#alternative universe: supernatural | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

holdinggrudges · 3 months ago

Text

what's my flavor?

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, oral (fem!receiving), vampire!sam, blood drinking, bloodplay (surprisingly little though tbh), fem!reader (afab anatomy + the word girl used in reference like three times or so), feeding being explicitly referred to as similar to drugs/getting high, mentions of serious illness (made up for plot reasons but still)

word count: 10.5K

summary: Working your way through college, you find a secretary job with great pay and more than enough downtime on the clock to get your coursework done. The only downside is that it leaves you with no choice but to attend night classes. But it's not so bad, especially with Mysterious Hot Guy attending them as well. Oh, and there's been blood bags going missing, but you're pretty sure that's not going to be relevant to your life any time soon.

notes: this was supposed to be pwp. it was also supposed to be posted on halloween. clearly, neither of those things happened. but fuck it, we ball.

crossposted on ao3

You don’t understand how anyone could get through college without a job. You hear about people surviving off scholarships all the time, and you try your first year, you really do. But, God, something has to change. You can’t imagine working your way through school could be any more stressful than the budgeting, and the skipping meals, and the cards declining at the grocery store.

So you get a job. A good one, too; a secretary job at an office ten minutes away from your apartment, and only twenty minutes away from campus. The job is easy, with plenty of downtime for you to work on your coursework, and the pay is good. Better than good, even. The only problem is the hours; 9-5 is great, generally, but not very convenient when setting up a college schedule. You’re relegated almost exclusively to night classes. Which is fine. Not ideal, but fine.

You take four classes, two a night, and it leaves your Fridays wide open after work. It would truly be a perfect schedule if it didn’t mean you were on campus until 11 o’clock most nights. But the classes are relatively empty and none of your professors are total hardasses, so it’s not so bad. Actually, you start to really enjoy it.

You make a little game out of studying the other students, trying to figure them out. The woman who sits in front of you in your statistics class is a stay-at-home mom, you think. The older man a few rows down in english is retired military. It’s interesting, and it gives you a reason to actually make it to class everyday. Well, that and Mysterious Hot Guy.

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance.

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score.

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where.

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?”

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.”

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.”

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?”

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over.

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.”

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.”

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’

‘see you then :)’ You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow.

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he��s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you.

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless.

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month.

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant.

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.”

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.”

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.”

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious.

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library.

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.”

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.”

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time.

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too.

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up. He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?”

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense.

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly.

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.”

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.”

“I’ll text you,” he agrees.

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life.

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags.

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut.

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before.

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response.

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway.

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing.

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too.

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised.

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car.

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers.

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is.

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage.

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door.

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?”

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?”

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?”

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?”

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out.

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.”

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further.

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that.

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?”

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help.

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.”

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?”

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?”

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before.

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again.

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?”

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like…food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.”

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?”

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.”

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?”

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.”

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.”

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.”

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?”

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.”

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.”

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door.

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit.

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?”

You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general.

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight.

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately.

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him.

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.”

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.”

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw.

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.”

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.”

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!”

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that.

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.”

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.”

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.”

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.”

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss.

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing.

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.”

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?”

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.”

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that.

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are.

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.”

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry.

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. !You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up.

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips.

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.”

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you.

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.”

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?”

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.”

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?”

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.”

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t.

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond.

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed.

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw.

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.”

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought.

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now.

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his.

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease.

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there.

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that.

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?”

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated.

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down.

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.”

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen.

“Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again.

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?”

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.”

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go.

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.”

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.”

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory.

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.”

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm.

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?”

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already.

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?”

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…”

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said.

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?”

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.”

He rolls his eyes, but the way he kisses you, fangs and all, tells you he gets it.

#sammy.txt #grudges_writes.txt #grudges_nsfw.txt #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #x reader #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #vampire smut #sam munchester love of my life #smut #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 link #alternate universe #vampires

360 notes · View notes

kittenofdoomage · 3 months ago

Text

The Midnight Diner

THIS WORK IS ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST OR COPY MY STORIES. 18+ CONTENT AHEAD.

Summary: An unexpected rescue leads to an unbelievable revelation, and these two hotties being vampires is just the tip of the iceberg.

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader x Sam Winchester

Word Count: 8371

Warnings: alternate universe, threat/injury to reader, character death, attempted assault, gun violence, vampires (not SPN canon-typical vampires, I prefer the Vampire Diaries type), blood drinking, biting/marking, smut (full penetrative sex, spit roast, threesome, oral sex, fingering), fluff, angst, plot twists

Friday night was always busy at the Midnight Diner, which only closed two days a year; Easter and Christmas. It was a surprisingly successful business despite not offering delivery in a world where everyone wanted Ubereats right to their front door, and though it wasn’t where you had imagined your life would lead, you couldn’t complain too much. Okay, you would never be buying your own home, but you made enough to feed yourself and pay your share of the bills, and your boss was a rare good egg. You liked the night shift too, even the slow ones, because the regulars, and even the irregulars, were great inspiration for your real passion.

And Friday nights provided the most entertainment when the various nightclubs in the district spilled out, bringing the hungry drunks to the door. For two hours, you would be too busy to stop for so much as a drink, but it was worth it when it quietened down and your tip jar was full to bursting. Drunk people were apparently generous when someone was serving up a triple bacon sandwich with extra cheese at two AM.

