juicifeur

[juicifeur]

Okay but imagine they meet again years later on a case 🙃 the ideas are swimming

⋆.ೃ🪩*• comfort zone,

summary. you find sam at a standford party

pairing. sam winchester x reader

wordcount. 790.

The party was a cacophony of thumping bass, too-loud laughter, and the occasional sound of something breaking in another room. Sam Winchester, standing awkwardly near the kitchen, wondered for the hundredth time why he let his roommate talk him into coming. This wasn’t his scene—had never been his scene—but apparently, “bonding” meant standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers in a sweaty house.

He sighed, his gaze drifting to the patio doors. The faint glow of the pool lights called to him, a welcome reprieve from the chaos inside. Grabbing a drink from the counter—more for something to hold than to actually drink—he made his way outside, hoping to avoid any more forced small talk.

That’s when he saw you.

You were sitting on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling in the water, the ripples catching the soft light and reflecting it back on your face. A red solo cup was balanced in your hands, but your posture screamed disinterest. You weren’t talking to anyone, your focus on the water instead of the lively groups scattered around the patio.

For a moment, Sam hesitated. He didn’t want to intrude. But something about the way you seemed as out of place as he felt compelled him forward.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet hum of the pool filter.

You looked up, startled at first, but then your expression softened. "Sure," you said, shifting slightly to give him room. "As long as you don’t splash me."

Sam chuckled, sitting down a careful distance from you. "I’ll try to restrain myself."

The silence between you was companionable, the muffled sounds of the party fading into the background. Finally, you broke it.

"Not your kind of party either?"

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Not really. Too many people, too much noise. What about you?"

"My roommate dragged me here," you admitted, rolling your eyes. "Said I needed to ‘get out of my comfort zone.’” You used air quotes, a wry smile curving your lips.

Sam laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Sounds familiar. My roommate said the same thing. He thinks I’m too much of a shut-in."

"Well," you said, glancing back at the house, "I’d say we both technically fulfilled our social obligations by showing up."

You laughed softly, the sound wrapping around him and easing the tension in his shoulders. From there, the conversation flowed naturally. You talked about your classes, shared complaints about professors, and swapped favorite late-night study spots. Sam found himself relaxing more than he had in weeks, drawn in by your easy humor and the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about something you were passionate about.

As the night stretched on, the cool air made the hairs on your arms stand up. You shivered, but before you could even comment on it, Sam was already shrugging out of his sweater.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to you.

You blinked, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re cold,” he interrupted gently. “Take it.”

You hesitated but relented, slipping it over your head. The fabric was warm and soft, and it smelled faintly of Sam—woodsy and clean. “Thanks,” you murmured, tugging the sleeves over your hands.

He gave a lopsided smile. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Conversation kept flowing and by the time you notice, it's almost 3 am. You stand up, stretching and yawning, Sam feeling a pang of disappointment.

"I should head out," you said reluctantly, glancing at your phone. "Got an early morning tomorrow."

"Yeah, of course," Sam said quickly, standing as well. But he couldn’t let you leave without saying something—without ensuring this wasn’t the last time he saw you.

"Wait," he blurted, his cheeks flushing as he stepped forward. "Can I… Can I get your number? Only if you want, I mean. No pressure."

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips as you rummaged through your bag for a pen. Gently, you took his hand, your touch sending a thrill through him as you carefully scrawled your number across his palm.

"There," you said, stepping back with a playful grin. "Don’t lose it."

Sam stared at his hand like it was some kind of treasure, his heart pounding. "I won’t,"

As you walked away, you glanced over your shoulder, catching his gaze one last time before disappearing through the patio doors.

Sam stayed rooted to the spot, the night air cool against his skin, the faint scent of chlorine lingering in the air. For the first time in a long while, he felt something light and hopeful stir in his chest. He didn’t know when he’d call, but one thing was certain: he wasn’t letting you slip away.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril

[juicifeur]

The Heated Confession | Sam Winchester x reader

Word count: 4.1k+

Pairings: Sam Winchester x reader

tags: pining, yearning, tooth rotting fluff, angst

Sequal to The Quiet Ache

The four of you—Sam, Dean, Castiel and you—are gathered around a worn motel table, pouring over case notes and trying to piece together the threads of the last hunt. The air is thick with concentration, the only sounds are the rustle of papers and the faint hum of the flickering motel light above.

You’re sitting next to Castiel, the angel frowning at a pile of documents as he tries to decipher the complexities of human handwriting. He’s been staring at the same page for ten minutes, his brow furrowed in frustration.

“Cas,” you say gently, nudging him out of his thoughts. “Do you need some help?”

He looks at you, his expression both puzzled and earnest. “I understand the words individually, but their meaning together is... elusive.”

You smile softly, taking the paper from his hands. “It’s just a witness statement,” you explain, leaning closer to show him the details. “This part here means they saw something in the woods. And this bit—it’s just their guess about what it was.”

Castiel listens intently, his head tilted slightly as he absorbs your explanation. When he nods, it’s slow, deliberate, as if he’s committing every word you say to memory.

“You’re really good at this,” he says after a moment, his voice tinged with something close to admiration. “At making things understandable.”

You laugh lightly, brushing off the compliment. “It’s just explaining, Cas. You’ll get the hang of it.”

But Sam, sitting across the table, feels his chest tighten as he watches the interaction.

It’s not the first time he’s seen you take the time to help Castiel navigate the complexities of being human. Whether it’s showing him how to work a coffee maker, explaining why humans say “bless you” after sneezing, or patiently describing the rules of Monopoly during a rare downtime, you always approach him with the same warmth and patience.

Sam remembers the way you guided Castiel through his first attempt at cooking, laughing softly as the angel held an egg like it might explode. The way you reassured him when he accidentally burned the toast, telling him it was no big deal and that everyone starts somewhere.

You treat Castiel not as someone who’s different or apart, but as someone who belongs. And it’s not just with Castiel. You have this quiet way of making everyone around you feel seen and valued.

As you lean closer to Castiel now, pointing something out on the paper in front of him, Sam can’t help but marvel at the easy kindness you extend to everyone in your life.

It’s in the way you explain things to Castiel without a trace of condescension, as though you genuinely enjoy helping him understand the nuances of human behavior. It’s in the way you treat Dean with a blend of camaraderie and care, knowing when to push him and when to let him be.

And it’s in the way you treat Sam—with a softness that feels almost like a salve to the rough edges of his life.

How do you do it? Sam wonders, his gaze lingering on you. How do you make everyone feel like they matter?

He notices the little things—the way your voice softens when you’re speaking to Castiel, the way you smile even when you think no one is looking, the way you never seem to tire of offering your patience and understanding.

It’s not just admirable; it’s breathtaking.

Sam doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you glance up and catch his eye.

“What’s up?” you ask, your tone light and curious.

He quickly shakes his head, his face flushing slightly as he pretends to refocus on the paper in front of him. “Nothing,” he says, his voice a little too quick, a little too quiet. “Just… watching you explain things to Cas. You’re good at it.”

You smile at him, a faint blush dusting your cheeks at the compliment. “Well, someone has to make sure he doesn’t think Monopoly is a form of warfare.”

Sam chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. But inside, his thoughts spiral.

You don’t even know, he thinks. You don’t know how much better you make everything. How much better you make me.

As you turn back to Castiel, picking up where you left off, Sam leans back in his chair, his gaze still lingering on you. He doesn’t say anything more, but in the quiet moments that follow, one thought echoes in his mind.

If there’s any good left in this world, it’s sitting right here at this table.

But it’s the little things you do that undo him, the quiet acts of care that feel so natural to you and yet so monumental to Sam. He knows you’re not trying to be extraordinary, but to him, you are.

He notices everything.

The way you leave a cup of coffee at his elbow during the late nights spent researching. You never make a fuss about it, never draw attention to yourself. You just set the steaming mug down with a quiet precision, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and return to your seat. It’s such a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. It tells him you see him, that you’re thinking of him even when he’s too caught up in his own mind to notice his own needs.

The way your voice changes when you talk to him. You’re still you—direct, steady, with a clarity that cuts through the chaos of their world—but there’s a softness, a warmth that’s reserved just for him. It’s in the way you ask if he’s eaten, the way you tease him when his head gets too stuck in the books, the way you draw him out of himself when the weight of everything becomes too much.

And then there’s the way you look at him.

It’s not pity—God, he hates pity—but something deeper, something gentler. Your eyes hold an understanding that feels rare and precious, an acceptance that makes him feel seen in a way that both comforts and terrifies him. It’s as though you’ve peered into the darkest corners of him, the parts he hides from everyone, even himself, and decided they’re worth staying for.

Sam doesn’t just notice the moments—you’ve etched them into his mind.

He remembers the night after a hunt that had gone sideways, leaving everyone bruised and exhausted. He’d been sitting at the war room table, staring blankly at the maps spread out before him, unable to shake the weight of the lives they couldn’t save. The bunker had been quiet, and he’d thought he was alone until he heard your footsteps.

You’d walked in, carrying two mugs of tea. “Coffee this late’ll wreck you,” you’d said simply, setting one in front of him before taking a seat across the table.

He hadn’t said much—what could he say? But he remembers the way the warmth of the tea seeped into his hands as he wrapped them around the mug, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. You hadn’t pushed him to talk, hadn’t tried to fix anything. You’d just been there, your presence anchoring him, your silence offering a solace words couldn’t provide.

Or the time you’d patched him up after a rough hunt. The gash on his arm had been deep, the sting of the antiseptic biting into his skin, but your hands had been steady, your focus sharp. You’d worked with a quiet efficiency, your brow furrowed in concentration, and for a while, he’d let himself just watch you, marveling at the way you carried yourself with such quiet strength.

When he’d flinched at the sting, your touch softened immediately. You’d glanced up at him, your eyes filled with something that looked like apology.

“It’s okay,” you’d murmured, your voice low and soothing. “You’re okay.”

And he’d believed you—not because of the words, but because of the way you’d said them, the quiet certainty in your tone that made him feel, even just for a moment, that he really was okay.

When you’d finished wrapping his arm, your fingers had lingered on his skin, just for a second longer than necessary. And in that second, Sam had felt the air between you shift, heavy with something unspoken. He remembers wishing you wouldn’t pull away, wishing he could reach out and hold onto that moment, onto you.

These memories stay with him, surfacing in the quiet hours when he’s alone. They aren’t loud or dramatic, but they cut deeper than any grand gesture ever could.

Because it’s not just the way you care for him—it’s the way you do it without expecting anything in return. The way you make him feel seen, steady, and whole in a life that so often feels like it’s falling apart.

Sam doesn’t know what to do with these feelings, doesn’t know how to tell you what you mean to him without risking everything. But the ache in his chest is growing, spreading, impossible to ignore.

And as he sits across the room now, watching you curled up in that oversized chair, your face serene, he can’t help but think: You deserve so much more than this life.

Sam doesn’t mean to hover. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But lately, it feels like you’ve become a magnet, and he’s powerless to do anything but orbit around you.

