#imagine you crossed shades of magic with the leftovers with the man in the high castle

[chavisory]

Well, I made it to within the final week of this contract without buying a book, but I got so tired of only reading on my laptop.

And it is very good.

You couldn’t do nice conversation in English. English was for yelling at omnibus drivers and getting drunk behind dodgy clubs.

[thedreamsmith]

Fellatio Eros

@atc74​ @alleiradayne​ @arrowsandmixtapes​ @captain-s-rogers​ for #OC appreciation day 2020

Warnings: Explicit smut, swearing, amnesia

Word count: 4583

Pairing: Sam x OFC

Summary:  Sam gets hit with a witch's curse. Again. Magical blowjobs. I have no excuse for this.

It took the combined strength of both Rhea and Dean to get Sam from the car to the bunker’s infirmary.

Rhea slipped out from under Sam’s arm with a groan as she watched the sleeping hunter’s face. His skin was tan against the starched white sheets and his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. They didn’t even know what the witch had hit him with, let alone how long it would take him to wake up.

She glanced up to see Dean studying the dusty bottles of rubbing alcohol on the shelf against the far wall with a familiar gleam in his eyes.

‘That stuff will make you go blind.’ The older hunter only grunted and turned to face her, his gaze pointedly avoiding his brother’s unconscious form.

So quick she almost missed it, a flash of pain crossed his features. ‘I’m gonna patch Sam up, why don’t you start going through the lore to see if we can find what she did to him? We can take it in turns watching him in case he wakes up.’

It spoke to how shaken he was that he didn’t argue with her; just trudged back into the warren of corridors towards the library; trailing dust and what might’ve been chalk powder behind him.

Cas wouldn’t be back for a few hours yet, and without his healing grace, Sam’s wounds would need cleaning and stitching. Ignoring the drag of exhaustion on her eyelids, Rhea set about gathering first aid supplies. Most of the stuff left in the bunker was years out of date but the bandages and suture material were viable and together with the leftovers from her own kit, she managed to cobble together enough to patch up the sleeping hunter.

Her hands were steady as she cut the layers of flannel and cotton apart to get to the lacerations on his chest, the familiar push and pull of the needle through flesh helped to distract her from the taut muscle and faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

When she was done, she lingered by his bedside, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. All four of them had been thrown about, cursed, shot and kidnapped but against her better judgement, Rhea had developed a soft spot for the younger Winchester.

Silvery light slanted down from the high windows set into the wall, painting the room in shades of moonlight and midnight; silver and white and grey; deep shadows in the hollow of his throat and beneath both of their eyes.

The infirmary was only room in the bunker that let in natural light - probably something to do with fresh air being good for recovery - even if the windows were made from bulletproof glass and warded within an inch of their lives.

Finally, she forced herself to step back, her joints popping as she settled onto the bed adjacent to Sam’s. With fumbling fingers, Rhea pulled the string on the solitary lamp beside the bed, extinguishing the wavering circle of golden light that surrounded them. The sheets were scratchy beneath her cheek but within moments she had dropped into dreamless sleep.

At some point Cas had returned, and she found him sitting at the foot of her bed when she woke. Blinking groggily, she sat up, mumbling a greeting to the dark-haired angel.

‘Hello, Rhea.’ Like Dean, Cas had deep shadows beneath his eyes and his normally gravelly voice was even rougher than usual.

‘Could you watch Sam while I take a shower?’ Dirt and dust coated her hair and her skin felt distinctly greasy – both sensations that she profoundly disliked.

Cas nodded his silent assent as she rose stiffly from the bed. With a wince, she realised that she’d left a silhouette of muck on the pristine bedsheets.

A bone-deep weariness had settled into her as she slept; perhaps even before that, as she’d hauled her best friend into the infirmary. Running out on this life wasn’t a thought that often crossed her mind, but when it did, it hit her like a freight train.

Cas had used his grace to heal Sam while they both slept, and as she traced the newly-smooth skin with her eyes, she imagined his steady, long-fingers hands wrapped around a lawnmower, a mug of coffee in a sunlit kitchen, her waist in a moonlit bedroom. Domestic, normal things that neither of them could ever have. And one silly, selfish fantasy that she wouldn’t ever act on.

The promise of a hot shower was exquisite, and it almost pushed the bullshit of the day from her mind as she skirted around the foot of Sam’s bed towards the door. She had one foot in the hallway when a soft groan floated from behind her.

Rhea whirled around so quickly that her braid whacked her in the eye. Blinking and swearing, she rushed back over to the bedside next to Cas.

Sam let out another long groan as he blinked groggily and brushed tangled strands of hair from his face.

