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Every episode of Supernatural they ask, "How will we defeat this new and unique monster?" and the answer is "shoot them with guns," mostly.

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the Sam fics are POPPING OFF TODAY GUYS GOOD JOB

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THE ROAD SO FAR…

Twice as many stills as the last recap! 16 months. 164 paintings. Averaging at ~2 hours per piece, that’s 328 hours of work, condensed into a three minute long recap. I’m over halfway through my quest to paint one still from every single episode of Supernatural! 🎉

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This as a slow burn series would go so hard OP

When the Night Takes

Summary: You and Sam fake a romantic kiss to lure a monster, but the moment turns into something deeper between you. After a fierce battle, you're injured, and Sam stays by your side, vowing to keep you safe as you slip in and out of consciousness.

cw : fem!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, blood/injury, no use of y/n, angsty sam, deans there too characters Sam Winchester x fem!reader, also Dean but barely wc: 1997 fandom: Supernatural

✧∘* ✧･ﾟ✨Masterlist ✨✧∘* ✧･ﾟ

You and Sam sit on opposite ends of the leather bench, of the impala. The occasional rustle of wind against the trees outside make you both shift, eyes darting in the darkness that surrounds you. The headlights cut through the dark, but you can’t shake the sense of unease. You're in the front seat beside Sam Winchester, who's focussed intensely staring out the windows.

"Okay," you say, your voice soft, but determined. "This is the part where we need to sell it."

Sam’s eyes flick to you for a brief second, He nods. "Yeah, I know. We need the monster to think we're an easy target."

You can feel the tension crackling in the air. “Well, if we're gonna make it believable, we might need to... you know... do something.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly confused. "What do you mean by that?"

You hesitate for a moment, your gaze flicking to the rearview mirror, then back to Sam's concerned face. "I mean, we need to kiss. If we’re pretending to be lovers, it’s gotta look real. Otherwise, we’re not gonna bait anything. This monster does seem to only be going after kids in Lover's Lane, alone in their cars, so..."

Sam’s face flushes slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing his expression. But, after a second, he sighs. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He runs a hand through his hair. "If you're ok with it."

You nod. You both lean in, and for a moment, its awkward. A quick peck on the lips, nothing notable. You're both nervous doing this, but also at the prospect that the monster is lurking near. You pull back, but Sam leans in, and for a split second, everything seems to slow down, the world outside, the car, fading away. Then, your lips meet, and everything shifts.

The kiss is tentative at first, a brief contact that barely feels like more than a gesture. But then... it deepens. It becomes something more than just bait. Sam’s lips are warm, hesitant, yet there’s something that sparks between you. It's not just the adrenaline or the necessity of the moment. There's something else.

As you pull away, your breaths quiet, you catch a glimpse of Sam’s eyes—wide, surprised, like he’s just realized what he did. But before either of you can say anything, a deafening shriek echoes through the night, and before you can react, something crashes into the side of the car shattering the window behind you.

You scream, but it's too late.

A cold clawed hand rips you from the car, dragging you across the gravel by your shoulders, Sam is left wide eyed as he fumbles the driver side door, throwing it open, and running out of the impala. The creature is quick—too quick—and before he can pull himself together, you’re already out of reach.

"No!" Sam shouts, scrambling around the car, his feet slipping on the gravel. He takes off after you, his heart racing, but just as he's almost there, a heavy blow slams into his head, knocking him unconscious.

Dean, hidden in the shadows from a distance, watches in horror, his breath caught in his throat as his brother is taken down. His hands whip to his waist as he grabs his gun and takes off after you and the monster...

When Sam wakes up, everything feels like a blur. His head is pounding, his vision swimming. For a moment, he's disoriented, his hands and feet bound. The cold concrete beneath him is rough, and the musty scent of the cellar and rotting flesh fills his nostrils.

His pulse spikes as he realizes something. You're here too.

You’re tied back to back with him, your body limp against his, a wooden pole between you. Sam's first instinct is to check if you're okay, but your breathing is shallow, and you’re still unconscious. Panic bubbles up in his chest. He tries to move, but his restraints are too tight.

"Hey," he says quietly, his voice hoarse. "Hey, are you okay?"

No response.

He grits his teeth, struggling against the ropes, frustration building. He can't lose you—not like this.

His thoughts race back to the kiss, to the way he felt something stir inside him, something he couldn’t place before the monster attacked. Was it love? No—too soon. But something real had blossomed between you two in that fleeting moment, something undeniable.

