southernimpala

[southernimpala]

inspiration just struck

taking care of him while he’s sick~~

[southernimpala]

i’m under the covers u just can’t see me 🤣😳

MOC!Dean being tormented by nightmares is hot af (sorry, Dean, ilu, but it’s true)

[southernimpala]

driving all the way from jersey to florida and i can’t stop listening to nettles pls help (just drop the damn album already)

[southernimpala]

I LOVE IT WHEN YOU FEED ME.

premise ; you make a late-night visit to sam’s motel room, as you both have itches that desperately need to be scratched.

content warnings ; demon!reader . dom!sam . size kink!! . slight dacryphilia + thumb sucking . blood consumption . biting . marking . knife play + consensual cutting . fingering . oral male + fem! receiving . unprotected sex . creampie . a lil overstimulation . nearly getting caught . NOT PROOFREAD .

wordcount ; 3.3k words.

“what the hell are you going here?” sam grumbled. he had you pinned to the wall roughly, knife to your throat and everything. you struggled to move, breathing turned slightly panicked. “m’here to help you, sam.” you sassed, rolling your eyes.

“i don’t need your help. dean’ll be here soon, you gotta leave. now.” he pressed the knife closer against your throat. the blade threatened to draw blood from your vessel’s skin. and that only excited you more. “c’mon, sam,” you nearly whined. you noticed one of his giant legs had slipped between your smaller ones.

perfect.

your hips did a test buck, a gasp leaving your now parted lips. his thigh pressed just right where you needed him most.

you rubbed against him, biting your lip from the pleasure. “you know you need me,” whispered moans spilled from you as sam stared. he did need you. he ran low on your blood a while back, and had been desperately calling you ever since. he didn’t want you to leave. he needed his fix. but he couldn’t risk dean coming back and seeing you here.

“stop, stop!” he spoke through gritted teeth. one of his hands flew to your hip, holding it in place. “sam-” you whined. “no, enough! i’m not doing this with you.” his large hand matched his strength, having you set in place even with your rapid squirming. “no, sam, please!” you strained your head back, allowing him to see more of your neck, exposing it straight to the blade he held.

“need, ngh, need you,” you had pulled at his hand, using your inhumane strength until it reached your core, practically grabbing it as his fingers flexed. you hummed in satisfaction while sam let out a noise of surprise. “you want it, sam, i know you do,” you stared into his eyes as you grinded. his large fingers pushed the denim of your jeans right against you, in all the right places.

“fuck,” sam groaned. the sight of you—the feel of you, it was getting to him. and you could tell. “you- hah, that’s why you kept calling, right? you need it.” you moaned, slamming your hips onto his hand, thighs squeezing. “yeah, yeah i do,” he slid his hand out from your trap, the warmth of you disappearing from his palm. you whined again at the sudden loss of him.

“i need all of you.” he popped the button of your jeans with one hand, shoving it into the fabrics that distanced you from him. his fingers completely disappeared into your folds, gaining sweet mewls from you. “sam,” you groaned. he brought the knife away from your neck, stabbing it into the wall near your head. he glided his fingers through your slick while his free hand moved your hair and clothes out of the way of your shoulder.

he pushed your jacket away and pulled your shirt down, admiring your skin feverishly. you adjusted your hips, moving them outwards to try and get him closer to where you wanted him. and, oh, did he listen.

sam shoved two fingers into you, stretching your entrance to fit them. he bit down on your exposed skin as hard as he could, tasting the metallics of your blood as it filled his mouth. the taste soon turned sweet on his tongue. he had been craving it for weeks, he was completely addicted.

“sa-am!” you choked out his name, whimpers free falling from your mouth. his fingers were huge, and they were plunging in and out of you at a pace you couldn’t begin to describe. and his teeth. they were digging deeper into you, almost devouring you. you could feel your blood smearing on both your body and his face. he was taking in as much as he could. he wanted to drain you. but he couldn’t.

he pulled back from the bite, sucking harshly to get out what else he could. when he fully pulled away, he smiled. a bloody smile. your blood was on his teeth, his lips—the entire lower half of his face, nose to chin, was covered in your blood. and he was smiling. he was admiring. the nasty mix of an incoming hickey overlapping the bloodied skin and indented teeth marks excited him.

and you could see it. not just from how insane he looked in the moment, but from his eyes. almost no color was left. the pretty light green eyes you loved to manipulate, the puppy-dog look he always wore. it was gone. his pupils were so blown out, you’d think they’d flash full black like yours do.

“off.” he demanded, shifting his powerful, and rather highly dominant, gaze to you. and it made you shiver. you nodded dumbly as sam backed off to let you move. you shrugged off your jacket and lifted your shirt, your bare breasts bouncing once the now blood stained fabric was on the floor. you kicked off your shoes and pushed your underwear and jeans off, stepping out and kicking them away.

“good girl,” sam smirked, shamelessly staring at your naked body. the blood from his bite was still flowing out, a trail of it going over the top of your breast. he stepped closer, kneeling slightly to lick the blood back up to the swollen bite, giving it a chaste kiss. you winced at the pain. he tried to soothe you despite his state, rubbing slow circles on your side with his thumb.

he brought his hand up to cradle your face, nearly engulfing the side it sat on. you stared up at him with those doe eyes—the same look you gave him when you first met, and the one you give when you convince him that the wrong things he’s doing are actually good for the world.

he leaned down to kiss you gently, although you pressed roughly. the taste of your own blood on his lips and tongue—it was starting to drive you crazy.

he pulled back first, stopping your desperate reaching with a thumb on your blood-covered lips. he dragged his thumb down your bottom lip, watching it bounce back into place after pulling it. you kissed the tip of his thumb before wrapping your lips around it, sucking and licking the pad of it softly.

sam smiled at this. how needy you were. he turned until he was now against the wall. “go ahead, baby.” he encouraged you. you pulled off his thumb and slowly began to sink to your knees, dragging your hands down his body. once you were on the floor, still staring up at him, you began to undo his belt and pants, placing gentle kisses over the large bulge in his boxers.

“no teasing.” he gruffed out. you gave a sweet and soft smile in return before pulling it all down. you gasped as his cock sprung out, nearly hitting you in the face, had you not moved out of the way. you’re always left speechless when you see him. how big sam is. it matches the rest of him so well. and the veins on his dick were so prominent, you always remembered where they stuck out the most. and the tip, flushed and aching, was leaking, no, drooling precum.

how can a human be so perfect?

you wrapped your small hand around him, pumping him as you licked up the shaft. you immediately swallowed the tip into your mouth once you reached it, feeling your lips stretch around his girthed length as you went down.

you never get used to him, and you don’t think you ever will.

sam threw his head back at the sensation of you gagging. you weren’t even close to halfway down, and you were already choking on his cock, both hands desperately trying to make up for what you couldn’t take. but it never works. there’s just too much sam for you to handle. “that’s it, fuck, that’s my girl,” he cooed as you bobbed your head, jerking him off in rhythm of your head’s movement.

his voice was so deep, rumbling. his low moans and slur of praises went straight to your fluttering folds, making you even wetter than before.

both of your hands were working overtime alongside your mouth, rubbing and sucking over and over again. you swirled your tongue over sam’s tip, dipping into his slit while your hands squeezed him. “fuck, fuck—” he breathed, eyes tightly shut and brows furrowed.

he grabbed your head and pushed you all the way down. you gagged immensely, drool and spit pooling out of the sides of your mouth. the neatly trimmed curls at his base tickled your nose while you let out a strangled cry. tears pricked your closed eyes. your mouth, your throat—it was so full.

sam thrusted up while moving your head manually, fucking your face as your sloppy gargling filled the room. your hands gripped his thighs, nails digging into his skin, making crescent moon indents. you loved this part. he way he uses you, and eventually manhandles you during sex. the thought of what’s to come made you eager. your arousal began to drip onto the carpet beneath you from how wet you were.

you opened your eyes to look up at him. and he let out the most guttural moan at the sight of you. wide eyes with upturned brows, plush lips gliding on his dick, tears spilling down your face, and jaw slacked, yet tense, as you took him in.

you were everything.

“oh my—” he let out the most angelic moan as he held your head down on him, warm arousal spilling down your throat. you swallowed what you could, some leaking down your chin. you pulled off of him with a soft pop. you licked up his leftover cum off his dick, scooping up the remnants off your face with your fingers and licking them clean as well. all while maintaining eye contact with him.

sam reached a hand down to cradle your face, heart swelling as you tilted your head, leaning into the warm grasp of his large hand. a smile twitched against his lips. “so pretty, baby,” he purred. he swiped his thumb across your swollen lips, a small bead of his cum sitting on the pad of it.

you had grinned at his softness. you loved when he caved in like this. all gentle and loving. when he wasn’t sam winchester, the hunter, but sam winchester, the human.

you gave his thumb a kitten lick, tasting the slight sweetness of him again. thank god for his diet. his thumb entered your mouth slowly, fingerprinted skin warm against your tastebuds. you moved your tongue around it, feeling the smoothness of his fingernail and tough skin of his actual thumb.

your cheeks hollowed as you sucked gently, mouth still recovering from the previous face fuck. you moaned at the sight of his softened cock getting hard again. you wanted him so bad. and he wanted you.

he pulled his thumb out after a while. your saliva connecting to it by a string. sam picked you up effortlessly off the floor, finally giving your practically bruised knees a break. he took the knife out of the wall and carried you over to his bed, setting you down gently.

he got in-between your opened legs, admiring your slick covered folds and swollen, begging clit. your nipples were hardened into peaks, hair messily splayed on the bed. and blood was still slowly leaking from his earlier bite.

sam smirked as he dragged the knife down your body, starting at the valley between your breasts. the way you squirmed and the goosebumps that arose from your vessel’s skin, it all went straight to his hard again cock.

he dipped the sharp end of the blade into the skin of your stomach, dragging it slowly to slice you. it felt euphoric rather than painful. the miniature split of your flesh pooled blood almost instantly. and sam’s eyes darkened. he lurched forward, slow and deliberate—calculated, even.

his tongue lapped at the bright red substance as it leaked from the cut he made. he let out a low moan as it coated his tastebuds. “never gonna get over you,” he mumbled between sloppy licks and sucks, taking whatever your body gave him. his head sunk lower until it was directly between your legs. he placed a chaste kiss to your folds, your arousal leaving a shine on his lips.

he licked his lips, internally ascending at the taste of you. “sam—” you whimpered with a small buck of your hips. he wasted no time in devouring you after that. his tongue lapped at your cunt feverishly while his hands gripped your thighs. you were sure you’d bruise there later on.

your back arched as he claimed your puffy clit into his mouth, sucking harshly while his tongue flicked slow. his free hand came around to your clenching entrance, fingers prodding before getting sucked in by you. his fingers were so long and thick, stretching you in preparation for later. he curled them up just right, and the moan you let out made his dick twitch.

