When you see Sam off the following morning – his brother behind the wheel of the Impala waiting patiently in the driveway like a cool mom – it's with a promise of 'next time.'
And he makes good on that promise.
It starts with a phone call late one Thursday evening. You're expecting him to ask you what you're wearing or something, but he doesn't. You just talk. He tells you about the hunt he's working with Dean in Phoenix – how Dean left him to go hustle some drunken fools out of their hard-earned cash playing pool at the dive bar down the street. He tells you about how he's supposed to be doing research, but he's exhausted. He talks about how hot it is in Arizona.
Then, he asks you something you weren't really expecting to hear.
"So, how was your day?"
He makes it sound as if this sort of phone call is something the two of you do all of the time.
"Um, it was alright, I guess."
"I can't believe I never asked you this, but do you work or anything?"
You laugh. "Yeah, actually. I work part-time as a vet tech at the local wildlife refuge."
"Oh, wow – that's so cool! So you treat owls and raccoons and stuff?"
"Among other things, yeah," you reply. "I also give tours and teach school kids about ecology when they come on field trips. They all love feeding the deer."
You can practically hear Sam's smile on the other end. "That's amazing."
The phone calls continue – you get them at least once a week. You FaceTime occasionally, and while there's never a flattering angle in which to present yourself, you love those calls because you get to see his gorgeous dimpled smile. It's always him calling you, and never the other way around. He makes time to talk to you, wherever he may be.
He stops by out of the blue after a few weeks of those phone calls.
When you open the door, he hugs you immediately, the grocery bag hanging from his wrist just barely touching the back of your thighs. He hugs you as if you've been friends for years. He's a hunter, you remind yourself. Hunters rarely get to have anything steady or constant in their lives. I can't blame him for taking advantage of the opportunity.
"Hey, stranger," you say, still surprised by his sudden appearance. "Didn't realize you were coming by."
"I was just in the area, so I figured…"
"How convenient," you tease. He pauses, looking you in the eye and tacitly begging you not to call his bluff outright.
"Let me make you dinner," he says, gesturing to the bag in his hand.
You smile. "Alright. Come in – I'll get us some wine." In response, he pulls a bottle out of his grocery bag. "Oh, you're good."
He greets the cats laying on top of each other on your couch before heading to the kitchen to get himself set up. You put on some music – something mellow and not too loud. It's best to plan for awkward silences, in my case. You pour two glasses of wine, then hop up onto the counter to watch Sam work.
"So, what'd you do today?" he asks, obviously trying to distract you from whatever he's making.
"I worked a shift this afternoon. Then, I came home, had a shower, slipped into my pajamas… and you conveniently showed up when my hair is half-dry and I've already taken my makeup off."
He tilts his head to the side and says, "You look perfect."
"That's not what I meant," you reply, flustered. Half of you wants to argue, and the other half reminds you that you were always taught to take a compliment, even if you don't agree. "I wasn't fishing, I—"
Then, he kisses you. It's a peck – quick and chaste, but heady enough to shut you up.
He smirks, then continues, "What'd you do at work today?" Since that very first phone call, he likes to ask about the animals you took care of that day.
"Hmm. Well, I saw four separate bird species with conjunctivitis, which isn't uncommon, but it was still noteworthy. Then, I saw an angry little groundhog with a wounded foot. Some poor, brave civilians brought him in when they saw that he couldn't walk. Also, Hank the Hawk needed his nails trimmed, which was quite the ordeal."
"How the hell do you even clip a hawk's nails?"
"With great resolve, prayers to every god, and multiple pairs of hands."
Sam laughs, whipping a dish towel up to drape it over his shoulder as he stirs something with a wooden spoon. And for a brief moment, it feels domestic – like you've come home from a long day at your nine-to-five to find your husband cooking dinner, and you're telling him about your day at the office. Except he should be the one – nope, fuck gender roles.
Suddenly, you're very aware of the fact that you're wearing a sports bra and fuzzy socks. "Sam, do you mind if I go change into something a little… less comfortable?"
"Why?"
"For my sanity," you deadpan.
"Sure. Food'll be ready in ten minutes."