And now, here he is, trapped with you, unable to do anything but wait. Sam’s mind is a mess of thoughts and confusion. He’s not sure if the monster can hear him or if anyone else is nearby, but he knows one thing for sure: he has to protect you.

The door across the room bursts in open and Sam is blinded by the dust it kicks up. He hears familiar grunts and struggles - Dean.

After the air clears, the door slams shut, the monster gone before Sam can see a thing. He blinks his eyes a few times to clear them. "Hey little brother," Sam's eyes snap up to see Dean a few feet away, hanging from his wrists, his black boots dragging on the concrete as he swings gently back and forth from the ceiling. "I came to save you." He smirks, pursing his lips sarcastically.

Sam stares at his brother with furrowed brows, his attention snapping back to you, still slumped against the pole you're both tied to.

"Wendigo." Dean states, looking back at the door. "Bastards fast."

"Dean, we need to get out of here." Sam panics, struggling against his restraints only makes him more angry as he watches you over his shoulder gently sway whenever he moves against the bonds.

Again, the door slams open, dust filling the room, followed by the shrieks of the Wendigo. Humanoid screams of pain, mixed with cackles of animal laughter pierce Sam and Dean's ears as they pull at their bonds, working to free themselves.

Your bonds are cut as your dragged to the middle of the floor, the creature standing over your lifeless body. Sam watches in horror throwing himself against the ropes that hold him down, as Dean works intensely to free his wrists of the cuffs chaining him to the ceiling.

The Wendigos hot breath trails over your face as it lowers his head to sink it's rotting fangs into your pulsing neck - Before it can, you bring up an angle blade that had been cloaked in your waist, and plunge it deep into the creatures chest. As you push the blade in deeper, the creature lashes out, sceaming inhuman sounds. It's claws flail in the air, striking you in your left side, splitting open your abdomen like a hot knife through butter. You scream, but keep pushing the blade until it can't go any deeper, and the Wendigo falls away from you onto it's back, curling into itself, a heap of ashen flesh, horns and claws frozen on the ground.

Your suddenly aware of your breath, and the Wendigos scarlet red blood dripping down the angel blade into your palms, and how much it hurts to inhale and move - your eyes find Sam, on his knees facing you, still tied to the pole.

"H-hey" He stutters out, eyes staring at you like a child that just watched their toy burn. "Are you okay?" He asks, breathily.

It takes you a moment to sit up, wincing as you do, and in that movement your head begins to swirl, the room spinning into darkness before you. "No."

You make a last ditch attempt to throw the angle blade in the direction you think Sam is in before the darkness consumes you once again.

"Hey!" Sam yells at you, as your body once again slumps to the floor, the red seeping up your shirt and down your jeans. "Sammy the blade." Dean instructs his brother to refocus, drawing his attention back to the blade on the ground just inches in front of him. Sam, using his feet, manages to bring the blade close enough where he can grab it behind his back and cut at the ropes holding him.

He frees himself - instinctively he begins making his way towards you before he is interrupted by his brother, "Heya Sammy? Can't leave me hanging man." Sam makes quick work getting his brother down, then the two of them make their way to you.

"She's in a bad way man." Dean states, looking over your wounds. "Let's get out of here."

Dean leads the way out of the room, gun drawn as Sam delicately picks up your body and cradles you to his chest, sticking closely behind his brother.

_____________________

The world is a blur of voices, cold air, and aching pain. You slip in and out of unconsciousness, but Sam’s arms are a lifeline, a steady presence that keeps you from falling too far back into the darkness.

You can hear the faint echo of Dean's voice ahead, guiding Sam through the forest. The faint glow of flashlight beams and the crunch of boots on twigs filter in and out of your awareness. Sam’s breath is steady, but you can feel the panic in the way he holds you, as if he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“Almost there,” Dean’s voice cuts through the fog. “Hang on, we’re getting out.”

The car ride feels like an eternity. Sam’s hands never leave your skin, and Dean keeps checking the rearview mirror, the tension palpable between them. The long road ahead seems endless, but the steady rumble of the engine and the soft rocking of the of the road are oddly comforting.

By the time you finally arrive at the bunker, the last flickers of daylight are gone, replaced by the steady pulse of the overhead lights. Dean pushes open the door, and the familiar scent of the bunker greets you with a strange sense of relief. You’re home. You’re safe.