‘Shit, Sam you scared the hell out of us.’ Her shoulders sagged in visible relief.  ‘Get-’ She turned to Cas, but all she saw was the hem of his trench coat disappearing through the doorway. ‘…Dean.’

‘Where am I?’ Sam’s voice was rough with sleep as he glanced around the room, eyes flitting over the rows of beds and trolleys of dusty medical equipment.

‘You’re in the infirmary. We-‘

‘Who are you?’

Rhea froze, a sensation like ice creeping through her veins as she suddenly noted the lack of recognition in the hunter’s features; the uncharacteristic blankness on a face that was usually so expressive.

‘I’m Rhea. We met two years ago on a case in North Dakota.’ She spoke slowly, hoping against hope that he’d be able to reach for his memories; that he’d just decided to be a dick and prank her.

His brows furrowed, and her heart broke as no recognition entered his gaze.

There was a thunder of footsteps and Dean came flying into the room, Cas in tow. There wasn’t time to warn him before he had his arms wrapped around his brother; buried his face in his hair.

‘Sammy, I –‘

‘Who the hell are you?’ Sam untangled himself from Dean, pushing him away none-to-gently as he swung his legs to the floor.

‘C’mon man, are you messing with me?’ Dean’s voice had an edge to it now, painful and raw and desperate.

‘He doesn’t remember us. He doesn’t remember anything.’ She spoke softly, eyes never leaving Sam as his gazed shifted between the three of them, barring his way to the door. They had no idea how much of his fighting ability he’d retained, but if he decided he wasn’t going to sit quietly then things could get messy.

‘Since I have no idea who you people are, I’m gonna go.’

Rhea started forwards, pressing her hands to his chest.

Sam strained against her, hard enough that she was tempted to use her geas; magically granted gifts of strength, speed and agility granted to her for helping several Seelie fae. Those same fae might be able to restore Sam’s memories, but they were half a world away in her homeland.

‘Dean.’ There was a scuffle of boots and he joined the fray, hands on his brother’s shoulders as together they tried to wrestle the taller man back onto the bed. ‘Fuck!’

She ducked as Sam swung a wild haymaker, his fist passing over her head. Dean wasn’t so lucky – there was a meaty crunch as knuckles met jawbone, forcing the elder Winchester to stumble backwards.

‘Cas put him the fuck to sleep!’

Sam flinched as the angel moved towards him, but wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge the two fingers he pressed to his forehead. The hunter went down like a sack of bricks, knees buckling as he collapsed half-across the infirmary bed.

There was a moment of shocked silence as the trio stared mutely at Sam, who had started to snore. Wordlessly, Rhea and Dean moved as one to position Sam’s long legs back onto the bed and prop a pillow beneath his head.

‘I’m gonna take a shower.’ She flashed the men a thin smile as she headed for the door. They’d want space, she knew, for Cas to cup Dean’s bruising jaw and tell him in his gravel-rough voice that Sam would be okay. For Dean to rest his forehead against the angel’s and close his eyes, drawing strength from the contact.

Their relationship was the worst-kept secret in the bunker, but it was only fair to give them at least the illusion of secrecy.

Little puffs of dust erupted from each twist of her braid as she waited for the shower to run hot. Once steam filled the room, she stepped beneath the stream and pressed her forehead to the still-cool tiles as she watched the water run brown with dried blood and dirt.

By the time she was done, she was clean and the drain was filthy, but it was only the work of a moment to give the tiles a rinse so that Sam didn’t give her another bollocking for blocking the drain with her hair; the hypocrite that he was. When he remembered her. If he remembered her.

She braided her damp hair back as she headed towards the infirmary. Cas was still sat at the end of the bed beside Sam’s, eyes following the slow dance of dust motes in the moonlight. She took the lack of Dean’s presence to mean that he had headed back to the library.

‘I’ll take over here, Cas.’ He turned to face her; ocean-deep eyes almost glowing in the low light. It wasn’t hard to see why Dean had fallen in love with the angel. ‘Make sure Dean takes a break at some point.’

Cas nodded his assent and then with a whisper of fabric he was gone. With a sigh, Rhea brushed as much of the dirt she’d left on the bed off as she could before settling down. Wrapping herself in the blanket she’d brought from her own room, she lay facing the sleeping hunter. The fleece was soft beneath her cheek as she closed her eyes, cushioning her bruised heart as well as her body.

It had been near dawn when Dean had gently shaken her awake and wordlessly taken her over her vigil in the infirmary. She hadn’t needed to ask if he’d found answers – the greyish cast to his complexion and the slump of his shoulders had told her all she needed to know.

