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What Wasn’t in the Cards

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It all begins with a knock on your front door.

It’s a brief pattern. Rap, rap, rap-rap. That’s how you know it’s one of Garth’s contacts. But then again, you don’t get many visitors out here in this barely residential wooded area of Oklahoma. Sure, you have neighbors – but the closest paved road is at least a half mile away, so you don’t get much traffic. Even the local Jehovah’s Witnesses keep their distance.

Your cat alerts you to the danger with a loud chirp before fleeing upstairs into the safety of your bedroom.

When you answer the door, you’re not expecting the men you find standing on your porch.

You know who they are. Of course you do. They’re the damn Winchesters, for fuck’s sake – every hunter knows the legends. Garth must’ve sent them, you reason. But what in god’s name do they need from me?

You don’t say anything; you simply motion them inside and usher them toward your living room sofa, going to fetch three beers from the fridge before getting down to business.

You return to the living room, passing each of them a bottle as you take a seat. “So, what brings you two gentlemen to my neck of the woods? Pun intended.”

“Well, we went to Garth for some help on a case, and he sent us to you. I’m Dean, and this is Sam.”

“Yeah, I know who you are. So, what could the big bad Winchesters possibly need my help with?”

Sam looks a bit distracted by the shelves upon shelves of lore books lining the walls of your living room. Dean looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. When he doesn’t, Dean elbows him.

Sam clears his throat. “Right, sorry. Quite a collection you have here.”

“You’re welcome to peruse my library. Be forewarned: I don’t check books out to hunters, because they usually either get blood all over them or die before they get a chance to return them.”

“That seems reasonable. Anyway, yeah – so, we’ve got a hunt, and we don’t really know what we’re dealing with.”

“That’s kind of my area.”

“So, you hunt obscure monsters?” Dean asks.

“Not really, no. I’ve taken to calling myself a ‘consulting researcher.’”

Sam chimes in, “Oh, like—“

“No, not like Sherlock Holmes,” you cut in, to which Sam frowns. “I do the research. I have a lot of knowledge on mythology. Basically, I can identify any monster and tell you how to take care of it.”

“So,” Dean asks, “you’re not a hunter?”

“Oh, I am. I just prefer not to do fieldwork. I’ll leave that to the lumberjacks like yourselves. After all, what good is a hunter who has no idea what they’re doing? That’s where I come in.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Dean says.

“And I can handle myself in a tussle. I used to hunt with my uncle growing up. I’ve been able to reload a double-barrel shotgun in under ten seconds since I was about eight years old.”

“Nice,” Sam says. “What’s the most obscure mythological creature you’ve ever come across?”

“Hmm… Well, I saw a pugot once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Little headless fella, hangs out in trees, likes to steal women’s underwear.”

“And you killed it?”

“God, no. It was totally harmless.”

Dean nudges Sam and says, “Alright, that’s enough. You can fangirl later, dude. We have a monster in need of some ganking.”

“Right,” Sam says with a resolute nod. “So, think you could help us out?”

“Definitely,” you reply. “I’m probably the best one for the job. So, what’s the MO?”

 


 

With your help, the boys are able to take down the creature – which you discovered was a Tulpa disguised as a mythical shifter spirit from Zanzibar. All in all, you’ve saved their asses without breaking a sweat (or even leaving the comfort of your home, for that matter).

You get the victory phone call around dinnertime. Dean tries to articulate a twisted, reluctant ‘thank you,’ but you don’t push him.

The kindest, most heartfelt thing that he says during that phone call is: “Don’t go changing your phone number. We might need you again soon.”

And you couldn’t ask for anything better.

 


 

 Later that night, as you’re catching up on whatever’s recorded on your DVR, there’s another knock at your front door.

This time, it’s just Sam. You open the door just in time to see the Impala peeling out onto the dirt road, roaring a hoarse, hearty goodbye. Sam is leaning with his hand pressed against the top ledge of the door frame, his other hand in his jean pocket as he stands there with crossed legs, looking perfectly cool and aloof. The fucker planned this.