The sterile lighting of the bunker’s kitchen is where you fully come to, your body heavy, your mind sluggish. You blink against the brightness, trying to focus on your surroundings. A hiss of pain escapes your lips as you try to move, but the sensation of hands—gentle, yet firm—stops you.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice is low, soothing, but tinged with worry. “Take it easy. You’re back. You’re safe.”

Your abdomen feels tight, and when you look down, you see Sam sitting beside you. His face is a mixture of concentration and exhaustion. He’s stitching up your wounds, his hands steady despite the stress you can feel radiating off him.

“You…” Your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “Did we kill it?”

“You did,” Sam replies softly, glancing up at you, his eyes filled with relief. “You got us out.”

His hands work quickly but carefully, threading the needle through your skin. You wince slightly, but he’s almost done.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Sam says, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll patch you up, get you back to full strength. Don’t worry.”

You nod weakly, your head heavy against the table. The room feels oddly still, save for the sound of Sam’s breathing and the soft sounds of rubbing alcohol sloshing againt the container onto a cloth. You want to say something—ask about the Wendigo, ask about what happens next—but your eyelids feel like lead. A pained smile tugs at Sam lips - he wants to hold you again, to kiss you, but he can't bring himself to do anything but do his best to relieve your pains.

Before you can stop it, sleep starts to tug at you again, a quiet pull that you can’t resist.

But Sam’s voice, low and reassuring, keeps you anchored. “I'm not letting anything happen to you, okay?” His hand brushes your cheek, lingering a little too long to be just friendly, a sigh escapes his lips.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let go, the weight of the world leaving you as you finally surrender to sleep.

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what does it say about me when I think sam looks the best when actively going through a straight up bad time

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I actually do work at a library and wish every day this would happen to me

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ booked & busy,

summary. sam needs help finding a book

pairing. sam winchester x librarian!reader

wordcount. 397

You’re halfway through shelving a stack of returned books when a shadow falls over your cart.

“Excuse me.”

The voice is deep, warm—like a sip of something rich and smooth—and when you glance up, the man standing in front of you looks exactly like someone who’d sound like that.

Tall. Broad. Soft brown hair falling into his ridiculously pretty eyes.

And built like he belongs in a leather jacket instead of the dimly lit corners of a library.

Not that you’re complaining.

You blink, snapping yourself back to reality. “Oh, uh—hi. Can I help you?”

He gives you a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I—uh, I’m looking for a book. Hoping you can point me in the right direction.”

You nod, stepping around your cart and heading toward the main desk. “Sure. What’s the title?”

He hesitates. Just for a second. And that’s when it clicks—this isn’t some casual research trip.

This guy’s looking for something specific. Something he doesn’t want to say too loud.

Your lips twitch. “You can tell me, you know. I don’t judge.”

His eyes flick to yours, searching, before he exhales and leans in just slightly. “Alright, uh—it’s an old text. Latin. Covers demon lore.”

Your brows lift, but you manage to keep your expression neutral.

Not exactly light reading material.

But instead of questioning it, you tilt your head, thinking. “I think we’ve got something like that in the restricted section.”

His gaze sharpens. “Restricted?”

You nod. “Mostly old, rare books. Stuff people don’t check out often. But I’ve got a key.”

He looks way too relieved at that.

And now you’re really curious.

You lead him through a side door, weaving between rows of shelves that smell like parchment and time. The restricted section is tucked away, quiet and untouched, and when you unlock the case and pull out the book he’s looking for, his whole face lights up.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, taking it from you carefully, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You cross your arms, leaning against the shelf. “So… demon lore?”

His lips twitch. “Told you it was weird.”

You shrug, watching him. “I like weird.”

Something flickers in his expression—something warm.

And when he looks at you like that, like he sees you, you think maybe you wouldn’t mind helping him find books a little more often.

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can bro not be tied up for 5 mins😭😭

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Sam Heughan & Jared Padalecki | JIBLAND 2016

I just needed to gif this moment ❤

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Awakening Flames

pairings/characters: (pining) sam winchester x gn!you

summary: the smoke, the fire... it brings back memories of jess and awakens feelings in sam that you didn't even think he had for you to begin with

warnings: house fire, smoke inhalation, mentions of blood, metions of ptsd

word count: 3,619

A/N: goddamn, that picture of sam breaks my fucking heart

———————

Sam has always been protective, gentle, and admittedly a little clingy when it came to you, but you knew that with such a troubled past, it made sense. And it never created any real problems. Sure, he can be a little overbearing during hunts or a little obsessive when it comes to you being alone with even a whiff of danger in the air, but you just know it’s because he cares about you. And you also know that deep down, you can be the same way.

