Disclaimer: I've been wanting the Winchester boys for Christmas for years now, but apparently, I've been a bad girl, because they're still not mine. Santa and I will need to have a serious talk.

But until he wings his red-coated ass over here from North Pole, I'm afraid Supernatural with all its epicness still belongs to Eric Kripke.

So this is a story my bff Samantha and I came up with together, we hope you enjoy the outcome of our endless talks about the many fine qualities of Sam Winchester as much as we do!

Warnings: Where do I start?

There'd be the obvious AU, since this is Sam as a, err, well, lust-driven werewolf. Which brings me to the next point on the 'warning' agenda: This story will include sexual content, and not of the vanilla kind, either. Then there'd be kinkiness, dirty minds, sarcasm (I don't exclude the possibility of dark cynic and some language, either, and critic takes on society, and anything else in my way) and most definitely no 'rose and chocolate' love, so if you're looking for doves and rings; not the right address.

Phew, now that I've got the obligatory moral speech over with, on to the fun part. ;D


[Were-wolf]

(in folklore and superstition) a human being who has changed into a wolf, or is capable of assuming the form of a wolf, while retaining human intelligence.

[Lust]

noun

1. intense sexual desire or appetite.

2. uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness.

3. a passionate or overmastering desire or craving: a lust for power.

verb

4. to have intense sexual desire.

5. to have a yearning or desire; have a strong or excessive craving

[In Heat]

In a state of sexual excitement immediately preceding ovulation. This expression applies to most female mammals and indicates the period when the animal is fertile and most receptive to mating.


Zoe Heart was a virgin. Not just any virgin, either, but a rather prude and introverted one. Unhealthily strong faith in God will do that to you.

That beforehand, some other random info plucked out of her CV: She was 20 years old, a college student working as a secretary for a small family business in the freezy state of Minnesota, also commonly called 'Middle of Nowhere'.

And no, she never dreamt of getting out, since you needed a certain inner drive for that; Zoe didn't. She had built her fairy tale castle here. Of course, it was built from nothing but air and heedless hopes, but hey, details.

Said fairytale castle looked like this: White picket fence, nice little house, loving banker husband, working from 9 to 5, of course, and some years from now, lovely little brats to take care of all day, that is, when Zoe wouldn't be standing behind the hearth to cook pot roasts for the whole family.

Ah, sweet country life.

Problem with the forests up there were the wolves; naturally every American owned a gun; that was what the Second Amendment was for, after all, right? So when the fine furry friends from the woods came to munch on some cattle, they were quickly taken care of.

So much for the Canis Lupus.

Werewolves were a slightly different matter, especially when they came in a very fine, very unfurry, very handsome and muscular and most of all a very horny package.


Sam Winchester didn't follow the metrosexuality trend that had infected an estimated 99,9% of the male population and caused millions of girlfriends to invest in a second bathroom so they could do their ten-minute make-up while their boyfriends were having their one-hour make-out session with their mirror image.

Yes, the world was coming to an end, even without the Judeo-Christian apocalypse and Lucifer out on a killing spree. Men just weren't men anymore these days.

Either way, since Sam Winchester belonged to the remaining 0,1% who were still capable of feeling comfortable (and get laid as part of natural order, not as the result of knocking girls unconscious and willing with the strong odour of aftershave OD) without any cosmetic hassle, he didn't as much as glance at the mirror this morning.

If he had, he might have seen the odd scar on his shoulder that was ridiculously similar to a bite mark; and not the love bite kind.

Amnesia could be a blessing if it meant you forgot your soulless time; it could be an outright curse if it meant you didn't remember you were supposed to have taken an anti-dote to that son of a werewolf bitch who bit you just before you got your moral centre piece back shoved into you. Inconveniently blacking out your memory.

Howl.


Zoe looked at the eyelash curler as if it had the greeting card 'From hell with hate' attached to it. Blue-green – at least, that's what her passport said; she rather thought it just blue – eyes looked at her from the mirror, framed by lashes about as visible as Nicole Kidman's naturalness.

"Well, worst case scenario, I'll go blind," Zoe awkwardly brought the tongs to her left eye, figuring it would be the lesser loss than the right.

