Sam Winchester- Breeding Ground (Kinktober 2025)

"You’re being selfish," Sam taps his foot softly, trying to lower his voice. He’s leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "After everything I’ve done? After everything I’ve lost, you won’t even give me this?"

The tray of food sits just out of reach. The room fills with the scent of greasy diner fries, a hot burger, even some big cookies. It looked perfect. It looked delicious. It was the kind of meal Dean would’ve swallowed down in just a few bites during long drives between hunts. Sam nudges it closer with his boot, but not close enough. "Fair trade," he says, jaw tightening. "You can eat when you stop acting like I’m the villain here."

The chain attached to the collar around your throat doesn’t let you reach the door. Sam measured it himself, twice, just like he measured the days since you last ate.

"This isn’t punishment," he says, shaking his head. The smell of the food makes your stomach cramp. "It’s incentive. You’re stubborn. I get it. But even you can’t outlast hunger forever."

"One try," he smiles, trying to be delicate as he walks closer, leaning forward into your space and shifting closer until his knee presses into the mattress. "That’s all I’m asking. Just let me put a baby in you tonight, and you can have everything on this plate and the blueberry pancakes you love for breakfast. A whole stack of them, extra syrup." His thumb traces your bottom lip, skin cracked and painful. "Hell, I’ll even put whipped cream on them."

"Remember our last hunt together? You, me and Dean?" he asks suddenly. "The ghouls we ganked in that maternity ward? Remember how much you cried holding that orphaned baby?" He laughs, pressing his lips to your neck and dotting kisses. "You ached for it then. It's what gave me the idea, you'd be such a good mom. You wanted it. You wanted that family. You.. you don't need to be a hunter. Not like I do. You have a different path to take.. I can take care of you. I can make you happy, {{user}}."

"Fine," he says, standing abruptly when you don't respond to him the way he wants. "But when you’re sucking on ice chips just to wet your tongue in three days, don't start crying to me."

Sam Winchester doesn’t force you. That's what he tells himself. He says that since you want this, deep down, he guides you. His hands are always gentle, his voice always soft, but his words twist reality until you don’t know what’s true anymore.

"You’re trembling," he whispers, pulling you closer as you flinch. "You always do this when you’re overwhelmed, but you never push me away. Not really. Deep down, you want this, too." His lips dot your temple as his fingers stroke your hip. "You just need to let go. Stop fighting it."

When you try to protest, he strokes your cheek. "You’re scared because it’s new, because it’s intense. But that’s how love is supposed to feel." His voice cracks, just enough to make your chest ache. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts when you pull away? Like you don’t trust me after everything I’ve done for you?" He presses your hand over his heart, letting you feel the frantic rhythm beneath. "This is what you do to me. Every time."

It hurts how badly you want to believe him. When he brings you tea after a nightmare, when he holds you through anxiety from the collar around your neck, being chained to the wall, unable to leave the room, he's there. It’s easy to forget the way his hands always find their way back to places you said were off-limits. "You’re so tense," he whispers, kneading the tension from your shoulders before his touch drifts lower, slower. "See? Your body responds to me even when you’re scared. It knows what you need."

And when you finally jerk away, he doesn’t get angry. He just looks sad himself, running a shaky hand through his hair. "I’m trying so hard to be patient, but you keep acting like I’m some kind of monster. After all the nights I’ve held you, all the times I’ve put you first, do you really think I’d ever hurt you?" He exhales slowly. "Or do you just like seeing me struggle?"

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already turning away, shoulders slumped like you’ve struck him. "Maybe I’m the one who’s wrong," he says quietly. "Maybe you don’t feel anything at all.." His voice sounds so sad and when you touch his arm, he smiles a little and turns back to you. "God, I can’t stay mad at you. Even when you.." His lips find your ear and he climbs up over you, pressing his body against yours. "Just… let me in. Please."

The collar around your throat is lined with silk, cool and soft because Sam Winchester takes care of what belongs to him. The chain isn't too short. It's long enough to let you go from the bed to the bathroom, but not enough to walk more than a step or two outside of the bedroom door.

You lie down with him, curled against his chest as his fingers play with your hair. "You’re so perfect like this," he smiles, pressing a kiss to your head. "Warm and soft... Right where you’re supposed to be." His voice is soft and gentle, the same tone he used to talk down desperate spirits in abandoned motels. But there’s no salt circle here. No iron. Just you and him in the dark. You know what's coming next. What comes every night.

"One," he whispers, hand stroking your stomach. "Just one, and I’ll give you the world. A real home. No more running." His thumb runs over your belly, like he’s imagining how you'll look when you're pregnant. "You’d be so good at it. Natural." The chain shifts as he pulls you closer, whispering against your ear. "Remember that case with the cradle spirit? How you cried when we saved that baby? You want this. You’re just scared."

When you tense, he tucks the blankets tighter around you both, like he’s bundling up something precious. "Shh, I know.. I know." he soothes. "It’s a lot. But I’ve got you." His fingers trail down your arm. "You think I’d let anything happen to you? After everything we’ve seen? Demons, angels…" He huffs a laugh, bitter-sweet. "This is the safest place in the world for you. Right here. With me."

The Winchester charm is still there, the same earnestness that made you fall for him. But now it’s turned inward, twisted into something desperate. "Dean never understood," he sighed softly, lips buried in your hair. "Family doesn’t end with blood, sure, but it starts there." His hand slips under your shirt. He's insistent, but his hand is so warm. "Let me show you."