sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

how do u think sully would’ve reacted to finding out sam is dating reader?

i think he would be happy to find out sam has SOME part of a normal life like he wanted

but i wanted to see what you think and if you have any other thoughts on that!!

OMG I love that question! Sully was so amazing. Just look at these two dumbasses. (although they're neither dumb nor ass, of course)

I think I had an idea for a fic set in that episode but I can't remember it now. I think it was something similar to this, though - Sam having found a happy relationship and Sully being cheerleader number one for it. I like Sam having a girl that challenges him a little, kind of a hardass and who can make him shut off that big brain of his and focus on the nice things. I think Sully would see that, get that, and appreciate it, even though he'd still be sad Sam didn't make it out of the life. he knew what a serious kid Sam was. anyone who makes him smile or laugh would be good in Sully's book.

The reader would obviously tease the shit out of Sam for having an imaginary friend as a kid, even if it turned out the imaginary friend wasn't actually imaginary, all while secretly thinking it's the sweetest thing in the world and also being a little sad at understanding that Sam was so lonely. but then she'd smooch him to make it all okay.

Thank you for this lovely ask! ❤️❤️❤️ It's literally like you crawled into my brain and picked up this lovely thing I had forgotten about! Maybe I'll pick it up as an actual fic one day!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

you asked for sexy fic ideas.... idk of impalafucking is your thing but it's fun :D

Mmmh, I don't know if you mean just sex in the impala or if this is some specific car kink I haven't heard of before 😉

I love writing smut that takes place in the Impala. One of the advantages with writing for a franchise that has an iconic car. With two people in there, stuff's doable, y'know? With three of them, especially with two of them being such big dudes, the logistics become complicated. BUT. I've never let that stop me before. 😁 Maybe they just need to move it outside to the hood of the car.

thank you for sharing the idea! It is more than appreciated!❤️

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Only reblogging this so I can look at it some more.

Also how to I make this into a sexy fic? Wishes/suggestions/ideas welcome!

11.04  |  11.23

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

save two horses, ride two cowboys

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Reset (Sam Winchester x female reader x Dean Winchester)

It’s free use day at the bunker. Dean’s as excited as if it’s Christmas morning, because he knows he gets to make you feel good (which he’s way better at than Sam).

Read it on AO3

My 2024 Kinktober series

Rated E. 1.2k words. Free use (kinda fluffy). Sam being a smartass. Dean being a dork.

Dean walks into the library and Sam already has you over one of the tables.

On your front, the fingers of one big hand of his pushed into your hair, the other like a vice on your hip as he thrusts into you. Your eyes are closed and your eyebrows raised, your mouth hanging open while Sam’s hips slap against you ass cheeks. Your sleeping shorts are bunched around your ankles, haphazardly shoved down, while your shirt is shoved up from when you found Sam in the library this morning and you both remembered what day it is.

“Hey, it’s free use d—!" Dean announces excitedly and then stops when he sees that you two already are very much aware. This is the only day he regrets not being a morning person. One of these days, he’s gonna get to you first. Not that he minds the wind-up, or the wait. Not that he minds seeing you like this.

It seems to take you everything to open your eyes, to look at Dean, as you’re being shoved forwards and backwards by Sam driving into you. When you see Dean, a smile plays on your lips, but Sam must have you close to the edge already, because you don’t manage to keep your eyes open for long.

Dean steps closer, smiles to himself. He has a cup of freshly brewed coffee in his hand, your ass is in full view and he gets to fuck you however he wants today. Life is good.

His free hand goes out to your face, cups it and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth in thought. His thumb goes to your mouth, and you kiss the pad of it.

“Lick it,” he says, and you do, once, twice. When it’s sufficiently wet, he moves his hand down between your legs, even though there’s barely room between you and the table, pinches your clit. You gasp at the feeling and you must be clenching, because Sam grunts, his rhythm stuttering.

When Dean removes his hand, Sam drags you up by your arms, wraps one of his around you and uses his other hand to pull one of your legs up, balance it on the table, and then that arm goes around you as well and he fucks you at a quick pace, his front pressed against your back and only his hips moving. All that working out really pays off.

You gasp, try to concentrate on the feeling Sam ignites in you, which is why you squeal in surprise when Dean touches your clit again. His coffee’s been abandoned on the table and he watches you with wondrous fascination.

“You always ignore her clit on free use day,” Dean comments as he gently takes it between two fingers, massages it and your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head.

“Don’t—fuck—don’t need it,” Sam pants between thrusts. “Can make her come like this.”

It’s true. With his girth and stamina, Sam can usually make you climax without touching you anywhere else. It takes a while, but that’s where the stamina comes in.

“You’re a goddamn amateur, man,” Dean says and Sam answer almost immediately.

“Trying to concentrate here, dude,” Sam grunts while you whine.

On any other day, you’d be sassing it up with the best of them, telling Dean what’s what. But not today. Today you don’t say anything.

Dean just chuckles, takes his coffee and sits in one of the chairs while his little brother pounds away at you. Sam might be the smart one, but he has no tactic. No vision. He’s not an artist like Dean.

He does make you come though, so there’s that. You shake and twitch and Sam groans in relief, because he must have been holding back for a good long while. The snapping of his hips becomes slower but harsher for a few seconds, and then he holds himself steady, pumps into you with a moan as deep as the earth.

You slump forward on the table, all sensitive gasps and little moans as the aftershocks go through you, a relaxed grin on your face. That’s all Dean wants to see.

He can always tell when you’re getting wound up, when you’re getting anxious. It’s like these days reset you, clean out your metaphysical pores. Afterwards, you’re happy and positive again. You once said it felt like those faked images in ads for drain cleaners, where everything just gets washed away by the clean, blue liquid. Dean made a face at that that made you laugh. His cup’s half empty by the time you’re finished and he saunters over to you.

“Turn over,” he says and on shaking legs you do, lie down on the table on your back. Sam’s pulling up his sweatpants, still breathing kind of hard. Go drink another smoothie, Dean thinks as he runs his fingers from your throat down your body to between your legs.

You flinch when he touches you, but then you seem to get used to it as he starts rubbing you slowly and gently. You throw him a look that’s half you big softie and half I love you.

Because the game of having the two brothers make you come as often as they do on these days wasn’t part of the initial set-up. Originally, it was about using you, total disregard for your pleasure, at least in theory. But neither Sam nor Dean could ever get into that.

One of the first tries for free use day, they made a bet of how often each one could make you come. It was hot and silly and you laughed and then cried when the overstimulation got too much, when the stress and anxiety flowed out of you, and then laughed again. Turns out, you liked this version even more. And so does Dean. And so does Sam, even though the whole clit thing is still majorly weird to Dean. Who’s he trying to impress?

Dean smiles down at you now as you roll your shoulders, a distant smile on your lips while you focus on what he is giving your body. Already the stress that knotted your brow and glassed-up your eyes yesterday seems to be melting from you.

Dean looks up, briefly, at the clock on the wall. It’s 9:30. Fourteen and a half hours left to love you, to treat you, to shower you with orgasms. You won’t be able to stand on your own legs by the end of it, but that won’t matter, because eventually Sam, big show-off that he is, will carry you to the bath Dean has run for you. They’ll make sure you drink lots of water, feed you. Then it’s off to bed.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow you will be back. You will be easy smiles and witty jokes and life won’t seem quite so hard, quite so grey anymore. Dean can’t wait to see you like that again.

But for now, there’s work to be done.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Hehe, I friggin' HOPE you laughed at the title, that's the most clever thing I've written in ages! 😄���

I have to double thank you because this made me realize I need to write more gay shit overall. This felt sooo comfortable and personal while writing (in a good way). I'd never leave Sam and Dean behind, but I feel a craving for stuff about... roommates.