Although, in all of your years of hunting together you have never seen him panic like he had tonight. You have absolutely no clue what wire snapped in Sam’s mind that made him act like this. The two of you have been on plenty of hunts, fought dozens of different creatures and even had your fair share of close calls. It didn’t make sense why he was freaking out now.

It was routine, classic even. For the past week or so, you and Sam had been tracking a couple of demons wreaking havoc on towns along a stretch of highway in southern Illinois and you had finally cornered them hiding out in an abandoned apartment complex.

It was a tough fight at first but eventually the demons dropped like flies and it was left to one last poor possessed woman. You were close, so you tackled her, wrestling her to the floor and swinging your angel blade wildly in an attempt to slice any exposed skin.

But once Sam made it back into the living room with you and the last demon, it had already been done.

The demon had flipped you over, straddling you. She knocked the blade out of your hand and dashed out of the open doorway closer to the two of you, knocking over a bottle of whiskey in the process. The crash of the bottle mixed with an even sharper shatter of glass in the other room due to the demon's quick escape. The bottle, of course, landed right next to the lit fireplace and flames quickly crawled past the iron platter that the logs rested on. It spat out harsh heat that quickly climbed the rotted curtains next to the fireplace.

It all happened so fast, and now half of the room was swallowed in red and orange flames by the time you can get to your feet. The smoke clouds the room and you can hear Sam calling for you. You spin to find him on the other side of the room at the other doorway that opens into the hallway that leads out of the apartment. Outside. Where you need to be right the fuck now.

You cough and crouch down to try and escape some of the smoke. Sam calls your name again, “stay low! Hold on, I-I’ll get to you, just-,” he flicks back and forth, looking for anything to help him.

“Sam, go! I’ll find my way out,” you cough, turning to find out where the demon escaped from.

“No! No, don’t-,” Sam begs, his voice cracking in the process. You turn back to look at him and can see beautiful drips of flames falling up towards the ceiling, illuminating his face. He looks terrified. Because, what you don’t know, is what he sees is your face exactly like you see his. Exactly like Jess.

All you knew about Jess was that she was Sam’s college girlfriend who died at the hands of Azazel.

The smoke fills Sam’s nostrils and the heat pushes him mentally back onto the plush cushion of his once shared bed. His mind rings with ‘please’s’ and ‘no, not again’s’. He’s completely panicked and irrational and he doesn’t know how to save you.

He never knows how to save them.

Jess.

Madison.

You.

And you don’t know what’s even going on in his mind enough to level with him, because from here he still just looks rabid with fear.

“Sam, you have to trust me,” you cough, trying to ignore the burn in your lungs. You take a few steps back to see that your only doorway leads to a kitchen with a broken window and, if you’re lucky enough, a fire escape. “Go downstairs and around back, I’ll have to jump,” another series of nasty coughs falling past your lips seems to snap him out of his funk just enough to listen.

“I’ll be there,” he nods, his feet moving before his mind catches up with him and he has to tear away his eyes from yours.

Now you can just focus on getting out of here. The smoke has started to make you dizzy but you promised Sam. The kitchen was a mossy mess, a little slippery but enough organic matter to really kick this fire up a notch. You have to hurry. You make it to the window, ignoring the left over shards of glass stuck in the pane because the fire is only getting hungrier.

It’s a two story drop below but with no ladder or help to get down because apparently, luck is rarely on your side. Sam rounds the corner as soon as you fully access your severely fucked situation. He knows it too.

But you promised.

You have to jump, it’s all that’s left. Sam stands right under the window, his arms raised and his eyes still irrational, “I’ll catch you,” he nods, encouraging you to evacuate. The fire has claimed the first half of the kitchen already and your silhouette is lit up like a halo by the orange flames. Sam’s heart is racing in his chest, making each second feel like an eternity.

“Sam-,” you start to argue but he barks back.

“No! Just jump, now!” He demands, using a voice he’s never used on you before and honestly it makes your stomach flip at the authority. You let your brain just turn off so you can listen to his instructions thoughtlessly. You climb over the pane, holding onto the splintery wood and trying to avoid any loose shards of glass.