The crowd was all but gone by three, leaving a few lonely souls and regulars behind. You always counted regulars as the ones that were there before you were, but there were a few faces that had become familiar in more recent months. Dean and Sam were two of them, brothers who only came in when all the revelers were gone; they were both tall, handsome, even if there was something odd about them you couldn’t put your finger on. Whatever it was wasn’t enough to stop you flirting, not even enough to hold back the crush you had on both of them.

“Good evening, sweetheart,” Dean crooned as he swept in through the door, Sam hot on his heels.

“Good morning,” you chuckled, gesturing to the clock. “Coffee?”

“You got it,” he grinned before turning his attention to the counter display, humming at the pies. “And a slice of the cherry pie,” he added, rubbing his hands together.

You jotted down the order, and the brothers wandered away to their usual table. It didn’t take more than a few moments to make the coffees, and you swiped the best looking slice of the cherry pie, sliding it onto a plate before carrying everything over to their table. “Busy night?” you asked.

Sam smirked, and Dean laughed under his breath. “Yeah, you know,” he shrugged, “work.”

With a friendly smile, you nodded your understanding. “Lemme know if you need anything else.”

Returning to the counter, you got comfortable in your seat, pulling out your sketchpad. Hugo - the cook - was out on a break, probably sneaking a joint at the back door, and all six patrons had their orders, leaving you with a few moments to yourself. Ordinarily, you preferred working on your iPad, but you hated taking it out with you, so at work, you settled for pen and paper, practicing anatomy and poses instead of working on any commissions you had outstanding.

“What are you working on?”

Dean’s voice made you jerk your head up in surprise, and you pulled the pencil away from the paper. “Oh,” you whispered, “uh, I was just practicing...” Showing your work to others had always been awkward for you; you had no problem posting them anonymously on your blog, but whenever someone asked to see your drawings in real life, you felt they were never good enough.

“Wow,” Dean murmured as he gazed at the simple drawing. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” you replied clumsily, avoiding his gaze as your face burned. “Did you need something?”

His eyes lifted to fix on you. “Sugar,” he chuckled, holding up the empty container from their table. “This one’s out, and I think someone stole all the others.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Not again. I’ll get some more and bring it over.”

Taking the container from him, you strolled through to the back, refilling it quickly. Hugo reappeared, raising an eyebrow at what you were doing. “I thought you did that last night,” he commented.

“Someone’s stolen them again,” you grumble, screwing the lid back on. “Do you remember where Oscar put the new box?”

Hugo shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he sighed. “I’ll get Denise to do it in the morning.”

His suggestion was gratefully received, seeing as you didn’t really relish the thought of spending the last two hours of your shift replacing them all. Saturday morning was quiet, Denise could handle the task when she arrived.

Running the sugar back to the brothers’ table, you handed it to Dean, who gave you a dazzling smile. “Thanks, darling.”

He’d never called you that before. You smiled back, then returned to the counter, feeling a little bit like a schoolgirl with a crush as you resumed your position at the till. An hour later and the brothers were leaving, both of them giving you a lingering hungry look as they walked out, the sort that sent a shiver running down your spine and inspired a few explicit imaginings.

It was hard to think of much else for the rest of your shift.

Time crawled by until five, when Denise arrived and you could finally get home. Outside was still dark, marginally chilly, so you wrapped your coat around yourself and clutched your bag against your body, hurrying along each block as the sky began to lighten. You lived on the other side of the neighborhood, and the quickest route home was through an wide alleyway that stretched behind some warehouses, a passage you’d taken many times before.

On this occasion, it was not empty. You made it halfway before you noticed them, lounging in the large doorway of a warehouse, five men passing a joint between themselves. Keeping your head down, you kept walking, hopeful that they were just hanging out and not looking for any trouble.

“Not even a smile, honey?” one of them jeered.

You ignored it, continuing on, hurrying just a little more.

Two of them got up, moving to block your path. Panic set in, and you came to a stop, turning instantly to go back the way you’d come, but the other three were already up, preventing your escape. “Don’t be shy, baby,” the one who’d spoken laughed as he got a little closer. He reached out, and you dodged his touch, only to back up into one of his friends who grabbed ahold of your arms.

You struggled, kicking furiously at the one coming at you from the front. “Let me go!” you shrieked, fighting him when he caught hold of your face with one large hand. He smirked, so you spat in his face, receiving a hard blow to the jaw for your effort. The impact left you dazed, and the man holding you let go, pushing you to the floor. Your head connected with the concrete painfully; you whimpered, feeling something trickle down your forehead as the men surrounded you, closing your eyes as if that could make them go away.

“Hey!”

The shout preceded a loud thud, then more yelling followed. You remained frozen, bringing your arms up to shelter your head from whatever was happening, trying to fight the urge to pass out as dizziness and nausea overwhelmed you.

Everything stopped. Silence surrounded you, interrupted by distant traffic, and an odd gurgling sound that enticed you from the fetal position and onto your knees. You forced yourself upright, swaying slightly, throwing an arm out to try and gain some equilibrium as you opened your eyes.

Your attackers were scattered around. One was crumpled against a dumpster, another was bent awkwardly over the steps they were originally lounging on. Another one was only a few feet away, splayed across the floor, neck bloodied and eyes open in a lifeless stare. You lifted your head a little more, finally seeing who or what had saved you.

Sam had one of the last two on his knees as he tore at his throat, drinking greedily from the crimson that spilled out. Next to him was the last of your attackers, in Dean’s grip, dangling several inches off of the floor as Dean fed on him. A tiny gasp escaped you, and Sam’s eyes snapped open, deep black fading to hazel as he released the dead man to slump on the floor.