Diving for clams and other misadventures

I got challenged (that makes it sound much more threatening than it actually was) by the gorgeous @bettystonewell to write a Donna x reader fic, after I challenged (again, it really was very peaceful) her to write a Sam x reader fic. My prompt from betty was "reverse fake dating" (which I only semi managed) and the line "what happened to Doug?". Mine for her was... well... you'll see. 😉

Now, I've had the pleasure of already reading her Sam fic, and I can only say, you guys are in for a goddamn motherfucking treat. I almost cried at the smut, that's how excellently written it is. She got Sam down perfectly imho, and I feel equally threatened and insanely happy at what came out of what was essentially a prompt swap that was supposed to be 1k words (betty cheated).

Not to get all sappy and stuff, but I am insanely happy and proud to call betty my mutual and writer friend. She's amazing, but then I don't think I need to tell any of you that, if you've been around her for more than five seconds.

So here is my little Donna story. It's gay, it's quick, it's pure fluff. A brief touch of queer shame, but then that really only adds the spice (I hope). Sam and Dean are there too. I love Donna with all my heart and she deserves to go on gay little adventures. That's it! Enjoy, folks!

“So what happened to Doug?”

You see the sweet smile on Donna’s face slowly disappear as she is asked the question for what is the third time - you counted - this evening.

“Oh, you know,” she says, trying to keep her voice chipper, “that just didn’t really work out. So we decided to go our separate ways… two years ago.” 

She forces one of her brilliant, warm smiles onto her face, but you can see it’s fake. Her arm which is hooked over yours tightens, but the older couple standing in front of you, the man decked out in full uniform, his wife wearing a salmon colored dress with white accents, don’t even bother nodding politely. So it’s you to the rescue.

“Oh, honey, your drink is empty,” you say, unable to resist pitching your voice a little higher in your feigned surprise. You’re pretty sure you see the woman’s eyelid twitch at the word honey, but you couldn’t care less.

“Let’s get you freshened up,” you add, slightly bumping your hip against Donna’s. She gives you a lost smile that makes you want to grab her and kiss her, and then the two of you are excusing yourself and turning away.

You walk a few steps before you’re blowing some hair out of your face.

“Wow,” you mumble, “you weren’t kiddin’ when you said the people here are old school.” You lead Donna to the bar where she places her glass, a defeated look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says in her sweet little accent. “I know some doofus’ retirement party isn’t your idea of a good time, but I–”

“Hey,” you say, putting your hands on her arms. “I get to hang with you. That’s my idea of a good time.” You see a little bit of her genuine smile break through.

“Maybe we should start introducing you as my girlfriend,” she says with a shrug, as her emptied glass is replaced with a full one, and she nods at the bartender. “Maybe when I say partner people think we opened a business together.” You chuckle.

“Maybe,” you say, “but you said girlfriend sounded scarier.” Donna presses her lips together.

“I didn’t mean–” she says but you interrupt her.

“Donna,” you say, taking one of her hands in yours. “We’re good, okay? I’m a big girl. I knew what I was signing up for when I came along today. So stop feeling bad on my account, alright?”

She shifts around a little, then takes a sip of her drink. Both of you look up when you see someone approach.

Sam and Dean have snuck their way into the party because while Donna is here as a guest, with you as her plus one, it does actually look like there might be a case. The captain celebrating his retirement has had a 100% case solving rate for the last ten years, but other officers have been dying under mysterious circumstances for the same amount of time.

“How’s it going?” Sam asks, looking over both of your heads into the room.

“Horribly,” Donna replies, beautiful mouth pouty and face downtrodden.

“Nothing major,” you butt in. “People admit the deaths are strange, but beyond that, no one seems to be willing to say a bad word about the captain.” Dean pulls down the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe they’re scared of ending up on the short list,” he suggests. You nod.

“I thought the same thing,” you reply, “but he’s retiring. Even if they know he’s playing dirty, it shouldn’t matter anymore, right?”

“Unless it does,” Sam says, pulling out his phone. “I took a look at the captain’s bank statements. He and his wife just bought a lake house, nearly a million dollars.” You raise your eyebrows.

“And there’s that guy who died last week,” you add, eyes narrowed. “Looks like he’s still milking whatever he’s been doing.” A little sigh comes from Donna, and when you look at her, you see she’s still looking sad.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks with a frown. 

“I’m a miserable queer,” she says, then quickly looks your way. “Am I allowed to say queer?” You chuckle and grab her hand again.

“Yes, you are,” you reply, squeezing. Dean widens his arms.

“I thought that’s an insult,” he says with his gruff voice. You look at him.

“We’re reclaiming it,” you state. “I grew up with everything bad being called gay. Words change.” You look back at Donna.

“And assholes not getting that and asking about your ex doesn’t make you a miserable anything,” you say to her, but you can tell she’s not fully buying it. 

“And if anyone gives you grief,” Dean adds with a benevolent tone, “you just let me know and I’ll take them out back.” You raise your hand.

“Thank you, Dean,” you say, “maybe let’s not resort to violence just yet.”

“I’m just saying,” he adds quickly, “you’re our queers.” The second he closes his mouth, he makes a face, and so do you.

“Yeah, no,” you reply, “you don’t get to say it.” Dean nods along.

“I don’t even know if I’m queer,” Donna says, her voice sounding frustrated. “Or a lesbian, or bisexual, or… any of the other ones.”

“Or a muff muncher, a clam diver…” you start and Donna slaps your arm while Dean laughs and Sam looks away with a shy grin.

“You’ll figure it all out, is what I’m saying,” you finish, smiling at Donna. “And you’ll have these two guys and your spankin’ hot girlfriend to help you along the way.”

You see a rush of emotion go over Donna’s face as she grabs your hands.

“You guys should totally make out,” Dean suggests and when you give him a death stare, he has a lecherous grin on his face.

“Dude,” Sam says, slapping his shoulder.

“I think you have a bad guy to catch,” you say to the two. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“And what are you gonna do?” he asks. You hold out your arm to Donna.

“I’m gonna get my lady friend drunk,” you say, just as Donna grabs your arm with a wide grin. “And then punch the next person that asks about Doug between the eyes.” You raise your glass in a little salute.

“Darn tootin’,” Donna replies, and then you’re leading her away. 

You have no intention to punch anyone, but there’s a buffet to check out and an open bar, and Sam and Dean can do the damn work. You’re too busy enjoying your first public outing with your girlfriend.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Just skimmed through part of this again and I am SO FUCKING UNWELL.

God, this is so perfect. I'm supposed to be the resident Sam girl here, and then friggin' betty (and VC too) come in and write Moose stuff that is so delicious it makes me want to do a back flip. What's that? I asked them to do it? That's not the point. Sorry, I can't hear you, I'm going through a tunnel.

In all seriousness, this is some of the hottest shit out there and you need to feast your eyes on it. Don't trust my word, just read it. ❤️

SAM WINCHESTER: PERFECT || ON AO3

Find my other fics here - Main Masterlist

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Summary: A chance encounter, followed by another in the most unlikely of places, leads to a one-night stand for Sam, and maybe something more? 18+ only MDNI

Word count: 7.5k

Tags: smut, oral - male and female recieving, language, Sam’s POV

A/N: Guys! It’s my very first Sam centric fic, and it turned smutty! This is all thanks to a prompt exchange with the lovely @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth. You can find her Donna x reader fic HERE. I was given the prompt: Third Wheeling, and the phrase, “You do not want to go in there, believe me,” which is in bold. Enjoy! - Beth ❤️

“Being on the road can be so lonely sometimes, you know?” Dean says, taking Kristy’s hand and gliding his thumb over her smooth skin. She’s hot and way out of his league, and Sam just knows he’s already forgotten her name.