“Fuck,” you whisper after positioning yourself just right. You let go, your organs delayed with your body causing the worst roller coaster feeling to bubble about your stomach. You land into Sam, tumbling you both to the soft grass beneath you with a forced grunt. His hands quickly wrap around your form the second you hit into his chest and he makes a point to take the full impact of the fall. He swallows the grunt that threatens to erupt into a low whine of pain.

You quickly roll off over top of him to allow him to take full breaths because you heard the air get knocked out of him but his grip doesn’t leave your waist even with half of your body off of him. You still manage to sit up, having a coughing fit trying to catch your lungs up with your racing heart.

Sam sits up, a bit dazed but the adrenaline of almost losing you like that powered him like a sedan engine full of diesel, it was enough to damage him as he forced himself to keep pushing his limits.

“Are you okay?” His hands reach out, cupping your face to make you look at him. You try to resist the grip so that you don’t cough in his face but he doesn’t seem to care about that. As you now get a good look at his face you see a glossy well of tears about to spill from his eyes and your heart melts with aching empathy.

“I-I’m fine,” your voice is rough and aching, but you force out the words in hopes to bring him down just a bit. He looks you over, pushing hair out of your face and checking any exposed skin for burn marks.

“Your hands,” he breathes out, holding your palms up so he can inspect them closer. As you look down at them, only then does the stinging pain register. When you lept from the window, apparently you weren’t as careful with the pane as you thought. Both palms are scratched up and bleeding, speckled with a few loose pieces of glass or wood. He doesn’t have the supplies on him now to help, just now remembering the duffle he brought along for the hunt is gone, swallowed by the burning lake inside.

He looks at the window that you jumped out of and then back down at you, pushing out a shaken breath, “okay, I need to get you out of here, back to the motel and I can get you cleaned up.” He nods, his gaze fixed on your palms again. Before you have time to respond, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, keeping a firm hold on your waist as he leads you back to the Impala. He helps you get settled in the passenger seat and hurries to the other side, keeping an eye out for any trouble.

“Sam,” you start as he climbs into the driver's side and ignites the engine.

“Are you sure you didn’t get burnt? That was a bad fall. Your clothes are singed, you need fresh clothes,” he rattles off, speeding back into the direction of the motel.

“Sam!” You try again, louder this time and it causes a fresh line of sickening coughs. You hunch over in your lap, holding your chest and trying to settle your breathing but the thick smoke that invaded your nose has stuck along your throat and trickled into your lungs. It burns.

“Hey, hey-, you with me?” He asks, torn between pulling over or continuing his race to get you as far away from the growing cloud of smoke. You only continue coughing in response and he jerks the car to the side of the road so that he can give you his full attention. He just can’t help himself.

He puts the car in park and jumps out, rounding the vehicle to open your own door so you can get some fresh air that he hopes to god will help. The strangled coughs interrupted by the weak wheezing of each breath you took constricted his chest, almost replicating a singe in his own lungs. Almost.

“Okay, just let it out, focus on your breathing, you’ll be okay,” he helps you turn your body so your legs are out of the Impala and he pushes back some more of your hair. After a few more deep coughs that rattle your throat, you're able to take fuller breaths that are noticeably satisfying now. “Better?” He asks, his hand on your thigh, closer than he would usually get but you can’t seem to mind.

You just nod, not wanting to risk speaking again and letting it be followed by a string of more nasty coughs that edge Sam closer and closer to an early grave. You still can’t put together why he got so freaked.

“Good, now I really want to get you back to the motel so I can clean up those hands,” he looks back down at your blood-slick palms. You just nod again.

After getting back on the road, and going just 10 over the speed limit this time, Sam called in the fire to local authorities and slid his phone back in his pocket. By now, it wasn’t too far from the motel and you could already see the neon lights.

Sam slows down to make a safe, but still a bit jerky, turn into the motel parking lot and puts her in park. You’d reckon Dean would be at Sam’s throat for how he’s treating his baby. Or maybe Dean would be better than you and actually put two and two together as to why he’s so damn jumpy.

Sam ushers you towards the room you booked a few hours ago and leads you to the bed, resting you gently on the edge.

“I’ll be right back,” Sam’s eyes take in any detail of your face that he can in a desperate attempt to settle his nerves a bit, but he just cannot seem to calm down. With a weighted breath, he stands and goes back out to the Impala to get the necessities for post-hunt clean up.

You just try to catch up with the past 20 minutes of your life.

But before you can, Sam is already pulling up a chair to sit across from you as he gently takes one of your hands to examine again.

