Five and One - 1/2
Title Five Times Sam (and Shyloh) Almost Had Sex, and One Time They Did
Topic Supernatural
Rating R for language and adult material
Characters Sam/OFC, Dean
Authors Note This is my first attempt at any kind of actual smutt. I hope I did it justice :-) Shyloh is an OFC of mine, but this is a stand-alone and can, obviously, be read without reading anything else. Hope you enjoy! Had to cut the damn thing in half cause of stupid length....
I. Angry Sex
Looking back, it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Dean said he was going out for a drink and maybe a fuck, and Shyloh announced that all the food in their fridge was either Deans or had gone bad. Sam then made a comment how there was no difference between the two, and Dean had stood up and approached Sam in that menacing way, his fingers already curling into fists as the man prepared to swing. Shyloh had to jump between them and give them both her best pissed off face, because she felt like if she had just stood there, they would have pushed her out of the way and got on with it.
Maybe it would have been a good idea if Shyloh had let them punch each other a few times. They would have a few bruises and bumps on their pretty faces, sure, but at least this tension in the air would go away, because she was starting to worry every time she brought out a sharp instrument, in fear that it would cut through the air itself, it was so thick.
But her hands on both their chests and that dangerous glint in her eye was enough to make them back down - that, and the fact that her “danger-hand” as Dean labeled it, was against his chest and not Sam’s broke their stares of doom. Dean left pretty soon after that, taking the keys to the Impala with him.
Shyloh remembered seeing a small grocery store a few miles down the road, and she told Sam as much, so he grabbed his coat and stormed out of the room without waiting for her to follow. She did, of course, because that’s what she did. Dean could take care of his own damn feelings, she really didn’t care that much at the moment. Because what had happened was eating Sam up inside, and from what she knew about the boys, Sam piling feelings up inside never ended good.
She caught up with him pretty quick, but he was on autopilot, and his legs were at least a few inches taller than hers, and she almost had to jog in order to keep up. “Sam.” She said, unable to break through his haze. “Sam, talk to me.” She reached out and touched his hand and he jerked away from her, the look in his eyes confused until he realized who had touched him. She watched as his entire composure crumpled after that, and he looked about a foot shorter.
“Sorry.” He said, and that was all. He slowed down though, and Shyloh took that as a minor victory. She slid her hand into his, and smiled as he tightened his grip. They walked that way for about a mile.
“Dean’s such a bitch sometimes. And I deal with it, because he’s my brother and I care about him. But he’s like this all the time, always running off half-cocked. All he cares about is how to kill something - I always tell him that he’s gonna get someone killed who doesn’t deserve it, but he never listens!” His grip became so tight that Shyloh thought the bones in her hand might shatter and turn to dust, but she didn’t say anything about it. Her pain she could handle, his she couldn’t.
“That kid…he’s never going to have his first kiss, or go to the prom, or get to decide whether or not he gets to go to college…” He blinked. “And it’s out fault…my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” Shyloh said, and they lapsed back into silence.
Turned out that the grocery store she saw wasn’t open on Sundays, so they turned right back around and walked back to the motel. It was around that time that he let go of her hand, and didn’t make an effort to touch her again the rest of the walk. It was hot outside, and Sam had started to sweat, his face covered with a thin layer of perspiration. He kept his hands in his jacket, though, and forged onward.
They made it back to the motel and climbed the stairs, entering the hallway to the second floor, where their room was. They got to the door with their room number and Sam fumbled for the key.
“Sam…” Shyloh tried again, because she knew as soon as they entered that room, he would burry himself in his laptop until they left, and then the miles of road ahead of them would feel like thousands. She reached out again, trying to get some kind of contact.
His hand snapped out faster than she would have thought possible and grabbed her wrist in a bruising hold. She gasped, and was unable to stop him as he yanked her forward, throwing her against the door. Her head hit the wood with a thunk, and she saw stars. She opened her mouth to ask why, to say something calming, because she loved him and knew he needed a release, but…
His tongue was jammed down her throat, cutting off any word she was going to say. His sweaty hands were already under her shirt and climbing up her back, roughly grabbing and squeezing her in a way that was rough and angry and desperate and that was more painful than pleasurable. She gasped and he bit her lower lip, drawing blood. Hs body was plastered against her, pushing her against the wood, trying to get her body to push through it, and then his mouth was on her neck, biting and licking. Then he was pulling her hair and his breath was ragged in her ear. She got a glimpse of his eyes, and saw so much anger and grief and power and for a moment she was scared. Then his hand was under her skirt, pulling down her underwear and unzipping his jeans and he picked her up and suddenly he breached her, rough and quick and all the way in, and Shyloh gasped and bit down on his shoulder because she hadn’t been expecting that, and goddamnitfuckthathurt.
She had tears in her eyes, but she wrapped her legs around his waist and let him ride it out, and she moved her hips with his. Her eyes stung as his fingernails, dirty and jagged, cut through the skin on her back, and he fucked her relentlessly. Somehow, through the haze, he got the key card into the door and it swung open and Shyloh let out a squeak of surprise as there was no wall behind her back anymore, and they stumbled into the room, not stopping until they hit another wall.
She was going to come, and so was Sam, but he showed no signs of stopping, and he wouldn’t have either, but a strangled yell came from the bed closest to the door, and they paused as Dean fell off the bed, scrambling to get himself back into his pants and trying to shut off the Pay-Per-View rental of the latest Casa Erotica movie.
There were a few awkward seconds that felt like hours as Dean uncomfortably shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the remote that was in his hand, and Sam just stood there, plastering Shyloh against the wall, his jeans slipping down and showing his boxers and making it very obvious that he and Shyloh were currently joined.
Needless to say, the rest of the night passed in awkward silence, the road trip the next day went by slowly, expect for the one time where Sam and Dean had to pull the car over and went at it, fists flying, only to get back in the car a few minutes later, black eyes and bruised cheekbones. The tension was broken.
Sam and Shyloh never talked about what happened.
II. Impala Sex
Sam sat on the hood of the Impala, his jacket shed from his shoulders in favor of being used as a seat cushion to spare him from the harsh, unforgiving metal of the car. He leaned against the windshield, his legs bent at the knee so he could use them to rest his book against. It was a cool night in the middle of almost nowhere, and the wind was gentle enough to blow strands of hair in his face, but not strong enough to flip his pages for him. It was around nine, and they were parked outside of a medium-sized establishment that sold all types of sins and cheeseburgers.
Sam had been sleeping in the front seat, his legs cramped in the small space available, shifting between sleep and listening to the conversations that Dean and Shyloh were having. They had gotten on the topic of food items the last Sam could remember until waking up when the engine was turned off and finding himself in the parking lot of the current building. Dean went in to satisfy himself in all senses of the word, promising they’d be back on the road and towards monsters within a few hours. Shyloh followed him in, exclaiming that she was hungry. Sam, as always, opted to stay with the car, because the last thing he wanted at nine during the night was a face-full of stripper and loud music.
He pulled his book out of his backpack before settling on the hood of the car. He didn’t get a lot of time to read, except for in between cases, so he took every opportunity that he could. He was given about an hour of peace to slowly work his way through the worn pages, his mind going back to a place where he would sit on the couch all day and ignore Dean, mentally fighting the urge to ask him where Dad was this time, and why they couldn’t just stay at a school for more than a few weeks, because he wanted to go through life with more than just an older brother and a sawed off for a friend.
He glanced up over the edge of his book towards the bar in time to see Shyloh slip out of the building, an opened beer in one hand and a foam cup filled with what Sam would bet was water in the other. She walked towards Sam and he took her in, the boyfriend jeans that were baggy and unflattering on her legs, never restricting her movement. The white tank top that she bought from some thrift store, with one of Dean’s old button ups with the collar laid down, swallowing her body. Her hair was different too, died brown to cover up the white that normally showed through. It had been a while since she had gotten it done, though, and the albino streaks were becoming apparent. She preferred to wear dresses that were loose-fitting and comfortable, but all her stuff had been lost when her house burned down, and the only shopping she did was with him or Dean. Plus, dresses weren’t the best thing to wear when tracking down monsters, ghosts, and demons. She had one, though. Sam bought it for her the first week she was with them. It was a small thing with this ugly flower pattern, but she loved it and would wear it sometimes when they were going to be in the car all day, or were between jobs.
