuck's cock, he's already therea. It's embarrassing, warm come over his bed and stomach and Sam's hand. But it doesn't seem to matter because the hunter's still going, pounding into him regardless, and Chuck's more than happy to lie there and be filled for as long as the hunter wants a hole to fuck.