“ca-can’t, sam! need you, oh fuck—need you now, please!” you begged.

sam slipped his fingers out, licking them clean as he made his way back up to you. he kissed you roughly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you both groaned at the slip of yours against his.

sam kissed down your neck, nipping and leaving marks on your vessel’s precious skin while his hand with the knife quickly cut your arm. “sam!” you gasped, looking down at the blood oozing down the curve of your limb. he dragged his tongue up the skin, drinking up your blood towards the fresh wound. he softly consumed what came out, being gentle with you after cutting you so fast.

you weakly grabbed his face to plant your lips on his. it was sloppy and messy—blood and spit mixing together. he lined himself at your entrance, slamming into you with one big thrust, filling you completely. your moan was muffled inside his mouth. his pace was brutal, relentless. his tip kissed your cervix at every push, cock easily slipping in and out from how wet you were.

he pecked your lips before sitting up, grabbing and tilting your hip with one hand for a better angle. he pressed the cold blade of the knife to your clit, the temperature difference making you whine. your body felt like it was on fire, pure desire and pleasure coursing through your veins.

“so fuckin’ pretty,” he cooed as he moved the tip of the knife to separate your folds, being careful not to hurt you, but he was still dangerously close. he watched his large cock stretch you out each time he pushed in, the bulge of it protruding from your lower belly. the way your warm walls squished and morphed around him felt euphoric, full blown ecstasy piercing through his dilated pupils as he stared at you.

the eye contact through half-lidded eyes made you writhe beneath him. sam leaned back to your chest, swirling his tongue over one nipple while circling the other with his knife, hips never faltering once. the heated knot in your stomach tightened, “fuck. fuck, sam! shit—m'gonna cum!” mewls spewed from your mouth as he placed the knife on the bed to circle his thumb on your sensitive clit, ramming deeper into you.

“yeah? y’gonna cum, baby? c’mon, cum for me,” he whispered into your ear, breath hot and heavy, before placing a kiss on your sweaty and flushed cheek. your orgasm crashed over you not long after those words left his mouth. your pussy clenched around his cock, sucking him in further as you desperately tried to milk him. “fuck, that’s it, good girl. my sweet, sweet girl, so fuckin’ good,” he groaned lowly. he was right on the edge, about to fill you with his release,

until the familiar roar of the impala could be heard rumbling down the street towards the parking lot.

“shit!” sam cursed under his breath. he quickly tossed the knife in his bag on the floor, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you up. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, arms around his neck. he moved your body to keep the rhythm going as he grabbed your discarded clothes and walked into the bathroom, moaning at the feel of you sucking and kissing his skin.

he quickly locked the door of the bathroom and started the shower to mute your sounds. he placed you on the sink and continued to fuck into you, chasing his own release. you whined at his size plowing you into overstimulation. your legs trembled as you grew more and more sensitive at each thrust.

“sammy,” you sobbed. you never called him that. ever. and normally, sam would be beyond pissed that anyone besides his brother called him that. but the way his nickname flowed from your lips with a slight twinge at the end—it made him twitch inside you.

he bit down on your neck as he came. white hot spurts coating your insides, just as dean barged into the hotel room, front door smashing into the wall. you held down a whimpered moan, attaching your lips to sam’s for extra security.

dean was about to call for his younger brother, but decided against it as he heard the shower going.

“you need to go. now.” the tall brunette urged, tone hushed, but the same from when you first arrived. he pulled his softening cock out slowly, mutual whines slipping from you both. you felt so empty now. but you knew he’d fill you up again soon.

you quickly dressed yourself back up, giving sam a goodbye kiss before scrambling out of the small window in the bathroom. he let out a sigh before hopping in the shower, scrubbing himself free of you. but he felt it. the rush of power in his veins. the amount of blood he got from you tonight wasn’t exactly enough, but it’ll do for now. at least until he sees you again.

when he was done, he turned off the water and dried his body with the nearest towel, wrapping it around his waist before stepping out.

“does it smell like sulfur in here to you?” dean asked suddenly, making sam stop in his tracks. “uh, no?” he said as calmly as he could, with his best attempt at feigned confusion.

“hm,” dean hummed and sniffed the air. he turned to sam, eyes wide and smile big. “well that explains the sex smell,” he chuckled, “couldn’t wait an hour, sammy?” he teased.

sam internally cringed at the nickname, it having a whole different meaning and effect on him after hearing it come out of you. “shut up.”

“awh, come on. was she hot?” the older winchester questioned. when sam didn’t respond to grab his clothes, he continued. “good?” he tilted his head before gasping at his younger brother’s silence, “bad?”

“no, not bad. never bad.” sam spewed quickly before realizing the latter of his answer. “never bad? who’s this chick and why haven’t i met her yet?” dean stood up and walked towards his brother. he grabbed sam’s shoulder to turn him around. “because she clearly wants it known you’re with her.” he pointed to the dark marks blossoming across sam’s neck and chest.

“dean!” sam pushed him off, pursing his lips angrily, tone full of embarrassment. dean cackled as he walked back to the table, talking about how he got a burger for himself and some ‘rabbit food’ for sam to eat for dinner. but all sam could think about was you. and how he was so gonna get you back for the stupid hickeys on his skin.

gabs yaps ; i know that’s a soulless sam pic but he looked so hot. also i miss demon blood sam SO MUCH :((!! anyways i’m obsessed with this song and one of my tiktok moots made a samruby edit to it so yk i HAD to make a fic with it 🙏🙏

tags ; @starzify @sunsbaby @deansbeer @bruisedfig @legalmente-loca @littlejackles @xoswiftieprincess @southernimpala @sacr1ficialang3l @y2kstarr @1980slemasters @mahi-wayy @tinas111 @ccupidzbvnni @angelically-yours @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @halsteadwichester + wanna be on the taglist? .

[southernimpala]

i just-

SUPERNATURAL 6x07, Family Matters

[southernimpala]

i absolutely adore this we need more dad!winchester on this app

୭ ˚. ᰔ ILYSMIH. ⋆˚࿔

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: after giving birth, you are utterly exhausted but safe in dean’s arms, who’s the proudest, most supportive dad ever. through the haze of sleepless nights and overwhelming love, dean proves he’s got both your and baby’s back.

♯ warnings: mentions of childbirth and exhaustion (no graphic medical details, but some emotional rawness), emotional vulnerability & tearful moments, slow-building parenthood fluff, hints of postpartum struggle, focus on comfort, love, and care.

♯ notes: hi loves!! so please tell me im not the only one that’s borderline obsessed with kali uchis?? ilysmih is my favorite song on her recent album!! anywayzz hope this gives you all the warm fuzzies.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. Just the weight of everything crashing down once the room quieted, the pressure behind your eyes, the way your chest felt like it had been split open and filled with something too big to hold. There were voices. Nurses, footsteps, maybe even soft crying, and then nothing.

Then warmth.

Not the kind that blankets you, but the kind that feels alive. A palm brushing your forehead, calloused but careful. Fingers threading through your messy hair like you were something fragile. That’s what woke you. That, and his voice.

“Hey, mama.”

Dean’s voice wasn’t loud, it was barely there. Like if he spoke too hard, the moment would shatter. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t trying to hide it. He stood at the edge of the bed, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them, eyes locked on the tiny bundle resting on your chest.

He looked at you like he’d been struck. Like he’d seen a ghost and fallen in love with it.

“You— baby, you did it.”

You blinked slow, trying to pull yourself up on your elbows, but your body protested instantly. Everything ached. Your muscles, your head, even your teeth. Dean noticed immediately, rushing to your side and pressing a hand to your shoulder, shaking his head.

“No, don’t— don’t move. I got you. Just rest. Just breathe.”

And then he reached down; gently, reverently, and picked up the baby. Like it was holy. His hands were big around them, careful, sure. His breath caught in his throat the second he had them cradled against his chest.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh my god, look at you.”

There was a beat. The kind of silence that means everything. And then he laughed, low and breathless and a little broken. The kind of laugh you let out when you’re looking at something you never thought you’d get to hold.

“You made this,” he whispered, glancing at you like you were the moon. “You made this, sweetheart. Jesus.”

The baby made this tiny, sleepy noise, and Dean’s whole body curled in around them. Like instinct. Like it was the only thing his body knew how to do anymore. He sat on the edge of your bed, eyes wide and heart in his throat, and rocked the baby with a rhythm that was too natural to be learned.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to love something this fast,” he said, voice cracking. “Didn’t know it could hit like this.”

You were so tired. Every blink felt like it might be the last before sleep pulled you under again. But you didn’t want to miss a second. Not this. Not him.

Dean looked over at you, tears sliding down his cheeks like they didn’t even belong to him. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You’re so fuckin’ brave. I don’t know how I got this lucky, but I swear to God I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you know.”

He leaned over, kissed your temple. His lips stayed there for a while. Breathing you in. Like he needed proof this was real. Like if he let go, he might wake up in the Impala in some cheap motel parking lot, and this would all disappear.

Then he whispered something to the baby. Too quiet to catch. Just soft enough that you knew it was sacred.

When he sat back again, he started humming. Some old rock ballad you couldn’t place through the fog in your brain. He rocked the baby like it was muscle memory, smiling down like he’d just been given the world wrapped in hospital blankets.

“I’m your dad,” he told them, chuckling to himself. “I’m your dad, holy shit.” he looked back at you again, eyes soft, “And you’re their mama. The love of my life. My girl.”