The ancient grandfather clock in the library showed half past eleven by the time she pulled a leather-bound tome of ancient Greek mythology into her lap. Despite the few hours of sleep she’d managed to get in the infirmary, she felt heavy and slow, eyes burning from translating near-indecipherable texts and copious amounts of dust. Mechanically turning pages, hope long fizzled out, she almost missed it.

‘Dean. Dean.’ Rhea shot up from the table, clutching the book to her chest. They met each other half-way, nearly crashing into one another in the hallway as Dean careered towards the sound of her voice. ‘I think I found it.’

Dean’s eyes were wild, his hair sticking up haphazardly on one side of his head.

‘This book talks about Circe.’

‘Wait, Cersei as in ‘Game of Thrones, fucks her brother’ Cersei?’ Dean’s eyebrows furrowed; lips parted slightly as his eyes traced over the page.

‘No, Circe.’ She tapped the name on the paper. ‘As in the ancient Greek sorceress.’

Heart thundering, she showed him the illuminated image on the page; a dark-haired woman in a flowing purple chiton - arms spread - surrounded by three young women. ‘In the stories, she tricked sailors into resting in her home then turned them into pigs. She also specialised in memory-erasing spells.’

‘You think it was her we dusted then?’ Rhea chewed on her lower lip, worrying the flesh between her teeth.

‘I don’t think so – she’s one of the only witches who didn’t care about eternal youth and all that shite. But she did take on plenty of apprentices. It could’ve been one of them.’

‘Do we know how to break the spell?’ Her shoulders slumped as she closed the book, a puff of dust rising from the paper. That terrible weight settled itself back into Dean’s features.

‘We’ll find something. We have to.’ Her voice was soft as she leant heavily against the wall. The Black Grimoire and the sorceress with the power to use it were both MIA, and the next most powerful witch in the Northern hemisphere couldn’t leave the bonnie banks of Scotland. ‘Maybe there’s something in the archives. I could-‘

‘Kid, you need to take a break.’ She narrowed her eyes at him, resenting both the nickname and the suggestion. ‘Don’t give me that look, you’ve been working for nearly six hours straight. Get something to eat. Cas ‘nd I will start on the archives.’

At any other time she would have argued. Hell – it probably would’ve turned into a shouting match. But she was bone-tired and heart-sick for a man who didn’t even remember her name.

‘Alright, I’ll grab some take-out and coffee.’ She leant into the older hunter as he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. ‘But no banging in the archives, last time-‘

‘Hey! Enough.’ Dean shoved her away, indignance shining in his eyes.

Rhea snorted as she rolled her shoulders, stretching out some of the tension.

‘You break it, you buy it.’ And despite the shitty situation, despite the tension that smothered them, he smiled. She counted that as a win.

Cas and Dean were nowhere to be found when she returned an hour later, laden with the least disgusting of the take-out options in Lebanon and several bags of coffee beans. After putting the coffee away, she padded through the labyrinth of hallways to find the others.

The archive was quiet when she entered, a colossal mess the only sign that the two men had been there recently.

‘Guys? I got takeout.’ There was a sudden rustling of paper from behind the shelves and a dishevelled-looking Castiel appeared. It was odd seeing the angel in just his shirtsleeves, but the look was oddly endearing. Rhea raised one eyebrow as she tilted her chin and waited for the inevitable emergence of a half-dressed Dean from behind the shelves.

Instead, Cas only glanced over her shoulder at something. She turned to find Dean in the hallway, hands in pockets and a bemused expression on his face.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She chuckled quietly as she shook her head, braid swinging with the motion. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘That’s why I was looking for you.’ Dean squeezed past her, not-so-subtly brushing against Cas as he went. After a moment of shuffling though a pile of loose paper, he thrust something out at her. On instinct, she took it.

The tube was small and silver, with lettering engraved along one side. Judging from the size, shape and the edge that ran around its circumference near the base…

‘Lipstick?’ Her gaze darted between the two men.

‘The Men of Letters called it ‘Cupid’s Kiss.’’ Cas held out a sheaf of papers stamped with the familiar seal of the ancient organisation. ‘It was found somewhere in Greece before being stored here.’

Her eyebrows drew together as she scanned the yellowing document.

‘That can’t be right…’ Tucking the lipstick into her palm, she gingerly took the folder form Cas. ‘Cupid was a Roman god of love. If this is Greek, then it should be…’ Eros. God of erotic love. Unease prickled at the back of her neck as she set the papers down on an upturned crate. ‘How does it work?’

Dean scratched absently at the day-old stubble peppering his jaw. ‘The old coots reckoned it was a ‘true love’s kiss bullshit’ kinda deal.’ She could see where this was going. ‘So you just need to put it on, lay one on Sammy and the curse should be broken.’