He gave her a tired smile as she approached, because it was late and he was tired and in that reading mode where it felt like twilight when it was really just noon. She smiled back, her entire face grinning instead of just her lips. It was her happy smile, because she had a lot of different smiles, and Sam had labeled them all. She that smile she uses for Deans crude jokes, where she would roll her eyes, but the left corner of her lip would twitch subtly as she tried to hold back her laughter. There was those moments where she got a great but incredibly mischievous idea and her entire face would grin without showing teeth, and her eyes would sparkle. She had one just for Dean, where she would touch his shoulder or his chest with her whole hand, and show just her top teeth, normally accompanied with a soft giggle or bought of laughter. Then there was that smile for him, and him only. The soft upturn of the corners of her lips, while the bottom lip was being bit by her front teeth. He was the only one who go to see that smile, and it was the one she was wearing when she hopped onto the hood of the Impala and scooted next to him, offering him the beer in her hands.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked, because it was something someone asked when they wanted to start a conversation about nothing.
“Nothing.” He said as he took the beer while staring at her smile and thanking her for the drink. The cap was already off, because they weren’t in a motel room with a mini-fridge, they were at a bar and when you ordered a drink it came ready to go. He took a sip. “Was Dean not entertaining enough for you?”
She laughed, and Sam enjoyed the sound it made as it bounced around his head. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Apparently, when it comes down to it, women you can screw are far more interesting than those you can’t.” She said it as a joke, but Sam heard more than that. Not bitterness, per say, but a small amount of jealousy. Dean had been the one there for her when she stepped foot back on Earth after centuries in an Angel prison. He knew all her secrets and stories of her people and their life, and she looked up to him in the way a little sister follows her big brother. They fight and disagree and dance that complicated dance where they were flirting, but not quite.
Sam laughed, because it seemed right in the situation. “Shyloh, I’m pretty sure that no one in that bar is as interesting as you are. In fact, I’d bet the entire state.”
“I dunno, Sam Winchester. You’ve led a pretty interesting life.” There was that smile, the tilt of the lips and the sparkle in her eyes. The underlying message in their conversation. She took a drink from the plastic cup in her hand, and when she pulled away her lips were moist and glistening from the water. Sam stared at them, because at the moment, there was nothing else worth staring at.
Sam was pretty good with controlling himself - at least, lately. He had his issues with demon blood and apocalypses in the past, but he hadn’t exactly thrown himself into those. He always tended to hold back, and deny himself the things that he wanted because most of them were just a passing faze. He held things close to the chest, mulled them over, sunk deep into thought, and sometimes those thoughts tore him apart until he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and he goes and does something that he shouldn’t because he was too busy holding everything else at bay. At the moment, Sam wants nothing more than to kiss her.
He brings his hand to the side of her face and gently presses his thumb into the side of her mouth. She smiles and her lips crack apart and her pink tongue escapes from the confines of her teeth and she darts its tip over the pad of his thumb. He knows that his fingers are cold and probably taste like a mixture of watered down beer and old book pages, but it doesn’t seem to faze her. He leans in then, using his thumb as a line of sight, and gently brushes his lips over hers, because Sam was nothing if not a gentleman.
She leans closer as he pulls away, narrowing the distance between them until she has to set her cup down on the top of the car in order to use her hand to balance herself. Her breath is on his face, and he’s having trouble focusing on her eyes, because they’re so close and so bright. “Let’s be interesting.” She whispers.
Sam agrees, because she speaks a good case. His beer joins her water on the top of the Impala and he gives her a real kiss this time, one where his tongue slips into her mouth and dances with her tongue. It was long and slow and intimate at the same time, his one hand curling around the back of her neck to keep her lips on his, while the other pressed against the small of her back, his thumb tracing the outline of her underwear as he pressed her to him so she could feel the heat of his body through the calm coolness of the night. The kiss didn’t pick up its pace or beg the other for more - it was a show of how much that they knew each other’s mouths and minds and bodies. Shyloh’s hand slipped under Sam’s shirt and he shivered, because her fingers were cold and wet. They broke apart and spent a few seconds getting their eyes uncrossed, and Shyloh used her other hand to gently trace the profile of his face. It was a caring gesture and out of the blue. Sam could have pulled away then, coughing a bit to hide his rising blush because that was the kind of person he was. He could have picked up his book and pretended to read a little while Shyloh snuggled into his side. Drink the rest of his beer and wait for Dean to come back lazy and satisfied.
But the heat that was building in Sam’s stomach was too strong for a course of action such as that, and he didn’t understand why Dean should be the only one to get his needs met that night, because god damn it, Sam was the one with the girlfriend. So he did pull back, but not to grab his book.
“The inside of the Impala is a little more comfortable.” He didn’t want to say private or anything else that would make him sound like he was fishing for favors, or come right out and say ‘I want to have sex in the back of the Impala’ because he wasn’t Dean, and that was something his brother would say to some girl he picked up from the bar and didn’t even know her name. Sam didn’t try to think about all the nameless women Dean had entertained back there, but by trying not to think about it he thought about it, and his famous Sammy blush lit up his cheeks.
Shyloh giggled, because laughed is too big of a word to sum up the entertained sound that came from her mouth. But she nodded and that glint in her eyes grew larger and brighter. “Ok.”
Sam slid off of the hood of the car and grabbed his jacket, holding out his hand to help Shyloh down. She took it and waited patiently for Sam to throw his jacket in the front seat and unlock the rear car door. It was an awkward few moments where Sam thought about what they were about to do in the back of his brother’s car, and when the perfect time would be to tell Dean about it. Then the door popped open and the opportunities presented themselves in the image of an empty three-person seat.
He stepped aside to let Shyloh in first, because she would fit better on the narrow seat, and Sam preferred to be on top, not because it was the dominant position, but because he loved how his body could bend around her and cover her completely, so that all he could see was her and all she could see was him, and there was nothing else in that moment. She slipped in ahead of him and sat up, her legs dangling out the side of the car. She kicked her shoes off as Sam watched, and he bent over to pick them up and throw them in the front seat with his jacket. He shed his top half so all he was wearing was his tank top that went on under his t-shirt, then slid into the car.
He forced the upper half of her body to lay against the leather seats as he kicked his boots off then used his toes to close the Impala door. It shut quickly, his knees jerking forward against Shyloh’s thighs, the space suddenly not seeming all that large. It was then Sam remembered the last time he was in a position like this was when he was fifteen and was only halfway through his growth spurt.
The thought was erased form his mind as Shyloh wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him. She could always lay down the entire way, her knees having to bend only slightly. Sam let himself fall into her kiss, adjusting himself so he fit in the back seat. His right leg slipped to the floor, and his other settled between hers. He kept himself from collapsing onto Shyloh by wrapping his arm around her back and using his forearm to keep himself propped up.
Shyloh did some of his work for him, sliding both her hands under his shirt, swiftly and professionally peeling it off. He had to maneuver his arms so the shirt wasn’t hanging around his wrists, and Shyloh laid there patiently, her hair a mess, her lips red and slightly swollen, and her eyebrow arched. Sam rolled his eyes at her expression, and grunted as his arm slipped. He caught himself right before he crushed Shyloh underneath his weight, and she gasped as Sam pinned her in place.
“Sam…Sam, you’re cutting of the circulation in my leg…” She breathed, pushing against his chest. He muttered an apology and shifted his position so that he was no longer kneeling on her shin. She wiggled her toes as the feeling came back into them, and Sam moved his hands to he had a better purchase on the seat.
“Everything good?” Shyloh asked, a bit of Dean’s snark in her voice. Sam answered by attacking her neck with his lips, slipping his free hand under her shirt. He hummed in the back of his throat when his fingers found flesh instead of the soft cotton of a bra. Yet another thing he loved about the woman underneath him. She hated the confines of any kind of tight clothing, and wore them only when necessary. His rough hands gently squeezed and caressed her breast, enjoying the sounds he drew from her.