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the hormones, or the rawness of it all, but you cried. Quietly. Just tears slipping out the sides of your eyes while you laid there, overwhelmed and in love and full of something you couldn’t name.

Dean didn’t panic. Didn’t freak. He just reached for your hand and kissed it like he’d do it a million times more. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We got you. Me and this little bean— we’re on night shift.”

You let your eyes fall shut, finally.

And the last thing you heard before sleep took you under was Dean Winchester singing your baby to sleep with a voice meant for backroads and lullabies.

The next morning feels like a dream dipped in gold. You’re not even sure what time it is. Could be noon, could be 4 AM, but you wake up to the sound of a soft knock, the rustle of flannel, and a baby’s breathy coo. Everything hurts less. Or maybe it still hurts, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Not with the way Dean looks standing by the window, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw, holding your baby like he was made to.

He’s swaying again. Same slow rhythm. Same whisper-singing under his breath like he’s telling secrets only the two of them get to hear. The baby’s nestled against his chest, all tucked into a blanket that he probably rewrapped five times to get perfect. He looks down at them like he’s memorizing everything; the tiny lashes, the soft fists, the weird little way their nose scrunches when they yawn. And then he sees you.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” he says, voice soft like syrup. “We missed you.”

You blink at him, hazy and warm, and he crosses the room like he can’t stand being that far from you. He leans down and kisses your forehead like it’s instinct, like he’d do it every hour on the hour if you let him. He’s so gentle when he sits beside you, so proud it hurts to look at him.

“She smiled,” he whispers like it’s breaking news. “I mean, probably gas or something, but still. She smiled. And she’s got your nose. Totally. It’s not up for debate.”

Your heart folds in on itself. You let him pass the baby to you, watching the way his hands linger for a second longer than they need to. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t blame him.

And then, chaos, but the tiniest version of it. A nurse walks in with discharge forms. You’re cleared. You’re going home.

Dean’s whole face lights up like a Christmas tree. “We get to take her with us?” he asks, like she might still belong to the hospital. The nurse laughs. “She’s yours, dad.”

Dad.

That word hits him hard. You see it, the way he swallows it down, the way it echoes in his chest like thunder. He helps you dress, one hand always hovering at your back, as if the world might hurt you if he lets you go for a second.

And when it’s time to buckle the baby into the car seat, he hovers like he’s defusing a bomb. Arms crossed, pacing, muttering to himself. “Too tight? Is it too tight? Is her neck gonna snap? Holy shit, is this thing even safe?”

You have to gently lay a hand on his arm to stop him from spiraling. “Dean. She’s fine. You did good.”

He still insists on sitting in the backseat the whole drive home, one hand on the baby’s chest, the other gripping the side of the car seat like he could shield her from gravity itself. You’re driving— don’t ask how that happened, and he keeps glancing at you through the mirror like you’re some kind of divine miracle.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks every two minutes. “You need water? Food? A blanket? Jesus, I should’ve packed a cooler.”

Home is a safehouse two towns over. A small one. Quiet. Warm wood floors, soft lamps, the faint smell of sage and dust. Dean spent a week prepping it before the due date. Baby clothes folded into drawers, bottles lined up on the counter, a rocking chair in the corner that creaks with love.

He carries the baby in like she’s made of glass. You’re close behind, a little wobbly, but smiling. And the second you walk through the door, Dean exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hospital.

“We did it,” he says. His voice cracks again. “We fuckin’ did it.”

You collapse on the couch, baby in your arms, body tired and soul full. Dean disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a peanut butter sandwich cut into triangles. “Best I could do,” he shrugs, and sits beside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do exactly this.

You’re both quiet for a while. The baby’s breathing softens. The room is golden with early evening light. Dean reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re my whole world, y’know that?” he murmurs. “Both of you. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

And then, when the baby makes that tiny little noise again; that sleepy, airy half-laugh that sounds like she’s dreaming something sweet— Dean just loses it. Tears. No warning. Just full-on tears sliding down his cheeks as he laughs softly and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I didn’t know love could feel like this,” he says, voice thick. “I didn’t know I could feel like this. But I’m never going back.”

You nod, eyes full. You’re never going back either.

You look down at your baby— your baby, and you still can’t believe it. That they’re real. That they came from you. That you carried them, made space in your body, let your bones shift and stretch just to bring them here.

And now they’re here. Tiny and perfect and loud in the most beautiful way.

You’re not the same. You know that. You’re not just you anymore. You’re someone’s home now. You’re the arms they’ll fall asleep in. The voice they’ll search for in a crowd. The one who’ll know every cry, every little sigh, every look on their face before they even learn how to talk.

It’s terrifying. And holy. And so gentle it makes your hands shake.

You think about the way Dean looked at you in the hospital. How he still looks at you, like you’re the sun. The way he calls you mama now, like it’s always belonged to you. Like it’s more than just a title, it’s sacred. He doesn’t say it casually. He says it like it’s a promise.

There are moments, especially in the quiet, where you just hold your baby against your chest and cry. Not because you’re sad. But because it’s all too big. Because your love doesn’t have words big enough. Because you’ll never be able to explain it— but you’ll spend your life showing it.

This is what love is. What it’s meant to be. Loud and soft all at once. A song only the three of you know.

You kiss the top of your baby’s head and whisper, “I love you so much it hurts.”

And you mean it.

You’ll always mean it.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlejackles @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tendertulip @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah @anxiety-prime-max @amsliajskxkxkx @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @kimxwinchester @soldiergf @cupidzbunny @ninii-winchester @suckitands33 @dollyfetti @unstable-cucumber @americanvenom13 @mindfulmesses @spookyysinsanity @incubusimmolation ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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tysm for reading! read more of my works @ masterlist.

[southernimpala]

i've been working on a teen!sam mini series for literally months (tho still have barely written anything for it ofc except planning out the entire thing cus im insane) but now i can say it WILL be worked on and released soon :)) it'll be an angsty one so get ready (and a perfect summer read)⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[southernimpala]

Do you want a Kiss?ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ ₊˚⊹

SUMMARY: sam has a little chocolate-dipped problem. 3.6k playlist!!!

WARNINGS: teen!sam winchester. high school au. characters are minors. fluff. just a small sweet treat from me to y'all. english is not my first language! enjoy<3

Sam has a problem. An adorable, caramel-scented, knitted-sweater-clad, huge problem.

Every day for the past few weeks, you have sneaked up on him—in the library, right after class, in the middle of the hallway, once even in the principal's office—and asked the same freaking question:

“Do you wanna kiss?”

Or at least that is what he heard the first time. 

You and Sam have been “friends” ever since you were paired up for an English project. He had seen you around before, but you never spoke up in class and kept mostly to yourself. Except when he caught you walking around with three other girls—just then, you would smile and joke around, standing in the background, embarrassed but giggly, as two of them broke into song out of nowhere.

So he didn’t expect you to participate much in the assignment. He assumed he would assign you your part, you’d do it by yourself, and that would be it.

The assignment had been easy—just a simple reflection project on The Iliad—and it would have been even easier if the rest of your classmates weren’t idiots.

Because, as it turns out, only you and Sam had actually read the book—the other three teens stared at you both dumbfoundedly when Sam tried to explain what each of them had to do.So obviously, you and Sam had ended up working on the stupid project by yourselves for a whole three days—in class and after school. It should’ve been tedious and exasperating, but Sam now mentally thanks his classmates for being illiterate. 

Because for three days, he got to discuss literature with a girl who was almost as much of a nerd as he was. You had so many interesting things to say—about Achilles and his character journey, about how heartbreaking his and Patroclus’ story is (you seem to swear they are romantically involved, and even Sam is almost convinced after hearing you talk about it for two hours), and you even go on a whole rant about Helen and why she deserved better.

Dean laughs and pities him when Sam tells him about it, but what he doesn’t know is that Sam might have just fallen in love. 

You got an A on the project, of course, and ever since then, you and Sam have worked on every assignment together—whether it’s supposed to be done in groups or not. You don’t actually hang out—you just chat in class and say hello when you walk past each other in the hallway, but nothing else.

That’s why, when you suddenly approach him one day in the cafeteria with a grin and your hand hidden behind your back, and ask him if he wants to kiss, his brain stops working.

He just stares at you, eyes wide and lips parted. All his intelligence leaks out of his ears and words escape him, so he just stands there like an idiot until you give him the sweetest giggle—the smell of hot chocolate and caramel filling his nose when you tilt your head to hide your smile, his breath hitching as you take a step closer—and hand him something.

In the middle of your extended palm, he notices some kind of foil-covered drop, and it takes him a minute to understand what it is.

A Kiss. One single Hershey's Kiss.

So now he knows that you’re actually asking, “Do you want a Kiss?”

But honestly, it doesn’t make it much better.

Because you take him by surprise every time, and every time he freezes and blushes and acts like the biggest fucking loser.

“Just kiss her, Sammy,” Dean suggests unhelpfully, once he catches on to the situation. “She’s so obviously flirting with you.”

“She’s not flirting with me, Dean. We barely know each other.”

“I swear to God, Sammy. Just grab her waist, pull her closer, and kiss her. You’ll thank me later.”

But Sam couldn’t just do that, because he isn’t Dean.

He doesn’t just kiss girls. He doesn’t give them that look-at-me-I’m-so-great grin, and they don’t fall at his feet like his brother’s do. He doesn’t walk up to the first pretty girl he sees and give her some cheap pick-up line that somehow ends up working because of his stupid charm. He doesn’t make out with a girl from every single town their dad takes them to. And he definitely is not about to start now.

Don’t get him wrong, Sam has been with some girls. He’s kissed a few chicks from the multiple schools he’s attended, and he had a girlfriend back when they stayed in Michigan for a whole month. He even dry-humped a girl he was supposed to be tutoring in History in his junior year. (Dean was pretty fucking proud about that one.)

But still, Sam is more… reserved. He isn’t shy (you couldn’t be when your dad has been forcing you to speak with locals and eyewitnesses before you even learned how to ride a bike), but he isn’t confident either. He is awkward, a little socially inept from so much time spent on the road, the boy with too much knowledge about ancient mythologies and Latin. Girls approach him because he is—in a way he still can’t understand—attractive, and he doesn’t usually turn them away, but he knows better than to give in to his heart’s desire for something else. Something different than his brother’s one-night stands, something gentle, something real.

