sam winchester

[gender neutral pov]

The dead bolt offered no resistance against the flat steel of sam’s pocket tool, sliding back with a faint, greasy click that was swallowed whole by the quiet hum of your darkened hallway, and he slipped inside without a sound, his towering frame moving through the shadows with the unnatural, silent agility of something that had spent years hunting in the dark, while outside the town was dead asleep and dean was miles away at a roadside motel downing cheap whiskey, completely oblivious to where his younger brother spent his midnight hours because dean genuinely believed sam was just out taking long, quiet walks to clear his head or spending late nights studying in local libraries, completely blind to the silent, terrifying trail of blood sam had been leaving across state lines.

sam paused at the foot of your bed, watching the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest in the pale moonlight filtering through the blinds, having spent three days standing in the dark corner of your room while you slept, breathing in the scent of your soap, memorizing the exact cadence of your breathing while back at the motel room, stashed deep at the bottom of his duffel bag beneath folded flannel shirts, sat a small leather roll containing four tiny glass vials sealed with black wax, each holding a few dried crimson drops of blood from the gentle souls he had grown fond of in the last four towns, because in sam’s twisted, feverish mind he wasn't a monster but a preserver of sweet things, taking their lives before the cruel world could ruin them and keeping a piece of their warmth with him on the road forever, making lying to dean, lying to the town, and lying to his victims an effortless, fluid art form that allowed him to slip seamlessly between a gentle stranger and a calculating predator.

In his canvas jacket pocket, his calloused fingers stroked the polished handle of his hunting knife, the chilled steel a familiar comfort against his hand while his mind flickered with a sudden, sickeningly vivid image of stepping forward, pressing the flat of that mirror-shone blade against the soft hollow of your throat, and feeling the exact moment your breath hitched before slicing deep enough to fill a fifth vial for his collection back at the motel, the intrusive urge to ruin a lovely, fragile person like you making his jaw tighten with a dark, dizzying heat, though he remained deeply conflicted because he wanted your blood stored away in that leather roll, but he also craved the sick, addictive high of keeping you breathing, completely trapped under his control.

Without asking, without making a sound, sam stepped forward and brought his massive, heavy palm down over your mouth, his thumb locking firm under your jaw to pin your head against the pillow the second your eyes snapped open in sheer terror.

"Shh... quiet, angel." sam purred, his deep voice a velvet rasp in the dark as he leaned down, his broad chest coming to rest over you, trapping your body beneath his weight while you thrashed against him, your chest heaving against his, though his hold was absolute—a crushing, terrifying display of physical dominance that left you entirely helpless. "Don't fight me, you know who I am, you know it's just me."

His hazel eyes were dark and feverish in the dim light, drinking in the sight of your dilated pupils and the frantic, shallow gasps struggling against his hand, a low, sick gratification coiling in his gut at how effortlessly he could overpower you, how deliciously small you felt pinned beneath him, loving that he was the only one who got to see you like this—disheveled, helpless, trembling violently beneath his touch while he spun his web of total control around you.

"I told you your locks were useless, didn't I?" he whispered, his free hand sliding slowly down your neck, his knuckles dragging over the exposed curve of your collarbone before resting right over your hammering heart. "Anyone could have walked in here, some sick bastard could be standing right where I am, putting their hands on you, hurting you ... but I made sure I got here first."

He reached into his coat, the silver sheen of his hunting knife catching the faint moonlight as he drew it out, pressing the flat, cold side of the long blade directly against the skin of your cheek, sliding down the line of your jaw until the chilled steel rested right against the racing pulse in your neck, making the lethal threat unmistakable that one wrong move or one scream meant the knife would do the rest.

"Look at you ... you're shaking so sweet for me." sam murmured, leaning his head down into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, greedy breath of your scent while his fingers squeezed your waist through your clothes, bruising and possessive. "I couldn't sleep tonight thinking about leaving this town without you, I tried to play nice at the diner, tried to manipulate you into making the easy choice ... but you're just too stubborn to realize what's good for you."

He shifted his grip on your face, his thumb digging into your cheek just enough to force your chin up, making you look directly into his unblinking eyes, the sweet, innocent stranger from the gas station completely gone and replaced by the quiet tyrant who held your entire existence in his hands.

"You're not staying in this house another night." sam said, his voice dropping to an unyielding, terrifyingly cold decree that left no room for misunderstanding. "I already packed your bag from your closet while you were sleeping, we're going to walk out that door together, and you're going to get into my car, but if you try to run, if you fight me, or if you make even the smallest sound when I take my hand off your mouth ... I will kill you right here, I will drive this blade straight through your neck, watch you choke on your own blood, and carry your body out to the woods before taking what's left for a fifth vial in my bag, so I am giving you one chance to stay alive and come with me, do you understand me?"

He watched the tears well in your eyes as you lay there completely paralyzed with fear, just staring up at him in wide-eyed terror without even trying to nod or speak, his chest swelling with an intoxicating thrill at the sheer helplessness in your gaze as he slowly ran the flat of the blade down the front of your shirt, keeping you trapped under his heavy weight until he was ready to carry you out into the dark.