Shyloh pulled his lips back to hers, and he felt himself slipping again. He withdrew his hand from under her shirt to better anchor himself, and she took this opportunity to unzip his jeans and slid her hand in under his boxers, taking hold of him and smirking when she realized he was already hard.
Her hand surprised him, and he arched, his head jerking up, only to swing right back down as he hit the ceiling of the car. “Shit!”
Shyloh giggled, and Sam started to feel pinpricks up his legs - both of them were cramped. A sound of annoyance came from his throat, and he shifted, only to loose purchase on the leather. This time, he did crush Shyloh.
“Damn it - sorry, Shy.” He said between breaths. She pushed against him, helping him up. He manipulated himself into a sitting position in the back of the Impala and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the top of the seat.
“I’m guessing you’ve grown a bit since your last charade back here?” She commented, and Sam opened his right eye to stare at her. She sat up too, running her hands through her hair and flattening out her shirt. She leaned over to grab Sam’s shirt and threw it over his face. He smiled, because her comment hadn’t been barbed or searching - just stating a fact.
“Sorry, Sam.” It was her turn to say it this time, but he shook his head, because she didn’t need to tell him that. It wasn’t her fault that he was so damn huge.
“Just, ah…gimme a minute.” He said from under his shirt, and Shyloh got the message.
“I’ll be outside.” She said, and he heard the door to the Impala open and shut, giving him a few minutes of peace.
He managed to get himself calmed down to a state where he would be able to walk without looking funny, and zipped up his jeans, reapplying all those layers he had on before. He laced up his boots and slipped out of the car. Shyloh was sitting back on the hood, just staring up at the stars. He got up there to join her, and she instantly snuggled up next to his body, her arm hugging his torso while his went around her shoulders. She placed her ear on his heart, and he could imagine she could hear how fast it was beating, because she did that to him.
“What do you think about? To calm down? Dean told me his.” Shyloh said, looking up so she could catch his eyes.
Sam coughed in surprise. “Uh…seriously?” She nodded, and he ran his hand through his hair like he did when he was embarrassed or nervous. “A few years ago we worked this case, and there was this old woman, Gertrude Case, who wouldn’t stop feeling me up…I think about that.”
Shyloh laughed, and Sam frowned. “What?”
She shrugged. “I dunno - I just, she was what, not even a hundred, right? And here you are, trying to have sex in the back of your brothers car with a six thousand year old woman.”
Sam got the irony, and smiled a little, but he didn’t laugh. “I guess she wasn’t old enough for me.” He muttered, eliciting another laugh.
They spent the rest of the night like that, curled up with each other on top of the Impala. Shyloh asked about the last time he had sex in the back of the Impala, and Sam told her about the time he was fifteen and he got this girl he liked in the back. Dean had given the car to him that night just for the occasion. He had gotten all nervous and sweaty because she showed him her breasts. Then Shyloh talked about what it was like back in her time, where there was no such thing as clothes and they would have sex in the rain and Sam had to think about Gertrude again.
Their legs tangled together and Sam used his jacket to cover them both, and by the time Dean returned to his car, they had fallen asleep and Dean couldn’t tell where his brother ended and Shyloh began.
III. Bathroom Sex
It had been a long week. They had hunted demon who had made this little remote town it’s home, possessing children who wacked their parents, and afterwards leaving the children brain dead to rot in a hospital, a vegetable on a platter. They had almost stopped it several times, but almost was never enough, and the little people body count had raised to ten before they were able to catch the son of a bitch. The little girl didn’t make it. The image of her white communion dress stained with red danced in front of Sam’s vision. The priest making the sign of the cross and praying in Latin, the last words to ever leave his lips before the little girl with the black eyes cut his throat and ran her fingers through the never-ending rose river streaming from him, licking the blood from her fingers.
They trapped her between the pews, Shyloh trying so hard to keep the demon inside of the poor girls body, concentrating so hard that her eyes and nose started to bleed, her brain being overused too much. Sam reciting the exorcism from memory as Dean ushered the parents and church goers outside, trying to stop them from staring at the dead priest or the possessed girl. The demon was sent to Hell, and the little girl went wherever little girls who committed horrible crimes went.
They went to a bar afterwards because that’s what Dean did after something like this. He went to a place with women and booze and pool tables and took out all his anger and feelings with a stick and a rack of balls. Sometimes he’d win them money, but most of the time, after jobs like that, he lost some. But tonight they were short on money, and Dean’s head was on his shoulders instead of in Hell or whatever darkness he would retreat to sometimes. But Sam was the one who killed the girl. He was the one who hadn’t said the incantation fast enough. He was the one who missed the pattern that connected the little children. Eleven souls weighed his shoulders tonight.
He was also very drunk. Sam was one of those drunks who didn’t get up on the table or make a scene. He brooded in private in the booth that was in the corner, where the seats were worn and smelled of beer and semen. He watched the pool table through his bloodshot eyes, watching as Dean and Shyloh conned the truck men out of their hotel money.
Sam wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t. He wasn’t jealous of the way that Dean would gently touch Shyloh’s shoulder or hips to help her pool game along, or how perfectly his body seemed to meld with hers when he was adjusting her grip. Sam didn’t care that he would whisper something in her ear and she would giggle. He had fought with Dean about it one day, when Shyloh wasn’t around. He didn’t like that his girlfriend was dressing up like a roadie and getting all the other guys in the bar hard, including Dean. But his brother showed him facts, where Sam only had feelings and insecurities. He brought in almost triple the amount he normally did when Shyloh was there, and she could handle herself. She was learning quite quickly how to flirt without overstepping that line, and Dean was always right there, ready to butt in and flex his muscles at the truckers and bikers if they got too close. Normally Sam never went with them, because he didn’t want to watch. But tonight he needed the alcohol.
At first, he told himself he wasn’t going to stare like a creeper in the corner booth. He was going to get good and drunk so he could scrub the bloody pictures from his mind. That didn’t work very well. He found himself sitting sideways in the booth, his beer bottle half-full in his hand, the only motion he made was to bring the bottle to his lips and swallow a larger gulp than deemed healthy. Because over the several months that Shyloh started hustling with Dean, he had never seen her in action.
She wore those jeans that seemed to be glued on to her skin, and in Sam’s mind, as he undressed her, the skin came off with the jeans, because that was the only way she could fit in them. They outlined her ass and her thighs, and although the brown leather cowboy boots she wore covered up her calves, Sam could imagine them carved out of leather. She leaned over the table to take a shot and Sam stared at her ass, underwear lines failing to show. Shyloh owned mostly plain ones, because hey, he was the only one besides Dean who got to see them on her, and the amount of clothing they go through because of stains and cuts and blood and gore, it would be dumb to buy underwear that cost twice as much because they had patterns, or accented the curve of her ass. She did have one pair, though, that she wore just for Sam, on those nights when Dean was looking for a fuck and they had a few hours to themselves in the rotting motel. They were pure lace and maroon red like the color of freshly flowing blood. It came with a matching bra that was all lace expect for the wire that gave her support. Dean had taken her to Victoria’s Secret last time they passed a mall, and spent all the money he had made hustling the past few weeks to buy her the set, because Sam’s birthday had been coming up, and he wanted to get his brother something special. Sam had put on a show, his face turning pink when he opened the present, and becoming fake-mad at Dean for going lingerie shopping with his girlfriend, but that night when Dean proclaimed he had things to do, Sam pulled him aside and thanked him with an uncomfortable “thanks” and an awkward hug.
Sam knew Shyloh wouldn’t be wearing those underwear tonight, because they had to be hand-washed and that was a pain to do, especially to wear them a night where her main goal would be to distract other men. Sam took another swallow of beer and glanced down, blinking heavily. Well, she was doing a great job at the distracting.