He sees you standing there, clad in your pajamas and slippers, and you watch as something akin to regret crosses his angled, shadowed features. “Shit, sorry. It’s late, I shouldn’t’ve—“

“Oh, shut up. Come in,” you say, stepping aside. He steps inside, but just kind of stands there awkwardly. “Want a beer? Or something stronger, maybe? Ooh, I’ve got some Jack Daniel’s in the cupboard.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets again – this time, looking more coy than cool.

“Two whiskey cokes it is. Make yourself at home,” you say as you make your way towards the kitchen liquor cabinet. “Don’t just stand there like a… like something that just stands in place. I dunno – a street sign, maybe?”

This elicits a laugh from him, which gives you a strangely strong sense of pride.

“Who’s this?” he asks from the other room.

“Probably Calypso, my calico cat,” you say from the kitchen. ‘There’s also Hera, the Russian Blue, but she doesn’t like hunters. I think she can smell the blood and anguish on them.”

When you return with two glasses of dark, cold liquid over ice, you’re surprised to find Sam over by your bookcases, scratching a pleased Hera on the head. He has that look on his face like he’s internally screaming, ‘I’ve been chosen,’ but he’s trying to play it cool on the outside.

As he openly peruses your stacks of books, he remarks, “I think I definitely already said this earlier, but you really do have quite the collection here.”

“You did say that, yeah,” you reply, handing him his glass.

“I’m beginning to think that that was an understatement.”

“I don’t have many things that I’m proud of – but I’m definitely proud of this. I’ve got bookshelves in every room of this house. I inherited some of them – but most of them, I earned myself. Either way, my books are my pride and joy, quite literally.”

Sam just kind of stands there taking it all in for a moment, and you twirl the glass anxiously in your hand.

“There are books here that could’ve saved my ass on many an occasion.”

 “You’re ass looks fine to me,” you remark mid-sip, the words escaping your grasp before you’ve even had a chance to think about their consequences. You practically spit your drink back into your glass as Sam bursts out in chest-booming, knee-slapping laughter. You laugh at yourself too, mostly just to hide how mortified you feel.

Through his laughter, Sam quips, “Yeah, well yours isn’t so bad either.”

“So we’ve both looked at each other’s asses. Glad we’ve established that.”

As the laughter dies down a bit, he kind of just looks into your eyes, and for once in your sad little life, it’s not weird. It’s not an awkward, long-held stare between fumbling teenagers, nor is it the discomfort of some average joe coming on to you at a dive bar, nor is it full of reluctance, or dread, or embarrassment. For once, it’s the fire that you’ve always imagined it was supposed to be.

He takes the half-empty glass from your hand, gingerly placing both his and yours on the nearby coffee table. He looks into your eyes again for a long moment before wrapping one arm around your waist and cupping your cheek in his opposite hand. He draws you in, kissing you like it’s his last day on Earth.

It’s a generous kiss, lavish and warm. You don’t realize until he pulls away that you’ve been holding your breath. And he just looks into your eyes again, like he’s trying to communicate telepathically, but everything is being drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

“Sam, did you just come here for a booty call?”

He smirks. “No, actually. I genuinely came by to take a look at your books and maybe chat a bit over drinks or something – at least, that’s what I told myself. I can’t say that I wasn’t hopeful.”

You smile. “We can ‘chat’ later,” you say, trailing a hand up over his (unfortunately) clothed chest. You lean in close enough to blow hot breath onto his neck, whispering in his ear, “but first…”

You don’t even have to finish your thought.

He grips your thighs and draws you up to wrap your legs around him, pushing you against the nearest bare wall – which, in this case, is across the room. He kisses you again, more primal this time, nipping and clashing tongues.

“I wanted this to be sexy – you know, with me carrying you to your bed,” he says breathlessly, kissing you lightly between pauses, “but I don’t know where your bedroom is.”

You genuinely laugh – that’s the sign of a perfect man, your best friend Heather once told you. She said, ‘Find yourself someone who can make you laugh when you’re otherwise too horny to think.’ You didn’t really know what she meant until this moment.

“Up the stairs. Second to last door on the right.”