Whatever reaction you could have had to the scene was scrambled by the dizziness swamping you. Your knees trembled, and you felt yourself falling again, only to be caught by Sam, who had moved impossibly fast, cushioning your descent with his strong arms. You fought to keep your eyes open as he grasped your face, and the last thought you had before everything went black, was that maybe they’d kill you too.

The room that greeted you when you opened your eyes again was not familiar. It was dimly lit by several wall sconces, and the bed you were resting on was comfortable, so you didn’t move for a few seconds as you tried to recall what had happened. You were still dressed in the black shirt and pants you had worn to work, though your coat appeared to be hanging neatly on a hook across the room. The collar of your shirt was stiff with something, and that was when the memory of hitting your head came back to you, swiftly followed by the five possibly dead men, and your handsome diner regulars that had dispatched them by -

It wasn’t real.

Was it?

You sat up, just as Sam appeared silently in the doorway, making you jump. He smiled sheepishly, remaining where he was, obviously nervous of how you might react. “You’re awake,” he announced a little lamely. “How’s your head?”

Reaching up with your hand, you felt the raised wound. It was only an inch or so long, tender but not sore. “I-it’s okay,” you managed, eyeing him warily. “Those men -”

He straightened and cut you off. “Yeah, uh,” he scratched the back of his head with a light chuckle, “we can explain all of that, if you wanna…” His thumb jerked behind him, so you assumed he wanted you to follow him. Slowly, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, feeling a little sluggish as you got to your feet. “Are you okay?” he asked, watching as you tested your own balance.

“I think so,” you mumbled, touching the injury to your head again.

“Just take it slow,” he instructed with concern in his voice. “You might have a concussion.”

His worry over your injury went some way to assuring you that he wasn’t going to eat you, otherwise you would have still been in that alleyway, and your curiosity overrode any fear you held. You followed him out of the bedroom and into the hall, noting the lack of windows. “Who lives here?” you asked nervously, suddenly a little worried they had done the same thing to the occupants as they had to the men who attacked you.

Sam glanced back with a furrowed brow. “We do?” he answered with an inflection. “Uh, it’s a basement apartment, if you’re wondering about the windows.”

Your face filled with heat. “Oh.”

He smirked, leading you on into a large kitchen where Dean was lounging against a counter, and he looked up from his phone as his brother entered with you behind. “Hey,” he greeted with a smile, “how are you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess,” you mumbled, smiling politely when Sam pulled out a chair at the table for you to sit down.

“Coffee?” Dean offered, and you nodded, clasping your hands together on top of the table. There was a patch of gravel rash across your fingers, probably from where you had fallen. “I can order breakfast if you’re hungry.”

You weren’t sure hunger was on your list of priorities. “Uh, no, I - I don’t even know what the time is.” Your phone suddenly appeared in front of you, and you blinked up at Sam, who smiled and withdrew to sit on the opposite side of the table. “T-thank you,” you whispered, picking it up. The only notification was an email informing you that your phone bill was due soon; you weren’t entirely surprised that your roommate failed to notice your lack of return. It was nearly midday, so you’d been out for a few hours, and apparently in the possession of vampires.

The phone clattered to the table as everything began to sink in, and the noise made both men look in your direction. Dean jerked his head at Sam, making a gesture to indicate he should talk, but you were pressing your palms into your eyes, trying not to see the bodies.

“Can I, uh, can we explain?” Sam asked gently.

You lifted your head to look at him, suddenly unable to summon a single emotion. “About the vampire thing or the five dead guys from the alley?” you choked out, following it up with a burst of laughter. “Or maybe I was hallucinating, ‘cause of the head injury. Because vampires aren’t real.”

“We’re pretty damn real, sweetheart,” Dean deadpanned, turning his back on you to make coffee.

“What Dean means -” Sam clarified, raising a finger. “Yes, we’re vampires. And yes, we killed those guys. Because if we didn’t, the things they planned to do to you would have happened to someone else.”

Your jaw dropped. “T-the things they -” You shook your head. “How could you know -”

“They weren’t good people,” Sam continued. “You know that.”

“What about the police?” you snapped. “They’re gonna find the bodies, they’re gonna -”

“Uh-huh,” Dean provided. “And it’ll be another unsolved crime in the city. They tend to overlook cases with extreme blood loss because they know guns don’t work on us.” He picked up the coffee he’d made, bringing it over to you and placing it on the table with a smirk. “Kinda funny that I’m serving you coffee now, huh?”

You failed to see any humor in the situation, though you took the drink gratefully. It was made exactly how you liked it, information you didn’t recall sharing with them, but when you looked at Dean, he only smiled a little more, taking a seat at the head of the table.

“Are you guys actually brothers?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at them both.

“If we weren’t, I wouldn’t have put up with him for this long,” Sam grumbled, and Dean promptly kicked him underneath the table which was all the proof you needed that they were siblings. “I get this is a little weird, Y/N -”

“A little?” you squeaked. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot,” he amended sheepishly.

“You killed five guys in under a minute, drank their blood, and then kidnapped me.” Something occurred to you and your eyes widened. “How did you even know I was in that alley?”

Dean folded his arms across his chest, smirking irritatingly at his brother as the taller man fumbled his words. “Well, we, uh, I mean, we -”

“What Sammy is trying to articulate,” Dean interrupted, “is that we’ve been watching over you for a while.”

You scrunched up your face, uncertain how to take the confession. “Watching over me?”