She took a crappy shot and shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. The men her and Dean were playing took pity on her and made some jokes about bad shots they made, while Dean sent that smirk towards Shyloh and lined up his next shot in his head. That look he sent towards his prey; that look that made Sam’s hand tighten on his bottle, then drain the rest of the thing, because he wasn’t jealous at all. He ordered another beer from the waitress, and didn’t even register the flirty grin she sent in his direction. He was too busy watching Shyloh as she turned and leaned against the pool table, reaching for her drink that looked like whiskey but was actually just soda with a lot of ice. Her hair was died brown, but her natural white was showing through in streaks. Sam hated it when she died her hair, because it felt brittle and fake and he loved the white, but Dean again was right when he said white hair brings attention to them where otherwise it wouldn’t be a problem.
She wore a black tank top that showed exactly how flat her stomach was and tucked into those sex-inducing pants of hers. The black bra she had on underneath gave her cleavage, and the way the soft black material of her tank top hugged her breasts made her small B’s look like large C’s and Sam had to adjust his position on the booth. She wore a mini brown leather jacket that matched the boots, the material stopping right below where the curve of her breast met the top of her stomach. It was unzipped to give the boys of the bar a better look at her chest. Sam wasn’t staring, not at all. She wore the jacket even when small beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and when the bar became stuffy and hot, because if she took it off, her tattoos would be naked for the world to see, and although Dean told her it would help, she drew the line there, because they were Sam’s, and Sam’s only. He smiled at that.
Her hair was curled, because Dean claimed that men liked large and curly hair better than straight hair, and it looked unnatural on her head, to Sam, because he loved her straight hair with that little bit of wave in it. It did look hot, though. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, because she didn’t need any. Her eyes slowly roamed the bar, until they fell on Sam’s, and she smiled, a soft and private smile where just a hint of her teeth showed and her thin lips curved upwards to meet her cheeks. To the boys she helped hustle, she gave full-mouthed flirtatious smiles, because that’s how the women on television did it. They were her fake smiles, the ones she used to give the Angel’s when they cut into her, or that she gave the monsters they hunted right before she threw a punch or a kick. But this one she gave him was enough to push out the jealousy he felt towards Dean, or the anger at the fact that Dean was using her to get the men he was hustling too knotted up in their hormones and fantasies of Shyloh to pay attention to the pool table. Because when she turned away from him to listen to something Dean wanted to say, she gave him one of those full-mouthed smiles.
Sam had finished his new beer and ordered another one by the time Shyloh and Dean took a break. She walked over to him, soda in hand, the curls starting to fall out of her hair and a line of sweat on her forehead. She looked tired and uncomfortable. She slipped into the booth next to Sam and set down her crystal glass, giving him another one of those personal smiles just for him, and opened her mouth to tell him something, probably about the men she and Dean hustled or something his brother had said. Sam cut her off his a kiss, because he didn’t care about any of that stuff, and he knew the boys in the room were still watching her like she was a piece of meat, and Sam wanted to let them know she was his and his alone. When she pulled back Sam could feel his body was hot and bothered and he had to shift in his seat again. She tasted of cheap soda, but he knew he had to taste worse. But she smiled and laughed and said “you’re drunk” in a way that wasn’t a question and left no room for argument, yet was more of a playful observation than a strict statement. He answered with a sideways smile of his own, and leaned in to kiss her again.
This time it was openmouthed and sloppy and sweaty, and he pulled her shirt out of her pants and slid his large hand under the fabric and onto her skin, which was surprisingly cool to the touch and did nothing but turn him on even more. His hands were clumsy and uncoordinated, his blood being more beer than actual blood. She arched into his touch, and made this cute little noise in the back of her throat that he swallowed before anyone else could hear it. He turned in the booth so he could reach more of her, his legs hitting the other long booth and his body not laying right. Shyloh pulled from him as his hands made their way to her bra strap on her back. He frowned from the lack of contact and leaned drunkenly forward, thinking in his mind that he must have just missed her lips. He forgot that they were in the middle of a bar that was at least half-way full, with all the lights on and more than a couple pairs of eyes burning pathways to their direction, Dean’s included.
“Not here.” She whispered in his ear, and he shivered. “Too many people.”
He frowned but nodded, not trusting himself to form words. He instead took another long drink of his beer and considered his options. It was too open outside, even for a quickie behind the trashcans - Sam wouldn’t do that anyway, not with Shyloh. She deserved more than that. The Impala was out of the question and they couldn’t just go back to the motel, which was several miles away, and Dean wasn’t ready to leave yet.
Sam gently pushed Shyloh and they slid out of the booth. He paused as he stood up, swaying on his feet for a moment. He hadn’t stood up since they got there a few hours ago, and that was before he had downed all those beers. He wrapped him arm around Shyloh’s waist and directed her towards the bathrooms at the back of the bar. He chose the women’s because even in his drunken haze, Sam knew there were more men there than women, and that there would be a smaller chance they were walked in on. He turned Shyloh around and captured her lips with his as he pushed her against the door to the bathroom. Her back hit the door and it swung open, allowing them to stumble in. He peeled off her jacket and dumped it forgotten on the floor as she worked on unbuttoning his shirt. She hit the wall next to the paper towel dispenser, and Sam wasted no time plastering his body to hers. He could feel her breasts through his white undershirt and her tank top, and could feel her heart beating rapidly against his chest. He reached down and snaked one hand under her shirt and around to her back, while the other grabbed her ass. He helped her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist, their mouths never once leaving each other’s skin. Sam stumbled backwards a few steps and walked in the direction he thought the sinks were, his hand on her back trying to unhook her bra so he could slid his hand around the front and cup her breasts. He growled into her mouth with frustration, hating the damn push-up bra that hugged her body so tightly that he couldn’t slid his fingers under the cotton unless he unhooked it. She giggled into his mouth, finding his drunken frustration funny. Her laughter turned into a moan when his fingers brushed across her nipple. She started to hump against his crotch, the denim from both of their jeans creating friction that almost made Sam lose it right there.
He found the sinks and let Shyloh sit down on them, both his hands free now that he didn’t have to focus on holding her against him. Her hands roamed over his chest under his shirt, her one slipping from under the fabric to tangle in his hair, pulling his mouth harder against hers. He rutted and left her mouth, sliding his lips down her neck and onto the cleavage that she had worked so hard to show off. Sam bet that all the boys out in the bar were dreaming about what he was doing right at this moment, and the thought that he had her in his hands and under his lips when all they had was imagination made him see stars. Shyloh’s hand on his chest was moving lower, her nails softly scraping over the skin that was right above the line of his jeans, and Sam let out the groan that he had been holding in. Her hands gently kneaded the growing bulge in his jeans, and Sam froze against her body, leaning in to her hand. She smiled and pulled his mouth back to hers as she pulled down the zipper on his jeans.
The door to the women’s bathroom opened with a creak and one of the waitresses walked in, freezing as soon as she saw Sam and Shyloh plastered against each other up against the sink. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stuttered out apologies before walking right back out the way she came. The two of them just stayed there, frozen for a few seconds before Shyloh burst out laughing, and then Sam joined in with her, even though he was unable to keep the embarrassment from spreading across his face like a wildfire. What the hell was he doing, dragging Shyloh into the bathroom of a bar like a goddamn one night stand. He stepped away from her, removing his hands from under her shirt and zipping himself up, ignoring the throbbing heat between his legs that was almost painful underneath his jeans. He picked up his shirt and threw it back on, not even bothering to button it up as he bent over to grab Shyloh’s jacket. She had hopped off the sink and re-hooked her bra, adjusting her hair and tank top in the mirror so it didn’t look like she had just been at it in the bathroom. Sam walked up behind her, handing her the leather jacket. She turned and took it, muttering a soft thank you and kissing him gently on the lips, a silent promise to finish what they started later. He ran his hand down one of her bare arms, stopping at her tattoos on her arm and rubbing him thumb over them. She pulled on her jacket and he ran his hand over her hair, because there was too much hairspray in it for him to be able to thread his fingers through it. He hated that - he hated the hairspray and the push-up bra and the shirt and pants that left nothing to the imagination. He hated the girl Dean made her turn into whenever they hustled, but he would never tell her that. Plus, the boots were kinda hot.