He grins, obviously happy that you’re playing along. Before you can even process the move, he’s carried you up the stairs and has you pressed up against the inside of your bedroom door. You try to take his top off, but you’ve got very limited movement. So, once you’ve got his buttons mostly undone, he drops you onto the bed and divests himself of his flannel and undershirt.

You’re definitely salivating at the sight. “Christ, Sam.”

“Your turn.”

“How am I supposed to follow that?” you jest, gesturing to his perfectly sculpted torso. Even though you’re joking, there’s a very real sense of dread and unworthiness filling your gut at the moment.

He doesn’t argue; he simply tilts his head to the side then draws your top slowly up and over your head, kissing the exposed skin as he goes. He doesn’t flinch at your silvery stretchmarks, or your muffin top, or your scars, or the crease in your belly from sitting down. In fact, you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing through the thick fabric of his jeans. He looks at your bra like it’s an appetizer, quickly undoing the clasp and discarding it onto the floor before pulling down your pants. You can see that he’s trying to pace himself – to avoid his desire to dive straight to dessert.

He’s fluid in his movements, his mouth trailing down you like a river as it moves from kissing your lips, to pecking the sensitive skin of your collarbone, to lapping at and sucking your (even more sensitive) nipples, to leaving wet kisses down your stomach, then finally to nipping along the elastic edge of your underwear, teasing the waistband.

“May I?” he asks.

Please, Sam.”

He slowly draws your underwear down past your knees, letting the evidence hang from your ankle like a white flag of surrender. How fitting, you think. You don’t think for much longer.

When he gets his mouth on you, you’re lost. And when he gets two of his long, manly-man masculine guy fingers up inside you, you can’t even remember what planet you’re on. The sounds that leave your lips as he unabashedly assaults your sweet spot are unlike any you’ve ever heard yourself make. It’s a lovely chorus of pleas to Sam and to Christ and to sweet, sweet fuck, layered with an ensemble accompaniment comprised solely of groans and whimpers. I’ll call it, ‘Pornographic Cries in D Major.’

“I’m g—I’m gonna…”

“That’s it, come for me,” he says, working you through a spectacular high. A guy hasn’t gotten you off this quickly in… well, ever.

He grins up at you, grinding himself down onto the bedspread, and you whine for him to remove his own pants. When he drags his jeans and underwear off in one fell swoop, you’re lost again.

And in that moment, you’re certain that by the end of the night, he’ll have made you forget your own name.

“Jesus, Sam. You’re huge.” It’s the kind of big that is certainly intimidating, but isn’t entirely insurmountable. You know by looking at him that he won’t literally split you in half, but it’ll sure as hell feel that way.

Fuck yes. I must be dreaming.

He leans over you, kissing you sweetly, almost innocently – contrasting the vulgar bobbing of his hard cock against your stomach.

“Say the word and I’ll stop.”

“God, please don’t,” you say, earning a smirk from Sam. “Just needed a moment to adjust my expectations to what clearly surpasses all of my hopes and dreams.”

He laughs this time, mouthing smiles on your neck as he asks, “How do you want it, sweetheart?”

“Give me everything you’ve got, Winchester.”

“Seriously, though,” he pauses, breaking his cool-dude exterior for a moment to give you a little sidebar. It’s very endearing. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

I’d like you to, your dirty little mind supplies.

“You won’t, but thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, your cock, please, if you don’t mind…”

“Okay, eager. Condom?”

“Pill. Come on, Sam. Don’t make me ask twice.”

He laughs again, notching himself at your entrance as he holds himself up on his forearms over you. He pauses for a moment to look into your eyes again, probably attempting telepathy like he was earlier. You know that whatever he’s trying to say would probably make you blush.

He smashes his lips into yours, providing a sloppy, indulgent kiss to muffle both of your groans as he begins pushing into you, slowly easing further inside with small, shallow thrusts. It takes longer than you’re used to for him to fully sink in – and when he does finally get there, it feels like his cock is so far inside of you that it’s prodding at the bottom of your lungs, forcing you to take shorter breaths from the top of your chest. Like he’s taking up so much space that you have little room left to breathe.