"Huh," She critically looked at herself. Somehow she'd managed to move her eyelashes against gravity's pull and not poke out her eyeball. "Miracles happen every day."

"Wow, now in all my lifetime, I would have never thought to see you changing anything about your God-given appearance," Lola, her college roommate, gave Zoe an inquisitive once-over and then closed the door behind her.

"You shouldn't mock God," Zoe reproached mechanically in that good-hearted manner of hers. It was just her luck to get stuck with an agnostic Atheist in one room. She hung up a cross on her side of the room, Lola countered with a poster of Dan went to midnight mass, Lola came home wasted and her clothes messier than Zoe's hair on a stormy autumn day.

Oh, well, their different faiths, or rather not-faiths, cast aside, the girls got along. Until they were in the same room.

Alright, that was an exaggeration. Lola and Zoe were friends, but with different views on what to achieve in life.

"Marrying that young is a mistake, by the way," Lola's clarity of speech was somewhat affected by the toothpaste and –brush muffling her. Waiting with her wise-ass remarks until she was done was too much too ask, apparently.

"No, it's not. Sleeping around is a mistake."

"Says who? If you ask me, fucking's way too much fun to be anything wrong."

Zoe flinched from the harsh sound of the horribly colloquial word for such a sacred act of matrimony (normal people can just call it sex). "It's a sin. S…s…"

"Sex. Repeat after me, Zoe: Sex. Three letters, come on, sweetie, say them back to me."

Zoe glared and snapped: "A physical relationship should just be entertained with your spouse, not with random bikers you pick up in those bars!"

"What, so that I end up like you? You ever considered that Marc just marries you so he can finally lay you? It's too high a price and way too much hassle, if you ask me, but hey, men just think with their downstairs brain, anyways."

"Say what you want, Lola. Everybody has to make that decision for her or himself. I'm saving myself for the one man I love, and I'll give him my sacred gift on our wedding night, not sooner."

"That's generally called a Venus Trap. Poor testosterone driven saps just realize they've tied the knot when they wake from the post-coital haze and then it's already too late." Lola picked up her bag and minced away on her scandalous heels.

"Whatever," Zoe muttered. She wouldn't give up her beliefs, morals and ideals for anyone, not ever. No, she would marry Marc next month and lead the sweet life she'd been dreaming of ever since she'd seen "Wives of Stepford" – whereby one may have to mention she had drifted off to sleep that night and had never seen the ending.


"Dean, I need to take some time off… from everything."

The older Winchester brother looked up to his younger sibling, not too surprised. The whole 'thinking, brooding, stopping to wonder about the moral correctness of my past acts' thing had always been typical for Sam. Well, unless he had his soul locked down in the devil's cage; he'd been a lot looser without his soul. "I've heard the Florida Keys ain't too bad this time of the year."

"It's February." Had Dean paid any attention in Geography whatsoever? Probably not. Hot female fellow classmates were such a buzz kill for learning.

"Yeah," Dean replied, and Sam wasn't too sure he saw the problem in that, "So what were you thinking? Nature hike? Cruise?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not talking about a holiday, Dean, just some alone time to think, okay?"

"No, not okay – I'm on scratch patrol."

"Oh, come on, I've already taken one tiny glimpse behind the curtain and that was bad enough. I'm not too eager on repeating that. I'll be fine. Promise."

"As long as this isn't another of your 'bailing family' trips, okay." Dean eventually agreed. If he didn't let Sam sort his thoughts out, God knows where they might accumulate and what they'd burst open. "Call regularly, you hear me?"

Sam smiled. "Promise. I won't be more than a few weeks."

Days left until full moon: Seven. There's a reason they call it the unlucky number.


Howl

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart
Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart

My fingers claw your skin, try to tempt my way in
You are the moon that makes the night for which I have to howl
My fingers claw your skin, try to tempt my way in
You are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to

Howl, howl
Howl, howl

Now there's no rolling back, I'm aching to attack
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground

Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
I want to find you and tear out all of your tenderness

And howl, howl
Howl, howl

Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them into hunters

Hunters, hunters, hunters
Hunters, hunters, hunters

The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress
Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground

And howl

Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them into hunters

A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground

– Florence and the Machines