Next Half
Topic Supernatural
Rating R for language and adult material
Characters Sam/OFC, Dean
Authors Note This is my first attempt at any kind of actual smutt. I hope I did it justice :-) Shyloh is an OFC of mine, but this is a stand-alone and can, obviously, be read without reading anything else. Hope you enjoy! Had to cut the damn thing in half cause of stupid length....
I. Angry Sex
Looking back, it wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Dean said he was going out for a drink and maybe a fuck, and Shyloh announced that all the food in their fridge was either Deans or had gone bad. Sam then made a comment how there was no difference between the two, and Dean had stood up and approached Sam in that menacing way, his fingers already curling into fists as the man prepared to swing. Shyloh had to jump between them and give them both her best pissed off face, because she felt like if she had just stood there, they would have pushed her out of the way and got on with it.
Maybe it would have been a good idea if Shyloh had let them punch each other a few times. They would have a few bruises and bumps on their pretty faces, sure, but at least this tension in the air would go away, because she was starting to worry every time she brought out a sharp instrument, in fear that it would cut through the air itself, it was so thick.
But her hands on both their chests and that dangerous glint in her eye was enough to make them back down - that, and the fact that her “danger-hand” as Dean labeled it, was against his chest and not Sam’s broke their stares of doom. Dean left pretty soon after that, taking the keys to the Impala with him.
Shyloh remembered seeing a small grocery store a few miles down the road, and she told Sam as much, so he grabbed his coat and stormed out of the room without waiting for her to follow. She did, of course, because that’s what she did. Dean could take care of his own damn feelings, she really didn’t care that much at the moment. Because what had happened was eating Sam up inside, and from what she knew about the boys, Sam piling feelings up inside never ended good.
She caught up with him pretty quick, but he was on autopilot, and his legs were at least a few inches taller than hers, and she almost had to jog in order to keep up. “Sam.” She said, unable to break through his haze. “Sam, talk to me.” She reached out and touched his hand and he jerked away from her, the look in his eyes confused until he realized who had touched him. She watched as his entire composure crumpled after that, and he looked about a foot shorter.
“Sorry.” He said, and that was all. He slowed down though, and Shyloh took that as a minor victory. She slid her hand into his, and smiled as he tightened his grip. They walked that way for about a mile.
“Dean’s such a bitch sometimes. And I deal with it, because he’s my brother and I care about him. But he’s like this all the time, always running off half-cocked. All he cares about is how to kill something - I always tell him that he’s gonna get someone killed who doesn’t deserve it, but he never listens!” His grip became so tight that Shyloh thought the bones in her hand might shatter and turn to dust, but she didn’t say anything about it. Her pain she could handle, his she couldn’t.
“That kid…he’s never going to have his first kiss, or go to the prom, or get to decide whether or not he gets to go to college…” He blinked. “And it’s out fault…my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” Shyloh said, and they lapsed back into silence.
Turned out that the grocery store she saw wasn’t open on Sundays, so they turned right back around and walked back to the motel. It was around that time that he let go of her hand, and didn’t make an effort to touch her again the rest of the walk. It was hot outside, and Sam had started to sweat, his face covered with a thin layer of perspiration. He kept his hands in his jacket, though, and forged onward.
They made it back to the motel and climbed the stairs, entering the hallway to the second floor, where their room was. They got to the door with their room number and Sam fumbled for the key.
“Sam…” Shyloh tried again, because she knew as soon as they entered that room, he would burry himself in his laptop until they left, and then the miles of road ahead of them would feel like thousands. She reached out again, trying to get some kind of contact.
His hand snapped out faster than she would have thought possible and grabbed her wrist in a bruising hold. She gasped, and was unable to stop him as he yanked her forward, throwing her against the door. Her head hit the wood with a thunk, and she saw stars. She opened her mouth to ask why, to say something calming, because she loved him and knew he needed a release, but…
His tongue was jammed down her throat, cutting off any word she was going to say. His sweaty hands were already under her shirt and climbing up her back, roughly grabbing and squeezing her in a way that was rough and angry and desperate and that was more painful than pleasurable. She gasped and he bit her lower lip, drawing blood. Hs body was plastered against her, pushing her against the wood, trying to get her body to push through it, and then his mouth was on her neck, biting and licking. Then he was pulling her hair and his breath was ragged in her ear. She got a glimpse of his eyes, and saw so much anger and grief and power and for a moment she was scared. Then his hand was under her skirt, pulling down her underwear and unzipping his jeans and he picked her up and suddenly he breached her, rough and quick and all the way in, and Shyloh gasped and bit down on his shoulder because she hadn’t been expecting that, and goddamnitfuckthathurt.
She had tears in her eyes, but she wrapped her legs around his waist and let him ride it out, and she moved her hips with his. Her eyes stung as his fingernails, dirty and jagged, cut through the skin on her back, and he fucked her relentlessly. Somehow, through the haze, he got the key card into the door and it swung open and Shyloh let out a squeak of surprise as there was no wall behind her back anymore, and they stumbled into the room, not stopping until they hit another wall.
She was going to come, and so was Sam, but he showed no signs of stopping, and he wouldn’t have either, but a strangled yell came from the bed closest to the door, and they paused as Dean fell off the bed, scrambling to get himself back into his pants and trying to shut off the Pay-Per-View rental of the latest Casa Erotica movie.
There were a few awkward seconds that felt like hours as Dean uncomfortably shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the remote that was in his hand, and Sam just stood there, plastering Shyloh against the wall, his jeans slipping down and showing his boxers and making it very obvious that he and Shyloh were currently joined.
Needless to say, the rest of the night passed in awkward silence, the road trip the next day went by slowly, expect for the one time where Sam and Dean had to pull the car over and went at it, fists flying, only to get back in the car a few minutes later, black eyes and bruised cheekbones. The tension was broken.
Sam and Shyloh never talked about what happened.
II. Impala Sex
Sam sat on the hood of the Impala, his jacket shed from his shoulders in favor of being used as a seat cushion to spare him from the harsh, unforgiving metal of the car. He leaned against the windshield, his legs bent at the knee so he could use them to rest his book against. It was a cool night in the middle of almost nowhere, and the wind was gentle enough to blow strands of hair in his face, but not strong enough to flip his pages for him. It was around nine, and they were parked outside of a medium-sized establishment that sold all types of sins and cheeseburgers.
Sam had been sleeping in the front seat, his legs cramped in the small space available, shifting between sleep and listening to the conversations that Dean and Shyloh were having. They had gotten on the topic of food items the last Sam could remember until waking up when the engine was turned off and finding himself in the parking lot of the current building. Dean went in to satisfy himself in all senses of the word, promising they’d be back on the road and towards monsters within a few hours. Shyloh followed him in, exclaiming that she was hungry. Sam, as always, opted to stay with the car, because the last thing he wanted at nine during the night was a face-full of stripper and loud music.
He pulled his book out of his backpack before settling on the hood of the car. He didn’t get a lot of time to read, except for in between cases, so he took every opportunity that he could. He was given about an hour of peace to slowly work his way through the worn pages, his mind going back to a place where he would sit on the couch all day and ignore Dean, mentally fighting the urge to ask him where Dad was this time, and why they couldn’t just stay at a school for more than a few weeks, because he wanted to go through life with more than just an older brother and a sawed off for a friend.
He glanced up over the edge of his book towards the bar in time to see Shyloh slip out of the building, an opened beer in one hand and a foam cup filled with what Sam would bet was water in the other. She walked towards Sam and he took her in, the boyfriend jeans that were baggy and unflattering on her legs, never restricting her movement. The white tank top that she bought from some thrift store, with one of Dean’s old button ups with the collar laid down, swallowing her body. Her hair was different too, died brown to cover up the white that normally showed through. It had been a while since she had gotten it done, though, and the albino streaks were becoming apparent. She preferred to wear dresses that were loose-fitting and comfortable, but all her stuff had been lost when her house burned down, and the only shopping she did was with him or Dean. Plus, dresses weren’t the best thing to wear when tracking down monsters, ghosts, and demons. She had one, though. Sam bought it for her the first week she was with them. It was a small thing with this ugly flower pattern, but she loved it and would wear it sometimes when they were going to be in the car all day, or were between jobs.