Rhea scowled faintly at the green-eyed hunter. ‘Why me? Couldn’t Cas do it?’

The angel’s eyes went wide with panic as she rounded on him.

‘I do not wear lipstick.’ She snorted, her fingers absently tracing the engravings on the side of the tube. The feeling of unease had settled in the pit of her stomach; heavy and foreboding. Sliding her phone from her back pocket, she absently listened to Dean try to convince Cas to try guyliner as she tapped into the translation app. The lettering was just visible enough for the camera to pick it up and she tapped one booted foot as she waited for the translation to appear.

A quiet groan slipped past her lips as the screen flashed with the engraving in English. Whoever created this thing had a filthy sense of humour.

‘What is it?’ Cas and Dean angled themselves to try and catch a glimpse of her phone before she hastily shoved it back into her pocket. Not suspicious at all.

‘Nothing.’ She cleared her throat, fingers twisting the cap of the tube until it came loose with a soft pop. ‘Just the name of the sorcerer who made it.’ She had expected the lipstick to be a garish shade of pink or red, but the cream stick was wine-dark; the colour of old blood.

A flash of panic made her heart skip as Dean made to follow her from the dusty archives. From the sideways glance he threw her, it wasn’t hard to imagine that she must look like a deer in the headlights.

‘I’ll meet you back in the library, with Sam.’ She pasted on what she hoped was a reassuring smile. When Dean looked ready to argue, she cut him off with a raised eyebrow. ‘Do you really want to see me making out with your unconscious brother?’

That made him pause, but the elder hunter still seemed like he was gearing up for a sulk of epic proportions.

‘Fine.’ Thank Chuck. ‘Coming Cas?’ The dishevelled angel followed the hunter into the corridor with a tired smile in her direction. The small tube in her back pocket seemed to burn through the denim as she headed in the opposite direction.

How the hell was she going to do this?

She made a quick stop in her room to apply the damnable lipstick before heading to the infirmary. The wine-dark shade almost matched her hair, free and thick around her face now that she’d spent several minutes messing about with it. Procrastinating.

The woman in the mirror stared back with the same blue-grey eyes, the same broad, high cheekbones. She pulled a face at herself; a silly, childish gesture but it did something to loosen the knot in her belly.

Sam was still asleep when she entered the infirmary; shafts of sunlight slanting from the high windows to illuminate the broad planes of his face. It would be easier, less awkward to let him remain unconscious while she did this, but her conscience wouldn’t let her do that to him. To rob him of consent and free will.

Instead, she brushed one calloused palm over his forehead, sweeping back a few errant strands of hair. His eyes flickered behind eyelids permanently bruised by a lifetime of too much worry and not enough sleep, the delicate pink tracery of veins almost glowing in the mid-day sun.

‘Sam? Sam you need to wake up.’ Her voice shook and her chest ached. She was scared; in a way that vampires and ghouls could never affect her. The hunter squinted against the light as he quickly came to – even angel-induced somnolence couldn’t override almost three decades of training.

‘Who are you?’ He searched her face, eyes skimming over the crease between her brows, the fullness of her painted mouth. Her throat ached around the tightness that threatened to overwhelm her. Before she replied, she cupped his jaw in her palm and leant down until there was barely a breath between them.

‘Someone who can give you your memories back.’ She swallowed thickly. ‘Someone who loves you.’

She closed her eyes as she pressed her lips to his; kissed him once, twice before he responded, tilting his head to slant his mouth over hers. As tempted as she was to continue the kiss – especially as Sam bit down gently on her lower lip - it wasn’t going to bring his memories back.

Breath coming in ragged gasps, she kissed her way down his jaw, pleased to see the dark smear of lipstick on his mouth – at least that would keep Dean and Cas from getting too suspicious. Sam groaned as she pressed butterfly-light kisses down his neck, down the path of skin revealed by the ruin of his shirt.

‘If you want me to stop…’ She wanted – needed – to give him the choice, to know that he wanted this, wanted her, even if he didn’t know who she was. She deal with consequences if – when – his memories came back.

‘Don’t stop.’ The words were a rough breath, riding an undercurrent of dark lust. Lean muscle jumped beneath velvet soft skin as she flattened her hand over the solid plane of his abdomen. The other was splayed over his thigh and she was sure that he would be able to feel her heated skin through the denim.

She was going to combust – the desperate lust and hope that she’d kept pent up for over a year shifting into something molten and burning. A fine tremor shivered through her hands as she worked the buckle on Sam’s jeans, the supple leather cool beneath her fingers. The hunter groaned quietly as she brushed over the hardness just below.