If you’re in the library, he finds reasons to join you. His laptop is always conveniently dead, his notes mysteriously missing, or he suddenly remembers a book he needs to check. He’ll settle across from you, opening a lore tome or pretending to skim a case file, but his eyes inevitably wander. He watches the way your brow furrows when you’re deep in thought, the way your lips twitch into a small smile when you find something interesting.

And when you glance up and catch him looking, his heart skips a beat.

“Need something, Sam?” you ask, teasing but not unkind.

He clears his throat, averting his gaze. “Just… wondering if you found anything.”

You smile, shaking your head. “Not yet. But I’ll let you know.”

In the kitchen, it’s the same story. You’ll be making tea or rummaging through the fridge, and suddenly, Sam decides he needs a snack. It’s not subtle—Dean’s smirk from across the room tells him as much—but Sam doesn’t care.

You greet him with a warm smile, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter to him before he even asks. “Figured you could use this.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment as he takes the mug. The brief contact sends a jolt through him, one he has to mask with a long sip of coffee.

You start talking about something casual—the weather, a new book you’re reading—and Sam drinks it in, grateful for the excuse to just be near you.

One evening, he walks into the living room to find you curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs and a movie playing softly on the TV. You look up when he enters, your face lighting up with a smile that’s brighter than it has any right to be.

“Hey,” you say, shifting to make room for him.

Sam hesitates, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” you say, patting the cushion beside you.

He sits down, careful to keep a bit of space between you at first. The movie is something light, a romantic comedy that Dean would have mercilessly mocked, but Sam doesn’t care. He’s too focused on the warmth radiating from you, the way your laughter fills the room.

“You can change it if you want,” you offer, gesturing toward the remote.

“No, this is fine,” he says quickly.

Minutes pass, the movie fading into the background as Sam’s attention drifts entirely to you. You shift, leaning into him, your head resting against his shoulder.

Sam freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. He glances down at you, the soft glow of the TV illuminating your face. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady, and for a moment, he can’t believe this is real.

He wants to move, to wrap his arm around you, to hold you closer, but he’s terrified of waking you. So he sits there, perfectly still, letting the weight of your head anchor him in a way nothing else ever has.

You fall asleep like that, your body relaxed against his. Sam stays awake, his mind racing but his body still, savoring the moment. The blanket you’ve draped over yourself spills onto him, and he tugs it up a little, covering you more fully.

The movie ends, the credits rolling silently, but Sam doesn’t dare reach for the remote. He doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to disturb the fragile peace that’s settled over the room.

In the quiet, he lets himself imagine—what it would be like if moments like this weren’t rare, if they weren’t accidents. What it would be like if he could hold you like this every night, no excuses, no hesitations.

But for now, he just sits there, his heart full and aching all at once, and lets the hours pass with you by his side.

It starts small—a faint tightening in his chest, a flicker of heat low in his stomach. Sam tells himself it’s nothing, just the remnants of a long day and a longer week. But as he watches, that faint flicker builds, burning into something sharper, something heavier.

You’re standing by the counter of the diner, waiting for the check while the three of you gear up to leave. The guy behind the register—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin—has been chatting with you for a few minutes now. It’s harmless. He’s just being friendly, and you, being you, respond with a warm smile and a polite laugh.

Sam knows that smile. He’s seen it a hundred times. It’s the one you give to strangers who need a bit of kindness, the one that makes people feel at ease. It shouldn’t bother him. You’re not flirting, not leading the guy on in the slightest. You’re just… you.

And yet, it twists something inside him.

Sam knows it’s irrational. He knows he has no right to feel this way. You’re not his—hell, he hasn’t even worked up the courage to tell you how he feels. And even if you were, this? This isn’t anything.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier.

He tries to focus on something else—the way the warm light of the diner reflects off the checkered tiles, the smell of burgers and coffee that hangs in the air—but his eyes keep drifting back to you. To the way your shoulders relax as you chat, to the way your laugh rings out, soft but genuine.

To the way the guy leans just a little closer, like he’s trying to soak in as much of you as he can.

Sam’s fists clench under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He hates the way it makes him feel, this jealousy curling tight in his chest. It’s not you—it’s him, and he knows it.

You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re just being polite, kind, the way you always are. But Sam can’t help it, can’t stop the possessive streak that flares despite every logical argument he throws at it.

Dean notices, of course. He always notices.

“You good, man?” Dean asks, his voice low as he leans back in the booth. His eyes flick toward you, still at the counter, before landing on Sam with a knowing look.

“I’m fine,” Sam says quickly, too quickly.

Dean raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push. “Right. You keep telling yourself that.”

Sam grits his teeth, his gaze dropping to the table. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to acknowledge the mess of feelings swirling inside him. Because the truth is, this isn’t the first time he’s felt it—the ache of wanting something he doesn’t know how to reach, the sting of watching someone else notice what he’s known all along.

When you finally return to the table, smiling as you hand over the receipt, Sam forces himself to relax. He unclenches his fists, lets out a slow breath, and meets your eyes with what he hopes is a neutral expression.

“Everything okay?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. “Ready to go?”

You nod, grabbing your coat as Dean tosses a few bills onto the table for a tip.

As the three of you step out into the cool night air, Sam walks beside you, keeping his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He’s quiet, his mind racing with thoughts he can’t quite pin down.

It’s not your fault. You don’t even know.

But that doesn’t make the jealousy any easier to bear.

Because the truth is, Sam wants more than he has any right to. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh like that, who gets to lean close and soak in your warmth. And as much as he hates himself for it, he wants everyone else to see that you’re his—even though he knows you’re not.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The thought is enough to make his chest tighten, but he keeps walking, the sound of your voice pulling him out of his spiral as you talk about something mundane and comforting.

Sam’s grip on his machete tightens as the group approaches the abandoned house. The air is heavy, the kind of oppressive stillness that always precedes a fight. Dean is leading the way, his shotgun raised, while you follow just behind, your steps quiet but sure.

Sam should be focusing on the hunt—on the creak of the floorboards, the faint whispers of movement coming from deeper inside—but he can’t. His eyes keep darting to you, his chest tightening every time you take a step further into danger.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual.

You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow but nodding. “I’m fine, Sam.”

Fine. The word does nothing to ease the knot in his stomach.

It happens fast. Too fast.

The wendigo bursts through a wall, a blur of claws and teeth, and the room erupts into chaos. Dean fires a shot, the salt rounds forcing the creature to stumble, but it’s not enough to stop it. You lunge toward it with your knife, and Sam’s heart nearly stops.

“Wait!” he yells, his voice sharp.

You hesitate for just a second, long enough for the wendigo to change direction. It barrels toward you, and before Sam can think, he’s moving. He throws himself between you and the creature, his machete swinging in a wide arc.

The blade connects, but it’s not a clean hit. The wendigo shrieks, clawing at Sam’s arm as it retreats into the shadows. Blood drips down his sleeve, hot and sticky, but he barely notices.

“Sam!” Your voice is frantic as you grab his arm, trying to check the wound.

“I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off as his eyes dart around the room. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? You’re bleeding!”

Dean shouts from across the room, drawing their attention back to the hunt. “Focus, you two! It’s still here!”

Sam forces himself to breathe, to focus, but his hands shake as he readjusts his grip on the machete.

The hunt ends in a blur. Dean gets the kill, the wendigo collapsing in a heap of ash and bone, and the three of you stumble out of the house, battered but alive.

Back at the Impala, Dean tosses his shotgun into the trunk with a muttered curse. “What the hell was that, Sam? You almost got yourself killed!”

Sam doesn’t answer, his eyes fixed on you as you press a cloth against his arm, trying to stop the bleeding.

“I told you, I’m fine,” he says, his voice softer than before.

You glare at him. “You’re not fine, Sam. That thing could’ve killed you.”

“And it could’ve killed you!” he snaps, the words bursting out before he can stop them.

The silence that follows is heavy. Dean glances between the two of you, his expression unreadable, before muttering something about “patching up later” and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Later, inside the bunker, you refuse to let him brush it off. You pull him into the kitchen, forcing him to sit while you clean and bandage his arm.

“What was that back there?” you ask, your voice quiet but firm.

Sam hesitates, his jaw tightening. “I just… I couldn’t let you—”

“Get hurt?” you interrupt, finishing his sentence for him.

He nods, his gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, your hands working methodically to wrap the bandage around his arm. When you finally speak, your voice is softer. “Sam, I know you worry. But you can’t let it get in the way like that. We have to trust each other out there.”

“I do trust you,” he says quickly. “It’s me I don’t trust. Not when it comes to keeping you safe.”

You meet his eyes, your expression gentle but unyielding. “We keep each other safe. That’s how this works.”

Sam swallows hard, the weight of your words settling over him. He knows you’re right. But as he looks at you, at the quiet strength in your eyes, he also knows that his feelings for you are becoming harder to control.

For now, though, he nods, forcing a small smile. “Okay.”

But deep down, he knows it’s not that simple.

Another hunt had gone wrong—terribly, inexplicably wrong.

You’re sitting at the war room table back in the bunker, a hastily wrapped bandage on your arm, your face pale and drawn. Sam is pacing, his long strides eating up the space between the table and the far wall, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Do you have any idea how stupid that was?” His voice is sharp, louder than you’ve ever heard it.

You glare at him, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “I saved your ass, Sam! Or did you miss the part where that thing was about to rip your head off?”

“I didn’t need you to throw yourself into danger like that!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap, standing up despite the sharp pain in your arm. “Did you want me to just stand there and watch you get torn apart?”

“That’s not the point!” Sam’s voice cracks, his frustration turning into something raw.

“Then what is the point, Sam?” you shout, stepping closer to him. “Because all I see is you treating me like I’m some fragile thing that can’t handle myself!”

“You don’t get it,” he growls, his eyes blazing as he finally stops pacing. “It’s not about whether you can handle yourself! It’s about the fact that I can’t handle losing you!”

The words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on both of you. Your breath catches, your anger faltering as his admission sinks in.

“Sam…” you start, but he cuts you off, his voice softer now but no less intense.

“You don’t understand,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Every time we’re out there, I can’t stop thinking about what could happen to you. Every scratch, every close call—it eats me alive. And tonight? Seeing you get hurt? I—” He stops, his chest rising and falling as he struggles to find the words. “I can’t do it anymore.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. “Sam, I—”

But before you can finish, he closes the distance between you in two long strides, his hands cupping your face as his lips crash into yours. It’s desperate, unrestrained, years of pent-up emotion spilling over all at once.

For a moment, you freeze, too stunned to react. But then you’re kissing him back, your fingers tangling in his shirt as you pull him closer. It’s messy, overwhelming, and everything you’ve both been holding back.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snaps you both back to reality.

You break apart, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you turn to see Dean and Castiel standing in the doorway. Dean’s eyebrows are raised so high they practically disappear into his hairline, while Cas looks… well, Cas-like, but with a hint of curiosity.

“Uh… are we interrupting something?” Dean asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best effort to sound serious.

Sam takes a step back, his face flushed as he scrambles to say something. “I, uh—this isn’t—”

“Sure doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” Dean quips, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe.

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

Cas tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “I believe this is what humans call ‘acting on repressed emotions.’”

Dean lets out a bark of laughter, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “Well, I’d say it’s about damn time.”