You spend five of those ten minutes just staring into your closet.
What the hell am I meant to wear to a not-date at my own house with my not-boyfriend/not-friend-with-benefits?
I should definitely wear the one matching lingerie set that I have, just in case. Maybe he's not here for that, but it'll make me feel better. You rifle through your underwear drawer and find what you're looking for – buried all the way toward the back of the drawer. That says a lot about the state of my sex life. Now what the hell am I actually going to wear?
You settle for a nice crop top (which shows just the slightest bit of cleavage) and a pair of high-waisted jeans that make your ass look beautiful. You ditch the fuzzy socks and glance in the mirror – and when you get a look at your makeup-free visage and your hair in its most natural state, you give up. No time to dally.
You head back into the kitchen just as Sam is plating the food.
"Sam, this smells amazing." You set the kitchen table, complete with actual napkins (living on your own, you mostly just stick to paper towels) and two refilled glasses of red wine. You put a candle on the table just to be cheeky.
"Sit," Sam says, setting the two plates of food down onto their respective place settings before taking a seat.
"Chef, what've you prepared for the judges panel this evening?" you joke.
He adopts a stuffy, posh voice when he replies, "Here we have a pan-seared steak, seasoned with faded-label spices that I found in your cupboard, accompanied by a red potato mash, as well as some fresh, in-season corn off the cob. I've paired the meal with a nice, cheap Cabernet Sauvignon, as per the suggestion of the clerk at the wine store." You both laugh before Sam drops the act and continues, "That was me trying to make meat and potatoes sound as fancy as I could."
"That's all the chefs are really doing in those cooking competitions on TV."
"Fair warning – I can cook a grand total of, like, five things. I mostly had no idea what I was doing."
"I never would've noticed." You cut off a piece of the steak and take a bite as Sam watches you with great anticipation. And it's surprisingly good. You never would've guessed that a Monster Butcher like himself could also cook the game. "This is really good, for someone who had no idea what he was doing." He breathes a sigh of relief. "And this corn is amazing."
You make idle chatter over dinner, trying to look as dainty and attractive as possible while eating a very hearty, masculine meal. Chew with your mouth closed. Sip the wine; don't gulp it. Don't talk with your mouth full. Of course, idle chatter for the two of you is always about a hunt or that time one of you got shot or kidnapped by demons.
"Seriously? A vessel for Satan himself?"
"Yeah," Sam admits. "Wasn't pretty. Went to hell. Lost my soul. Came back. Found my grandfather. And my soul, eventually."
"You have lived quite the cinematic life, Mr. Winchester."
He shakes his head. "Yeah, I know." It sounds sad. Like he doesn't want to live this way. No hunter really does. They're always thrust into it – whether that be by family, by circumstance, or by a sense of moral obligation.
"I'm sure you're tired of this question, but why don't you get out?"
"I've tried that. It never ends well. The people closest to me get hurt. No, worse than hurt – they get dead, or worse."
You don't really want to know what's worse than dead.
You take his hand and give him a soft smile, trying out this telepathy thing for yourself. After a moment, you let go, then clear the empty plates and drop them in the sink. Sam creeps up behind you unnoticed, then wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on the top of your head. The word 'domestic' rings through your head again.
You remember the music playing in the background and get an idea.
"Come with me," you say, taking Sam's hand and dragging him out into the living room.
Without needing an invitation, Sam wraps his arms back around you and sways with the music.
"We should do this more often," you say, and he replies with a soft, somber smile. He probably can't, you realize. Heroes don't get to take time off.
You lean in, resting your forehead against his as you breathe each other's air. You tease him with a nip to his bottom lip and he honest to goodness snarls before kissing you with the desperation of a man on death row. He starts roughly gripping at your clothes, and you reciprocate, dragging his shirt up and over his toned chest and discarding it onto the floor.
While you're busy ogling him, he says, "You look really good in this, but I'm gonna have to take it off." He smirks wickedly as he whips your shirt off, leaving you clad in your pretty bra, the sight of which causes Sam to raise his eyebrows.
"Sam," you say, drawing his attention away from your breasts.
"Hmm?"