Because Sam is the boy who gets straight A’s but no one puts them on the freezer. The boy who keeps people at arm’s length because “you can’t get attached to civilians, Sammy.” He’s the boy all the professors want to praise but whose guardians never show up for parent-teacher conferences. He’s the boy who one day simply disappears from school because his dad found a new hunt in a new town.

He’s the boy who’s pretty sure something isn’t right with him.

So when he sees you, sitting there in English class—your head buried in a book, your hair falling onto your face, the sleeves of your warm brown sweater too long, the shine in your eyes too bright—he doesn’t find it in himself to ruin it.

Instead, he sits next to you quietly, gives you a small nod in greeting, and tries to keep his heart from beating out of his chest.

The teacher is talking about some assignment you will do to prepare for your next reading—Sam is looking forward to sitting in the library with you during lunch, browsing through the shelves and hearing you tell him about every book you’ve already read—when you turn to look at him.

He expects an invitation to work together, or some jab at the boy in the front row who keeps drawing dicks all over his desk, but then you lean in until your breath brushes his ear when you whisper,

“Do you want a Kiss?”

It still makes him jump, even after all this time. His cheeks flush, and his fists clench. He turns to face you with his best attempt at a glare—but it looks more like a pout—and immediately regrets it.

You’re close. Your shoulder brushes his, and your cheeks and eyelids are dusted maroon, your eyes sparkle with gold, and your breath still smells like the mocha frappe he knows you drink every morning, and you’re just so fucking warm.

Everything about you smells like coffee and books and just-baked cookies; and it tastes like cocoa and cinnamon and red velvet; and it feels like putting on your favorite cardigan and walking through mountains of orange leaves and snuggling under the covers during a rainy autumn morning.

God, what the hell is happening to him? He’s such a fucking loser.

Overwhelmed by the sweet glint in your eyes he will never get used to, his eyes move down to your hand hiding under the table. He grabs the Hershey’s Kiss with a huff, and bites back a smile at your giggle when he quickly rips the wrapper off and throws the chocolate in his mouth.

“If we miss any important instructions for the assignment, it’s your fault,” he whispers to you, eyes on the board like he’s trying not to alert the teacher but actually he’s just trying to keep his cheeks from flushing even more.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” You roll your eyes, slowly unwrapping your own sweet treat. He wonders where the fuck you get so many of them. “If we miss anything, I’m sure Mrs. Keating will have no problem repeating herself for her favorite little student,” you murmur through the chocolate in your mouth, bumping your shoulder with his.

You love to tease him about your English teacher’s clear preference for him—in your opinion. Sam knows that she likes him, but he wouldn’t say he’s her favorite, even though she always praises his essays and has offered a recommendation letter more than once.

“Shut up and pay attention,” he mutters your name, and it leaves a syrupy tang on his tongue. But if he's being honest, he loves when you tease him. It shows him that you’re comfortable with him, no longer retreating to that shell you always seem to hide in when you’re alone, stuck with the rest of your classmates.

“Another Kiss?”

“Shhhhh.”

You end up, indeed, missing some important information. So Sam has to go ask Mrs. Keating about it and watches your amusement when she happily explains that they have to do a class presentation, sending him off with a sticker that says “Otterly amazing!” next to a cross-eyed otter who looks a little demonic.

You end up spending the whole afternoon in the school’s library. There are mountains of books around the table about the 1920s’ economic and historical context in America, along with a few books you recommended to Sam and he promised to check out. You end up reading out loud for him while he takes notes in his notebook, and he fights the urge to fall asleep to your voice that wraps around him like a fluffy blanket.

By the third time Sam yawns, you decide to go buy two coffees from the vending machine in the cafeteria. You put an alarming amount of sugar in yours, and grimace when Sam decides to take his black.

“That’s how my dad and brother drink it,” he explains in a voice he hopes is not as bitter as his drink. “So I just got used to it.”

Then you nod, giving him a look so kind he doesn’t know what to do with it, and you lean against him as you two lean back on the vending machine. Both of you are quiet for a moment, sipping your coffee and staring at the cafeteria tiles, before you sigh and take a step forward.

“Come on, we gotta at least collect all the information today. We can organize the presentation tomorrow in class.”

You grab his hand. Without even looking at him, you take his left hand in your right and start to pull him back to the library. Sam’s heart skips a beat, and he lets you drag him awkwardly for a few seconds before taking two long strides and falling right into your side. But even when you don’t have to pull him along, you don’t let go of his hand.

It stays wrapped around his—fingers not intertwined, but still warm and soft and perfect. And it stays there until you finally reach the table, when you let go of him and grab the book you were reading before the break. For the first time in his life, Sam hates books.

So you keep working until the janitor warns you that the school is about to close, and by then you have collected all the information you need. You walk out of the building, hands brushing but no longer grasped, and Sam feels something inside him ache at the prospect of leaving.

Because doing research with you is a hell of a lot better than going back to the moldy motel his family is staying at—where the shower only has cold water and there’s always someone moaning in the distance. It’s cold and stinky and lonely, and he desperately wants to stay with you, where it’s cozy and sweet and lovely.

He’s getting way too attached, Sam knows. He knows this is bad, and he will have to leave any day now. But fuck, it’s so easy to just look at you and your teddy bear–like gentleness and just… crave.

Because everything else in his life is painful, and ugly, and rough.

You turn to him, smiley and gorgeous. “Need a ride?” You point toward your car.

It’s one of the few still there, the parking lot almost empty at this hour. It makes it easy to spot the Impala parked on the opposite side—the car he grew up in. Sam can see Dean through the windshield, and his brother gives him a thumbs up and one of his goofy grins before making kissing gestures with his hands.

Before you can see his idiot older brother and Sam is forced to change identities and move countries, he looks back at you.

“Nah, my brother’s picking me up.”

You nod, chewing on your lower lip and looking like you’re about to say something else before deciding against it.

“So, see you tomorrow?” Sam is about to nod when you take a step forward and kiss his cheek, once again almost sending him into an early grave. “Get home safe, Sam.”

Before he can even attempt to blurt out anything, you turn around and rush toward your car, waving Dean goodbye through the windshield before you drive past him and away from the school.

“Not flirting, huh?”

Not even Dean’s incessant teasing or his dad’s grip on a whiskey bottle bother him that night, because all he can feel is your lips on his cheek and the small bundle of fire it set on his chest.

It isn’t like the fire he feels when hunting—angry and all-consuming, or the one he feels when he stares at one of his brother’s badly hidden adult magazines—prickly and wild. This one feels like sitting near the fireplace in the middle of winter—comforting and tender and oh god so fucking addictive.

Turns out you can’t organize the presentation in class the next day because there’s a gas leak from one of the chemistry labs. “Two dudes were ‘wrestling’ and they broke a freaking pipe. I swear to God they work hard to be this idiotic.” Sam has to agree, because now you don’t even have access to the library—and his brother would be busy helping their dad with the case all day, so he can’t pick him up.

“We still have to work on the presentation,” you sigh, twirling your hair with your fingers like you do when you’re deep in thought. It’s distracting, because it makes the caramel scent float all around you—and because you keep biting your lower lip while you do it.

“We can go to the public library,” Sam offers. He had been there to help look into the lore for this hunt, and the place is small and full of little kids running around during what was supposed to be “story time hours,” but it’d have to do.

“Yeah…” You turn to look at him, still chewing on your lip, eyes more nervous than he’s ever seen on you. He’s about to ask if everything is okay when—“We could go to my house.”

You need to stop doing that, or he’s seriously going to have a heart attack one day.

That’s how he ends up here, sitting on the couch in your living room while working on a presentation about the Roaring Twenties. It’s only you and Sam—both your parents at work, no siblings—and he’s trying to force himself to act as normal as possible.

But it’s hard when you bring him a homemade mocha frappe and throw a brown knitted blanket over both your laps before you get to work. When there’s soft piano music playing in the background, chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table, and you’re so fucking close.

Your thigh brushes his under the blanket, and it’s really hard to focus on speakeasies and the prohibition. You start to plan out who will present which part, and you tease him about asking Mrs. Keating for a jazz dance. He softly pushes you away until you’re giggling and falling onto his side for support.

“Stop! Stop! I’m about to fall off the couch!” No, you’re not. You’re not even near the edge—Sam would never push you that hard—but he stops all the same.

“She doesn’t even like me that much,” he argues, mourning the loss of your weight against him when you straighten up to roll your eyes at him.

“Please, you’re the only one she gives actual golden stars on your essays, and she’s always putting you up as an example of excellence.” You do a scarily good impression of the woman. “Not that I blame her, though, when you go up to her with those huge puppy eyes and fluffy hair and cutesy smile, and talk about symbolism and foreshadowing and archetypes. Anyone would be enamored.”

The words are supposed to be teasing, just another joke. But you murmur them so close to his face, looking up at him through your lashes, your thighs brushing once again. And they sound so genuine when you mention his eyes and smile and being enamored.

Sam stares down at you, cheeks flushing and brain short-circuiting. He blinks once, then twice, then…

“Do you want a K—hmph!”

This time, he finally presses his lips to yours. It’s a little awkward—just a dry, soft peck. But then you smile against him, and when he leans away, your cheeks are red and your eyes are extra shiny.

“Took you long enough, smart boy.”

He chuckles, head falling forward in embarrassment. “Yeah, sorry.”

You shake your head, tangling your fingers in his hair and forcing him to look back at you.

“You’re so fucking cute.” He has to kiss you again, if only just to hide the way his cheeks burn.

This time it’s better. You tilt your head and move your lips against his so sweetly, and you taste like chocolate and cinnamon when he licks inside your mouth, and your sweater is fluffy under his hands as he wraps them around your waist. You pull on his hair gently, and suddenly Sam has never felt cold in his life. All he knows is warmth and caramel and the fireplace on his chest, crackling and burning steadily.