[juicifeur]

✶ . ၄၃ . to leave him with love — sam winchester part two of my boy only breaks his favorite toys

cw : gn!reader, angst, guilty sam, trials!sam, sort of a sicfic in a way, talk of death/dying/injury, food mentions/eating, closure but not necessarily a "happy" ending, post-cage sam memory fuckery, swearing, poorly edited, set in season 8 so spoilers, 8K words. requested !

summary : three years after sam told you to go, you run into him while stopping for gas in a town called lebanon, kansas. you stay the night with him.

you’ve stopped by for gas, that’s all. you’re hungry too, but the gas station’s store is tiny and has a very poor selection of snacks. it’s clear to you that you’d be better off at the nearest grocery store or diner. a quick survey of the area brings a shop across the road to your attention. it looks bigger than this place, and you’d really rather not have to go any farther or take any longer than necessary. you have a job interview in the morning, and you want to be well rested and well prepared. the plain looking mart will have to do.

you jog across the street; it’s a pretty quiet town and there are no cars. the shop is quiet too, and already better than the gas station store as you enter. there’s just the cashier at the front, and a glimpse of brown hair in the back corner. you pay neither any attention as you browse the second row for something that will satisfy your hunger until you get to your hotel. the sound of crinkling plastic as you debate what to eat seems extra loud amidst the hush of the store. there’s no words until you reach the register, just footsteps and the indication of gathered groceries in the other customer’s shopping basket.

neither you nor the cashier bother to make any conversation outside of the necessary exchanges to get you checked out and on your way. it’s a still day, with flat grey skies and autumn well on its way. some might call it gloomy, and they wouldn’t necessarily be wrong, but you don’t mind it much. there’s nothing wrong with quiet, sometimes. that’s how it feels—the grey, the barren trees whose leaves had fallen early in the season, and the almost empty store—just quiet.

as you walk back towards the exit, the clatter of hard plastic on the ground is completely jarring, so much so that you physically startle, your head whipping around to the source of the noise. the single other customer’s basket has slipped from his hand to the loud tile. he looks unsteady, crouched to the ground and head bowed as hands that look like they should be strong skitter over the floor, collecting fallen grocery items. for a moment, you stare at those hands in a sort of wonder. they look so familiar, it makes your chest ache. they look like hands you’d once longed to hold, over and over again.

it takes eye contact with the man for you to realize they are indeed those hands. the thought that it could be him had certainly crossed your mind the instant you saw that exact shade of brown hair in the corner of the store. but it had crossed your mind so many times in the last three years that you never pay it any mind. it’s always a trick of the eye. a trick of the heart, maybe.

but there’s no mistaking those eyes. green sometimes, a dull grey in this lighting. some days, blue. other days like sunflowers. every day, an object of your love. he looks so tired, is the first thing you think, which feels sort of silly considering… well, considering everything. 

before, you’d always thought that movies tend to drag on momentous seconds of stunned eye contact for far too long, but this moment feels like forever. three years ago feels like forever ago. and you remember it like you walked out of that motel room door just this morning. there’s so much hurt. you’ve moved on. you love him still, but not quite as much. that’s another thing that’s forever, no matter what. you loving him.

you whisper his name and your feet carry you to him like you have no choice in the matter. he looks frozen. he looks like a deer in headlights. if you had your way three years ago, or ever, he’d be your dear in headlights. then you remember he’s not yours, never was, and never will be. but frankly, you don’t care too much about that right now. you sink to your knees in front of him and put his almond butter and pre-sliced multigrain loaf of bread back into the basket. you push it away and sit back on your heels and just look at him. you don’t give a damn that the cashier is staring.

for a moment, you wonder if this is some cruel joke, if he’s not real. just a figment of your imagination, or perhaps another shifter who’s come to trick you and use that shamelessly unending love of yours to lure you to your final demise. you could test him with the little silver knife tucked into your boot, but you don’t think you will, and you don’t think it’s needed. his shocked face blurs for a moment as you grow teary eyed, but you blink until you can see him clearly again.

“you look like hell,” you whisper, your expression an odd mix of a sad smile, adoring eyes, and your worried brow. he flinches at your words and it almost makes you physically recoil too. you’ve clearly said something wrong. he seems sort of broken, and you honestly think it could kill you. “i like your hair like this,” you say instead of sorry. it’s not said as an apology, though. you mean it. maybe you sound stupid to him, but you don’t really mind anymore.

you’re looking at the man who broke your heart, and somehow all you want is to take him in your arms and ask him why he looks so sick.

“sorry,” you murmur as your soft smile fades and a sick-with-worry frown takes its place.

“don’t say sorry to me,” he shakes his head, breaking his silence. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” he sounds so weary, and certainly very sorry too. 

truthfully, sam doesn’t remember the details of the day you left. he remembers very few details from pretty much anything in his life that happened before the cage. but he remembers the feeling. he still feels it. the guilt, the love, the realization of how much he hurt you. the realization of how vastly and how long you loved him. even now, you look at him with love and he feels entirely undeserving of it.

“i know you are, sam,” you breathe out. it hurts to look at him, really. the anger lingers, but it’s had three years to mellow. goodness, you had always been content to love him quietly, just like today’s sleepy hush. it wasn’t until he loved you back that you couldn’t bear it, because he was intentionally denying you what he could finally give, should he choose to. for a few weeks, you were foolish enough to think that he might  make all your dreams come true. then, you were foolish enough to think you could change his mind when he started to pull away. he did not choose to give you his love, but instead to tell you to go. nothing hurt more than him telling you to go, you think.

sam doesn’t know what to do. does he ask you back to the bunker? does he just apologize over and over again while standing by his car in the chilly parking lot? does he tell you he has trouble with his memory these days, ask if you remember what he said so he can know exactly how he hurt you and say sorry for it? and probably torture himself with it for years to come.

you stand, picking up his shopping basket. the contents don’t make much sense to you. it’s all the sort of thing you’d take home, not to some motel you’ll only be in for as little as a day or two. but you ignore that for now, holding out a hand to help him up. “c’mon. you look like you should be in bed with a hot bowl of soup.” those words don’t make him flinch, so you hope they’re okay.

he takes your hand and stands on unsteady legs. his touch is like fire, maybe. his hands are very warm, like they always have been. but you think they’re hotter with fever. there’s no way he isn’t running a temperature right now. of course, there’s that sort of heat, and then there’s the burning sting of skin to skin contact with him. your chest tightens and you could mistake the feeling for heartburn if you didn’t know it was a sheer physical reaction to touching him after all these years.

you want to scream at him, cry about how horridly he broke your heart. make him feel guilty about how lost you were for almost a whole year after. how angry you were, how depressed, how reckless and teary and lonely. 

his shoulders look like they hold the weight of worlds, and you’re tired. your hand slips from his and you return to the cash register with his basket. the cashier who probably doesn’t get paid enough says nothing about the highly strange encounter they just witnessed. they just scan the items as sam follows you like a sad, sick puppy. he pays with a card you doubt is real. you carry his bags for him, and when he tries to take them from you, you shoot him a withering look that gets him to back down. right outside the door, one of his clumsy hands takes hold of the bags in your right hand and tugs them away with enough force that you just let it happen. you nearly roll your eyes.

you give a huff of breath. “you’re in no state to drive. i don’t even know how you made it here in the first place,” your eyes scan the little lot for the impala, but it’s not there. “let me drive you to where you’re staying.” you don’t actually say it as a request, and he doesn’t think he could deny you either way. so you wait for a singular car to pass before crossing the road again. he sees your car parked at the gas station and remembers it’s the same one you had before. he couldn’t recall the make and model until seeing it again.

to your surprise, sam doesn’t give you directions to the nearest motel. you pull into a driveway a bit aways from a large, nondescript building. you can easily guess that it mostly lays underground. he guides you inside, and you look out from the top of the stairs.

“what is this place?” you ask, almost in awe. already from here it looks like a hunter’s heaven. he gives you a slight smile as he leans against the railing.

“sort of a long story,” he says, sounding tired. 

you remember his state and wave your hand to dismiss the thought. “you can tell me later,” you say absentmindedly. you weren’t really thinking much because you’re not so sure he’ll really get the chance; you won’t be here long. “you should sit down.”

he starts down the stairs. “we’ll put the groceries away first.” you shake your head at his usual stubbornness and follow him into a kitchen, watching as he puts the few bags of food away. there doesn’t seem to be a lot of other food, nor a clear system to where things go, but to you it seems that he and dean must’ve been staying here for at least some time now. 

it’s strange. in all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him like this; so unmistakably and oddly domestic. it’s such a simple thing, to be putting groceries away in one’s own kitchen. you think you could cry. you’ve imagined this before—putting groceries away in a kitchen of your own, with him.

you’ve imagined a lot of things with him before, and it was never anything like where you really ended up. maybe that’s what hurts the most about this all; you never imagined that you wouldn’t have him around. that he wouldn’t have you around.

“where’s dean?” you ask.

“out on a case. he left yesterday,” sam answers simply. he’s probably bothered that dean made him stay back because he’s sick. at least, that’s just what you assume to have happened.

you just give him a nod. now that you’re here with him, you have no idea what to do with yourself. do you talk about what happened that day? you sort of said everything you needed to back then. of course, you’re not the same person anymore, but honestly, you’re just still hurt. the ache is duller now, but you used to think up whole futures with him. you used to think of him as a given, or at least his friendship. in your mind, there was never the risk of losing him like you did. he could’ve prevented that, and he didn’t. he thought he was protecting you. that’s part of the anger.

then you look at him, hands trembling a bit, bags under his eyes, and a weight so heavy and unbearable that you can practically feel it too, hanging over him. and you look at yourself; the same sort of jeans you’d wear on a hunt, but slightly less practical shoes and a shirt you actually like the way it looks on yourself. there’s still that knife tucked into your left boot, but it’s only there for worst case scenarios, not because you’re always in danger. you used it to peel a fruit once. 

that day, you told him you wouldn’t leave hunting just so he wouldn’t worry. that you’d still be in danger, regardless if you’re around him or not, regardless of whether or not he loves you.

for a year, those things were true. you were so lost, so you threw yourself into hunting. you knew the signs of the apocalypse and ran straight towards them. even if it wasn’t to help sam—that’s what you told yourself—you still had a responsibility to try and protect the rest of the world. you have the foresight now to know that it was for sam, even then. you thought that if you could lift some of his burden, he’d come looking for you, and you’d shut him down so that you could break his heart back.

maybe tonight you’ll tell him you nearly died because of it. you nearly bled out on a cold, hard floor. but you made it out, stitched yourself back up, and told yourself, fuck this shit. before sam and dean, you were tied to hunting for other reasons. you had your own personal chip in the game, just like pretty much every other hunter out there. but by the time sam told you to go, you’d let go of those reasons, and you never realized such until that night you almost died. by then, it was just sam. he’s what kept you there, and you didn’t have him anymore, so it felt quite stupid to get yourself killed just to prove him wrong. he might not even ever have known. there’s a chance no one would have even found your body.

it really took you eleven and a half months and a near death experience to get you to start truly moving on. to start actually trying to move on. it was just so much easier to be ruined by his rejection. you deserved to act out, surely. the pain of it and the anger was more than you could handle at that time. and then you were just so tired. the exhaustion reached your bones, sunk in and dragged you down. you left hunting.

you’d wanted to prove him wrong so badly. you still believe wholeheartedly that this isn’t the way things should’ve gone, but maybe he was right, in a way. things are starting to look up for you these days. you’ve still got a lot of moving on to do, but you’ve started, at least.

you war between telling him you’re doing better now, that you got out, or telling him that you don’t care if you would’ve been beaten down and torn apart like he looks he has been because you would’ve been with him. you’d bear anything if it meant being with him. or you would have. it sort of hurts your heart because you don’t think that’s true anymore. and you suppose that’s a good thing, 

but somehow there was something easier about loving him blindly and unceasingly to the point of willingness to bear through hell. you don’t know it, but if you had stayed, it would’ve been a hell of sorts for you. it was much more hellish for him, in a way you’ll never know, but your suffering would’ve been horrible in its own right.

