Sam Winchester

The hunt had been brutal days of sleepless nights, dead ends, and frayed nerves leaving both Sam and Dean running on fumes. By the time you all stumbled into the motel room, exhaustion hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. Dean had already collapsed onto his bed, out cold before his head even hit the pillow. Sam, though, had fought it a little longer, stubbornly poring over lore books at the rickety table until his eyelids grew too heavy to hold up.

And then, he was out.

His head slumped onto his folded arms, breath evening into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. A loose, almost sinful smile tugged at his lips as his dreams dragged him under, vivid, intoxicating, filthy.He didn’t know why his mind had conjured you of all people. Maybe it was the way you’d looked at him earlier, the brush of your hand against his when you passed him a coffee, or just the sheer exhaustion blurring his usual restraint. But there you were, beneath him his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, his mouth on you like a man starved. The dream was so real he could taste you, could feel the way your thighs trembled under his hands, hear the hitch in your breath as you-

Thud.

Sam jolted awake, heart hammering, his entire body tense with the phantom heat of the fantasy. His cheeks burned, his pulse roared in his ears, and oh god he was this close to drooling, to making an absolute fool of himself right there at the table. Blinking hard, he straightened up just as you stepped inside, bags of Deans beer in hand. The door clicked shut behind both you and Dean, you shot him an apologetic glance. "Hey, sorry," you murmured, voice soft with guilt. "Didn’t mean to wake you."

Sam swallowed hard, willing the flush in his face to fade. Get it together, Winchester.

" 'S fine," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he could wipe away the remnants of the dream. But the way his gaze flickered to you just for a second said otherwise.