“We both know what we have to do for the presentation,” you lean back from the kiss, and Sam can barely hear your words as he looks at your lips, puffy and shiny with his spit. “What do you say we watch a movie?”

He nods, so you turn on the living room TV and put on some rom-com with a side of murder mystery Sam’s never heard about—it’s mostly cowboy and action movies in the motel rooms, and even when his brother and his father leave him alone for days on end in some cabin, he watches sci-fi and what Dean calls his “nerdy shit.”

Neither of you end up actually watching the movie, instead making out under the knitted blanket right there on the couch. Sam cages you under his body and kisses the taste of mocha out of your mouth until a honk comes from outside.

You immediately break away, and Sam has to take a minute before he can function again.

It’s Dean, ready to pick him up and take him back to the motel. Sam tries to fix his hair and make sure his lips don’t look too bitten before he makes his way out the door, not in the mood to put up with any more teasing. He picks up his backpack from the floor and mutters a small goodbye before walking away.

He’s not sure what any of this means—if you just wanted to make out or if you feel the same way he does. And even if you do, he doesn’t know what to do with that. Because he isn’t supposed to get attached, but—

“Sam!”

He stops walking at the sound of your voice, wondering if he forgot one of his textbooks by accident. You run out of your house to meet him in the driveway, the orange light from inside making you look like an angel.

You stop right in front of him and extend your palm toward him.

“Your Kiss.”

He stares at the candy for about five seconds before meeting your eyes, and he notices the smudge of chocolate in the corner of your mouth. His shoulders relax, and a smile so tender he wouldn’t recognize it as his own if he saw it in a mirror takes over his face.

He takes the Kiss from your hand, but before he can retreat, you circle your fingers around his wrist and pull him closer, granting him one last slow, sugary kiss.

“Get home safe, smart boy,” you mutter against his lips, letting go of his hand. “Learn your lines for the presentation, and maybe I’ll take you to my room instead next time.”

“Next time” echoes through his head during the whole ride to the motel, drowning out Dean’s lewd jokes and the wind coming through the windows as they speed down the road.

Next time.

NOTES: writing about teen!dean got me thinking about teen!sam and i just couldn't stop myself from writing this. this is actually inspired by a little recurring bit me and my best friend have when we eat hershey's kisses, and i just thought it would be so cute to write a little fic about it. it was supposed to be super short but as always I can't stop fucking talking.

anyway, i missed my sweet boy so much. I love dean but i'm a sam girly at heart and i just wanted to write something cutesy for my doe-eyed love.

TAGS: @littlejackles @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[southernimpala]

if you haven’t read this read this NOW absolutely incredible

Good men die too, so I’d rather be with you⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: mentions of injuries. fluff. smut (mdni). oral sex (m receiving). cannibalism references (again). everything is very cute. happy ending. 4.7k

You end up getting stuck in the house for three days.

The blizzard hit sometime after you and Dean had fallen asleep. The next morning, you woke up with freezing fingers, a window completely buried in snow, and Dean whining into your pillow to just “fucking get back in bed, sweetheart, it’s cold.”

You spent the whole morning rolling around on the mattress, too lazy and too comfortable to crawl out from under your thick comforter. It’s only around noon that the two of you made your way downstairs, only to find the door blocked by a mountain of snow. You redress the wound on Dean’s shoulder and then throw together a pretty shitty meal from the scarce food in your pantry.

To be fair, you had only expected to feed yourself. And you barely eat.

But Dean eats, a lot—and by the afternoon of the second day, you were left with one box of mac and cheese and a bunch of old green bean cans.

“I’m not eating that shit. I’d rather starve.”

“But if you die, I can’t make you cum.”

Dean ate the green beans.

That night, Sam called. You and Dean were sprawled in front of the fireplace, his head in your lap as he lay across the cushions, telling you more about the hunting life while you ran your fingers through his hair. You listened carefully, trying to dig deeper into the lore and less into how many times Dean almost mentioned the name of a waitress before cutting himself off.

“I don’t know much about that, baby. I see an evil son of a bitch, I shoot. You’d have to ask Sammy about the nerdy details.”

Speak of the devil—because immediately after, Dean’s phone started buzzing. He picked up, and Sam’s worried, static-filled voice echoed through the quiet living room.

“Dad called Bobby, and he said you weren’t with him and that there’d been a blizzard. Where the hell are you, Dean?

Dean calmly explained the situation as you kept scratching his scalp, until a tiny hum of satisfaction slipped from his throat. Sam heard it and immediately launched into a rant, threatening to knock Dean’s teeth out if he dared mess around with some random girl when he had you.

Dean shut him up before he could say anything too incriminating, but the words “don’t wanna see you brooding and pouting about it again,” and “everyone, even Dad, knows you lo—” still echoed in your brain days later. It was also adorable, how defensive Sam had sounded over you. You were going to buy that boy all the sweet-and-salty monstrosities he wanted the next time you saw him.

So Dean explained that he was with you, and Sam’s tone shifted from angry to smug.

“Finally grew the balls, huh?”

“Hi Sam,” you interrupted with a grin so big Dean rolled his eyes.

“Sorry you’re trapped with that dumbass. I wouldn’t blame you if you killed him.”

“Really nice, Sammy. Thank you.”

“Oh, believe me, the urge has been there.” You looked down at Dean, where he was staring up at you from your lap. “But I think I like him a little too much for that.”

Dean grinned and pulled himself up for a kiss, chaste and sweet.

“Ew, I’m hanging up.”

“Bye, Sammy.”

Dean tossed his phone toward the nearby loveseat, then immediately pulled you on top of him.

On the third day, it rained again.

The temperature had shot up suddenly, but it was raining so hard you still couldn’t make your way to the corner store, or even order a freaking pizza.

You offered to make Dean a water pie when he complained about missing his favorite sweet treat, and he chased you around the house trying to tickle you. He caught you, of course, so you ended up crying and begging for mercy near the staircase, until Dean decided you had been punished enough. Your laughter that afternoon was the loudest sound to ever fill the halls of this decaying, haunted house—except for that one time you tried to take away your mother’s vodka, and she screamed at you until the neighbors threatened to call the cops.

You made out on the floor until your hunger was so strong that not even Dean’s soft grunts when you tugged at his hair could distract you.

Today, you wake up writhing in bed, trying to push away the thick blanket that’s suffocating you. All the squirming wakes Dean, who groans and pulls you closer to his bare chest. It doesn’t help with the sweat sticking to your skin, but it does make the discomfort soften into a distant itch.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

You don’t let yourself be distracted by Dean’s deep, gravelly morning voice. Instead, you stare, mouth agape, as sunlight filters through the curtains, snow melted and gone.

You manage to slide out of Dean’s iron-tight grip and make your way to the window, gawking at the ground now covered only in puddles, water dripping from the trees and roofs, sunlight gleaming off sidewalks and cars.

Two big arms wrap around your waist, and Dean’s chin rests on your shoulder as he squints at the glaring sun, still half-asleep and adorable.

“How the fuck did this happen?” he mutters, words slurred. Then he turns his face and presses it against your hair.

Thirteen-year-old you would have an aneurysm if someone told her that one day she would wake up next to a shirtless Dean, and that he would be all clingy and soft like this.

You aren’t sure you’re not having an aneurysm right now.

“Fucking climate change,” you huff before yawning, making Dean chuckle as he slowly presses kisses down your neck. 

He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel his semi pressing right between your cheeks.

“Nuh uh,” you quickly push him away, giggling at his sleepy pout. You love moments like this, when Dean isn’t his father’s soldier or the town’s cool boy, but instead he is just gentle and warm and real. 

This Dean Winchester—the one that whines for kisses and murmurs soft praises against your neck as he fucks you until you’re cockdrunk and the one who stayed—is real.

Instead of giving in to the beast on your chest, who is howling to get its claws on him, you quickly make your way to your dresser and grab some clothes.

“We have to go buy something to eat,” you murmur as you grab a pair of clean underwear. 

“I know something else I can eat.” He attempts to press against you once more, and you almost cave in if it wasn’t for the piercing need to leave this house.

Because this has all felt like a fever dream. The sleeping and waking up together, the running around the house, the movie-binging and sweet-talking and not-leaving. You fear it has all been a cruel hallucination from your loneliness-riddled brain, and that the moment you walk out of the house everything will go back to how it was.

So you jump in the shower, throw on a pair of tights and leg-warmers under your shorts, slip in a puffy jacket, and force Dean to go get some actual food. He only accepts when you promise him some cherry pie, and you lend him an old black leather jacket you suspect belonged to your dad but which your mom never let be taken out of the closet. 

You two walk all the way to town, and you get a sense of déjà vu.

Dean spends the whole walk rambling about some wrestling fight he went to recently as you hum and nod, and it feels just like it did when you were sixteen. Only now, Dean holds your hand, and he looks at you with more affection than you had ever been the target of. When the blonde cheerleader from the other day walks out of the hair salon, he wraps his arm around your shoulders and presses you to his side as he throws her a friendly grin.

Instead of letting you walk into the corner store, Dean drags you to a nearby diner.

“We deserve some good old greasy food after being forced to eat fuckin’ vegetables for two days.”

He orders for the both of you because he knows you don’t like talking, and asks for it to be to-go after you whisper to him. He doesn’t let go of your hand as you wait for the food, and you’re finally struck with the fact that this is actually happening.

You drag Dean to the jukebox just so you have something to focus on other than how much you want to jump his bones.

Dean waits until you’re walking down the lonely road home before asking why you wanted the food to-go.

“I was thinking…” Your voice is still barely louder than the wind whipping through the trees, and you fidget with the sleeves of your jacket. Maybe you’re still sixteen after all. “We could eat in the woods, have a little—I don’t know, picnic?”

It sounds so stupid now, and you keep your eyes on the dirt under your boots as your cheeks warm with embarrassment.

But you’re not sixteen anymore, because Dean wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s slow, burning, and perfect. His hand tangles in your hair, and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth before leaning back.

“Picnic it is.”

Turns out the woods are muddy from the rain, and it’s still too cold to hide in the shadows like you usually do. So instead, you end up finding a small meadow that has been under the sunlight long enough to be dry.