“i got out,” you whisper. he looks up at you in surprise. you’re not looking at him. he sits across from you at the little kitchen table. then, you meet his gaze. “i was just stopping by for gas. the gas station here has shitty snacks. i’m on the way to a job interview a couple of hours away from here. at eleven, tomorrow morning.”

his face is one of unbridled hope and relief. he smiles a bit and reaches for your hands resting on the table. you have to look away from him when they make contact and he notices, pulling away.

“i’m so happy for you. i’m so glad,” he says softly. he almost said he’s proud, but he realizes it’s not his place to say so. “and i’m sorry. i know i hurt you.” but he still just sounds mostly relieved. it means everything to him that you got away from it all and he’s scared that just running into you will throw you off this path.

you inhale sharply, then let it out slowly. “you did. more than i’d ever been hurt before,” you admit. “it tore me apart, sam. i loved you so much.”

his face falls again. he wonders what he said to you. what made you leave. and there’s a bit of hope. loved, you’ve just said. if you don’t love him anymore, that must be a good thing, he thinks. you still speak to him softly.

“i still love you,” you confess. you look him in the eyes, “very much, and i always will, i think. but not so much anymore. i had to move on or i’d get myself killed. i almost did. that first year, i put myself in so much danger just to try and prove you wrong. but i didn’t want to die, i just wanted you to have me back. it was so hard to rip myself away from it all because it felt like i was proving you right.” you can’t help but tear up as you speak. you missed him so dearly and so violently. you sort of feel like making bad decisions and throwing your progress out the window and kissing him and sticking around. that wouldn’t be healthy at all, and you don’t think he’d let you. you’ve grown enough restraint to know you won’t really do that to yourself either. 

“but it wouldn’t be fair to myself to come back to you after you told me i should go. i think it's the cruelest thing anyone’s ever said to me. when i think of your voice, the first thing i hear is how gently you used to talk to me. and then i hear your voice—it was so cold and even trying to be a bit harsh—saying ‘yes. you should go.’ and i still can’t understand how you could say that to me.” you have to pause to collect yourself, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

so he told you to go. that’s what he did, he told you to go. he feels wretched.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers again. “i– i shouldn’t have said that to you.” he doesn’t say that he regrets the way things have turned out. he most certainly regrets hurting you like that. he regrets that you nearly died because of it. he wonders if you were alone. he’s terrified by the thought.

but after you left, he jumped into the cage with lucifer. his soul was stuck there for over one hundred years. his body came back, and soulless, he never could have loved you right. he wouldn’t have cared about you, and it would have hurt you so horribly. he would’ve hurt you so horribly. and then he came back, but he couldn’t remember anything. his memories came back next and he fell apart, understandably so. but not even all his memories remained intact. he forgot a lot about his life before the cage, about you. and he wouldn’t be able to bear your love. touch is still difficult for him. he’d have nothing to give you, plagued by hallucinations of the devil and haunted by the cruelest of hands. and now, he’s dying and you probably just think he’s running a bad fever.

“you shouldn’t have,” you agree. you sound more tired than angry, to him. he wishes he could remember what your voice sounds like when you’re happy, when you’re sleepy and smiley at the same time, when you get excited. hearing your voice at all brings some of it back. the tired and the sad and upset and angry and resigned come back quicker, though. 

you sigh. “i missed you.”

he missed you too, so he says, “i’m sorry.”

“it’s been so long,” you say. he nods, his pinky brushes against yours. you have no idea.

“so long. i missed you, too,” he risks saying, because he thinks from the way you’re looking at him that you want to hear him say it. your eyes look a little glossier, and you give a little sigh of relief. indeed, you did want to hear it.

there’s something in his voice when he echoes so long, as if it’s been a lifetime. it has been for him, but not you. he won’t tell you that, though. he’s decided to pretend like everything’s fine. that’s what he does all the time, but for a moment he had been considering telling you everything. 

maybe so you can know the extent of horrors you would’ve had to endure. and maybe to tell someone who will be thoroughly and unfailingly empathetic and kind and sorry about it. you’d most certainly hug him, even if you’re still angry at him. but the key is that you’d be sorry about it and he doesn’t want you to be sorry about anything at all. and if you hug him and stroke his hair and tell him you’re sorry he had to go through that all, he’s not sure he can come back from that. he’ll need you and he can’t afford that. he wouldn’t do that to you. 

and regardless of how foggy his memory is, he knows without a doubt that you’re too good for your own good. too sweet and feeling and he’s sure you’d feel guilty about not being there for him. he doesn’t want you to feel that way. so, he won’t say a thing. but he’d love to hear about everything from you, if you’re willing.

you cross your pinkies over his on the table, nothing else. “would you lay down in bed if i asked you to? i’m sure you haven’t been taking care of yourself. you look so sick, it’s a miracle you didn’t collapse in that grocery store.”

he doesn’t want to do that exactly, but he’ll do quite literally anything you ask him to. “aren’t you hungry?” he says. he remembers the snacks you bought, somehow even that you usually get hungry this time of day because of your eating habits. you must be extra hungry since you’ve been on the road.

you purse your lips like you wish he hadn’t evaded your question.

“yes, i’ll lay down. after you eat,” he relents.

“you should eat too. i’ll make us some sandwiches,” you say. that’s the deal, and he knows it. you’ll eat so long as he does it with you. that’s alright. he doesn’t have much of an appetite, but he likes the thought of eating something you make for him. he holds back a frown when your hands lift from his, even if the contact was so little before.

he rests his face in the palm of one of his hands, watching as you move through his kitchen, taking some of the groceries back out from where he put them away. to him, it looks like you're floating. you move slowly and softly and even though you bear the weight of seeing him again and having it all rush back to you after two years of trying to move on, your shoulders seem light. he watches you with so much love. now it’s his turn to imagine domesticity with you. 

you can feel his gaze, but you don’t look at him.

the sandwiches are eaten in silence. he watches you still. it’s not uncomfortable though. it’s sort of nice to know he wants to just see you, in any way at all.

maybe today is a day for ignoring most everything. for giving into it, for taking what you want and suffering the consequences later. holding his hand might plague you for weeks. and holding him close? likely much longer than just that. but it would make you feel better right now. to have him just for tonight. to get him to sleep, to leave him with love rather than anything else. that, at least, would make you feel better for longer than just the passing of today’s sun and moon.

you dump your plates and any other used dishes in the sink. you plan to clean them before you leave. in the morning, hopefully. you’ll still make it to your interview if you leave early enough.

then, you stand, hold out your hand, and wait for him to take it. the size of your hand in comparison to his doesn’t really matter. the way he reaches up and curls your fingers into his makes you feel like his hand is swallowing yours up in the softest way it ever could. he stands when you give the gentlest of tugs and leads you to his room just like he knows you want. he doesn’t let go of your hand because you don’t let go of his.

it feels silly to him to waste time laying down in bed while your here. he’s not sure he’ll ever see you again. that makes him want to cry. so he sits on the edge of his bed and guides you down to sit with him.

you don’t protest physically. “i wanted you to lay down,” you murmur, your hand finally falling from his.

“i’ll lay down when i go to sleep for the night,” he shakes his head softly.

“you said you’d lay down after eating,” you frown.

“laying down right now feels like a waste,” he answers, honest for once.”i’d rather sit with you.” you think you’re having heart palpitations. you rub your palms over your clothed knees. you’re feeling a little sweaty.

“you look so different,” you tell him, “you know, besides looking sick. how’d you get to look so ill?” you ask but don’t wait for an answer. “i meant it when i said I liked your hair like this, by the way. it’s looks nice long.” his cheeks heat up a bit and you can see his blush when you glance at him. it’s subtle and soft, but more obvious because of his pale, poorly complexion.

“thank you. you look great, really,” he tells you, quite earnest as he says it too. he thinks you look amazing. twenty six year old sam would go crazy like a school boy if he saw you know. he thinks he was twenty six back then. present time sam—he’s not sure how old he’s to be considered, probably twenty nine or thirty to you—still feels like he’s going crazy too, just not in the good old fashioned crush type of way. just in the way that you’re stunning, even though you’re tired and bedraggled from what he can guess has been a long and dreary drive. just in the way that he already knows he doesn’t have you.

“thanks, sam.” you can hear and see how much he means it. you reach a hand up and rest it on his forehead. you could already feel his body heat radiating from just being seated at his side. “you’re burning,” you inform him, “i don’t get how you’re sitting up straight right now.” he just gives a soft sigh.

“there’s a bathroom across the hall?” you ask, recalling the glimpse you saw on the way here. he hums a yes and lets you leave. you come back with two cool washcloths. one for his head and the other for the back of his neck. you hand him the first and he looks at it with a small smile. then he stills, barely breathing as you place the other on the back of his neck, brushing his hair out of the way. your fingertips in his hair and the cold cause him to shiver.

“have you taken any tylenol or anything today?” you ask. he shakes his head.

“it’s no use,” he says, but he doesn’t explain why. you furrow your brow.

“that’s silly. what, you don’t believe in modern medicine anymore?” your voice is just soft, not even teasing.

he purses his lips. “i do. tylenol won’t help, though.”

“i suppose you won’t tell me why?”

“i’ll have a dose. there’s a bottle in the bathroom,” he relents in answer. no, he won’t tell you why, that means. if he won’t tell you, that probably means it’s something bad. he’s probably not just suffering from a simple flu. even an untreated flu can be very dangerous, but his sickness is probably something worse. but he wants to pretend, and you sort of do too.

“okay,” you whisper. “you sure it won’t help?”

“i’ve been sick a while now. it doesn’t help,” he admits. you’re sure he won’t say anything more, but it most certainly makes you quite concerned to hear that.

you’re afraid to ask. “will you be alright?” it’s very hard to forget that you still love him. impossible, like this. so close to him, feeling the heat of his feverish skin and hearing the sound of his voice.

he doesn’t answer for a long moment, unsure what to tell you. “everything will be alright,” he decides. he knows that’s not what you asked. but he’s resigned to his fate whatever it is, so to him, everything will be alright. in a way. sort of, maybe. hopefully for you, at the very least.

you’ll have to settle for that answer because it’s the best one he can give you. you grab his hand that rests on his knee, palm up and still loosely holding that damn cloth you gave him.