"Taking my jeans off is really not going to be sexy. They're very tight. It'll be about as seductive as skinning a potato."
He smirks, sharing in your laughter as he quickly maneuvers you over to the couch. He sits you down, then sets to slowly removing your jeans. He unbuttons them, then pulls down the zipper with his teeth. He slips his hands under the denim fabric and starts guiding them down over your hips, kissing along your skin as it's revealed to him.
I stand corrected.
Once he notices that you're wearing matching underwear, he pauses in his ministrations and says, "Fuck, that is so hot. And really presumptuous of you…"
You shove his shoulder, and at the same time, he quickly pulls your jeans down the rest of the way – abandoning his slow, sensual movements in favor of ripping off the Band-Aid. Once your jeans have been tossed to the side, Sam sits back on his haunches and says, "I kind of just want to look at you."
"That would be a rather disappointing end to what I anticipate will be a very fun night, wouldn't you agree?" You're not sure where this newfound confidence is coming from – just yesterday you were avoiding looking in the mirror while you got dressed. Maybe it's coming from that fire burning in Sam's eyes. You decide to stop questioning it.
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Before you remove the rest of my, um… clothing," you start, crawling down to kneel in front of him on the floor. You kiss up the side of his neck and continue, "I would really like to suck your cock."
The look on his face makes you think that he's come in his pants. He grunts a startled sound as he squeezes his eyes shut and flares his nostrils. Your brain does a little victory dance.
Slowly, on shaky legs, Sam stands up, and you stay on your knees before him as you unbutton and remove his pants and underwear. You direct him to sit back on the couch as you begin teasing wet, open-mouthed kisses up from his knees to his thighs.
Without breaking eye contact, you do a theatrical job of licking up the length of his cock. You tongue the slit, spreading precome over the head as you flick your tongue over the sensitive skin. Sam clenches his jaw, breathing heavily in and out of his nose as he desperately tries to control his reactions.
"Nope – no holding back. I want to hear every single sound," you say with a mischievous grin.
You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and smirk before finally sucking his length slowly into your lets out a loud, deep groan as his eyes screw shut, his fingers moving instinctively to tangle themselves in your hair. You take him in as deeply as you can, taking care of whatever you can't manage to fit in your mouth with your hand.
You start out sucking gently as you bob your head, fisting the base of his cock to set a steady rhythm. You wait until his panting grows more fevered before fondling his sack with your free hand and sucking harder up and down his length. He cries out, pulling you off of him before you can finish him off. He guides you up onto his lap, his hands still gripping your hair firmly, and he pulls your face to his. He presses your foreheads together, panting heavily and trying desperately to formulate words.
"Was that okay?" you ask.
He huffs a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "God, yeah. More than okay. I just don't want to finish too early on."
He guides your panties down over your thighs, and you toss them toward the ever-growing pile of clothing in the middle of your living room floor.
You smirk, taking him in hand again and stroking slowly. You straddle his hips and he focuses his attention on your movements, watching as you line him up at your entrance. You tease the tip of his cock with your wetness, sensing him quivering under your control.
"Is this what you want?" you ask. He nods enthusiastically. "Tell me."
"God yes – please."
You lean down to whisper in his ear, "You can be rough with me, Sammy. In fact, I highly encourage it." He growls and you sit upright, stilling the movement of your hand. Slowly, you sink down onto his length, keeping eye contact as best as you can. "Oh, fuck," you moan when Sam is fully sheathed in your heat. "I've been alone for far too long."
"I know what you mean," he says, his gaze fixed on the place where his length disappears into your body.
"You could've had anyone you wanted – christ, just look at you – and yet, you're here. With me."
"I don't want just anyone," he mutters, as his hands move up your sides to reach behind your back and unclasp your bra. He tosses the bra onto the aforementioned pile of discarded clothes, quickly moving back to cup your bare breasts.
"I just can't convince myself that this is actually happening." You close your eyes and lift yourself up, only to slam back down onto him as you cry out in unison. He meets your thrusts in the steady rhythm that you set – a rhythm that indicates that you'd like to savor the experience and draw it out as long as possible. "Things like this don't happen to me."