“None of the cuts are too deep, won’t even need stitches,” a quick smile perks his lips as he lets out a puff of air that you're convinced still contained some smoke from that fire from how tense he’s been. You watch him as his pinched brows frame such worry struck eyes. You can’t emphasize enough just how weird this is. “Should probably run them under water,” he looks up at you before helping you over to the bathroom sink to do so.

You don’t need more help walking but, Jesus, you don’t have the heart to push him away.

He makes extra sure that the water is at an okay temperature before introducing it to your palms. And you still hiss when the water meets them, no matter it being too cool or too hot, it still stung like a bitch and made you instinctively lean away from the faucet. Sam brings over a hand towel to wet before using it to wash away any blood from the uninjured surfaces of your hands, cleaning up all that he can so as to reduce your discomfort.

It’s quiet once he gets to work on removing the splinters and shards of glass, his hands steady as ever and his focus honed in on your palms. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He also gave you a glass of water to help with the dry burn in your throat, even making sure there was a straw so you wouldn’t have to pick up the glass. So thoughtful. You waited for your breathing to be easy enough for you to trust your speech before finally asking the question that itched the tip of your tongue.

“Sam?” You start, your voice still raspy and it aches as it rubs out of your vocal chords, but you push through. His head pops up and looks over your features to try and gauge what was wrong now because why else would you try to talk? His mind is still in panic-mode and he subconsciously readies solutions for worst case scenarios. “What happened back there?” You follow up before he can rush out another prod to how you’re doing or if something’s wrong.

His jaw clenches and he swallows whatever invisible mouthful he had and his eyes gloss over- not with tears this time but a momentary lack of focus. Like he’s thinking back to something. He looks back down at the hand which still has some shards in it but the tweezers don’t move. You would almost expect the gears turning in his head were about to supply you a fresh round of smoke to choke on, but then he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Okay, that you weren’t expecting. Sure, maybe it felt like he was blowing it a tiny bit out of proportion, but it was still a life or death scenario, and his reaction was obviously triggered by something that he shouldn’t feel ashamed of. Your first thought was maybe it reminded him of his time in Hell. With Lucifer. The thought makes a tickle of bile rise up in your throat that starts to sting the already sore skin.

“I just freaked.”

Under any other circumstance you would have laughed at his understatement. But the pain in his still unfocused, far away look stops the urge before you realize it was there in the first place.

“The fire?” It was the only thing you could think of, the only thing that was different from a usual hunt. He nods, eyes still unfocused. It really gave you nothing to go off of. You already figured it was the fire and you just wanted to know why.

He’s working his jaw, mulling over how exactly he wants to word this- if he even wants you to hear it in the first place. His shoulders slump and he sets aside the tweezers, running a hand down his face. The hand almost works like a magic trick- revealing the caught up toll that this night has taken on his mental state with one swift swipe.

“Jess,” he offers the name, just testing if his voice can keep from breaking. It doesn’t, but he keeps going anyway because he knows that he scared you and it makes him feel sick. Almost as sick as seeing fire frame your body like a mane. Almost as sick as the images of Jess that assaulted his closed lids when he tried to steady himself. Almost, but not quite, so he decides not to apologize again. “Dean ever tell you how our mom died?” Sam asks, not looking up to face you just yet.

Fuck. Of course.

“Oh,” you breathe out, remembering Dean mentioning that a demon set their childhood home ablaze, taking their mothers life with the fall.

“Jess died the same way. Azazel,” Sam continues, choosing his words carefully and selecting them out with proper timing so he doesn’t break too soon. “He pinned her to the ceiling-.”

What?

“And burned her alive above me.”

The fuck?

“Just like he did to our mom.”

Okay, those details were left out of Dean’s story altogether but you can’t really blame him for skipping them.

You’re speechless, unable to remember any words that you spent the last 30 some-odd years using. Of course he freaked out.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” and you are. Truly. You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to lose a partner like that. You’ve lost people but never like that. Never so… just out of your reach.

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you like that too.”

That makes sense.

“I lost Jess, Madison, and I just couldn’t-,” he voice breaks and his head dips down as the words die just before his lips.

Wait, what? You really want this man to stop throwing curve balls and let you catch up to literally anything. But his words get you thinking. He was triggered by the flames, reminded of Jess’ death, but not just that, it was a fear of losing you. Comparing you to Jess and whoever this Madison was. What was he implying?

He sniffled before bringing his head back up, not looking at you just yet but you can tell that he’s trying to work up the nerve again. He hasn’t even realized his slip up, his choice of words that reveal deeper feelings that are buried under the fear that comes with this life and the effects it has on those you allow yourself to love.