“okay. hold that to your head. you might feel a little better, even if it’s just for now,” you say, guiding his hand up until he holds the washcloth over his forehead like you asked. you gently pull out the strands of hair trapped under it, tucking the stray pieces neatly away.

now, he honestly feels a bit cold. you tug over a folded blanket from the foot of his bed and drape it over his shoulders, hoping to keep any chills away. then you flip the cool rag on his neck to the other side, the side first in contact with his skin already grown warm. you settle next to him and sigh a bit.

you observe his room and he observes you. it’s very barren, hardly lived in. it must be strange for him to have somewhere much more long term than a motel, you think. 

your face is melancholy, he thinks.

“you’ve never actually said you love me,” you whisper. “or loved, or whatever. it’s okay if it’s loved. did you?”

“i do,” he breathes out. you nearly start crying, right then and there. your chest is tight and the breath you let out is shuddering. “i do love you, and i’m sorry.” he watches as you blink back tears. you nod a bit, feeling sort of pitiful. you don’t like the way you feel, but you’ve longed to hear it. you needed to hear it.

“no more saying sorry, please,” you request quietly. you’ve decided that he’s said it enough. not enough to make up for things, of course, but enough that you don’t want to hear it anymore.

he almost says sorry again, for saying sorry too much. “okay,” he agrees softly. you drop your head to his shoulder and he tenses. you nearly pull right away with an apology on your lips when you’re worried he’s uncomfortable with it, but his hand slips from underneath the blanket you gave him and wraps around your shoulders. you sit there for a long while, very quiet. eventually he dares to rest his head on yours.

his clammy warmth makes you sweat too, but you don’t care. you’re soaking it all up because you know you’ll never have it again. this will have to be enough.

you break the silence. “sam,” you sigh, sounding a bit defeated, very tired. “how did we get here?”

he sighs too. “you know how,” he sounds more defeated, more exhausted, more guilty. but he can’t say sorry again, because you asked him not to. you reach over and play with his free hand. he’d stopped holding the washcloth to his head a bit ago. your fingertip trails down each of his long fingers, drawing circles around his knuckles.

“you’ll miss me?” you ask, a hint of vulnerability slipping through the cracks of your calm.

he pulls you imperceptibly closer. you feel it. his heart aches and aches and aches. “i will,” he says, all sure and steady and reassuring, “very much. you’re the kind of person that’s very hard not to miss.” i’m sorry i’m not good enough for you, he thinks, since he can’t say it aloud.

“i’ll miss you too. i miss you every day,” you breathe out. he wishes you wouldn’t. he wishes you’d never have to ache for him at all, but you do. you have for so long, maybe it’s a part of you now. aching is certainly a part of him.

“please don’t miss me too much,” he murmurs, wondering if he’s allowed to ask that of you.

“i’ve been learning how,” you tell him. “some days i barely miss you at all. some days i even forget that i miss you until i’m reminded of you. which is often, unfortunately. i spent years coming up with ways to associate just about everything in the world with you. just because you were everything in my world.” you’re tired. your eyes fall closed. “not anymore, though.”

“well… someday i hope i’m something very small and manageable,” he whispers.

“i don’t,” you refute on instinct. you sigh and deflate. “i do. you’re just very tall.” he has to bite back a bark of surprised laughter. he grins instead, since you can’t see his face. he’s just glad you haven’t held back from saying something funny. you huff out a laugh, eyes drifting back open.

“i’m hungry,” you decide, “i’m going to make some dinner.” 

you eat alone in the kitchen. once you were left to your own devices to cook, you realized you needed to breathe. you couldn’t do so very well around him. so, you selfishly eat first—it’s not really selfish at all, as sam still has no appetite and couldn’t ever blame you for doing so—and bring back a plate of food for him. he’s sitting at his desk pouring over a book, it’s small text likely giving him an awful headache. you set the plate down next to him and sit on his bed again. you watch as he manages to eat some of it, but he doesn’t finish the portion.

you seem content just watching him, so he pushes the plate aside with a very sincere thank you and a cut-off apology for not finishing it. he continues reading his book, just for a bit. he’s hunched over the old thing, shoulders somehow slumped and tense all at once. you stand quietly and softly, hesitantly slide your hands over his shoulders. he stiffens, then relaxes.

nimble fingers pull the blanket wrapped around him back a bit. “can i unbutton your shirt?” you whisper, only because you can see a grey undershirt peeking out from the flannel’s collar.

“don’t,” he shakes his head, “don’t take care of me. you don’t have to keep doing that. it’s not fair.”

“i won’t if you really don’t want me to. but.. won’t you let me have this? just this once?” you ask, telling him that you want to.

“you don’t have to,” he says, softer. but you can, is the part left unsaid. 

your hands slip down, undoing the buttons until it brings you too close to him to bear. he takes over for you, sensing your hesitation to move any closer once your breath hits his neck, unbuttoning the last three and shrugging the shirt off.

you start with simple, soothing rubs over his shoulders, trying to get him to actually relax. he finds that your roaming hands are easily bearable, welcome, even. he worried that he’d flinch or cringe away, especially as you opened up his shirt. but his hands fall into his lap and his chin begins to dip lower and lower. you watch in satisfaction and slowly work out the tension in his muscles. you think that, since you’re here, you need your time with him to be lovely and gentle. maybe you shouldn’t have the memory of what it might’ve been like to have him. maybe this will slow your moving on, slow your feet to a trudge.

the war in your chest tells you that you’re toeing the line between healing and harmful by being here, by indulging in what you feel was taken from you. but you know it never would’ve been this simple all the time. life is easier away from him, in some ways. away from the things that being with him brings along. so you’ll steal this now and bury it in your flesh and then walk out the door. this will be the last of him face to face, hopefully the worst of the torture. 

oddly enough, you think you’ll survive it. you just are starting to wish that you could kiss the back of his neck as you brush the hair from it. you won’t. you won’t kiss him anywhere, not ever. except for the time you kissed him on the cheek the first time you’d seen him after he came back to hunting. you meant it as a friendly one, and that’s certainly how he took it back then.

you stand there massaging his shoulders until your legs grow tired and knees a bit bothered, then a little longer after that. tender hands lay still there, thumbs barely edging past his t-shirt to rest on his skin as you twist your head and take a peek at his face. his eyes are satisfyingly closed.

your thumbs give a gentle back and forth movement, pushing a little at the hem of his shirt. “to bed,” you whisper, patting his shoulder lightly. his eyes drift back open and he lets out a long breath. you step away, hand trailing down his arm as you head to the bed. his hand catches yours before it loses contact and he follows you without another word. he just lets you do as you like. he owes you that much, and more, for telling you to go.

when you pull back the covers, he climbs in and you follow after him. he opens his arms to you, despite being a bit surprised. he tucks you into his chest and his eyes sting with tears for a moment before he’s able to blink them away.

and then you talk and talk because you don’t want to hear whatever happened while you were gone. you’re sure that sort of thing would weigh you down much more than you deserve. so you tell him everything, to get it all off your chest. you still feel closer to him than anyone else you’ve met in these last few years. and it’s not as if you can tell the full truth to anybody in your new life. your voice is quiet and gentle and lulling, and even when his eyes close, he listens with rapt attention.

his fever makes him even warmer than he usually is, so you eventually have to escape from his hold. you don’t part, but you shift up and tuck his head into your chest instead. that way you’re not as smothered in his heat.

“...and you know, i forgave you a while ago. there was no use holding a grudge,” you murmur. his brow creases. he doesn’t feel as though he should be forgiven. “i am doing better. away from it all. you were sort of right. you were wrong, but right. i guess it doesn’t really matter who was right, though, because we can’t really change anything now.”

“you’re allowed to be mad about it,” he says. he’s still so glad that you feel like you’re doing better, though. so glad.

“i was. so angry. still am, sometimes. but being mad never really got me anywhere. it was just something i needed to feel until i could start moving on,” you explain. you’d already told him just ten minute about how angry you had been. about how it made you bitter and a plain old hot mess for some time. “think about it, sam,” you urge him, “isn’t it a good thing that i still love you? even if it hurts sometimes and even after i was so mad. isn’t it good that that’s what’s leftover? i’d rather love you than be angry at you, because– well, because i don’t like being angry. this feels better. it doesn’t hurt as much, and i’m learning how to live with it. anger isn’t quite so liveable. if it helps, it’s for me. i– everything used to be for you. but it’s not anymore.”

that does help, but he doesn’t know how to not feel sorry for everything. “i can hear you hurting,” he whispers. “i can hear it in your voice.”

“yeah,” you breathe back, “but it’s more like an ache, sam, and it’ll go away. it’ll go away, and it would make me feel better if you wouldn’t feel so sorry anymore. give yourself this much. to know that i’ll end up just fine and that i’ll always love you. you worry so much, so don’t worry about me. as a favor.”

there’s a long silence. for a moment, you think that your voice has finally put him to sleep.

“i’ll try,” he says, just for you.

you let a new silence fall. that will have to be enough, so you let him be. he falls asleep, and it’s easy to tell just how deeply he rests. with his sickness and constant bone-deep exhaustion, it’s completely unsurprising.

as for you, you stare at the darkened ceiling after switching off the bedside lamp and run your fingers through his hair, over and over again. you’ve always loved his hair, and you love the length, but you sort of miss when it was boyish. 

you start to cry and even when your chest shudders with uneven, tear-filled breath, he doesn’t wake. you shake and sniffle and wet his pillow and his hair with your tears. he hardly stirs, which you’re infinitely glad for. you couldn’t bear to receive his comfort were he to wake.

you cry yourself to sleep, sweaty and snoring with your whole arm going numb from the position you’re in.

one would think sam would sleep long and heavy. but these days, while he’s not a light sleeper, he’s been a restless one. most nights he wakes in feverish discomfort every couple of hours. he supposes that your presence has kept him asleep for longer than usual tonight, but not until the morning.

he wakes to the dark and one of your still hands in his hair. the other has fallen limply onto the sheets. he shifts slowly and carefully so he can tilt his head up to look at your face. his eyes adjust to the darkness quickly. sam reaches up with a tired hand, brushing his thumb over your cheek. he’s met with the slightest resistance. your tears haven’t fully dried, and he realizes that he’s wiping at teartracks. you might’ve even been crying in your sleep.

and since you can’t hear him, he whispers, “i’m sorry.” he wants to lay awake, feeling the rise and fall of your chest, hearing your little snores in tandem, and seeing you for as long as he can. but sleep drags him under once again, his hand falling from your cheek to rest on your neck.

you wake early, knowing exactly where you are before you open your eyes. the weight of sam’s body, halfway on top of yours, is hard to miss. the memory of his nearness is the sort that floods through you the second you can think of anything at all. you know what you have to do, but it hurts more now that the time has come. there’s no more pretending left to do, no more sand at the top of the hour glass. your time with him has run out for good.

you reach up and gently hold his hand that lays over your neck. you’ll make your interview in time if you lay here for just a few more minutes. then you slide out from under him, careful with his sleeping body, cupping the side of his head to be sure it gets to the pillow as gently as possible. he rolls onto his stomach, just how he always does when he’s not sharing the bed. you used to tease him for it, but he looks so soft and peaceful that it just makes you even more endeared with him.

it’s not very possible to resist from brushing a strand of his mussed hair away from his face. his cheek is squished against the pillow, lips slightly parted, and face still looking sickly. he looks weak in his sleep, vulnerable. his hulking frame seems small, his matured features worn tired with much more than age. he’s still young, really.

