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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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Kink is beautiful because it's not about the sex, not really.

It's the feeling of having so much confidence in someone to make yourself vulnerable in their hands.

The moment you hand someone your fear and say, hold this for me. I trust you.

The feeling of being pushed to your limits, right to the edge because, even though you're trembling and afraid, you want to know what it feels like to lose control.

It's needing to feel the fall without ever truly hitting the ground.

Knowing you'll be caught no matter what.

It's the ache of vulnerability, the sting of degradation, of humiliation, surrender — the parts of yourself you hide in the daylight, laid bare between the sheets and held without shame.

The catharsis of being broken open and loved anyway.

Loved because, not despite.

Subs, doms, and switches alike — everybody on the fringes and in-between.

Kink is beautiful because it makes you feel seen.

— Serve you (Sam Winchester x fem!reader)

Summary: Sam is completely infatuated with you, so much so that he practically lays his heart at your feet. He is the most selfless, tender, and attentive lover you have ever had, but he also loves to taunt, tease, and demand, a side of him reserved solely for you, and you can't get enough of it. OR: Sam brings you to orgasm with your bullet vibrator whilst you cockwarm him. Plus some emotional revelations and some ever-so-appropriately-timed philosophical musings. In other words, you're just a couple of hot, horny nerds with a soul-bending emotional connection (emphasis on the horny).

CWs: 18+ MDNI 🔞 Smut, BDSM, dom!sam, sub!you, dom!sam, confessions, mutual longing, cockwarming, vibrator, multiple orgasms.

Notes: This may eventually make an appearance in my longfic, History on Your Side, which I wrote this adjacent to, but I haven't got there yet, and I'm too impatient to keep this to myself. This can also be read as a one-shot. I hope you enjoy!

Sam’s eyes meet yours, the thin band of hazel ringing his pupils glazed with pleasure. The gold flecks in what was left of his irises appear to dance in the lamplight, swimming with desire as he reclines against the headboard, chest rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm.

He looks dazed: his lips wet and parted, the sweat on his skin making him glow like a god. You’ve never seen him so...

So...?

He is blinding, angelic, gazing down at you with... what?—adoration?—awe? He’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. How can he even exist? He is beyond comprehension.

Your heart beats a little harder in your throat and you swallow around the lump that has formed, the salty tang of Sam’s release still fresh on your tongue. What is he seeing as he takes in your state: naked and disheveled, what you have just done, what you are planning to do? You can’t be sure, but the way it makes you feel when he looks at you… The way he makes you feel. Him wanting you, desiring you, basking in the afterglow of your ministrations. You feel like the most powerful woman on the planet.

Chancing a smile, you shuffle your already-grazed knees in the blankets.

“I wanna be the best, and worst slut you’ve ever had,” you rasp without thinking, but stop yourself short before saying, I want to be your everything. It’s too much to ask—you know—but fuck, it doesn’t make it any less true.

You watch his eyes widen, then... soften slightly. He is all hard muscle and bone, but you know that beneath that rough exterior is a softer terrain he’s sheltered behind the barricades of his lifestyle for too long. Just like you have. He’d taught you that, no matter how unintended.

“Shit,” he says, his breath hitching. “You already are.”

You already are. It sounds like a confession to your unvoiced thoughts.

“And I,” he continues, leaning forward and cupping your cheek with his palm, “want to be the one to fulfil those desires.” His thumb brushes a gentle stroke against your jaw, making your hairs stand on end, electric. “Every depraved, little thought. Every dirty fantasy. Every desire you’ve been too afraid to ask for—including the ones you deem you don’t deserve.”

He isn’t just talking about sex anymore. This is.... personal. He knows. Somehow, he knows. He’s always known—the way you view yourself—how you’ve deemed yourself unworthy of love. Because... He feels that way too, you realize, your heart breaking a little. This man. This perfect, selfless man, has never deemed himself worthy of love. At least he hadn’t, until—

Sam’s hands find your waist, his calloused hunter's palms gliding over smooth skin, and he pulls you towards him, guiding you onto his lap. You let your knees fall on either side of his hips, his bare skin a warm, familiar comfort against yours.

“I,” Sam says, your face now level with his, “want to be the one who gives that to you, Y/N. It’s my greatest honor to serve you.”

“Serve me?” Your voice is but a whisper, but the question sits heavy on your tongue. It tastes foreign, but sweet, a flavor you’ve never encountered, but now that you have, you’ll never forget the aftertaste.

“Yes,” he says, matter-of-factly. “As your dom, it’s my duty to serve you.”

Duty. That word again. It's come up a lot in your conversations. What is it with this man and his superior sense of moral responsibility? For a seemingly non-religious man, he attaches a lot of reverence to it. For him, it is an imperative. He is attracted to it like flies to honey. He did study for law school, you reflect. Maybe he's read too much Kant?

He cups your cheek again, his gaze flicking between your eyes and lips. “Everything I do is to serve you, Y/N. Even when I’m commanding you, I do it to serve you. Thank you for trusting me to do that.”

A sense of revelation washes over you at his words. Although you’ve never doubted him, not even for a second, trusting someone to anticipate your needs—to know when and how far to push your boundaries, and when to pull back—is not something to be taken lightly. Now, you realize, that putting your trust in him should have been harder than it was.

But he makes it so easy; you’ve never once felt pressured, put on the spot, or coerced. As counterintuitive as it may sound, being his sub—being commanded by him, at his mercy, even being restrained at times—actually makes you feel more free. Liberated. It all suddenly makes so much sense, like a lens snapping into focus.

He looks you in the eye again, steady, analyzing, and you know that he is asking for permission. That look, coupled with the strained sensation against your thigh— You know that this conversation isn’t over, but yet...

You can feel him beneath you—again—hard and insistent. Undeniably desirous. You’ve never known such stamina.

You nod—yes—and that is all the confirmation he needs.

His lips meet yours in a heated kiss, his tongue shortly following, as if he’s savoring every note of your taste.

You shift your weight and your bodies move together as you rise to angle yourself against him.