Sam shot his brother a glare before his features softened and his gaze returned to you. He sighed, leaning heavily on the table. “We’ve been alive a long time, Y/N,” he said softly. “Even with each other, it gets lonely.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” you breathed, even if your mind was provided several ways that had something to do with you.

“It has everything to do with you,” Dean muttered, sitting forward with one hand on the table, the other on his knee. “We always talked about it, and then we came here. The second I saw you in that diner, I - we both knew. You’re… you’re special.”

You shook your head slowly, uncertain what special meant to them. Sam grimaced, huffing lightly. “Neither of us knew how to approach you,” he confessed quietly, “so we just kept going to the diner, kept getting to know you, and in the meantime, we kept you safe. Honestly, we never had to intervene until last night, and then…”

“We couldn’t leave you there to explain five dead bodies to the cops,” Dean finished.

That made sense, at the very least. You didn’t relish the thought of hours being grilled by the police when all the answers you had would probably lead to a psychiatric hold. “Okay,” you muttered. “So, say this is all real, and not some concussion-based fever dream - why am I special?”

They looked at each other, like they were holding a silent conversation. You sat back, folding your arms across your chest, watching them expectantly. The seconds ticked past and neither of them spoke, giving rise to a ball of frustration in your throat.

Dean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and rolled his eyes. “You’re ours,” he stated firmly as Sam grunted his name in disagreement, earning himself a sharp look from his brother. “We said we’d tell her the truth, Sam, I’m just ripping the bandaid off.” His attention turned back to you, cutting off your confused questions before the first one could even make it out of your mouth. “Me and Sam, we’re not, uh, typical of vampires. Most vampires have a kindred spirit, someone who belongs to them, who they belong to.”

“Like soulmates?” you asked curiously, glancing between him and Sam.

Sam smirked, and Dean chuckled. “Something like that,” he agreed. “Except for us? That someone is just one person.” His eyes locked on yours, and a new, strange feeling slithered down your spine. “You.”

Your heart felt like it was pounding with the weight of his gaze. “How… how do you know that it’s me?”

“We just know,” Sam murmured solemnly.

“Like you knew those men would hurt me?” you whispered, letting your hands fall into your lap. “I’m really not dreaming, am I?”

Dean shook his head. “We’re not monsters, Y/N,” he said softly.

The recollection of the dead men made your stomach twist. “But you’ve killed people.”

“Not monsters,” Sam repeated. “But we are predators. Humans are our prey, we can’t survive without blood. Most of the time, it’s catch and release. They never remember a thing.”

You knew his justification didn’t make it right. Despite what those men had done, what they could have done, the guilt of their death was a weighted burden on your soul. “Do you…” Your lips were too dry, so you wet them, attempting your question again. “Do you feel bad about it?”

“About them?” Sam clarified, and you nodded. “No.”

“Others, yes,” Dean added cautiously. “We weren’t always as restrained, or as careful.”

At least they were honest about it, you mused, looking down at your hands, rubbing your thumb over the patch of damaged skin. “So what do you want from me?” you asked, lifting your eyes to them again. “If I’m… special. What does that mean? Are you going to keep me here?”

“No,” Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Whatever happens next is your choice.”

“What do you want though?” you pressed, leaning forward. “Am I supposed to… to become like you?”

They shared another look, another silent conversation. Dean spoke first, turning his green gaze on you with a flash of the same hunger he’d shown you the night before. “We both want that - eventually. But it has to be your choice.”

“And you don’t have to make it right away,” Sam continued on quickly, his tone stressing his point. “Right now, we just want you to get to know us.” He smiled, resting his elbows on the table. “We waited a long time to find you, and we can wait for however long as you need.”

You stared at him, wondering if he sounded so confident about it because he was right. There had been an attraction to both of them the minute they’d walked into the diner, and you’d spent too many hours thinking about them, even sketching them, to dismiss the idea of belonging to them easily. But it was still overwhelming, a little hard to digest when you’d spent your whole life being told the supernatural didn’t exist.

“I think, uh, I think maybe I should go home,” you finally decided. “This is… a lot.”

Sam nodded, getting to his feet. “Of course,” he agreed with a smile. “Lemme get your coat.”

He disappeared, leaving you alone with Dean, who was still watching you, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. You looked back at him nervously, unused to being under such scrutiny - the only person who’d ever told you that you were special was your grandmother, and she was gone now, along with the rest of your family. The idea of being important to someone was a far off memory; you hadn’t had a boyfriend in three years, and you spent most of your time alone or at work. Picking up your coffee, you drained it despite the heat, putting the cup down as something occurred to you.

“How old are you?” you asked suddenly.

Dean blinked, then smiled. “I was thirty-two when I turned,” he replied. “In 1759.”

“Oh,” you gasped. “Wow. You’re -”

“Nearly three hundred,” he chuckled. “I know, I look great, right?”

The joke made you smile, and you ducked your head, feeling warmth in the tip of your ears. Sam returned, holding out your jacket and shoes as he placed your bag on the table. “We’re only a couple of blocks from your apartment,” he murmured. “I can call a cab if you like or -”

“I wanna ask how you know where I live,” you replied warily. “And how Dean knew exactly how I take my coffee.” You sighed, taking your shoes to drop them on the floor. “But I’m getting a headache so…” Fixing a smile on your face, you slipped your shoes on. “I can walk. It’s not raining or anything, right?”

“Nope,” Dean grumbled. “It’s a really nice sunny day.”

The penny dropped. “Right,” you breathed. “Because sunlight -”

“Does absolutely nothing,” Sam finished with a laugh. “There’s a lot of old wives tales that some authors like to spin.”