He rolls his eyes. Again. Another town, another bar. Another conquest that will keep him out of a nice warm bed.

He gets it, he does, but he was looking forward to stretching his legs out tonight. They’re stiff and his back still aches from the salt and burn they did the night before and the driving they’ve been doing all day.

Milroy to Muncie. Dean isn’t travelling the world like he just told her. What would a seasoned pilot even be doing in a place like this?

There’s a tidal pool of liquor right in front of him, lapping at the elbows of his jacket with every fresh drink poured. But hey, there are peanuts. The shells are swimming in the swill, and that suits him fine. The smell of smoke and tobacco, cheap cologne mixed with sweat and… urinal cakes… it’s nothing to bitch about. They could use a load off.

It’s just having to hear Dean swindle his way into her panties. Only took two beers and a double bacon cheeseburger.

Sam takes another swig of his beer. Lets the bitterness cool his throat and his hands. It settles in his stomach that’s twisted itself into knots. Kristy was perfect until she started talking to Dean.

He’s got a shoulder blocking his peripheral now, but raising his chin and leaning further into the wave of booze on the counter gives Sam the right angle. He sees the rise of her chest as it dips into her tank top. Makes his lip curl over the lip of his bottle and his cheeks flush. A little.

“Omae wa mou shindeiru,” Dean says with a husk to his voice.

Kristy giggles. “What does that mean?”

“It’s Japanese for you’re so beautiful. I learnt that on my last visit.”

It’s not. Sam might not speak the language, but he knows enough to know that line is from Fist of the North Star and Dean butchered it. Pretty sure he told her she was going to die, actually, but whatever. He shakes his head. None of his business if she falls for it - she does - and he can either stay here and further torment himself, or do something about it.

He chugs down the rest of his beer and drops it in the potent ocean. His elbows just miss the riptide. “Bathroom.” He shoots the word Dean’s way, but he gets no response.

“Yeah, I climbed Fuji last time I was there. It’s beautiful in the winter. The snow up there makes the whole mountain look like you’re walking in the clouds.”

Right. Though Sam would love to see him try. He might not have his brother in full afterwards, but he could live on if Dean became subjected to Darwinism.

He stands and searches the place for the John. Of course it’s in the back.

His eyes sweep over Kristy as he passes her, keeping them well away from Dean’s. His hand is covering the dip of her lower spine now, and that’s enough.

Between the pool tables and over more spilled booze that catches the soles of his sneakers as he crosses the room; he makes it to the little darkened crook behind the jukebox where some guy is marking a trail over the neck of a woman twice his age. He has to tap him on the shoulder or squeeze past and bump uglies with them, but no problem, sweet urinal cakes are within his grasp.

He reaches for the handle, tugs, and is about to step inside when a face plants into his chest.

“Sorry,” you say, and look up. Your eyes would be apologetic if it weren’t for the grin that’s stretching your cheeks. “You do not wanna go in there, believe me.”

He doesn’t want to — “What?”

He checks the plaque on the door to make sure that he is indeed trying to enter the men’s room, and he is. “Ahhh,” he chuckles. His voice is higher, and he’s blinking like there’s no tomorrow. “Why?”

“Oh. No.” Your hand is at your mouth and it’s grown even wider.

Your giggling is much more pleasant than Kristy’s, but he doesn’t see what’s so funny. A band of warmth spreads across his nose, but his stomach is doing flips now and not the good kind.

This place is gross enough. What could someone like you possibly do in there? You’re so…little. Well, anyone compared to him is, but you seem sober and put together.

Your makeup has no smudges. No smell of puke or anything else. Your hair is neat, and while those jeans are rather snug, you’ve got some nice tits. They’re not falling out and you’re not stumbling all over the place. You are looking more sheepish by the second, though.

“No, no. I, ah.” You shake your head. Your legs are crossing together. “Uh-uh. Someone’s dropped a load off in there and the ladies aren’t much better. Can I—” Your hands clasp and fingers intertwine; your arms are now slithering like two snakes between his side and the doorframe. “I really gotta go. Excuse me!”

And with that, you take off through the gap made by the couple and the booze puddles on the floor. You’re scooting between the pool tables, then past Dean and Kristy, honing in on a door at the end of the bar he never noticed before. A gust of air pulls it shut behind you.

Okay. Weird.

Sam shakes his head. He’s about to walk on through to the sink he spots on the wall when his nose picks up on whatever it was you were talking about and, yeah, he doesn’t want to know. Whomever did that needs their insides checked, if they haven’t died already?

He turns on his heels and considers his options. He’s seen and smelled worse, but he’s not desperate yet. The beer is still sitting atop the knots that had unraveled, and though the stench has tightened them back into place, they won’t hold forever.

Maybe if he walks home to the motel they checked into earlier, he can make it before things get dire? He should beat Dean before he drops a sock on the door that way.

So, with a glance towards his older brother, whose fingers have slipped under Kristy’s waistband, his decision made, and Sam beelines for the main entrance, stepping out into the night air.

The chill cuts the back of his hands and he shoves them straight into his pockets, bringing his elbows in tight on account of the wind. It dares to tackle him over, but he leans forward and braces himself down the path and past the alley that tucks into the side of the bar.

For the second time that night, you barrel into him. The coincidence, the irony, the annoyance tightens his stance until he realises it’s you and his brow quirks. “You gotta watch where you’re going.”

Your face planted into his arm, above the junction his elbow makes. It fits nicely. A strand of your hair catches on the stitching of his jacket. Probably got some beer on your chin. Serves you right.

“Excuse me,” you snap, but that grin still spreads over when you look up and your eyes recognise you’ve bumped into him. “Oh.” Your eyelashes bat against your cheek. “Well, you gotta stop getting in my way.”

And as you had done only a minute ago, you turn to take off again. Only Sam is quicker. More alert. His hand grabs your wrist before you get too far and holds on tight. “Where are you going?” he says, considering how your hips and legs squirm. The motel is only two blocks and he’ll be the gentleman if he has to be. He isn’t Dean.

“Look dude, I gotta pee, and that alley ain’t going to cut it, so unless you want me to—”

“Yeah.” He scoffs. “I’m staying down the road, so before you threaten to piss yourself, you’re welcome to use the one in my room.”

You bite your lip and shrug as you stare him up and down. He’s not a serial killer, but he can understand the skepticism after all he’s seen.

You nod your head. “I was gonna aim for your shoes,” you say. “But okay.”

And there’s Sam, blinking once more. His eyes are getting quite the workout tonight. His scoff teed with a snicker this time. The dimples in his cheeks are pulling his chin to new heights and his other hand is leaving its pocket, outstretching in front of him to lead the way.

“Okay then,” he says, and now you’re both walking.

The room isn’t much. The usual twin beds, table and chairs, a couch Sam refuses to sit on. You’ve only been here a second and you’ll only be here a minute or two more, but it’s imperative he cleans up any evidence of their less-than-normal lives while you’re occupied. 

The second the door clicks and the light filters through the threads of carpet caught on the frayed timber, he’s zipping up duffles and tucking the nose of Dean’s shotgun out of sight. 

There’s a salt round by the fridge, an empty bottle of Jim next to it, and Dean’s underwear draped over the chair. He picks that up with the machete, thanks his lucky stars you didn’t see that or the rest of it, then sits on the end of his bed. 

No, he stands. 

No, he sits and leans on his legs. His thumbs twiddle, his eyes scan the doors. And now he’s standing up again as the handle jostles and you appear with a smile that’s oozing relief. He relaxes just a little.