He gave her a tired smile as she approached, because it was late and he was tired and in that reading mode where it felt like twilight when it was really just noon. She smiled back, her entire face grinning instead of just her lips. It was her happy smile, because she had a lot of different smiles, and Sam had labeled them all. She that smile she uses for Deans crude jokes, where she would roll her eyes, but the left corner of her lip would twitch subtly as she tried to hold back her laughter. There was those moments where she got a great but incredibly mischievous idea and her entire face would grin without showing teeth, and her eyes would sparkle. She had one just for Dean, where she would touch his shoulder or his chest with her whole hand, and show just her top teeth, normally accompanied with a soft giggle or bought of laughter. Then there was that smile for him, and him only. The soft upturn of the corners of her lips, while the bottom lip was being bit by her front teeth. He was the only one who go to see that smile, and it was the one she was wearing when she hopped onto the hood of the Impala and scooted next to him, offering him the beer in her hands.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked, because it was something someone asked when they wanted to start a conversation about nothing.
“Nothing.” He said as he took the beer while staring at her smile and thanking her for the drink. The cap was already off, because they weren’t in a motel room with a mini-fridge, they were at a bar and when you ordered a drink it came ready to go. He took a sip. “Was Dean not entertaining enough for you?”
She laughed, and Sam enjoyed the sound it made as it bounced around his head. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Apparently, when it comes down to it, women you can screw are far more interesting than those you can’t.” She said it as a joke, but Sam heard more than that. Not bitterness, per say, but a small amount of jealousy. Dean had been the one there for her when she stepped foot back on Earth after centuries in an Angel prison. He knew all her secrets and stories of her people and their life, and she looked up to him in the way a little sister follows her big brother. They fight and disagree and dance that complicated dance where they were flirting, but not quite.
Sam laughed, because it seemed right in the situation. “Shyloh, I’m pretty sure that no one in that bar is as interesting as you are. In fact, I’d bet the entire state.”
“I dunno, Sam Winchester. You’ve led a pretty interesting life.” There was that smile, the tilt of the lips and the sparkle in her eyes. The underlying message in their conversation. She took a drink from the plastic cup in her hand, and when she pulled away her lips were moist and glistening from the water. Sam stared at them, because at the moment, there was nothing else worth staring at.
Sam was pretty good with controlling himself - at least, lately. He had his issues with demon blood and apocalypses in the past, but he hadn’t exactly thrown himself into those. He always tended to hold back, and deny himself the things that he wanted because most of them were just a passing faze. He held things close to the chest, mulled them over, sunk deep into thought, and sometimes those thoughts tore him apart until he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and he goes and does something that he shouldn’t because he was too busy holding everything else at bay. At the moment, Sam wants nothing more than to kiss her.
He brings his hand to the side of her face and gently presses his thumb into the side of her mouth. She smiles and her lips crack apart and her pink tongue escapes from the confines of her teeth and she darts its tip over the pad of his thumb. He knows that his fingers are cold and probably taste like a mixture of watered down beer and old book pages, but it doesn’t seem to faze her. He leans in then, using his thumb as a line of sight, and gently brushes his lips over hers, because Sam was nothing if not a gentleman.
She leans closer as he pulls away, narrowing the distance between them until she has to set her cup down on the top of the car in order to use her hand to balance herself. Her breath is on his face, and he’s having trouble focusing on her eyes, because they’re so close and so bright. “Let’s be interesting.” She whispers.
Sam agrees, because she speaks a good case. His beer joins her water on the top of the Impala and he gives her a real kiss this time, one where his tongue slips into her mouth and dances with her tongue. It was long and slow and intimate at the same time, his one hand curling around the back of her neck to keep her lips on his, while the other pressed against the small of her back, his thumb tracing the outline of her underwear as he pressed her to him so she could feel the heat of his body through the calm coolness of the night. The kiss didn’t pick up its pace or beg the other for more - it was a show of how much that they knew each other’s mouths and minds and bodies. Shyloh’s hand slipped under Sam’s shirt and he shivered, because her fingers were cold and wet. They broke apart and spent a few seconds getting their eyes uncrossed, and Shyloh used her other hand to gently trace the profile of his face. It was a caring gesture and out of the blue. Sam could have pulled away then, coughing a bit to hide his rising blush because that was the kind of person he was. He could have picked up his book and pretended to read a little while Shyloh snuggled into his side. Drink the rest of his beer and wait for Dean to come back lazy and satisfied.
But the heat that was building in Sam’s stomach was too strong for a course of action such as that, and he didn’t understand why Dean should be the only one to get his needs met that night, because god damn it, Sam was the one with the girlfriend. So he did pull back, but not to grab his book.
“The inside of the Impala is a little more comfortable.” He didn’t want to say private or anything else that would make him sound like he was fishing for favors, or come right out and say ‘I want to have sex in the back of the Impala’ because he wasn’t Dean, and that was something his brother would say to some girl he picked up from the bar and didn’t even know her name. Sam didn’t try to think about all the nameless women Dean had entertained back there, but by trying not to think about it he thought about it, and his famous Sammy blush lit up his cheeks.
Shyloh giggled, because laughed is too big of a word to sum up the entertained sound that came from her mouth. But she nodded and that glint in her eyes grew larger and brighter. “Ok.”
Sam slid off of the hood of the car and grabbed his jacket, holding out his hand to help Shyloh down. She took it and waited patiently for Sam to throw his jacket in the front seat and unlock the rear car door. It was an awkward few moments where Sam thought about what they were about to do in the back of his brother’s car, and when the perfect time would be to tell Dean about it. Then the door popped open and the opportunities presented themselves in the image of an empty three-person seat.
He stepped aside to let Shyloh in first, because she would fit better on the narrow seat, and Sam preferred to be on top, not because it was the dominant position, but because he loved how his body could bend around her and cover her completely, so that all he could see was her and all she could see was him, and there was nothing else in that moment. She slipped in ahead of him and sat up, her legs dangling out the side of the car. She kicked her shoes off as Sam watched, and he bent over to pick them up and throw them in the front seat with his jacket. He shed his top half so all he was wearing was his tank top that went on under his t-shirt, then slid into the car.
He forced the upper half of her body to lay against the leather seats as he kicked his boots off then used his toes to close the Impala door. It shut quickly, his knees jerking forward against Shyloh’s thighs, the space suddenly not seeming all that large. It was then Sam remembered the last time he was in a position like this was when he was fifteen and was only halfway through his growth spurt.
The thought was erased form his mind as Shyloh wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him. She could always lay down the entire way, her knees having to bend only slightly. Sam let himself fall into her kiss, adjusting himself so he fit in the back seat. His right leg slipped to the floor, and his other settled between hers. He kept himself from collapsing onto Shyloh by wrapping his arm around her back and using his forearm to keep himself propped up.
Shyloh did some of his work for him, sliding both her hands under his shirt, swiftly and professionally peeling it off. He had to maneuver his arms so the shirt wasn’t hanging around his wrists, and Shyloh laid there patiently, her hair a mess, her lips red and slightly swollen, and her eyebrow arched. Sam rolled his eyes at her expression, and grunted as his arm slipped. He caught himself right before he crushed Shyloh underneath his weight, and she gasped as Sam pinned her in place.
“Sam…Sam, you’re cutting of the circulation in my leg…” She breathed, pushing against his chest. He muttered an apology and shifted his position so that he was no longer kneeling on her shin. She wiggled her toes as the feeling came back into them, and Sam moved his hands to he had a better purchase on the seat.
“Everything good?” Shyloh asked, a bit of Dean’s snark in her voice. Sam answered by attacking her neck with his lips, slipping his free hand under her shirt. He hummed in the back of his throat when his fingers found flesh instead of the soft cotton of a bra. Yet another thing he loved about the woman underneath him. She hated the confines of any kind of tight clothing, and wore them only when necessary. His rough hands gently squeezed and caressed her breast, enjoying the sounds he drew from her.