He pulls you down for a kiss and mouths at your jaw before mumbling in your ear, "Stop getting caught up in disbelief, telling yourself that you don't deserve it." He runs his hands through your hair. "You'll miss out – trust me. Know when to turn off the brooding and the cynicism and just enjoy the moment while you can." He caresses your breasts, lightly running his thumbs over your hardened nipples, making your whole body jerk.
You shiver and smile softly. "Thank you, Dumbledore." You giggle as you lean down again to kiss him sweetly. It's funny how each kiss feels different, yet there are so few words in the English language that can describe how each and every one of them is unique. A particularly sharp thrust on Sam's part pulls you out of your thoughts, and you both grunt.
Sam grits, "I said, stop. You're thinking, and I'd rather have your – full – attention." Sam punctuates the last two words with two more sharp thrusts, giving you no chance to recede back into your thoughts. He makes damn sure of it.
"Oh... oh-kay."
You plant your palms on his chest, leaning forward and unconsciously digging your nails into his skin. He groans, the roughness only serving to quicken his pace. Feeling bold, he moves his hands to grip the soft, fleshy globes of your ass, pulling you down harder to meet each thrust. You cry out something unintelligible, then dig your nails harder into his chest, dragging them down – deliberately now – to leave marks in his skin. Sam grunts and absently smacks your ass – just enough to make it sting, of course. You moan and bite down on your lip, hard. He's learning, slowly, each little thing that has the ability to set you off.
Like, for instance, he knows exactly the effect that his dirty talk has on you. He quickly flips you around so that you're leaning against the back of the couch, facing away from him, just so that he can whisper into your ear as he goes straight back to pounding into you – this time, from behind.
"You like it rough, sweetheart? Is that it?"
You bite down harder on your lower lip, nearly breaking the skin, as you whimper and nod your head emphatically.
"I can't hear you."
You whine, "Yes, Sam."
When he slaps your ass again, obscenities spill from your mouth in one gust of breath.
He grips your hips tighter as he continues slamming into you at this rough, fast pace, and you're loving it. You can feel the tension building in your gut – you're close. And Sam is too.
Among a flurry of gasps and whimpers and moans, Sam somehow articulates, "You gonna come for me, baby?"
"Y-yeah, Sam."
Sam leans in, pressing his chest against your back as the rough thrusting becomes this equally hard, dirty grinding. He's penetrating even deeper than he had before.
He feels your insides start to quiver, so he snakes one arm around you to rub your clit.
The position gives him the odd desire to bite your neck, and he does. He bites and sucks hard enough to leave saliva-coated indents. You stiffen and still at the pleasurable pain, letting out the softest, most wanton whimper, and the sound goes straight to Sam's cock.
The unexpected nip and the pressure on your clit sends you overboard. You pulse and tense in the midst of your orgasm, and with your muscles clenching so tightly around him, Sam can't hold back any longer. His rhythm loses its cadence and he follows you over the edge. With a few final impossibly deep thrusts, Sam stills, his hips grinding into you and holding that impossibly deep position as he comes. His mouth falls open and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a shamelessly loud and guttural moan.
With a final shudder, you topple over together, and Sam arranges the two of you into some semblance of a cuddle position.
The two of you manage to make it to your bedroom, where Sam fucks you repeatedly into the wee hours of the morning. While being spooned by a large, sexy, heat-radiating hunk of a man, you can't help falling asleep with a smile on your face.
He's gone by the time that you wake up – no note, no surprise breakfast (that was a selfish wish in and of itself, but you were still hopeful). All you're left with is a cold bed, dirty dishes in the sink, bruises on your hips, and a satisfying sort of ache – one which makes you glad that you don't have to work today.
He texts you that afternoon.
1:03PM Sorry I had to bail so early. Got a text from Dean saying I had 6 hours to get home before he took off on a hunt without me.
1:07PM It's totally fine. Go save the world. Next time, I'll make breakfast.
It pains you to send a text that sounds so indifferent and detached – of course you care that he left before saying goodbye, but he has more important things to worry about than your emotional attachment to him (which you shouldn't be fostering in the first place).