“I just-, I thought I was going to lose you like I lost them and I freaked and I didn’t mean to scare you,” he finally gets his eyes back up at yours, reddened and wet. He doesn’t apologize again like you thought he would and you’re thankful that he doesn’t feel ashamed enough to do it a second time.

“I get it,” you assure, holding his gaze with the swirling subconscious thought of his choice of wording just a few paces ago. Thoughts that get slammed to the front line of your thinking as his eyes dart down to your lips- not scanning for signs of discomfort, but just to your lips.

“You didn’t scare me,” you shake your head, watching him as he watches you. Locked in this tunnel vision hooked between the two of you, growing shorter and shorter without either of you realizing it.

“I just need you to be okay.” He whimpers the words like a prayer. Like you’re the only being who can grant him his wish if he’s needy enough. If he begs enough. 

“I’m okay, Sam,” you only need to whisper now, the heat of your words hitting his lips that are so close you could practically taste him. He swallows, holding just your eyes now, his own not dipping down to your lips or your hair or your neck. Even if the last one would rile you up enough to make a move.

“Okay,” he whispers back, still a raw echo of words that tug on your heart. You want to ask him why- why he chose that specific wording, why he panicked in such a way that exposed himself, why the tension between you couldn’t back hacked with a fucking butcher knife. But you don’t. You don’t say a word as he goes back to plucking the foreign objects from your palm. As much as you want to be reckless and spontaneous and just take what you want to be yours- you don’t.

You don’t because the look that stains his face is one of utter exhaustion- mental and physical. This night has wrecked him more than you know him to outwardly admit to anytime soon.

You don’t because this isn’t how he would want it, and you fear he will take it as an act of thankfulness or obligation on your part.

You don’t because the man in front of you deserves better. He deserves the memory of the two of you to not be a tainted bond of his PTSD but of a memorable connection built from the years of friendship and love he’s already given you.

He deserves your best, and you’re prepared to offer him just that when he’s ready.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

[juicifeur]

YOU GUYS I SAID CHAPTERS 3-6 WEREN’T REDONE YET WHY ARE YOU EMBARRASSING ME

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I feel cheated. no one on Reddit told me that tumblr is a serotonin factory. Keep liking and reblogging my posts please thanks

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Throwback post!

Edited this guy, and chapter 2 yesterday (but not any of the others yet hang tight!)

Mistakes - Chapter 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!reader (established relationship)  Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: After waiting-up for days, the boys return from a case. But something’s on Dean’s mind. 

Warnings/tags: Mentions of cheating

Edit/re-write: 28 January 2025

Dean was quiet when he stepped into your shared bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him, barely more than a whisper against the heavy silence, boots shuffling across the cement floor before being toed off. He moved stiffly, like every muscle in his body was wound too tight, and when he finally lay down behind you, the mattress barely shifted under his weight.

Then, after a beat, his arm slipped around your waist. Not hesitant—possessive. His grip tightened, pulling you against him until you could feel his breath, uneven and warm, against the nape of your neck. His lips brushed your cheek, rough and fleeting, before he let out a slow exhale and let his bicep rest on your hip. The heat of it burned through the fabric of your shirt.

He was hurt again. You knew it without looking. But you didn’t turn over.

You just lay there, still and silent, as Dean curled against your back.

When you woke up, the space beside you was cold.

Voices murmured down the hall—Sam’s, mostly. You pushed the blankets aside and sat up, the weight of the day pressing down before your feet even touched the floor. Today. You were telling him today.

You hadn’t been sick, not really. At least not in the way Dean thought. But the nausea, the exhaustion—it had been enough for him to bench you from this hunt. Not that you ever needed protecting. But Sam had backed him up, saying if you weren’t at your best, you should take some time off.

Dean’s arm had been warm last night because of the gash. You found him in the kitchen, sitting at the table while you cleaned and wrapped it. His eyes stayed on you, but he didn’t say a word.

“You know I don’t think I’m contagious,” you muttered, a playful smirk on your lips while you tied off the gauze.

A breath of laughter, low and humourless. 

“I know, sweetheart. Just can’t be too careful…” He pulled you toward him, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead. His arms wrapped around you, solid and familiar, pulling you into the warmth of him.

You let yourself sink into it, just for a second.

Then you pulled back, standing on your toes to kiss him properly. His lips quirked into a smile against yours.