Shyloh pulled his lips back to hers, and he felt himself slipping again. He withdrew his hand from under her shirt to better anchor himself, and she took this opportunity to unzip his jeans and slid her hand in under his boxers, taking hold of him and smirking when she realized he was already hard.
Her hand surprised him, and he arched, his head jerking up, only to swing right back down as he hit the ceiling of the car. “Shit!”
Shyloh giggled, and Sam started to feel pinpricks up his legs - both of them were cramped. A sound of annoyance came from his throat, and he shifted, only to loose purchase on the leather. This time, he did crush Shyloh.
“Damn it - sorry, Shy.” He said between breaths. She pushed against him, helping him up. He manipulated himself into a sitting position in the back of the Impala and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the top of the seat.
“I’m guessing you’ve grown a bit since your last charade back here?” She commented, and Sam opened his right eye to stare at her. She sat up too, running her hands through her hair and flattening out her shirt. She leaned over to grab Sam’s shirt and threw it over his face. He smiled, because her comment hadn’t been barbed or searching - just stating a fact.
“Sorry, Sam.” It was her turn to say it this time, but he shook his head, because she didn’t need to tell him that. It wasn’t her fault that he was so damn huge.
“Just, ah…gimme a minute.” He said from under his shirt, and Shyloh got the message.
“I’ll be outside.” She said, and he heard the door to the Impala open and shut, giving him a few minutes of peace.
He managed to get himself calmed down to a state where he would be able to walk without looking funny, and zipped up his jeans, reapplying all those layers he had on before. He laced up his boots and slipped out of the car. Shyloh was sitting back on the hood, just staring up at the stars. He got up there to join her, and she instantly snuggled up next to his body, her arm hugging his torso while his went around her shoulders. She placed her ear on his heart, and he could imagine she could hear how fast it was beating, because she did that to him.
“What do you think about? To calm down? Dean told me his.” Shyloh said, looking up so she could catch his eyes.
Sam coughed in surprise. “Uh…seriously?” She nodded, and he ran his hand through his hair like he did when he was embarrassed or nervous. “A few years ago we worked this case, and there was this old woman, Gertrude Case, who wouldn’t stop feeling me up…I think about that.”
Shyloh laughed, and Sam frowned. “What?”
She shrugged. “I dunno - I just, she was what, not even a hundred, right? And here you are, trying to have sex in the back of your brothers car with a six thousand year old woman.”
Sam got the irony, and smiled a little, but he didn’t laugh. “I guess she wasn’t old enough for me.” He muttered, eliciting another laugh.
They spent the rest of the night like that, curled up with each other on top of the Impala. Shyloh asked about the last time he had sex in the back of the Impala, and Sam told her about the time he was fifteen and he got this girl he liked in the back. Dean had given the car to him that night just for the occasion. He had gotten all nervous and sweaty because she showed him her breasts. Then Shyloh talked about what it was like back in her time, where there was no such thing as clothes and they would have sex in the rain and Sam had to think about Gertrude again.
Their legs tangled together and Sam used his jacket to cover them both, and by the time Dean returned to his car, they had fallen asleep and Dean couldn’t tell where his brother ended and Shyloh began.
III. Bathroom Sex
It had been a long week. They had hunted demon who had made this little remote town it’s home, possessing children who wacked their parents, and afterwards leaving the children brain dead to rot in a hospital, a vegetable on a platter. They had almost stopped it several times, but almost was never enough, and the little people body count had raised to ten before they were able to catch the son of a bitch. The little girl didn’t make it. The image of her white communion dress stained with red danced in front of Sam’s vision. The priest making the sign of the cross and praying in Latin, the last words to ever leave his lips before the little girl with the black eyes cut his throat and ran her fingers through the never-ending rose river streaming from him, licking the blood from her fingers.
They trapped her between the pews, Shyloh trying so hard to keep the demon inside of the poor girls body, concentrating so hard that her eyes and nose started to bleed, her brain being overused too much. Sam reciting the exorcism from memory as Dean ushered the parents and church goers outside, trying to stop them from staring at the dead priest or the possessed girl. The demon was sent to Hell, and the little girl went wherever little girls who committed horrible crimes went.
They went to a bar afterwards because that’s what Dean did after something like this. He went to a place with women and booze and pool tables and took out all his anger and feelings with a stick and a rack of balls. Sometimes he’d win them money, but most of the time, after jobs like that, he lost some. But tonight they were short on money, and Dean’s head was on his shoulders instead of in Hell or whatever darkness he would retreat to sometimes. But Sam was the one who killed the girl. He was the one who hadn’t said the incantation fast enough. He was the one who missed the pattern that connected the little children. Eleven souls weighed his shoulders tonight.
He was also very drunk. Sam was one of those drunks who didn’t get up on the table or make a scene. He brooded in private in the booth that was in the corner, where the seats were worn and smelled of beer and semen. He watched the pool table through his bloodshot eyes, watching as Dean and Shyloh conned the truck men out of their hotel money.
Sam wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t. He wasn’t jealous of the way that Dean would gently touch Shyloh’s shoulder or hips to help her pool game along, or how perfectly his body seemed to meld with hers when he was adjusting her grip. Sam didn’t care that he would whisper something in her ear and she would giggle. He had fought with Dean about it one day, when Shyloh wasn’t around. He didn’t like that his girlfriend was dressing up like a roadie and getting all the other guys in the bar hard, including Dean. But his brother showed him facts, where Sam only had feelings and insecurities. He brought in almost triple the amount he normally did when Shyloh was there, and she could handle herself. She was learning quite quickly how to flirt without overstepping that line, and Dean was always right there, ready to butt in and flex his muscles at the truckers and bikers if they got too close. Normally Sam never went with them, because he didn’t want to watch. But tonight he needed the alcohol.
At first, he told himself he wasn’t going to stare like a creeper in the corner booth. He was going to get good and drunk so he could scrub the bloody pictures from his mind. That didn’t work very well. He found himself sitting sideways in the booth, his beer bottle half-full in his hand, the only motion he made was to bring the bottle to his lips and swallow a larger gulp than deemed healthy. Because over the several months that Shyloh started hustling with Dean, he had never seen her in action.
She wore those jeans that seemed to be glued on to her skin, and in Sam’s mind, as he undressed her, the skin came off with the jeans, because that was the only way she could fit in them. They outlined her ass and her thighs, and although the brown leather cowboy boots she wore covered up her calves, Sam could imagine them carved out of leather. She leaned over the table to take a shot and Sam stared at her ass, underwear lines failing to show. Shyloh owned mostly plain ones, because hey, he was the only one besides Dean who got to see them on her, and the amount of clothing they go through because of stains and cuts and blood and gore, it would be dumb to buy underwear that cost twice as much because they had patterns, or accented the curve of her ass. She did have one pair, though, that she wore just for Sam, on those nights when Dean was looking for a fuck and they had a few hours to themselves in the rotting motel. They were pure lace and maroon red like the color of freshly flowing blood. It came with a matching bra that was all lace expect for the wire that gave her support. Dean had taken her to Victoria’s Secret last time they passed a mall, and spent all the money he had made hustling the past few weeks to buy her the set, because Sam’s birthday had been coming up, and he wanted to get his brother something special. Sam had put on a show, his face turning pink when he opened the present, and becoming fake-mad at Dean for going lingerie shopping with his girlfriend, but that night when Dean proclaimed he had things to do, Sam pulled him aside and thanked him with an uncomfortable “thanks” and an awkward hug.
Sam knew Shyloh wouldn’t be wearing those underwear tonight, because they had to be hand-washed and that was a pain to do, especially to wear them a night where her main goal would be to distract other men. Sam took another swallow of beer and glanced down, blinking heavily. Well, she was doing a great job at the distracting.