You join together slowly, deliberately, the stretch of him a welcome pressure that makes you gasp into his mouth. You sink deeper, deeper, until you are held-fast against him. He fills you so completely, so perfectly, you can feel it in your soul. It is more than the physical—you’ve never felt so whole, so complete.

Sam smiles against your lips as he holds you there, unmoving, seemingly happy to just sit here inside you.

“You see?” he says. “We fit perfectly together, you and I.”

“You’re such a romantic,” you tease.

“Maybe. Maybe it’s just the effect you have on me.”

Playfully, you roll your eyes, start to say something, but are stopped short as Sam’s lips attach themselves to the base of your throat, causing you to let out an embarrassingly breathy moan.

“You were saying?” He chuckles, continuing to explore your neck with his lips and tongue.

“I..." you sigh. "I can’t remember.”

He chuckles again, smugly, then moves his lips to nibble at your earlobe. The way his body presses against yours angles his cock even tighter into your sweet-spot, and the desire below your belly cascades with liquid heat.

“Fuck,” he growls, low and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “I can feel you baby—what this is doing to you. You’re so fucking wet. So fucking responsive. Such a good girl for me.”

You don’t even bother to hold back your moans now, it is all too much—he knows exactly what to do, knows exactly what to say to get you going. Always has.

“Yes,” you mewl. “And it’s all for you, Sir. All for you...”

You begin to grind your hips, chasing that high only he can give you, but Sam clearly has other plans.

“Hey,” he whispers, placing his hands on your hips to still you. “Not yet. Slow down.”

As frustrating as it is, you comply. Sam has a way of testing your patience like no one else. It has always been worth it, though.

You watch as he extends his arm to the side, rummages around in your bedside dresser. Immediately, you know exactly what he has planned, and you throb around him at the thought.

His hand emerges grasping a small, silk, drawstring pouch, and you watch as he slides out your small-but-mighty bullet vibrator.

It may not look like much, but it is powerful, versatile and lends itself perfectly for situations like the one you currently find yourself in.

You’d told him about your toys—this one especially—seeing as it had kept you company most recently whilst he was away.

He sets the empty pouch back in your drawer.

“So this is what had you screaming my name down the phone?” he says, smirking.

You whole body flushes at the memory: Sam’s voice in your ear as you both got yourselves off; you at home, Sam in some dingy motel room when he’d managed to steal some time alone.

“It might be small,” you say, “but it’s very effective.”

“Hmm,” Sam says, considering. “I think it’s about time we get acquainted, then.”

You watch open-mouthed as Sam brings your vibe to his lips, letting the tip enter his mouth.

“Cold,” he says, then pushes it in further, coating the entirety of the metal with his saliva.

You continue to gape as he removes it, then after three testing clicks with his thumb, sets the vibe alive.

The sound of the buzz alone has you tingling, especially at the thought of Sam controlling it.

“May I?” he asks, holding the device between you, always asking for permission, always the gentleman, even as he plans to torment you.

Your nod is urgent, but Sam’s actions are anything but as he brings it to rest lightly against your mouth. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant, and it sends a tingling sensation right through your brain.

“Open,” he demands, and you comply, letting the vibe buzz against your tongue for a minute before he drags it down your chin and across your jaw, painting your combined saliva in a shiny, wet stripe across your flesh.

When it meets the side of your neck, you flinch, giggling. You’ve always been ticklish there. Sam knows that, and he only looks amused.

After that agony, he drags it over your collarbones, then over your chest, taking a moment to circle the tip around your already-erect nipples, making them pebble even further.

“That good?” he asks with a smile, no doubt in response to your increasing moans, and you nod, biting your bottom lip.

“Good,” he says, satisfied.

After another few moments, he slowly trails the vibe down your stomach, as if the tip were a knife skimming the surface of your skin, too light to scratch the surface. You are ready, itching with anticipation, desperate for the ache between your legs to be quelled, but before it reaches its destination, it veers of to the side, snaking its taunting vibrations along the insides of your thighs. Not where they're meant to be.

A groan of want erupts from your vocal cords, a pathetic, audible manifestation of all your sexual frustration and tension. It is torture, and just like Sam to add salt to the wound.

Your clit is throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can’t stop yourself from rocking into his pubic bone for a fragile semblance of relief.

At that—and in true Sam fashion—he pulls the vibe away completely, stealing a kiss before you can do so much as protest.

His free hand moves to tangle in the hair at the base of your skull and tugs with just enough force to let you know that he is in control. As if you didn't already know, as if you weren't already completely possessed by this man.

He’s throbbing now, too, you can feel it—aching inside you—yet his kiss is anything but urgent; it is controlled, completely deliberate, and utterly frustrating. You want to be devoured.

His tongue glides against yours at an agonizingly slow pace, and you have no choice but to let the feel and taste of him flood your senses, completely override your nervous system. He is soft, and sweet, and tender in all the right places, though sharp, hard, and demanding in equal measure, in a way that is so uniquely him, and the combination is intoxicating. Your own personal class A.

Is it possible to be addicted to a person? you wonder in earnest, because you're now certain that what you've been experiencing when you're away from him is nothing less than withdrawal symptoms.

When he finally pulls back, you are breathless, but his breath is steady. How does he do it? you wonder. Stay so calm? You suppose that is why he is such a good Dom for you: he is the gravity keeping you in orbit in an otherwise chaotic universe. The steadying force, keeping you from spinning out of control. Without him you’d either combust, or float around aimlessly like you had done for the past several years.

When you are least expecting it, Sam finally acquiesces, resting the shiny surface shyly against your swollen clit—so shyly that you are still forced to chase—and it drives you fucking crazy. You know how much satisfaction he derives from making you so uptight and needy, and the sound that leaves your body at that moment is bound to have pleased him with now desperate you sound.

Shifting your hips, you press up into him, wedging the vibe snugly between your bodies, and this time, he lets you. The rumble is ecstatic, and you gasp as the sensations take over, dissolving every rational thought inside your skull.