You shrug off your jacket and lay it down beside a big patch of lupines, the scent of grape filling your nose as you sit down with your legs curled under you. Dean takes his jacket off too, but he doesn’t place it down to sit, and you don’t know if it’s because he’s not bothered by dirt and insects or because it might be your father’s.

You two dig into your food—burgers, fries, milkshakes, a piece of cherry pie, the whole package. Dean inhales his, clearly starving from your few days of confinement. But you eat slowly, savoring the food as much as you savor the moment.

A few butterflies roam in the distance, and somewhere far away, the roar of a waterfall can be heard. The breeze is still cold, but the sun shining down on you is warm and comforting. It shines down on Dean, and his hair catches just the smallest hints of honey-gold.

It takes you back. To that blonde kid you once stalked like a mourning spirit. To the time when his eyes were brighter, his shoulders less heavy, his smile more innocent. But maybe it had never been. Maybe you had just been blind to the curse that loomed over him, maybe you hadn’t noticed his shifting eyes or the demons that followed him around because you didn’t know they existed.

But now you do. Now you know. Now you can see it all, every part of Dean. Every insane, tragic, fucked-up part of him.

And you still fucking love him.

You haven’t said it again. You know you muttered it that night, when you handed your bleeding heart to him and he ran away with it. But Dean hasn’t mentioned it, hasn’t even tried. So you don’t either, because maybe he doesn’t love you—and that’s okay.

You will love him until the day you die, even if he doesn’t love you back.

So while he talks about the last hunt he was in—not the skinwalkers, the one before that—you stare at the silver scar on his eyebrow and the way his teeth flash when he grins. You watch as a ladybug climbs his arm, slowly making her way around his bicep.

Lucky.

You hear Dean murmur your name, and the edge in his words makes you look up immediately.

“I will have to leave tomorrow.”

The world stops for just a second. For a moment, you can’t breathe, and the butterflies are frozen mid-flight, and the waterfall falls silent, and the ladybug stops walking.

No, no, no.

You can’t go back. Back to those days of loneliness, of nothing but silence and dust, of nightmares and shadows. Of waiting, and longing, and crying. You can’t go back to a life without Dean.

“I can come visit, when Dad doesn’t need me. It will be hard, and he won’t like it, but—”

“Let me come with you.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Dean stares at you with wide eyes, and you look back with nothing but deep-seated, all-consuming desperation.

Dean whispers your name, his expression darkening. “You can’t—” Tears fill your eyes against your will, and it looks like Dean is breaking at the sight of them. “It’s a hard life. It isn’t pretty. It’s dangerous, and you could get hurt.”

“I don’t care.” Even with tears in your eyes, your voice is firmer than it has ever been. “I can handle it, Dean. You know I can.”

Because you’ve handled worse. Worse monsters than bloodsuckers and moon-howlers. You’ve faced real monsters—the ones with friendly faces, the ones supposed to take care of you.

And Dean knows it, because he seems to hesitate. He stops himself from reaching for you, and you think you can see that same fire in his eyes. The same fire that’s burning inside you—the need, the hunger, the adoration.

“Sweetheart.” He sounds sad. Just so fucking sad. And you would let the world burn if it meant he’d never sound like that again.

Your pretty boy, doomed from birth. He deserved so much better.

“I wish you could come with me,” he whispers, not looking at you. “But I… I’m not the guy you think I am. There’s blood on my hands, baby. I—I can’t put you in danger like that. You can’t just leave—”

“And I should stay here doing what, Dean? Rotting away in that house like my mother did?”

That shuts him up. His eyes meet yours, and you know he’s so close to giving in. Because as much as you need him—as you can’t stand to be away from him, how much it hurts to watch him go every time, how much you fucking crave him like air—he might need you just as much.

“You’ve seen me handling a gun, Dean. I can be better. You can teach me.” The tears are gone, and your voice is just as decisive as before. You are not losing this battle; you’ve already lost too much. “I’m good with my knife, and I can help with research. You know I don’t scare easily.”

Your eyes soften where they lock onto his, his forest green meeting your tornado—still eerie, but toughened. “I’m not scared of you.”

Dean’s eyes close, and you know he’s given up. His mouth curls down, like you just slapped him. But his hands twitch, still aching to reach out for you, and the sigh he lets out is pure defeat and relief.

“You have to think about it.” He shakes his head when he sees you about to complain. “This isn’t a decision you make in one day. You will think about it.”

You take the small victory, dragging your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them silently. Dean still looks conflicted, and for a long moment you two are lost in your own thoughts—lost, but together

You watch carefully—chin propped on your knees, humming a slow song under your breath—as a butterfly flies by. Small, blue, and fragile. She fights against the breeze that tries to push her back and finally settles on a lupine. You can’t help but smile at the sight.

“I’ve thought about it, you know?” You feel Dean’s head turn toward you, but you keep your eyes on the butterfly. Delicate, frail, but determined. “About you, about leaving. About following you to wherever you disappeared every time.”

More silence.

Come on, this is the moment. It’s now or never.

“I’ve known you since I was a child, and I used to feel sick every time I looked at you,” you murmur with a smile, fingers reaching out to fidget with one of the wildflowers. “It was just this—thing curling inside of me, simmering beneath the surface, turning in my stomach.”

There’s a long moment of silence, where Dean tries to decipher if it’s an insult or not, and you’re completely lost in memories that feel like ages ago and just yesterday at the same time. The butterfly’s wings flutter, like she might fly away again.

“It was love, I guess.”

Dean looks like all the air has been punched out of his lungs, and at this pace, you’ll end up making him pass out. He stares at you, dumbfounded, for a long moment.

“What did you say?”

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” you repeat, finally turning to hold his eyes with a certainty you never thought you’d have. All fear is gone, because it doesn’t matter if he loves you back or not. Your heart is his, and he deserves to know.

“So let me go with you, and I’ll follow wherever you go.”

“You know,” his voice is strained, choked out, “that’s emotional manipulation.”

That makes you laugh—a full-on belly laugh. Dean smiles at you, but then chews on the inside of his cheek, his eyes shadowing down.

“I’ve been talking to Dad about hunting on my own, and Baby is basically mine already.” You can almost see the gears turning in his mind, and you’re sure he’ll draw blood soon if he doesn’t stop abusing his teeth.

“We would hunt together, and we can take Sammy with us sometimes. Dad won’t like it, but—I don’t want you to hunt with him. But maybe…”

If you don’t stop him right now, you might just cry again.

Oh, John Winchester, one day I will catch you.

You leap forward, eliciting a small yelp from Dean as you tackle him to the grass. You swallow down any complaints as your lips press against his and your tongue slides into his mouth. He lets you in, opening up and wrapping his arms around you. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear, like he’s terrified this isn’t real. But now, you’re sure it is.

Because perched in Dean’s lap, with the grass tickling under your palms and the sweet grape scent of the flowers, you’ve never felt more alive.

“It’ll be me and you against the world,” Dean mumbles against your lips, and you’ve never heard more glorious words.

“You and me,” you whisper back, cupping his face. In the distance, you catch the blue butterfly flying away. “Forever.”

Maybe saying goodbye to Marigold will be sad—you’ll probably end up taking at least one part of her with you—and you’ll have to ask Bobby if he can hold onto your book collection so they don’t rot along with the rest of the house. You will miss your roof and its warm clay tiles, and maybe you’ll even miss this awful town.

But you won’t have to live in a cobweb-filled home that was never really a home. You won’t have to hide under the covers from the ghosts of your past, and you won’t have to stare at the hole in the couch your mom left every day.

You won’t have to miss Dean anymore, because there’s not a place on this earth you won’t follow him to.

To hell and heaven and everything in between—you will follow.

“I love you.”

For a moment, you think it’s your inner voice—just your heart reminding you of your love for Dean. But the voice is too deep, too rough, and it vibrates beneath you. So you break the kiss, and this time you're the one gaping down at him, feeling like you might pass out.

“What?” The question comes out tiny, breathless.

“I love you,” he says your name devotedly, like it’s holy.

And finally, the beast breaks out of your chest. It tears through your ribs and crawls up your throat. It rips all your insides to shreds and forces its way out. You kiss Dean again, starved in a way none of you were expecting. He moans when your teeth crash, but the pain doesn’t bother you. You’re possessed—wild and feral.

You break the kiss only to yank his shirt off, ignoring his small sound of surprise. Dean tries to speak, but you shut him up with another kiss, just as violent. Tongues tangle and noses bump. His hands roam over your body, and he tries to pull off your shirt too.

But you’re all beast—insatiable and hungry. So you kiss the corner of his mouth, bite the soft flesh of his cheek. Nip at his jaw, lick your way up to his ear. You bite and suck down his neck, leaving red and purple bruises all around. Your hands trail down his biceps, leaving angry red lines across the firm muscle, savoring the feel of skin under your nails. You sink your teeth into the curve of his neck and shoulder, hard, leaving a deep bite mark. The indent of your teeth looks neat and perfect on his body.

Dean pants your name, hushed and trembling. “What the hell are you—” He’s cut off when you bite again, this time on his bicep. A sick satisfaction washes over you at the sight of the marks. They’re animalistic, filthy, almost grotesque. But the sight has you grinding down on Dean’s stomach.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Dean loves you. That’s what’s gotten into you. Dean loves you, and he’s yours and you’re his. You will leave with him, and you’ll never have to miss him again.

“‘M gonna eat you,” you drawl against his chest, kissing down his torso.

So you get as close as you can to devouring him without crossing the line into actual cannibalism, while Dean groans and jerks beneath you. You trap his flesh gently between your teeth. You lick and kiss every scar that mars his body. You leave little bruises across his ribcage, another bite mark right over his heart. You pepper kisses down the trail of thin hairs leading south. Finally, you tug at his jeans, leaning back from his skin to admire your masterpiece.

Dean lies on the grass, hair tousled by your hands, lips bitten blood-red. He’s slick with your spit, shivering each time the cold breeze brushes over him. Marked all over, utterly yours, and you have to fight the urge to rip his boxers off right then and there.

Because you’re starving. Your tongue feels heavy, your mouth waters, and you’re just so, so hungry.