“It’s cute how short you are.”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

His expression softened, and something passed through his eyes too fast for you to even clock what it might have been. “You know I love you, right?”

Something in your chest tightened. “Yeah,” you said, watching the way his eyes flickered to Sam, then away. He sighed, nodded once, and walked out.

You stared after him.

Something was wrong.

You found him in the library later that afternoon, leaning over a book and absentmindedly pawing at the bandage on his arm. He looked up when you said his name, and for a second, you thought about leaving. Turning and walking away, pretending you didn’t see the way his shoulders tensed up, the way his fingers flexed against the pages like they needed something to hold onto.

But you didn’t.

“I- need to tell you something.”

Your voice barely carried across the space. Dean straightened, stepping closer, his hands catching yours. The callouses on his fingers brushed against your skin, and for a moment, all the nerves melted away. The news you carried—the thing you were going to tell him—flickered in your mind, and warmth spread through you.

But then he sighed.

“I—me too. But…” His hands twitched, then pulled away. His thumb caught your chin, tilting your face up to his. His green eyes held something new. Something unfamiliar.

“I think I should go first.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Okay.” You perched on the edge of the table, trying to ignore the sharp edge of dread pressing against your ribs.

Dean exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y/n- uh. Something happened.”

Silence stretched thin between you.

Your fingers curled into fists in your lap. “What do you mean, ‘something happened’?”

“It was a stupid mistake,” he said. His lips pressed into a tight line and your pulse pounded in your ears.

“Dean.”

His mouth opened, then shut. He took a step back, like he couldn’t stand being this close to you. “There—there was this girl.” He swallowed. “A bar, then a girl, and—”

Your breath hitched. 

“And what?”

The words cracked as they left your mouth. But the worst part wasn’t the confession—it was the way his face fell. The way his silence confirmed everything.

A hollow laugh broke from your throat, sharp and bitter. 

“Dean, are you telling me-” You shook your head, blinking fast as your vision blurred and your breaths came in shallower and shallower. 

You looked up, eyes burning. And he let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry..”

The words landed like a punch.

You could see it in his face—the pain, the regret, the shame twisting behind his eyes. But it didn’t matter.

You spun, walking away, but you only made it three steps before his fingers closed tightly around your wrist.

“Y/n—”

Your hand moved before you could stop it. A sharp crack split the air as your palm met his cheek. 

Then, silence. 

Footsteps. Sam, standing at the end of the table. He had heard. Of course he had.

Your chest heaved. Dean’s hand hovered over the red mark blooming on his face, his eyes glassy, but he didn’t meet your gaze.

“I’m-” You almost choked on the words.

“I don’t know where I’m going. But I can’t look at you right now, Dean.”

Your voice was steady, but your hands were shaking as you yanked your wrist free and walked past Sam, away from Dean, past the remnants of everything you thought you had.

Dean finally lifted his gaze to his brother, who wore a similar expression of hurt, and he slowly sat at the table, dropping his head to his hands. 

You had managed to collect your few belongings and exit the bunker without so much as a glance in Dean’s direction, the rumble of your car growing fainter and fainter as it went up the drive.

It felt like hours before Sam even tried to break the silence.

He lingered nearby, arms crossed, shifting his weight like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Eventually, he stepped forward and set something on the table. Dean didn’t look up until he heard the soft clink of metal against wood.

The necklace.

The one he gave you.

The one you handed back to his brother.

Dean reached and curled his fingers around the cord, his thumb tracing the worn edges of the charm. His throat was too tight, his chest too hollow. He exhaled, long and shaky.

“Dean—”

“Sam, I know.” His voice was hoarse. “I screwed up.”

Sam stayed quiet.

Dean closed his eyes, tilting his head back.

“She trusted me.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And I screwed it up. And now…” His fingers curled tighter around the necklace.

“Now she’s gone.”

The words barely made it past his lips. His grip on the charm trembled. He brought it to his mouth, let it rest against his lips, and let the first tear fall.

“She’s gone, Sammy.”

A/N: aaaaaaaa the angst is scrumptious is it not? Keep reading below!

Chapter 2

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simultaneously honoured and horrified to have folks reading my old stuff

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the urge to awaken from my writers slumber, drop everything and write an entire slow burn Sam series all set to Journey’s greatest hits but I know how many other things are on my list to do

would it be completely self indulgent? absolutely

if someone enabled me would I start on it immediately? also absolutely

[juicifeur]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

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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.

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