It doesn’t take long. After all that apprehension, you are a loaded gun; quite literally cocked and ready to blow.

Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back, and in pure ecstasy, release another high-pitched squeal of pleasure.

Sam laughs at that—actually laughs—and then it's his lips on your throat again, his voice in your ear.

"That's it, moan for me, baby. Ah—fuck—you're so tight, so close already, I can feel it. Come around my cock, princess. Yeah, that's it. My beautiful, beautiful girl..."

His words. His voice. His lips. His tongue on your neck. His cock inside you... It's all so... perfect. He's perfect. So—

You start to tremble uncontrollably, so overcome by all these emotions it would feel demeaning to name, and then it hits you, all at once, like a freight-train derailing, again, and again ...

“Fuck!” you scream, as your climax seizes you, grasping you by the throat and throttling you blue. And as quick as the first one leaves, another simmers in it's wake, surging towards you like a lightning bolt—sharp, intense, and impossible to escape.

As the high of the second also fades out, your head is left hazy with endorphins and you are sweating buckets despite the goosebumps that have also risen on your skin.

In addition to your dizzy satisfaction, you also feel clammy and sticky, your skin sticking to Sam's with the liquid heat of your combined bodies. It's undeniably gross, but Sam doesn't mind in the slightest. In fact, he can't seem to get enough.

"Sam—" you cry, trying but failing to bat him away as he returns the vibe to your clit, assaulting your bud with a force that makes you hiss through clenched teeth. "S-sensitive!"

"I know, baby," he says, and he does know, but he's also using his dom voice, and that can only mean one thing.

"C'mon, baby," he says, as you continue to squirm and squeal against him. "Please, let me give you another. You've got more in you, I know it."

"But Sam I—I can't—" you whine.

"Yes you can," he says adamantly. "You can, and you fucking will."

At that, you have no choice but to give in, clawing your nails into Sam's shoulders hard enough to mark as he turns the vibrations up to the max and tears well in your eyes and dribble down your cheeks.

You're so sensitive from your first two orgasms that the stimulation is almost painful, but you're also so enthralled by him that any pain you feel is secondary to the overwhelming pleasure you feel being at his command.

You could always safeword if you wanted, you both know you could, that's why he feels so comfortable in pushing you, and you in letting him. You do in fact have a choice; you always have with Sam. There's always a way out if you wanted; a way to escape this vulnerability, this powerlessness. But, despite yourself—despite everything—you don't.

Instead, you resume your chase, rocking your hips frantically into his to meet his demand, pushing yourself to the edge of overstimulation and then over, finally manifesting in a pleasure that is threefold and leaves you reeling in catharsis. In control. In power.

"That's it, baby," Sam growls, almost aggressive now in his devotion as you buck against the vibe, practically wailing his name as hot tears zizzle down your cheeks and evaporate against your skin.

"That's it. My good fucking girl. My perfect little slut. Fuck—you're so hot—screaming like that. Fuck—you're gonna make me come. Please," he groans. Pleads. Begs. His restraint finally fraying. It's always so satisfying to watch it break.

"Please make me come. Princess deserves it. Princess deserves all my cum."

And you're not a religious person by any means, but dear god, this... This feels like worship. Like reverence.

And sure as hell, it is enough to do it, and he is right. Again.

Is he always fucking right?

The tangled knot inside you frays, and then finally breaks, and you can't contain yourself any longer.

Whiteness spreads behind your eyes and your body trembles with an intense, visceral relief that leaves you unable to do anything but cling onto the only man that has ever made you feel weightless. Who knows you better than anyone should have the right to. Who always makes you feel powerful, even in vulnerability.

Gauging your reactions, Sam clings back, cradling you to his chest and rutting his hips upwards as you both come together in a writhing ball of orgasmic bliss.

A few, sweat-soaked minutes later, collapsed and tangled together in euphoria, Sam concedes with a grin, “Very effective, indeed.”

Even he is breathless now.

#words #love kink #freak's musings #sam winchester x reader #fanfic #sam winchester #x reader #sam winchester smut #sub!reader #sam winchester x you #dom!sam

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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Can't wait to continue HOYS, this dynamic makes me melt 🫠

— The Morning After (Sam Winchester x fem!reader)

Summary: You wake up after a wild night with Sam. He refuses to let you to forget how good he made you feel ...

Tags: 18+ MDNI 🔞 Fluff and smut, BDSM aftercare.

Notes: This is part of a wider fic. Reader had mental health issues. Newly-established relationship. Sam is very protective over you.

The next morning came like a declaration. The sun was out, reigning high and bright in the crisp winter sky, and for the first time in years, you felt at peace; awoke without a deep, profound longing gnawing at your bones. The absence was noticeable. So noticeable in fact, that at first, it was almost unsettling. As if a piece of yourself had gotten lost in the night, only to be replaced by a feeling so foreign it felt out of place in your body. Where once stood a well, waters dark and stagnant, now existed an ocean—vast, moving, and alive. So instead of reaching for your phone, squeezing your knees to your chest, or holding your breath to fill the void, you rolled to the side, opened your eyes, and welcomed the day with the deepest sigh of relief you could muster.

Beside you, Sam splayed. His rich brown hair fanned like shards of chocolate over your faded floral pillowcase; his lips parted softly in sleep. His body took up most of the bed, and—as you had realized in the night—had a habit of eating the sheets. You now noticed that was probably because he clenched the edges in his fists, so whenever he rolled, they rolled with him. You smiled at that—little quirks only ever revealed in the midst of intimacy. After-hour truths and early-morning peculiarities. You wondered how many more he had; whether he knew them himself; whether you would be lucky enough to discover them all, one day. It was a wistful thought. A dangerous thought. Yet today, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to deny them.

Sweeping your eyes over his features, you admired the mix of sharp masculine strength, and soft delicate beauty. You observed the rise and fall of his chest in time with his peaceful breathing, the subtle flutter of his eyes beneath his lids, and his jaw; strong, but relaxed, framed by stubble that was getting even longer by the day. You knew that Dean would probably tease him for it, but you didn’t mind. In fact, it rather suited him. And the way it felt roughing up your thighs ...