Dean hisses when you pull his cock out, long and red and—in a very sick, insane way—pretty. There are drops of precum on the tip, and it’s hard and warm in your hand. You lick your lips, feeling a little unhinged.

“You look kinda scary,” Dean breathes out, mouth parted as he looks at you. He throws his head back and groans when you suck the head of his dick into your mouth. “It’s hot.”

You’re unrelenting. Slurping and whining around him until you take him all the way down, until your nose brushes his hips and his cockhead hits the back of your throat, making you moan through a mouthful of cock. The vibrations make Dean jerk his hips up, grunting so loud that if you were a little less clouded with the intensity of your desire you would be worried about people finding you two. “Do that again, fuck.”

Your thumbs rub over his hip bones, tongue circling around the tip to collect precum before swallowing it down. The taste makes you moan again, and Dean’s hand finds its home in your hair, tugging and pulling in the way he has learned you love.

You relax your jaw and start bopping your head up and down, holding Dean’s hips down and savoring every moment of having him in your mouth. Spit dribbles down your chin as Dean keeps hitting the back of your throat repeatedly—you thank every deity that you don’t have a sensitive gag reflex. Because you love having Dean like this, deep inside your mouth, writhing and whimpering under you.

“You’re so fucking warm, I love you.” This time the whine around his cock is so loud that Dean’s cock twitches, finally making you gag slightly. “I love you, fuck. I love you so much,” he rasps out your name.

It makes you double down, head moving faster and throat tightening around him.

“I—I’m gonna come, sweetheart.” He talks through his teeth, pulling on your hair almost to pull you away. You don’t let him, nails digging into his hips and a hand moving to squeeze his balls until his hips buck up and he throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth parted in a silent moan.

Your teeth graze the underside of his cock. Just the smallest hint of them, for just a moment, but it’s enough to make Dean come. He makes a small, broken noise and empties himself in your mouth.

It coats your tongue in white, dribbling down the edges of your lips as you pull away. You use your thumb to collect it before it falls off, licking it clean right after. Somewhere in the distance, Dean groans and covers his eyes with an arm, breath ragged and softening cock twitching.

You just love the taste, love swallowing down every bit of cum Dean offers like it’s nectar. It’s the closest you’ll get to consume him in the way you want—to eat him down to the bone and taste his essence on your teeth. So you hum contentedly and make sure not a drop goes to waste.

“You’re a fucking demon,” Dean chokes out, still trying to catch his breath. You drop on top of him with a grin after tucking him back in his underwear, trying to protect him from the breeze that slowly gets colder as the sun starts to lay low.

“So you’re gonna kill me?” you ask lowly against his ear, pressing a peck on top of the hickey right under it.

“Might have to.” He pulls his arm off his face and looks at you with glassy, glowy green eyes. “Or you are gonna kill me.”

You giggle against his stubble, light and airy, because you finally have no reason to be sad.

No, you had a lot of reasons to be sad. But you can deal with all of them if Dean is by your side.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “I would choose to die by your hands. It’s kind of hot.”

“You little freak. I can’t believe I fell in love with a psychopath.”

That night, after you pack your most important stuff and leave the rest with Bobby, Dean steals a car for you to drive to Montana, where Sam and the Impala are waiting. And maybe he uses a knife, and you have to drive away fast because the owner walks out of the bar and starts screaming at you. Maybe he keeps a gun in the center console. And you know the talk with John won’t be easy, and the horrors that hide in the dark might turn out to be scarier than you anticipate.

Because maybe Dean is not a white knight, some kind of moralistic hero. Maybe he’s not even the good guy sometimes. But you don’t care, because his grip on your thigh is firm but tender, and his eyes glance at you with warmth in the red lights, and he stops and buys you coffee every few hours without you even asking because he knows you love it.

You don’t care, because you love him. Because he loves you.

And you would choose him—with his baggage and his blood-stained hands and his shadows—over any “good man” any day.

And you will follow him through every adventure and misadventure until the day your heart gives out. And even then, you hope they bury you right next to him, so you two can rot together for the rest of eternity.

PREVIOUS PART |

NOTES: i'm not crying, you are. guys, we've finally reached the end of this adventure and i could not be more grateful and enamored with it. it has been such an amazing experience to write these two characters, to be able to write a character I love so much like this reader, she will forever live in my heart. the support and love y'all have given to this series is so fucking heartwarming and I'm trying not to be all sappy but I love you all so much. all your sweet words really motivate me to keep pursuing my passion, so thank you.

i will miss these two lovebirds so much, but im sure that wherever they are, they are fine because they have each other. btw, in my head, reader tries to make a demon deal to bring back dean after he goes to hell but no demon will accept, and she ends up returning to her house in sioux falls and only survives because bobby forces her to. then dean returns and it all goes up in flames.

Anyway! I will stop yapping now. But before, an important announcement. A lot of you sweethearts asked to be tagged in this series (again, thank you with tears in my eyes) but since I don't know how many of you want to keep being tagged in other works, I will delete everyone who was added for this series.

If you still wanna be tagged in the future, pls send me an inbox or comment below. love you all, and goodbye for now!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung @mimiimmii @thanosisadilf @iamaslytherin0 @youroldfashioned @luvrgirls @faeriexxmoon @iluvchr1s @beelzebzb @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @rxouxcesss @yup-its-dez @n0t-vzin1s @tendertulip @halleybagel @melancholysanatomy @dollyfetti @5oftkitty @cupidzbunny @arcanehastakenovermysoul @kermits-bitch @zenoxl @hollywoodxrose @bitchykittenconnoisseur @sherlockstrangewolf @urfav-tz @risefallrise @darling-loki-01 @dina-winchester @zyra-7 @l0v33-rey<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[southernimpala]

𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 !

"it's freezing ! aw, what do you need? coffee? hot tea? ⋆༺♱༻⋆

lip gloss !"

june baby ☾⋆⁺₊ college sophomore ☾⋆⁺₊ psychology & english

brunette ☾⋆⁺₊ nostalgia ☾⋆⁺₊ rain ☾⋆⁺₊ stormy nights

candle queen ─ .✦ midsummers night , bergamot , flannel , lavender , woods , hypnotic poison

to make me hmpgh ! ─ .✦ supernatural , twilight , tvd , shameless , gilmore girls

daughter of cain ☾⋆⁺₊ warm like lorelai’s coffee ☾⋆⁺₊ bf’s girl

"would you judge me for my prayers ⋆༺♱༻⋆

if i said them on my knees? "

[southernimpala]

omg I was surfing trough the Sam x reader tag and found your bd fic. TODAYS MY BIRTHDAY. it made me so happy, it was a really sweet surprise and u didn't even know it 🥹

awww that makes me so happy !! happy birthday twin... june 3rd is so superior and i hope you had a wonderful day today !! :)) ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[southernimpala]

big distraction

sam winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ sam needs to distract you long enough for dean to decorate for your birthday, and he chooses the best way possible

notice ↬ birthday smutttt (mdni !) whoop whoop !!, promised some bday smut so here ya'll go, can't believe im 19 now eeeee, oral (f!recieving), unprotected p!v, sam is pussy drunk btw, birthday fluff !, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 2.5k

birthdays were never your thing. and they weren’t a hunter’s thing, either. always being on the road, never knowing if you’d even live another trip around the sun. it all seemed superficial and unnecessary to celebrate. 

so when sam and dean find out your birthday is today, you beg them to keep quiet about it. 

“no candles and cake?” dean jokes, nudging your shoulder in the booth of an old diner you were getting breakfast at, “or special birthday pancakes?” you see him point to the birthday special written in cursive letters on the sticky menu. 

“no,” you solidify, taking a warm sip of coffee, “being alive and with you idiots is enough.” 

your boyfriend, sam, who's sitting across from you forking his eggs, shakes his head but stays quiet, like he’s planning a surprise attack behind your back. 

you don’t notice him catch dean’s eye as you read over the check, or see them scouting potential places to buy party decorations while you drive to the motel—yes, you insisted to drive baby—and you certainly don’t hear them whispering to each other as you lose yourself in a book on the weirdly comfortable mattress that is probably twice your age. 

when dean comes back from an outing later that night—“just talking to potential witnesses,”—he said, totally suspiciously, you’re eyes run down his arm to him carrying inside the large duffle bag he keeps in the trunk, full of salt guns and holy water. 

you sit up straighter in your seat against the bed frame, suddenly alert, but sam makes no moves, “what’s wrong, why are you—” 

“just would rather have these closer to us,” he rushes quickly, a lopsided smile on his face, dropping the duffle like it doesn’t weigh a ton on the gross motel carpet, giving sam a ‘am i doing okay?’ look that has your brows furrowing. 

“dean, can i see you in private?” sam says through gritted teeth, nodding to the bathroom. 

dean sends him an awkward grin, nodding before they both disappear behind the off white door. in an instant, you’re pressed up against it, ear turned on the highest setting you can, trying to hear through the loud AC unit and buzz of cars outside the open window. 

although, you don’t have to listen too hard. the two of them are so loud, you wonder whether you could’ve stayed sat on the bed. 

“alright, here’s the plan, you stay here and set up—i’ll distract her.” sam’s voice. 

“why do i have to decorate? the cake’s probably smushed in the damn duffle—”

“just let me handle it, okay?” 

“i’m gonna need twenty minutes.” 

“it takes you that long to frost a cake and put up a sign—” 

“thin ice, sammy.” 

you imagine sam’s face and try to swallow a laugh, but the revelation that they’re planning a surprise for you is enough to knock your world off its axis. even though you told them not to fuss, there’s something pure about them doing this for you. something the three of you could use in the midst of the chaos of your lives. 

“how are you distracting her? gonna take her into town or something?” dean’s voice. 

“i don’t know, maybe, i—” 

“no,” 

“dean—”

“you’re not having sex in my car.” 

your face burns. 

“dean, i didn’t—” 

“i saw that look!” 

your palm comes to cover your mouth, stifling another burst of amusement. 

“let me take care of it alright? you just focus on hanging the sign up the right way.” 

you hear shoes shuffling against the bathroom tile, and you spring up quick to settle yourself back comfortably on the bed. 

the door opens and sam meets your eye, “dean thinks he left something in the car,” he says, as if you’re stupid. the inside of your cheek is shredded so you don’t smile. 