Your smile tightened. “Information for another time.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back when you rose to put your jacket on. “Maybe take some Tylenol for your head,” he suggested. “I put our numbers in your phone.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, sliding your phone into your bag. “I’m gonna go sleep this headache off and, uh, I’ll text, or something. Or you can text. I’m -” You sighed, dropping your shoulders. “I’m gonna go…”

Dean didn’t follow as Sam led you to the front door, which opened up to a set of stone steps directly onto the street. You recognized where you were as soon as you stepped out, and you turned to look back at Sam, realizing you hadn’t thanked them for saving you.

“Listen, I wanna -” Pausing, you clung to your bag, and he waited, giving you time to answer. “Thank you for saving me. I… I know I’d probably be dead or worse right now if -” The words trailed off, and you sighed, shaking your head. “Thank you.”

He watched you for a moment, then he smiled gently, bowing his head for a brief second. “Go get some rest,” he urged. “We’ll talk soon.”

It took all of twelve hours for your curiosity to get the better of you, and while a part of you thought there might be something otherworldly drawing you towards the brothers, you didn’t decline when Dean asked if you wanted to spend the evening with them. You weren’t sure what to expect when you returned to their strange underground home, so when you arrived to find they’d cooked dinner for you, you were pleasantly surprised.

The whole evening was bewildering. Just being around them put you at ease, and they answered every single one of your questions without hesitation, holding nothing back. They told you about their lives, before and after their turning, spinning one wild tale after another, with each brother often correcting the other when they didn’t recall things the same. You listened to everything they said, enjoying their company more as the evening progressed, eventually dozing off on their couch before they decided it was probably time you went home to your bed.

You returned the next night. When you had to go to work, you lamented not being able to see them, resorting to text messages that had you smiling to yourself behind the till. At the end of your Monday night shift, they appeared just as you were leaving, insistent on walking you home. They did the same the next morning, and the next, and it began to feel like a physical torment to separate yourself from them. Your next weekend off, you barely bothered to return home, finding better rest in their presence than you might have ever had in your life.

Every day, their belief that you were theirs seemed a little more true. You’d never been great at keeping relationships with people going, spending most of your time alone or in online communities. It had always been hard to form long lasting connections, something you’d always put down to your introverted nature, but with the brothers, it was like they drew out a person you’d never been before. They made you feel something new, something you didn’t want to let go of.

It was only natural when the relationship moved beyond just talk within a few weeks. You had stayed the night, or rather, the day after work, sharing a bed with both the brothers, and had woken up sandwiched between them. Vampires did sleep, albeit lightly, and they were surprisingly warm, though Sam had explained that they were only as warm as their surroundings. When Dean had stirred, face to face with you, the impulse to kiss him was too strong to ignore, and when he responded, it had escalated. Sam woke only seconds after, and soon you were dizzy and breathless from their attention.

As much as you wanted to take it further, you had to get to work. The whole night, you were antsy, glancing at the clock every five minutes and cursing the slowness of time. When the brothers arrived shortly before the end of your shift, you couldn’t keep the smile off of your face, even when Hugo teased you about it. Dean and Sam both waited patiently for you to finish up, ready to walk you home, but you stopped them just outside the diner, looking between them nervously.

“I don’t wanna go home,” you whispered shyly. “At least… not my home.”

They smirked at each other, and then Dean gestured down the sidewalk to a large black classic car. “Good thing I brought the car tonight,” he chuckled.

“Meet Dean’s pride and joy,” Sam sighed. “He’s talked about it enough.”

“Her,” Dean corrected. “Don’t bad mouth my Baby, Sammy.”

The car didn’t seem entirely practical, even if the leather upholstery was comfortable. You sat in the middle of the back, clutching the edge of the seat as Dean fired up the engine, obviously showing off just a little. “Humor him,” Sam laughed, and you gave a quick thumbs up of approval.

It was a quick drive back to their apartment, and you got more nervous the closer you got. If they noticed your apprehension, they didn’t draw attention to it, at least, not until you were inside, hovering anxiously in the lounge. Sam approached first, taking your hand to kiss your knuckles.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, running his hand along your arm up to your shoulder before stopping to cradle your cheek. You leaned into it, smiling as you met his gaze.

“It’s… I’m out of practice,” you admitted, covering his hand with your own. “And there’s two of you. And you’re vampires. Makes me… nervous.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “We only bite if you ask nicely,” he joked.

The ferocity of your body’s reaction to that thought took you off guard. Arousal pounded between your thighs, and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, unable to tear your gaze off of his. “I want it,” you whispered, moving closer to him. He groaned, leaning down to kiss you.

“Getting started without me?” Dean muttered in a good natured tone as he entered the room, loitering in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest.

You broke away from Sam sheepishly, and he stepped away, tugging you towards his brother. You followed, feeling your heart pound as they led you into the bedroom. Dean took Sam’s place and kissed you, guiding you down onto the bed. “I’m a little lost on the logistics,” you confessed quietly. “I’ve never - not with two -” You could feel a babble coming on, so you shut your mouth, hoping your inexperience wasn’t a problem.

Dean’s thumb swiped across your cheek before his fingers curled under your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. “That’s pretty much the dealer's choice,” he murmured. “You being the dealer, darlin’.”

“Oh.” You inhaled sharply as Sam moved to sit on your other side. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

“Being naked is a good start,” Dean suggested lewdly, stripping his shirt over his head. For a second, you could only stare at his bare chest, feeling your mouth getting dry as your core started to throb. On your other side, Sam was now shirtless too, and you felt a little self-conscious in the low bedroom light.