You shuffled up the bed, wincing softly as you drew your eyes from the scene. It took every fiber of your strength, but you managed. It was too early for those kinds of thoughts, wasn’t it? Plus, you were sore, the ache in your glutes and hips reminiscent of a tough session at the gym.

Next to you, on your bedside table, stood a bottle of lotion, a half-sipped glass of water, and an open packet of Advil; the only evidence of last night’s promiscuities in sight.

After your shower, Sam had diligently stripped the bed, chucking the dirty sheets in the wash along with his soiled jeans.

Your face reddened at the thought, memories of the evening before resurfacing. You hadn’t had sex like that in… well … never.

Your eyes drifted back to Sam’s sleeping form. Your body heated. A selfish thought crossed your mind.

How easy it would be, you thought. To roll on top of him and take what I want. He wouldn’t say no. You were sure of it. Hell, he’d practically sworn an oath of servitude. But no. I can’t. I shouldn’t … Poor man needs his rest.

Sam must have felt your shifting as he groaned softly, then rolled away, towards the window where the morning light was waiting behind the backdrop of the curtain. You lingered for a moment, on the brink of hesitation before delicately slipping your legs out of the sheets, careful not to make too much of an impression in the mattress.

After quickly popping your pill, you padded barefoot towards the door. You floated down the stairs and into your kitchen where you went through the motions, swallowing your vitamins before pressing some fresh coffee for the both of you. Sam liked his black—because of course he did—health nut that he is. But your preferred brew was with oat milk, and a generous helping of caramel.

Balancing the two steaming mugs, you ascended the stairs and nudged open the bedroom door. The room was still bathed in the soft light of morning, the hazy transition between sleep and waking making it feel like you were in a dream. But you were not dreaming. This was real. And way more colorful.

Sam’s back was still turned to you, but he stirred as you set the mugs down on your nightstand. He rolled onto his back, blinking his eyes open. When he saw you, a sleepy smile spread across his lips.

“Morning," you said, your voice still hushed as you slipped back under the sheets.

“Morning,” he replied, his voice deep and rough with sleep. “You’re up early.”

“Made you coffee." You nodded towards the mug. “Figured you might need it after last night.”

A low, rumbling chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “You spoil me.” He kissed your forehead as he reached over to grab the mug from your nightstand. “Mm, perfect,” he said, eyes fluttering shut as he took a sip, savoring the warmth on his tongue. “Just what I needed.”

You smiled, took a sip from your own mug before setting it down and snuggling into his side. Into safety. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you couldn’t help but sigh in contentment as you laid your head on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

After a moment, Sam asked, “How’re you feeling?” as his hand gently traced circles on your lower back. “Any more aches or pains?”

You chuckled softly, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Last night, before bed—but not before a thorough debrief and a comforting dinner—Sam had insisted on inspecting the damage, checking your body for any signs of injury or abrasion, making you lie still as he massaged lotion onto your ass, wrists and knees.

“How bad?” you’d asked, looking over your shoulder as you laid flat on your belly, feeling particularly silly as he slathered another cold dollop on your ass cheeks.

The redness was fading, but the most abused patches had already begun to mottle. “You’re bruised.” He’d said it like an accomplishment. Even so, you could tell he felt a little guilty. Dude seemed to find a reason for self-blame in everything, you’d noticed.

Bruises were acceptable, you’d agreed. Favorable, even. As long as they could stay hidden. A secret for you to enjoy. You weren’t a fan of parading your winnings.

“Jeez, baby," he'd said, "you didn’t even stop me once.”

“Didn’t need to. I’m a tough cookie.”

“You most certainly are.”

Sam had continued his inspection of your butt a bit longer than necessary, watching the emerging patterns bloom before him. And you’d let him. It felt nice to be wanted; to be admired.

Now you felt the residual ache of the night before as you stretched out your limbs. A reminder of how he’d marked you. Claimed you. A brand you were proud to bear. The hickey on his hip paled in comparison.

“A few,” you admitted, casting a shy, sideways smile. “But nothing too bad. Just … you know, the good kind of sore.”

Sam’s eyes darkened as he met your gaze, remembering the intensity of your session; how rough he’d been and how you’d embraced it all. Embraced him. He’d get a proper look at you later; get a better idea of your tolerance. But for now, his hand continued its soothing movements on your back, dipping lower to massage the ache in your hips. “Let me know if you need anything. I might’ve been a little too enthusiastic.”

“I think I can manage … Besides,” you added, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the graze of his stubble against your lips. “You more than made up for it.”

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers kneading gently into the tender muscles there, his touch both comforting, and suggestive. “Maybe I should make it up to you again.” His voice dropped lower as his other hand cupped the back of your neck, guiding your lips to his.

The kiss was slow and deep; a languid exploration that sent a wave of heat through your body. You felt yourself melting into him, the soft sheets tangling around your legs as you pressed closer, craving the feel of his skin against yours. Suddenly, the ache in your muscles seemed to subside, replaced by a burning want. It had only been a few hours, book-ended by sleep, but still, you felt the pull, the desire to dive straight back in. When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing a little heavier, the air between you sparkling with a familiar electricity.

“Careful,” you whispered, lips brushing against his as you spoke. “We might not make it out of bed if you keep that up.”

“Maybe that’s the point.” He slid his hand back under the sheets. Skimmed his fingers across your skin. “I’ll be gentle ...”

You swallowed, moistening a suddenly dry mouth. “You’re not ... tired?”

“Are you?”

“Wide awake.”

“Well, then . . .”

You let him guide you to your back, moaning softly as your head hit the pillow, followed by his mouth at the base of your throat. His kisses cascaded down your chest, between your breasts, down your stomach, tumbling over your hips like waves over rocks until they finally crashed in the hollow between your legs. The place that had become their home.

“I’ll never get sick of this…” A smile lit up his eyes, your sheen glistening like gloss on his lips. “You’re delightful ... Delicious.”