“oh, you really know how to just tear someone’s self restraint to shreds, don’t you?” you mumble, shaking your head at him. he doesn’t stir when you speak, just as you expected. you swoop down, not at all graceful, and press the softest of kisses to his cheek. since you’ve kissed him there before all those years ago, you tell yourself it’s alright. it’s nothing new. just that you’ve kissed his left cheek this time. the first, it was his right. how or why you remember that, you’ll ignore.

then you tuck him in properly and erase the room of all signs that you were ever there. you grab the plate of food you brought him last night, and steal one last glance of him before shutting the door quietly behind yourself. “bye, sam,” you whisper to the closed door. “be careful, please.”

you wash all the dishes from yesterday, put them right back where they were, and ensure the kitchen is exactly how it was when you entered for the first time. not really as a favor. you don’t clean anything else but the dishes, nor do you organize the mess that the fridge is. 

the only traces of you that remain are the ache in the air, the missing slices of bread from the new loaf on the counter, and the folded flannel shirt that will greet him on his desk when he wakes. but you will be gone, once again and for the last time.

[juicifeur]

The Quiet Ache | Sam Winchester x reader

Word count: 4.5k+

Pairings: Sam Winchester x reader

tags: pining, yearning, tooth rotting fluff

The bunker was unusually still, its halls wrapped in a silence that felt heavy yet comforting, like a well-worn blanket on a cold night. The only sounds were the faint hum of the electrical systems and the occasional creak of old pipes—a symphony of small, familiar noises that made the sprawling space feel almost alive.

In the library, the soft glow of a desk lamp spilled over the room, pooling across the scratched wood of the table and the spines of worn books stacked in uneven piles. You were curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, your legs tucked beneath you, a knit blanket draped loosely over your shoulders. A steaming mug of tea sat on the table beside you, wisps of chamomile-scented steam curling lazily into the air, forgotten as you lost yourself in the book balanced on your lap.

Your face was serene, your eyes scanning the pages with an intensity that made the rest of the world fade away. Every so often, your brow would furrow slightly, or the corners of your lips would curve into a faint smile, as if the story had drawn you in so deeply that even your expressions danced along with its rhythm.

Across the room, Sam sat at the long wooden table, his laptop open in front of him. Its faint blue glow illuminated a collection of untouched case files, the cursor blinking in the empty search bar. He was supposed to be working, but his mind had long since wandered.

Leaning back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest, he let his gaze settle on you.

You weren’t doing anything remarkable, not in the grand sense. You were simply there, existing, caught up in your own quiet world. But to Sam, it was enough to hold him captive.

The way the soft light cast warm shadows across your face. The way you absently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, only for it to fall loose again. The way the blanket slipped from your shoulder, and you tugged it back into place without looking away from your book.

Sam felt his chest tighten.

For years, the bunker had been a place of practicality—an armory, a fortress, a safe haven built for survival. Comfort had always been secondary, a luxury he barely allowed himself to consider. But tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt like home.

And he knew it wasn’t the walls or the quiet that made it so. It was you.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position in the chair. The blanket rustled faintly, breaking the silence, and for a moment, Sam wondered if you could feel his gaze. But you didn’t look up. Instead, you reached for your mug, fingers curling around the handle as you took a slow sip. The faintest smile touched your lips, as if the tea had brought you some small, private comfort.

Sam exhaled softly, the sound barely audible in the stillness.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, watching you, letting the moment stretch out. It felt fragile, like glass—something that might shatter if he moved too suddenly or spoke too loudly. And yet, he couldn’t look away.

You turned a page in your book, your fingers brushing the edge with an absentminded care, and Sam’s lips quirked into a small, private smile of his own.

If he could, he’d freeze this moment, hold onto it forever. No monsters, no hunts, no danger waiting in the shadows. Just you, wrapped in soft light and quiet, the picture of peace.

Crickets chirped in the grass, their song weaving with the soft rustle of leaves in the cool evening breeze. A campfire crackled in front of you, casting flickering orange light across the clearing.

You were sitting cross-legged on a worn blanket, a mug of cocoa cradled in your hands. The fire’s warmth kissed your skin, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the chill entirely, so you’d wrapped yourself in Sam’s flannel jacket. It was oversized on you, the sleeves rolled up clumsily, but the fabric carried his scent—earthy and clean, with a faint trace of soap.

Sam sat a few feet away, leaning back against a fallen log. His long legs were stretched out toward the fire, his hands resting loosely on his knees. He wasn’t cold—his sturdy jacket and natural warmth saw to that—but he still glanced at you every so often, as if to make sure you weren’t freezing.

The quiet between you wasn’t awkward. It rarely was. Instead, it felt like a shared understanding, a mutual appreciation for the calm that neither of you got to experience often enough.

Sam tilted his head back, gazing at the stars scattered across the sky. Out here, away from the bunker’s endless hum and the glow of artificial light, the constellations were bright and vivid. It was the kind of view he imagined people spent their whole lives chasing.

But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You were staring into the fire, your face illuminated by its soft glow. Every flicker of the flames seemed to paint you differently—gentle one moment, fierce the next. You tucked your knees up under your chin, holding the mug close as if trying to draw every ounce of warmth from it.

Sam’s chest tightened.

There was something grounding about you, something that made everything else fade away. He could be drowning in the chaos of their life—monsters, hunts, and memories that refused to stay buried—and yet one look at you, one shared moment, was enough to steady him.

Do you know? he wondered, the thought circling back like it always did. Do you know what you do to me?

He noticed it all.

The way you blew gently on the cocoa before taking a sip, your breath visible in the crisp night air. The way you smiled softly, almost to yourself, when the fire popped and sparked like it was trying to impress you. The way his flannel looked on you, too big and comically loose, but somehow perfect.

It wasn’t the first time you’d borrowed something of his. A hoodie when it was cold in the bunker. A pair of gloves when your own had worn thin. He didn’t know if you realized it, but every time you returned them, he found himself hesitating before washing them. There was always a lingering trace of you—your warmth, your scent—and it felt like letting go of something precious.

You shifted, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself, and Sam’s fingers twitched against his knees. He wanted to reach out, to pull you closer to the fire—or closer to him—but he didn’t move. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to break the moment, but deep down, he knew it was fear holding him back.

The fire crackled again, louder this time, and you looked up at him, your eyes catching the light.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice soft but clear in the stillness.

Sam blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Yeah,” he said quickly, his voice a little rough. “Just… thinking.”

You tilted your head, your gaze curious but not pressing. “Heavy thoughts?”

He shrugged, forcing a small smile. “Not really. Just… stuff.”

You smiled at that, shaking your head as you turned back to the fire. “You’re always thinking about stuff, Sam.”

He chuckled softly, your teasing warming him more than the flames. But as he watched you settle back into the quiet, the thoughts returned, unbidden and insistent.

He imagined nights like this one, but different. A small cabin instead of the open sky. The fire crackling in a stone hearth instead of on a pile of logs. You curled up beside him on a couch, leaning into his side as he draped an arm around you.

The fantasy felt so vivid, so real, that it left a bittersweet ache in his chest. He wanted it. God, he wanted it so badly it hurt. But he couldn’t shake the voice in his head whispering that you deserved better—better than hunts, better than him.

The wind shifted slightly, stirring the fire and sending a few embers spiraling into the air. You leaned forward to poke at the logs with a stick, your brows furrowing in concentration. It was such a simple thing, but Sam felt his heart stumble over itself.

You have no idea.

No idea how deeply he cared. No idea how many times he’d thought about telling you, only to talk himself out of it. No idea how much you’d already become a part of his every dream, every hope, every fragile piece of a future he barely dared to imagine.

Sam’s hands clenched into fists, his nails pressing into his palms. He wanted to tell you, but the words felt too big, too tangled. What if he got it wrong? What if it scared you away?

And yet, as he watched you, bundled in his jacket, bathed in firelight, the ache in his chest grew sharper. He knew he couldn’t keep this to himself forever.

But for now, he let the moment hold its quiet magic.

The Impala’s engine hums beneath them as they barrel down the highway, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over the landscape. You’re sitting in the passenger seat, feet propped up on the dash despite Dean’s half-hearted protests, singing along to the blaring classic rock on the radio.

Dean is grinning as he teases you about missing a lyric, and you laugh, throwing your head back as you belt out the next line with dramatic flair. The sound of your voice fills the car, blending with the music, and for a moment, everything feels light—effortless in a way Sam rarely experiences.

Sam sits in the back, pressed against the worn leather, his book open but unread on his lap. His gaze is fixed on you, his eyes tracing the way your hair catches the sunlight, the curve of your lips as you smile, the ease in your movements as you lean toward Dean, teasing him right back.

It hits Sam all at once, the overwhelming sense of just how radiant you are. It’s not just the way you look, though that alone is enough to make his heart stutter. It’s everything—the way your laugh carries through the air, unselfconscious and real; the way you seem to draw Dean out of his gruff exterior, making him join in your silliness despite himself.

Sam knows he should look away, that staring is bound to get him caught, but he can’t help it. It’s like you’ve filled the car with a kind of warmth he can’t pull himself away from.

God, you’re amazing, he thinks, his chest tightening.

You’re talking now, your hands moving animatedly as you recount a story about some mishap from a previous hunt. Dean is laughing along, throwing in his own commentary, but Sam is barely listening. His focus is entirely on you, the way your face lights up when you’re telling a story, the way you gesture with so much energy, as if you’re reliving the moment.

Sam feels a pang in his chest—a mix of admiration, longing, and something heavier. -You have no idea, do you? he thinks, the familiar ache settling in. No idea how much you mean to me.

Dean cracks a joke, and you double over laughing, your hand flying to his arm as if to steady yourself. It’s a simple, innocent gesture, but it sends a jolt through Sam, sharp and unrelenting.

His grip on the book tightens, his knuckles white as he stares at the two of you. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way—jealousy has no place here, not when Dean is his brother and you’re… well, you’re you.

But the sight of you so close to Dean, so at ease with him, feels like a punch to the gut. Not because he doesn’t want you to be happy—you deserve that and so much more—but because he can’t stop wishing it was him.

Sam shifts in his seat, trying to focus on the book in his lap, but the words blur together. All he can think about is you—your laughter, your smile, the way you’ve effortlessly taken up space in his heart without even realizing it.

He knows it’s not fair. He knows he should let it go, should bury these feelings before they get the better of him. But as you glance back over your shoulder, flashing him a quick smile, he feels his resolve crumble.

You deserve more, he thinks, his chest tight with the weight of it. But God, I can’t stop hoping.

When the car finally pulls into the motel parking lot, Sam is the first to climb out. He mumbles something about needing air, avoiding your gaze as he grabs his bag and heads inside.

You watch him go, your smile fading slightly as you exchange a confused glance with Dean. “What’s with him?” you ask, but Dean just shrugs, chalking it up to Sam being Sam.