Sam moved so quickly, you didn’t realize he’d done anything until the light went off and the dim lamps came on. You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself before unbuttoning your shirt, sliding it off shyly. As if sensing your apprehension, Dean pulled you into a kiss as Sam tugged your shirt off the rest of the way and tossed it, immediately putting his mouth on your bare shoulder.

“D-do we need anything?” you gasped as Dean’s fingers explored underneath your bra, pulling down the cups until he could thumb at your nipples. “Condoms?”

With a low chuckle, Sam shook his head. “No need,” he promised softly, letting his hand drop to the fastening of your pants.

You nodded listlessly, moving when Dean snapped the fastening on your bra to get rid of it entirely. He pushed you backwards until you were laying across the bed, laying beside you while Sam dragged your pants down your legs, leaving you in only your panties. They went next, sliding off under nimble fingers that returned to pry your knees apart, and you gasped when Sam’s lips brushed against your sensitive inner thigh. Before you could make a sound, Dean kissed you, thrusting his tongue against yours as his brother’s mouth descended on your cunt.

All your earlier nerves were all but obliterated, and when Dean turned his attention to your breasts, you could only just about remember to breathe. He sucked one hard nipple between his lips, and you thread your fingers through his short hair, moaning as Sam’s tongue teased your clit. It was deliriously pleasurable, but you wanted more, managing to whimper as Dean lifted his head to look at you. “Bite me,” you begged, watching the edges of his eyes begin to darken as his fangs descended.

He glanced at Sam, who only shrugged, intent on keeping up the torment on your clit. Your hips rocked against his touch, tightening your fingers in Dean’s hair.

“Please,” you whispered desperately.

Lowering his head again, he ran his tongue around your hardened peak, then lower, pressing his mouth to the swell of your breasts. There was a tiny prick of pain as his fangs pierced your skin, but the first slight pull on your blood had your eyes rolling back. Sam groaned as you shuddered, shifting to press two fingers against your entrance, sinking them in without stopping his assault on your clit.

You came within seconds, crying out with your fingers in Dean’s hair, writhing desperately as Sam pushed you higher. Dean groaned as he stopped feeding from you, dragging his tongue over the wound before lifting his head to crush his mouth against yours, cutting off your cries. The taste of your own blood invaded your mouth, startlingly not unpleasant, and when you nipped at Dean’s lip, he pulled back in surprise, a smile spreading across his lips.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment as Sam kept nuzzling into you, using his tongue in slow strokes right through your swollen lips. The bed shifted when Dean got up to remove the rest of his clothing, and when it dipped under his weight, you opened your eyes to his glorious nudity, and new desire pooled in your belly.

“C’mere,” he beckoned, moving up the bed to sit at the headboard. Lust drove your movements as Sam withdrew, and you heard him shedding his pants behind you as you crawled towards Dean, stopping short of straddling him as his cock caught your attention. His head thudded against the headboard when you dipped to lick at him, moaning when you wrapped your fingers around the shaft and squeezed.

The bed moved by your feet, and you glanced back to see Sam, now as naked as you and Dean. You couldn’t resist wiggling your rear in his direction, only for him to grab at it with one meaty hand, holding you in place as he positioned himself behind you. Dean’s cock twitched in your hand, and you turned your attention back to him, using your tongue to circle his tip while Sam ground his length against your bare cunt. You responded by pressing back into him, eager for him to fill you, but he resisted, continuing to tease you as you teased Dean.

Dean’s fingers tickled along the side of your head, encouraging you to take him into your mouth. He moaned decadently, and Sam chose that moment to thumb the tip of his generous cock into you, penetrating just enough for you to feel the stretch around his girth. You tried to focus, emitting muffled little whimpers as Sam rocked back and forth, filling you a little more at a time.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean groaned, tightening his hold on your head. “Stop teasing her and give her what she wants.”

The other brother laughed under his breath, then thrust forward, burying every inch inside you. You felt like the air was punched from your lungs, so you lifted your head, keeping hold of Dean with one hand while you caught your breath, gasping loudly as pleasure buzzed outwards from where Sam was throbbing deep in your cunt. “Oh god,” you whined. “Fuck.”

It felt different than any other lover you’d had before. Maybe it was because Sam wasn’t quite as warm as you; the only warmth his skin held was what he leeched from you and the air around him. He was definitely bigger, thicker, pushing the limits of what you felt you could take.

Seconds ticked by, and Dean’s hips jerked slightly, reminding you of what you had been doing. Giving him a shy grin, you dragged your tongue up his length, then slid your lips over him; Sam started to move with shallow thrusts, holding your hips in place with ease. You lost yourself in both of them, moaning around Dean’s cock when Sam started to fuck you harder, and when a hand slipped underneath you, long fingers easily finding your clit, you responded by taking Dean deeper.

You’d never been so aroused in your life. Sucking cock had always been a favor, but somehow with them, you felt a desperate need to please, growing wetter with every impact of Sam’s hips against yours, with every twitch of Dean’s dick in your mouth. Your first climax shuddered through you, and they kept going, pushing you higher until you were almost dizzy with pleasure.

Sam’s enthusiasm grew when he felt your cunt squeeze him; he dragged you away from Dean and upright, holding you with one hand loosely around your throat. You gasped, looking at Dean as he watched, one hand wrapped around his dick, eyes heavy and hungry.