“You’re unreal.”

“No, princess…” A slip of a finger. In and up towards your navel. “I’m very … Real.”

----

This is an excerpt from my longer fic on AO3. You'll find more of this—including what they got up to the night before—here. 😏

#sam winchester x reader #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #history on your side #supernatural #sam winchester #ao3 writer #x reader

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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Regret & yearning—what's not to love? ❤️

Regrets and Second Chances

Sam Winchester x fem!Reader/You | Word Count: 2855

Summary: After hunting side by side with the Winchesters for a few months, you thought that you had been reading the signs between you and Sam correctly. The lingering touches, the shared glances, the late-night conversations on the hood of the Impala. But he turned you down. And even with a broken heart, you’ll still come running if it means helping him.

Tags/Warnings: Angst, open-ish ending, pining, unhealthy coping mechanisms, drinking, canon-typical violence, no beta we die like men

A/N: Alright this thing has been in my drafts for literal months. I think I’ve finally gotten it into a spot I’m happy with.

Sam didn’t drink.

Not often, at least. And when he did, it wasn’t much. So this was an extra special low for him. A different night for him. Which was why Sam found himself seated at a dimly lit bar, setting the empty shot glass back down in front of him. He didn’t get how Dean could drink this stuff like water. It burned all the way down and tasted acrid on his tongue.

Like a mix of regret and gasoline. Like a reminder of something better left forgotten. And tonight? Forgetting was exactly what Sam needed. He waved down the bartender, asking for another shot of whatever he just had. Whiskey, he was sure. He might have been well built, but Sam didn’t have the same tolerance for alcohol like Dean did. And even if he did, he wasn’t sure Dean would’ve been completely unaffected by three back-to-back shots. By now, Sam was already nursing a very comfortable buzz. But a buzz wasn’t enough to forget.

“I really like you, Sam. Do you think… do you think you’d wanna try the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing with me?” you had asked, looking over at him while wringing your hands together. It was so out of character for you. He knew you as the capable hunter who had run with them for the past several months.

You had always been able to keep up with them. Surpassed both him and Dean occasionally whether it was by identifying the creature they had been hunting before them or putting it down before it could harm someone else. It was impressive. And he would be a damn liar if he said he didn’t feel any attraction to you. Though, he couldn’t fathom how someone like you would be interested in someone like him. You could’ve had anyone you wanted. And you’d pick him, of all people?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think it would be a good idea,” Sam replied quietly. Your soft, “oh” was more than enough to break his heart. He only saw the briefest moment of disappointment cloud your eyes before he couldn’t bear to watch it, and he turned away. He was too weak to look you in the eye.

“Is it because of the hunting lifestyle?” Your voice was barely louder than a whisper, and if it hadn’t just been the two of you outside on the hood of the Impala, he might not have heard it. “Because I’m willing to try and make it work, Sam. I care about you more than anything else.”

“It’s not just that,” he muttered. Of course you would fight. It would’ve been so unlike you to just roll over and accept that open-ended answer. “I don’t feel that way about you,” he said. Like a liar. He felt a pang in his chest, his own words wrapping around his heart and constricting it. It was hard to breathe. He wanted to be anywhere but there. To say anything except the words he was saying. But it was for the best.

You had stopped hunting with them shortly after that.

It had been for your protection, he kept telling himself. To shield you from the darkness that clung to him and his brother like a curse. But now, sitting alone in the crowded bar, he questioned if that really had been the smartest choice. He knew that he cared about you far more than he was willing to admit. But it was too dangerous. He didn’t exactly have the best track record of romantic partners. Everyone eventually was taken from him. Sam was determined to keep you off of that list.

He knocked back the shot that had been set in front of him and tapped the bar for another. The alcohol seared his throat, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the pain of telling you no. Even if it was the right thing, it didn’t make it any easier. What was done was done. You had left, and that was probably the best decision you could’ve made. The further away you were from him, the safer you would be. The alcohol made it easier to believe.

Another shot burned through him.

The things he would give to turn back the clock and try it again. Maybe it didn’t have to be an outright declination. Maybe he could’ve given it a chance, and when it crashed and burned on its own, the two of you could’ve remained friends. He could’ve done something differently that didn’t lead to the bridge between you burning to ashes.

His phone was in his hand, a message typed out before he caught himself. Was he desperate enough to beg you for another chance? Swaying slightly on the bar stool, he blinked a few times, as if it would clear his vision. It didn’t.

Miss tpy in sorry olease come bacj

His thumb hovered over the backspace button before a voice next to him drew his attention.

“Sam?”

And he turned to see you sitting on the bar stool next to him, looking just as perfect as the day you had walked away from him. His heart pounded in his chest, the alcohol taking hold in his system and making it hard for him to discern whether this was real or a figment of his imagination. Sam reached out tentatively, his hand trembling as it hovered in the air between you. You smiled softly at him. He breathed your name, as if saying it too loudly would shatter the illusion.

“I shouldn’t have left things like that,” you said softly, taking his hand and pressing it to your cheek. He sighed audibly at the contact, and you drew closer, half sliding off of the stool you were on. “Could we maybe try a do-over?”

His eyes went wide, disbelief warring with hope as he met your gaze. A wave of emotions flooded through him, the path made easy by the alcohol. It felt like a dream, something too good to be true. But your warmth against his hand. The earnest look in your eyes. Those were real. You were real.

He couldn’t be bothered to question the logistics of it all. Couldn’t be bothered by the little voice in the back of his head screaming that something about this whole thing was off. The universe was giving him another chance, and he wasn’t about to squander it.

He wet his lips, and a flicker of something ignited in Sam’s chest, partially dispelling the numbness that had begun to sink into his bones. A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he nodded slowly. The weight on his chest lifted slightly, replaced by a fluttering sense of anticipation. A do-over. A chance to make things right. To let himself feel what he had been denying for so long. He leaned closer to you, whispering,

“A do-over sounds good.” Your smile widened, and you pressed your lips against his.