“alright,” you throw the book down onto the floral duvet beneath you, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, “shall we?” 

both boys’ faces crease in confusion at your compliance. but nonetheless, you follow sam outside as he sweeps the impala’s keys off the table. 

once outside, you find it hard to keep your hands off him, rubbing your palms up his arms as he walks you to the parking lot, anxious to surprise him. 

when sam shuts the car door, you’re on him in a second, pouncing like a cat onto his lips. he melts instantly into your taste, like every plan and course of action he thought to distract you vanishes from his mind. his large hand comes to cup your cheek, soft under his calloused touch, and you’re moaning at the sensation of his fingers tangling in your hair. 

sam pulls from you just slightly to murmur, “you beat me to it.” 

his voice, husky with desire, has you squirming in the rough leather seats, aching for his touch to cover you everywhere, and you feel giddy knowing it will, “how else am i supposed to celebrate my birthday?” 

a warm chuckle breathes past his lips, swollen and pink, “i thought you didn’t wanna celebrate it?” 

you smirk, moving to place chaste kisses along his jaw and down the veins of his neck, eliciting a sultry laugh from him that makes you never want to stop, “i think i can allow this.”

“think or know?” he teases, savoring the pleasure building in his body, fueling a fire only you know how to control, how to burn hotter. 

sam’s hands grip your waist at the sensation of your mouth trailing across his skin. with your nose buried in the crook between his shoulder, you smell the fresh soap, old lore books, and something spicy like aftershave as it fills your brain like fog. he rests his cheek on the crown of your head, reveling in your lips for another moment before he’s gently laying you down in the backseat, your legs spreading like muscle memory as he nestles between them. 

his fingers slowly hike the white sundress you’re wearing up your legs, making sure to just barely graze your thighs. wetness starts to pool in your center as he recaptures your mouth on his, heavy breaths and gasping moans as his hands trail higher up your body beginning to fill the impala. 

“will dean be mad?” you mumble against him, eyes closed in bliss as he palms one of your breasts, “—that we’re doing it in his baby?”

sam laughs mischievously, knowing damn right what the answer is but at this point, you’re both too far gone to stop, and the bulge pressed against your inner thigh, just missing where it needs to be, confirms that for you.

“he won’t mind,” he says, sighing as you start to fumble with the buttons on his shirt, revealing his taut abs and broad chest, adorned with the anti possession tattoo that has your mouth watering. 

“oh, he won’t, will he?” you help him shrug the rest of his shirt off while he un-patiently starts to tug your panties down, “pretty, right?” 

“so pretty,” he smiles, but tosses them to the side like they’re nothing but a useless barrier between him and the paradise between your legs that’s his, catching them on the steering wheel,“and no, he won’t mind.” 

before you can protest again, he’s delving into your pussy, slick and warm with your primal need for him. his tongue moves in agonizing circles up and down your folds, making you writhe and grip his soft locks in your hands to keep you grounded to earth. 

but when he sucks your clit past his lips, you’re sure you see heaven. 

“sam!” you shriek, bucking your hips into his face as his chin dampens. you feel his smirk against you, he can taste the way you fall apart, but the pressure doesn’t let up.

“mmm, taste’s so good,” he mumbles drunkenly, fingers pressing imprints into your thighs as he holds them down beside his head. 

you throw your head back against the back window, trying to ignore the little voice in your head yelling, “you’re in a motel parking lot and anyone can see you if they just—” but the white hot pleasure that explodes from your body as he flicks his tongue right there removes any thoughts other than your need to have him inside you, to give you something to clench around as you jolt and ache. 

his name falls from you like a prayer, one he answers faster than god as his pants are off and boxers pulled down before you can even open your eyes. 

you manage to get a glimpse of him as he pumps himself a few times, the length you’ve taken oh so many times now a gift that seems too perfect for such a meaningless birthday. but when he pushes into you, hot, sweaty, skin against yours, it’s hard to see how you can’t celebrate the day after this. 

“god, yes,” you moan into his ear when he leans down, chest against yours to be as low under the window as possible. 

his eyes clench shut in pleasure, “fuck, you f-feel so good,” he sputters, because all he can focus on is the way you’re squeezing him.

sam moves like he was made to fit in you, hitting that spot inside you everytime that has you see stars. even now, as he struggles against the urge to drive into you so hard your legs will need days to recover, he’s gentle, soft, as he stretches and kisses and worships. 

the impala shakes and rocks underneath you, and you’re sure if it wasn’t 9:00pm on a tuesday, you’d probably be caught by now; windows fogging and the occasional pop up of sam’s hair through the glass when he lifts up to watch himself disappear in you because he just can’t help it. he throbs at the sight and you feel it deep in your core, pressing your climax faster.

“‘mmm, best b-birthday ever—” you mumble, your words harshly cut with a whiny moan when sam’s idle fingers come to toy with your clit, “jesus christ!”

“not quite,” he gasps a laugh, “oh, fuck,” 

your vision blanks. the coil snaps. pussy squeezes so tight sam can barely move. 

and the impala seats? soaked. 

sam follows close behind, hips stuttering, soft lips parted all the way as your name slips off his tongue, dripping with the taste of you. you swallow his moan, his whine, as he fills you, still pumping through both your highs. 

your pussy leaks his warmth. you catch him staring. 

“make sure it doesn’t get on the seat!” you worry, starting to sober up. 

you can tell he isn’t all the way back to earth, so he drunkenly smiles, “i think we’re past that point, baby.” 

as you fix the straps of your dress, sam reaches behind the seat for a rag to wipe the leather, probably the cloth dean keeps in the car in case of oil spills or, well, this. 

your legs shake as you step out of the impala, suddenly feeling overexposed and like everyone in the motel was watching somehow. sam’s throws his clothes on, his princess hair barely fixed with puffed lips that match yours. 

you try to catch your breath as the wind whispers against your sticky skin, “think dean’s done decorating the room?” 

sam’s eyebrows furrow for a moment before lifting them in realization, mind blanking, “u-um, how did you—” 

“kinda hard to keep a secret when you both talk so loud,” you nudge his shoulder playfully, unusual butterflies spreading through your stomach as you anticipate the surprise waiting for you inside, “it was a good effort, though.” 

“and that’s why you—” jumped my bones, he wants to say, but he knows you know already, “i’m gonna get you,” he promises, grinning crooked at the way you outplayed them, “your next birthday, the surprise is mine.” 

“sure, sammy,” you wink, fishing the key out of his back pocket before unlocking the door. 

as if on cue, dean, who is by the bedside lamp, flicks it on to expel the darkness and reveal an unevenly hung HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign in holographic letters strung up on the wall above the beds, stuck messily with duct tape. there’s a mixtape on the duvet with birthday girl’s birthday mix written on the top, paired with a dollar store bow dean’s slapped on, and a few books stacked together that you can only assume is sam’s gift. 

the cake on the end table, with messy chocolate icing that’s also all over dean’s fingers, is what sends tears teasing your waterline.  

“surprise!” he shouts, waving his hands in the air. 

sam shakes his hand against his throat, mouthing, ‘she knows’ behind you. 

dean narrows his eyes at his brother, rolling them and throwing his arms up, “really, sam? you couldn’t even keep the surprise?” 

that forces a watery laugh out of you, cheeks flushed and heart warm, “it’s fine, it’s fine, dean, this is—” 

“awesome, right?” he finishes, that shit eating grin right back where it belongs on his scruffy face. 

“yeah,” you agree, instinctively leaning against sam’s chest, “it’s awesome.” 

sam’s hands come tight on your forearms, rubbing gently to soothe the emotions he knows you’re trying to bite back. your lip wobbles between your teeth as dean reaches for the cake. 

“maybe i could get behind none of that gross birthday special pancake crap,” he hands you the cake, which is resting on a flimsy paper plate while he fishes for the lighter in his pocket, “but no candles and cake? sweetheart, that’s just unacceptable.” 

dean reaches to switch the lamp back off, the room consumed in pitch black again, save for the moonlight emitting little light through the dingy curtains. the small, orange flame stemming from his lighter illuminates all three of your faces as he burns the tip of the pink candle, mumbling a ‘there we go’ as he flicks the lighter back off. 

“make a wish,” sam says softly as he stands behind you. 

you shut your eyes, make your wish, and blow. 

dean starts to clap. sam’s touch is grounding. 

“happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, just for you. 

when the lights come back on, and dean uses a machete to cut the cake, he notices sam trying to fix the lopsided buttons on his shirt, that was very hastily thrown back on. 

what you didn’t realize he’s also looking at, is the medium sized hickey on sam’s neck.

“soooo,” dean starts, trying not to make his starting obvious, “i thought she was the only one supposed to get presents today.” 

sam’s forehead creases. you look up from the cake you're actively stuffing in your face. 

“what do you—” sam follows dean’s finger to the mirror, where the purple bruise you gifted him rests tenderly on his soft skin, “oh.” 

dean chuckles, shaking his head in contempt, “what kinda distraction did you give her?” 

sam’s too flustered to speak, so you swallow the smooth chocolatey goodness down your throat and answer for him. 

“a big distraction.” 

let’s just say you and sam weren’t allowed near the impala by yourselves for a long time.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tags ↬ @h8aaz , @sacr1ficialang3l <33

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ sam winchester masterlist !

[southernimpala]

my birthday is tomorrow soooooooo i think that means sam winchester birthday smut right? .ೃ࿔*:･

[southernimpala]

the way you write sam and dean is so immaculate i actually want to eat your fics.... like the characterization and everything. so delicious babe <3

eeeee im so glad you think so !! please eat them they are for your consumption :))) ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[southernimpala]

I am SO obsessed with your whole Ethel Cain vibe page. I’m like so dead

awww TYSMM i love ethel cain and her vibe sm and it fits soooo well with supernatural imo !! also my lovely moot @sacr1ficialang3l has an ethel cain-esque page that is BEAUTIFUL so plspls go check her out !! ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[southernimpala]

held me thru hot summer nights

[southernimpala]

she just spoke to my soul