But Sam doesn’t head to the room. Instead, he stops just outside, leaning against the wall and staring up at the darkening sky. His heart feels like it’s caught in a vise, and for the first time, he wonders if he’s in too deep.

Because no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he tells himself to let it go, he can’t stop looking at you like you’re the sun.

The diner is quiet, a small, worn-down place nestled between the endless stretches of empty roads and forest. The neon sign flickers slightly above the entrance, casting a soft glow over the worn booths and cracked linoleum floor. Sam and Dean sit in one of those booths, their plates half-finished, the clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation surrounding them.

But Sam isn’t really paying attention to any of that. His eyes are on you.

You’re walking toward the counter, your steps steady and confident, the soft sway of your hair against your back with each motion. The dim lighting catches the edges of your features—sharp cheekbones, a smile that easily lights up the room—and Sam watches, transfixed.

You order coffee and a piece of pie with an effortless charm, your voice smooth and easy as you exchange a few words with the waitress. You laugh softly at something she says, your expression warm, and Sam feels a tug in his chest.

It’s not just how you look, or how effortlessly you seem to light up the room. It’s everything—your kindness, the way you carry yourself, the quiet way you exist in a world that often feels dark and chaotic.

And Sam can’t help but think how nice it would’ve been if just this moment belonged to the two of you. Alone.

He imagines a different scenario—the two of you seated across from each other in a quiet, tucked-away corner of the diner, away from the clatter of silverware and the distant sounds of other patrons. Just the two of you, a comfortable silence between bites, or soft laughter over a shared joke.

No looming hunts. No looming danger. Just peace.

Sam’s heart twists a little at the thought, and it surprises him. He’s so used to burying emotions under the weight of their world—dealing with demons, hunting monsters, the constant sense of loss. But watching you now, in a simple, mundane moment, feels like a stark contrast to all of that.

You return to the booth, a playful grin tugging at your lips as you slide into the seat across from Sam. “What?” you ask softly, noticing his gaze lingering on you.

He clears his throat, shaking his head slightly. “Nothing.” His voice is low, but it’s not convincing.

You raise an eyebrow, a knowing smile on your face. “You were watching me.”

He pauses, then gives a half-smile in return. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I was.”

There’s a comfortable silence between you for a moment. Dean is off in his own world, too busy grumbling about bad pie and worse coffee to pay attention to the conversation. But Sam can’t focus on that right now.

His mind is too occupied with you.

Sam takes a slow sip of his coffee, his thoughts drifting again. He wonders what it would’ve been like if you were sitting closer—your hands brushing against his, the small gestures that don’t seem significant in other circumstances but feel impossibly intimate in this quiet diner.

“You know,” you start, breaking the silence gently, “this actually isn’t the worst place in the world.”

Sam hums in agreement, offering a faint smile. “It’s not terrible.”

“I mean, for a diner,” you continue, tapping your fingers against the edge of your mug. “It’s kind of charming in a... retro way.”

Sam chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The conversation lulls again, but this time it’s different. Sam isn’t just listening. He’s thinking—thinking about how easy it is to talk to you, how effortless these small moments feel. And it’s that realization that tugs at his heart the most.

“You look good here,” Sam says suddenly, the words slipping out before he can overthink them.

Your eyes meet his, a small smile playing on your lips. “Thanks,” you reply softly, but there’s something lingering in your expression—something like understanding.

Sam reaches for his fork again, picking at his food mindlessly. His thoughts spiral into the possibility—the what-ifs. What if this was the life he could’ve had? One without hunts, without constant danger, where you could hold hands at a table like this and not worry about what’s waiting around the next corner.

It’s a dream, one he knows he might never have, but for this moment, at least, he lets himself wish.

Because watching you now, even in the simplicity of a diner visit, feels like something worth holding onto—something worth dreaming about.

The bunker is quiet, the kind of stillness that settles in after a long day. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead is muted, blending with the soft rustle of pages being turned and the faint clink of your spoon against the ceramic of your tea mug.

You’re curled up in that oversized armchair in the corner of the library again, the warm glow of a single lamp casting a soft light over you. A knit blanket is draped over your shoulders, its edges trailing down to cover your legs. Your chamomile tea sits on the small table beside you, a thin wisp of steam rising from the cup.

Just like the first time he noticed you, really noticed you.

Sam is across the room, seated at one of the long wooden tables with his laptop open. He’s supposed to be researching—digging into lore for the latest case, finding answers that could mean life or death. But the words on the screen blur together, meaningless, as his focus strays again.

To you.

He watches as you shift slightly in the chair, pulling the blanket tighter around you, your brow furrowing in concentration as you read. You reach for your tea, lifting it to your lips, and take a slow sip, your eyes never leaving the page. It’s such a small, mundane moment, but to Sam, it feels like everything.

The corner of your mouth quirks upward in a faint smile, as if something in the story has amused you. The sight tugs at something deep in Sam’s chest, and he feels his breath catch.

He doesn’t understand how you do this to him—how you can just sit there, completely unaware of the effect you have on him, and yet somehow command his entire world.

You’re not trying to be captivating. You’re just… you. And that’s what undoes him the most.

Sam’s fingers hover over the keyboard, but he doesn’t type. His mind is too full—spiraling with thoughts he can’t quite quiet.

He notices everything: the way the soft lamplight makes your skin glow, the way your hair falls in loose strands that you absently brush back every few minutes, the way your lips part slightly as you lose yourself in the story.

It’s in moments like this that Sam feels the full weight of his emotions, the way they’ve grown and taken root without his permission. He’s always admired you, always been drawn to the warmth you bring into the bunker, into his life. But now it’s more than that—so much more.

And that terrifies him.

What if he’s wrong? What if the way you smile at him, the way you tease him, the way you care for him doesn’t mean what he thinks it means? What if he tells you how he feels and it shatters the delicate balance of your friendship?

The thought alone is enough to make his chest tighten, to make him want to bury these feelings even deeper.

But then he looks at you again, and the ache in his chest returns—stronger, sharper, impossible to ignore.

For a moment, he lets himself imagine.

He pictures waking up to mornings like this, only softer—your hair tousled from sleep, your face peaceful as you lie beside him. He imagines you in the kitchen together, teasing him about his ridiculous health smoothies while you make coffee, stealing bites of each other’s breakfasts and laughing when Dean grumbles about the noise.

He thinks about the nights you’d spend curled up together, your head on his shoulder as you watch a movie, your fingers intertwined with his as the weight of the world fades away for a little while.

It’s a life he’s never let himself want—never let himself believe he could have. But now, with you so close and yet so far, he can’t stop the longing from creeping in.

You shift in the chair again, pulling your knees up under the blanket, and glance up briefly. Your eyes meet his, and you smile—soft, warm, utterly disarming.

“What?” you ask, your voice cutting through the silence like a melody.

Sam blinks, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he says quickly, his voice lower than he intended.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him for a moment, and then shrug, your attention returning to your book.

But Sam doesn’t move. He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, and lets out a slow breath.

The realization settles over him, heavy and undeniable: he’s in love with you.

It’s not a fleeting crush or a passing admiration. It’s deep, rooted in every quiet moment, every shared laugh, every time you’ve looked at him like he mattered in a way he never thought he could.

And as much as it terrifies him—as much as the fear of losing you grips him—he knows he can’t keep this to himself forever.

For now, though, he lets the moment stretch on, savoring the quiet, the comfort of your presence, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

[juicifeur]

✶ . ၄၃ . laundry machines — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, poor editing, inexperienced!reader (dating-wise), mentions of madison & resulting guilt, implied later seasons sam, kissing, 1.7K words. requested !

summary : you're new to being in a relationship, but sam finds it endearing and is happy to take things slow.

some days are smooth and seamless and like an actual dream come true. others are clumsy, awkward, and make you shy away from being perceived at all. it’s just that this is all quite new to you, and you’re very unsure how to navigate being in a relationship, especially with someone so handsome and lovely. no one’s told you what’s allowed and what isn’t, how you should be acting, what an appropriate response is to the sweet things he does to you.

this all makes you easily flustered, often embarrassed, and yes, you’ll admit it, a bit shy at times. he’s just so tall and steady and you know he’s done this all before, even if the last time he was in a long term relationship was nearly a decade ago. and you’re not even that far from him in regards to age, but you’re somehow so much more lost than he is. it’s nice, because he’s more than willing to take the lead on things, to guide you through it. but sometimes that reminds you of your inexperience, and it sort of makes you wish that you could be a bit better for sam. it almost makes you feel like you’re forcing him to do all the work.

alternatively, sam’s own narrative regarding your inexperience is one of deep fondness, and even a bit of relief. he himself can be awkward and shy, even now and after all he’s been through, but with you, he gets to be the one who’s sure on his feet and smooth and a little easy. secretly, he’s still remembering and figuring out how to do this all. but the little things come to him comfortably enough that, to you, he seems entirely confident and effortless.

“sam?” you call to him from your bedroom. he’s sitting in the living room of your little apartment, content with a cup of tea you’ve made for him. “is it alright if i wash your jacket with my things, too?” 

“of course,” he calls back, his voice at its normal level of sweet and kind. you don’t see the huge, endeared grin on his face. he’s not sure why it wouldn’t be alright to wash his jacket with your things. it’s certainly the most logical thing to do, and it’s not as if he’d mind one bit. actually, he likes the idea of his clothes with yours, spinning around and getting tangled together in the washing machine. it’s domestic, soft, and intimate in a simple way. maybe that’s why you asked, he wonders; intimacy makes you a bit timid at times. 

with that, his jacket is placed inside your laundry basket. it’s dirty from a hunt. sam wanted to stop by your apartment first thing when it was over by mid morning and he wasn’t too far away. he thinks he flustered you, though, because he forgot to text beforehand. but, you also looked very happy to see him, so he’s sure it’s okay. you had melted right into his kiss, though your hands remained chastely resting on his elbows as he sweetly cupped your face. 

now, you’re walking out of the bedroom with your laundry, met with a fond look from sam on the couch. 

“i’ll be right back. i just need to get this done by tonight,” you explain as you head to the door to head down to the washing machine in the building’s basement.

“i’ll come with you,” sam says, standing, still wearing his pretty smile. he imagines he’ll have to leave in a few hours, and he’d like to spend every moment until then with you if you’ll let him.

“there’s no need, i’ll only be gone a minute,” you say, only because you don’t want to make him get up and walk down, then back up all those stairs.

his long legs take him to the door in less than a few seconds anyway. “i want to,” he says simply, and you feel silly that it sends your heart pumping extra hard.