It was better than Sam ever could’ve imagined.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if Sam were worried that showing you too much of his desperation would cause you to turn and run. But then something shifted, a mutual understanding between you. Your hand slid up to cup Sam’s jaw gently, deepening the kiss. And – oh – there it was. Warmth bloomed within Sam’s chest, chasing the alcohol in his veins like wildfire. This was right. You were right.

Why had he ever fought this in the first place? His hands found your waist, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. Everything about you was intoxicating. Your scent. Your taste. The way your fingers threaded through his hair. The bar around the two of you disappeared. The noise dulled to a distant hum. All that was left was you.

The kiss broke, but you didn’t pull away completely. Your forehead rested against his, breaths mingling in the space between you. He was sure you could smell the whiskey on his breath, but in that exact moment, he couldn’t muster up the energy to care. You were there. You had been willing to give him a second chance, and the world was set right again.

Things were going to be okay. Until they weren’t. He saw your brow furrow. It was a brief, subtle thing, but Sam had watched you for long enough that even if he had an entire bottle of alcohol coursing through his system, he was confident that he could pick out all your mannerisms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, mirroring your concerned look.

“There’s a girl in the corner booth who keeps looking at you.” You glanced over your shoulder, likely in the direction of the girl in question, but when Sam followed your gaze, he didn’t see anyone.

“She’s no one, baby,” he said, looking back at you.

“She’s looking at you like she’s someone. I just got you, and I don’t want to have to share you with someone else.” Sam gently cupped your cheek with a hand, guiding your eyes back to his.

“Then let’s get out of here.”

The motel door couldn’t have closed behind him fast enough, and he pressed you against it, kissing you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. Because you were. He had you, and he wasn’t about to give you up for anything in the world. You tangled your fingers in his hair, and he groaned when your nails raked along his scalp.

Your skin was soft beneath his fingers as they roamed over your body, and Sam fought through the alcohol to memorize every curve and dip of you. His lips trailed down your neck, reveling in the soft sigh you let out. For the briefest moment, Sam regretted the fact that he had drank so much. But as he felt his cock stir in his pants, his concern over potential whiskey-dick flew out the window.

A sudden pounding on the door startled the two of you apart, like two teenagers who had just been caught by their parents.

“Sam!” came a muffled voice from behind the door. “Sam, open the door!” Sam pulled you away from the door, carefully tucking you behind him as he eyed the door warily. Somewhere in his drunken haze, he thought he might have recognized the voice.

“Stay behind me,” he said quietly. He peeked through the spyhole of the door and knit his brows together. Maybe the alcohol had hit him harder than he originally thought because Sam was seeing double. He tentatively cracked the door open a few inches. Lo and behold, there you were standing in front of him, a grim look of determination etched into your features. “Who are you?” he asked before he could stop himself. That didn’t make any sense. He already had you in the room with him.

Your expression shifted, changing to a mix of hurt and confusion.

“It’s me,” you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Sam shook his head.

“No you’re not,” he argued. There was a faded scar across your cheek that you had gotten when a ghost got you real good with a vase. And the you in his room didn’t have that. She was perfect. You were perfect.

“Sam, it’s me. You need to listen to me,” you insisted, bullying your way into the room and reaching out a hand as if to grab him. Sam flinched back instinctively, unsure of what was happening. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what was going on, but it was like he was moving through honey. The alcohol slowed his thoughts. He wasn’t as quick as he normally was.

“You were here on a hunt, weren’t you, Sam?” you asked him. He turned around to look at you, and you were stunning. You always were. He nodded slowly.

“Yeah, a hunt,” he echoed. Why had he gone and gotten drunk on a hunt? That was incredibly irresponsible of him. Your expression grew serious.

“It’s the same reason I’m here. I was following the same clues you were. You got too close, and now that thing is here to kill you.” And suddenly everything made sense. The people suddenly killing those they were closest to? And now for the creature to take on your appearance? How had he not seen it before? God, you were so smart and incredible. He loved you.

Your hunter instincts kicked in moments before Sam’s did, and as he rounded on you suddenly with a raised fist, you ducked to the side, tugging the bronze dagger from the sheath strapped to your leg. Without hesitation, you spun around, the blade glinting in the dim motel room light. Sam tripped forward, unbalanced by his own momentum.

You sidestepped his next attempt to grab you, his movements clumsied by the alcohol. He overshot his grasp and instead got nothing but air. The alcohol had slowed his reflexes, and you intended to take full advantage of it. Without that, Sam would’ve outpaced you with his height and weight.

With another swift movement, you lunged forward, throwing your shoulder into his chest, and since he didn’t have the best footing to begin with, he stumbled backwards, catching himself much less gracefully than normal. You swiped with your dagger, aiming for a clean strike at Sam’s side, but he managed to sway out of reach just in time, the tip of the blade just barely grazing his shirt. His eyes went wide as you advanced, your movements fluid and controlled and practiced.

Without his usual coordination, Sam’s long limbs were a curse, and you needed to press that advantage before the adrenaline sobered him up. You made a feint to the left then dipped right when he committed to his movement and dragged your blade across his bicep, mentally apologizing as he hissed in pain. You went for a second pass, messily smearing his freshly-drawn blood along his arm and your dagger.

The other you in the room had made a slow but steady path to the open door, and as you turned to her, she booked it. She might have been quick, but you were quicker, and you tackled her before she made it out of the room, your dagger plunged deep into her back. She crumpled to the floor, letting out an inhuman screech that sounded just enough like you to send a shiver down your spine.

Sam stared at the creature then at you, his eyes wide with confusion and the lingering effects of alcohol. His hand pressed against the cut on his arm, blood seeping between his fingers.

“You…” he started, swaying slightly where he stood. “How did you know?”

You wiped the blade clean on your jeans.

“Dean figured it out pretty quickly once you guys came into town. Lots of similarities to your first siren hunt. He said you weren’t doing so great… so he called me.” You dropped your gaze to the motel carpet.

“And you came,” Sam said. You wet your lips, nodding slowly.