“All good?” he asks. What the hell was he thinking? Not like you battled a vamp in there. But then you’re tilting your head and your palms are smoothing your sides as you consider his question, and ‘Please don’t think I’m a creep,’ he prays. 

“Yeah. Thanks,” you say. You’re less animated now. You’re chill, calm, collected. Even more put together than before, but just as Sam feared you might, you take in your surroundings, checking out the details of the room.

He’s luckier still. 

“Can I, ah, take you back to the bar?” 

It’s not suss, right? He’s just being friendly, not kicking you out or hiding something, but it’s not the way you take it.

“You want me gone?” Your chin recedes into your neck. 

Shit. “No, I—”

“Relax.” You chuckle and step over to pat him on the shoulder. The same side you ran into on the street. “I’m just messing with you. Thanks for helping a stranger in need,” you add as you move to the door. “I’ll see you around, unless walking me back to the bar includes buying me a drink?”

“There’s beer in the fridge.” Sam didn’t even think. Well. He did, just not with his head. 

It’s Dean’s stash in case he doesn’t pickup, but you’re here, and he’s there. Even if nothing comes from this, he doesn’t need to know it’s all a fallacy. Sam’ll take it as a win, and he waits for your response.

He’s down to beg. He throws that look that always works and your lips spread into a smile. 

“Alright.” You nod. Don’t even question why there’s beer when you just met at a bar, and the next thing he knows, you’re pulling up a chair, and so is he. His back, leaning against Dean’s former underwear drawer, clinking his and your cold one together. 

“So, passing through, huh?” you ask between swigs. 

There’s a spark of interest in your eyes, but all he can do is say, “Yeah.” He’d much rather talk about you. Your life is normal. You seem normal. If accepting to use a stranger’s motel bathroom and then staying for a drink makes you so. 

You did threaten to pee on him.

“Staying long?”

“Depends on my brother.”

You’d taken another mouthful and the lip of the bottle catches on yours as you say, “Your brother?” 

There’s a drop of beer dripping down your chin, and he’s drawn to it. Tongue darts out before hiding it behind his own drink. “Yeah,” he repeats and you’re nodding more. Only it’s slow. It’s understanding. 

Your gaze travels the room again as you think what to say, passing the two beds and the duffles he threw on the floor. “So, road trip? Heading to or from college?”

“College?” He chuckles.

“Yeah. You seem young enough. You got that head in a book kind of look.” Your fingers trace the bottleneck and swipe at the condensation. “I dunno? I’m making shit up while I try to work out who you are besides Sam, the guy who saved me from peeing my pants. You’re not exactly giving me much.”

And you’re not giving him a chance. “What about you? What’re you twenty-four?”

“Three. You?”

He nods. He’s twenty-five, but you don’t need to know that. It’s been over two years since he got dragged back into hunting. Since he lost Jess. Maddison, too, not that it’s the same. 

“So what’s your story?” he says.

“Besides trying to use the men’s room and the alley?”

It’s not just a chuckle this time, he’s wholeheartedly laughing. It bellows round the room, ricocheting off the walls and doors. That smile of yours is wicked, and the straight-laced tone that delivered it was just right. His stomach has unwound, and his head is feeling light thanks to your shoe brushing his leg below the table.

Maybe there’s no need for lies. Sometimes all it takes is a gentleman’s kindness. A tall stature and an air of mystery. 

“Besides that,” he says, and you’re considering him again. Your stare has him staring back.

You’re pretty. More than you are put together. Your hair sits just right, your hands delicate. They’d look good in his, and even better wrapped around any part of him. 

Which means he’s got to up his game. You’re already here and the way you look at him clues him in that you might be interested. He just has to reel you in. So, “You gotta boyfriend, or living with your folks?” he adds. He shouldn’t have started with your relationship status, but your smile’s just growing bigger and bigger.

“Boyfriend, huh? At least I asked what you did first.”

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Do you wanna know if there is one?” you tease, then you’re laughing along with him.

There’s no guy. Your shoe is off and your socked foot is now stretched across the table; resting close to his crotch. 

You’re not shy. You’re not dumb, either. “Why do you think I stayed?” 

You lean forward. Your toes shift, too, creeping closer and closer to not so little Sam, who twitches with interest. “Cute stranger, staying at the local motel. We don’t get a lot of those ‘round here, and I’m counting on you leaving tomorrow. If you’re interested.”

It’s like he’s channeling his inner-Dean or something. You may as well be in his lap. Sure, your foot is, but women his age never fawn over him, at least he never notices until it’s too late. It took days for Jess flirting after Brady introduced her for him to make his move. 

He was in Maddison’s living room and that took Dean’s interference. The weird, and albeit extremely obvious kind, but here with you, what you’re suggesting is plain as day. 

“I, ah.” You’re looking at him still. Your big toe is scraping right up against the seam of his pants now. If it weren’t for the fabric covering the family jewels, your nail would be right up in theirs.

Shit. 

His knee hits the table. His beer travels down the wrong pipe. He chokes when the cool liquid slides further and the bubbles lick the walls. Meanwhile, your foot just gets in there more. Big toe, seeking the form of his growing boner.

Your smile is infectious. You think making a grown man squirm is hilarious, apparently. He’d let you do it again and again. “You wanna?” he says between splutters. 

Idiot. Does he really have to ask?

It’s hard to breathe when your lungs are constricting, let alone think. But you’re there, and he’s there, and he’s so fucking down, it’s no longer funny. 

He stands. Crunches his chair across the crunchier carpet as your chin shoots up. Eyes following to what would be the perfect angle if you were closer and below his feet. 

“I do,” you say, and your lips are plump, glistening. They’re wide and they pillow under your front teeth, daring him to capture them. 

He does.

His arm sneaks around your waist, and he pulls you to stand. His hand plants firm on your side. Fingers scrunch up your shirt, but no matter, yours are riding up under his, and fuck, no, no, he doesn’t fucking care.

His gut is doing flips. Those knots are loose, but his chest is tight. Blood rushes to both heads and both heads ground against different parts of you. 

“Sam.” Your kiss stops mid nip. Your hands have since moved to his buckle, but your eyes are on him when he looks past his nose and mouth. He’d kiss you more. Only his attention has turned to what your fingers are doing with his belt and how your arms glide it out in one flick, then go straight back to the fly. “You packing?”

Packing? He stands there, stunned. His pants clearly are. Your fingers just brushed the tip.

“Condom,” you say, and the colour in your irises flicker. 

“Ah—Yeah. Yes. Mm—You—You don’t waste time, huh?” 

“Haven’t had enough, not too.” You double over in a manner he’d say otherwise. “And you mentioned something ‘bout a brother?”

“Dean?” His cheeks are rising again. But they’re doing so because his eyes are squinting with disgust. You’re still grinning up at him though, and your palm is teasing his dick through its confines. 

You grip and press into him, moulding out the shape under his jeans and he shakes that thought away. 

You want him. Your lashes are fluttering and your lips are twitching into a sultry smirk because he’s under your ministration and you’re ready to go with him, just as much as he is with you.

“Hold that thought,” he says, and he takes a step back, hand still on your waist to toe a shoe off. 

He’s not that coordinated with the sock, however, and he soon bends over to retrieve the house-elf’s bounty. He flashes it in triumph in front of your quirked brow, but you’re soon grinning with him. 

There’s a fit of laughter that hits his ears again and footsteps stalking him as he glides to the door and covers the outside handle, just as Dean would do. 

He shuts it, turns around and your hands grab and pull him back to you. Your right is back at the button and your left is sliding on in, tickling skin teasing through the copse of tiny curls before any kiss picks back up.