“You want me to bite you too?” Sam grunted, right against your ear. All you could do was nod eagerly, still trembling from the orgasm he’d fucked you through. He growled, slamming into you harder until you were crying out, and with one last powerful thrust, he came, sinking his fangs into your throat as he filled you. Your eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, a low whimper falling from your lips when fresh pleasure blossomed in your gut.

He didn’t take too much, releasing you gently when he was done, and you dropped onto your hands, gasping as he withdrew. You couldn’t think through the flood of bliss in your veins, so when Dean pulled you towards him, you went willingly, straddling him as he lined up and tugged you down onto his cock. One hand held you down, full to the brim again, and the other cupped your breast, guiding your nipple to his mouth.

Instinct made you grind down onto him, and he growled, fucking up into you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, throwing your head back as he filled you over and over, riding the wave of ecstasy until you were trembling from head to toe. He didn’t stop until he was spilling into you, abandoning your breast to kiss you again. When he stilled, you felt like you were floating, and your whole body shook as you reluctantly lifted yourself off.

You landed on your back, gasping for breath as you came down from the high they’d driven you to. “Is it too soon to say I’m falling head over heels?” you laughed, feeling them press in close on either side of you.

“You know,” Dean mumbled against your bare shoulder, “when you’re like us, this will feel a million times more intense.”

You should have been perturbed at how comfortable you were with the idea of being like them when he mentioned it; you’d figured that eternity was their end game early on, but you had never imagined your own easy acceptance of it. The more you thought about it, the more you wanted it, and that alone should have frightened you. “It does?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mmhmm,” Sam hummed, one hand sliding over your hip. “Everything’s more intense.”

By the time you pulled yourself away from their bed that evening, you’d all but decided you were done with the mortal coil. The brothers had been right about where you belonged, and more than that, you wanted it. Forever didn’t sound so scary if you got to spend it with them.

You felt like you were floating as you walked to work, replaying moments with them over and over, smiling to yourself. Hugo was the first to comment when you made it through the door at The Midnight Diner, but you were in too good a mood to let it bother you. Even folding napkins couldn’t dampen your spirit.

Usually, you would pride yourself on your ability to read a customer. You could tell if someone was trouble, yet when he first walked in, nervously requesting a coffee to go, you didn’t pick up on the weird vibes he was giving you. With a smile on your face, you prepared his drink and rang him up on the till, only to realize he’d covered his face, and he was now holding a gun. You threw your hands up, and another customer noticed the exchange, screeching when she saw the gun.

The man instantly turned his weapon to her. “No!” you cried, getting his attention back on you. “You want money, right?”

“Empty the drawer,” he snapped, fingers shaking on the pistol.

You hit the button, opening the till drawer, pulling out everything in there. He grabbed for it, needing only one hand, and it was obvious he was unhappy. “T-that’s everything,” you stuttered, feeling sweat bead on your forehead.

“You’re lying,” he growled, pocketing the seventy-five bucks. “You gotta have more.”

“It’s emptied every day,” you shrieked when he thrust the gun closer, finger on the trigger.

“Hey!” Hugo’s voice made you turn your head to where he was standing with his own weapon brandished. The man twitched, and time seemed to slow to a near-stop.

The sound of a gunshot made you jump, and you stared at the man in the balaclava as his jaw went slack, gaze dropping to the blood slowly soaking through your shirt. You looked down, moving one hand to press at the wound to your stomach, vaguely registering the gunman’s departure as your knees grew weak. “Shit,” you whispered, crumbling to the ground.

Hugo was beside you in an instant, uselessly padding the wound with napkins as he yelled for someone to call an ambulance. You stared at the ceiling, tasting blood on your tongue, wondering why it didn’t hurt more, and you drifted, struggling to keep your eyes open as the chef begged you to stay with him.

The paramedics arrived in what felt like a blink. They asked questions, and you tried to pay attention, but all you could think about was that maybe you should have said yes to Sam and Dean while you could. It felt like the end, your end, at the hands of a stranger with a gun, on the faded linoleum tiles of The Midnight Diner.

Somewhere, you registered the concern of the medics attending to you. They chattered quickly, mentioning blood loss, words that sounded important but held no meaning to you. “My phone,” you choked out, tasting more blood as you tried to move, and then the pain kicked in. “Sam -”

One of the paramedics pressed against your shoulder, keeping you flat. “You need me to call somebody, hon?”

All you could manage was a nod. Everything was getting dim, becoming too hard to focus, so you closed your eyes, letting the sounds fade too. For a moment, the world was still, and quiet, peaceful. Something beckoned to you to let go, like a tug on your soul, and for a moment, you thought about how easy it would be.

A soft beeping infiltrated the darkness. Heaviness filled you, and you realized it was your own body weighing you down. The cold floor you’d been on was gone, replaced by softness, and with a low groan, you opened your eyes to see a strange woman in a white coat standing over you. She smiled sadly, and you felt the whisper of a touch on your arm.

“She’s awake,” she murmured, looking away from you, prompting you to follow her line of sight with a turn of your head.

Sam and Dean were standing in the shadows of the small room. You felt a sweeping relief when you saw them, even if the expressions on their faces matched the same sadness the woman seemed to have. She spoke your name softly, making you look back at her, and you knew that whatever she had to say wasn’t good.

“I’m Doctor Freely. Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

The man in the diner. The gun. You remembered it all. “I was shot,” you rasped, feeling moisture in your eyes.