“I… wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Sam stared at you for a long moment, his gaze softening. You glanced up at him, frowning. He was looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured, and the energy in the room shifted, turning into something dangerous. More charged. Your breath caught in your throat. No. He couldn’t do that to you.

Sam drew closer to you, and you brandished the knife in your hand, its blade parallel with your forearm. It didn’t deter him. In fact, he leaned down until the blade was pressed flush against his neck, his pulse pounding beneath his skin against it.

“Don’t fuck with me, Sam,” you warned, though the heat in your voice wasn’t as searing as you had liked. “I am not in the mood to be fucked with right now.”

The weapon trembled in your hand. All of you trembled as he focused his attention on you. That’s all you had ever wanted. Just not like this. He moved – slowly, in case you decided to draw more of his blood – to cup your cheeks in his hands, his warmth seeping into you, grounding you.

“I’m sorry. For everything. I was wrong,” he said softly. And you could see it in his eyes. The longing and desire and care and every sign you thought you had seen before deciding to confess your feelings to him in the first place. They were all still there. You hadn’t been imagining it. “Please, let me love you.”

And the words broke you.

The knife slipped from your fingers and dropped to the ground.

“I thought that’s what you’ve been doing the last few months,” you managed to get out before the first sob wracked your body. You wanted to look down, not let Sam see you cry over him for a second time. But he tilted your face up to meet his gaze.

“Then let me love you better.”

And he pressed his lips against yours.

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

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#recs #sam winchester x reader

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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– Found (Sam Winchester x fem!reader)

I apologize. I don't know what this shit is but it just came out of my brain stream of consciousness style. I am supposed to be on hiatus (whoops). CWs for kink, bondage, ovestim, catharsis, safeword use, the things people don't say.

You are bound and your throat is dry. The vibrator has been buzzing on your clit for the past hour and you've lost count of how many times you've come. In addition to your wrists, your arms and chest are swathed in rope, and your thighs are bound wide in a butterfly, leaving you no option but to lay there and take it, tears streaming down your cheeks as your bastard of a boyfriend turns the setting up again and watches you writhe against your restraints.

Sam has no mercy.

Not today.

Not when you've been a bad, bad girl.

You've been a bad girl and you deserve this. Deserve to have your needy little pussy overstimulated to the point of exhaustion. Until you break and Sam has to piece you back together again.

You've been bad and you need this. Needed this for a while and Sam knows it too. He knows you better than anyone, and you both hate and love him for it.

You both hate and love how vulnerable he makes you feel. Hate and love how he has the power to tear you apart and put you back together over, and over again.

Both hate and love his harsh, yet equally gentle hands.

Hands that have killed.

Hands that have saved.

Hands that press together every night in prayer when he thinks you're asleep, because only God knows what he'd do if he ever found out you knew.

Punish you again, most likely.

Not like this, though.

No.

Sam would never take his own self-hatred out on you purposely.

Instead, he'll make your heart ache as you watch him berate himself for his contradictions.

The contradictions that make him so uniquely him but that he refuses to accept.

He'll punish you indirectly for punishing himself, and then you'll both break, in the way that only lost souls are capable of.

And when that happens, when you both crumble into dust, who will be left to piece you back together then?

...

"Y/N?"

Your eyes snap back into focus and you see Sam hovering over you, a concerned look on his face. He's turned the vibrator off and is now making quick work of untying your restraints, muttering profanities to himself.

You try to speak, to ask him what's wrong, but no words come out, and it's only then you realize how out of it you just were.

A lump the size of your heart chokes you until you let out a wail of a sob, and fall helplessly into Sam's arms.

"Safeword, baby," Sam cooes, smoothing your hair with his palm as he clutches you tightly to his chest. To soothe you, or himself, it's hard to tell. "Jeez. I thought I'd lost you for a second."

Lost me? What does he even mean?

"That's impossible" you manage to croak out, your voice strained and sore. "You'll never lose me. You're the only person that has ever seen me, Sam. With you, I am found."

#i apologize #i don't know what this shit is but it just came out my brain #stream of consciousness #sam winchester x reader #i blame mariana enriquez for the abrupt endings ive been loving lately

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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The Ghostfacers Meet Castiel (webisode, 2009)

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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there will never be another destiel ever again btw. there will never be such a thematically coherent and intense romance that is in deep conversation with the core of the show itself and shapes an immense part of its story but was also a fucking accident. there will never be a decade long queerbait that somehow writes itself into canon because the story has been shaped around it again. there will never be a ship that meta-defies both its internal god (in-verse) and its external god (the powers that be) again. literally never again. just so nobody forgets. btw.

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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Lovely mutuals restoring my faith in humanity, even if only slightly in these turbulent times. You know who you are ❤️

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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Since when has Tumblr starting slapping content labels all over my posts? Can anyone even see my fics now? No clue

#is this platform going to shit too?#why cant we have nice things #fuck censorship

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supernaturalfreakout · 2 months ago

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This has genuinely made my day. Thank you so so much ❤️

— I love you, I'm sorry (Sam x fem!reader)

Summary: Sam regrets ever letting you slip away. Based on the song "I love you, I'm sorry" by Gracie Abrams. Notes: This was a request, and again, something that never would have existed if it wasn't requested. When I first received this ask, I have to admit my immediate thought was, No. I looked at the lyrics and had no idea how I would make it fit the kind of stories I like to tell. But then I had an idea, and just ran with it. Featuring Sam's POV again, and his incredibly messed up feelings. Thanks @mehartoor for the challenge ✨ PS. I've never written a songfic before this, so any feedback is welcome! CWs: Angst and regret, heartbreak, ?second chance romance, intentionally ambiguous.