You swallow his moan. Taste the trepidation on his tongue as your skin touches his velvety head. 

Nope. Not shy. You know what you want, and Sam is more than happy to let you take it if you keep touching him like that, but he’s not dumb. He also knows what he wants, and it’s only fair he gets his turn, too. You’re here. He’s here. He wants to last. No, needs to. Being on the road with Dean so often means he gets little time to, well, take his time. 

He’s pent up. Motel showers aren’t the best when he has to keep quiet and slow his hands so the faps don’t reach his brother’s waiting jaunts. He could blow his load right now with not much more effort from you, but he’s not going to. Not until after he savours you first. 

It’s been way too long since he felt sweet curves or tasted the sweat of another’s skin. The bitter beer mixed with a fruity gloss is doing wonders already, but he craves more.

Just like the footpath, his hand grabs your wrist and its twin, and he leads you backward until your knees hit Dean’s bed and you flail. Your arms pull from him and push down into the bedding, then you drag yourself up to the pillows where you rest your head against the wooden board. 

Your finger tells him to come hither, your hand pats the space at your side. Sam takes off his shirt.

His gut is doing flips again. More so when your eyes trail up over every inch of his chiseled chest. Behind it, his heartbeat is fast. It could jump right out of there. Only the lump in his throat is huge. 

You’ve slipped off your shirt, too. Your fingers unclasp the hooks of your bra. You slide the straps down and hold it in the air before you fling it at his feet and giggle again. 

“What’re you waiting for?” you say and it goes straight to his pants. The outline of his dick throbs against the denim. 

He swallows. “Just, ah, admiring the show.” 

You grin. A little sigh escapes your lips as you look down at yourself. Your fingers swirl over your heaving skin. They dip into the valley between your breasts, but never move further than the tan line that divides the top half from the fuller one. “It’s more fun if you’re touching me, too.”

Ho-kay. This is really happening. And Sam’s now diving for Dean’s duffle. He’s careful not to reveal the contents, but it’s hard not to when he’s just as and everything’s dumped on top. The little box of Trojans is right under the weight of the sawn-off and the sharp blade of a machete almost cuts him.

Man, it’s lucky you’re occupied. 

Sam turns around, and that’s an understatement. You’re inching down your jeans. They’re flung off, and he’s doing the same. Hopping, skipping, and jumping, he yanks the string of plastic foils out and trails them along behind him. 

They splay out over the covers while you splay under him; and he’s dipping down to taste. There’s salt and a light scent of citrus teed with something sweeter flooding his nostrils as your fingers curl into his hair. His occupied with the way your left tit fits below them. He squeezes and draws his mouth over the other. Pops your nipple in and sucks.

“Took you long enough,” you coo, and he just chuckles, haughty, deep.

“And I’m gonna take longer,” he says between nips and swipes of a thick, flat tongue. One that glides perfectly ‘round the round, hardening bud. “Gonna fuck you so good.”

He presses firm, draws your taut skin into his teeth. He’s determined to leave marks because something’s snapped within. Where the hell that last line came from, he’s got no idea, but it’s as if he’s an animal turned feral.

A wolf in its den? A lion devouring its prey? Does it matter when his hips are gyrating against your lace? 

Your panties are staining his boxers, and his boxers strain against them, staining them right back.

“Fuck,” you moan. 

He groans, and then your hands are pressing against his head.

He can take a hint. He’s smart. He won’t tell you your upper thighs were his mouth’s goal all along. Too busy concentrating as he scoots down, ‘cause he can’t fuck this up. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” he says on the outside. God. Who the hell is he? “Want me to taste you?”

“Sam,” you moan again. “Gonna get me off with that tongue of yours, baby?”

And damn. His name is so much better when you say it, when your legs are spreading further open for him. His fingers are slipping under the edge of the lace, feeling the first slither of just how wet you really are.

His lips press against your clothed entrance and the damp fabric gives way. He’s certain his nose has just tapped into your clit and you smell divine. Sour, earthy. On the verge of something sweet. 

He darts his tongue back out to taste, and your fingers are tugging this time. Your nails scrape his scalp and your back arches off the bed, pushing your hot, hot heat against him.

“You gonna tease me all day, Samuel?” you say, and he’s not mad. That scolding tone is working wonders. His amusement bursts through nose.

Down below though, a bead of pre-cum dribbles from little Sam, flexing with a life of its own. He can’t deny his balls are tight, stomach hotter than you are. It’s still flipping, and his toes stretch and recoil in extension. 

“No, ma’m.” The sooner he can get you to cum, the sooner he’ll be comfortable sinking into you. What he lacks in confidence he makes up for in size, and it’s something he’s proud of. 

He unfurls your panties. Glides them down with your eager help. Without warning, his lips return to their former position, parting yours around him. He presses hard, spreads his mouth open wide and licks while his fingers dip where he’s too afraid to reach. 

You’re still a stranger he knows nothing about besides no boyfriend and you’re willing to have this one-night stand with him. But he’s smart, remember? He doesn’t want to catch anything. Even if you’re well put together and squirming into his palm, he just met you, urinal adjacent. 

“Oh, shit.” Your back arches again. Your pants reach his ear. His fingers curl and stroke your constricting walls, wet catching in his nail-beds. Your body trembles, bringing a new meaning to thundering thighs. 

They quiver, they shake. He gets a calve to his chin as you raise it up and stretch it out. There’s a risk his head will get a good clamping, but he continues to strike with the pebbled tip of his tongue. 

His lips pull together and he pulls away with a smack, putting on a show for you with a swipe over the bow. His eyes find yours, lust blown, heavy lidded’ Your mouth parts and begs a, “Please.”

And Sam’s diving right back in with a smirk. Kisses with force against your clit. Thrums his fingers inside, hard and fast. His wrist is getting a workout. His thumb aches as it’s pushed to the side. But he slips in a third finger, flicks the shelf of your pubic bone. Holds your stomach down as you buck and shake.

“Oh, god,” you cry. His name comes out in a hoarse scream. You yank at his hair as you gush over his hand and chin. Your legs do everything in their power to crush him, but he doesn’t let up.

His fingers continue to make you writhe and your arms wriggle and bend. Only now, his kisses move and spread your juices over you. 

The crease in your thighs and the soft flesh covering your hips. Over your stomach, delving into your navel, he trails up your body, back to your breasts, and soon you’re wet inside and out, and he grins big and toothy. Cheeks up high again as he waits for you to come down from yours.

He drops to his side. Props himself on his elbow. Hand runs through his hair, already laced with sweat. “That good, huh?” he asks. 

And if he’s honest, he needs to know. He’s still working you, only now his fingers tap at your opening. Slipping through your folds with a sound so slick, Dean would say it’s music. A newfound confidence comes from the belief you’re outta breath because of him.

Your laugh fills with air, like how a cartoon dog might snicker, chest rising against his own. Your nipple scrapes over his skin as he leans down and kisses you proper. Answer, stolen, before it can even form.

Salt and fruity gloss - cherry? No, strawberry. Why the hell does he care? The flavours swirl together. Bodies press together when you hitch your leg over his and pull him closer. Your sweet heat now flush against him, hammers his heart and forces his grip on you to tighten.

He squeezes your ass. It’s plump. It’s firm. Your jeans hid just how perfect and round it was. Just the right size for him to hold.

But you’ve got your sights set on your own grip, hand diving into his boxers to take him and give him a slow pump. Pulling back, your eyes open wide in surprise; you twist your wrist and palm his weeping head. 

“You’re the one packing, huh, big boy?” You then bite your lip. Lick it. Drag your thumb over his slit and pull a grunt from deep within the pit of his stomach. 