She took a crappy shot and shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. The men her and Dean were playing took pity on her and made some jokes about bad shots they made, while Dean sent that smirk towards Shyloh and lined up his next shot in his head. That look he sent towards his prey; that look that made Sam’s hand tighten on his bottle, then drain the rest of the thing, because he wasn’t jealous at all. He ordered another beer from the waitress, and didn’t even register the flirty grin she sent in his direction. He was too busy watching Shyloh as she turned and leaned against the pool table, reaching for her drink that looked like whiskey but was actually just soda with a lot of ice. Her hair was died brown, but her natural white was showing through in streaks. Sam hated it when she died her hair, because it felt brittle and fake and he loved the white, but Dean again was right when he said white hair brings attention to them where otherwise it wouldn’t be a problem.
She wore a black tank top that showed exactly how flat her stomach was and tucked into those sex-inducing pants of hers. The black bra she had on underneath gave her cleavage, and the way the soft black material of her tank top hugged her breasts made her small B’s look like large C’s and Sam had to adjust his position on the booth. She wore a mini brown leather jacket that matched the boots, the material stopping right below where the curve of her breast met the top of her stomach. It was unzipped to give the boys of the bar a better look at her chest. Sam wasn’t staring, not at all. She wore the jacket even when small beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and when the bar became stuffy and hot, because if she took it off, her tattoos would be naked for the world to see, and although Dean told her it would help, she drew the line there, because they were Sam’s, and Sam’s only. He smiled at that.
Her hair was curled, because Dean claimed that men liked large and curly hair better than straight hair, and it looked unnatural on her head, to Sam, because he loved her straight hair with that little bit of wave in it. It did look hot, though. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, because she didn’t need any. Her eyes slowly roamed the bar, until they fell on Sam’s, and she smiled, a soft and private smile where just a hint of her teeth showed and her thin lips curved upwards to meet her cheeks. To the boys she helped hustle, she gave full-mouthed flirtatious smiles, because that’s how the women on television did it. They were her fake smiles, the ones she used to give the Angel’s when they cut into her, or that she gave the monsters they hunted right before she threw a punch or a kick. But this one she gave him was enough to push out the jealousy he felt towards Dean, or the anger at the fact that Dean was using her to get the men he was hustling too knotted up in their hormones and fantasies of Shyloh to pay attention to the pool table. Because when she turned away from him to listen to something Dean wanted to say, she gave him one of those full-mouthed smiles.
Sam had finished his new beer and ordered another one by the time Shyloh and Dean took a break. She walked over to him, soda in hand, the curls starting to fall out of her hair and a line of sweat on her forehead. She looked tired and uncomfortable. She slipped into the booth next to Sam and set down her crystal glass, giving him another one of those personal smiles just for him, and opened her mouth to tell him something, probably about the men she and Dean hustled or something his brother had said. Sam cut her off his a kiss, because he didn’t care about any of that stuff, and he knew the boys in the room were still watching her like she was a piece of meat, and Sam wanted to let them know she was his and his alone. When she pulled back Sam could feel his body was hot and bothered and he had to shift in his seat again. She tasted of cheap soda, but he knew he had to taste worse. But she smiled and laughed and said “you’re drunk” in a way that wasn’t a question and left no room for argument, yet was more of a playful observation than a strict statement. He answered with a sideways smile of his own, and leaned in to kiss her again.
This time it was openmouthed and sloppy and sweaty, and he pulled her shirt out of her pants and slid his large hand under the fabric and onto her skin, which was surprisingly cool to the touch and did nothing but turn him on even more. His hands were clumsy and uncoordinated, his blood being more beer than actual blood. She arched into his touch, and made this cute little noise in the back of her throat that he swallowed before anyone else could hear it. He turned in the booth so he could reach more of her, his legs hitting the other long booth and his body not laying right. Shyloh pulled from him as his hands made their way to her bra strap on her back. He frowned from the lack of contact and leaned drunkenly forward, thinking in his mind that he must have just missed her lips. He forgot that they were in the middle of a bar that was at least half-way full, with all the lights on and more than a couple pairs of eyes burning pathways to their direction, Dean’s included.
“Not here.” She whispered in his ear, and he shivered. “Too many people.”
He frowned but nodded, not trusting himself to form words. He instead took another long drink of his beer and considered his options. It was too open outside, even for a quickie behind the trashcans - Sam wouldn’t do that anyway, not with Shyloh. She deserved more than that. The Impala was out of the question and they couldn’t just go back to the motel, which was several miles away, and Dean wasn’t ready to leave yet.
Sam gently pushed Shyloh and they slid out of the booth. He paused as he stood up, swaying on his feet for a moment. He hadn’t stood up since they got there a few hours ago, and that was before he had downed all those beers. He wrapped him arm around Shyloh’s waist and directed her towards the bathrooms at the back of the bar. He chose the women’s because even in his drunken haze, Sam knew there were more men there than women, and that there would be a smaller chance they were walked in on. He turned Shyloh around and captured her lips with his as he pushed her against the door to the bathroom. Her back hit the door and it swung open, allowing them to stumble in. He peeled off her jacket and dumped it forgotten on the floor as she worked on unbuttoning his shirt. She hit the wall next to the paper towel dispenser, and Sam wasted no time plastering his body to hers. He could feel her breasts through his white undershirt and her tank top, and could feel her heart beating rapidly against his chest. He reached down and snaked one hand under her shirt and around to her back, while the other grabbed her ass. He helped her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist, their mouths never once leaving each other’s skin. Sam stumbled backwards a few steps and walked in the direction he thought the sinks were, his hand on her back trying to unhook her bra so he could slid his hand around the front and cup her breasts. He growled into her mouth with frustration, hating the damn push-up bra that hugged her body so tightly that he couldn’t slid his fingers under the cotton unless he unhooked it. She giggled into his mouth, finding his drunken frustration funny. Her laughter turned into a moan when his fingers brushed across her nipple. She started to hump against his crotch, the denim from both of their jeans creating friction that almost made Sam lose it right there.
He found the sinks and let Shyloh sit down on them, both his hands free now that he didn’t have to focus on holding her against him. Her hands roamed over his chest under his shirt, her one slipping from under the fabric to tangle in his hair, pulling his mouth harder against hers. He rutted and left her mouth, sliding his lips down her neck and onto the cleavage that she had worked so hard to show off. Sam bet that all the boys out in the bar were dreaming about what he was doing right at this moment, and the thought that he had her in his hands and under his lips when all they had was imagination made him see stars. Shyloh’s hand on his chest was moving lower, her nails softly scraping over the skin that was right above the line of his jeans, and Sam let out the groan that he had been holding in. Her hands gently kneaded the growing bulge in his jeans, and Sam froze against her body, leaning in to her hand. She smiled and pulled his mouth back to hers as she pulled down the zipper on his jeans.
The door to the women’s bathroom opened with a creak and one of the waitresses walked in, freezing as soon as she saw Sam and Shyloh plastered against each other up against the sink. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stuttered out apologies before walking right back out the way she came. The two of them just stayed there, frozen for a few seconds before Shyloh burst out laughing, and then Sam joined in with her, even though he was unable to keep the embarrassment from spreading across his face like a wildfire. What the hell was he doing, dragging Shyloh into the bathroom of a bar like a goddamn one night stand. He stepped away from her, removing his hands from under her shirt and zipping himself up, ignoring the throbbing heat between his legs that was almost painful underneath his jeans. He picked up his shirt and threw it back on, not even bothering to button it up as he bent over to grab Shyloh’s jacket. She had hopped off the sink and re-hooked her bra, adjusting her hair and tank top in the mirror so it didn’t look like she had just been at it in the bathroom. Sam walked up behind her, handing her the leather jacket. She turned and took it, muttering a soft thank you and kissing him gently on the lips, a silent promise to finish what they started later. He ran his hand down one of her bare arms, stopping at her tattoos on her arm and rubbing him thumb over them. She pulled on her jacket and he ran his hand over her hair, because there was too much hairspray in it for him to be able to thread his fingers through it. He hated that - he hated the hairspray and the push-up bra and the shirt and pants that left nothing to the imagination. He hated the girl Dean made her turn into whenever they hustled, but he would never tell her that. Plus, the boots were kinda hot.
Next Half