“if you insist,” you smile, taking it in stride. sam notices and resists the urge to just sweep you up in his arms and kiss you for a long while. he hasn’t kissed you again since he arrived, but he doesn’t think you’d have as much ease dealing with that without being greatly flustered. he’d probably like to see that, but he’s not a cruel man. you’d argue that he’s the gentlest of them all. he follows you down the stairs because you refuse to let him carry the laundry basket. he’s already silently promising he’ll carry it upstairs once it’s all washed and dried. he’ll help you fold it too, if you’ll let him. he’s not sure if you’ll be alright with him catching a glimpse or two at your underwear. 

that makes him think about the time he was about twenty three and madison not-so-subtly showed off her panties to him while folding her laundry on the first day they’d met. she’s a sad memory. a guilty one, too. but he has you in front of him, softly chattering about what you did this morning, and he lets her be a nice memory for today. you give him plenty of nice memories, and he thinks about how he likes the way the two of you take things slow.

you don’t seem to think about the fact that sam can see what you’re putting in the washing machine, and he finds it cute, for no particular reason. he finds it cute when you’re nervous about something you needn’t be or when you aren’t about something he predicted you might. maybe he just finds everything about you cute.

he leans against the drying machine and watches happily as you put the washer to the right settings and start the cycle. 

“so,” you say, turning your head to look at him, “do you have–” you’re cut off by the loud rush of water in the machine as it begins soaking your clothes—and his jacket—and you shake your head because you momentarily forgot just how loud it is. it’s the loudest washing machine you’ve ever used, you told him once. he himself is almost startled by it; you really weren’t kidding. he gives a little laugh and you can’t help but laugh a bit too. neither of you have to say anything to agree to go back upstairs.

he holds the basement door open for you and one of his big hands that you’re secretly so fond of hovers by the small of your back as you pass him and start up the stairs. only you think it’s a secret. he can tell how much you like to hold hands and fiddle with his fingers. you stare sometimes, too, but he’d never tell you that for fear of rendering you too flustered to function properly for the rest of the night.

“you were saying?” he says, encouraging you to continue now that he can actually hear you.

you can’t tell if it’s a blessing or not that he’s asked you to keep going while walking up the stairs. you sort of wanted to be watching his face when you asked, but you’re also thinking you might be grateful that you won’t in case it helps you feel less nervous. he’s just so handsome and sincere and lovely that it makes you nervous. you don’t know how to be casual around him. everything just feels so special and new and nerve-wracking.

“i was just wondering if you had another case lined up for tomorrow,” you tell him, hoping that you’re succeeding in sounding laid-back like you wish you could be. once again, he thinks it’s sweet you don’t always know how to act around him. “or, you know, anything like that,” you add on. you don’t want to ask without knowing if he has somewhere to be in the morning.

sam feels a spark of hope and a little bit of youthful giddiness that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time before you. “i don’t,” he says simply, “i don’t have anything tomorrow.”

you chew lightly on the inside of your cheek, considering your options. there’s still another flight and a half of stairs until you get to your floor and you’re thinking, despite how nervous it makes you, you really would like to be facing him as you ask. it’d be obvious and awkward if you wait until you’re back in your apartment, right? but it’s silly to ask in a stairwell, you think.

then you realize you're probably overthinking it. maybe neither of those things are true. maybe it doesn’t matter at all how you ask, so long as you do it. you know he’ll say yes, you know he’ll like the idea of it, and you’re pretty sure he’ll like the fact that you’re the one to bring it up first. and you’re pretty confident that you love him and that he really, truly cares about you too. that gives you a burst of confidence.

you turn around, right on the steps with your hands fidgeting with the hem of your shirt and a little, likely nervous looking smile on your lips. “do you want to sleep over tonight?” you ask, somehow able to make yourself sound more sure of things than you feel.

his lips curl into a happy, almost proud smile. it’s very obvious how much he adores you. all you have to do is look at him and see the way his adoration pools in his eyes and his dimples and shows in the lightness of his eyebrows and the showing of his front teeth. his hands that you love so much drift up to hold your waist, moving slowly so you can anticipate it. the touch still makes you draw in a steadying breath.

“i would love to. are you sure that’s alright with you?” he says. he’s trying to sound casual too, but it comes out more reverent than anything else. 

your smile isn’t so nervous now. “mhmm,” you hum. “i’m sure.” this time, you really are sure. though, you still have to grip his shoulders for support when he kisses you, right in the stairway like he’d probably kiss you anywhere.

[juicifeur]

of course jessica dying was the most devastating part of the fire but something about sam "a motel isn't actually part of the town that it's in" winchester probably spending more time in that apartment than in any other place ever (at that point in his life) and having it and all his few but undoubtedly precious belongings literally go up in flames... SICK

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i know this narrative has been beaten to death, but dean settling into the bunker and immediately nesting like a bird versus sam keeping his room empty and working like a dog is so interesting to me. dean wants to belong somewhere, lay down roots the moment he gets the opportunity. sam doesn't think he belongs anywhere, can't get comfortable, can't bring himself to see the bunker as anything but a transient space.

dean the drifter, desperate for a home. sam the escapee, who doesn't know how to settle. it's tragic really.

[juicifeur]

this is the first post on my feed today god bless

thinking about the fact that sam is canonically a biter during sex.

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whoever was on Jared hair duty for this episode really popped off

Supernatural - 14.01 Stranger In The Strange Land

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clicky noises amv, in case it gets taken down off twitter too

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a gingerbread roadhouse snowglobe and a gingerbread bunker snowglobe because i needed to draw something to lift my spirits. ❄️

i hope this holiday season is gentle on you 🖤

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he’s here for the plot

Just a reminder, this is how sam watches porn.

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Oh season 1 grainy angst I love you

Sam's premonitions get an upgrade from dreams to painful waking visions.

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OBSESSED with this samism

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I FOUND IT

Fast Car

Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: The three times that Sam watched Dean and Y/N sing along to one of their favorite country songs and the one time he didn't.

TW: Pre-established relationship, fluff, dancing, kissing, marriage and children.

Sam sat at a small table in the corner of the crowded country bar as he looked through news stories on his laptop. They had just finished a case in Oklahoma and Sam had the responsibility looking for their next hunt.

He looked up from his screen, eyes quickly finding his brother across the bar. Dean's hands were resting on his girlfriend's hips, holding her close as they sang along to Fast Car by Tracy Chapman.

"You got a fast car

I got a plan to get us out of here

I been working at the convenience store

Managed to save just a little bit of money

Won't have to drive too far

Just 'cross the border and into the city

You and I can both get jobs

And finally see what it means to be living."

Dean pulled away slightly, taking her hand and spinning her around with a wide smile. She laughed, leaning into him as he pulled her back in. Y/N had always loved country music and she had been slowly expanding Dean's musical inventory to include her favorite songs.

Fast Car had quickly become their song and they couldn't go on a road trip without playing it at least once. Sam couldn't bring himself to be annoyed because of how happy it made his brother.

How happy Y/N made his brother.

They were perfect together and there would always be a part of Sam that hoped to find a love like that again after he had lost Jess.

Dean's hands slid from her waist into the back pocket of her jeans as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

There was something almost sad about the song, it was something that he and Dean would probably never be able to experience.

A simple life.

Settling down and starting a family.

And Dean deserved it more than anyone in the world.

...

The impala sped down the highway, the music was blasting and the windows were rolled down. Sam sat in the backseat, staring out at the vast field that ran alongside the highway.

The summer air was hot and the roads were empty as they drove back to the bunker after a successful hunt.

Y/N was in the front seat, body turned towards Dean as they sung along to the song.

"So I remember we were driving, driving in your car

Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk

City lights lay out before us

And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder

And I-I, had a feeling that I belonged

I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone."

Dean looked over at her, watching the wind blow her hair around as he drove. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her over to his side before his eyes returned the road ahead of them.

Sam watched them for a moment, smiling to himself as Dean drummed his hand against the steering wheel to the beat of the music.

Y/N turned her head, pressing a kiss to Dean's cheek. He smiled, thumb stroking across the material of her t-shirt fondly.

She rested her head down on his shoulder, hand resting on his knee as she listened to him sing along to the music.

...

Sam made his way down the hallway towards the kitchen after his run, glancing at his watch with a frown as he paused in the doorway.

Music was blaring from Y/N's speaker as her and Dean moved around the kitchen making breakfast. Y/N chopped up strawberries on a cutting board while Dean flipped a pancake in a pan with bacon crackling away on another burner.

Dean suddenly turned towards his girlfriend, using the spatula as a microphone as he sung to her.

"You got a fast car

We go cruising to entertain ourselves

You still ain't got a job

And I work in a market as a checkout girl

I know things will get better

You'll find work and I'll get promoted

We'll move out of the shelter

Buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs."

Y/N smiled widely, abandoning the knife on the cutting board before singing the next line into the spatula. Dean reached out and grabbed her hand, spinning her around before pulling her back against his chest.

Y/N laughed, hand resting on his forearm as they swayed together. Dean spun her back around before releasing her with a wink.

He turned back to the stove, flipping the pancake before sliding over to his girlfriend and pressing a kiss to the back of her head. His hands found her hips before pulling her away from her cutting board and into his arms. Dean spun her around in his hold, taking her hand and wrapping his other arm around her waist before guiding them in a few practiced steps. He held her close to himself, singing along loudly before pulling away and spinning her around.

Dean pulled her back against his chest, pressing a kiss to her temple before sweeping her back into their dance.

They glided around the room, he spun her a few more times before wrapping both of his arms around her waist and pressing his lips to her's in a gentle kiss.

Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair before they reluctantly broke apart and returned to their tasks.

Their relationship almost seemed effortless to Sam.

It was almost like everything else faded away when they were together. It was the purest form of love that anyone could hope to find in this messed up world.

...

Dean turned off the television, tossing the remote aside with a sigh, "Nothin' on, buddy," He muttered, looking down at the Terrier mix who blinked up at him from the floor. Dean grabbed his phone from the coffee table, clicking the power button and feeling relieved when he didn't see any notifications on his screen.

Sam was supposed to come over for dinner to see some of the renovations that Dean had done on the new house. Dean still couldn't believe how many changes had occurred in the last few years.

Dean had made the decision to leave hunting behind and finally made a life for himself. Sam was finishing up a quick case a few states over before going into his own version of hunting retirement. They had both given so much of their lives to hunting and now it was time to live for themselves.

Dean looked over at the bookshelf, his eyes finding the stereo sitting between the books. Dean stood up, making his way over and turning on the power. He flipped through the channels, quickly turning up the volume when he heard the familiar tune start.

"No way," He muttered.

"So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car

Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk

City lights lay out before us

And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder

And I-I, had a feeling that I belonged

I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

You got a fast car

Is it fast enough so you can fly away?

You gotta make a decision

Leave tonight or live and die this way."

He straightened up with a smile, "Baby, c'mere for a minute," Dean called. Y/N made her way into the living room of their home with their daughter held against her side.

"Is that-?" "Yeah... I thought that maybe my two favorite girls would wanna dance," He said.

"Of course," Y/N smiled.

Dean carefully took their daughter from her arms, cradling her in the crook of his arm before holding out his hand.

Y/N rested her hand in his, gold wedding band catching the soft afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window.

She wrapped her arm around him, smiling down at their daughter as he guided them around the living room. Dean carefully spun his wife before drawing her back in, singing down to their daughter as they swayed together.

This was the life he had always wanted and now he had it.

His beautiful wife, his baby girl, his brother, a house and the dog.

Dean never would have thought this kind of life would be possible for him and now he couldn't dream of living any other way.

He had everything he could possibly want and he was finally happy.

[juicifeur]

You know it was a good fic when every time you hear the song now you think about it I’m looking at you @vigilante-3073