Somewhere below the knotting, there’s a fire burning, raging, and it needs to be sheathed, covered, surrounded. It’s gross, and it’s oh so Dean, but he needs it put out and a wet pussy will do.

Sam thrusts into your touch. He can’t help it. Fuck, he wants to move.

“You think you can handle me, baby?” he rasps into your parted mouth, stretching his arm over and behind, fumbling for the string of foils and tears one off.

“I’m gonna fucking try,” you say, and the wordplay, whether on purpose, is not lost.

He rolls to his back, and you’re already pouncing, pulling his underwear further down and off. You straddle his legs, take the little packet in your hand, and stroke him some more, up close, eye to eye. 

You kiss the tip, watching as it flexes. His fingers do the same ‘round the ends of your hair. They curl then grip. Yours is firm around his base. And the sight?

The sight. 

He’s died and gone to heaven. Too long since he’s seen a woman between his legs, those eyes still half lidded, still full of lust. You’re greedy. You’re needy. The way you hold your gaze as he feels the heat of your mouth nip at his skin, breath warm and wet, floods through him. 

The way you sink further down.

Sam rolls his head back, his crown pushes into the pillow bunched up below. He wants to look, wants to pull at the strands of hair that still lace through his fingers and yank you down so you take all of him in. 

Your tongue glides down the underside, flattened and rough, encasing, but with a light graze from two front teeth up top. The suction is so tight. The stretch around him burns his own skin. The way you drag back, then spit, swirl the saliva, and do it again, coating him all sloppy that it’s gleaming, all slippery and dripping like you were. Like you will be again. His gut curls in on itself now. 

He’s tingling. He’s buzzing. He’d be high as a kite, if it weren’t for your thighs keeping him down. Their weight, your weight, making him go numb with need. 

You pump your fist down low, swiping your smallest finger over the velvety skin covering his balls. A drop of him or you pools there, then drips further down. “Fuck.” He then calls your name.

“You ready for me, big boy?” you ask again, and he’s snickering at the way you say it. 

“Yeah.” His arm releases you and flops over his forehead, but the sound of that little wrapper in your grasp rectifies that. He’s peeping out from under himself as you roll the rubber down.

He’s so sensitive, it stings like the bite of some bug. Balls more so as you drag yourself up and over him. Cockhead catches where you split down the middle, rubbing across your puckered hole. 

You bite your lip. How many times now he’s lost count? You raise yourself, grabbing him where he’s thickest. Those eyes of yours stare at him again. They continue to hold that gaze as you lower back down, grin only curling further up, as your lower lips stretch around him. 

“So big,” you say this time, and he can’t tell if you’re yanking his chain or really mean it. Your cheeks puffed and your mouth all white from shining teeth, just like the rest of you. 

Like your perky ass, kissing his pelvis. Like your thighs squeezing him, much like the vice between them. Tight, wet and hot.

“Can you handle it? Can you move, baby? Gonna ride me? Gonna cum all over me?” God. Where the hell is this coming from? Who is this guy, all confident and cocky?

The guy with the big cock in your cunt. That’s who. 

Sam chuckles to himself. Still can’t believe his luck. But you’re raising again, and sliding back down, and all he can do is hold on.

His fingers dig into your thighs. He presses his nails into your soft body. He helps you rise and fall over him. 

He’s making the ride smooth and savouring the feel of your walls closing around him. Feels the fluttering, and the beginnings of new tremors. Marvels at how much more wet you’ve become. 

The sounds. It really is music. The way you, your tits, and your skin slap with each thrust and bounce. The louder claps of his pelvis hitting yours and the sheen of perspiration between has his head swirling with images he needs.

“Come ‘ere.” Sam lifts you just slight. Raises his legs; bends his knees; jostles you so his neck doesn’t need to strain as far so his mouth can reach. 

He pistons his hips, hears the slaps, tastes the sweat, feels the pants against his chin and cheek. Memories blend, and ghosts of his past weave in and out around you. You could be Jess, you could be Sarah, but it’s you who’s mouthing him. Not exactly kissing, too focused on making your bodies move.  

“Fuck, Sam,” you squeal. 

His hands spread you wider. He grunts your name into his ear.

He can’t keep up the pace as much as he’d like to. Can’t keep up the facade. It’s better if he sees your face to remind him who he’s there with. He can’t do that with a curtain of hair. 

So he taps, twice on the fine edge of a curve, has your eyes firm on his. 

“Wanna switch, baby?” he asks, and thinks quick for a reason. “Need to see that pretty face when you come.��� He’d try to roll over with you in his arms, but he can just see that being disastrous. Losing his balance or getting an elbow somewhere where it shouldn’t.

He doesn’t have to worry because you’re lifting off. You fling yourself to his side and wriggle your back against the bedcovers. Open your legs wide, hands draped where your panty line would be. 

“You gonna make me come again, big boy? Gonna fill me up with that thing?” you say, and he’s over you in one swift movement. 

Sam grabs his cock and runs the covered tip over your entrance to tease you back. Watches the twinkle in your eye as it runs over your clit and you moan, just for show. 

Man, he’s lucky. Who the hell meets someone by a urinal and then gets to fuck them? Wait, no. He doesn’t wanna answer that. He’ll just keep marvelling at his luck at the gorgeous woman below him. The one who was busting to spring a leak, now waiting for him to bust his nut and hers.

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Still, he glides back in with ease. How wet you are for him makes it so. 

He wishes he could feel it, he’s just not that stupid, but he can imagine if he remembers your mouth and how it felt ‘round him, taking him deep.

You still do.

Your legs hook over him, and he hitches the left up higher with his elbow. His cock sinks deeper, base flush against your seam.  

“Fuck me, Sam.” You’re squirming. It’s right out of a movie or a book. He’s John Snow or Jamie, and you’re - god no. You’re you and he’s him, and he’s, fuck, yeah, he’s fucking you.

He snaps his hips. Feels that burn again as his balls collide with your ass. His thumb is drawing little circles over where you join and he goes for it. 

He leans over, bending you with him, stretching you open, dreams of splitting you in two. You moan. Your walls flutter again. You tremble and your thighs contract. 

They’re powerful, much more than before. The back of your knee pulls on his arm and he only grips tighter. Hand on your shin. The other palm pushes you down.

It’s the perfect angle. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. 

Perfect to dive in deeper. Feel you flex and accommodate his size.

Your mouth produces a hiss. It’s like a whine at the same time. Forming an O with your lips that then spreads wide into an “Ah.” Elongated. A laugh. A giggle. Whatever it is, he’s doing something right because your thighs are trembling again and your leg is trying to pull away. 

His hand presses firmer, but he’s pulling you and shifting back, raising you up so you’re his handle on the ride. His tip is dragging out through you now and spearing you when he goes back in. 

Thrusts are quick. Sweat falls from his brow. He feels the way your body pushes back against him. He’s an intruder, but he’s not backing down. 

His stomach is tight. His legs ache and tremor, just as yours does. But that pull? The way his dick swells? It’s magnetised, pushes as deep as it can go. It’s determined to bury itself to the hilt. 

And when you say, “Fuck,” again, but there’s another, and an added, “God. I’m gonna come,” Sam snaps his hips and watches your face closely. 

A huge grin. The biggest yet; stretches into your eyes, twitches your lip and raises your jaw high. Your neck, exposed like a bloodsucker’s prey, and Sam is doubling over to claim it.

His tongue glides up your neck, teeth nip at your skin. He’s sucking like you’re his last meal. His pace wanes as your walls try to push him out, but he’s rocking his hips with purchase, pushing back in deep.