Urgency pushed her to yank at the fastening, to pull his jeans and underwear down just enough to free his cock. The material bunched around his thighs couldn’t be comfortable in the slightest but Sam only watched her; a startling intensity burning in his hazel eyes as she wet her painted lips, no doubt smearing the lipstick even more.

Her first taste of him was almost sweet as she ran her tongue lightly over the flared tip, the warm flesh taut and smooth on her tongue. He was bigger than she’d had in a long time – maybe ever – so it was all she could do to take him as far as she could, to hollow her cheeks and tighten around him as she used her hands to encircle the base of his cock.

Despite herself, an errant moan escaped her as the hunter tangled long fingers into her blood-red hair and pulled. Sam’s answering moan added to the symphony as the vibrations travelled along his shaft; joining the wet-slick sounds of her lips on him and the creak of the metal-bed frame as he rocked his hips up into her mouth.

Lipstick was smeared in wine-dark streaks along the length of his cock, almost matching the flush that was steadily creeping down his neck; a lovely contrast to his sandy colouring. The ache in her knees was nothing compared to the insistent throbbing between her legs and the way she could feel the slick pooled there every time she shifted, trying to achieve some kind of relief.

Soon enough, she was lost to the act; the way that he urged her to take more of him, the shift of hunters’ muscles beneath increasingly flushed skin becoming as familiar to her as her own name. She hadn’t lost a scrap of clothing, or received anything by the way of stimulation and yet she was more worked up than she’d been with any of the few one-night-stands she’d had on the road.

‘Fuck, Rhea.’ The use of actual words was almost jarring in the dusty silence of the infirmary. Her head popped up, eyes wide and wild as she gaped up at him. Sam seemed just as shocked as she was by the outburst. He’d said her name. He’d remembered.

She surged upwards, the kiss hot and urgent, the taste of him on both their tongues as he held on tighter, tighter. But the curse wasn’t broken yet; so with renewed fervour she swallowed him down, nose almost brushing his pubic bone with each pass. She could feel him tightening under her tongue and it wasn’t a surprise when he came – spurting hotly into the back of her throat.

His head was still tipped back when she pulled her mouth off him with a slick sound and glanced up. The late-afternoon sunlight loved his throat and jawline; turning his skin the colour of molten honey. Shafts of light slanted from the high windows, illuminating each strand of hair in a thousand shades of gold; delicately wrought and glistening like sunstone. His breaths came heavily, chest rising and falling deeply as he fought to calm his thundering heartbeat.

She slowly rose to her feet, knees aching in protest as she watched his face carefully, warily. Rhea rolled the little metal tube between her fingers, tracing the delicate engravings. It was a long moment before Sam opened his eyes and there was a clarity in his gaze that hadn’t been there before.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sam.’ The words tripped over her tongue as they tumbled from her lips. ‘We couldn’t find another way and Dean was getting frantic and this is all we could find.’ She waved the lipstick vaguely as she barrelled on. ‘I know it’s shitty but we needed you back and-‘

‘Rhea.’ His hands were warm against her skin as he gripped her wrists. ‘It’s alright.’

Her heart raced hell-for-leather, slamming against her ribcage as Sam held her gaze.

‘It’s just-‘ But the hunter cut her off.

‘Trust me.’ Hazel eyes gazed up at her, shining with such sincerity that her knees wobbled ever-so-slightly. ‘What just happened was something I’ve thought about for a long time. Minus the curse-induced amnesia.’ A small crease appeared between his brows as they furrowed. ‘Though next time I doubt you’ll need the help of…’ Sam tilted his head as he raised her hand that still clutched the silver tube. ‘A kiss beneath the waist.’

The hunter snorted quietly at the translation as Rhea silently thanked god that Dean couldn’t read ancient Greek. Cas, however, was another matter altogether; but if he going to tell Dean what the engraving actually meant he probably would’ve done it well before she’d returned to the bunker.

‘I told…’ Breaking off, she took a steadying breath and attempted to ignore the heady rush of relief and the still-present ache between her legs. ‘I let Cas and Dean believe that it would only take a kiss to break the spell.’

Sam’s gaze caught on the way she tugged her lower lip between her teeth; the taste of cherries and wine and something darker filling her mouth as her tongue passed over the remains of the lipstick, almost-but-not-quite overpowering the salty aftertaste of Sam that lingered in her mouth.

‘Don’t worry, I doubt I’ll be telling my brother about this anytime soon.’ The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but something far more predatory remained in his eyes. He stood for the first time in hours, towering over her as her kept a firm but gentle hold of her wrists. ‘I do plan on returning the favour later though.’