Apologies have always come naturally to Sam, “I’m sorry” slipping from his lips as inevitably as dying leaves abandoning their branches in the fall—or is the tree the one that lets go? All his life he’s had something to regret, whether by the actions of his own hands or that of the universe, so he’s had plenty of practice, and this is nothing new. Regardless of how often he whispers those two, savage words, however, they never get any easier. And it's never been harder than the day he’d had to say those words to you …

Late Kansan summer. Lazy day by the lake celebrating your two-year anniversary. Sam remembers that day as clear as his conscience had been when you’d lain under the sun that afternoon: golden rays on your back, hands entwined in constant companion. Drinking champagne neither of you could afford from a flask to keep it cool. Feeding each other strawberries, juice dripping down lips and over chins. Backtracked by the distant splash of water and the laughter of families making the most of their summer vacations. Overseen by the clouds: stoned, and drifting fluffy and hypnotic in a crystal-blue sky.

By sunset, you were both sunburnt and tipsy, heads muzzy in their collective daze from the bubbles and humidity, and the constant buzzing of the lake flies that left a dizzying static in your ears, and that made Sam feel he was observing someone else’s life rather than his own. But that didn’t stop either of you from making the most of the night.

Pictures flash in Sam’s memory. Movie-reels in faded sepia. Haunting melancholies encoded in his skin. Images of you on your knees, grass-stains that persisted until morning. Pleasure coursing through his veins. The feel of your hair in his hands as he plastered his lips shut and prayed no one was exploring near where you had set up camp for the night. Luminescent bellies of fireflies that emerged at dusk and swept his mind to a distant shore.

Then you on your back, his head between your legs. The salt on your skin as he sucked on your thighs, leaving mottled red patches in his wake, and the itchy mosquito bites on your calves that he later soothed with lotion—because Sam always packed lotion (that was one of many things you’d loved to tease him about).

The softness of your stomach against his as he entered you softly, and the scent of your tears as you made love in the muggy, august air. The sweat you’d shared, bodies dewy and glistening in the moonlight. And, later on, the sparkle in your wet eyes when, tangled under the stars in your love-drunk state, you’d promised him “forever.”

A sharp pang shoots through Sam’s chest whenever he thinks about that. A rod lodging its way in his windpipe. The fear that overtook him that night led to him saying some truths the following morning that he probably should have kept to himself. Stupid things he didn’t mean. Things he wishes he could take back.

But he can’t. And he couldn’t then.

It was too late the moment he said them, his words too hurtful—too honest—and you had left.

You had left, and for what?

To confirm his suspicions that he was never destined for happiness?

That everything he touches eventually turns to ash?

That he is doomed to end up loveless and alone?

Sam shakes his head, the memories too painful to bare, the ‘what ifs’ too hopeful to fathom.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt you, but Sam knew better than to promise forever. Because forever wasn’t his to claim. For what does forever even mean? Until the end of the world? No. He’s lived through several. Til the end of his days? That might not be that far away. Until the end of yours…? Sam didn’t want to even contemplate that. Because forever wasn’t real; it was a cruel joke people told themselves to make the fall hurt less.

And then he’d found himself panicking, ruminating about how he’d be condemning you—that he already was—just by existing.

He knew then that he had to let you go, because he loved you too much to watch you die slowly in his arms. Because that’s what would happen if you’d stayed, lest you burn up in a blaze of agony like everyone else he’s ever loved. He couldn’t chain you to him; you had a future ahead of you, one that promised wealth and happiness and connections. A Mercedes Benz. First-class flights. Shit neither of you cared about but had let infiltrate your dreams nonetheless.

Sam could see it now: you, years from now, laughing in a sunlit kitchen, someone else’s arms around your waist, another man's child in your belly. It made bile rise to his throat, thinking of anyone else being with you like that, and touching you as he does. He wanted to scream that he'd loved you first, that it should have been him there with you. But he also couldn’t deny that it was the safest option: a life without him, free from darkness.

A life you deserved. A future you’d trained and charmed for. One that promised status and would satisfy your parents’ shallow sense of self-worth, something Sam himself would never be able to satiate. One that offered opportunity and adventure, without the constant threat of damnation. He had to slam the door closed before it knocked both of you out. It was inevitable, after all. That’s just the way life goes.

So he’d been a dick; he needed you to hate him, and had pushed you away. It was the easiest way.

Two years down the road, thinking enough time had passed to anesthetize the pain, Sam tries to make amends, which results in you exchanging several messages. Surprisingly, you seem cool about it, and Sam doesn’t know how to take it. He thought he would be able to deal with it, that he was over what had happened, and that it would put his mind at rest. But he is wrong again, and it only brings up unresolved feelings. This shit never ends.

Joyriding on the back of those memories, Sam realizes that loving you is his greatest regret; you are simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him. Because there’s no way in hell or on earth that he will ever get over you.

It's a car crash, yet he still can’t look away. So he sighs, fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his phone, and types out a message, because one last text can’t hurt, can it? As his fingers hover over ‘send,’ he looks up at the sky, and wonders whether you are up there, in that plane passing by.

His belly lights up with hope, fireflies flickering inside him, battering him from the inside out. A self-destructive habit, an age-old curse that will surely kill him one day if you don’t send someone to do it instead.

His fingers fly back over the screen, messages spilling from his gut, bursting forth in staccato rhythm.

He presses send again. And again. And holds his breath as his words float into the abyss. The feelings they contain no longer obscured by blurry nostalgia, but the painful, hopeful reality of the present.

“I love you,” the first one reads, in crisp, clear letters. But that’s not all.

“I love you,” the second repeats, because one statement is not enough; Sam always has to twist the knife deeper.

“I love you,” comes the third.

And the fourth.

The fifth …

"I love you

I love you

I can’t stop

I’ve always loved you and I always will

I was wrong

So, so wrong

And I’m sorry

So deeply sorry

About what I said

About that night

For everything.”

There’s not enough oxygen in the universe to supply Sam’s lungs as he waits for your reply. And when he sees the read receipt, followed by three little dots appearing and disappearing repeatedly at the bottom of his screen, that tumultuous swarm of hope threatens to choke him.

In his mind, he is already back beside that lake, tangled beneath the stars. He is dirty, and dishonest, but he is happy, and so are you.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate, or laugh, or brush of your remark with some snide and self-destructive statement about how the future doesn’t exist.

This time, he is ready and willing to give up forever, whatever that means.

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