Another, “Fuck,” leaves you, but he’s seeing white. His balls throb and he’s spilling into what little space is left in the Trojan. He’s so far high on cloud fucking nine, he forgets where he is and who’s under him. 

He’s spent. That was way better than any quickie in the shower. The warmth beneath him. Perfect round tits pressed against his hardened chest tremble and shake. 

“Fuck.” It’s his turn now, but it comes out more like a groan. He pants. Body heavy, yet light as air. He tries to move, but everything is jello and shaking.

Your arms have been clinging to his back, your slick pussy would if it could, and he chuckles deep. 

You giggle on reflex, and somehow it gives him the strength to look up and search for a kiss. The sweat is intense. Fruit, now barely there, but the after-sex-glow kissing your cheeks is better than anything else.

“Wow, big boy,” you say between your own pants. “Fuck.” He could hear that again and again. “That was quite a ride.”

“Yeah?” he says, though he really doesn’t have to ask. 

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s breathless, it’s hearty, it’s reminiscent of a time he should forget when you’re there with him, so he does. He tries. 

He rolls over to the side and removes the rubber. His muscles remember to roll back and drape his arm over your middle. Fingers flex at your side and he breathes in the citrus remnants in your hair as he closes his eyes and breathes in deep.

For a moment, he’s not in the dingy motel, but in his room. Yours too, maybe? He’s still at college ‘cause he is young, and he still has his whole life ahead of him. 

There are no monsters. No salt, no burns, knives or guns, and Dean? Well, Dean can be there too, he supposes. Just separate, the other side of town. Further in Milroy.

Yeah. Pennsylvania. That’s perfect, too. 

The weight of you draws him in further to dreaming. The warmth of you finally lolls him off, but neither is there when he stirs the next morning. The space in the bed beside him is cold and the thumps on the door rattle the chill he’s left with. His body, no longer jello, but stone-like, and cold. 

No feathers in sight, unless the pillow bunched up beneath him again is made of them. He is dumb if he thinks it’s true.

The newfound churning in his gut tells him he’s foolish, though, and when he opens his eyes and scans the room, he’s a bigger fool than Dean. What was he hoping for? That you’d be there with bacon and eggs? A morning coffee? Waking him up for another round?

No. Of course not. The bathroom door is wide open, and no feminine clothes, litter the floor. Of course you’d be long gone. You’d told him something of the sort last night.

“I’m counting on you leaving tomorrow.” Yes, that was it. That’s exactly what you said. He just didn’t realise you’d be the first.

Sam rubs his face. Pushes his hair back out of it and stands. The bangs are getting old, and the district “Sammy” that comes with them grates his eardrums. He’s not so big anymore.

No, he’s little brother Winchester. 

Bitch. 

“Sammy.” Dean bellows again. “Sock time’s over!” Another thump. “You’re abusing the privilege. ‘S only supposed to be two hours, max. Three if you’re ménaging.” A lecherous laugh follows.

Who’s older and who’s younger? Well, it’s only four years. 

Sam rolls his eyes and picks his boxers up as he walks around the bed. He grabs his t-shirt at the midway point, and strolls over to the door. 

Dean’s fist is held up in greeting when he opens, but Sam’s turning before the stupid grin gets any bigger. 

“Oh c’mon man. On my bed?” 

“It’s not like you were using it,” Sam says, back still towards him as he grabs what he needs and heads for the shower. 

“Where’s the girl?” follows him there.

There’s a twinge of a smile as he closes the door, but a sigh replaces it. He runs his hand through his hair again, holding it there as he looks around.

Nothing’s out of place. No signs of anyone else occupying the space unless you count the seat on the John being down. “You’re getting sentimental over a toilet?” he whispers, and shakes his head. Grabs his toothbrush; squeezes the paste.

Pearly whites and hands on him flash before his eyes. He goes through the motions after that. 

There’s a perfectly rounded tit in his hand, heaving as he squeezes, then lets go. A, “Fuck,” moaned into his ear when he turns on the faucet, plump lips and lust-blown eyes spitting on his tip when he spits into the sink. The lingering drop on the porcelain drips down nice and slow. He’s got a small mark on his shoulder. When he twists, he sees a couple of tiny dints in his back. His cock is stirring as his eyes travel his waist, imagines perfect hands gripping him firm.

“Hey, big boy,” Dean says through the crack, and it makes him startle. 

Big boy chokes and yanks on the handle. How the hell does he know? 

“You sly dog. So you did get your dingle wet.”

“What?” Sam’s voice is rather high. His cheeks are pushing the limits again and he’s hiding the smirk that’s trying to rise.

“You know.” Dean chuckles. “Widdle Sammy got waid.” He even goes as far as to slap his side as he holds up a note with ten beautiful digits scrawled between a heart and a ‘call me.’

“Give me that.” Sam snatches the note, grabs his phone. Refuses to look Dean in the eye when he slams the door. They’re too busy scanning the digits, each curve, each bubble, each dot as he punches the numbers into his contacts, his thumb hovers over pressing call. 

Is he desperate? Yes, but his ego holds him back. It will at least, until they hit the road. 

From Muncie to god knows where next, he’s got no idea. Another town, another case? Maybe. But there’ll be nowhere as special there and no-one as perfect as the girl who almost…made him ditch his shoe.

For those who don’t recognise the Japanese reference, “Omae wa mou shindeiru,” (お前はもう死んでいる) translates to “you are also going to die.”

Tagging those who showed interest from the WIP folder game, and those who asked to be tagged in everything SPN ✌️

@losers-clvb @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @roseblue373 @middleearthislife

Do you want to see more Sam stuff? LMK

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Diving for clams and other misadventures

I got challenged (that makes it sound much more threatening than it actually was) by the gorgeous @bettystonewell to write a Donna x reader fic, after I challenged (again, it really was very peaceful) her to write a Sam x reader fic. My prompt from betty was "reverse fake dating" (which I only semi managed) and the line "what happened to Doug?". Mine for her was... well... you'll see. 😉

Now, I've had the pleasure of already reading her Sam fic, and I can only say, you guys are in for a goddamn motherfucking treat. I almost cried at the smut, that's how excellently written it is. She got Sam down perfectly imho, and I feel equally threatened and insanely happy at what came out of what was essentially a prompt swap that was supposed to be 1k words (betty cheated).

Not to get all sappy and stuff, but I am insanely happy and proud to call betty my mutual and writer friend. She's amazing, but then I don't think I need to tell any of you that, if you've been around her for more than five seconds.

So here is my little Donna story. It's gay, it's quick, it's pure fluff. A brief touch of queer shame, but then that really only adds the spice (I hope). Sam and Dean are there too. I love Donna with all my heart and she deserves to go on gay little adventures. That's it! Enjoy, folks!

“So what happened to Doug?”

You see the sweet smile on Donna’s face slowly disappear as she is asked the question for what is the third time - you counted - this evening.

“Oh, you know,” she says, trying to keep her voice chipper, “that just didn’t really work out. So we decided to go our separate ways… two years ago.” 

She forces one of her brilliant, warm smiles onto her face, but you can see it’s fake. Her arm which is hooked over yours tightens, but the older couple standing in front of you, the man decked out in full uniform, his wife wearing a salmon colored dress with white accents, don’t even bother nodding politely. So it’s you to the rescue.

“Oh, honey, your drink is empty,” you say, unable to resist pitching your voice a little higher in your feigned surprise. You’re pretty sure you see the woman’s eyelid twitch at the word honey, but you couldn’t care less.

“Let’s get you freshened up,” you add, slightly bumping your hip against Donna’s. She gives you a lost smile that makes you want to grab her and kiss her, and then the two of you are excusing yourself and turning away.