“Oh my… fuck, Sam. So full. Holy shit – never… never felt—“

“Mmm… god, I know, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You feel so perfect.”

“S-Sam, please.”

He leans up and presses a chaste kiss to your now-sweaty forehead before drawing his hips back and pushing forward. He sets up this rhythm – it feels tentative, almost. You wrap your legs around him, using your heels to emphasize that you want more.

“Come on, Sam. You won’t break me.”

He seems to take that as a personal challenge.

It’s like a light switch. He goes from slow and soft to fast and hard in the span of one ragged breath. He draws back and positively slams into you, forcing your headboard to smack against the wall. You’re thanking your lucky stars that you don’t have any neighbors living super close by.

“Like that, baby?”

“God, y-yeah, Sam. Hard. I want it.”

He starts grunting, a bead of sweat trailing down his brow and along the length of his nose.

But still, you want more. You want control.

“Flip over,” you say. “I wanna be on top.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, pulling out and flopping onto his back as you mount him like a prize stallion and sink down onto his length once more. You just hold him there for a moment, letting him fill you up unlike any man you’ve ever had before. You rock gently, letting him press into all of your most sensitive parts as you start groaning like a porn star again. This time, it’s mostly whimpers and an excess of profanities spewing from your tongue.

Then, he starts pushing his hips up against you – lodging himself even further into you, if that’s even possible. He sits up, one hand holding you tightly against him, chest to chest, the other wound into the hair at the back of your neck as you lavish in these indulgent not-quite-thrusts. You share breaths and grunts and whimpers with him, quickly building yourself up to another orgasm.

You begin properly riding him, then lean back and place your hands above his knees, and the angle is golden. He knows immediately that he’s got your g-spot held hostage here, so he starts thrusting up more and more as you slowly give yourself over to the sensations.

You start to cry out again, and Sam takes a hold of your hips as he guides you atop him. One hand drifts toward your lower stomach, and he moans this guttural sound. “Give me your hand,” he says. And you do. He guides it to where he was pressing down on your belly, where you can feel the length of his cock abusing your cervix. And the pressure from your hands pushes you even further. “That’s me filling you up, sweetheart. How’s that feel?”

“Oh my god, Sam, fuck…” you whine and groan and whimper; screw the chorus – you’re going to have to compose an entire opera with the sheer number of obscene sounds pouring from your lips. “I’m gonna… oh, fuck, Sam… ah, ah—“

The waves are overwhelming, and when it finally hits, the crest is massive. It rises and it stays that way, and you wonder if you’ll be stuck in this state of bliss forever. It’s like a knot pulling tighter and tighter – the more it pulls, the louder you scream. It feels like an eternity before the metaphorical rope finally snaps.

You’re not even really coming down from it before Sam loses his rhythm, squeezing his eyes shut tight and grunting, “Shit, shit – ah, oh god. Fuck, baby. Mmm—“

He honest to goodness shouts, then pulls and holds his hips flush against yours. You feel a thick warmth coat your insides, and it’s immensely satisfying. As his own climax crests, his shouts devolve into whimpers, sounding almost like those of an injured dog.

The two of you collapse with a heavy, satisfied sigh. You lie there, in twilight shadows cast by a table lamp and by moonlight, as you trail your fingers aimlessly across Sam’s chest. He has an arm wrapped around your shoulders, and he runs his fingers through your hair in a way that makes you want to sleep atop this glorious manbeast (like a dragon would lie upon her treasure) for the rest of your natural born life – and perhaps even after that.

You draw the covers up over your nude bodies, and Sam flashes you a look that says that he feels like he’s overstayed his welcome.

“Uh-uh. Don’t you dare, Winchester. Stay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You kiss him, trying to inject this bruising kiss with as much meaning as you can.

“If this was just a booty call, please keep me on speed dial,” you joke, and Sam laughs.

“Oh, I definitely will.”

You know the fleeting, ephemeral nature of hunter relationships. You just got your hands on this perfect specimen, and you know you’ll have to say goodbye come morning – but until then, you’ll operate under the assumption that Sam is here to stay and to keep your bed warm.