She nodded. “The bullet did a lot of damage,” she explained hesitantly. “We’ve tried to repair it but it hit your liver.” You frowned at her, and her smile became sympathetic, the pity in her words palpable. “We did everything we could. Your only hope is a transplant but -” The implication was clear as she trailed off, and you clenched your jaw, tears clinging to your lashes.

You were going to die.

“We’re doing everything we can to make you comfortable,” she whispered, obvious distress on her face, though you imagined you were not the first person she’d ever told they were going to die.

“How long?” you asked, throat clogging with emotion.

“Hours,” she replied. “Maybe days.”

You nodded, blinking away tears as you turned your head away and closed your eyes. The doctor sighed, glancing at Sam and Dean before retreating without another word, and before the door could click shut, they were at your side. “We shoulda been there,” Dean murmured, leaning over to kiss your forehead.

“You didn’t know,” you replied in a shaky voice, though you couldn’t open your eyes for fear that the tears would overwhelm you. The pain of your injury was beginning to push through the numb, heavy feeling; everything about your body felt wrong, which you guessed should be unsurprising if you were that badly hurt. “I don’t -” You swallowed, finally forcing yourself to look at them, and your fear was proved right when fat tears rolled down your cheeks. “I don’t wanna die.”

Sam’s hand cupped your jaw. You looked up at him as he wiped your tears away with his thumb, smiling at you softly. “I know you wanted to wait,” he murmured, “but I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”

“W-will it work?” you asked. “You said that sometimes -”

He cut you off by shaking his head. “You’re strong enough,” he assured you. “You fought your way back to us once already.”

Dean’s voice was low when he spoke, drawing your gaze to him. “Your heart stopped in the diner,” he explained, taking hold of your hand. You could see the moisture in his eyes, so you gripped his hand back, ignoring the discomfort of the IV underneath your skin. “If we do this, we don’t have much time.”

Hours, you thought to yourself. Before all this, you’d been planning for weeks, months, and now, the choice had been taken away. You were surprised you didn’t feel more grief for the life you were leaving behind. “Who’s gonna -” Kill me, you finished in a thought, knowing they would understand.

“We agreed it should be Sam,” Dean replied, sharing a look with his brother.

You nodded. “What happens next?”

They had already told you how vampires were made - you had to drink their blood and then, essentially, die. “Your heart will stop and the venom will change you,” Sam explained softly. “You’ll be out for around twelve hours. And then you’ll wake up.”

“We’ll make sure we’re there,” Dean added, still clinging to your hand. “We won’t leave you.”

“And then everyone will assume I’m dead, right? I can’t -” You sighed, shaking your head. “I can’t ever see anyone I know again.”

Sam smiled sadly. “They’ll think you died from your injuries. We can get your stuff from your apartment, and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

The pain was getting stronger. Your chest hurt, and breathing was making your whole body ache. “It hurts,” you murmured. The machines registering your heart rate started to beep faster, and the brothers looked up in alarm. “I don’t -”

Yanking the plug from the wall, Dean silenced the alarm before it could start. “Now, Sam,” he ordered. “We can’t wait.” He released your hand, moving towards the door to keep a look out as Sam cradled your face again, leaning in to kiss you softly.

“Don’t be frightened,” he soothed as you gasped for breath, nodding your consent. Your eyes filled with fresh tears as he bit into his wrist, sending crimson trickling over his pale skin, and when he offered the wound to you, you didn’t hesitate. His blood was cold, dribbling sluggishly into your throat until you couldn’t swallow anymore, and he pulled away, wiping away the stray droplets from your lips.

Just like in the diner, your vision began to gray and blur. Sam reached over to plug the machine back in, and instantly the monitors went wild. Dean opened the door, yelling for help, and Sam stepped back as medical staff flooded the room. Your eyes fluttered shut, and everything stopped as the machines let out one last long steady bleat.

One Week Later…

There was a vacant table in The Midnight Diner. In the middle, pushed up against the wall, was the last employee photo you had ever taken, surrounded by flowers and little notes from the regulars and other staff. You had read every single one as you stood on the other side of the road, giving one last goodbye to the life you were leaving behind. Dean and Sam had been sleeping when you left them, but they’d find you easily enough.

You’d never realized the need they felt for you was so deep, at least not until you’d woken up with the same insatiable pull, though it felt like something you couldn’t adequately put words to. It was a stronger sensation than anything you’d felt in your human life, giving you a deeper understanding of why they’d been so drawn to you.

“There you are,” Dean murmured, appearing in the shadows beside you. You smiled at him, then looked back at the diner, sighing softly as Sam appeared on your other side. “Are you ready?”

“I think so,” you replied, feeling a small measure of sadness for the person you’d been. You wished you could have told the ones who cared about you that you were okay, but it was far easier to disappear this way. There was a funeral with an empty casket to be held tomorrow - you weren’t sticking around for that weirdness.

They had closure, both with your burial, and the arrest of the man who had been responsible for shooting you. Dean had suggested finding him yourselves and dealing with it, but you didn’t feel any need for revenge when you’d been headed for this future one way or another.

Sam’s hand slipped into yours, dragging you out of your thoughts. “Where do you wanna go first?” he asked.

Your smile grew. “Anywhere,” you whispered, looking at him, then Dean, taking his hand too. “As long as it’s with you.”

THANK YOU FOR READING, PLEASE CONSIDER REBLOGGING SO OTHERS CAN ENJOY IT 😁

#supernatural fanfiction #alternate universe fanfiction #vampire Sam and Dean #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Dean Winchester fanfiction #reader insert #dean winchester x reader x sam winchester #monstober 2024

65 notes · View notes