You walk a few steps before you’re blowing some hair out of your face.

“Wow,” you mumble, “you weren’t kiddin’ when you said the people here are old school.” You lead Donna to the bar where she places her glass, a defeated look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says in her sweet little accent. “I know some doofus’ retirement party isn’t your idea of a good time, but I–”

“Hey,” you say, putting your hands on her arms. “I get to hang with you. That’s my idea of a good time.” You see a little bit of her genuine smile break through.

“Maybe we should start introducing you as my girlfriend,” she says with a shrug, as her emptied glass is replaced with a full one, and she nods at the bartender. “Maybe when I say partner people think we opened a business together.” You chuckle.

“Maybe,” you say, “but you said girlfriend sounded scarier.” Donna presses her lips together.

“I didn’t mean–” she says but you interrupt her.

“Donna,” you say, taking one of her hands in yours. “We’re good, okay? I’m a big girl. I knew what I was signing up for when I came along today. So stop feeling bad on my account, alright?”

She shifts around a little, then takes a sip of her drink. Both of you look up when you see someone approach.

Sam and Dean have snuck their way into the party because while Donna is here as a guest, with you as her plus one, it does actually look like there might be a case. The captain celebrating his retirement has had a 100% case solving rate for the last ten years, but other officers have been dying under mysterious circumstances for the same amount of time.

“How’s it going?” Sam asks, looking over both of your heads into the room.

“Horribly,” Donna replies, beautiful mouth pouty and face downtrodden.

“Nothing major,” you butt in. “People admit the deaths are strange, but beyond that, no one seems to be willing to say a bad word about the captain.” Dean pulls down the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe they’re scared of ending up on the short list,” he suggests. You nod.

“I thought the same thing,” you reply, “but he’s retiring. Even if they know he’s playing dirty, it shouldn’t matter anymore, right?”

“Unless it does,” Sam says, pulling out his phone. “I took a look at the captain’s bank statements. He and his wife just bought a lake house, nearly a million dollars.” You raise your eyebrows.

“And there’s that guy who died last week,” you add, eyes narrowed. “Looks like he’s still milking whatever he’s been doing.” A little sigh comes from Donna, and when you look at her, you see she’s still looking sad.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks with a frown. 

“I’m a miserable queer,” she says, then quickly looks your way. “Am I allowed to say queer?” You chuckle and grab her hand again.

“Yes, you are,” you reply, squeezing. Dean widens his arms.

“I thought that’s an insult,” he says with his gruff voice. You look at him.

“We’re reclaiming it,” you state. “I grew up with everything bad being called gay. Words change.” You look back at Donna.

“And assholes not getting that and asking about your ex doesn’t make you a miserable anything,” you say to her, but you can tell she’s not fully buying it. 

“And if anyone gives you grief,” Dean adds with a benevolent tone, “you just let me know and I’ll take them out back.” You raise your hand.

“Thank you, Dean,” you say, “maybe let’s not resort to violence just yet.”

“I’m just saying,” he adds quickly, “you’re our queers.” The second he closes his mouth, he makes a face, and so do you.

“Yeah, no,” you reply, “you don’t get to say it.” Dean nods along.

“I don’t even know if I’m queer,” Donna says, her voice sounding frustrated. “Or a lesbian, or bisexual, or… any of the other ones.”

“Or a muff muncher, a clam diver…” you start and Donna slaps your arm while Dean laughs and Sam looks away with a shy grin.

“You’ll figure it all out, is what I’m saying,” you finish, smiling at Donna. “And you’ll have these two guys and your spankin’ hot girlfriend to help you along the way.”

You see a rush of emotion go over Donna’s face as she grabs your hands.

“You guys should totally make out,” Dean suggests and when you give him a death stare, he has a lecherous grin on his face.

“Dude,” Sam says, slapping his shoulder.

“I think you have a bad guy to catch,” you say to the two. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“And what are you gonna do?” he asks. You hold out your arm to Donna.

“I’m gonna get my lady friend drunk,” you say, just as Donna grabs your arm with a wide grin. “And then punch the next person that asks about Doug between the eyes.” You raise your glass in a little salute.

“Darn tootin’,” Donna replies, and then you’re leading her away. 

You have no intention to punch anyone, but there’s a buffet to check out and an open bar, and Sam and Dean can do the damn work. You’re too busy enjoying your first public outing with your girlfriend.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Why, yes, I actually wanted to get punched in the throat, face and heart today, thank you.

"𝙎𝙖𝙢𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙮. 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙣"

- 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡

𝙎𝙖𝙢𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮.

He walked towards Dean.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

you can't get weird and obsessive over SPN again if you just never stop being weird and obsessive over it. #lifehack

[any time i return to supernatural] okay i have got to get weird and insane about this

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

"sam was lucifer's before he was dean's."

what if I scream at the top of my voice until my lungs combust. what then, huh?

you ever think about mary's deal and the fact that sam belonged to lucifer before he was born.

sam was lucifer's before he was dean's.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I think the great tragedy of Dean is that he wants to be loved the way he loves - absolutely, obsessively, dangerously, to the point where he almost becomes one with the person, absorbs them - but he thinks too badly of himself to ever accept that kind of love, and it's also of course not sustainable. So he never gets what he really wants (and cannot ask for), but keeps giving it, which is where his self-righteousness comes from. He's already doing "his part", so why can't everyone else just simply catch up?

Supernatural – 2.22: All Hell Breaks Loose (Part 2)

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

I wish we would have gotten an episode like "Bad Boys" from season 9 (which was a goddamn great episode) about Sam's time in Flagstaff. There's so many questions I have about it. How did he get there? Whose house is he living in? Probably Bones' owner, but who is that? What made him go back to Dean and John? I need to know.

seeing sam’s face drop in Dark Side of the Moon when Dean guilt trips him over his memory of flagstaff. he was so excited to see Bones!! Look at his little smile before Dean berated him!!

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Vaseline-lipped, princess-haired, piece of cardboard dating, out of character acting, orange skinned season 8 Sammy - you challenged me.

Sike! You fell for my lie. It was a trick! Sam is always right. And perfect. You fools! And get this, I like season 8 cause I like when Sam and Dean fight, cause I love drama! Can't believe you fell for that! Get a load of this guy! (I'm laughing and pointing)

Sam Winchester in SUPERNATURAL 8.06 'Southern Comfort'

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Thank you for tagging me @bettystonewell @ambiguous-avery @losers-clvb !

Last song I listened to and last person on my camera roll:

The song is "Lipstick on the glass" by Wolf Alice, who I've been listening to a bit lately. Not my usual sad folky BS but I'm broadening my horizon! And the picture is Colman Domingo (and his husband), because a fellow gay didn't know who and how gorgeous he is, so I had to remedy that, of course. (Don't worry, the next picture is a Sam one!).

I have no idea who hasn't been tagged, so sorry if there's doubles! @voodoochildthings @myceliumsunshine @spnrelic @bluemerakis @lelapine and anyone else who wants a go! 🤗

last photo & song ✨

you’re starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title…who/what is it?

Thank you for tagging me @arcane-vagabond !! 🫶🏼

So…um…I can explain 🫣 I’m listening to Tate McRae’s new album while working on making gifs for my blurb requests, and now I have ended up in a movie that is most certainly way out of my comfort zone 😅🩷

no pressure tags: @whatever-lmaoo @flowersforbucky @writing-for-marvel @marvelstoriesepic @elvenrin @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

This boy was made for me to write about him having his hair brushed behind his ear. Just saying.

(But y'all can borrow him)

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

omg ew why is he naked

(tongue hanging so far out my mouth it's touching the floor)